For the past 13 years of my life, the "Final Sunday" -the last Sunday of summer vacation- has been a day full of anticipation, some, though not much, anxiety, and loads of excitement. I knew what to look forward to, who to look for, where to go, and what to do. I had some sort of an idea regarding what was behind the grand grey toll gate marked "Monday", marking the end of the road we call "summer vacation."
But since that hazy summer evening in the month of May when we threw our bright blue caps of finalization and freedom (some call them "graduation caps") in the air, nothing is what it used to be.
There is no more "school" that I need to get to.
No more classes which I only take because I have to, knowing that they will not help me at all in the rest of my life.
No more 8.30-16.30 "work hours" every single weekday.
But also no more familiar faces in the morning.
No more of letting my feet do the work as I walk down the halls I've walked down for many years, not even thinking about where I'm going.
No more of seeing people I've learned to write with.
Tomorrow, I go to my first class in my college. Unlike the past 13 years, this Sunday night, I don't know what I'll be facing tomorrow. I don't even know where the building my class is supposed to be in is. This time, I have no idea-what-so-ever regarding what's behind the grand grey toll gate. This Final Sunday is different.
People, by habit, don't like change. They want things to remain the same. They want to stay in their comfort zone. For thousands of years, since the dawn of humanity, people have fought against change, although, in the end, they've always had to succumb to it. People who saw new ways of belief were hung, burnt alive, or worse - before, of course, millions of people started following that new belief.
Because time passes, flows right on through like a river, and whether you want it or not, you are bound to get caught in the current of change. You can either try to swim against the current, paddle uselessly, while everyone and everything you know goes right past you, or you can embrace it and adapt.
In the end, that's what all creatures do.
We adapt.
It's what we do to survive.
So tomorrow, I will be surrounded by a brand new environment-something like I've never seen before. And even though I am somewhat anxious for the first day of the rest of my life, I am also terribly excited. Because tomorrow morning there awaits an experience which I can't begin to imagine the likes of. It won't be the same old summer morning where I'll look out for my friends from preschool -they, some-thousand kilometers away, also are trying to adapt to their new environment.
Tomorrow morning, I will begin to process the "different" into the "usual"; grinding the "unknown" into the "known".
Maybe we have it all wrong.
Maybe, instead of trying to adapt to new circumstances every time, we should try and adapt to change itself. That way, change will seem ordinary. Change will be new "usual".
But then again, where's the fun in a life without the unknown, undiscovered, and the not-yet-experienced?
Sunday, September 14, 2014
Wednesday, May 14, 2014
Stolen Lives
Darkness.
Smoke.
Chaos.
Heat.
Yesterday at 15.30, a coal mine in the west of Turkey collapsed. Nearly 800 workers were trapped inside, 400 m underground.
Until now, 300 workers have been "rescued".
250 had already died.
And this is only the death toll so far.
In Soma, this mining province where the disaster took place, the search and rescue teams continue their "searching-and-rescuing". The entrance of the mine, the mouth of a hungry beast waiting for its next pray, where, just yesterday morning, 700 people stood, waiting to go deep into the earth and earn their living, stands there, almost intimidatingly. Outside the mine, families of these hundreds of workers wait, anxiously. They look at the list of people who were taken to the hospital and are being treated, with the hope of seeing their father's, brother's, son's name on there. A man, aged around 25, looks at the list, squints, shakes his head and says, "No, he's not on there. He's still down there. He's probably injured." Behind him, the police have formed a wall of flesh between the families and the Minister of Energy. The wall continues until the staircase, scantily built, going up to the exit of the mine. Right at that moment, just as the man shakes his head, just as the minister makes another politically correct statement, just as the television reporter cocks his head and listens to the guy speaking into his ear; just at that moment, 5-6 search-and-rescue workers come out of the mine, carrying among them one gurney. Resting on the gurney, there is a black bag. Zipped up tight. Only not so tight: you can see a hand, as black as the bag it's supposed to be in, as black as darkness, sticking out of it. Reaching. For light? For air? Maybe. One more of that 800 has been "rescued".
Almost two minutes later, before the television reporter "reporting live" can finish his carefully constructed, prolonged sentence about the worker who was just found, another team comes out of the exit of the mine. Another gurney. Another onyx bag. Swallowing the hopes and dreams of yet another family. Devouring one more life spent in the mines.
And, of course, our PM has to speak about this. He should, but not like this.
There is no sign of regret, sorrow or any effort to make amends or to apologize, in his speech. He says it's part of the job description, these "accidents". He says, "These things happen." He lectures us about how 200 years ago, in England, a "similar" mining accident took place and 200 people died. As if that makes all this OK. As if that grants those children who lost their fathers their fathers back. Just the fact that it happened before should be enough to stop it from ever happening again. The past should not be an excuse for the present. It should be a lesson-learned.
Unfortunately, this was not an accident. The collapse was caused by a fire which started because of a neglected, aged, cable setup. 250 people died because of negligence. This qualifies as murder, not an "accident".
And, to top it all off, a proposal was presented in the parliament, not so long ago, for the supervision and inspection of all coal mines in Soma, by the leading opposition party. This proposition was rejected by the "against" votes cast by the members of the leading party.
Down.
Down.
Down.
400 m below ground, where the sunlight can't reach, hundreds of people are trapped. It is likely that most of them are already dead. The search-and-rescuers are doing their best, but theirs has turned out to be more of a search-and-salvage mission rather than a search-and-rescue mission. Every ten minutes, a new body bag comes out of the mine.
Hundreds of people; dead. Thousands of people; bruised for life. These men of the darkness, these crystal-hearted heroes of the abyss, will not see the end of another shift. And for what? For a wage barely putting them above the poverty line. These people died for a few liras and a bag of coal, while their representatives; the ministers, the parliament members, the PM, hand out these bags of coal for election propaganda and stash millions of (stolen) money in shoe boxes, pretending it's nothing.
I present my deepest condolences to every sister, wife, son, daughter, mother, father, whom these disgusting people "representing" us, have stolen their brothers, husbands, fathers and sons from.
Smoke.
Chaos.
Heat.
Yesterday at 15.30, a coal mine in the west of Turkey collapsed. Nearly 800 workers were trapped inside, 400 m underground.
Until now, 300 workers have been "rescued".
250 had already died.
And this is only the death toll so far.
In Soma, this mining province where the disaster took place, the search and rescue teams continue their "searching-and-rescuing". The entrance of the mine, the mouth of a hungry beast waiting for its next pray, where, just yesterday morning, 700 people stood, waiting to go deep into the earth and earn their living, stands there, almost intimidatingly. Outside the mine, families of these hundreds of workers wait, anxiously. They look at the list of people who were taken to the hospital and are being treated, with the hope of seeing their father's, brother's, son's name on there. A man, aged around 25, looks at the list, squints, shakes his head and says, "No, he's not on there. He's still down there. He's probably injured." Behind him, the police have formed a wall of flesh between the families and the Minister of Energy. The wall continues until the staircase, scantily built, going up to the exit of the mine. Right at that moment, just as the man shakes his head, just as the minister makes another politically correct statement, just as the television reporter cocks his head and listens to the guy speaking into his ear; just at that moment, 5-6 search-and-rescue workers come out of the mine, carrying among them one gurney. Resting on the gurney, there is a black bag. Zipped up tight. Only not so tight: you can see a hand, as black as the bag it's supposed to be in, as black as darkness, sticking out of it. Reaching. For light? For air? Maybe. One more of that 800 has been "rescued".
Almost two minutes later, before the television reporter "reporting live" can finish his carefully constructed, prolonged sentence about the worker who was just found, another team comes out of the exit of the mine. Another gurney. Another onyx bag. Swallowing the hopes and dreams of yet another family. Devouring one more life spent in the mines.
And, of course, our PM has to speak about this. He should, but not like this.
There is no sign of regret, sorrow or any effort to make amends or to apologize, in his speech. He says it's part of the job description, these "accidents". He says, "These things happen." He lectures us about how 200 years ago, in England, a "similar" mining accident took place and 200 people died. As if that makes all this OK. As if that grants those children who lost their fathers their fathers back. Just the fact that it happened before should be enough to stop it from ever happening again. The past should not be an excuse for the present. It should be a lesson-learned.
Unfortunately, this was not an accident. The collapse was caused by a fire which started because of a neglected, aged, cable setup. 250 people died because of negligence. This qualifies as murder, not an "accident".
And, to top it all off, a proposal was presented in the parliament, not so long ago, for the supervision and inspection of all coal mines in Soma, by the leading opposition party. This proposition was rejected by the "against" votes cast by the members of the leading party.
Down.
Down.
Down.
400 m below ground, where the sunlight can't reach, hundreds of people are trapped. It is likely that most of them are already dead. The search-and-rescuers are doing their best, but theirs has turned out to be more of a search-and-salvage mission rather than a search-and-rescue mission. Every ten minutes, a new body bag comes out of the mine.
Hundreds of people; dead. Thousands of people; bruised for life. These men of the darkness, these crystal-hearted heroes of the abyss, will not see the end of another shift. And for what? For a wage barely putting them above the poverty line. These people died for a few liras and a bag of coal, while their representatives; the ministers, the parliament members, the PM, hand out these bags of coal for election propaganda and stash millions of (stolen) money in shoe boxes, pretending it's nothing.
I present my deepest condolences to every sister, wife, son, daughter, mother, father, whom these disgusting people "representing" us, have stolen their brothers, husbands, fathers and sons from.
Wednesday, April 23, 2014
April 23rd, 1920
The nation is in distress.
The sultan is making life changing decisions for a huge country with the blink of an eye, seeking out his own, personal benefits.
On the other hand, over at the West, the great, powerful nations of that time swarm upon "the sick man", trying to rip out and gorge down as much of it as possible.
The so-called "peace" conferences give no results, well, none helping the war-bound collapsing nation.
And the day the city over two continents, the city long lusted after by great commanders, gets invaded, a young Turkish man arrives there, late afternoon, on a small boat, from a mission in Syria, looks at the besieged city and says, "they will leave as they have came".
And then and there, the first steps towards the resurrection of a nation began, with one man on the lead.
He went to different cities of the nation and issued notices, set up conferences allying the forces from all around the nation, and, after great trouble; being removed from duty, being sentenced to death by the sultan, with many of his friends, Istanbul's invasion (yes, again), the newly re-established "parliament" "working with" the sultan being destroyed and its members being banished, he manages to open a brand new parliament, one that does not obey the laws of caliphate and religion, or is bound to a sultan, in Ankara.
23rd of April, 1920.
A handful of members, on a sunny Friday, first go to the mosque to prove the Istanbul government wrong in saying "they follow no religion", then to the new parliament building, and with the inspiring speech of the oldest delegate in the house, the parliament is in action. Shortly after, this "man", this young Turk who rallied the public and managed to almost force a nation to be reborn from its ashes, is chosen as the head of the parliament, thus the head of the new government system, unanimously. A new system, a new hope, a new country.
This man is Mustafa Kemal Atatürk.
And yesterday, in Turkey, we celebrated this day, at least we tried to, a day which Mustafa Kemal has awarded the children of Turkey with, and we will continue to celebrate it no matter what.
Yes, maybe there were no grand ceremonies at Olympic stadiums, as there were until two years ago. Yes, maybe the new government is doing everything at its power to stop us from celebrating days like this and forget what we celebrate and under which ideals. Yes, maybe this national holiday is now regarded as a chance for a quick escape to the seaside, joining the weekend, say, a five-day holiday. Yes, maybe, even in our school, we celebrated the 23rd of April on the 22nd, so that we won't "have to" go to school on the 23rd.
Nevertheless, we, at least those of us who remain true to their ideals and loyal to their nation, the youth of our nation, will continue to carry on the legacy of Mustafa Kemal and everyone who worked hard with him, and never, ever stop celebrating. And we will neither the forget 23rd of April, 19th of May, nor the great man and his ideals. We will not forget.
The sultan is making life changing decisions for a huge country with the blink of an eye, seeking out his own, personal benefits.
On the other hand, over at the West, the great, powerful nations of that time swarm upon "the sick man", trying to rip out and gorge down as much of it as possible.
The so-called "peace" conferences give no results, well, none helping the war-bound collapsing nation.
And the day the city over two continents, the city long lusted after by great commanders, gets invaded, a young Turkish man arrives there, late afternoon, on a small boat, from a mission in Syria, looks at the besieged city and says, "they will leave as they have came".
And then and there, the first steps towards the resurrection of a nation began, with one man on the lead.
He went to different cities of the nation and issued notices, set up conferences allying the forces from all around the nation, and, after great trouble; being removed from duty, being sentenced to death by the sultan, with many of his friends, Istanbul's invasion (yes, again), the newly re-established "parliament" "working with" the sultan being destroyed and its members being banished, he manages to open a brand new parliament, one that does not obey the laws of caliphate and religion, or is bound to a sultan, in Ankara.
23rd of April, 1920.
A handful of members, on a sunny Friday, first go to the mosque to prove the Istanbul government wrong in saying "they follow no religion", then to the new parliament building, and with the inspiring speech of the oldest delegate in the house, the parliament is in action. Shortly after, this "man", this young Turk who rallied the public and managed to almost force a nation to be reborn from its ashes, is chosen as the head of the parliament, thus the head of the new government system, unanimously. A new system, a new hope, a new country.
This man is Mustafa Kemal Atatürk.
And yesterday, in Turkey, we celebrated this day, at least we tried to, a day which Mustafa Kemal has awarded the children of Turkey with, and we will continue to celebrate it no matter what.
Yes, maybe there were no grand ceremonies at Olympic stadiums, as there were until two years ago. Yes, maybe the new government is doing everything at its power to stop us from celebrating days like this and forget what we celebrate and under which ideals. Yes, maybe this national holiday is now regarded as a chance for a quick escape to the seaside, joining the weekend, say, a five-day holiday. Yes, maybe, even in our school, we celebrated the 23rd of April on the 22nd, so that we won't "have to" go to school on the 23rd.
Nevertheless, we, at least those of us who remain true to their ideals and loyal to their nation, the youth of our nation, will continue to carry on the legacy of Mustafa Kemal and everyone who worked hard with him, and never, ever stop celebrating. And we will neither the forget 23rd of April, 19th of May, nor the great man and his ideals. We will not forget.
Thursday, March 27, 2014
Error 404: Democracy Not Found
We've read about this.
In our history books.
We've drawn fake mustaches and tattoos on Mussolini, Hitler and Stalin, amazed at how cruel they were. At what they had done.
We've read the novels.
We've analyzed passages from 1984.
We've watched the movies.
We've quoted lines from V for Vendetta. We've looked for its DVD under the "Sci-Fi" and "Action" sections in the bookstore.
Now, all of these are most easily accessible.
Just turn on the TV in Turkey, and voila! You can see the live broadcast of 1984, Hitler's war speeches, and V for Vendetta all in one place.
One second, Twitter gets banned.
The next, Youtube is blocked.
A petition to ban Facebook is now in court.
Why, you ask?
Because records of people working (at least who are supposed to be working) for the government have surfaced and diffused through these social media platforms; records revealing every bribe they have taken, every threat they have made, every "lira" they have stolen. Apparently, "revealing" these records are unethical, but what the people in the records are claimed to have done is nowhere near that.
And with the word of the PM, soon to be sultan, I fear, the people's access to some major social media platforms gets banned. They have silenced the people as if they are turning down the volume of their TV.
Democracy in Turkey is rapidly failing.
There is an election on Sunday for the people to show themselves; unless a war starts between Syria and Turkey until then. Unfortunately, this isn't just speculation: today, new records have revealed ******. I had to remove this part of my post because the government has just issued a law stating that revealing the contents of this recording puts our "national security" in danger and thus is a crime.
So, just hold on, Turkey, hold on just until Sunday. Until people can talk without having to change their DNS settings. Until we get a say in something. Until we get to make the change in our country, not our future-sultan.
Saturday, March 22, 2014
Meanwhile in Turkey...
A 14 year old child, Berkin Elvan, passes away after spending 8 months in a coma after we got hit on the head by a gas canister fired by the police during the Gezi protests.
People who protest Berkin's death are doused in tear gas and pressurized water. Ah, the irony.
The PM declares this kid a "terrorist" and makes thousands at his public meeting for election propaganda "boo" Berkin's mother.
New phone records keep surfacing, revealing how the people in the government are committing fraud and stealing from the government.
The PM says he will "eradicate" Twitter in one of his public meetings.
A couple of hours later, Twitter gets banned in Turkey.
Tomorrow, approximately 3 % of Turkey's whole population will sit for a 160 minute long exam which will partially determine which university they get into.
Some of the people who most passionately protested the government and Berkin's death will, tomorrow, be forced to sit in a room for two and a half hours, trying to wrap their minds around the multiple choice questions they're presented with and try to find the same answer as the other 2 million should find.
This youth which has rebellion in their veins is expected to narrow down and sculpt their thoughts, rather cruelly, into 5 choices. It now seems to me that everything the government does leads to the same results: shutting off the youth to critical thinking and turning them into educational zombies whose sole aim is to get high grades and perform well in multiple choice tests-decide correctly between 5 given choices.
The youth I know and hang out with has avoided this transformation, they have not yet been contaminated with this disgusting virus, maybe because of the different educational system of our school. However, a large part of Turkey's youth/future, has already been turned into mindless zombies who seek multiple choice questions rather than brains. They don't protest, they don't change their DNS settings to go on Twitter when it's banned, they don't care about Berkin or the cold-blooded, ruthless, hateful police. They can tell you the formula for a capacitor's stored energy or the square of 17 on a whim, but ask them what ideas they stand for and why, and they can't answer; they ask you what the choices are.
Because those are not in the syllabus.
I hope with all these protests and "revelations" about the people in charge, not only the studious-zombie-youth, but the rest of the people of Turkey will awaken and realize that most of the time, the real answer to their questions and their freedom lies beyond the 5 options presented to them.
People who protest Berkin's death are doused in tear gas and pressurized water. Ah, the irony.
The PM declares this kid a "terrorist" and makes thousands at his public meeting for election propaganda "boo" Berkin's mother.
New phone records keep surfacing, revealing how the people in the government are committing fraud and stealing from the government.
The PM says he will "eradicate" Twitter in one of his public meetings.
A couple of hours later, Twitter gets banned in Turkey.
Tomorrow, approximately 3 % of Turkey's whole population will sit for a 160 minute long exam which will partially determine which university they get into.
Some of the people who most passionately protested the government and Berkin's death will, tomorrow, be forced to sit in a room for two and a half hours, trying to wrap their minds around the multiple choice questions they're presented with and try to find the same answer as the other 2 million should find.
This youth which has rebellion in their veins is expected to narrow down and sculpt their thoughts, rather cruelly, into 5 choices. It now seems to me that everything the government does leads to the same results: shutting off the youth to critical thinking and turning them into educational zombies whose sole aim is to get high grades and perform well in multiple choice tests-decide correctly between 5 given choices.
The youth I know and hang out with has avoided this transformation, they have not yet been contaminated with this disgusting virus, maybe because of the different educational system of our school. However, a large part of Turkey's youth/future, has already been turned into mindless zombies who seek multiple choice questions rather than brains. They don't protest, they don't change their DNS settings to go on Twitter when it's banned, they don't care about Berkin or the cold-blooded, ruthless, hateful police. They can tell you the formula for a capacitor's stored energy or the square of 17 on a whim, but ask them what ideas they stand for and why, and they can't answer; they ask you what the choices are.
Because those are not in the syllabus.
I hope with all these protests and "revelations" about the people in charge, not only the studious-zombie-youth, but the rest of the people of Turkey will awaken and realize that most of the time, the real answer to their questions and their freedom lies beyond the 5 options presented to them.
Tuesday, March 4, 2014
The Principal-Principal Problem
School: "an institution where instruction is given, especially to persons under college age."
Let's review the hierarchical structure of a typical, IB Diploma Highschool:
The Board of Directors
School Principal
High School Principal
Head of Departments
Teachers
School is where people like me go to receive education and to prepare for life. We pay money; we invest in the school for it to, in return, provide us with the best quality of education and the best environment possible under the circumstances. Almost 200 people, from the cleaning staff to the head of the math department to the "board", work so that we, the students, can get the best education possible. At least that's what it's supposed to be like in a world where IB diplomas grow on trees and you can understand HL Math.
On average, I spend approximately 8 hours sleeping and 1 hour on the road everyday. The amount of time for which I am fully awake and functioning is about 15 hours. And I spend more than half of this time in school. So it is only natural for my school to have become like a home to me, especially because I've been going to the same school since kindergarten with friends with whom I learned to write with. I expect my school to support me and each and every student, because the reason there is a huge stone building on top of a hill 15 km outside of town with hundreds of people inside it spending their time is to educate us. We, and by "we" I mean the students, should be the priority in any decision the "school", people listed above, make. The primary and most important goal of a school being to provide the students with the best conditions and education seems like a given, but believe me, it is overlooked most of the time.
This week (so far), I've had 3 quizzes and an oral commentary, one math test, and 5 lab reports and one essay due. I also go to Dersane, private teaching institutions preparing students for the final 2 exams which will get them enrolled into university, and its only Tuesday. Last night, I came home at 8 pm, after a 2 hr 40 min long exam at Dersane, and started writing these lab reports then. You must have understood that I don't get enough sleep. Or rest. Or relaxing time. Or freedom. None of us, seniors, get enough of these. So much is expected from us that we're trying very hard not to crumble under this stress. We burst out laughing when we hear the words "mock exams" and "IB" and "getting a 7 from HL Math", we slack off sometimes, uncomfortably watch an episode of How I Met Your Mother instead of doing the math homework, and then stay up until 2 in the morning to finish that same math homework.
You would expect that people around us seniors would try everything to make our lives easier.
They don't.
Instead, for the first time in my 14 years in school, I've been feeling that the school is doing everything in its power to make our lives harder. I wouldn't have thought things could get any harder, but, hey, I was mistaken.
Maybe the first time it wasn't intentional; the people on top of the educational food chain thought they were actually helping us. We went and spoke to these people, and they listened.
The second time is also somewhat understandable though not excusable. We went and spoke to other people, and they did not listen at first. Apparently, a board "commitment" was more important than people's parents attending their child's high school graduation. Only after we bantered them with our requests and got our parents involved did they decide to do something.
But when this happens for the third time, when the people who are supposed to be helping us try to tackle us for their own personal benefits, for what they have understood of the current national education system and their (rightful) hate towards it, and perhaps, just to show their stance and "prove", rather despairingly, to the rest of the schools in Ankara that they are different, I personally don't want to go and talk to them. I now know, unfortunately, that we don't matter. Their decisions do.
With every regime, there arises a problem called the "principal-agent" problem (funny how the wording fits the exact situation at hand). This is when the people elected to represent the people (agents) do not serve in the best interest of the people (the principals). It is somewhat inevitable, because human beings are selfish and crude- and I'm sorry Mr. Freud, but the super-ego does not always kick in. Sometimes though, there is one person high up in the chain who you can rely on; who you know you can trust. Unfortunately, that person, being a "predator", is also the "prey" for some people.
Who suffers from this problem is the principals. The people. The students. The agents get what they wanted all along. It is true that the people have great power; they can go against the system and the agents, and with enough will they, too, can get what they want. But when the "principals" are broken, when they have no hope that the agents can be changed, when all they really want to do is to get these horrible few months over with and never look back again, when the place they called "home" turns against them, well, then, there is nothing anyone can do. The agents may proceed with their merry lives. The seniors (oops, I meant "principals" (!)) can suffer on for the next months and wait for the principal-principal problem to claim its next victim.
Let's review the hierarchical structure of a typical, IB Diploma Highschool:
The Board of Directors
School Principal
High School Principal
Head of Departments
Teachers
School is where people like me go to receive education and to prepare for life. We pay money; we invest in the school for it to, in return, provide us with the best quality of education and the best environment possible under the circumstances. Almost 200 people, from the cleaning staff to the head of the math department to the "board", work so that we, the students, can get the best education possible. At least that's what it's supposed to be like in a world where IB diplomas grow on trees and you can understand HL Math.
On average, I spend approximately 8 hours sleeping and 1 hour on the road everyday. The amount of time for which I am fully awake and functioning is about 15 hours. And I spend more than half of this time in school. So it is only natural for my school to have become like a home to me, especially because I've been going to the same school since kindergarten with friends with whom I learned to write with. I expect my school to support me and each and every student, because the reason there is a huge stone building on top of a hill 15 km outside of town with hundreds of people inside it spending their time is to educate us. We, and by "we" I mean the students, should be the priority in any decision the "school", people listed above, make. The primary and most important goal of a school being to provide the students with the best conditions and education seems like a given, but believe me, it is overlooked most of the time.
This week (so far), I've had 3 quizzes and an oral commentary, one math test, and 5 lab reports and one essay due. I also go to Dersane, private teaching institutions preparing students for the final 2 exams which will get them enrolled into university, and its only Tuesday. Last night, I came home at 8 pm, after a 2 hr 40 min long exam at Dersane, and started writing these lab reports then. You must have understood that I don't get enough sleep. Or rest. Or relaxing time. Or freedom. None of us, seniors, get enough of these. So much is expected from us that we're trying very hard not to crumble under this stress. We burst out laughing when we hear the words "mock exams" and "IB" and "getting a 7 from HL Math", we slack off sometimes, uncomfortably watch an episode of How I Met Your Mother instead of doing the math homework, and then stay up until 2 in the morning to finish that same math homework.
You would expect that people around us seniors would try everything to make our lives easier.
They don't.
Instead, for the first time in my 14 years in school, I've been feeling that the school is doing everything in its power to make our lives harder. I wouldn't have thought things could get any harder, but, hey, I was mistaken.
Maybe the first time it wasn't intentional; the people on top of the educational food chain thought they were actually helping us. We went and spoke to these people, and they listened.
The second time is also somewhat understandable though not excusable. We went and spoke to other people, and they did not listen at first. Apparently, a board "commitment" was more important than people's parents attending their child's high school graduation. Only after we bantered them with our requests and got our parents involved did they decide to do something.
But when this happens for the third time, when the people who are supposed to be helping us try to tackle us for their own personal benefits, for what they have understood of the current national education system and their (rightful) hate towards it, and perhaps, just to show their stance and "prove", rather despairingly, to the rest of the schools in Ankara that they are different, I personally don't want to go and talk to them. I now know, unfortunately, that we don't matter. Their decisions do.
With every regime, there arises a problem called the "principal-agent" problem (funny how the wording fits the exact situation at hand). This is when the people elected to represent the people (agents) do not serve in the best interest of the people (the principals). It is somewhat inevitable, because human beings are selfish and crude- and I'm sorry Mr. Freud, but the super-ego does not always kick in. Sometimes though, there is one person high up in the chain who you can rely on; who you know you can trust. Unfortunately, that person, being a "predator", is also the "prey" for some people.
Who suffers from this problem is the principals. The people. The students. The agents get what they wanted all along. It is true that the people have great power; they can go against the system and the agents, and with enough will they, too, can get what they want. But when the "principals" are broken, when they have no hope that the agents can be changed, when all they really want to do is to get these horrible few months over with and never look back again, when the place they called "home" turns against them, well, then, there is nothing anyone can do. The agents may proceed with their merry lives. The seniors (oops, I meant "principals" (!)) can suffer on for the next months and wait for the principal-principal problem to claim its next victim.
Saturday, March 1, 2014
Millions of Euros & Bulletproof Ideas
"Did you get rid of all of it?"
"No, daddy, we still have 30 million euros. We can give half of that to Mr. Berat and with the rest we can buy an apartment."
"Ok. Try not to talk on the phones too much."
"Ok daddy. I'll try to get rid of the rest of the money."
"Don't talk like that. You're being listened."
"Ok daddy. Bye."
This conversation just surfaced on the internet a few days earlier. It takes place between the Prime Minister of Turkey, and his son. They're talking about all of the money they've stolen from the people and how to get rid of it, in the light of the new investigations. Only a few hours after this recording was published on Youtube, the Ministry made an announcement that "the recording is fake." However, sound engineers all over the world disagree.
And still, these guys are ruling the country and making decisions on our behalf, manipulating our lives while probably still, secretively, stashing some 10 million dollars at a house somewhere.
In our economics class, we talked about "equality" and how one of the goals of every nation is to reduce inequality in their country. We defined "equality" as everyone having the same market value from birth, or when they enter the job market, meaning that nobody was born without a leg or with an extraordinary talent for painting, or that every child has access to the same quality of education. One of our current government's principal arguments for they've "improved" the country is that, supposedly, they've reduced inequality. They handed out refrigerators to people living in villages with no access to electricity. They've increased income taxes. Turkey has the second most expensive petrol. They have, however, "improved" healthcare. The only thing wrong with that is that they're already supposed to do that.
And I seriously doubt that stealing from the people and stashing millions of euros reduces inequality.
Now we wait. We wait for the people to show themselves. We wait for the ones who are guilty to be punished, and get what they deserve, hoping that justice will be served. And that 50 % of my nation can finally rip off their blindfolds, break their chains, get out into the sun, and realize that they've been living in a world of shadows and deceit.
The "other 50 %", in the words of our PM, was on the streets the day after this recording was made public. They were doused by teargas and pressurized water, and aimed at with guns which fire plastic bullets. The PM's toy soldiers thought they could put out the fire of anger and passion burning in those people with water and gas. They thought they could shoot those thoughts and let them bleed to death; those thoughts which the wonderful people of my nation have; those thoughts which are NOT clouded by free coal or empty promises or pointless election campaigns or religious propaganda. It didn't work. Because, "behind this mask, Mr. Erdoğan, there is an idea. And ideas are bulletproof." (and teargas-proof, at that)
"No, daddy, we still have 30 million euros. We can give half of that to Mr. Berat and with the rest we can buy an apartment."
"Ok. Try not to talk on the phones too much."
"Ok daddy. I'll try to get rid of the rest of the money."
"Don't talk like that. You're being listened."
"Ok daddy. Bye."
This conversation just surfaced on the internet a few days earlier. It takes place between the Prime Minister of Turkey, and his son. They're talking about all of the money they've stolen from the people and how to get rid of it, in the light of the new investigations. Only a few hours after this recording was published on Youtube, the Ministry made an announcement that "the recording is fake." However, sound engineers all over the world disagree.
And still, these guys are ruling the country and making decisions on our behalf, manipulating our lives while probably still, secretively, stashing some 10 million dollars at a house somewhere.
In our economics class, we talked about "equality" and how one of the goals of every nation is to reduce inequality in their country. We defined "equality" as everyone having the same market value from birth, or when they enter the job market, meaning that nobody was born without a leg or with an extraordinary talent for painting, or that every child has access to the same quality of education. One of our current government's principal arguments for they've "improved" the country is that, supposedly, they've reduced inequality. They handed out refrigerators to people living in villages with no access to electricity. They've increased income taxes. Turkey has the second most expensive petrol. They have, however, "improved" healthcare. The only thing wrong with that is that they're already supposed to do that.
And I seriously doubt that stealing from the people and stashing millions of euros reduces inequality.
Now we wait. We wait for the people to show themselves. We wait for the ones who are guilty to be punished, and get what they deserve, hoping that justice will be served. And that 50 % of my nation can finally rip off their blindfolds, break their chains, get out into the sun, and realize that they've been living in a world of shadows and deceit.
The "other 50 %", in the words of our PM, was on the streets the day after this recording was made public. They were doused by teargas and pressurized water, and aimed at with guns which fire plastic bullets. The PM's toy soldiers thought they could put out the fire of anger and passion burning in those people with water and gas. They thought they could shoot those thoughts and let them bleed to death; those thoughts which the wonderful people of my nation have; those thoughts which are NOT clouded by free coal or empty promises or pointless election campaigns or religious propaganda. It didn't work. Because, "behind this mask, Mr. Erdoğan, there is an idea. And ideas are bulletproof." (and teargas-proof, at that)
Wednesday, February 19, 2014
Hamcules
The mighty Zeus grants Queen Saphirra a son to rescue their nation from the wrath of their ruler, King Amphitryon.
Hercules, being the unwanted, illegitimate, extraordinarily muscular twenty year-old prince he is, falls in love with Hebe, who is supposed to marry Hercules' brother, Iphicles.
So, the King decides to get Hercules killed by sending him off to some mission at which he is to be killed at an ambush.
English speaking people from Egypt ambush Hercules' division, and, with a stroke of luck, Hercules and his BFF are the only ones who remain alive, and instead of killing them, the commander decides to sell them as slaves.
They fight their way through slave-fights and finally reach their freedom, only to be captured again by the evil brother Iphicles. Just as Hercules' BFF is about to be executed, Hercules suddenly comes to sense and belief and asks for help from his daddy.
Meanwhile, there is this wedding talk but all we see is a girl in a white gown being dragged by soldiers.
Hercules rallies the people and defeats his father.
Hercules and Hebe live happily ever after.
This is basically what the movie The Legend of Hercules is about. It has shallow, underdeveloped characters, meaningless plot twists and apparently very universally aware and West-influenced Greeks and Egyptians. Basically, it is a waste of time; unless you want to have some fun and laugh at how Hercules denies the laws of physics.
Maybe because we've been cramming over it for the past week, my friend and I noticed an undeniable similarity between the movie Hercules and Shakespeare's tragedy, Hamlet.
A mean King: check.
An unwanted son who the King wants/tries to kill: check.
A girl over which the whole conflict is based on and who tries to commit suicide: check.
A loyal friend: check.
An angry brother: check.
I'd read an article talking about how all Hollywood movies were made up of variations of the same three plots. Unfortunately, when I now think of Hollywood movies, I think about cliches. And it is only the movies which actually manage to surprise the audience, give them more than what they'd expected when they were asking for the combo menu at the theater, that will be remembered 30 years from now, not some Hollywood cliche.
The main reason for the cliches and the basic plots is to give the audience what they want. The movie producers just want to make the audience feel satisfied; and some don't even care about that-they only care about the box office rating. In Hollywood, children don't die. In Hollywood, most movies end with happy endings. In Hollywood, the hero first seems to fail, but then he prevails and there is triumphant music playing in the background. In Hollywood, killing bad people is OK. In Hollywood, it's all about pleasing the audience. Unfortunately.
The one aspect of Hamlet different from Hercules was the ending. In Hamlet, all of the main characters except Horatio died. In Hercules, Hercules survives (duh, or else how could they make another excuse of a movie to make more money) and, Hebe somehow, miraculously, also survives. They have a child and live happily ever after.
William Hazlitt said, "other dramatic writers give us very fine versions and paraphrases of nature; but Shakespeare, together with his own comments, gives us the original text, that we may judge for ourselves." Shakespeare gives us life itself on a silver platter. Hollywood gives us a distilled, child-proof, pleasing version of "life". And I would prefer the "original text", no matter how harsh or disturbing it may be, over the pathetic, dumbed down, diluted, twisted amalgamations like Hamcules any time.
Hercules, being the unwanted, illegitimate, extraordinarily muscular twenty year-old prince he is, falls in love with Hebe, who is supposed to marry Hercules' brother, Iphicles.
So, the King decides to get Hercules killed by sending him off to some mission at which he is to be killed at an ambush.
English speaking people from Egypt ambush Hercules' division, and, with a stroke of luck, Hercules and his BFF are the only ones who remain alive, and instead of killing them, the commander decides to sell them as slaves.
They fight their way through slave-fights and finally reach their freedom, only to be captured again by the evil brother Iphicles. Just as Hercules' BFF is about to be executed, Hercules suddenly comes to sense and belief and asks for help from his daddy.
Meanwhile, there is this wedding talk but all we see is a girl in a white gown being dragged by soldiers.
Hercules rallies the people and defeats his father.
Hercules and Hebe live happily ever after.
This is basically what the movie The Legend of Hercules is about. It has shallow, underdeveloped characters, meaningless plot twists and apparently very universally aware and West-influenced Greeks and Egyptians. Basically, it is a waste of time; unless you want to have some fun and laugh at how Hercules denies the laws of physics.
Maybe because we've been cramming over it for the past week, my friend and I noticed an undeniable similarity between the movie Hercules and Shakespeare's tragedy, Hamlet.
A mean King: check.
An unwanted son who the King wants/tries to kill: check.
A girl over which the whole conflict is based on and who tries to commit suicide: check.
A loyal friend: check.
An angry brother: check.
I'd read an article talking about how all Hollywood movies were made up of variations of the same three plots. Unfortunately, when I now think of Hollywood movies, I think about cliches. And it is only the movies which actually manage to surprise the audience, give them more than what they'd expected when they were asking for the combo menu at the theater, that will be remembered 30 years from now, not some Hollywood cliche.
The main reason for the cliches and the basic plots is to give the audience what they want. The movie producers just want to make the audience feel satisfied; and some don't even care about that-they only care about the box office rating. In Hollywood, children don't die. In Hollywood, most movies end with happy endings. In Hollywood, the hero first seems to fail, but then he prevails and there is triumphant music playing in the background. In Hollywood, killing bad people is OK. In Hollywood, it's all about pleasing the audience. Unfortunately.
The one aspect of Hamlet different from Hercules was the ending. In Hamlet, all of the main characters except Horatio died. In Hercules, Hercules survives (duh, or else how could they make another excuse of a movie to make more money) and, Hebe somehow, miraculously, also survives. They have a child and live happily ever after.
William Hazlitt said, "other dramatic writers give us very fine versions and paraphrases of nature; but Shakespeare, together with his own comments, gives us the original text, that we may judge for ourselves." Shakespeare gives us life itself on a silver platter. Hollywood gives us a distilled, child-proof, pleasing version of "life". And I would prefer the "original text", no matter how harsh or disturbing it may be, over the pathetic, dumbed down, diluted, twisted amalgamations like Hamcules any time.
Sunday, January 26, 2014
Curtain Call
"...the purpose of playing, whose end, both at the first and now, was and is, to hold, as 'twere, the mirror up to nature..." -Hamlet, Act 3, Scene 2.
Why do people write plays? Or operas?
Why do people perform these plays or operas?
Why do people go and watch other people perform these plays or operas?
I think the reason is clearly stated by our most dear Hamlet; because, plays hold a "mirror up to nature", up to us, so that we can see ourselves and watch ourselves from outside - something we don't get to do on a daily base.
And the people who don't like plays or movies or operas or musicals, who find them "boring" or a "waste of time"; they are the people who don't want to "waste time" facing themselves. The spotlight of theater hasn't lit up their souls just yet.
Plays are spectacular slices of life and succulent specimens of human nature. Even if the play is about witches, vengeful spirits or merchants trading money for flesh, we can always find some of ourselves in it. Actually, the context and what you find from yourself in it doesn't really matter, what really matters is if the play can take you into its world and make you believe in witches or spirits from the world beyond. The same also applies to novels and movies.
But what is it that makes theater so different from the plain book or the movie? Why did I wait at -5 degrees Celsius at 9.30 am on a Sunday morning in front of the theater to get seats to Hamlet, a play I've already read -and analyzed- thoroughly? Why did I walk in the pouring rain, coughing and sneezing, to the theater, to see a guy play Hamlet? Why were all those people there, instead of at home, watching the movie?
What makes theater superior to movies and books is the fact that it is live. That's what has always amazed me; that someone, 20 meters down the row, is on the stage, talking to, or singing to lots of people, creating a pocket-sized universe on that enormous stage. Someone, just like you and me, is up there, doing something called "acting" (how crazy would it sound to a stranger when you told them about how on Planet Earth people got up on stages and pretended to be someone they're not), inviting you, and, if successful, drawing you into their own, little world.
And the splendor! The costumes, the exaggerated actions and expressions, the intoxicating tragedy or comedy... Plain theater can only take it so far, and that's where operas come in. The music, combined with the "live" factor and the splendor, provides the audience with an addictive dose of drama that cannot be obtained anywhere else. I have not seen a scene more epic and glamorous than Don Giovanni's last scene;
Il Commandatore's statue spurs to life, the orchestra screams the D minor chord, the lights fade, the angels of death come onto the stage-Il Commendatore lifts his white, cold arm, and sings "Don Giovanni!"...
So I will see Don Giovanni for the fourth time. And I will go to Hamlet or any other play if I have the chance, even if I'd read it before. And I will be amazed again and again at how those people on the stage perform and manage to envelope the hundreds of people in front of them into their own fictional world, and I will, at some point, forget that I'm watching a play or an opera-and I wouldn't mind it. Because getting out of this cramped up monochromatic world of ours and leaping into Denmark's "prisons" or Don Giovanni's castle every once in a while is not such a bad idea.
Why do people write plays? Or operas?
Why do people perform these plays or operas?
Why do people go and watch other people perform these plays or operas?
I think the reason is clearly stated by our most dear Hamlet; because, plays hold a "mirror up to nature", up to us, so that we can see ourselves and watch ourselves from outside - something we don't get to do on a daily base.
And the people who don't like plays or movies or operas or musicals, who find them "boring" or a "waste of time"; they are the people who don't want to "waste time" facing themselves. The spotlight of theater hasn't lit up their souls just yet.
Plays are spectacular slices of life and succulent specimens of human nature. Even if the play is about witches, vengeful spirits or merchants trading money for flesh, we can always find some of ourselves in it. Actually, the context and what you find from yourself in it doesn't really matter, what really matters is if the play can take you into its world and make you believe in witches or spirits from the world beyond. The same also applies to novels and movies.
But what is it that makes theater so different from the plain book or the movie? Why did I wait at -5 degrees Celsius at 9.30 am on a Sunday morning in front of the theater to get seats to Hamlet, a play I've already read -and analyzed- thoroughly? Why did I walk in the pouring rain, coughing and sneezing, to the theater, to see a guy play Hamlet? Why were all those people there, instead of at home, watching the movie?
What makes theater superior to movies and books is the fact that it is live. That's what has always amazed me; that someone, 20 meters down the row, is on the stage, talking to, or singing to lots of people, creating a pocket-sized universe on that enormous stage. Someone, just like you and me, is up there, doing something called "acting" (how crazy would it sound to a stranger when you told them about how on Planet Earth people got up on stages and pretended to be someone they're not), inviting you, and, if successful, drawing you into their own, little world.
And the splendor! The costumes, the exaggerated actions and expressions, the intoxicating tragedy or comedy... Plain theater can only take it so far, and that's where operas come in. The music, combined with the "live" factor and the splendor, provides the audience with an addictive dose of drama that cannot be obtained anywhere else. I have not seen a scene more epic and glamorous than Don Giovanni's last scene;
Il Commandatore's statue spurs to life, the orchestra screams the D minor chord, the lights fade, the angels of death come onto the stage-Il Commendatore lifts his white, cold arm, and sings "Don Giovanni!"...
So I will see Don Giovanni for the fourth time. And I will go to Hamlet or any other play if I have the chance, even if I'd read it before. And I will be amazed again and again at how those people on the stage perform and manage to envelope the hundreds of people in front of them into their own fictional world, and I will, at some point, forget that I'm watching a play or an opera-and I wouldn't mind it. Because getting out of this cramped up monochromatic world of ours and leaping into Denmark's "prisons" or Don Giovanni's castle every once in a while is not such a bad idea.
Sunday, January 19, 2014
Another Day in Paradise
Every time I walk to my Dershane, private teaching institutions in Turkey which prepare students for the university exams, I take the same route. I go down my street, take a right, cross the street, go past the white and graceless cab stand, down all the way to the park, float down into the underpass and surface on the other side of the road, walk straight down, go past the lottery stand, the begging children on the left and Levis on right, turn right at the intersection, get through the huge line of people waiting for the bus to arrive and cross the street, turn left at the corner, being careful not to step on the peddler's goods, go past the little children playing harmonicas and begging, and, voila, I'm there.
My class in Dershane possesses a very wide range of teenagers. There is the girl who lives 20 kilometers away and takes a 1.5 hour long bus ride every day to get there, there is the girl with a constant smile on her face who studies way harder than the others yet still gets low grades, there are the guys in the back, pretending they know it all, but really they don't even know what they're working so hard for. And then there is that girl who can draw beautifully, but she has to learn all these to be able to live a "decent" life. Behind her sits that guy who talks a lot, jumps at every question and thinks he can do anything. I hope he stays that way. And next to them sits the diva of the class; her makeup pretty, her hair combed, her scarf and her shoes matching-she writes down everything on the board with the utmost care in her notebook, with color pens. She thinks she's learning, but she doesn't realize that those colorful notes are not going to get her into college alone. In the front sits the girl with the headscarf. She is nice, funny and hard-working-yet she's been chained down and subdued by the drug some call "religion" at only 17. She wants to be a doctor. And finally, there is the awkward guy, who wears the same thing every day, and is very smart- but his school doesn't care about him. For all of these people, except the exceptionally wealthy ones who can afford getting into a private university (which accept students with lower grades from the entrance test) the university exam is the way out, it's their salvation, it's the only chance they get to turn their lives around and be who they want to be.
Yet, their teachers at school don't know what they're supposed to teach. Their parents don't care about what they do: they only care if the Dershane sends home texts saying their child didn't do his/her homework. They don't have iPad's or iPhone's or computers to do research from or to let off some steam.
That begging child I see every single day on my way to Dershane, always has a book in his hands. He is always reading, even as night time begins to fall and the light starts to fade. What if he had a better family? What if his family had the resources to send him to the best schools in Ankara, get him tutored in playing the violin, and send him to Europe for creative writing workshops? Unfortunately, no matter what is stored behind those dark brown eyes shining with excitement and curiosity, may never be used.
That is what's wrong with the world. Your life is pretty much decided when you're born, according to the conditions you are born to/in. Not everyone gets an equal shot at making this journey of ours called life, the best one they've ever had. Some manage to change tracks; they take a right at the intersection instead of a left and they meet the most amazing person who knows this celebrity who can get them a job, and at that job discover that they're extraordinarily talented and rise to the top very quickly and build their own companies and BE HAPPY. Some can do this. And the ones who can't, well, they go down the same old gray road, get a decent job, work only to make money, and always dream about what their lives would've been like if they were born into different families. Or if they'd studied harder and had a better math teacher in 10th grade and had gotten into a better college.
So everytime I go to Dershane after coming home from my private school and choosing a bag among the ten to put my Dershane stuff in, charging my iPhone, hearing my parents say "We love you, and good luck, don't stress yourself out", and feeling them hug me just before I leave, and then see those little children on the street begging for money rather than being at school or at home playing with his toys, I lose faith in the human race and this messed up system they've (we've) invented. I wish everyone could have equal opportunities, I wish there was a world where the people with the most money or best connections didn't get what they wanted. But we all know that this is not possible, and ending this blog post saying "I wish everyone could be equal :(" is equivalent to writing a blog post about unicorns and then saying "I wish they really existed".
The least we could do to mend this broken system of ours is to listen and try to help. I'm not saying you shouldn't buy that 100 dollars worth sweater that you don't really need and instead donate that money to some charity. All I'm saying is, listen. Don't Pretend you can't hear them, start to whistle as you cross the street and seem embarrassed to be there. Because if you could just listen, if you could just understand, you could grant "another day in paradise" for many people.
My class in Dershane possesses a very wide range of teenagers. There is the girl who lives 20 kilometers away and takes a 1.5 hour long bus ride every day to get there, there is the girl with a constant smile on her face who studies way harder than the others yet still gets low grades, there are the guys in the back, pretending they know it all, but really they don't even know what they're working so hard for. And then there is that girl who can draw beautifully, but she has to learn all these to be able to live a "decent" life. Behind her sits that guy who talks a lot, jumps at every question and thinks he can do anything. I hope he stays that way. And next to them sits the diva of the class; her makeup pretty, her hair combed, her scarf and her shoes matching-she writes down everything on the board with the utmost care in her notebook, with color pens. She thinks she's learning, but she doesn't realize that those colorful notes are not going to get her into college alone. In the front sits the girl with the headscarf. She is nice, funny and hard-working-yet she's been chained down and subdued by the drug some call "religion" at only 17. She wants to be a doctor. And finally, there is the awkward guy, who wears the same thing every day, and is very smart- but his school doesn't care about him. For all of these people, except the exceptionally wealthy ones who can afford getting into a private university (which accept students with lower grades from the entrance test) the university exam is the way out, it's their salvation, it's the only chance they get to turn their lives around and be who they want to be.
Yet, their teachers at school don't know what they're supposed to teach. Their parents don't care about what they do: they only care if the Dershane sends home texts saying their child didn't do his/her homework. They don't have iPad's or iPhone's or computers to do research from or to let off some steam.
That begging child I see every single day on my way to Dershane, always has a book in his hands. He is always reading, even as night time begins to fall and the light starts to fade. What if he had a better family? What if his family had the resources to send him to the best schools in Ankara, get him tutored in playing the violin, and send him to Europe for creative writing workshops? Unfortunately, no matter what is stored behind those dark brown eyes shining with excitement and curiosity, may never be used.
That is what's wrong with the world. Your life is pretty much decided when you're born, according to the conditions you are born to/in. Not everyone gets an equal shot at making this journey of ours called life, the best one they've ever had. Some manage to change tracks; they take a right at the intersection instead of a left and they meet the most amazing person who knows this celebrity who can get them a job, and at that job discover that they're extraordinarily talented and rise to the top very quickly and build their own companies and BE HAPPY. Some can do this. And the ones who can't, well, they go down the same old gray road, get a decent job, work only to make money, and always dream about what their lives would've been like if they were born into different families. Or if they'd studied harder and had a better math teacher in 10th grade and had gotten into a better college.
So everytime I go to Dershane after coming home from my private school and choosing a bag among the ten to put my Dershane stuff in, charging my iPhone, hearing my parents say "We love you, and good luck, don't stress yourself out", and feeling them hug me just before I leave, and then see those little children on the street begging for money rather than being at school or at home playing with his toys, I lose faith in the human race and this messed up system they've (we've) invented. I wish everyone could have equal opportunities, I wish there was a world where the people with the most money or best connections didn't get what they wanted. But we all know that this is not possible, and ending this blog post saying "I wish everyone could be equal :(" is equivalent to writing a blog post about unicorns and then saying "I wish they really existed".
The least we could do to mend this broken system of ours is to listen and try to help. I'm not saying you shouldn't buy that 100 dollars worth sweater that you don't really need and instead donate that money to some charity. All I'm saying is, listen. Don't Pretend you can't hear them, start to whistle as you cross the street and seem embarrassed to be there. Because if you could just listen, if you could just understand, you could grant "another day in paradise" for many people.
Wednesday, January 1, 2014
Changing Photographs
Year 1999
Lots of food on the table. The house is decorated with cheesy, shining ornaments soaked in glitter. Smiling faces. Many faces. The little girl at the center, putting up her act, laughing because she knows she should smile when someone stands in front of her with a camera. Her brother is at the back, acting cool, displaying a crooked smile, anxious to get into the Santa Claus suit and surprise his little sister. Who they call "mom" is on the left, with tired eyes but a true smile. She's happy to be there and to have been able to cook the turkey in time for dinner. Her mother is sitting at the head of the table, with blue eyes and a sincere smile. She wishes her husband could be there, and puts her arm around her other, older daughter. She, the aunt of the children, makes sure there is no lipstick on her teeth and cuddles in with her mother. The uncle of the children and his wife are on the sides; they, too, are smiling. They wish their children, who have long left their nests and have started to build their own by themselves, could be there with them, like the old days. The father of the children, with the dark, black mustache is behind the camera; you can't see him, but you know he's there-smiling, and fidgeting with the camera. His mother is sitting next to his wife's mother, with her husband, who has grown old with her. Their eyes which have seen much, much more than anyone at the table glimmer with their small smiles. The two nieces of the grandmother are at the back, hugging each other; sisters, smiling pleasantly, happy to be together.
Year 2013
Lots of food on the table. The house has some ornaments hung up here and there, but you can see that they're out-of-date. Smiling faces. But not a lot of them. The father on the far left hand side, smiling, his black mustache now gone gray, sits next to his wife. She has tired eyes, and is glad she's managed to make everything she'd planned to make. She is smiling, her head cocked to the side, thinking of all those people who aren't there that last night of 2013. The little girl has become a teenager and is spending new year's eve at home for the last time; she doesn't believe in Santa Claus anymore. She has just set the camera's timer and has raced to her designated spot; she's smiling, but she really wishes her brother could be there. Her brother, now 25, is off in some forgotten little town, serving the army, completing his compulsory army service. Their grandmother, on the mother side, is sitting at the head of the table on her own. Her smile has somewhat faded, she misses her husband and her older daughter who don't have an excuse for not being there, she has lost too much to a disgusting, dire, despairing disease. The grandmother on the father's side isn't there; she's gotten too old to climb the stairs to her son's apartment, and has chosen to spend her 95th new year's eve at home, alone. The uncle and his wife are in another town, with their children and grandchildren. The two nieces of the grandmother are at the back, hugging each other; sisters, smiling pleasantly, happy to be together. Everyone thinks of all the people who aren't there that night, especially the ones without excuses-tears well up in their eyes-they blink them away, because they know you're supposed to smile at the camera...
***
The one thing I don't like about new year's eve, exaggerated by profit-seeking entrepreneurs and foreign traditions, is that you get to- actually, you're forced to- reflect on the previous year; and it may not always hold nice stuff. The photos from these evenings are slices from your life, the perfect snapshot to sum it all up; every 31st of December, we do the same things: the menu is mostly the same, the purpose is always the same, but the people in the pictures change- and disappear, some, forever. So be happy with what you have now, because you may not be able to find it in next year's photo of new year's eve.
Lots of food on the table. The house is decorated with cheesy, shining ornaments soaked in glitter. Smiling faces. Many faces. The little girl at the center, putting up her act, laughing because she knows she should smile when someone stands in front of her with a camera. Her brother is at the back, acting cool, displaying a crooked smile, anxious to get into the Santa Claus suit and surprise his little sister. Who they call "mom" is on the left, with tired eyes but a true smile. She's happy to be there and to have been able to cook the turkey in time for dinner. Her mother is sitting at the head of the table, with blue eyes and a sincere smile. She wishes her husband could be there, and puts her arm around her other, older daughter. She, the aunt of the children, makes sure there is no lipstick on her teeth and cuddles in with her mother. The uncle of the children and his wife are on the sides; they, too, are smiling. They wish their children, who have long left their nests and have started to build their own by themselves, could be there with them, like the old days. The father of the children, with the dark, black mustache is behind the camera; you can't see him, but you know he's there-smiling, and fidgeting with the camera. His mother is sitting next to his wife's mother, with her husband, who has grown old with her. Their eyes which have seen much, much more than anyone at the table glimmer with their small smiles. The two nieces of the grandmother are at the back, hugging each other; sisters, smiling pleasantly, happy to be together.
Year 2013
Lots of food on the table. The house has some ornaments hung up here and there, but you can see that they're out-of-date. Smiling faces. But not a lot of them. The father on the far left hand side, smiling, his black mustache now gone gray, sits next to his wife. She has tired eyes, and is glad she's managed to make everything she'd planned to make. She is smiling, her head cocked to the side, thinking of all those people who aren't there that last night of 2013. The little girl has become a teenager and is spending new year's eve at home for the last time; she doesn't believe in Santa Claus anymore. She has just set the camera's timer and has raced to her designated spot; she's smiling, but she really wishes her brother could be there. Her brother, now 25, is off in some forgotten little town, serving the army, completing his compulsory army service. Their grandmother, on the mother side, is sitting at the head of the table on her own. Her smile has somewhat faded, she misses her husband and her older daughter who don't have an excuse for not being there, she has lost too much to a disgusting, dire, despairing disease. The grandmother on the father's side isn't there; she's gotten too old to climb the stairs to her son's apartment, and has chosen to spend her 95th new year's eve at home, alone. The uncle and his wife are in another town, with their children and grandchildren. The two nieces of the grandmother are at the back, hugging each other; sisters, smiling pleasantly, happy to be together. Everyone thinks of all the people who aren't there that night, especially the ones without excuses-tears well up in their eyes-they blink them away, because they know you're supposed to smile at the camera...
***
The one thing I don't like about new year's eve, exaggerated by profit-seeking entrepreneurs and foreign traditions, is that you get to- actually, you're forced to- reflect on the previous year; and it may not always hold nice stuff. The photos from these evenings are slices from your life, the perfect snapshot to sum it all up; every 31st of December, we do the same things: the menu is mostly the same, the purpose is always the same, but the people in the pictures change- and disappear, some, forever. So be happy with what you have now, because you may not be able to find it in next year's photo of new year's eve.
Sunday, December 29, 2013
What if?
"She woke up at the screeching sound of her alarm clock. She got dressed, had breakfast, and got in her red little Volkswagen. She checked her hair and makeup on the rear view mirror, something she usually wouldn't have done, but today was special. She took her usual route around town, heading for her office, keeping an eye on the digital clock on the dashboard so that she wouldn't be late on this special day. She saw the green traffic light in the distance with only a few seconds remaining, and she knew she had to get that. She increased the throttle, shifted gear, got on the left lane, and whizzed through the intersection just in time. What she didn't see was the swerving small Prius, which just missed the trunk of her car by a fraction of a second. She got to work on time, the elevator was right there, and headed up to the executive floor! She never would've thought this day would come. She knew her hair and makeup were fine, she confidently strode into the meeting room, and they closed the door after she got in."
Cabin pressure-stablizer? Check. Frontal warp engines? Check. Seatbelts? Check. Jumping to light speed, tearing through the fabric of time…
"She woke up at the screeching sound of her alarm clock. She got dressed, had breakfast, and got in her red little Volkswagen. She checked her hair and makeup on the rear view mirror, something she usually wouldn't have done, but today was special. She took her usual route around town, heading for her office, keeping an eye on the digital clock on the dashboard so that she wouldn't be late on this special day. She saw the green traffic light in the distance with only a few seconds remaining, and decided it wasn't worth it. She would get the next one. She pressed the brakes, shifted gear, and halted at the intersection. Just as she stole a glance at the rear view mirror to make sure her briefcase was on the back seat, a swerving small Prius came out of the intersection, and crashed into her red little Volkswagen. From that moment on, her day was a day-time nightmare. She had to call the insurance company, had to reason with a clearly hungover guy, got to work late, and by the time she had darted up the stairs to the meeting room because the elevator was stuck on the executive floor, she was tired, sweaty, her hair was all messed up, and the meeting had already started. There goes the good first impression, she thought."
Don't you wonder what your life would have been like if you'd took that job offer in Germany? Or if you'd bought a house on the suburbs rather than one in the city? Or if you'd eaten cereal for breakfast this morning?
Every second, we make decisions. I decide to write this blog post now rather than going to sleep. You decide to read this blog post, rather than dismissing it as the ramblings of a teenager and going to the kitchen to get dinner. And every single decision we make changes the course of our lives, whether that change is so drastic that you die in the next three seconds, or you just don't see a specific stranger on the street that day. Wouldn't it be awesome if we could trace back the branches of life and take another road to see how our lives would have turned out? If only we had a TARDIS...
Of course, the idea of parallel universes does have its glitches. If a new universe is created with every decision someone makes, then there would be an infinite number of parallel universes, one for each decision one of us -among the 7.134 billion- makes. And, why shouldn't dogs and cats have parallel universes? What's so special about humans that WE get the parallel universes, and the heavens and the gods?
The countless number of movies made and books written on this issue of parallel universes only strengthen the hollow yet unnecessarily widely supported narcissistic set of mind, putting humans on top of every other species, and accepting -knowing- that we are special... somehow. Still, it would be cool to take up my De Lorean for a trip to another layer of time where, 300 million years ago, some curious fish on a planet called "the Earth" decided to remain in water and hadn't migrated onto land to begin life on land as we know it... What if?
Sunday, December 1, 2013
Until Stars Become Reindeers
Plastic pine trees are in high demand.
The mall now has snowflakes and pretty little lights and red and green hanging from its roof.
Red sale signs now decorate the storefronts.
And when you look carefully, you can see the blurs on the frosty windows, left there by the little children of the house who had just left the window side to get some hot cocoa, counting the seconds until the first snowfall, all in sweet anticipation.
Today is the first day of December.
For some, it is the end of a whole year and is a chance to wrap things up; correct their mistakes, fulfill their last wishes.
For some, it is a long-awaited time to finally get out of this disaster of a year, start over; forget.
And for some, like us, it is nothing but a month of stress, challenges and friends, thankfully cut short with a "winter break", concluded by, first Christmas, then new year's eve, only to be followed by more work and more stress.
But there is something about the newly constructed Christmas tree still missing some of its ornaments and the hats people are just starting to wear that brings warmness to my heart and fills it with happiness and expectation. I know that all of this fuss is about pushing people to consume more, in the end, only two days have passed since "Black Friday", a day especially devoted to turning people into raged consumerists who will stop at nothing to get that paper shredder which is on 60 % discount (!). Still, something about the "xmas" songs on the radio and the slightly chilly air makes me feel warm and fuzzy inside - now and until the stars hidden behind the gray clouds turn into reindeers.
The mall now has snowflakes and pretty little lights and red and green hanging from its roof.
Red sale signs now decorate the storefronts.
And when you look carefully, you can see the blurs on the frosty windows, left there by the little children of the house who had just left the window side to get some hot cocoa, counting the seconds until the first snowfall, all in sweet anticipation.
Today is the first day of December.
For some, it is the end of a whole year and is a chance to wrap things up; correct their mistakes, fulfill their last wishes.
For some, it is a long-awaited time to finally get out of this disaster of a year, start over; forget.
And for some, like us, it is nothing but a month of stress, challenges and friends, thankfully cut short with a "winter break", concluded by, first Christmas, then new year's eve, only to be followed by more work and more stress.
But there is something about the newly constructed Christmas tree still missing some of its ornaments and the hats people are just starting to wear that brings warmness to my heart and fills it with happiness and expectation. I know that all of this fuss is about pushing people to consume more, in the end, only two days have passed since "Black Friday", a day especially devoted to turning people into raged consumerists who will stop at nothing to get that paper shredder which is on 60 % discount (!). Still, something about the "xmas" songs on the radio and the slightly chilly air makes me feel warm and fuzzy inside - now and until the stars hidden behind the gray clouds turn into reindeers.
Sunday, November 24, 2013
Laws for War (?)
Apparently, you can't torture a prisoner of war. There's a law against it. But you can tear off people's legs, kill thousands of young boys who have yet to experience the things life has to offer, break up families, slaughter dreams, wipe out an entire nation and condemn the next generations to constant pain; and for what?
Just a few thousands of hectares of land. Because someone couldn't be satisfied with what they have. Because someone just couldn't help pulling the trigger.
War is brutal. It is the most horrific thing the human kind has invented and it is nothing but an eerie, twisted game soaked in blood.
But, there are the "War and international humanitarian laws" which regulate it, so it's actually all under control!
"Parties to a conflict and members of their armed forces do not have an unlimited choice of methods and means of warfare. It is prohibited to employ weapons or methods of warfare of a nature to cause unnecessary losses or excessive suffering." So you can slaughter the soldiers fighting for people who don't have blue eyes and fine hair, just not A LOT of them so that their deaths become "unnecessary".
"Captured combatants are entitled to respect for their lives, dignity, personal rights and convictions." So you can't kill a "combatant" you take as a prisoner, but it's perfectly fine to kill thousands out on the field.
Of course, it is better to have some kind of regulation over an act of almost unlimited destruction than none. Still, even the act of forming "laws for war" confirms the need for wars and accepts that it is somewhat necessary. But wait! These laws also "prevent" civilians from dying and surrendered soldiers from being killed! So they're totally useful!
They would be, if everyone obeyed the laws. When people cannot even obey the simple command of halting at the sight of a red light, you cannot expect them to "follow the rules" when they are after the head of the king who "dominates the land of their ancestors". Sure, they impose some kind of power and create pressure on the people who violate them, but they don't make war a regulated act of "quarrel". It just seems very ironic to establish laws about the most brutal act of humanity which violates uncountable moral laws. The laws are just like a fence the owner of an expensive house has installed around their property; the owners know it won't keep the burglars out, but it just makes them feel better about themselves when their houses get robbed- or when war brakes out and they retreat to their safe-houses on the skirts of the Alps with their copious amounts of cheese and pocketknives.
As you see, no matter how many frames of "law" and "rights" and "rules" you fasten around war, it does not make it a painting of poppy fields and happy children running about. The frame just keeps the blood from soaking the gallery's floor where the people in power sit and watch other people fight -and die- for them.
Just a few thousands of hectares of land. Because someone couldn't be satisfied with what they have. Because someone just couldn't help pulling the trigger.
War is brutal. It is the most horrific thing the human kind has invented and it is nothing but an eerie, twisted game soaked in blood.
But, there are the "War and international humanitarian laws" which regulate it, so it's actually all under control!
"Parties to a conflict and members of their armed forces do not have an unlimited choice of methods and means of warfare. It is prohibited to employ weapons or methods of warfare of a nature to cause unnecessary losses or excessive suffering." So you can slaughter the soldiers fighting for people who don't have blue eyes and fine hair, just not A LOT of them so that their deaths become "unnecessary".
"Captured combatants are entitled to respect for their lives, dignity, personal rights and convictions." So you can't kill a "combatant" you take as a prisoner, but it's perfectly fine to kill thousands out on the field.
Of course, it is better to have some kind of regulation over an act of almost unlimited destruction than none. Still, even the act of forming "laws for war" confirms the need for wars and accepts that it is somewhat necessary. But wait! These laws also "prevent" civilians from dying and surrendered soldiers from being killed! So they're totally useful!
They would be, if everyone obeyed the laws. When people cannot even obey the simple command of halting at the sight of a red light, you cannot expect them to "follow the rules" when they are after the head of the king who "dominates the land of their ancestors". Sure, they impose some kind of power and create pressure on the people who violate them, but they don't make war a regulated act of "quarrel". It just seems very ironic to establish laws about the most brutal act of humanity which violates uncountable moral laws. The laws are just like a fence the owner of an expensive house has installed around their property; the owners know it won't keep the burglars out, but it just makes them feel better about themselves when their houses get robbed- or when war brakes out and they retreat to their safe-houses on the skirts of the Alps with their copious amounts of cheese and pocketknives.
As you see, no matter how many frames of "law" and "rights" and "rules" you fasten around war, it does not make it a painting of poppy fields and happy children running about. The frame just keeps the blood from soaking the gallery's floor where the people in power sit and watch other people fight -and die- for them.
Sunday, November 3, 2013
All You Need Is Love...?
"She walked down the blank streets of the once beautiful metropolitan city. A burden buried beneath her armor for protection from judgement and "hate" kept her from walking any faster. And every time she saw someone begging, a little girl crying, or a homeless person sleeping on the bench, this burden got heavier and heavier; every tear drop of that little girl seemed to elongate her gait, and sink her spirits even more. She looked around the barren walls and lifeless streets, the people walking all by themselves. She thought that living like this was not living at all. Right then, a black unicorn sprouting fire turned around the corner of the street as silence and the un-image of love splattered around the city sunk into the dark night which never seemed to come to an end."
Above is a simple description of a twisted, dark utopia; the possible outcome of the ideas of some "bright" scientists
In the article, The Myth of Universal Love, social theorist Jeremy Rifkin's idea of making the world a better place by making everyone love each other equally is stated and analyzed. The description above is how life in a world where "everyone loved each other equally" and everyone cared equally about anyone else. This idea of equal, universal love seems to be pirated from the scripts of Teletubbies or The Smurfs, and its application will create nothing more than a twisted, dark utopia.
First of all, as it is also stated in the article, if we loved everyone around us equally, that would mean that we would care for everyone equally, which would, in a short period of time, cause our mental state to decline and our minds to malfunction. We just can't produce that much of "oxytocin and opioids". This equal care for everyone would either mean that no one cared about what anyone else was doing, and everyone could do what ever they wanted to, because, who cares, or that everyone cared immensely about what other people-people they've never met or feel no special affection towards- do, and make it their business to keep them happy-all the while hot-wiring their emotional circuits to an irreparable stage.
Also, in this twisted utopia of ours, "love" wouldn't be "love" anymore. Love is a special feeling that is provided by specific things-personal things- and is not standardized like donuts so that you can pass it out and yell "free love for everyone!".
Many pieces of art were created in the name of love. Artists throughout time have shined their love for someone onto their art, and this helped us get where we are right now. The music you hear in elevators, the "Fur Elise", was written by a half-deaf, sloppy man terribly in love with a girl called Elise. Schumann dedicated symphonies which are some of the best pieces of classical music ever written to his true love, Clara Wieck. You don't need to go 300 years back in time to see the effect of love on art: just pick a popular song playing on the radio and there is a great chance that it is written after a heartbreak or a new-found love. The "artwork" we see around the street may bother some people, but the graffiti with love dripping down its sides, the "Jenny ♥ John"s written in clumsy letters, are what remind the denizens of the metropolitan that not everything is about money, power or models created by social theorists.
So love is not something at the social theorist's expense to dole out. Sometimes, yes, love is all you need, but equal, universal love and equal care will bring nothing more than suicidal members of society and black, hideous unicorns.
Above is a simple description of a twisted, dark utopia; the possible outcome of the ideas of some "bright" scientists
In the article, The Myth of Universal Love, social theorist Jeremy Rifkin's idea of making the world a better place by making everyone love each other equally is stated and analyzed. The description above is how life in a world where "everyone loved each other equally" and everyone cared equally about anyone else. This idea of equal, universal love seems to be pirated from the scripts of Teletubbies or The Smurfs, and its application will create nothing more than a twisted, dark utopia.
First of all, as it is also stated in the article, if we loved everyone around us equally, that would mean that we would care for everyone equally, which would, in a short period of time, cause our mental state to decline and our minds to malfunction. We just can't produce that much of "oxytocin and opioids". This equal care for everyone would either mean that no one cared about what anyone else was doing, and everyone could do what ever they wanted to, because, who cares, or that everyone cared immensely about what other people-people they've never met or feel no special affection towards- do, and make it their business to keep them happy-all the while hot-wiring their emotional circuits to an irreparable stage.
Also, in this twisted utopia of ours, "love" wouldn't be "love" anymore. Love is a special feeling that is provided by specific things-personal things- and is not standardized like donuts so that you can pass it out and yell "free love for everyone!".
Many pieces of art were created in the name of love. Artists throughout time have shined their love for someone onto their art, and this helped us get where we are right now. The music you hear in elevators, the "Fur Elise", was written by a half-deaf, sloppy man terribly in love with a girl called Elise. Schumann dedicated symphonies which are some of the best pieces of classical music ever written to his true love, Clara Wieck. You don't need to go 300 years back in time to see the effect of love on art: just pick a popular song playing on the radio and there is a great chance that it is written after a heartbreak or a new-found love. The "artwork" we see around the street may bother some people, but the graffiti with love dripping down its sides, the "Jenny ♥ John"s written in clumsy letters, are what remind the denizens of the metropolitan that not everything is about money, power or models created by social theorists.
So love is not something at the social theorist's expense to dole out. Sometimes, yes, love is all you need, but equal, universal love and equal care will bring nothing more than suicidal members of society and black, hideous unicorns.
Sunday, October 20, 2013
Lessons from Fiction
What do we do in our free time?
We watch TV shows.
We watch movies.
We listen to music.
We read books.
But actually, when we listen to music, or watch a movie, we may just be feasting on one of the extensions of a work of literature, with out even knowing it. To all those people who regard studying literature as being useless: try living with out it and see how your life turns into a gray, disgusting bowl of mush.
Literature is everywhere, and what a man poured out onto ink and paper 300 years ago can always be studied and explored further, diving into the wells of the author's state of mind and emotions, newly discovering the lands the author has already conquered. There is always something to learn when you read someone else's writing, whether it's The Republic or a blog post.
Last week, the Turkish government issued a new law stating that the government now has the right to view any of our private chats and listen to our conversations over the phone. One of the newspapers which still, despite the horrendously oppressive government, can actually deliver true and "un-politicized" news, printed the heading "Big Brother Left Innocent". Whether it is the reference a minority newspaper in Turkey makes to a classic work of dystopic fiction to reflect what takes place in the real world, or that George Orwell, way back in 1948 predicted what would happen to the world and wrote a work of "fiction" on it which turns out to be eerily accurate, goes to show what fiction -and literature- are capable of.
Personally, I don't care much about a research being done on how reading literary fiction improves one's ability to detect the state of mind of a person from only their eyes. What I'm interested in is, how literary fiction, or any type of fiction, can help us get along in life and broaden our horizons. When we study these works, we get to know about the time period these books were written in, or about the years they take place in. We get to learn about different cultures and traditions, facts we would otherwise regard as unimportant and facts which we wouldn't search on Google about in our free time.
But these are just the tip of the iceberg.
The most important thing we gain by reading and studying works of fiction is getting to know people and how they react to certain events. We get to know different types of people, and by the end of the book, if the author was skillful enough, we get connected to the characters so tightly that we do not want to let go. We get to know what a grieving father thinks when he acts, we get to know what an assassin feels like when he completes his kill or gets his training, we know what drives a man looking for vengeance, we know how a poet caught in the webs of a conspiracy against him and trapped inside the strict views and rules of a society feels like.
So reading and studying literary fiction-or any type of fiction, at that- is not a total waste of time as some people may assume it to be. Along with learning about the time periods and circumstances the novels were written/take place in, we also get to know people. And there's nothing wrong with getting to know more about the dominant -and supposedly the most intelligent- species on earth which we live among, compete with, and fall in love with.
We watch TV shows.
We watch movies.
We listen to music.
We read books.
But actually, when we listen to music, or watch a movie, we may just be feasting on one of the extensions of a work of literature, with out even knowing it. To all those people who regard studying literature as being useless: try living with out it and see how your life turns into a gray, disgusting bowl of mush.
Literature is everywhere, and what a man poured out onto ink and paper 300 years ago can always be studied and explored further, diving into the wells of the author's state of mind and emotions, newly discovering the lands the author has already conquered. There is always something to learn when you read someone else's writing, whether it's The Republic or a blog post.
Last week, the Turkish government issued a new law stating that the government now has the right to view any of our private chats and listen to our conversations over the phone. One of the newspapers which still, despite the horrendously oppressive government, can actually deliver true and "un-politicized" news, printed the heading "Big Brother Left Innocent". Whether it is the reference a minority newspaper in Turkey makes to a classic work of dystopic fiction to reflect what takes place in the real world, or that George Orwell, way back in 1948 predicted what would happen to the world and wrote a work of "fiction" on it which turns out to be eerily accurate, goes to show what fiction -and literature- are capable of.
Personally, I don't care much about a research being done on how reading literary fiction improves one's ability to detect the state of mind of a person from only their eyes. What I'm interested in is, how literary fiction, or any type of fiction, can help us get along in life and broaden our horizons. When we study these works, we get to know about the time period these books were written in, or about the years they take place in. We get to learn about different cultures and traditions, facts we would otherwise regard as unimportant and facts which we wouldn't search on Google about in our free time.
But these are just the tip of the iceberg.
The most important thing we gain by reading and studying works of fiction is getting to know people and how they react to certain events. We get to know different types of people, and by the end of the book, if the author was skillful enough, we get connected to the characters so tightly that we do not want to let go. We get to know what a grieving father thinks when he acts, we get to know what an assassin feels like when he completes his kill or gets his training, we know what drives a man looking for vengeance, we know how a poet caught in the webs of a conspiracy against him and trapped inside the strict views and rules of a society feels like.
So reading and studying literary fiction-or any type of fiction, at that- is not a total waste of time as some people may assume it to be. Along with learning about the time periods and circumstances the novels were written/take place in, we also get to know people. And there's nothing wrong with getting to know more about the dominant -and supposedly the most intelligent- species on earth which we live among, compete with, and fall in love with.
Tuesday, October 8, 2013
Ah, Sweet Dissonance
I, IV, V, I
I, Ic, IV, I
BORING.
These are chord progressions typical of the Baroque and Classical Eras in classical music. These are what the moving bass line is made out of and what the melody is based on in compositions from these eras and there is nothing wrong with them, except the fact that they are terribly boring. With the rise of the Romantic Era, composers could take more liberty in their compositions and "dared" to change these chord progressions, followed by the 20th century musicians who completely denied the sense of key or tonality. Now listening to music from the late Romantic era and the 20th century, the dissonances are something I look forward to, and I like to be surprised by unexpected chords rather than predicting and humming the next chord in my head when I'm listening to a symphony.
To understand what I said in the previous paragraph, you'll need a crash course in music history:
Music originated from Africa, with the use of percussive instruments made out of simply animal skin stretched over a surface.
The first recognized "era" is Medieval music; the most basic element of medieval music were Gregorian Chants, simply, homophonic ("single sound") songs sung by males.
Next comes the Renaissance, where composers started to take these Gregorian chants and popular folk songs and fit them into Masses. Instrumental music gained more importance, but still pieces were not written specifically for instruments. They accompanied the singers in typical dances, an "estampie", for example.
Around the year 1600, the Baroque era is claimed to have started. In architecture, the buildings from the Baroque era have extravagant decorations and sizes; and the music doesn't fall behind in this race of exaggeration. It is the Baroque era which hosted the famous musicians Vivaldi, Bach and Handel. Operas, symphonies, simply instrumental music gained great importance. It was at this time which Bach wrote his pieces for the harpsichord and basically invented the key system we use today: he wrote the Well Tempered Clavier.
Later set as the year of Bach's decease, at 1750, the Classical era commences. The music of the Classical Era pulls away from the extravagance of the music from the Baroque era; it is lighter in texture. For example, there is a main melody line over chordal accompaniment, a moving bass line, referred to as "basso continuo". Also, the use of keys and contrast in music, mainly instrumental music, gained importance. Mozart, Beethoven and Haydn lived and composed in this era.
Then followed the Romantic Era, starting at roughly around 1820. The music from the Romantic Era hosted some unexpected chord changes, it was a revolt against the Classical and Baroque era molds. It put more emphasis on emotion and expression in the music rather than it sounding good or it being expected. With the invention of the "pianoforte", now shortly referred to as the "piano", composers could now use a wider range- both in sound and volume. Chopin, Tchaikovsky, Liszt and Schumann are only a few of the romantic, emotional and expressive composers of the time.
And finally came along 20th century music with its clashing dissonances and a total defiance of previous stereotypes and accepted facts regarding composition, featuring Stravinsky, Prokofiev and Debussy.
When substances change phase, their energies, their movements, and their entropy changes. Just like an act of melting or evaporating, as music moves from Gregorian Chants to 20th century, its "entropy", its state of disorder, increases. People start to defy the previous accepted facts about music and they add something more of themselves into it. Every next "movement" or era is an act of defiance against the previous one. The Baroque gave more importance to instrumental music, Mozart managed to get away from the fixed forms and some chord progressions, Chopin focused on emotion rather than proper chord progressions and Stravinsky set off a riot when the Rite of Spring was first performed. Music changes, and for me, it changes for the better.
So after listening to pieces written by late-romantic and 20th century composers, Vivaldi's Four Seasons does not really interest me. I prefer clashing dissonances and unexpected harmonies over predictable chord progressions and commonplace blocks of "music". I look for and want to hear those dissonances because that is what gives the music its "acid". Yes, Vivaldi's Four Seasons, especially Winter, is very famous and it relaxes you and is a treat for your ears, but it is just that. It doesn't excite you, it doesn't provoke you, it doesn't make you tilt your head, rewind, and think "What did I just listen to?" .
Perhaps an example would help things get clearer.
Take the first chord in Eine Kleine Nachmusik by W. Amadeus Mozart. A G-chord, with the G, B and D all there. Now take the first chord of Igor Stravinsky's Rite of Spring, Part I, "Augurs of Spring", starting from the bottom: Fb, Ab, Cb, G, Bb, Db, Eb; ah, sweet dissonance! I would prefer this intoxicating ring of dissonance, Stravinsky, and the C and Db in one chord (a semitone apart), over a neat and clear G chord any day.
I, Ic, IV, I
BORING.
These are chord progressions typical of the Baroque and Classical Eras in classical music. These are what the moving bass line is made out of and what the melody is based on in compositions from these eras and there is nothing wrong with them, except the fact that they are terribly boring. With the rise of the Romantic Era, composers could take more liberty in their compositions and "dared" to change these chord progressions, followed by the 20th century musicians who completely denied the sense of key or tonality. Now listening to music from the late Romantic era and the 20th century, the dissonances are something I look forward to, and I like to be surprised by unexpected chords rather than predicting and humming the next chord in my head when I'm listening to a symphony.
To understand what I said in the previous paragraph, you'll need a crash course in music history:
Music originated from Africa, with the use of percussive instruments made out of simply animal skin stretched over a surface.
The first recognized "era" is Medieval music; the most basic element of medieval music were Gregorian Chants, simply, homophonic ("single sound") songs sung by males.
Next comes the Renaissance, where composers started to take these Gregorian chants and popular folk songs and fit them into Masses. Instrumental music gained more importance, but still pieces were not written specifically for instruments. They accompanied the singers in typical dances, an "estampie", for example.
Around the year 1600, the Baroque era is claimed to have started. In architecture, the buildings from the Baroque era have extravagant decorations and sizes; and the music doesn't fall behind in this race of exaggeration. It is the Baroque era which hosted the famous musicians Vivaldi, Bach and Handel. Operas, symphonies, simply instrumental music gained great importance. It was at this time which Bach wrote his pieces for the harpsichord and basically invented the key system we use today: he wrote the Well Tempered Clavier.
Later set as the year of Bach's decease, at 1750, the Classical era commences. The music of the Classical Era pulls away from the extravagance of the music from the Baroque era; it is lighter in texture. For example, there is a main melody line over chordal accompaniment, a moving bass line, referred to as "basso continuo". Also, the use of keys and contrast in music, mainly instrumental music, gained importance. Mozart, Beethoven and Haydn lived and composed in this era.
Then followed the Romantic Era, starting at roughly around 1820. The music from the Romantic Era hosted some unexpected chord changes, it was a revolt against the Classical and Baroque era molds. It put more emphasis on emotion and expression in the music rather than it sounding good or it being expected. With the invention of the "pianoforte", now shortly referred to as the "piano", composers could now use a wider range- both in sound and volume. Chopin, Tchaikovsky, Liszt and Schumann are only a few of the romantic, emotional and expressive composers of the time.
And finally came along 20th century music with its clashing dissonances and a total defiance of previous stereotypes and accepted facts regarding composition, featuring Stravinsky, Prokofiev and Debussy.
When substances change phase, their energies, their movements, and their entropy changes. Just like an act of melting or evaporating, as music moves from Gregorian Chants to 20th century, its "entropy", its state of disorder, increases. People start to defy the previous accepted facts about music and they add something more of themselves into it. Every next "movement" or era is an act of defiance against the previous one. The Baroque gave more importance to instrumental music, Mozart managed to get away from the fixed forms and some chord progressions, Chopin focused on emotion rather than proper chord progressions and Stravinsky set off a riot when the Rite of Spring was first performed. Music changes, and for me, it changes for the better.
So after listening to pieces written by late-romantic and 20th century composers, Vivaldi's Four Seasons does not really interest me. I prefer clashing dissonances and unexpected harmonies over predictable chord progressions and commonplace blocks of "music". I look for and want to hear those dissonances because that is what gives the music its "acid". Yes, Vivaldi's Four Seasons, especially Winter, is very famous and it relaxes you and is a treat for your ears, but it is just that. It doesn't excite you, it doesn't provoke you, it doesn't make you tilt your head, rewind, and think "What did I just listen to?" .
Perhaps an example would help things get clearer.
Take the first chord in Eine Kleine Nachmusik by W. Amadeus Mozart. A G-chord, with the G, B and D all there. Now take the first chord of Igor Stravinsky's Rite of Spring, Part I, "Augurs of Spring", starting from the bottom: Fb, Ab, Cb, G, Bb, Db, Eb; ah, sweet dissonance! I would prefer this intoxicating ring of dissonance, Stravinsky, and the C and Db in one chord (a semitone apart), over a neat and clear G chord any day.
Sunday, September 22, 2013
Faith ...or Belief?
Location: Small town outside Lisbon, Portugal
Time: July 2013
"And there under the roof, was the place where "Our Lady of Fatima" appeared to Lucia, Jacinta and Francisco, the children of the house. Now if you will go there, pray, burn a candle, and have faith, Our Lady will listen to you. Don't forget, this place is very, very special," says the tour guide getting of the air conditioned bus with an "Our Lady of Fatima" super-souvenir-store ticket which offers a gift of a glowing little statue for every 15 euros you spend there in her hand, walking towards, along with many people, the grand church standing at the end and the highest point of a vast, concrete area.
[caption id="attachment_438" align="alignright" width="300"]
"Sanctuary of our Lady of Fatima"-Where the first sighting took place. Millions of Christians flock here every year.[/caption]
This is Fatima, the "Sanctuary of Our Lady of Fatima", to be more precise, where, supposedly, Virgin Mary appeared to three little children for the first time in 1917 and first told the children to build a small chapel for her. Later came the "secrets", directed mainly at Lucia, the youngest of the three; "Our Lady of Fatima" told Lucia in one of her apparitions that World War I, which was going on at the time, would end in a year if Lucia, her brother and her cousin prayed to her. And, in fact, World War I ended in 1918, a year after these apparitions began.
Later in her life, after another "secret" from Our Lady of Fatima, stating that Lucia would be the only one to live through her teenage years, was "proven" to be true, Lucia had a dream. In this dream, a bishop dressed in white was tumbling across the market place, and seemed to be in distress; and when there was an assassination attempt at the Pope, also known as the Bishop of Rome, a few days later and he survived a gun shot wound "which should have killed him", as his doctors put it, he stated that he "became a believer" - along with many, many other people.
Now what stands where Lucia supposedly saw Our Lady of Fatima for the first time, is a poly-carbon room, with a statue inside so deeply embedded behind the bullet-proof glass and the stone walls, risers, and all sorts of assortments, that it is barely visible. And also some three million people who migrate there every year who believe.
These people believe in the power of their prayers, and they do not only believe, but they have faith in it. They may believe the story of "Our Lady of Fatima", but they have faith in her when they buy candles in shapes of various body parts which they or someone close to them needs to survive, they have faith in her when they close their eyes tight with tears welling up around the corners and ask for forgiveness, they have faith in her when they travel thousands of miles and walk 100 meters on their knees to the church.
Faith is a subset of belief. Faith entitles power and hope. Belief entitles a set of mind.
Lucia had faith in "Our Lady of Fatima" when she sat on her knees in front of her bed before going to sleep and praying that the bombs and the crackling radio broadcasts her parents always listened to nowadays and the death all around and the men disappearing from around her to stop. But whether WWI ended because Lucia believed "Our Lady of Fatima", took her word for it, or because the nations were far past emaciated, is up for discussion.
And the main difference between belief and faith is that belief doesn't require the participation of the single most important bundle of muscle in our body pumping red hot liquid through our veins and into our souls; the heart.
Time: July 2013
"And there under the roof, was the place where "Our Lady of Fatima" appeared to Lucia, Jacinta and Francisco, the children of the house. Now if you will go there, pray, burn a candle, and have faith, Our Lady will listen to you. Don't forget, this place is very, very special," says the tour guide getting of the air conditioned bus with an "Our Lady of Fatima" super-souvenir-store ticket which offers a gift of a glowing little statue for every 15 euros you spend there in her hand, walking towards, along with many people, the grand church standing at the end and the highest point of a vast, concrete area.
[caption id="attachment_438" align="alignright" width="300"]
"Sanctuary of our Lady of Fatima"-Where the first sighting took place. Millions of Christians flock here every year.[/caption]This is Fatima, the "Sanctuary of Our Lady of Fatima", to be more precise, where, supposedly, Virgin Mary appeared to three little children for the first time in 1917 and first told the children to build a small chapel for her. Later came the "secrets", directed mainly at Lucia, the youngest of the three; "Our Lady of Fatima" told Lucia in one of her apparitions that World War I, which was going on at the time, would end in a year if Lucia, her brother and her cousin prayed to her. And, in fact, World War I ended in 1918, a year after these apparitions began.
Later in her life, after another "secret" from Our Lady of Fatima, stating that Lucia would be the only one to live through her teenage years, was "proven" to be true, Lucia had a dream. In this dream, a bishop dressed in white was tumbling across the market place, and seemed to be in distress; and when there was an assassination attempt at the Pope, also known as the Bishop of Rome, a few days later and he survived a gun shot wound "which should have killed him", as his doctors put it, he stated that he "became a believer" - along with many, many other people.
Now what stands where Lucia supposedly saw Our Lady of Fatima for the first time, is a poly-carbon room, with a statue inside so deeply embedded behind the bullet-proof glass and the stone walls, risers, and all sorts of assortments, that it is barely visible. And also some three million people who migrate there every year who believe.
These people believe in the power of their prayers, and they do not only believe, but they have faith in it. They may believe the story of "Our Lady of Fatima", but they have faith in her when they buy candles in shapes of various body parts which they or someone close to them needs to survive, they have faith in her when they close their eyes tight with tears welling up around the corners and ask for forgiveness, they have faith in her when they travel thousands of miles and walk 100 meters on their knees to the church.
Faith is a subset of belief. Faith entitles power and hope. Belief entitles a set of mind.
Lucia had faith in "Our Lady of Fatima" when she sat on her knees in front of her bed before going to sleep and praying that the bombs and the crackling radio broadcasts her parents always listened to nowadays and the death all around and the men disappearing from around her to stop. But whether WWI ended because Lucia believed "Our Lady of Fatima", took her word for it, or because the nations were far past emaciated, is up for discussion.
And the main difference between belief and faith is that belief doesn't require the participation of the single most important bundle of muscle in our body pumping red hot liquid through our veins and into our souls; the heart.
Sunday, September 1, 2013
Homeward Bound
"Home is where the heart is."
Have you ever been "homesick"?
It's not like any illness you've encountered and fought your way through until now.
Its symptoms are excessive longing for particular things, the blues syndrome, watering eyes, a sense of despair, among many others.
You know you've caught it when you wake up somewhere else in the morning and wish that you were home, wish so hard that you don't want to go to bed again that night without knowing that you will wake up at home.
You know you have it when you get up at night and can't find your way to the kitchen in the dark and something, something deep inside, feels seriously wrong.
You know you have it when you miss the view from your living room window, when you miss the smell of your house, when you miss everything and everyone inside it. And it hurts.
Homesickness is nothing pleasant, and its only cure is to GO HOME.
But going home...Ah, that feeling is one of the best ones in the world.
You unlock the door with out even looking at the lock, you swift open the door just enough so that it doesn't hit the shoe stand behind it, you step into your sanctuary, and that feeling of "being home" swoops over you and you're just feeling ecstatic.
Then the smell hits you. The smell you longed for while you were away but you didn't know so. You take off your coat, settle in your place on the couch with the optimal view of the TV yet also the perfect place to enjoy the sound system.
You finally know where everything is (at least most of the time), and you don't feel out of place. You're standing in a room which was formed and developed around you, by you, and for you.
Today is the last day of our vacation. Tomorrow, school -the seemingly-endless obstacle-race- begins. Today, lots of people return to their houses with the hope that this year will be better than the last one. Tonight, new year's resolutions will be made. Some will decide to study harder and some will decide to get on the lacrosse team. The familiar feeling of lying in your own bed returns; thinking about what classes you'll have tomorrow, checking if you've done all you've wanted to do that night, and slowly drifting into sleep and into the magical mystical world of dreams only to be awakened by the screaming alarm clock...That noise which snaps you back to reality and annoys you even if you hear it in another context.
Tomorrow morning, at least most of us, we go home. We go back to the building we spend most of our time in in a normal week-day, we go back to the people who we see more than our parents sometimes. We go back to our routine life styles and rituals, and that counts as going home as well.
And school may be opening and our days of freedom (although densely occupied with "summer homework") may be over and a marathon like no other, our senior year, may be beginning, but at least we get to spend it in our own place, with our people, at home.
Sometimes we get bored of the routines and the monotony and just to get away from all of it, but yesterday, today, and tomorrow, we will always be "homeward bound".
Have you ever been "homesick"?
It's not like any illness you've encountered and fought your way through until now.
Its symptoms are excessive longing for particular things, the blues syndrome, watering eyes, a sense of despair, among many others.
You know you've caught it when you wake up somewhere else in the morning and wish that you were home, wish so hard that you don't want to go to bed again that night without knowing that you will wake up at home.
You know you have it when you get up at night and can't find your way to the kitchen in the dark and something, something deep inside, feels seriously wrong.
You know you have it when you miss the view from your living room window, when you miss the smell of your house, when you miss everything and everyone inside it. And it hurts.
Homesickness is nothing pleasant, and its only cure is to GO HOME.
But going home...Ah, that feeling is one of the best ones in the world.
You unlock the door with out even looking at the lock, you swift open the door just enough so that it doesn't hit the shoe stand behind it, you step into your sanctuary, and that feeling of "being home" swoops over you and you're just feeling ecstatic.
Then the smell hits you. The smell you longed for while you were away but you didn't know so. You take off your coat, settle in your place on the couch with the optimal view of the TV yet also the perfect place to enjoy the sound system.
You finally know where everything is (at least most of the time), and you don't feel out of place. You're standing in a room which was formed and developed around you, by you, and for you.
Today is the last day of our vacation. Tomorrow, school -the seemingly-endless obstacle-race- begins. Today, lots of people return to their houses with the hope that this year will be better than the last one. Tonight, new year's resolutions will be made. Some will decide to study harder and some will decide to get on the lacrosse team. The familiar feeling of lying in your own bed returns; thinking about what classes you'll have tomorrow, checking if you've done all you've wanted to do that night, and slowly drifting into sleep and into the magical mystical world of dreams only to be awakened by the screaming alarm clock...That noise which snaps you back to reality and annoys you even if you hear it in another context.
Tomorrow morning, at least most of us, we go home. We go back to the building we spend most of our time in in a normal week-day, we go back to the people who we see more than our parents sometimes. We go back to our routine life styles and rituals, and that counts as going home as well.
And school may be opening and our days of freedom (although densely occupied with "summer homework") may be over and a marathon like no other, our senior year, may be beginning, but at least we get to spend it in our own place, with our people, at home.
Sometimes we get bored of the routines and the monotony and just to get away from all of it, but yesterday, today, and tomorrow, we will always be "homeward bound".
Wednesday, July 24, 2013
The World in the Deep Blue
An endless void, a bottomless pit, a deep, dark cavity on the face of earth.
Not so appealing, right?
But when these are filled with the simple compound of hydrogen and oxygen, combined in eternal bond to provide us, humans, with the one thing we cannot do with out, water, they become indispensable.
Oceans, seas, lakes, or puddles on the sidewalk.
Just bodies of water; dents in the crust of earth into which water has rushed in, just naturally obeying the law of gravity, since before it was even established by our fellow apple-struck scientist.
But what makes these puddles so special? What makes one crave for a house on the hills of Hawaii, Miami, Bodrum, or Istanbul? What makes sitting on the balcony of your house overseeing the Atlantic Ocean or the Mediterranean Sea with a glass of aged wine and Stravinsky playing in the background so appealing?
I would place my bet on the fact that water, no matter what form it is in, calms you down. Let it be a tap left open, a rushing waterfall, a calm sea or the raging waves of the ocean, the sound or the sight of water is enough for one to relax and provide serenity.
And then there is actually being in the water rather than listening to it or looking at it.
Being on a boat in the middle of the sea, with no land visible on either side of you, with water and only water surrounding you, is an experience which somehow manages to provide you with a myriad of emotions; fear, loneliness, tranquility, happiness, reality. When you are standing on top of thousands of creatures you never could have imagined would exist, and a thousand other that you don't know about their existence, you snap back to reality. You let go of the magnanimity human kind carries around pridefully on their shoulders, and realize that then and there, you are alone, and you are just a form of life like the hundreds of jelly fish sucking on the body of your precious vessel.
When you actually go ahead and jump into the water from that boat, with the ice-cold water surrounding you in the blink of an eye, slowly cooling you down, stopping you from moving but at the same time urging you to do so, getting wet and cold on purpose never seems so charming, relaxing and plain beautiful to you. Or maybe it's just me.
Then you dive. You dive deep and you dive down, you hold your breath, water rushes into your ears, the only "sound" you hear is the gentle gushing of the water and maybe a distant "pat pat pat" of a small fishing boat. Other wise, you are engulfed in silence. Then, you enter a brave, new world which has nothing in common with the world you're used to living in. Creatures who, unlike you, don't feel the need to huff and puff to hold their breath under water, float beside you; looking for prey, looking for shelter, or just enjoying the water just like you. The rays of sunlight come streaking down and you can actually see the rays, slowly diffusing into the darkness of the depths; where sight ceases and life sprouts. Then you remember that you are not one of the amazing creatures swimming around you with natural fins and snorkels and goggles. You feel like you should probably surface for air and when you turn around to look up, look at the surface of the water, seeming like a sheet of plastic film from down there, the sun, seeming blurry, and the water around you and the distance seem unreal. And the Sea decides it doesn't want you anymore and acts before you do, pushing you up where you belong.
So despite the grand structures we've built, the great technological advancements we've achieved and the enigmas of nature we've solved here on dry land, there is a whole other world waiting for us down there, out in the pool of salty water beyond us, covering up 3/4's of our "precious" planet, with structures and creatures like we've never seen before. There is a life out there that never ceases to amaze me. There, the "denizens of the deep", carry on their ordinary yet fascinating lives in a world we, the magnificent and intelligent humans, are not, probably one of the rare cases in history, involved in or a part of the plot. Except occasionally making guest appearances as the antagonists.
Not so appealing, right?
But when these are filled with the simple compound of hydrogen and oxygen, combined in eternal bond to provide us, humans, with the one thing we cannot do with out, water, they become indispensable.
Oceans, seas, lakes, or puddles on the sidewalk.
Just bodies of water; dents in the crust of earth into which water has rushed in, just naturally obeying the law of gravity, since before it was even established by our fellow apple-struck scientist.
But what makes these puddles so special? What makes one crave for a house on the hills of Hawaii, Miami, Bodrum, or Istanbul? What makes sitting on the balcony of your house overseeing the Atlantic Ocean or the Mediterranean Sea with a glass of aged wine and Stravinsky playing in the background so appealing?
I would place my bet on the fact that water, no matter what form it is in, calms you down. Let it be a tap left open, a rushing waterfall, a calm sea or the raging waves of the ocean, the sound or the sight of water is enough for one to relax and provide serenity.
And then there is actually being in the water rather than listening to it or looking at it.
Being on a boat in the middle of the sea, with no land visible on either side of you, with water and only water surrounding you, is an experience which somehow manages to provide you with a myriad of emotions; fear, loneliness, tranquility, happiness, reality. When you are standing on top of thousands of creatures you never could have imagined would exist, and a thousand other that you don't know about their existence, you snap back to reality. You let go of the magnanimity human kind carries around pridefully on their shoulders, and realize that then and there, you are alone, and you are just a form of life like the hundreds of jelly fish sucking on the body of your precious vessel.
When you actually go ahead and jump into the water from that boat, with the ice-cold water surrounding you in the blink of an eye, slowly cooling you down, stopping you from moving but at the same time urging you to do so, getting wet and cold on purpose never seems so charming, relaxing and plain beautiful to you. Or maybe it's just me.
Then you dive. You dive deep and you dive down, you hold your breath, water rushes into your ears, the only "sound" you hear is the gentle gushing of the water and maybe a distant "pat pat pat" of a small fishing boat. Other wise, you are engulfed in silence. Then, you enter a brave, new world which has nothing in common with the world you're used to living in. Creatures who, unlike you, don't feel the need to huff and puff to hold their breath under water, float beside you; looking for prey, looking for shelter, or just enjoying the water just like you. The rays of sunlight come streaking down and you can actually see the rays, slowly diffusing into the darkness of the depths; where sight ceases and life sprouts. Then you remember that you are not one of the amazing creatures swimming around you with natural fins and snorkels and goggles. You feel like you should probably surface for air and when you turn around to look up, look at the surface of the water, seeming like a sheet of plastic film from down there, the sun, seeming blurry, and the water around you and the distance seem unreal. And the Sea decides it doesn't want you anymore and acts before you do, pushing you up where you belong.
So despite the grand structures we've built, the great technological advancements we've achieved and the enigmas of nature we've solved here on dry land, there is a whole other world waiting for us down there, out in the pool of salty water beyond us, covering up 3/4's of our "precious" planet, with structures and creatures like we've never seen before. There is a life out there that never ceases to amaze me. There, the "denizens of the deep", carry on their ordinary yet fascinating lives in a world we, the magnificent and intelligent humans, are not, probably one of the rare cases in history, involved in or a part of the plot. Except occasionally making guest appearances as the antagonists.
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