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?
Showing posts with label Journal. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Journal. Show all posts
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.
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.
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, 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, 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.
Wednesday, April 17, 2013
Imagining Some Fear
"...Ben walked slowly away, his heart a thudding drum in his chest. Yes, he was sweating; he could feel it trickling down from his forehead, his armpits, matting the hair on his chest. He looked up and saw Pennywise the Clown standing at the top of the lefthand staircase, looking down at him. His face was white with greasepaint. His mouth bled lipstick in a killer's grin. There were empty sockets where his eyes should have been. He held a bunch of balloons in one hand and a book in the other. Not he, Ben thought. It. I am standing here in the middle of the Derry Public Library's rotunda on a late-spring afternoon in 1985, I am a grown man, and I am face to face with my childhood's greatest nightmare. I am face to face with It. 'Come on up, Ben,' Pennywise called down. 'I won't hurt you. I've got a book for you! A book . . . and a balloon! Come on up!"
This exquisite passage you just read is by Stephen King, the great author of horror novels, and is from his fiction work, It.
As I read this passage for the first time, in bed, with the lights turned low at late in the night, with the house creepily living on around me with no intention of falling asleep, I felt the same as Ben Hanscom. The sweat, the fear, the anxiety, the horror; and this was all thanks to the incredibly vivid descriptions by Stephen King, fruits of his teeming imagination.
Without King's imagination, there would be no horror in that passage. I would not start to look at clowns as I've never done before. I wouldn't close my eyes and see Pennywise the Clown, probably completely different from what King had in mind when he wrote that passage. Because as I read the passage, I blend that description with my own imagination, and create something totally different. Still horrifying, but in another way; horrifying for me.
This is why I believe it is safe to agree with the greatest mystery writer of all time, the inventor of the logical, arrogant, neat, socially-awkward "consultant" Sherlock Holmes; Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, on his saying,"when there is no imagination, there is no horror."
We cannot be afraid of something that does not exist in our minds.
Can a 3-year-old be afraid of a nuclear war starting, or an earthquake?
They are more likely to be horrified by the idea of slimy, forever-famished, hideous creatures, "monsters", I believe that's what they call them, hiding under their beds, sneakily waiting until they fall asleep, into the deep and wondrous world of dreams, and just linger their arms over the edge...
The moment we think of something, it spurs into life, instantaneously, and, unfortunately, you cannot hit "delete".
What the monster in It does is that it reads the minds of the children and takes the form of the thing they're most afraid of. The thing they imagined would harm them. The thing they think is hiding in their closet. For Ben, it was a mummy. For Eddie Kaspbarak, it was a werewolf.
Shakespeare wrote, in his play A Midsummer Night's Dream, that a lunatic, a lover and a poet all have different imaginations and comprehend the world differently; while the lover sees "a gypsy as the world's most beautiful woman", the madmen sees "hell" and "devils", all the while the poet "shapes" what he sees into immortal words, seeing something to write about in "airy nothing". And all of these people, with their crazy imaginations colossally different from each other, can easily perceive a "bush" as "a bear" in the night, by "imagining some fear".
Without our imaginations, we wouldn't have anything to be afraid of; we would not have a great machine behind our wondering eyes, restlessly imagining and recording things; spawning horrible thoughts, scary animals, worst-case-scenarios. King "imagines some fear" of his own, and puts them on paper masterfully, allowing us to "imagine" some horror for ourselves; people who read the passage in the beginning of this blog post fear completely different things. Now that you've read the passage, and imagined your own fear, it's up to you to decide whether you are the lunatic, the lover, or the poet.
Friday, January 25, 2013
"Controlled Craziness"
"Imagination is more important than knowledge".
I will stand by this statement made by Albert Einstein until the end of time.
Because, with knowledge, you can only do so much. There are boundaries, rules, facts and information you have to abide to. You can't just ignore them. On the other hand, with imagination, there are no boundaries, there are no rules. In fact, the only boundary you have is your own creativity. Using imagination, you can create something that is not there, you can see things that cannot be seen by other people, you can hear music in silence.
Nobody knows what really goes on inside this crazy pink glob of matter we call our "brain".
You may know everything there is to know about music theory, but without imagination, you will never become a Mozart or Wagner. You may know every known technique about drawing and painting, but without imagination, you will never become a Monet or Dali.
[caption id="attachment_210" align="alignright" width="253"]
Earth according to Hindu Mythology.[/caption]
I am pretty sure that the people of earlier ages were way, way more creative and thus much more imaginative. It takes imagination to look up at the starry night sky and connect five stars so that they resemble a woman, and call it Andromeda, a queen who was banished into the sky for being very arrogant and self righteous. Now what people see when they look up at the exactly same night sky as the Ancient Greeks looked up into and saw all of the people, animals and stories in, is "galaxies" and "stars", not queens and beasts and scorpions. Also, much earlier, people believed that the Earth stood on elephants standing on a turtle which moves very slowly. I personally believe that the people who thought this up are much more valuable than the 4.0 GPA, genius, skeptical people working in NASA.
Yesterday in our discussion in class, one of my friends defined imagination as "controlled craziness". This is the best definition I've ever heard of imagination. Because, in any other case, looking outside the plane window and seeing a wicked, cringing creature with eyes as dark as the night sky standing on the wing, would be called "craziness", not "imagination".
Imagination is looking at the moon we see everyday and seeing a Death Star. Imagination is getting carried away in a science fiction novel written by your mind after looking at the descending mist or on Halloween. Imagination is being able to see a giant hunter raised to the skies with the scorpion he killed by looking at just a few, twinkling stars, which are in reality, at colossally different places in the universe, with no connection between them what-so-ever, but, who cares about reality?
I will stand by this statement made by Albert Einstein until the end of time.
Because, with knowledge, you can only do so much. There are boundaries, rules, facts and information you have to abide to. You can't just ignore them. On the other hand, with imagination, there are no boundaries, there are no rules. In fact, the only boundary you have is your own creativity. Using imagination, you can create something that is not there, you can see things that cannot be seen by other people, you can hear music in silence.
Nobody knows what really goes on inside this crazy pink glob of matter we call our "brain".
You may know everything there is to know about music theory, but without imagination, you will never become a Mozart or Wagner. You may know every known technique about drawing and painting, but without imagination, you will never become a Monet or Dali.
[caption id="attachment_210" align="alignright" width="253"]
Earth according to Hindu Mythology.[/caption]I am pretty sure that the people of earlier ages were way, way more creative and thus much more imaginative. It takes imagination to look up at the starry night sky and connect five stars so that they resemble a woman, and call it Andromeda, a queen who was banished into the sky for being very arrogant and self righteous. Now what people see when they look up at the exactly same night sky as the Ancient Greeks looked up into and saw all of the people, animals and stories in, is "galaxies" and "stars", not queens and beasts and scorpions. Also, much earlier, people believed that the Earth stood on elephants standing on a turtle which moves very slowly. I personally believe that the people who thought this up are much more valuable than the 4.0 GPA, genius, skeptical people working in NASA.
Yesterday in our discussion in class, one of my friends defined imagination as "controlled craziness". This is the best definition I've ever heard of imagination. Because, in any other case, looking outside the plane window and seeing a wicked, cringing creature with eyes as dark as the night sky standing on the wing, would be called "craziness", not "imagination".
Imagination is looking at the moon we see everyday and seeing a Death Star. Imagination is getting carried away in a science fiction novel written by your mind after looking at the descending mist or on Halloween. Imagination is being able to see a giant hunter raised to the skies with the scorpion he killed by looking at just a few, twinkling stars, which are in reality, at colossally different places in the universe, with no connection between them what-so-ever, but, who cares about reality?
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