Solastalji: Kendi evinde gurbet acısı çekmek.
_ Glenn Albrecht
Dünya canlı bir vücut.
Sanatçı ise tercüman.
Sanatçının bedeni, Dünya’nın bedeniyle huzursuzluktan ötürü iletişime geçen ilk beden. İkisi de aynı acıyı çekiyor. Dünya’nın sözü şifreli. Çözsün diye sanatçıya iletiliyor. Konuştukları lisan o kadar eski ki, varlığın ilk nefes alıp verişinden beri mevcut.
Öte yandan günlük hayatta kullandığımız dilin bir gizemi yok. Sesler, işaretler ve sembollerle çalışan insan iletişimi olgunluğa ermiş olmasına rağmen, insanlararası bağlantıyı güçlendirmek için yeni icatlar çıkarmaya devam ediyoruz. Kendimizi ifade etmenin binbir teknolojisi olduğu barok bir devirdeyiz. Algımız kendi gürültüsünde boğulan yörüngemizden öteye çıkamıyor. Zihnimizin kapasitesi birbirini aynalayan başkalarıyla ağzına kadar dolu. Eski hikayeleri alıp alıp yeni çıkan medya platformlarına aktarıyoruz, ama bu süreçte o hikayelerin esas niyetinden uzaklaşıyoruz. Doğruların kökü anlamlarını taşıdıkları yerden çapalanmış vaziyette. …
The size of issues tackled in these reads may weight heavily on the readers' shoulders, revealing our sense of individual powerlessness. But I think they also help connect the scattered dots of the big unknowns thrown at us in 2020. Being equipped with this knowledge will help the individual activist mentally prepare for what is to come. For the activist today, the biggest danger is burnout. The key to the victory of the righteous cause will be maintaining stamina, not being shocked, or distracted by more 2020-like events to come in the future.
Solastalgia: A form of homesickness one gets when one is still at home.
_ Glenn Albrecht
Earth is a living body.
Artist is a translator.
The artist’s body is the first to converse with Earth’s body through the language of turbulence, making their ailments one and the same. This encrypted language is as old as the very first exhalation. It’s transmitted for the artist to receive, and decrypt.
Human communication aided by sounds, signs, and symbols has reached peak sophistication. It’s not enough. We continue to invent new devices to enhance our connectivity. …
It’s DJT against whoever is most likely to beat him.
It’s like Tyson against X.
Federer against Y.
It’s a match.
It’s a game.
Is this really a democracy?
In 2006, I wasn’t shocked by Hillary’s loss. I was just disappointed. I watched this story play out over and over again in my country of origin. I am disheartened to see it getting old in the country I immigrated to.
This kind of political composition births dictators. DJT and alike almost always win. In the minds of the voters, a “voting against” scenario constitutes an almighty, nearly undefeatable individual. The attempt to form unity against that individual distracts away from the issues that the country has to deal with. It creates an illusion that the biggest problem the nation has is this one guy who’s messing everything up. It makes the elections and the country’s agenda all about him. It prevents politicians from doing their jobs. …
Feeding The Beast — 4
What could possibly go wrong when an artist invites her fans on stage?
Nothing. Or maybe everything did go wrong when Santigold invited the audience to come dance on stage at Lightning in a Bottle, 2019.
Amidst other profound experiences that I’d like to keep to myself, this audience participation became a cathartic moment for me and a perfect analogy for our social predicament in the digital age.
Emanating from this one request by the artist:
“Please, no cell-phones, no filming yourselves. Just be on stage and come dance with us.”
My proximity to the platform would have easily allowed my participation in this animation, except I did not check the boxes required for such…
I worry sometimes that the birds of 8000 Sunset Boulevard are not going to show up one day. That gang of pigeons who like to dance to traffic lights, over the flock of cars as if policing the skies: now green, now red, now turn left, eyes on the road! They watch our convoy. They show off their moves. They assert their presence, proving that humans are not the only herd populating this town. Gives me a sense of relief from the upcoming solitude of our species, to see them resting steadily on a lamp pole.
At the intersection, before Crescent Heights becomes Laurel Canyon, across McDonald’s there is a triangular patch of soil that fits a single pair of palm trees. Cell phone reception goes mysteriously dark around here, where the birds land down for feeding. …
It came to me in its own rhythm. It prayed, the truth.
My heart is open
My heart is never mine
Thieves, be kind.
Then, when it came to publishing it for others’ eyes to read, a filter came over mine. I’d like my truth to be seen by many. I will increase its chances. I will make it searchable and findable. It will be an ally for algorithms. I will put it in a box. I will label it a thing. A haiku. Haikus get claps.
I was not taught haikus in the 1st grade. …
My heart is open.
My heart has never been mine.
Thieving eyes, be kind.
Someone says that it takes seven years to learn what it means to live in New Orleans. Some people talk about how rats come out before dawn.
Someone comments “creativity bubbles out of the grime.” Graveyards are set above ground, is that why? The whole town sits below sea level, a collectively persistent attachment to perpetual geological doom, une belle mélancolie, this is how New Orleans appears to me, I get to judge and build illusions as a passer-by. Those who chose to stay couldn’t care less about what I think of their town, they can sense how hungry I am, and if I’ll eat the whole thing, or if I’ll leave them some, and they would be right to feel that way because every time I hear the whispers of visitors telling each other dim little tales on how to unlock the code of Nola I seek more obscure references, sliding doors of my contemporary choices creep in - if I had jumped aboard The Beasts of the Southern Wild back then I might have stacked up seven years and some change in New Orleans, I eye the moss, street lamps, the fern in the brick, I sniff the mold, I consider the pavements, the pests, the puke underneath my soles, they need washing, these streets need washing. I curb my curiosity. …
Annemin 2010 Peugeot 107'sine el koyup, kadının yüreğine indirip, babamı sus pus bırakıp, kocamı sabır taşına çevirip, yapmazsam delireceğim diye ortalığı yıkıp yola çıktım. Google Maps ve ben, 6 gün, 1592 km boyunca bir başımızaydık.
Bir de başımıza gelenler.
Birşey gelmedi gerçi. Bir başına roadtrip’e çıkan bir kadınla ilgili yazılabilecek senaryolar gerçekleşmedi. Lego ebatlarında bir arabayla şehirler arası ıssız otobanda, kargo tırının rüzgarından yaprak gibi savrulunca sığındığım köyün klorlu sudan psikopata bağlamış ahalisinden lived to tell usulü kurtulup, Bağ Bıçağı Katliamları adlı 8 partlı korku serisine esin kaynağı olmadım.
Dizisini çeksen tutmaz. Radyom bile çekmiyordu. Olay olsun diye gözüme takılan, kendime konu yaptığım üç konu: Araç çarpmış hayvan leşleri, boşa akan araba yıkama suları, ve 15 Temmuz Hatıra Ormanı tabelaları. …