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  • Writer's pictureŞarkılara Mektuplar

Pandemic dream in the garden

Dear Banu,

I wouldn't be exaggerating if I said I'm living in dreams right now. Every morning, I wake up between 6:30 and 7:00 and go down to the garden. Which flower is awake, which is thirsty, which is frightened in the night, which is still smiling in its sleep... I watch them. For example, last night the same snail emptied itself into the pink geranium, its traces still remain. For example, mulberries and roses are fried overnight. I watch the opening and closing movement of nature, and I watch the fruits it produces when this movement is fertilized with sun, soil, water and wind. If I were a plant planted and watered with my own hands in that garden, I wonder what fruit I would bear. What kind of on-off action would I have? For example, a telegraph flower that opens with the sun and closes with the moon? How much would I open? What if I shed my leaf? Would I be a begonia that has never seen snow? A favorite of bees with a blond belly? Or is it the geranium of the four seasons? Would I be the color of a pomegranate flower, or a purple as thin as a poppy? I guess that's all I'm curious about :)

This relationship with nature changes the way I perceive and feel the world. Now I understand that I do not insist on writing them, I do not write them inspired by them, I do not open each one as an opening sentence ... all this is not just for the sake of describing and writing a world I have encountered and watched. What I really want is to feel; It was to be able to transform into the thing I was writing and watching, to find that unchanging law of repetition of nature within myself. I think of you sometimes. What kind of a reason for your existence those songs you wrote and made from the language of the winds, the moon, the leaves and the streets.

I guess I want to be what I write about. I want the article to make me feel that "darkening by looking at the grapes" is a way to beautify, and even a different possibility to become beautiful, I think.

Yesterday - as in the previous days - I was trying to write a poem on stone. Because on December 26, the day after Christmas, I promised a stone that I carried all the way through the desert of LA. He kept his promise to me. Now it's my turn. I kept wandering in my mind between the wind, the mountain, the grass, the water of a brook, some sunlight, the mules, the joy, the sadness and the pain of the sand.

As soon as the words took over my mind, I fell asleep and dreamed again. The second case of ivy. Pandemic dream.

Undirected. I released it. Like contagion. A swarm of images, impregnated and tossed out of a spring, floating but fermenting again, hitting an invisible wall, perhaps the echo of its own voice. Black order words, emotions, feelings, intentions. Like water bubbles. Something is warming up. They bump into each other, moving away from each other, reaching the threshold of their own range. Crashing back through the sound barrier and back to the same place. Waiting for boiling. That is, overflowing yourself.

It's like a flock of baby doves in my throat. Some have already discovered flying, some are still cowardly, some try and fall. The flying one is better, not more beautiful than the one who cannot fly. Everyone for himself is a knowledge of flying and falling at the same time.

Or I was the sand of a desert or a beach. Warm wind, I'm flying. Some of them were rushing to the sea, some to the eyelashes of children collecting stones; some are next door to other sands. But everyone gathers again with the whistling of the same wind. It gathers without oppressing anyone, without any granule pushing the other. It's a "state of being together". No matter how much the wind blows, no one can be blown to infinity. A vague, unnamed social distancing law is working in the sand. Everyone is a traveler of their own adventure, but every particle returns to the gravity of the border where it is fermented. If it were you, you would say "this is pure singularity, my Activist". Maybe you would say, "You are the states of being singular and plural". You're right.

It's like a water, swirling and drowning in its midst. A word ball, perhaps. The seven colored threads are spooled together and they look white when combined. As he tries to open it, the language of the words is also unraveled and the words fly with the joy of a stutterer to tell and speak. Maybe it's because of that, a feeling of tiredness, a partial constriction, how hard it is to describe. You know the feelings inside you, but you cannot create the meaning, like these flying images. No matter how much you try to describe, feelings are more intense than words. Emotion cannot fit into a word. It's something I want the word to be wider every time. By throwing the stone into the water, let its rings open in layers. But you see, no opening lasts forever. Every expansion is a contraction after all.

Such strange dreams. A dream of loosened things. When I woke up with the tickle of the "one curtain tulle" flying next to me, I came out of this dream with a childhood memory and a few lines on my tongue. I want to share it and say goodbye to you for now.



Waking Up From Childhood 

smiling in his sleep

love was a child's face

and when it starts

all dreams

will play in

the joy of finding a pond.

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