rastsal yürüyüş

dead stalker creep

2009-04-03T15:56:00.003+03:00

i meet a guy, who turns out to be dead. i try to ditch him, even meet another guy, who's very much alive and cute, in the process and begin dating him, but he does not take no for an answer. so he begins stalking me.

after a phone call, taking place on a roof, during which he tries to kill me, he showcases his creepy stalker talents by coming after my family as well.

this we discover on our way to my sister's; me, mom and my elder brother. i turn to my brother, tell the story in tears, ending it with "i'm sorry, i'm so sorry, help me brother". after that we're on the run, but i lose my family on the way and find myself alone in a shopping mall, which is probably the equivalent of a temple nowadays. there, as i run from my dead stalker, i run into three white witches, all dressed in white gowns. they tell me to find his ex, who he had murdered, when he was alive. they tell me, she's the only one with the power to stop him, and they also tell me where to find her. grayslate is her name and within the shadows is her dwelling place.

i find myself in a room, on an eternal summer afternoon, across an oval mirror. through the mirror is grayslate, looking very much like me, maybe a couple years older or younger, depending on the position of shadows surrounding her. i tell her my story, and her eyes gleam, with the prospect of vengeance...

i find your lack of respect disturbing

2008-10-29T15:14:00.002+02:00

overheard

2008-07-08T16:16:00.003+03:00

-can you forgive and forget?
-of course not, what gives you such silly ideas?
-you were talking in your sleep last night... something about throwing butterflies over an old bridge..
-as you know very well, things tend to get frayed around the edges over time, that does not make us particularly forgiving or forgetful. we are keepers, that cannot be changed.
-your words resemble the sky today, you're all gray...
-you're not all that gay yourself.
-true. but we were, but a short while ago, by the waterlilies...
-they too shall fade away.
-you sound like you're already there.
-i am, i can see forever.
-where are we, years from now?
-home?
-we're always home. tellus somethingnew.
-oh, it's neither that new nor that old. just a place like any other place, with its ups and downs...
-no, tell us!
-well, since you put it like that... there's a trail of bodies behind us, and pieces of our heart left behind on crime scenes all over the place, till it's nomore and we're cold and empty and by our royal self, perched atop our royal throne, in our throne room with the heavy velvet curtains blocking the sunlight, except for a tiny ray playing with the smoke of our cigarette...
-and where do the butterflies fit in this picture?
-same place as the gold coins in ornamental pools and little bells on anklets... we need not carry it anymore.
-and what about being keepers?
-applies. we are the gate and the key.
-...

puppytales .0

2008-06-16T15:39:00.005+03:00

once upon a time, there was nothing but the darkness, dense and imposing, all knowing and all pondering. then one day, the darkness, velvety and majestic, got his pondering done-ish and engaged in actiony bits...

since it was going to be the first time in a long, longer than that can be grasped by any mortal long, time that he moved, he wanted it to be an especially exciting move. so he began twirling in a magnificient spiral pattern, which would be gazed upon with utmost admiration, were there anyone else to watch...

as he twirled and twirled, picking up speed without losing his elegance, sparks began shooting from him, from the friction of him upon his royal self. sparks began multiplying in numbers and instead of vanishing like ordinary sparks, they decidedly assumed the attitude of scattering around and throwing very, very thin ribbons of light on the darkness...

so, once all occupying, unseen, unconceivable and thus amorph darkness, slowly began to restrict his existence, if not his power. as the transformation furthered, he began adding leaps to his twirling and laughed, delighted with all these new sensations...

sparks grew even more in numbers, and some of them began to unite, some stayed put around the shaping dancer, some journeyed far. dancer was fully formed by now. he was, of course, still not fully conceivable by nature, but he could be seen as a graceful silhouette, still prancing around and this time blowing kisses to the sparks near and far...

kisses had different effects on each spark, some went instantly incandescent, wiping themselves out of their newfound existence thusly, some went mad with extacy and turned black in an effort to imitate their master and thus be closer to him, and some, amongst many others, whose reactions we do not have the time to explain in detail, felt blissful and began burning bright in the forests of the night.

so, in the existence of light, darkness began casting shadows, many of them, since he was not, is not and never will be like any other that has ever been or will be. and the shadows were as excited as their master and soon they began scattering around, running off to wrap themselves around the sparks or curling up in globes and orbiting them. oh, how they loved turning, turning, turning around the sparks, without ever ceasing to twirl! and now the darkness looked around himself, tasted the universe with his eyes and and blinked himself out of existence only to reappear after all the stars would burn out and come back looking for him, to play and dance once more...

-fin-

(told for the first time on 15.05.2008 su-hd)

chuck norris facts I

2008-05-17T19:32:00.005+03:00

If you have five dollars and Chuck Norris has five dollars, Chuck Norris has more money than you.

There is no 'ctrl' button on Chuck Norris's computer. Chuck Norris is always in control.

Apple pays Chuck Norris 99 cents every time he listens to a song.

Chuck Norris is suing Myspace for taking the name of what he calls everything around you.

Chuck Norris destroyed the periodic table, because he only recognizes the element of surprise.

Chuck Norris can kill two stones with one bird.

Chuck Norris once ate a whole cake before his friends could tell him there was a stripper in it.

Some people like to eat frogs' legs. Chuck Norris likes to eat lizard legs. Hence, snakes.

There are no races, only countries of people Chuck Norris has beaten to different shades of black and blue.

When Chuck Norris was denied an Egg McMuffin at McDonald's because it was 10:35, he roundhouse kicked the store so hard it became a Wendy's.

When Chuck Norris falls in water, Chuck Norris doesn't get wet. Water gets Chuck Norris.

Scientists have estimated that the energy given off during the Big Bang is roughly equal to 1CNRhK (Chuck Norris Roundhouse Kick)

Chuck Norris’ house has no doors, only walls that he walks through.

How much wood would a woodchuck chuck if a woodchuck could Chuck Norris? ...All of it.

(to be continued..)

acımadı ki, acımadı ki...

2008-05-02T18:53:00.003+03:00

otobüste giderkene önce surat astığımı, ardından da izlendiğimi farkettim. yüz kaslarımı zorlaya zorlaya gülümsemeye başladım, ortada gülümsenecek birşey olmadığı olsa da gülesim olmadığı halde. suratım acıdı, ağlayasım geldi, ağlamadım. durağım gelip te inene, durakla odam arasındaki mesafeyi alana kadar kasmaya devam ettim. odama vardığımda ağlayasım da kalmamıştı, çayımı koyup suratımda standart bir ssdd ifadesiyle makinenin başına oturdum.
ben ebat olarak ta küçük bir çocukken, cüssesi benim dört katım olan yaratıklara kafa tutup ta belamı bulduğumda söylerdim bunu. garp cephesinde değişen birşey yok anlaşılan. tasla hamam değişse de kadın ve kadınsal uzuvlar değişmeyince enteresan bir epiphany falan da hasıl olmuyormuş. sanki bilmiyorduk ta bir tur daha suratımıza çarptırılması gerekiyordu. peki çarpsın bakalım, acımadı ki!
odamı düşünüyorum, nedragaard değil de dargaard olanı, ağlayasım geliyor, resimlere bakıyorum ağlayasım geliyor, uykularım huzursuz, rüyalarım tatsız, kabuslarım freudiyen.
kararsızlık egemen.
kendi tarafımda olmayı öğrenemedim, çenemi kapalı tutmayı, başımı sallamayı, vazifemi yapmayı.
-duvarları diktik, e sağlam da oldular ama kapı koymayı unuttuk!
-boşver yavrucum, son koyduğumuzda içine etmişlerdi kalenin, ne çabuk unuttun?
-e biz de çıkamıyoruz?
-ne gereği var, ne güzel başbaşa güle güle ölüp gidicez işte. sen şurdan neşeli bi şarkı koy da şenlenelim az.
-...

importance of brutal honesty, yahut neden bir fare dönerken?

2008-03-28T23:33:00.002+02:00

başlığa bakıp ta arkanıza bakmadan kaçmayınız, görünüşlere aldanmayınız. bilenler bilir benim yalanlarımı, (bilmeyenlere anlatmayın, külahları değişiriz) yine de lüzumsuz, kısır döngüsel oluşumlara karşıyım. hayırda hayır olduğuna inanır, oyalama taktiklerinden hazzetmem. dolayısıyla, yüzleşme olasılığının bile olmadığı, olsa da fifi, vakalardaki (artık lüzumsuz bir nezaketten mi neden kaynaklandığını bir türlü çözemediğim) o kesin ve net olumsuzun gelmeyişi beni hala benden alabiliyor.
daha geçen gün bir arkadaşla oturuyorduk mesela, a o da ne, tropik bir virüs kapıvermiş! acilen anneciğine gidip öptürmesi icap etti tabii uf olan damarları falan. ama mesela aynı arkadaşımız incommunicado dolaylarına yaptığı (detayları kendinde saklı) yolculuğunda muhtelif online accountlarında at koşturabilmeyi de gayet başardı. (tebrikler) şimdi burada, iki sual gündeme geliyor ister istemez:
sual no 1-ya hocam ne gereği var böyle alengirli hikayelerin, tamam fantastik edebiyat, bilimkurgu, masal seviyoruz da, abartmıyor musun? bir kuru "müsait yerde inecek var" yeterdi.
sual no 2-hadi yaratıcısın, küçük gezegenler çömezler falan, ona da eyvallah, bari kuyruğunu tutamayacağımız yalanlar söyle de bize de seyretmek düşsün yalan rüzgarı tadında, ağzımız hafif açık yandan salya sızdıraraktan misal. "aptalız ama o kadar da değil" i alnımıza dövme, online personalarımıza epitaph olarak koymamız mı lazım illa?

any average internet user can seek and find out about the online activities of another average internet user, şeklinde özlü bir sözle bitirmek var ama dayanamayacağım temptation'a, dayanasım yok, let's just succumb to it then:

" The Mandrake's root. In venenum veritas..."

long time no see..

2008-02-25T01:28:00.002+02:00

in my dream i m talking to someone (probably mistress g) but it seems to be happening in my head only, like i'm writing a letter in my head or something. theme of this imaginary conversation is red riding hood. i'm working in this empty office, looks like g finally started her own business but now the office is moving elsewhere and i'm the last one there, staying behind to tie up the loose ends. then i notice the presence of this girl, g's latest pa; somehow she hands me an envelope or a piece of paper maybe, on it reads only "now there are real wolves, with hair pelts and enormous teeth, but also wolves who seem perfectly charming, sweet-natured and obliging, who pursue young girls in the street and pay them the most flattering attention. unfortunately, these smooth-tongued, smooth-pelted wolves are the most dangerous of all." (charles perrault) i think at that point i realize what she really is, my doppelgänger, out to get me. i let myself out as she disappears from my sight, and begin my flight while trying to look inconspicuous. i wake up in my room, in wohnheim. it's the dead of the night. everyone's asleep, power is down, darkness is alive and a paradise lost song (sane) booms through it all. i stumble out to the hall and try my neighbours' doors to no avail. when i finally find e, i'm on the brink of tears and the damned song keeps playing, mocking me, rubbing it in. and then i really wake up.

“seasons of sun won't suffice,
but for you my guarding light, i'd walk around this earth.
though the streets are paved with gold i'd collect it to be sold,
i'm bringing this on myself

but i feel for you,
will you show you're sane.

in your mouth a loaded gun,
pull the trigger have you won
let's see how you can do, it's the darker days you dread,
all the hurtful things i said, it seems i'm nothing,

but i feel for you,
will you show you're sane.”

alice reiterated

2008-02-10T12:50:00.000+02:00

two girls two dogs and a guy set out on a quest in a house of sleep
they are to go through the house, crack the windows open and wait in the back room until the time is right to wake the little girl who lives in the house
one of the girls, her dog and the guy get to the back room only to fall fall fall and fall through the darkness into a dragon's lair/lap
the other girl and her dog infiltrate into the small girl's dreams and continue biding their (overdue) time

at the end the everyone in the house speaks, one after another, in harmony
girl with the dog calculates their expenses, decides to get their (hers and the dog's) meals from a nearby restaurant

sleeping girl is kind of confused, about time, why it takes so much time to get to the other parts of the house from her room, especially for meals, and after the meals why it takes so much time to get just the right amount of sugar in her tea, since it requires her going back to kitchen to add sugar, tea or hot water numerously each time, and how her mom's cat can actually do it without seemingly losing any time everytime
and the cat is surprised how clumsy humans and dogs can be, and how they're bound by the silly rules such as gravity and why can they never get it right even when it comes to their own tea and s/he wonders idly if it's the same for all humans or just the ones in smaller sizes
and little girl's mother is worried because she's growing up so fast, and she's so strange a little girl, never parting with her dog and doing everything with him, how lonely she is since she was a toddler maybe, and now with this computer, how she just wanders around the place with her laptop and her dog, like a dorothy lacking a lion and a scarecrow, how lost she seems, and i still haven't arranged anything schoolwise, and she's growing up so fast and maybe i'm already too late, what if she can never socialize, i mean she's mine and i love her but is she or will she ever be ready for the world outside?
and the little girl wanders around the house with her dog tailing her and her laptop under her tiny arms, wondering why her mom is so worried, and feels like asking about the schools she can go to, she has no fear of being turned down since she's so good at coding and all, and doesn't understand why her mother looks at her in that funny way, she really likes working at different spots of the house everyday, except the cold dark backroom, like today her study is in the kitchen by the plant with large green leaves.

and the cat fades and fades and fades...

kelebeklerin hasar potansiyeli

2008-01-30T19:56:00.000+02:00

kelebek etkisi teoreminden bağımsız değerlendirdiğimiz ve kanat açıklığı (ka) ile kanatların çırpılma sıklığını (kf) sabitlediğimiz takdirde nispeten sarih neticeler elde etmemiz kuvvetle muhtemeldir. içerisinde bulundukları ekosistemin toplam hacmini 100cm3 aldığımız ve dış etkenleri de 0,03 seviyesinde sabitlediğimiz takdirde teorem kurulumuna bir adım daha yaklaşmamız kaçınılmaz olacaktır.

tüm bu veriler ışığında, kelebeklerin halet-i ruhiyelerini de dikkate alarak, içerisinde kanat çırptıkları midenin bağlı bulunduğu bünyeyi ciddi sarsıntılar ile gayriciddi temayüllere teşvik edecekleri zannediyoruz ki şüphesizdir.

bu noktada ekosistemin beslenme, manalı cümleler kurma (3 dilde), hatta zaman zaman teneffüs, kabilinden temel işlevlerinde sektelerin vücuda gelmesi beklenebilecek neticelerdendir. bunların yanında, ekosistemin anakartı da etkilemesi, düşünce süreçlerinin yavaşlaması, duraklaması yahut kilitlenmesi olasılığına karşı da kitleleri bilinçlendirmeyi gerekli görüyoruz.

naçizane araştırmamızın faydalı olabilmesi ümidiyle,

amber uzay araştırmaları üssü, deimos

ord. prof. dr. bdi

eskiyen ejderhaları çakmak yaparlar evladım..

2008-01-03T20:40:00.000+02:00

yaşlı bir ejderha düşün, o kadar yaşlı ve güçlü ki olsun ki, günümüzü görebilmiş olsun. avalon, periler, kurt adamlar, vampirler, cinler, kısacası büyülü olan herşey (ve tabii ki diğer ejderhalar) ilk buhar makinesinin çufçuflarıyla atom bombasının mantarı arasındaki bir göz açıp kapamalık zamanda, hiç varolmamışçasına, gerçekliğin dokusundan silinip giderken o yerli yerinde kalmış olsun. hatta belki kalmış ta değil de, muazzam cüssesi başka türlüsüne müsade etmediğinden, definesinin üzerinde sereserpe uyukladığı mağarasında sıkışmış olsun.

günden güne ejderhanın yaşına yaş ekleniyor, hareketsizlikten zaten zayıflamaya başlamış olan kasları gitgide (görünümünün aksine) güçsüzleşiyor, bu devirde zaten işlemeyen büyüsü yavaş yavaş hafızasından da siliniyor, bir zamanlar uykularını kaçırmasa da düşlerini (altından şelalelere hükmettiği, köyleri dehşete düşürdüğü, kralları tepetaklak ettiği düşlerini) ekşiten cüretkar ve yetenekli hırsızların gelip hazinesine el uzatması olasılığı bile artık onun için hoş bir anı olmaktan öteye geçemiyor, zira artık varlığına inanan olmadığı gibi gelip mağarasında onu basacak kahraman da anasından doğmuyor, değil terk etmek içinde dahi kıpırdayamadığı mağarasında artık tek yapabildiği gelmek bilmeyen ölümü beklerken hala sahip olduğu anıları pençelerinde hazinesinden de sıkı tutmak...

bilmese de seziyor, ölüm de gelmeyecek, o da unuttu çoktan bu yaşlı garabeti...

pençelerinde kalan kudretle şövalyelerin gelip kendilerini kurtarmasını sabırla bekleyen prenseslerin anılarını sıkıyor, gökyüzünde-günışığı pullarından rengarenk damlarken- süzüldüğü gençlik günlerinin, gümüş hilallerin, ...

gözleri amber kıymıklar şimdi, yuvalarını kanatan...

trying (and failing) to make small talk

2008-01-02T18:55:00.000+02:00

i greet the new year with snot and fever.

despite all the things i gulped down i was sober and that was possibly the worst part.

so, this is it then?

another lesson for me to shove into the xp pile..

who knows, who cares...

i'm not even here.

how can i be, when my soul still drags her feet on those too familiar alleys?

to change, to run away, to flee..

i'm sick of this mantra now.

so, here's my resolution for 2008:

let's be honest, at least when we're not in public:

"The fiction of going through changes together is an asinine legacy of the Middle Ages."

viva kronk & iå cthulhu!

run1.1

2007-12-15T18:52:00.001+02:00

the islander slips into hiding
and takes to his heels
out of dark northland
the murky house of sara
he whirled out of doors as snow
arrives as smoke in the yard
to flee from bad deeds

there he has to become someone else
he must change his shape
as an eagle he swept up
wanted to soar heavenward
the sun burned his cheeks
the moon lit his brows

run1.0

2007-12-15T18:48:00.000+02:00

Trying to outrun your fear
Running to lose
Heart on your sleeve and your soul in your shoes
Take a left,
A sharp left
And another left, meet me on the corner
And we'll start, again.

stars my destination...

2007-12-12T21:05:00.000+02:00

Tiger, tiger, burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

In what distant deeps or skies
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand dare seize the fire?

And what shoulder and what art
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand and what dread feet?

What the hammer? what the chain?
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? What dread grasp
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?

When the stars threw down their spears,
And water'd heaven with their tears,
Did He smile His work to see?
Did He who made the lamb make thee?

Tiger, tiger, burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

dere tepe dümdüz

2007-12-03T23:40:00.000+02:00

geçen gece gördüğüm rüyadan başlayalım..
rüyamda yurttayım ama yurt bir değişmiş, güzelleşmiş, maşallah. binalar tek katlı ve her binada dörder oda var. dolayısıyla hepsi düzayak, bir nevi bahçeli evcikler olmuş. içleri yine birbirinin aynı ama gerçekten oldukça farklı. nedense daha bir geniş, ferah ve iyi görünüyorlar. dahası ortak alanlarımız da acaip bir dönüşüm geçirmiş, bir common hall var ki harry potter ın ziyafet salonu yanında halt etmiş. genişliğini güzelliğini falan geçiyorum, tavandan kullanıma açık bir trapezin sarktığını ve fonda nakaratları "i'm your halloween" (i'm your valentine gibi ama daha kanlıca) şeklinde giden bir şarkının gümbürdediğini söylemekle yetineceğim.
yalnız bir sandalye var ki oda(m)da, deri&metal karması, dizaynır şeysiyim ben diye bağırıyor ve beni tilt ediyor. sandalye elimde dışarı çıkıyorum. ne yapmayı planladığımı anımsamıyorum, rüyada da olsa yurt malını çöpe atacak cüretim olduğundan bayağı şüpheliyim.
odadan dışarı attığım üçüncü adımda falan kayboluyorum, nasıl başardığım elbette bir muamma. neyse ki birkaç adım ötede bir bar görünüyor, ben de her makul insanın yapacağı gibi oraya yöneliyorum. kapıda iki adet iri kıyım amca beni karşılıyor almanca. rüyamda da bu hain dili akıcı konuşma becerisini kendime layık görmüyorum herhalde ki, "ich habe den weg verloren" tadında birşeyler saçmalayabiliyorum sadece. neyse ki derdim anlaşılıyor ve beni odama geri getiriyorlar.
imdi, bu adamları rüyasında gören ben olduğuma göre, bu adamların kurduğu ve benim anlayıp ta cevap veremediğim cümleleri de ben kuruyorum demektir. ama rüyamda bile yanıt veremediğime göre bu ne demektir? dahası ingilizce başladığım cümleleri almanca bitirmem ve artık bazı kelimelerin almancalarının daha bir kolayıma gelmesi neye delalettir?
kafamda kaç dile yer var hakikaten merak ediyorum.. iki dili paşa paşa konuşurken üçüncüsü biraz ayransız tahtırevan gibi mi oluyor acep diyorum zaman zaman.
(it was your brilliant idea, remember?)
biliyorum, herşey zaman alıyor da, kelimeler benim cici oyuncaklarım, evde kutularında duranlardan bile kıymetliler desem yeri.. kelimelerimi kaybetmekten korkuyorum..
[aber warum?]
bu dilin her bir kelimesi vakti zamanında düşümde gördüğüm granit yolların taşları kadar ağır ve yaşlı.. hayret kabiliyetini tam kapasite kullanan çocuk modunu daha ne kadar sürdürebilirim bilmiyorum..
(told you so!)
sen sussana bir kere, niye maydonoz oluyorsun davetsiz davetsiz? bu gidişle zaten yakında kuruyup gideceksin, hah, ben de kalkmış senin için endişeleniyorum burada!
(don't you go a wee bit far now? you're not that safe, it seems to me..)
ya, ya ne demessin, gençliğini de biliriz canım..
(shut the fuck up!)
sen kapa çeneni, elin değmişken sttrolup gidedebilirsin hatta!
[aber warum?]
sen karışma!
(mind your own damn business!)
sen bakma o dallamaya canım, dağdan gelmiş bağdakine laf çarptırıyor.
(exactly, could't word it better myself)
sence aytunz şafıldayken arka arkaya paradise lost çalmasının meali ne olabilir?
(that we're screwed?)
hmmm, mümkündür..

buffy de vampir sayılır..

2007-12-01T19:46:00.000+02:00

two girls, they're both teenager slayers. there's a thirtyish man, tall, lean, with grayish short hair. he's sort of like their watcher. there's also another man, who's always out-of-focus. i just can't be sure whether he's old or young, handsome or gruesome, a highpriest/mage of an elder god or an elder god. i just know that the girls have to fight him constantly. i also know there's a competition between the girls, for the attention of their watcher. it's harmless though, and they fight together against the oof guy in perfect harmony or spend time together like sisters or best friends.
everything i told here so far holds not much interesting material.
but dreaming about these characters three times consecutively during the same night made it all very interesting for me..

two to tango, three to tangle..

2007-11-28T14:32:00.000+02:00

yatak gerçekten de tek kişilik ve bu konuda hiç şakası yok. vicdan azabını da andıran ne idüğü belirsiz birşey hissediyorum ama yerde uyuyasım da gelmiyor o saatten sonra. macera ordusunun önden koşup bayrak sallayan neferleri olarak yine saçma sapan bir konum durum ve göçüm içerisinde bulmuşuz işte kendimizi. dar alanda birlikten kudret değilse de ısı doğuyor en azından ve şirin beldemizin ilik titreten gecesinde uykuya bir adım daha yanaşmayı başarıyoru-m/z. huzursuz bünye sendromum atağa geçiyor, bizi fazla bekletmeden, dönmeye çalışıyorum, lakin tek başarım duvarla akrabalık ilişkisi kurmak oluyor. yataktaşlarım simültane dönmemizi öneriyorlar, bunun sonucunda girdiğimiz kahkaha krizinden faydalanarak duvarla aramıza iki parmak kadar mesafe koyuyorum. durumdan hoşnut kalmamış olsa gerek ki yatakla işbirliği yapıp üzerimdeki yorganın yarısını hala-hop-tereyağlıballıekmek formülüyle kaybediveriyor. yorganın ilişkimizdeki ehemmiyetini takriben on dakika açıkladıktan sonra, yataktaşlarımın da susması üzerine, rahatlayıp uyuyakalıyorum. düşümde sal'layız, kahve falı bakıyoruz, sonra düşümde uyanıyorum, sonra gerçekten uyanıyorum, sonra hala biraz daha uyuyabileceğimi farkedip tekrar uyuyakalıyorum, yeterince uzun olmayan bir süre sonra çalar saatin dırıltısıyla uyanıyorum, yarım saat daha n'ooluurrr, diye homurdanarak tekrar uyuyorum, saatin iddiasına göre yarım saat bence bir ila iki dakika olan bir müddet sonra tekrar uyanıyorum. oda karanlık ama zaten gözlerimi açamıyorum, eşyalarımı el yordamıyla toparlayıp hazırlanıyorum ve kendimi ('bunu bir an önce yaptım yaptım yoksa asla yapamam' ekolünün bir temsilcisi olarak) dışarı atıyorum. kent karanlık, ay hala gökte, hava buz, sokaklarda tek tük insanlar, neyse ki sandviççim açılmış-mama edinebilirim diye kendimi avutarak eve yollanıyorum...

geçen cuma...

2007-11-10T17:53:00.000+02:00

düşümde evdeyim ve annem benden birşeyler saklıyor. o üst kata çıktığı anda sırrı keşfediyorum: sularımız ölülerimizin ruhlarından birer parça taşıyor. o yüzden sulara, şu anda ne olduğunu anımsamadığım, bir madde katmazsak ruhların seslerini, su kütlesinin büyüklüğüne göre fısıltı ya da gürleme halinde, duyabiliyoruz. korkuyorum, annemi çağırıyorum hemen. beni atalarımla tanıştırıyor, anneannem ve dedemle. şimdilik onlara güvenebileceğimi söylüyor. o koruyucu/kovucu büyüleri hazırlarken ben de anneannem ve dedemle konuşmaya başlıyorum. sonra duvarları çepeçevre aynalarla kaplı yemek salonuna giriyorum ve aynalarda tüm diğer akrabalarımı görüyorum, sandalyelerin boş olduklarını belirtmeme gerek yok zannedersem...

Which Polyhedral Are You?

2007-11-04T18:56:00.000+02:00

You are a four-sided die, a d4. Otherwise known as a tetrahedron, a "Caltrop", or (to a lesser degree) "Ol' Pointy". This crap bores you, so I'll get to the point. Others tend to see you as petty, conniving, manipulative, argumentative, defensive, greedy, and needlessly antagonistic. You see yourself as focused, effective, efficient, influencing, shrewd, tactical, and direct. Both points of view are in fact correct. You always know the best way to get things done, a fact that never wins sympathy with others. Whenever you manage to gain control of a situation, your solutions are swift and brutal. Unfortunately everyone else is convinced that granting you such power is, "a bad thing" and often conspire to keep it out of your hands. Such short-sighted fools!

Take the quiz at dicepool.com

"wir haben angst und sind allein"

2007-11-01T00:22:00.000+02:00

what would you make of three dogs and a kid, all leashed together in a small patch of green by the street?
i made a good omen, far too good to be true perhaps.
(in my dream, elder god was also present, along with colored beads scattering in pace with the heavy rain beating down on the dark northern city.)
yet here i am, alone in the faerie realm i always dreamt of, without neither a prince nor a wolf in sight to relieve me from this solitude.
the castle overlooking the city holds no treasure for me and the stars are as far from being right as always.
yet i keep waiting, upon dreams and nightmares alike. i will keep treading the old stone bridge till my boots crumble and my feet bleed, as is the tradition of folktales.
because i am at the right place, this time i know this much at the very least, so my vigil is not completely devoid of hope. perhaps, when the right time arrives, i would become a wolf and devour princes instead of waiting for them. until then, silver mistress doth mine heart possess...

late, again

2007-08-23T13:19:00.000+03:00

"But there was no word and the veins did not rest easy in the wrists..."

ray bradbury, the next in line, the october country

The White Road

2007-08-21T16:46:00.000+03:00

"I wish that you would visit me one day, in my house.

There are such sights I would show you."

My intended lowers her eyes, and, yes, she shivers.

Her father and his friends all hoot and cheer.

"That's never a story, Mr. Fox," chides a pale woman

in the corner of the room, her hair corn-fair,

her eyes the grey of cloud, meat on her bones,

she curves, and smiles crooked and amused.

"Madame, I am no storyteller," and I bow, and ask,

"Perhaps, you have a story for us?" I raise an eyebrow.

Her smile remains.

She nods, then stands, her lips move:

"A girl from the town, a plain girl, was betrayed by her lover,

a scholar. So when her blood stopped flowing,

and her belly swole beyond disguising,

she went to him, and wept hot tears. He stroked her hair,

swore that they would marry, that they would run,

in the night,

together,

to his aunt. She believed him;

even though she had seen the glances in the hall

he gave to his master's daughter,

who was fair, and rich, she believed him.

Or she believed what she believed.

"There was something sly about his smile,

his eyes so black and sharp, his rufous hair. Something

that sent her early to their trysting place,

beneath the oak, beside the thornbush,

something that made her climb the tree and wait.

Climb a tree, and in her condition.

Her love arrived at dusk, skulking by owl-light,

carrying a bag,

from which he took a mattock, shovel, knife.

He worked with a will, beside the thornbush,

beneath the oaken tree,

he whistled gently, and he sang, as he dug her grave,

that old song...

shall I sing it for you, now, good folk?"

She pauses, and as a one we clap and holloa-or almost as a one:

My intended, her hair so dark, her cheeks so pink,

her lips so red,

seems distracted.

The fair girl (who is she? A guest of the inn, I hazard) sings:

"A fox went out on a shiny night

And he begged for the moon to give him light

For he'd many miles to go that night

Before he'd reach his den-O!

Den-O! Den-O!

He'd many miles to go that night, before he'd reach is den-O."

Her voice was sweet and fine, but the voice of my intended is finer.

"And when her grave was dug-

A small hole it was, for she was a little thing,

even big with child she was a little thing-

he walked below her, back and forth,

rehearsing her hearsing, thus:

-Good evening, my pigsnie, my love,

my, but you look a treat in the moon's light,

mother of my child-to-be. Come, let me hold you.

And he'd embrace the midnight air with one hand,

and with the other, holding his short but wicked knife,

he'd stab and stab the dark.

"She trembled in her oak above him. Breathed so softly,

but still she shook. And once he looked up, and said,

-Owls, I'll wager, and another time, fie! is that a cat

up there? Here puss... But she was still,

bethought herself a branch, a leaf, a twig. At dawn

he took his mattock, spade and knife, and left

all grumbling and gudgeoned of his prey.

"They found her later wandering, her wits

had left her. There were oak leaves in her hair

and she sang,

'The bough did bend

The bough did break

I saw the hole

The fox did make

'We swore to love

We swore to marry

I saw the blade

The fox did carry'

"They say that her babe, when it was born,

had a fox's paw on her and not a hand.

Fear is the sculptress, midwives claim. The scholar fled."

And she sits down, to general applause.

The smile twitches, hides about her lips: I know it's there,

it waits in her grey eyes. She stares at me, amused.

"I read that in the Orient foxes follow priests and scholars,

in disguise as women, houses, mountains, gods, processions,

always discovered by their tails- " so I begin,

but my intended's father intercedes.

"Speaking of tales-my dear, you said you had a tale?"

My intended flushes. There are no rose petals,

save for her cheeks. She nods, and says:

"My story, father? My story is the story of a dream I dreamed."

Her voice is so quiet and soft, we hush ourselves to hear,

outside the inn just the night sounds: an owl hoots,

but, as the old folk say, I live too near the wood

to be frightened by an owl.

She looks at me.

"You, sir. In my dream you rode to me, and called,

–Come to my house, my sweet, away down the White Road.

There are such sights as I would show you.

I asked how I would find your house, down the white chalk road,

for it's a long road, and a dark one, under trees

that make the light all green and gold when the sun is high,

but shade the road at other times. At night

it's pitch-black; there is no moonlight on the White Road...

"And you said, Mister Fox-and this is most curious, but dreams

are treacherous and curious and dark-

that you would cut the throat of a sow-pig,

and you would walk her home behind your fine black stallion.

You smiled,

smiled, Mister Fox, with your red lips and your green eyes,

eyes that could snare a maiden's soul, and your yellow teeth,

which could eat her heart- "

"God forbid," I smiled. All eyes were on me, then, not her,

though hers was the story. Eyes, such eyes.

"So, in my dream, it became my fancy to visit your great house,

as you had often entreated me to do,

to walk its glades and paths, to see the pools,

the statues you had brought from Greece, the yews,

the poplar-walk, the grotto, and the bower.

And, as this was but a dream, I did not wish

to take a chaperone

-some withered, juiceless prune

who would not appreciate your house, Mister Fox; who

would not appreciate your pale skin,

nor your green eyes,

nor your engaging ways.

"So I rode the white chalk road, following the red blood path,

on Betsy, my filly. The trees above were green.

A dozen miles straight, and then the blood

led me off across meadows, over ditches, down a gravel path,

(but now I needed sharp eyes to catch the blood-

a drip, a drop: the pig must have been dead as anything)

and I reined my filly in front of a house.

And such a house. A Palladian delight, immense,

a landscape of its own, windows, columns,

a white stone monument to verticality, expansive.

"There was a sculpture in the garden, before the house,

a Spartan child, stolen fox half-concealed in its robe,

the fox biting the child's stomach, gnawing the vitals away,

the stoic child bravely saying nothing-

what could it say, cold marble that it was?

There was pain in its eyes, and it stood

upon a plinth upon which were carved eight words.

I walked around it and I read:

Be bold,

but not too bold.

"I tethered little Betsy in the stables,

between a dozen night black stallions

each with blood and madness in his eyes.

I saw no one.

I walked to the front of the house, and up the great steps.

The huge doors were locked fast,

no servants came to greet me, when I knocked.

In my dream (for do not forget, Mister Fox, that this was my dream.

You look so pale) the house fascinated me,

the kind of curiosity (you know this,

Mister Fox, I see it in your eyes) that kills cats.

"I found a door, a small one, off the latch,

and pushed my way inside.

Walked corridors, lined with oak, with shelves,

with busts, with trinkets,

I walked, my feet silent on the scarlet carpet,

until I reached the great hall.

It was there again, in red stones that glittered,

set into the white marble of the floor,

it said:

Be bold,

be bold,

but not too bold

Or else your life's blood

shall run cold.

"There were stairs, wide, carpeted in scarlet,

off the great hall,

and I walked up them, silently, silently.

Oak doors: and now

I was in a dining room, or so I am convinced,

for the remnants of a grisly supper

were abandoned, cold and fly-buzzed.

Here was a half-chewed hand, there, crisped and picked,

a face, a woman's face, who must in life, I fear,

have looked like me."

"Heaven defend us all from such dark dreams," her father cried.

"Can such things be?"

"It is not so," I assured him. The fair woman's smile

glittered behind her grey eyes. People

need assurances.

"Behind the supper room was a room,

a huge room, this inn would fit in that room,

piled promiscuously with rings and bracelets,

necklaces, pearl drops, ball gowns, fur wraps,

lace petticoats, silks and satins. Ladies' boots,

and muffs, and bonnets: a treasure cave and dressing room-

diamonds and rubies underneath my feet.

"Beyond that room I knew myself in Hell.

In my dream...

I saw many heads. The heads of young women. I saw a wall

on which dismembered limbs were nailed.

A heap of breasts. The piles of guts, of livers, lights,

the eyes, the...

No. I cannot say. And all around the flies were buzzing,

one low droning buzz.

-Bëelzebubzebubzebub they buzzed. I could not breathe,

I ran from there and sobbed against a wall."

"A fox's lair indeed," says the fair woman.

("It was not so," I mutter.)

"They are untidy creatures, so to litter,

about their dens the bones and skins and feathers

of their prey. The French call him Renard,

the Scottish, Tod."

"One cannot help one's name," says my intended's father.

He is almost panting now, they all are:

in the firelight, the fire's heat, lapping their ale.

The wall of the inn was hung with sporting prints.

She continues:

"From outside I heard a crash and a commotion.

I ran back the way I had come, along the red carpet,

down the wide staircase-too late!-the main door was opening!

I threw myself down the stairs-rolling, tumbling-

fetched up hopelessly beneath a table,

where I waited, shivered, prayed."

She points at me. "Yes, you, sir. You came in,

crashed open the door, staggered in, you sir,

dragging a young woman

by her red hair and by her throat.

Her hair was long and unconfined, she screamed and strove

to free herself. You laughed, deep in your throat,

were all a-sweat, and grinned from ear to ear."

She glares at me. The color's in her cheeks.

"You pulled a short old broadsword, Mister Fox, and as she screamed,

you slit her throat, again from ear to ear.

I listened to her bubbling, sighing, shrieking,

closed my eyes and prayed until she stopped.

And after much, much, much too long, she stopped.

"And I looked out. You smiled, held up your sword,

your hands agore-blood- "

"In your dream," I tell her.

"In my dream.

She lay there on the marble, as you sliced,

you hacked, you wrenched, you panted, and you stabbed.

You took her head from her shoulders,

thrust your tongue between her red wet lips.

You cut off her hands. Her pale white hands.

You sliced open her bodice, you removed each breast.

Then you began to sob and howl.

Of a sudden,

clutching her head, which you carried by the hair,

the flame red hair,

you ran up the stairs.

"As soon as you were out of sight,

I fled through the open door.

I rode my Betsy home, down the White Road."

All eyes upon me now. I put down my ale,

on the old wood of the table.

"It is not so,"

I told her,

told all of them.

"It was not so, and

God forbid

it should be so. It was

an evil dream. I wish such dreams

on no one."

"Before I fled the charnel house,

before I rode poor Betsy into a lather,

before we fled down the White Road,

the blood still red

(and was it a pig whose throat you slit, Mister Fox?),

before I came to my father's inn,

before I fell before them, speechless,

my father, brothers, friends- "

All honest farmers, fox-hunting men.

They are stamping their boots, their black boots.

" -before that, Mister Fox,

I seized from the floor, from the bloody floor,

her hand, Mister Fox. The hand of the woman

you hacked apart before my eyes."

"It is not so- "

"You Gilles de Rais. You monster."

"And God forbid it should be so!"

She smiles now, lacking mirth or warmth.

The brown hair curls around her face,

roses twining about a bower.

Two spots of red are burning on her cheeks.

"Behold, Mister Fox! Her hand! Her poor pale hand!"

She pulls it from her breasts (gently freckled,

I had dreamed of those breasts),

tosses it down upon the table.

It lies in front of me.

Her father, brothers, friends,

they stare at me hungrily,

and I pick up the small thing.

The hair was red indeed, and ranks. The pads and claws

were rough. One end was bloody

but the blood had dried.

"This is no hand," I tell them. But the first

fist knocks the wind from out of me,

an oaken cudgel hits my shoulder,

as I stagger,

the first black boot kicks me down onto the floor.

And then a rain of blows beats down on me,

I curl and mewl and pray and grip the paw

so tightly.

What if the hunters come?

What if they come?

Be bold, I whisper once, before I die.

But not too bold...

And then my tale is done.

by Neil Gaiman
via The Endicott Studio

“I Cthulhu,” a long-lost story by Neil Gaiman

2007-08-07T14:04:00.000+03:00

or What’s A Tentacle-Faced Thing Like Me Doing In A Sunken City Like This (Latitude 47 ° 9’ S, Longitude 126 ° 43’ W)?

Cthulhu, they call me. Great Cthulhu.

Nobody can pronounce it right.

Are you writing this down? Every word? Good. Where shall I start…mm?

Very well, then. The beginning. Write this down, Whateley.

I was spawned uncounted aeons ago, in the dark mists of Khhaa’yngnaiih (no, of course I don’t know how to spell it. Write it as it sounds), of nameless nightmare parents, under a gibbous moon. It wasn’t the moon of this planet, of course, it was a real moon. On some nights it filled over half the sky and as it rose you could watch the crimson blood drip and trickle down its bloated face, staining it red, until at its height it bathed the swamps and towers in a gory dead red light.

Those were the days.

Or rather the nights, on the whole. Our place had a sun of sorts, but it was old, even back then. I remember that on the night it finally exploded we all slithered down to the beach to watch. But I get ahead of myself.

I never knew my parents.

My father was consumed by my mother as soon as he had fertilized her and she, in her turn, was eaten by myself at my birth. That is my first memory, as it happens. Squirming my way out of my mother, the gamy taste of her still in my tentacles.

Don’t look so shocked, Whateley. I find you humans just as revolting.

Which reminds me, did they remember to feed the shoggoth? I thought I heard it gibbering.

I spent my first few thousand years in those swamps. I did not like this, of course, for I was the colour of a young trout and about four of your feet long. I spent most of my time creeping up on things and eating them and in my turn avoiding being crept up on and eaten.

So passed my youth.

And then one day – I believe it was a Tuesday – I discovered that there was more to life than food. (Sex? Of course not. I will not reach that stage until after my next estivation; your piddly little planet will long be cold by then). It was that Tuesday that my Uncle Hastur slithered down to my part of the swamp with his jaws fused.

It meant that he did not intend to dine that visit, and that we could talk.

Now that is a stupid question, even for you Whateley. I don’t use either of my mouths in communicating with you, do I? Very well then. One more question like that and I’ll find someone else to relate my memoirs to. And you will be feeding the shoggoth.

We are going out, said Hastur to me. Would you like to accompany us?

We? I asked him. Who’s we?

Myself, he said, Azathoth, Yog-Sothoth, Nyarlathotep, Tsathogghua , Ia ! Shub Niggurath, young Yuggoth and a few others. You know, he said, the boys. (I am freely translating for you here, Whateley, you understand. Most of them were a-, bi-, or trisexual, and old Ia! Shub Niggurath has at least a thousand young, or so it says. That branch of the family was always given to exaggeration). We are going out, he concluded, and we were wondering if you fancied some fun.

I did not answer him at once. To tell the truth I wasn’t all that fond of my cousins, and due to some particularly eldritch distortion of the planes I’ve always had a great deal of trouble seeing them clearly. They tend to get fuzzy around the edges, and some of them – Sabaoth is a case in point – have a great many edges.

But I was young, I craved excitement. ‘There has to be more to life than this!’ I would cry, as the delightfully foetid charnel smells of the swamp miasmatised around me, and overhead the ngau-ngau and zitadors whooped and skrarked. I said yes, as you have probably guessed, and I oozed after Hastur until we reached the meeting place.

As I remember we spent the next moon discussing where we were going. Azathoth had his hearts set on distant Shaggai, and Nyarlathotep had a thing about the Unspeakable Place (I can’t for the life of me think why. The last time I was there everything was shut). It was all the same to me, Whateley. Anywhere wet and somehow, subtly wrong and I feel at home. But Yog-Sothoth had the last word, as he always does, and we came to this plane.

You’ve met Yog-Sothoth, have you not, my little two-legged beastie?

I thought as much.

He opened the way for us to come here.

To be honest, I didn’t think much of it. Still don’t. If I’d known the trouble we were going to have I doubt I’d have bothered. But I was younger then.

As I remember our first stop was dim Carcosa. Scared the shit out of me, that place. These days I can look at your kind without a shudder, but all those people , without a scale or pseudopod between them, gave me the quivers.

The King in Yellow was the first I ever got on with.

The tatterdemallion king. You don’t know of him? Necronomicon page seven hundred and four (of the complete edition) hints at his existence, and I think that idiot Prinn mentions him in De Vermis Mysteriis . And then there’s Chambers, of course.

Lovely fellow, once I got used to him.

He was the one who first gave me the idea.

What the unspeakable hells is there to do in this dreary dimension? I asked him.

He laughed. When I first came here, he said, a mere colour out of space, I asked myself the same question. Then I discovered the fun one can get in conquering these odd worlds, subjugating the inhabitants, getting them to fear and worship you. It’s a real laugh.

Of course, the Old Ones don’t like it.

The old ones? I asked.

No, he said, Old Ones. It’s capitalized. Funny chaps. Like great starfish-headed barrels, with filmy great wings that they fly through space with.

Fly through space? Fly? I was shocked. I didn’t think anybody flew these days. Why bother when one can sluggle, eh? I could see why they called them the old ones. Pardon, Old Ones.

What do these Old Ones do? I asked the King.

(I’ll tell you all about sluggling later, Whateley. Pointless, though. You lack wnaisngh’ang. Although perhaps badminton equipment would do almost as well). (Where was I? Oh yes).

What do these Old Ones do, I asked the King.

Nothing much, he explained. They just don’t like anybody else doing it.

I undulated, writhing my tentacles as if to say “I have met such beings in my time”, but fear the message was lost on the King.

Do you know of any places ripe for conquering? I asked him.

He waved a hand vaguely in the direction of a small and dreary patch of stars. There’s one over there that you might like, he told me. It’s called Earth. Bit off the beaten track, but lots of room to move.

Silly bugger.

That’s all for now, Whateley.

Tell someone to feed the shoggoth on your way out.

II.

Is it time already, Whateley?

Don’t be silly. I know that I sent for you. My memory is as good as it ever was.

Ph’nglui mglw’nafh Cthulhu R’lyeh wgah’nagl fthagn.

You know what that means, don’t you?

In his house at R’lyeh dead Cthulhu waits dreaming.

A justified exaggeration, that; I haven’t been feeling too well recently.

It was a joke, one-head, a joke. Are you writing all this down? Good. Keep writing. I know where we got up to yesterday.

R’lyeh.

Earth.

That’s an example of the way that languages change, the meanings of words. Fuzziness. I can’t stand it. Once on a time R’lyeh was the Earth, or at least the part of it that I ran, the wet bits at the start. Now it’s just my little house here, latitude 47 ° 9’ south, longitude 126 ° 43’ west.

Or the Old Ones. They call us the Old Ones now. Or the Great Old Ones, as if there were no difference between us and the barrel boys.

Fuzziness.

So I came to Earth, and in those days it was a lot wetter than it is today. A wonderful place it was, the seas as rich as soup and I got on wonderfully with the people. Dagon and the boys (I use the word literally this time). We all lived in the water in those far-off times, and before you could say Cthulhu fthagn I had them building and slaving and cooking. And being cooked, of course.

Which reminds me, there was something I meant to tell you. A true story.

There was a ship, a-sailing on the seas. On a Pacific cruise. And on this ship was a magician, a conjurer, whose function was to entertain the passengers. And there was this parrot on the ship.

Every time the magician did a trick the parrot would ruin it. How? He’d tell them how it was done, that’s how. ‘He put it up his sleeve’, the parrot would squawk. Or ‘he’s stacked the deck’ or ‘it’s got a false bottom’.

The magician didn’t like it.

Finally the time came for him to do his biggest trick.

He announced it.

He rolled up his sleeves.

He waved his arms.

At that moment the ship bucked and smashed over to one side.

Sunken R’lyeh had risen beneath them. Hordes of my servants, loathsome fish-men, swarmed over the sides, seized the passengers and crew and dragged them beneath the waves.

R’lyeh sank below the waters once more, awaiting that time when dread Cthulhu shall rise and reign once more.

Alone, above the foul waters, the magician – overlooked by my little batrachian boobies, for which they paid heavily – floated, clinging to a spar, all alone. And then, far above him he noticed a small green shape. It came lower, finally perching on a lump of nearby driftwood, and he saw it was the parrot.

The parrot cocked its head to one side and squinted up at the magician.

‘Alright,’ it says, ‘I give up. How did you do it?’

Of course it’s a true story, Whateley.

Would black Cthulhu, who slimed out of the dark stars when your most eldritch nightmares were suckling at their mothers’ pseudomammaria, who waits for the time that the stars come right to come forth from his tomb-palace, revive the faithful and resume his rule, who waits to teach anew the high and luscious pleasures of death and revelry, would he lie to you?

Sure I would.

Shut up Whateley, I’m talking. I don’t care where you heard it before.

We had fun in those days, carnage and destruction, sacrifice and damnation, ichor and slime and ooze, and foul and nameless games. Food and fun. It was one long party, and everybody loved it except those who found themselves impaled on wooden stakes between a chunk of cheese and pineapple.

Oh, there were giants on the earth in those days.

It couldn’t last for ever.

Down from the skies they came, with filmy wings and rules and regulations and routines and Dho-Hna knows how many forms to be filled out in quintuplicate. Banal little bureaucruds, the lot of them. You could see it just looking at them: Five-pointed heads – every one you looked at had five points, arms whatever, on their heads (which I might add were always in the same place). None of them had the imagination to grow three arms or six, or one hundred and two. Five, every time.

No offence meant.

We didn’t get on.

They didn’t like my party.

They rapped on the walls (metaphorically). We paid no attention. Then they got mean. Argued. Bitched. Fought.

Okay, we said, you want the sea, you can have the sea. Lock, stock, and starfish-headed barrel. We moved onto the land – it was pretty swampy back then – and we built Gargantuan monolithic structures that dwarfed the mountains.

You know what killed off the dinosaurs, Whateley? We did. In one barbecue.

But those pointy-headed killjoys couldn’t leave well enough alone. They tried to move the planet nearer the sun – or was it further away? I never actually asked them. Next thing I knew we were under the sea again.

You had to laugh.

The city of the Old Ones got it in the neck. They hated the dry and the cold, as did their creatures. All of a sudden they were in the Antarctic, dry as a bone and cold as the lost plains of thrice-accursed Leng.

Here endeth the lesson for today, Whateley.

And will you please get somebody to feed that blasted shoggoth?

III.

(Professors Armitage and Wilmarth are both convinced that not less than three pages are missing from the manuscript at this point, citing the text and length. I concur.)

The stars changed, Whateley.

Imagine your body cut away from your head, leaving you a lump of flesh on a chill marble slab, blinking and choking. That was what it was like. The party was over.

It killed us.

So we wait here below.

Dreadful, eh?

Not at all. I don’t give a nameless dread. I can wait.

I sit here, dead and dreaming, watching the ant-empires of man rise and fall, tower and crumble.

One day – perhaps it will come tomorrow, perhaps in more tomorrows than your feeble mind can encompass – the stars will be rightly conjoined in the heavens, and the time of destruction shall be upon us: I shall rise from the deep and I shall have dominion over the world once more.

Riot and revel, blood-food and foulness, eternal twilight and nightmare and the screams of the dead and the not-dead and the chant of the faithful.

And after?

I shall leave this plane, when this world is a cold cinder orbitting a lightless sun. I shall return to my own place, where the blood drips nightly down the face of a moon that bulges like the eye of a drowned sailor, and I shall estivate.

Then I shall mate, and in the end I shall feel a stirring within me, and I shall feel my little one eating its way out into the light.

Um.

Are you writing this all down, Whateley?

Good.

Well, that’s all. The end. Narrative concluded.

Guess what we’re going to do now? That’s right.

We’re going to feed the shoggoth.

there resides a queen fair and fierce..

2007-08-07T11:46:00.000+03:00

whywehere.blogspot.com

eskiyen düşlere ne olacağı sorunsalı üzerine...

2007-06-22T00:38:00.000+03:00

düşümde su'ylayız, tam "bu bir rüya" noktasına ulaştığım anda
bunu bilmenin tehlikeli olduğunu fark ediyorum.
tıpkı stephen king'in adını anımsayamadığım bir hikayesindeki gibi
"boş" bir zamana düşmeyi beraberinde getiriyor zira bu bilgi.
tam düşüm bir kitap sayfası gibi çevrileceği ve arka sayfada kalacağım anda panik içerisinde uyanıyorum. karabasan böyle birşey...

quoting from danse macabre by stephen king

2007-05-22T20:37:00.000+03:00

"...i recognize terror as the finest emotion, and so i will try to terrorize the reader. but if find i cannot terrify him/her, i will try to horrify; and if i find i cannot horrify, i'll go for the gross-out. i'm not proud."

kedi halet-i ruhiyesi

2007-05-21T11:50:00.000+03:00

sizden vicdanlı olmasın pek vicdanlı bir arkadaşım, iki ay kadar önce sitenin bahçesindeki bir kediye acıma gafletini gösterdi. derken kedinin hamile olduğu ortaya çıktı. kedi hanım arkadaşımın kırmızı koltuğunun orta yerinde doğum yaptı, birbirinden güzel dört yavrusu oldu.
o günden beri arkadaşım bir anne, dört adet te yavru olmak üzere toplam beş kedinin köleliğine terfi etmiş durumda.
günleri tezini yazmaya çalışmak, kedileri beslemek, anneleri evde sıkılıp arıza çıkardığı ve sokakta bulduğu muhtelif mikropları onlara taşıdığı için başları bitten başka tarafları mantardan kurtulmayan yavruların ilaçlarını vermek ve beş kellelik kedi ailesinin pisliğini temizlemek arasında geçiyor.
bu esnada kediler ne yapıyor derseniz: maaile evin içinde paşa keyifleri ne isterse onu yapıyorlar.
kedi sevmekten ziyade kedi olmak lazım, sevgili arkadaşıma da belirttiğim üzere...

witchtrial

2007-02-27T15:12:00.000+02:00

last night in my dream i was in a clearing among the woods and the city.
a witchtrial was in progress between two rival witchclans:
one of them beautiful, the other ugly
one of them booksmart, the other one forestsmart
one of them traditional
(as much as keeping alive the tradition of devouring a delicious little child every once in a while)
the other one modern
(as much as suing the hillbilly witches' asses off)
the only thing they had in common:
was a mortal man, who had divided his love in two between the high mothers of them both,
without ladies' knowledge, of course..

sonra uyandım..

2007-01-30T17:27:00.000+02:00

dün gece düşümde hangi köşede saklandığını bilemediğim bambaşka bir vakitte, küçük bir yunan adasındaydım.
sahilde küçük, beyaz bir kuleden denize bakıyordum.
sular son kertede sakin ve mavi, denize dökülen günışığı sıvı altın nevinden ve büyüleyiciydi.
kuleden suya inen upuzun mermer merdivenlerden inmeye başladım sonra, suya girmeden önce mümkün olduğunca ısınmak, suda olmanın keyfini daha da artırmak için çok ama çok yavaş yürüyordum.
suda pek az insan vardı ve onlar da çok sakindi.
derken kulenin diğer tarafından bir grup çıkageldi.
liderleri merdivenleri koşarak indi ve tek damla bile sıçratmaksızın harikulade bir dalış yaptı.
diğerleri daha ağır adımlarla onu izlerken birden canlandım.
trabzanlardan kayarak suya atladım.
suya dalışım rüyanın kırılma noktası oldu, onu izleyen sahne güneş battıktan sonra ve adanın diğer tarafında geçiyordu.
tüm rüyanın hissi: mükemmellik

nine inch nails

2007-01-05T12:36:00.000+02:00

"you're keeping in step in the line got your chin held high and you feel just fine because you do what you're told but inside your heart it is black and it's hollow and it's cold "

from a husky voice, with british accent if possible

2007-01-04T23:49:00.000+02:00

"unhappiness, my friend, is a disease with no cure, like an aggressive virus. you have to wait patiently, until it passes, if it ever does of course."

afterwords

2007-01-04T16:04:00.002+02:00

"and who do you think you are to clash your will against mine?" says the pale beast. he adorns my eyes with his celestial beauty and his unflinching glare keeps me chained to the spot. i reach into the dark recess that used to be my mind and feel for words but they shun my touch. i stand wordless, motionless, mannikinlike. then something snaps. universe shifts. something strong jets out of a spring, unknown even to me till then, and fills me. i am not a weakling anymore, nomore a lowling, my spine reforms itself from steel. we need not duel anymore, there s no match. i walk away.

command&conquer

2007-01-04T16:04:00.001+02:00

"for i am not one to love from afar," i said, "i have to seize what s mine". her cold icy stare fell upon me, scorching my skin on wherever it touched. her bony hands loosened their grip on the cup. i saw my fortune shatter into a thousand unmatching pieces as it was. "what s with your desire to battle?" she inquired, uninterested with the mess of shards and coffee on the floor. "this one i believe i already answered", said i.

something old something new...

2007-01-04T16:01:00.000+02:00

what’s the origin of symmetry? how is it probable to find it now on the tips of a pair of tiny, pointy ears; then on the fineline of an upturned nose; here amongst the blue net of veins under a translucent skin and there within a single streak of hair curling on the back of a neck? what are the rules of attraction? how can something as insignificant as three letters seen on the license plate of a car on the street ewoke a flood of memoirs in a blink? how severe an assault must be to tear asunder a personal myth entirely?

when a port of solace becomes just another room in the hell? what would you do to communicate if you discovered that all your words were stillborn?

davetsiz misafir

2006-12-22T13:33:00.000+02:00

odamda uyumaya çalışıyorum ama bir türlü başaramıyorum. yastığı ters yüz etmekten vazgeçip rahatsızlığımın kaynağına odaklanıyorum. odamda oynaşan işgalci ışık huzmesini yakalamam uzun sürmüyor. yataktan çıkıp ışık huzmesinin kaynağını barındıran karşı binaya ters ters bakıyorum.

iki kat aşağıdaki dairenin pencerelerine takılıyor gözüm. eski usul, zeminden tavana uzanan, geniş pencereleri var söz konusu dairenin. şaşırıyorum, binanın yaşını düşününce. üstelik tam benim penceremin karşına denk gelen balkon da eski usul, diz hizasında korkulukları olan cinsten, ya da o devrin hanımlarının tabiriyle “evlat acısı”.

böyle sevimli şeyler düşünmekten haliyle için sıkılıyor bir süre sonra. o arada balkona, yeğenlerimin de dahil olduğu, o yaşına göre epey iri olan görkemli nesilden genç bir adam çıkıyor, başında evin içinde çıkarmaya gerek görmediği şapkasıyla. (yeni nesil!) şakacı ışık huzmesiyse tam onun arkasındaki duvarda sarkaç misali sallanan metal bir cisimden yansımaya devam ediyor, hiç bir şey olmamış gibi.

gülümseyerek selamlıyorum genç komşumu ve duvarındaki garabeti indirmesini rica ediyorum, nazikçe. ricamı yerine getirdikten sonra balkondaki yerine dönüyor komşum ve ben uyaramadan adımını boşluğa atıp düşmeye başlıyor. nasıl olduğunu kendim de anlamadan uzanıp kollarından yakalıyorum ve kendi odama çekiyorum. az önce ölümle burun buruna gelmiş biri için oldukça sakin.
isteyip istemediğini sormaya bile gerek görmeden su getirmek için mutfağa seğirtiyorum. döndüğümde, hala onu oturttuğum kanepede, sırtı bana dönük olarak oturuyor beklenmedik konuğum. çıkardığı şapkasının artık gizleyemediği, başının arka tarafında tam ortaya doğru saçları giderek seyreliyor ve bir noktada da tamamen kaybolup yerlerini çevresini dikkatle izleyen, pembe kapakları kirpiksiz, kiklopik bir göze bırakıyorlar. sıradaki çığlığımız tüm yüce eskiler için geliyor: iaaaaaaaaaaa!

carnation

2006-12-15T12:13:00.001+02:00

“feline demigods are prone to break hearts, fierce in fury, severe in every way.”

i feel at a loss of words, be them mine or somebody else’s, they ring senseless and hollow in my ears all the same. on one side are all the subtle beauties in and of life, fleeting one after another, leaving me in awe, while the other side holds only the agony of having nobody to share them with.

“you are in a constant war with the rest of the world, all alone against all else” he had said to me once. i reckon my attempt to explain him, the consequences of opening up, without success. it s quite ironic of him to plunder the castle of my soul so, while there was nothing to conquer for him, with all the doors wide open and red carpets spread in his honor.

now in the white gloom of the office, i feign work, though i m not even on the same plane of existence with the rest of the office folk. actually, i m drifting away in a galaxy marked with supernovas of wrath he awoke in me and pitch black abyss of his absence. through the shadows, his pale skin glows and i m back at the festival night again.

who was the one who said that the life consists of moments and we should seize them? a true statement nonetheless, yet inaccurate i must add. it should have been the sequences, cascading one after each other in a blur, yet each of them capturing some unique essence, what we need to seize, not the moments which are nothing but mere indicators of time. take the sequence, in which his t-shirt is pulled up and my fingers are tracing the indefinite indigo pattern on his back, for instance. this one is like the reneissance era paintings of christian themes. here i am the fortunate being, witnessing a holy miracle, wide eyed&serene. what about the ones shot in a movie theatre, where i m reaching for the cola can on the seat next to him, him passing the can to me, our hands brushing against each other and his touch lingering on my hand a little longer after i have the can? this four sequenced short film can easily be considered like the allegoric tryptychs: first the helplesness of the mankind on earth, then following the rule of “aid thy neighbour”, unexpected joys of aiding your neighbour, and total bliss of paradise on earth. and then, the one in which we are lying entwined on the bed in the darkened room of my ex, my face buried in the hollow of his collarbones seeking solace, while his hand is caressing my side. this one is definetely a verse taken from a william blake poem, either “tiger tiger burning bright, in the forest of the night” or “and his dark secret love dost thy life destroy” i guess.

the sweet sick taste of cigarettes is merging with the taste of my hunger for his pallid skin now. with him cut out of my life, i have nothing/noone else to turn to but mere words of mine written in a haze to recount the sequences before they too are lost in the numbness of everyday life. so hasten must i, to engrave the remembrance in my mind, if not himself in my life. now i recall him writing me “i don t believe that anyone loves” over the net, in this sequence i am alone in my room, with my face illuminated only by the dim blue of the screen, my lips trembling as if i m discerning the oncoming defeat and a single tear dripping from my chin onto the keyboard even though the words are not aimed at me. this one must be from an opera, one of wagner’s operas preferably, where the soprano sings a clairvoyant aria of her future misfortunes, with a crystal clear voice and we all burst in tears. when i freeze the sequence and view myself, i see the inevitable fact of falling for a detached marble faun and still running on full gallop for the misery.

in between are random glimpses from an incoherent movie; me weeping alone, stars of the night sky like diamonds on a velvet cloth, sugar particules slowly dissolving on the foam of a latté, a gorgeous young man kissing a ratlike creature in the street, raspberry-cream cakes in the display case of a bakery, blue-gray smoke twirling under the rays of sun,… these sequences, in their own patchworked way, are referring to the dual quality of life, the possibility of all positives and negatives existing together, side by side.

in the final sequence his sentences are incoherent, cliché and piercing over the net. i don t even see them on my screen, what i see instead is a pale blue unicorn pattern on a delicate, ivory arm. i shut down the blasted messenger program on my computer, block him on my list, erase his numbers&messages from my mobile, choose an appropriate song from my playlist and light a cigarette.

oasis cover of an old song resonates in the empty office:

“if you gave me a fresh carnation i would only crush its tender petals…

touch my heart and feel winter hold my hand and be doomed forever”

28.09.2005

now what?

2006-12-11T21:07:00.000+02:00

i dream of you at home, safe and sound. it s always before the diagnosis in my dreams. always before the havoc. we talk, quarrel, crack jokes. in the mornings i wake up miserable, lacking the will to get out of bed… even if i don t remember my dreams… i don t tell mom about them. nor do i tell my elders. i keep them to myself. it s my share of the legacy after all…

nameless

2006-10-13T13:49:00.000+03:00

vakti zamanında
"bir sabah uyansam ve kendimi
usta bir çizerin elinden çıkmış bir çizgi roman karakteri olarak bulsam"
demiştim.

dün gece düşümde oldukça sıkıntılı bir gün geçirmekteyken,
aziz bir arkadaşıma uğradım.
arkadaşım bana içinde bulunduğum dar eşiği geçebilmem için
bir arayışa çıkmam gerektiğini söyledi.
(evet, evet, o kızılderili reislerinin falan yaptıkları gibi)
sonra da bir avuç acı otu, üzerine bir bardak suyla, zorla çiğnetti.
(bu noktada, bu acı otların halüsinojen olduklarını söylememe gerek var mı ey meçhul okur?)
düşün sonlarında çok sevdiğim bir şarkıyı dinleyerek eski okulumun önünden geçtiğimi,
farklı suretlerde karşıma çıkıp duran şeytanla ilginç bir sohbet ettiğimizi
ve açtığı yaralar hala kapanmayan eski bir aşkımı gördüğümü anımsıyorum..