Cumartesi gecesi. Çalışıyorum. Hiç yapmak istemediğim halde. Şu an canım o kadar dışarı çıkmak ve eğlenmek istiyor ki… Bir bardan sürüklenmek, karaciğeri tüketmek istiyorum…
Bunun yerine ise evde oturmuş çalışıyorum ve Last.fm‘de bana komşu olan radyoları dinliyorum. Yani müzik zevki açısından bana yakın duranların dinlediklerinden seçmeler ki bazıları yakınımdan geçmiyor ama olsun…
Sonra tam biramı dudaklarıma götürmüşken birden geçmişten gelir gibi bir ses geliyor bilgisayardan… Tindersticks‘in Curtains albümünden Rented Rooms… Çok sevdiğim bir albümün çok sevdiğim bir şarkısı… Bu şarkıya atfedilenler, sözleri ve benim geçmişte yazdıklarım…
Böyle anlar insanı cidden vuruyor, hazırlıksız yakalıyor.
Ne söyleyebileceğimi bilmiyorum.
Bir şey daha: İnsanı yakalayan şeylerden biri de gecenin bir yarısı şarkıdan taşan seksapel. Ama bu Tindersticks ve Stuart Staples‘ın sesi… Bir güzel grup, bir güzel adam…
Ne diyebilirm ki…
Bir şey demek yerine, şarkının sözlerini ve yıllar önce bu albümün bana yazdırdığı bir metni buraya koyacağım…
Rented Rooms
There’s the same hotel, and we can go there now
We can go there now if you want to
Through the doors of that rented room
Yeah, we stumbled through
It was only hours
It seemed such a short while
We had no time to cry
Or sit and wonder why
We had so many things started to say
We had to get through
We tried the cinema
Within half an hour
We had to go find someplace else
Some more. . . you know
We tried a drinking bar
It gets so very hard
And when the cab ride gets too long
We go fuck in the bathroom
We can’t afford the time to sit and cry
Or to wonder why
We’ve got so many things started to say
We had to get through
Through the doors of that rented room
Yeah, we stumbled through
We had so many things started to say
We had to get through
We can’t afford the time to sit and cry
Or to wonder why
We’ve got so many things started to say
We had to get through
We haven’t got the time for telling lies
Or to even try
There’s only days in between
There’s just tomorrow
Through the doors of that rented room
Yeah, we stumbled through
It was only hours it seemed such a short while
In those pillows all the feathers that hold all our dreams
Whispered at the scene
Now they just seem to float on a breeze
I could have wrapped that pillow around my head
Face down on the bed
I could have drowned in those so-called dreams
We can’t afford the time to sit and cry
Or to wonder why
There’s only days in between
There’s just tomorrow
26.01.98
PICTURE OF AN ARTIST, TURESDAY NIGHT, 10 PM
I made a cigarette from the dead lights of the city rising and falling outside. Rain was whipping the streets and I was torn. Brought the candles, blue and green sparkling through the night melting into strings. Coffee left its stains when the keys moved in the keylock and tension appeared in my eyes watching the floors, watching the carpets. I could not let them break the moment of darkness with their lies. I sent them away, closed the door, still tense. Strings were hurting my wounds which I was trying to sew. A big tablecloth burnt, stained, white, lived. Life. A tablecloth.
Flames enlarged vertically and their shadows hid me on the papers under a white ceiling like a limited sky with feathers from the pillows blue.
Keylocks are rebellious in this night where I thought I was alone. This touches me; this chops my strength into some triangles and squares. I make circles around the divided pieces and pick up a piece of cake. I taste it, keep it inside my mouth and suck it. Taste spreads among my teeth and my tongue and I swallow my nausea disguised in a piece of cake.
I’m an artist. I create ceramic cups for raindrops. Every single raindrop deserves a different cup of its own in its perfection. And I write names and I create names for raindrops.
A child appears and disappears at the kitchen door. Its little feet look smaller on marble cold, I can still see the little pieces of wool left over from the socks. Red shoes, all hung on the walls.
Child hides behind the open door of the oven behind its fears and its eyes have never been this big, this brown. I want to bury my wet lips on those eyes, heal the pain of fear.
Why does future shape in kitchens? We decide there sitting with our bare feet, giving little kicks in the air, playing with our hair or fingers; tapping, stroking tables. Last thing we remember is to eat in kitchens.
Then on the dining tables, we do what we decide. Light springs out from the bulbs of the crystal lamps hanging down from limited skies and makes shadows, makes reality in pictures, instances from a dinner, Thursday night, March.
We skim the table and read it in details with our tired old stomachs and call it happiness. Reality is experienced in the stomach.
Child runs back to the windows in its unisex shape with soft curly hair. You can hear the shower waterfall coming from the bathroom and you keep silent. You keep silent cause you know it relaxes your fatigue. But on the contrary, silence is the bow of time, ready for a good shot. Silence becomes Robin.
We’re back on that night with the dead lights. City is overgrown, my cigarette smells like a nicotine spirit and tires draw unknown roads on the well-planned motorway. We’re in a car, singing and shouting with the radio; shouting and singing against the radio and happiness falls out of the windows like decayed teeth and we get older as we drive. I draw pictures on the car window; I draw my own prison and fences and sing louder.
A hand I find on my lap. I watch the fingers, they cannot make any cups and they can’t even cry. No they won’t cry. I rush and throw myself out. Like a decayed tooth and I cease the time.
Child is there bloomed like a poppy in her non-reflective looks. She sings a lullaby and a silky bee leaves its honey milk on my dried lips. I lie there moisturised and wake up to the curly hair of child. Its softness gets united with me moisturised. I bury my lips in her rain-transparent eyes and a drop of a tear follows the curves of my face.
Yes I’m an artist. I create ceramic cups for teardrops. Every single teardrop deserves a different cup of its own in its perfection. And I write names and I create names for teardrops.
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