from: "çivit"
title: purple
form: e-mail letter

From the moment when my heart began to beat as if it would jump out and fall somewhere I would not be able to recover it, and beginning with the stone I was stepping on at that moment, I picked up the iron door, the door bell button second from the top, the marble staircase, the first door, the second door, another door in front of which a crowd of shoes were left, the cubic designs in front of the doors, the footsteps announcing you were climbing down, the door you lived behind, what lied behind that door, the space where people left their shoes, the chair I put my bomber jacket on;

“Hello, it’s Hakan”;

“And it’s ....”;

the first sentences I uttered to you while trying to calm the wings of my heart down;

the pillow I sat upon first, standing at the right side of that big room being your favorite living room, between a small table and an armchair, some parts of it were worn due to overuse, the first touch;

the balcony making me think “here is that balcony”, that door covered with a purple bridal veil;

your invitation of me to have breakfast by turning your back to that door, standing by the chair you would sit on, pointing another chair to me;

the first sip of tea, the sugar bowl made of tin, cheese, fig jam, our talk about gypsies peeling fig, olive, the tomato that I picked up and tried to peel (with thyme on it);

the corridor’s wall appearing before me after I turned to left despite you gave directions to me to turn to right, the tea strainer, the yellow blanket, the green pillow whose color is the same as the couch I tried to sleep on, my inability to sleep, me taking rest, the rustling sound of a newspaper, my overindulgence arising for no reason, my state of mind as if I stayed there for a thousand years, reminding of myself that I wasn’t having a dream, the well and living dream I had;

the toilet bowl,

the things behind it which I wondered why they were broken, the out of order wash basin, the magazines in it, the toilet roll, the dustbin, the washbasin in operating condition, the white soap, the mirror, the long comb I used without asking to you, the purple towel I used and wetted;

the kitchen where I could only see the garbage bag because you declared it off-limits to me;

the vertical wall of the moist ceiling to which our conversations stuck, vanished and got sucked, its curved concrete nails;

the white glass ash trays,

the used tissue I hastily put into my bag;

the window covered with green cloth, giving light to tears of love,

the south wind,

the tower we climbed up and stood to watch the south wind, the lighted windows, the balcony where I learned/you taught to watch silhouettes through our fingers bent to make a frame;

the circles with which I cleaned myself, coming up inside of me;

the burned smell of wound dressings in which Aydın was imprisoned, the hay bales, my grasses;

your skin, sweat, scent, tongue, teeth, hair, breathe, our love making which was not born, therefore will not die, having no identity, which will neither be pointed out at nor be found when it is sought, neither belong to us nor go to anybody, having nowhere to go, unable to come back, having no home to return to;

the film whose frames trapped me, in which I talked to you without a tongue, in which I sucked every touch like a shameless, naughty and greedy sponge;

the wet street,

the corner of the grocer who came from Rize but not a Laz;

the taxi cab, the quarter of Gümüşsuyu;

the cigarette butt I threw to the ground,

My being kissed once again
(Why people wave their hands, I don’t know)

and put them in a bundle in indigo-blue on board that bus with which I got angry because it was taking me away (as if it was its fault).

I took out “Aksak Kuş”, read your handwriting,

and I told you “the broken things are transparent too”, did you hear it?

I played my game, hide my ticket in page 53;

I fell asleep inside that indigo-blue, in that deep color, in that blue, and I awoke in that blue;

The sky thinned out that blue like giving some lessons, turned it into purple, then thinned out it a little more. I said for God’s sake...it’s just an expression... for my sake...what sake? I don’t know, for something’s sake, put a little red in it, but it didn’t lent its ear to me. The purple thinned out more and more, and stayed in a country not even in gray, in lead-color, not to come back anymore.

It’s raining in Ankara.

I walked on. I have my face and hair soaked.

The lock of the house door opened to a scent I knew and got accustomed to, to a voice waiting for me.

I fed the cat.

I picked up my cigarettes, ash tray and lighter. My sea shell is intact. The small wooden ship stays on “Aksak Kuş”. I had never drunk white wine in the morning before. And I will never again.

I got tired. I hesitated to wash that white thing having wine stains on it. The stains are so beautiful.

You know, some people desiccate flowers. Some flowers were desiccated because they were perhaps not expected, or perhaps expected (no ‘perhaps’, they were expected), anyway expected or not, they were considered precious, for a day somehow given a meaning. Those flowers are not brought, but sent. Therefore they are desiccated. They do not continue. The wine stain dried. It will become deeper, and turn into brown. I shall never have such a stain again, so I don’t have a heart to remove it. Should I let it dry? Like those flowers not to be continued?

I think Ankara began to live.

I unwrapped my bundle into my sea shell. It is very deep blue. Indigo blue. I got on my small wooden ship, am setting sail to a voyage by playing the game of ‘Aksak Kuş’. I shall sleep.

The first brush stroke I shall put on one of the canvasses piled behind me will be the blue of this bundle. I shall begin to pain on its upper left corner. Believe me, it will gradually thin out. I shall paint it without a hurry, taking my time to watch it thins out like making itself exist. Up to the place where I know it will never finish.

With love,