Tag Archives: humor

The Guilt

“Don’t blame the sinner.”

She has been repeating this for a while now. I can relate to the expression. Life is not all black and white. Foreseeing your moves is sometimes not so easy. It is not a game of chess that we are playing. There can be unexpected incidents. Making the right decisions, coming to the right conclusions is not always clear cut. So, yes, the sinner should not be blamed.

“Don’t blame the sinner.”

Yes, she is right. People have weaknesses, they can make mistakes. They are entitled to erroneous moves. Everyone should be given a second chance. Even those who commit sins deserve to be loved and forgiven. Blame the sin, not the sinner. Yes, this is definitely true…

She keeps saying it over and over again. It is getting weary. The more she says it, the less meaningful the sentence is getting, like those words kids repeat over and over until words are dissected and turned into unconnected sounds.

She said it once more. Is she trying to convince herself by mumbling it endlessly? I can tell she is having difficulty coming to terms with “it”. She is playing with the strap of her purse, twirling it between her fingers, with the shadows of doubt passing through her eyes. If I were not sitting so close to her, I would have thought she was desperately praying with a rosary in her hand.

She said it once again. She seems so piously in pain. She could take any pain inflicted on her. She would only respond with a prayer, as long as she can hold onto her rosary. She looks so weak and frail, so easily breakable, so consumed in guilt…

There she goes again. She looks out through the window once in a while. She has these really sad eyes. They seem a bit moist, similar to those of a sad little puppy. She seems to be in need of something, but would never utter a word to ask for it, like a well trained pet.

And again… Her meek voice is so annoying. I cannot think anymore. The expectation to hear the same words once again… Knowing that she will not stop until we get to the last stop, that she will carry on, in the same manner… It is so irritating.

Not again! This reminds me of that ancient torture where they tie you up motionless and drip icy water on your head one drop at a time. You get to a point where you think they are cutting your head open. That is exactly how I am feeling right now.

Oh God, please not again!

And she did it! How long is this road? How far is this stop?! I cannot take it anymore. I am trapped here, in the middle of nowhere! I need to get out of here. I cannot take this woman anymore. She is suffocating me!

“Don’t blame….”

No! How can I shut her up? Is there no way of stopping her? Is there no way I can put an end to this?… She is about to say it again, she has turned towards me… Her lips are moving, she is going to say it!

“We shouldn’t have done it! We shouldn’t have! We just took part in the killing of a live being! I want to believe it was a moment of weakness, but how can I live with myself? How can you live with this guilt? We have murdered God’s creation!

“I keep telling myself, ‘don’t blame the sinner,’ but I am just not convinced. All this time, I thought I was a good person and now, look at what I have done! 20 years! I have lived 20 years as a strict vegan only to indulge myself in heaps of meat at an open buffet!”

Word Count: 639 The Speakeasy prompt for this week (#149) is to use “Don’t blame the sinner.” as the first line.

And make some sort of reference to the below picture:

Painting by Muriel Streeter
Source: http://www.lacma.org/art/exhibition/wonderland-surrealist-adventures-women-artists-mexico-and-united-states

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An intercultural zombie dream

I dreamed…

a Turkish, Canadian, Mohawk zombie movie…

There was blood, a fire fighting truck, scary attacks, smoke and a violent will for survival…

Best part: Using the fire hose…

Worst part: The woman riding a horse cut her own scalp and arm where she was bitten by a zombie… We were in a mall…

Conclusion: No zombie movie is complete without a mall…

No flowers for me, thanks!

The husband I have under my “jurisdiction” is a sensitive man though lacking in romantic chromosomes. The sole romantic action he has ever undertaken, apart from lending his lighter to a friend who was about to propose to his long term girlfriend, was scanning a comic I liked and mailing it to me when I went overseas.

But you see, at the time, we had been together for only four months. In other words, he still felt the need to woo me, which worked, giving me hope for future surprises…

A hope to be diminished in the years to follow.

On one Valentine’s Day, a time of the year we had never celebrated during our relationship of then four years, -since being the “intellectual” individuals we were, we saw it as a pretext for increased commercialized expenditure-, I decided I did want to obey the industrialized shopping day.

Despite my negative opinion about the day, given that we did not celebrate our relationship on any other day, I needed a change! I needed a “festivity” to show our love for each other.

So I called him on a mid February day, only to hear a woman’s voice, that of his mother.

I asked her to wake him up, which normally I would have never done and she would have never accepted. No one shall perturb her precious baby’s sleep, but she must have heard the determination in my voice, because eventually I heard his sleepy response at the other end of the line.

“Huh?”

Thus, began my instructions:

“Get up, come over here to my place. On your way, buy me a bouquet of flowers. If possible, daisies. When you get here, act like it is a surprise and say ‘Happy Valentine’s!’ when you hand me the flowers”.

Being an engineer, he did an excellent job following clear instructions.

However, when I found out the price of the damn plants, I felt terrible. Plus, the flowers died a few days later, and guilt took over.

So, we went back to no celebration…

Especially, NO flowers!!!

So far, it has worked fine. We enjoy our evenings together, watching “Walking Dead” or cooking, or simply lying at the opposite ends of the sofa, our feet touching while we surf the internet on our laptops. These give me more pleasure than any high priced flower doomed to die in a few days. I think what we are doing is spreading the heightened pleasure that lasts a single day throughout the whole year…

Or so I would like to think… 😀

PS: I am still expecting a major proposal. After five years of relationship and three years of marriage, he must have figured out what I like, right? And he can’t go wrong! What are the chances I will reject him after having officially said “yes” a long while ago?…

Written in response to WordPress Weekly Writing Challenge (http://dailypost.wordpress.com/2014/02/10/writing-challenge-valentine/comment-page-4/#comment-310890)

Meaning of Life and Man

I have spent years chasing the tail of my darkness. I cannot catch my past, like a dog trying to get hold of its tail, seeing its tip, I see the tail wiggling, making fun of me, but whenever I am about to get hold of it, whenever I am close to catching it, understanding the mystery, bringing some light to the darkness, it goes further away, mocking me, making a fool of me…

So I carry on further through days and nights…

I have met many people on my way, some were old some were young, some were slow, some were fast, but I have never spent enough time at one place to make real friends, to share a drink, a moment that could last forever, a moment immortalized like a painting in memory.

I have felt closer to some, though, and more distant from others. I have had some children, here and there but never stayed behind to watch them survive. I could not have stayed… I had a tail of darkness to chase… a world of wonders to figure out. Did I wish I could stay?… I am not sure… This life of wandering, hours, days, weeks of wandering, hoping to find out what life had in store for me consumed me, made me restless… I believed I could figure it all out only if I kept on, and saw what was hidden in the dark.

I had no one to ask about my past, to direct my questions… I never knew my mother or father… I never knew where they had met, how they had decided to conceive me… Probably they had acted on an impulse, a raw urge to copulate rather than a thoroughly designed plan for the future. Much like the way I came to be a parent, I assume. Probably, they did not brood much over it, and followed their instincts, their inner drive to be close to someone, to feel fluid with another.

Probably I followed in their foosteps without even knowing them, and most probably my children are no different. Probably, my past is nothing but a vicious cycle, a ferris wheel that returns to its starting point, sooner or later and over and over…

I wonder how similar my children have grown to be, how much a part they are of this cycle… I wonder if they are on an endless quest for answers… An endless quest to understand why they are the way they are… Why they do what they do… Who they are… I wonder if they ever wonder about me… I wonder if they feel abandoned like me, or accept it as part of life and move on. Moving on endlessly, slowly…

But I am certain, soon I will find an answer to all my questions, soon I will know why this darkness haunts me, why I cannot stop moving, why I cannot break out of it, why I am alive, and what my existence holds for the world, what it means to-

 CRACK! SQUASH!

Without even bothering to look at the snail and its philosophical quest he had just obliterated under his foot, the man walked on counting the money he had earned gambling.

The first line of this week’s Speakeasy challenege was to write a piece of fiction of 750 words or less starting with “I have spent years chasing the tail of my darkness.” and making a reference to Paul Cezanne’s painting the Card Players.

18 year olds are the best to remind you you are no longer young!

Below is a list of moments I gathered working with freshman college students from different parts of Turkey. These instances struck me like a slap in the face, reminding me the gap that opens between two generations cannot be helped and can become an advantage only if embraced…

When you play charades, no one understands you are fishing for the word “typewriter”. Even after you say the word out loud…

When you give Brad Pitt or Johnny Depp as examples for cute guys, the reaction you get is “but he is old” with a grimace.

The healthy meals including a salad and juice you look forward to are tossed aside for McDonald’s meals without the slightest bit of guilt.

Ideals are defended so heartily that you do not have the heart to contradict them and be the one to break such strong beliefs “just yet”.

When they find out you are thirty something, the look they give you is mingled with a major disappointment and pity for someone who has few years left to live.

When you talk about social media, and you proudly talk about your facebook account to show them you are hip enough to be part of the virtual world, it turns out that facebook to them is old fashioned and they prefer, what was it again?

When you talk about Nirvana, you lose your audience.

When you do your best dance that earned you a prize back in the day, your “funny” moves are appreciated for a good laugh.

The music they are crazy about is too damn loud, but you still join the rhythm, just to show that you are different from their parents.

You try hard not to tell them how much they are likely to despise some of the singers they are currently scheduling their moments of wakefulness by.

You buy a smart phone just to be able to catch them if they play online games with each other during class.

Finally, you embrace the age gap and try to learn as much from them as they can from you.

Verdict on my first piece of fiction: Disconcerting

Painting by Caravaggio Source: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Caravaggio_-_San_Gerolamo.jpg
Painting by Caravaggio
Source: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Caravaggio_-_San_Gerolamo.jpg

I read somewhere about the first stories people had written and I thought of my first recorded piece of fiction. Plus, considering it is the first day of the new year, I thought it might be appropriate to blog about it.

I wrote it in my first year at school, right after I had figured out letters and what happens when they come together. You reckon it would be about rainbows or a little girl who wants to be a princess, right? No. In my terrible hand writing with loads of spelling mistakes, and lines all over the page, there lay the story of a boy who secretly takes drugs he is hiding in a cabinet. In the end, he dies.

Final verdict: It is disconcerting for a 7 year old kid, isn’t it? Well, why were my parents not disconcerted when they read this? Probably they were relieved to see that I had finally figured out how to read and write. I think I was the last one in my class. (You know those people who learned to read when they were 3? Hell, probably you are one of them. Well, I am among the few that learned to read at school, where I was supposed to.)

We should take lessons from our pasts. What this past experience has taught me is that I ought to have gone to bed when I was told to do so.