Getting old or getting aged

I’m 39 (No, it’s not my birthday) It’s the oldest age I’ve reached and the youngest I’ll ever be. And also it’s the first time I’ve come to terms with getting old…My hair had a fallout with me, I have wrinkly skin, a missing tooth, a persistent cough and a mild disgust for modern music with gibberish lyrics.

Or maybe I’m not getting old, just getting aged. Aging like whisky. Getting better as years go by. The resemblance is uncanny. We are both spirits trapped either inside oak barrels or a degrading meatsuit. The lifetime experience I’ve had is the flavor while the wrinkly skin and the lost tooth can easily be the battle wounds I’ve gathered throughout my personal battle with time.

I can almost hear you mumbling “What’s the point in him writing all about this?” I’m not trying to convey the message that getting old is hard to accept…what I’m trying to say is that no matter how old you are, you’re the age you feel…(That wasn’t really it, but this sounds about right, too).

Two weeks ago, I felt exactly like that within a bunch of people of varying ages in Valencia. I was in my teens again and they were too, proving that age is just numbers and youth is always inside you…us, waiting to be dug out.

Valencia diaries VII – The merry people of the city

What makes a city, a city? Although the unfolding, lengthy beach at the foot of the city helps, it’s not that. The answer is simply its people; the ones living in it and livening it up and giving it a soul.

Imagine a city where people greet their closest friends and strangers they’ve never met in the same fashion; with smiling faces and firm hugs. You can almost touch the sincerity in the air when you hear the musical word “Hola!” exchanged between complete strangers. Try saying it with a sulking face and you’ll discover that you can never do it. The face muscles won’t allow it. Not in Valencia anyway. English is spoken very little to none. Connecting to people with zero aid from language, befriending them with pure emotions, is indeed priceless. The term “language barrier” never exists there. Perhaps, this is because the city houses a mix of cultures; it’s a tiny mosaic from a world map of diverse nations.

On one of my upcoming blog entries, I will describe every single person that has made a positive impact on my life there, not because I don’t want to forget them (which will never happen) but because I want the whole world ( or the people who read my blog) to meet them. (The idea sounds boring for people who don’t know me or them but you can always choose not to read one blog entry) 😉

A true anecdote of probability

Benimaclet, Valencia. A late lunch gathering (technically it’s not late in Spain to have lunch at 3 pm but anyway) The scorching sun pours down its rays, penetrating and piercing the shade provided by urban trees at different places, at different intervals. Nine people around the table constantly change places either to catch a bit of sun or avoid it when it becomes unbearable. The people are newly found friends yet strangers from different lands. A mix of nations… With the last random seating arrangement, the common chatter turns into a group discussion about astrology and signs. Nobody around the table has an idea about each other’s natal details. Then, the shocking truth reveals itself: the first two sitting next to each other are Aries, the next two Gemini, the next three Libra and the final two Taurus. What’s the probability of nine people sitting randomly next to each other, aligned according to their signs? Is it the soul of mathematics announcing its presence in the real world? Is it the sun, making a divine arrangement by sending bursts of heat down? Is it pure coincidence? What’s the probability?

A conscise guide to (not) trying to fit in…to everything!

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Trying to fit into…

last year’s jeans you loved wearing when you didn’t have to tuck in your excess belly fat in, without having to secure it with a sturdy belt…
a page-turner adventure novel as one of the main characters, the one you can most relate to…
the smallest suitcase body-wise, either as a child or a magician’s apprentice…
a packed elevator just to go one floor up…
a selfie shot of more than enough people without a selfie stick…
a group of people whom we call friends just to be accepted…

…has been quite a task in different forms throughout our whole lives.

I’m not quite sure whether it is the in the human nature or it is just something that has been taught to us since our infancy as we can find the notion even in children’s stories like “The Ugly Duckling” and “Cindrella”

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Humans are indeed social animals and can’t go on alone for long without depending on someone. We may need emotional, financial or romantic support along the way but what’s the catch with this “trying to fit in” to a society to be accepted?

The truth is; we are all lonely in an over-crowded world where we are constantly trying to be liked by others whom we see close enough like friends and family. Appreciation is what we seek, but the price we pay is high…and certainly not worth it.

“To be liked or not to be – that is the most important thing…”

We change our appearence, behavior and actions, ceasing to be the real “us”. We become carbon copies of each other, who are actually not enjoying even a minute of joint activity. I’m certainly not talking about being a night out with friends upon random decisions, but planned meet-ups like barbecues, picnics, sightseeing tours or after graduation meet-ups – the cases when you’re not asked but rather ordered like “Jack is bringing the wine, so the dessert is on you!” Noone asks you or anyone to join. Noone is the leader, the planner. You’re all in it as if bound by an ancient, annual curse getting ready for a meaningless ritual! (Perhaps the popularity of liquor in big events is because it dulls your brain and shoots your tolerance levels up). Anyway, if you can’t take part in such events, you’re dead to your friends and will feel left out for the rest of your life (even if you want to feel that way)

I’m lucky to have found a way to exclude myself from such events in my early teenages. The magic word is “maybe”. It’s not a “yes” so you promise nothing, it’s not a “no” because if you say “no” you’ll have to give a reason and there will be constant insisting/nagging. After not showing up to a couple of pre-organised events with a “maybe”, your friends will know the new definition of the word and somehow won’t bother you as long as you use the word to reject participation in such events.

But…why the need? Seriously?

We are not seperate pieces of a giant jigsaw puzzle… We are all individual, complete puzzles…

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Unconditional love and other types of madness

Love between people is always full of expectations and rarely involves both parties. We tend to change the people we think we are in love with to our own liking but why do we love someone that needs to be changed. Are we constantly looking for a nonexistent perfection? What are we expecting? Why are we so selfish? Do we deserve love or to be loved? Why can’t we love unconditionally? Like….our pets, stray dogs or animals in general, giving us unconditional love; love in its purest form stripped of expectations…

Having a solid long-term memory: A blessing or a curse?

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It’s weird (and not in a good way) to be able to remember your 3rd birthday celebrations when you are a few months short of celebrating your 40th. And when it’s just not the special days of your infancy that you remember, it feels like a curse. Falling face down from the feeding chair, screaming upon seeing a common house fly from up close for the first time or remembering every gibberish word of the neighbor complimenting how smart I was. I’m the only one in the family who remembers all these junk memories and that makes me…feel lonely. I do feel a little lucky, though. I don’t remember anything prior to my third year in this life and I don’t remember what I had for lunch on a specific date either. Errr…at least not every day of my past life. (The sloppy Joe I had for lunch on 22 September 1991 was exceptional! It deserves a mention :))

Growing up with this blurse (blessing-curse) was pretty difficult, too. Especially, my love life was ruined; remembering every single fight as well as the good stuff while my significant other(s) were able to remember the not so good parts. I never missed an anniversary though, so that was a huge plus. Not being able to forget how I felt after a good night or a good fight, while my partner(s) having fading away feelings was the downside.

Anyway, the best part of this whole memory mojo, was that I became a writer; using a lifetime of memories and retelling them in my stories. Perhaps now, others won’t forget or easily remember what they had forgotten…

P.S: The song that goes with this entry is somehow “Sweet Child of mine” by GNR.

Getting the ultimate taste in literary works!

We all love reading…. At least the ones who have found their way to this humble blog, do! As avid readers; we have read plain text and (like this first paragraph) let our imaginations run wild to visualize what the author had been trying to convey. That was when writing was a true art, which depended heavily on the author’s magic of using the right words in the right sequence. The key to some popular writers’ success was also due to their inclusion of the five senses into their writing; sight, smell, sound, touch and taste in comparison to using a two dimensional method of describing only sight. Look at the crappily written sample statements below and decide which one you favor:

John opened the microwave door and took out the overcooked pizza. (Sight only)
John opened the microwave door upon hearing the feeble bing, and a gush of hot air greeted his face. The burnt smell of the dark wheel inside made him regret setting the timer to 30 minutes instead of just 10. (Sight, sound and smell included – We also sense that it’s either John’s first time with the microwave or that he’s an idiot).

Anyway, with the emergence of graphic novels, writers had less worries about descriptions and plots became more engaging. Using pictures made the reader’s job easier.

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The image above (from the fumetti “Mister No” by Bonelli Comics) clearly outlines how the character feels although there is no text involved.

Now, you see what a mere image does to the story. Imagine adding all the senses to it. How would your reading experience be? Perhaps, books can have a list of items and maybe a soundtrack CD for readers to gather up before starting reading. Let’s say; whenever a character in the book bites into a decaying apple, the reader does, too. Feeling the rotten taste and the horrid feel it leaves in the mouth and fully experiencing the character’s feelings! That would be priceless.

No?

Before I finish, try rereading this post as described below:

I would recommend….

Listening to the song “Not to touch the Earth” by the Doors.
Making your environment really hot by either over-wearing thick clothes or turning up the heat on the AC.
You may also want to pour yourself an icy drink.
Then, wipe the accumulated sweat off your forehead with a smelly handkerchief

….while you’re reading this post. The points above summarize how I felt while I was writing this piece. Come on! I’m inviting you to invade my mind!

Why I am obsessed with time travel… and why you should be, too

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Being an avid reader/writer of cool science fiction stories, admiring traveling and having very little money most of the time could very well be used to describe some of my traits. I know I sound like a broke geek with the above description but I assure you I have a lot of other non-geeky qualities and likes, such as;….errr…..hmmm…..well….fantasizing about historical events.

Ok, now you can see how my traits and time traveling meet up at a common point. Here’s why I can’t seem to keep myself away from thinking or writing about it:

I’ve always been a time-traveller, right from my birth to my current age. Although, I’ve only managed to travel forward in time in this period, it’s still a thing I’ve been doing so well for so long. And guess what? You’re just like me! (unless you are Benjamin Button)
There are endless possibilities in time travel and a whole, massive history of interesting times and events you can visit. You can run along dinosaurs, be on the Titanic when it sank, witness your grandpa hitting on your grannie or simply watch a good football match that you’ve missed,…live….
Paradoxes! Who doesn’t love a good time-travel paradox? Imagine, what would happen if you went back in time and shot Hitler before he rose into power? Hmmm…since you changed history by killing him, he wouldn’t have risen to power and we wouldn’t have heard about him in our time in the first place so that you couldn’t have gone back in time to kill him….Nice, right? What if you accidentally killed one of your ancestors? It’s good thought practice. Isn’t it?
You can read or write without paying attention to grammar as the statement “I’ll see you yesterday” would still be technically correct.
Believe me, there is always a good story in time travel. and tragedy. and mystery. and humor. and… every kind of emotion that you want to experience.
The best thing is that when you (read or write about) time travel, you won’t be spending a single penny. It’s indeed the cheapest way of vagabonding.

Can’t time-travel? Then, live your life to the fullest, make excellent memories, make love, take selfies (not necessarily in that order) and revisit your memories, thinking about all when you get older.

Rip your jeans now or simply buy a pair of professionally ripped ones

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The photo shows my newest pair of jeans, professionally ripped in the most disturbing places just for my taste. The part sticking out of the ajar opening is the elegant looking inner lining of the right pocket. Thanks to the latest technology in design, the more you put stuff in your pocket, the more it bulges out, making the inner right pocket inflatable to your choice, making sure every eye out in the street is envying you.

Seriously….Why do you think I bought them?

Honestly, it’s not becaıse I couldn’t resist the temptation of owning the latest craze of fashion… and I wasn’t persuaded by the magical words of the lovely shop assistant, either. It was just because I needed to buy a pair of jeans fast (Don’t ask why!) and the ones in the shop(s) were all like this, though they were ripped or slashed in various places:

The ones missing huge chunks of coverage in the knees weren’t really for me as once my knee slipped out of the hole, it became a challenge to get it back in my pants and I didn’t have the sexiest knee caps…

The ones with tiny holes in the crotch area….the tiny holes were extendable once you stretched them. They were the jeans of my dreams. However, it wasn’t my lucky day! The shop didn’t have my size left, so with watery eyes I went on to try the jeans slashed so vigorously that they were missing the complete coverage of a single leg, yet they were not shorts. Strips of denim peeling off and sweeping the floor wasn’t to my liking.

In the end, I bought the ones in the pic just for double the price of normal, unripped jeans …and with empty pockets, it doesn’t look too bad while walking.

I would suggest Katja Vandl’s song “Fashion Victim” playing in the background while you’re reading this entry.

Paraskevidekatriaphobia and 13

Since today is Friday the thirteenth, I’ll write about Friday the thirteenth and fear of the number 13 in general.

The long word in the title starting with “Paraskev. …” (Yay copy-paste!) is a less known phobia which is the fear of this date-day combination. But, what is the origin of this unlucky/scary day?

Rumor says it all started with the Knights Templar when Philip IV of France arrested hundreds of them on 13 October 1307, which was as you guessed: a Friday. Had he done this a day earlier, like Thursday the 12th, this date would have never become a popular date ( no Michael Myers) let alone a meaningless phobia. 13 is the key number here, the pure evil number that dates far back in history or fiction like the fable of the sleeping beauty where the thirteenth witch placed a curse on our heroine.

Some hotels in America still don’t have a room 13 and room 14 follows room 12. Perhaps the phobia is based on this number 13 being unlucky as how on earth the last working day of the week can be considered to be unlucky?

My thesis is supported by the fact that there’s a completely different phobia solely of number 13 which has a scientific name of its own: “triskaidekaphobia”.

Scroll down for a little test to see if you have “triskaidekaphobia”:

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Are you still on the page?

Barış Cansevgisi

Author

Category: Random Thoughts