çoook uzun zamandır yaşadığım ilk sahici pazar gecesi sendromu bu blogk. bizimkiler izlemedim ama banyo yaptım, yarın ne giyeceğimi düşündüm, ilk günden ne gibi işler yapmam gerekeceğine ve o işlerde ne kadar sıçabileceğime dair teoriler ürettim. boş kalırsam okurum diye yanıma ebook alma -şimdi okuduğum şey elimde sadece ebook olarak olduğundan- planları yaptım, mp3 playerımı da ona göre düzenleyeceğim birazdan, şu entiriyi bi gireyim.
bunların hepsi bu akşam için geçerli, bi de iş aramaya başladığımdan beri kafamda dönen "param olunca şunları alayım ben yeaa" fantazileri var, ehea. ama korkma onları şimdi yazmıycam. hatta şu hafta bi geçsin muhtemelen onları yazmak isteyecek enercim kalmıycak, mevzuya şu anki ufukta para görmüş yeni mezun hissiyatımlan değil, SSK'sı başlamış bi ofis hatta the office elemanı olarak yaklaşıcam.
amaa şimdilik hiçbiri umurumda değil EHEA PARAM OLSUN ŞUNU DA ALAYIM BEN YEEA!
28 Mart 2010
27 Mart 2010
The Novel, When Everyone Was Convinced He Had One in Him
"The novel is that art form that burns most easily. It so happened that in the middle of the nineteenth century, all the citizens of our shtetl —every man, woman, and child—was convinced he had at least one novel in him. This period was likely the result of the traveling Gypsy salesman who brought a wagonload of books to the shtetl square on the third Sunday of every other month, advertising them as Worthy would-be worlds of words, whorls of working wonder. What else could come to the lips of a Chosen People but I can do that? More than seven hundred novels were written between 1850 and 1853. One began: How long it’s been since I last thought of those windswept mornings. Another: They say everyone remembers her first time, but I don’t. Another: Murder is an ugly deed, to be sure, but the murder of a brother is truly the most ghastly crime known to man. There were 272 thinly veiled memoirs, 66 crime novels, 97 stories
of war. A man killed his brother in 107 of the novels. In all but 89 an infidelity was committed. Couples in love wondered what the future would hold in 29; 68 ended with a kiss; all but 35 used the word “shame.” Those who couldn’t read and write made visual novels: collages, etchings, pencil drawings, watercolors. A special room was added to the Yankel and Brod Library for the Trachimbrod novels, although only a handful were read five years after their composition.
Once, almost a century later, a young boy went browsing the aisles.
I’m looking for a book, he told the librarian, who had cared for the Trachimbrod novels since she was a girl, and was the only citizen to have read them all. My great-grandfather wrote it.
What was his name? the librarian asked.
Safranbrod, but I think he wrote it under a pseudonym.
What was the name of his book?
I can’t remember the name. He used to talk about it all the time. He’d
tell me stories from it to put me to sleep.
What’s it about? she asked.
It’s about love.
She laughed. They’re all about love."
of war. A man killed his brother in 107 of the novels. In all but 89 an infidelity was committed. Couples in love wondered what the future would hold in 29; 68 ended with a kiss; all but 35 used the word “shame.” Those who couldn’t read and write made visual novels: collages, etchings, pencil drawings, watercolors. A special room was added to the Yankel and Brod Library for the Trachimbrod novels, although only a handful were read five years after their composition.
Once, almost a century later, a young boy went browsing the aisles.
I’m looking for a book, he told the librarian, who had cared for the Trachimbrod novels since she was a girl, and was the only citizen to have read them all. My great-grandfather wrote it.
What was his name? the librarian asked.
Safranbrod, but I think he wrote it under a pseudonym.
What was the name of his book?
I can’t remember the name. He used to talk about it all the time. He’d
tell me stories from it to put me to sleep.
What’s it about? she asked.
It’s about love.
She laughed. They’re all about love."
06 Mart 2010
başkalarının hayatına duyulan arzu / merak ve her türlü hissiyat hep ilgimi çekmiştir blogk. ünlünün, san'atçının, senden daha güzel, akıllı, zengin, mutlu olanın hayatı değil kastettiğim. başkası işte düpedüz. ikinci elden deneyim. benim blogumu takip eden, beni tanımayan birinin benim yaşadıklarımdan haz alması mesela. benim ya da ben de demeyeyim hiç özenmeyeceğiniz, kendisiyle özdeşleşmeye ve dolayısıyla üzerinden katarsis yaşamaya ihtiyacınız olmayan birinin hayatının, yaşadıklarının ya da yaşadığını iddia ettiklerinin -malun siber alem ve deneyimin kendisi + temsili sorunu- , ki bunlar da çoğu zaman estetize edilmemiş oluyor, sırf oturduğunuz yerden size daha albenili görünmesi durumu tarif etmeye çalıştığım. kompakt, çözümlenmiş, dolayımsız veri. bkz: üstteki fotoğraf. ben itiraf edeyim muzdaribim bu durumdan. siz de fotoğrafı görünce bi dalga olacak filan sandınız di mi mesela şunları okurken? ya da buna benzer şeyleri siz de düşündünüz de bunu okuyunca bunları düşündüğünüzdeki hissiyat, epiphani vs burda yazınca daha arzu edilir oldu. bu arzu edileni arzu etme ötesinde bir şey ama adını koyamıyorum blogk, ya da var da ben bilmiyorum :)
02 Mart 2010
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