Nar dənəsi

Blog about everything seen, felt and read. Compilation of things for connecting the dots and making sense.

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mənim vobşe həyatım sumqayıt haqda podkastdı

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T. dedi ki yaxşı kəşflərimi (yemək sahəsində) yazmalıyam. Yazıram mən də.

YAXŞI KƏŞF SALATI 1.

Yaşıl mərci +qaynadılmış çuğundur +feta pendiri+yaşıl soğan+nanə+tavada azca qızardılmış qoz+ sous( zeytun yağı+balzamiko+narşərab) + duz,istiot, qurudulmuş ağ reyhan. Mmmmm 👌

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Ribbon bands

Do you ever know where they are, except the fact you know they are all lying somewhere around? Can you ever find them when you need them? I never (almost) could...BUT! the other day I realized there are several lying in the kitchen drawer with cutlery, next to a knife I rarely use. AND now I know one more thing in my life. Kind of knowledge that was hard to acquire during the last five months. But I still want to know are there more moons out there? Are stars ordered in the way they are so we can make shapes out of them and entertain our imagination? Did the milky way inspire the fucking highway?

-do you maybe know?

                                                                       Always carrying a moment of rage,

mostly in silence

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Train journey

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No to spectacle. No to virtuosity. No to transformations and magic and make-believe. No to the glamour and transcendency of the star image. No to the heroic. No to the anti-heroic. No to trash imagery. No to involvement of performer or spectator. No to style. No to camp. No to seduction of spectator by the wiles of the performer. No to eccentricity. No to moving or being moved.

Yvonne Rainer, Trio A

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Yalnız stul üfüqdəki işığa baxır / bir növ özündə içində oturmuş insanın rəsmin daşıyır / yəni tam da yalnız qalmır / ya da qəbul olunmur / yalnız stul yalnız qala bilmirsə kim qalır? / yalnız insan kimin rəsmin daşıyır? /.......

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and now I am back in the city. and now the skyline will be interrupted by the bricks, instead of pure horizon. and now I will keep reminiscing vigour of green and orange gliding into the skyline, that belonged to the moon and its eclipse yesterday night. and now it will be superseded by dazzling and slouchy city lights. and now there will be no sea to wash away routine of daily mail sendings. and now I will be more keen to stay in my bed, as that tangy summer breeze will be superseded by air conditioner freeze- gliding through my body and hopefully not reaching my soul.

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all about the power grid

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titleless

Part of the things on earth move

some remain still

or all of them do.

I don’t really understand much of the physics.

Still,

circles are a pretty decent tool 

for entering spirals of mind inquiries.

Still 

a lamp doesn’t really replace the sun

which is a trivial fact.

Still

we all go hand in hand

to the wilderness of nowhere

and call things by names comfortable for us.

Still

we breath.

maybe not as easily

as we deceive ourselves about breathing.

Still 

it’s the road that remains 

as the most promising thing in your absence

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Lousy lines of poetry

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stories from a bowl: otherwise

When you are wandering in a forest, taking the freshest air into your lungs and a fly gets stuck in your throat "dance,dance, otherwise we are lost". When all you wait for in life are buses and all you ever missed are trains "dance,dance, otherwise we are lost". When you enjoy a bowl of whatever against the schedules made up for you  "dance,dance, otherwise we are lost". When you firmly go towards something and it goes away with much more strength "dance,dance, otherwise we are lost". When you realise that petals are very fragile and they can't really find any strength in their fragility  "dance,dance, otherwise we are lost". 

If you are disappointed by the fact that we are here only because of gravity "dance,dance, otherwise we are lost". 

Image: Peggy Baker: Four Phrases 

“Dance, dance, otherwise we are lost” Pina Bausch

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Free as the wind/ Nar dənəsi: preludiya

Qışın yaxın olduğunu daha kəskin hiss etməyə başlayan kimi evdə gizli və nisbətən səssiz bir künc axtarıram özümə. İşığı yandırmaq istəmədiyimnən pəncərəni açıram ki hərəkətlərimin koordinasiyasına nisbətən hakim olum. Daha doğrusu pərdəni, qışın günü nə pəncərə. Elə bu proses əsnasında reallıq mənə deyir ki, bir az ondan qopmaq üçün pəncərənin ağzı ən uğurlu yerdir. Otururam. Əlimdə sevimli alətim-musiqi qutusu. Başlayıram onun qulpun fırlatmağa. Qutudan gələn harmonik səsin müşayyətində, tavanımızda öz əksini tapan ağacların yüngülvari yellənməsini izləyirəm. Anlayıram ki, tapdığım məkan bir müddətlik dostum olacaq. Sonra öz kölgəmi görürəm. Pəncərədən aşağı baxanda da aşağıda gəzişən fiqurlar sataşır gözümə. Onları izləmək qərarına gəlirəm…

Saat 10 radələri olduğundan küçədə həyat qaynayır. Binamızın önündəki, ətrafındaki kafelərə gəlib gedənlərin sayı artdıqca artır. Beş ildi yaşadığım küçəmizi, beş dəqiqə müddətində izləsəmdə piyadaların arasında bir nəfər belə olsun qadın gözümə dəymir. Elə özümün dünən düşünmədən həmin vaxt radələrində rahatlıqla çıxdığım küçədə piyada hərəkəti ancaq kişilərin ələ keçirməsi əlbəttə bir təsadüf də ola bilərdi. Hansısa nəticəyə gəlmək üçün çox limitli zaman və məkan dairəsi olduğunun da fərqindəyəm. Amma bunlara baxmayaraq həmin vaxtda, həmin küçəyə çıxmağa cüzi də olsa tərəddüd edəcəyimi anlayıram...

Pəncərədən üzümü döndərib, əllərimə baxıram. Görürəm ki beş dəqiqədir qulpun fırladaraq, melodiyası ilə feyziyab olduğum qutunun üzərinə ‘Free as the wind’ yazılıb. Hardasa yerə, kiminsə əlindən nar dənəsi düşür…

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Lovely cats

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stories from a bowl: reflection

That morning I truly enjoyed throwing grapes into my bowl, containing seeds sprinkled over the chunk of yoghurt. As grapes were making it in, seeds were jumping out of the bowl and falling onto the surface of a table with a soft, still jingling and pleasant sound. That sound was fascinating, fun and brought an unexplained laughter into my morning routine. Probably you have to be in a particularly elated state of mind and emotions in order to enjoy such an act, which even includes some connotations of overconsumption. I carried the memory of jumping grapes and seeds with me  throughout the day. Like an act of ballet or something... And anything else that would catch my eye or ears during that day, provoking similar kind of emotions, would certainly be associated with my morning joy and eventually would be built into a sequence.   

Walking down the street in a windy post-rain afternoon I saw a mid-aged woman bent over the puddle. Her hair was covered with a thin scarf followed by a dark blue jacket and her legs were wrapped into a black long skirt. She was having a look that is commonly fitted into cumə axşamı dress code. I was trying to understand what was she doing in the middle of a road and here it was, as I approached to her closer- she was using water from the puddle in order to clean her shoes. Her shoes might have gone dirty in one of the streets where it was impossible to pass by without an intimate interaction with the mud, or without getting spilled over by hero-drivers. In any case, her motions seemed very beautiful and moving to me. At that very moment. As my walk was long and uphill, I entertained myself with thoughts on why did this scene provoked such doğma feelings in me-even connected to some aesthetics of my perception of beauty… Maybe because of her revolt against cars and my stance with her in the struggle against the odds that rain brings into this city. But maybe it was just an attempt to look clean and neat and to correspond to the socially constructed look standards. As we all have to be as perfect looking as possible, no matter of all the cherries and pumpkins that life, sky or people can throw at us. Or maybe I liked the paradox of cleaning dirty shoes with muddy water, which seemed much dirtier to touch with hands within a closer look and within a common knowledge. 

On the day after, I took my routine walk to work and it was a post rain morning again. I didn’t have my bowl that day, neither I had a breakfast.. While walking I encountered several puddles that were reflecting cloudy, sky blue sky and other set ups of the city. Then I realised, my bowl doesn’t reflect. It can jingle sounds, it can be a landscape for painting, it can accommodate traces for further interpretations - but it’s not really reflecting… But puddles can provoke hope of making shoes clean and reflect the sky at the same time.

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Bahar Behbahani “Perfect Female Series”

http://www.baharbehbahani.com/painting_female.php

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stories from a bowl: traces

Traces of cinnamon, that didn’t make it into my hungry tummy, were remaining on the round turnarounds of my bowl. With a good amount of grotesque imagination you could compare it to a milky way. Small, tinitiny dusts leading to eternity. There were also drops of cottage cheese, resembling snow flakes. Or like drops of light on the dark blue surface. 

Yes, I am also entrapped into this world of associations where colour white portrays a bright promise. Traces remain, with interpretations bound to you... or for stories where you can’t come up with anything, but blunt endings. However, the last sentence should be a simmering touch, reminding me of my longing for a cup of tea...