The (Over) Thinking Tenor

Your lips will always taste like persimmons

And it feels like the end of the world not to be able to kiss them anymore

Your breath will always be the sweetest perfume and nothing will ever be sweeter

The stars will always shine from your eyes

The lips you loved for their softness will always be yours to kiss; whenever you should so desire

Without your eyes to look into

The stars have lost their lustre,

Without the green of your irises

All of nature is barren and grey,

Without your whispered moans in my ear

Birdsong is dull and discordant,

Without your embrace in the morning

The sun has lost its warmth,

Without your lips to kiss and your mouth to taste

Eden’s apples have turned to sand,

And all the flowers have lost their fragrance

Without your gentle breath on my neck

Without your hand tightly in mine and your head resting on my breast,

There is only a shallow pit where my heart once was.

Bisexuality is sexual attraction to more than one gender.

That's it.

It's not cuffed jeans,

It's not frogs,

It's not flannel shirts,

It's not non-monogamy,

It's not a voracious sexual appetite ,

And it's certainly not believing that PIV sex is 'real sex',

It's not guys wearing dresses,

It's not coloring your hair and it's not threesomes.

  The difference between you and me is that you do things because you want to do them, I do things because I need to do them.

“I’m holding out my glass, and I’m waiting... 

And all I want, is some water.

You know?

It isn’t too much to ask for, I don’t think. 

I just want some water...” 

I can see the longing in your eyes.

“I don’t (even) have a glass,” I want to say;

But I don’t.

All the days, the hours, the minutes, the seconds spent waiting;

All for nothing.

All the classes skipped and sleep lost;

All for nothing.

All my patience and my self-control;

All for nothing.

Your head on my lap and my tears on the pillow;

 All for nothing.

The hill that we’ll never climb;

All for nothing.

The stars the sky and the twinkling lights;

All for nothing.

My words and my music;

Things have changed. ‘Things’ aren’t the way they were before. It’s different from the way it used to be. Days don’t melt into evenings and freeze into nights and then thaw back in an unending stream anymore. 

Every day is different. 

It’s a good feeling, waking up in the morning and feeling that today isn’t just a continuation of yesterday or the day before: 

I’m no longer depressed.

You’ve come into my life. You’re reading this right now. I can see your hazel eyes darting across the screen. Everything didn’t change when you walked into my life. It wasn’t like a magic switch had been flipped, and I don’t believe in that kind of magic. But there were slow changes. Real changes. For the better. At times, you were the facilitator of change. Sometimes it was through conversation. Sometimes it was through a little playacting and drama. Sometimes it was through sulking at me a little. Sometimes it was through a quick squeeze of my hand. Sometimes it was a warm hug. Sometimes it was resting your head on my shoulder. Sometimes it was putting your arms around me and burying your head into my chest. One time it was biting me. Many times it was through being spontaneous. But it was always the way you expressed yourself; the way you express yourself. It was the way you said you wouldn’t let anything happen to me. It was the way you kissed my forehead on the day before my birthday. It’s the little glances you shoot at me when you’re studying. It’s all of this and so much more. 

13/08/19

I was reading a Finnish woman's experience of blue and green eyes being common and brown eyes being prized for their rarity and it really tickled me. Where I come from, brown eyes are really common. I was thinking of my eyes and my eyes are smallish, with a slight slant. And they're muddy, murky brown. Not the kind that's nice to look at. Not the kind that really picks up this beautiful color when the sun shines on them. They stay that dirty brown come rain or come shine. 

Then, I began thinking about all the eyes I'd loved. I remembered the pair of eyes that I had last seen in January, 2018. They were brown too. A dark brown, similar to mine, but they had this almost liquid sheen and this incredible softness. Then I thought about my favorite pair of eyes. I'd last seen them a month ago. Those eyes could be cold, but sometimes, they would smile and it would always warm my heart. Sometimes they would narrow mischievously and it would always make me chuckle. And then I realized, that in all likelihood, no one had ever felt that way about my eyes. Perhaps, no one would. Perhaps no one had ever given my eyes a second glance. Perhaps no one would.

'Deep down Clark's essentially a good person.... and deep down, I'm not.'

                                                                                       - Batman/Bruce Wayne

I think people have trouble empathizing with superman. To be a being of such power and ability and then not use it for personal gain of even the smallest degree, is laudable and very much on the brink of stupidity. It is akin to unconditional love, truly unconditional love such as can usually only be expected from one's mother and father. Such selflessness however, is also almost incomprehensible. In fact, while we may comprehend it, understand it to the full, this degree of selflessness is thoroughly difficult to empathize with unless you've lived it; considering that most of us have never been superman, I would not be surprised if most people cannot empathize with him. However, I request you dear reader, to look around you, search long and hard for there are such people around. Those who do what they do quietly, efficiently. Not expecting thanks. In fact, they are often insulted for being so selfless and good. The purity of their intentions confuses us. We wonder, what are they playing at? What is their ulterior motive? Alas, there isn't one. 

I am not now that man I once was before, I am no longer the man with an unblemished heart, Scarred, bruised and battered, battle-weary, torn, bleeding,charred,shattered, a little weak and weary of all its trials, and at least in part, a little broken. It resides defiant and unshaken, Proudly on my sleeve, for all to see. It stands, head held high,  It looks the abyss straight in the maw and proclaims in ringing voice: I am I was I will be, Fallen but risen again as the sun, Phoenix from her ashes, Armour dented, lance shattered, Blade blunted, shield battered, Eyes with lustre long since lost; I was I am I will remain,

“Happiness can be found, even in the darkest of times, if one only remembers to turn on the light.”  

                                           - Albus Dumbledore (J.K Rowling) 

The end of 2013 was monumental and devastating. It was growing up and loss of innocence. When you’re 17, and in love for the first time, it feels like it’s going to be forever. It feels like every book you’ve ever read, every film you’ve ever watched and every song you’ve hummed along to (or shouted along to unaware of your headphones) is coming true, just for you. And in a way it is. 

Love, to complete the cliché, is a many-splendored thing. It’s full of magnificent features or marvels. That part is true. But love is so much more than that! It is pain, anger, it is hard it is soft, it’s bitter it’s sweet, it is as many-layered and complex as the people that experience it. The pain of separation, the anguish of an ending are all part of it. In December 2013 I briefly felt like I had a lamp inside me that would always keep me warm and dry, even when it was cold and damp and dark. I felt like I had a patronus charm.

When you’re young and naïve, you think that love is like cotton candy: cotton candy is great! But it’s really more of perfectly executed steak. It’s juicy, it’s sweet but not too sweet, it’s spicy if it needs to be but won't burn your bowels, it packs a punch but won’t knock out your teeth. It has dimensions. It isn’t just two people holding hands and giving each other forehead kisses and lying in each other’s arms. That’s a wonderful part of it, but there’s so much more. It is also waking up to hear them gently snoring beside you. It’s them waking up in an absolute sod of a mood and you not trying your best to change their mood, but letting them get through it. Because hey, sometimes you’ve got to let people get it out of their system, and sometimes there isn’t a reason. It’s them introducing you to their cat. It’s them waking up with foul breath and you realizing that you wouldn’t mind smelling this every morning for the rest of your life and in fact, you sort of like it, strange as that sounds. But to appreciate your partner’s morning breath, you’ve got to have been crazy for cotton candy first. Love is full circle. Love, it all of its infinite forms is the patronus charm.

“I could have run, but I decided to stay and fight.“

                                                      - A very wise woman (she also likes to quote Confucius sometimes, but this one is all her)

“Tenors to the left, behind the Sopranos, please. Basses to the right, behind the Altos.” 

It’s late evening in November, the sky is a cool shade of cobalt and our Tenor is indoors, at the very end of his chorus line to the left while our Alto is at the very beginning. Our Tenor is a talkative chap with beady eyes and despite sharing half his range with our Alto, they don’t really talk or interact much. Our Alto is quiet and at first glance can seem cold, but she has warm eyes. The quiet of a grey winter’s evening is soon broken by many voices in unison running up and down scales.

Two years later our Tenor has just started on Donizetti’s ‘Una Furtiva Lagrima’. He’s having a bit of a difficult time since it’s only his second time ever singing this old warhorse of tenordom, but he’s doing okay. He even manages to elicit a few bravos from his maestro. He’s done for the day now, and while he sits down for a chat, he is pleasantly surprised by a Soprano who comes in with a brown, paper bag. She pulls out a miniature apple from inside and hands it to our Tenor, “It’s from our garden back home, my Mum brought us some.” He wolfs the apple down as he plays her accompaniment, and makes a mental note to save the seeds and plant them if he can. He glances at his watch, and breaks into a cold sweat: he’s going to be late! 

“I’ll have to hurry out now, it’s my mate’s birthday, and I haven’t got her a present yet!”

Outside the sky is a pleasant shade of slowly darkening sapphire and a choir of birds has already broken into their 6 pm serenades. He hurries out the gate, startling the cat on the way and stopping for a moment to ponder on his route, breaks into a brisk stroll towards the metro station. The cars are packed to the brim with every high school student and office worker in Ankara. The brightly dressed high schoolers stand in stark contrast to the somber and drab office workers and the senior citizens cast disapproving glances at them from time to time. He runs out two stations later and makes his way straight to the top floor of a large shopping mall into a Gratis. 

“So, um, what shade do think would go best with….?”

Five minutes later, with the guidance of the Gratis lady, he makes his way upstairs to Godiva. Three ladies are sitting outside taking in the sunset and having a nice chat. They all smile and welcome our Tenor to take a look around. At this moment he is slightly preoccupied with his mobile, and motions them for a moment.

Somewhere on the other side of town, our Alto has just walked out the door of her apartment and is walking towards the park, when she gets a call from a tenor. She has a full plate, what with her ailing grandmother, course load and a warning from the Electric company about allegedly unpaid bills. It can get overwhelming sometimes, but she always gives it her best. 

Our Tenor is stressed: he’s running late and has yet to buy a card and there’s writing it too but everything in the deuced mall seems to be on different floors. He is informed by the help desk that stationeries can be found on the top floor as well. He runs up three flights of escalators and finally finds a pearlescent pink card with imitation pearls on it. It was in much better taste than it sounds here.

He runs to the metro again, and now it is dusk and the North Star is showing as well as a pale sliver of a crescent moon. He jumps off at the penultimate station, brow wet and furrowed and runs through security and implores a coffeeshop manager to let him use a table. He frantically scrawls out a message on the card while ignoring the gyrations of his ringing cellphone. Finished with the card he flies up three flights of escalators only to find himself at the car park. The security lady explains with the patience of a kindergarten teacher that one has to go down and take the escalators on the other side of the building. Tenor rushes of once again and this time takes the call. He soon spies our Alto sitting at a table waiting for him, and feels a pang of guilt. He makes his way artfully through the crowd and behind our Alto, hugs her and exclaims: “Happy Birthday!!” 

He takes the chair facing our Alto, reaches down and pulls out a gold box tied with a red ribbon and puts it on the table.

It’s strange. 

You love someone so much, that even the idea of that person being hurt or worst of all, being hurt by you is distressing. You’ll do just about anything for them. When they call, you drop everything else and fly. 

And, yet, the cliché holds: we hurt the ones we love the most. We also let them hurt us. Of course, this pattern of behavior is usually the result of a long chain of events. It needs research to be decoded and understood and finally countered and prevented from happening again. In the meantime, we apologize. We hold their hands and draw them close to our bodies so that we can smell their familiar scent and tell them: I’m sorry. I am so sorry. I didn’t want to hurt you, I never want to hurt you. We hug them tight, so that we can feel our hearts beat in unison. We hug them tight so that we can melt into each other and always be together. We try and have the right conversations, to try to get to the root of the problems, but such deep and strong mechanisms of our psyche are rarely so easily uncovered; not least when we are so well versed in the art of blame and so poorly in communication and empathy. So, we do our damnedest and grit our teeth and hold on and keep trying. But it slips away and dissolves into the uncaring darkness of the void. And where previously there had been sunshine there remains only flowers: dead, grey and pathetically wilted. But the ever-present rain that remains can’t make the flowers grow.

Hmm, internet jargon. (So, is this!)

So, why do we keep saying sorry? The proverbial plate remains pathetically shattered. But apologies should fix things, right? We can’t tape it back together, believe us we’ve tried! This little photobite of internet wisdom had been in the back of my mind for a while, always questioning: so what was the use? Why apologize? Why buy those little cards and take the time to twist words around this singularly useless declamation of guilt and sorrow on it? 

What we really need is a proverbial pottery course.

Because the Japanese have the right idea; maybe scars should be flaunted.

I would like to dedicate my first post to my friend Berina, because she asked me to write. So, here goes!

It's been said that endings are only beginnings. If that’s true, then the winter of January when I was so content to bear torment and conceal the contents of my heart that caused me to fret, might well be called the beginning (of the beginning) of my current journey. 

In the words of Giuseppe Giacosa and Luigi Illica (set to gorgeous music by Giacomo Puccini): 'Sometimes hope must be taken.'