I found this book by David Whitehouse while browsing a local bookstore in Bilkent a few weeks ago. I was hooked on the first line. I read hungrily for a few pages and then decided I would purchase it online. I tried, but could'nt find it. It was haunting me, so yesterday I hoofed it down the hill and puchased it. I read it straight through.
It is the story of a family anchored by a son who chooses to drop out of life and eats himself into a state of immobilized morbid obesity. This sad quirky collection of characters trapped in this remarkable co-dependent feeding frenzy slowly pulls back the covers on the longing, loving and failings of all families. While the scenario seems incredulous there is an undercurrent of normalcy running through it. You can't help but recognize fragments of your own life and family dynamics reflected through the shattered lens of Malcolm Ede's life.
Whitehouse is amazing. His writing is vivid and inventive, startling you with images that sear into your mind. Sometimes revolting, sometimes poignant, often hilarious, he stretches your imagination, tickles your senses and makes you wonder if you are really awake and paying attention to the way things look, smell and feel. I marvelled at the writing as much as I enjoyed the story. The art and the craft of his storytelling pushed me to race through it. But his fangs are deep into my heart...and my mind is wrapped around the story of Mal and the family caught in his self-imposed death spiral. Read it and weep, laugh, ponder....
Sunday, 9 September 2012
Friday, 7 September 2012
Shape shifting
I have been walking...walking long distances to and from the gym everyday. In part, because I am committed to improving my fitness level (preparing for my excursion up Mt. Kilimanjaro), in part, because I don't always have access to a car or driver when the impulse to get up and go strikes, and in part, because I am drawn to the view. Our apartment sits at the top of a high ridge that looks out over the Anatolian plateau and onto the mountains in the far distance. There are vast spaces of undeveloped land interspersed with densely clustered pockets of civilization. When looking out from the vantage point of the hilltop, a veil of desert dust blurs the scene, blending the hard edges of the concrete buildings into the mountain ridges. The geometric jumble of buildings stacked against the undulating horizon look lifeless. The cityscape bakes silently in the midday sun. All human activity is obscured by the vast distance. It is if I am looking at the remnants of an abandoned civilization. I feel like an alien trekking across an unknown land in search of human contact. I am mesmerized by this surreal view, and I trudge down the hill.
I know that what I can see from here is not what I can see when I am thrust into the middle of the city. There, the sidewalks teem with color and movement. Crisp edges define space, with curbs separating foot traffic from automobiles. Lights flash. Cars screech. Horn honk. People shout. Music leaks from the windows of the apartments and cafes. It is noisy and messy and alive. The pulse of the city overwhelms the senses. No matter where you stand, you cannot fully take in all that is happening. And yet these are one and the same place, just observed from two different vantage points.
My reality is shape shifting. With each step I take down the mountain, I feel grounded, yet somehow more free. Expanding. Opening. Something new has wedged itself into my mind, and is pushing me forward into the unknown. My senses are on alert. I notice the details. The uneven curb heights. The crumbling sidewalk. The struggling hibiscus blossom, trumpeting its fragile beauty at the end of a parched stem. The plastic water bottles glistening in the weeds. The security guard dozing at his post. The taxi driver talking on his cell phone.
I am sure I am noticed. There are not many pedestrians on this stretch of roadway. Occasionally someone stops to offer me a ride. I always refuse, preferring to walk in silence. I feel invisible, cloaked in my own thoughts.
I am drawn to this dichotomy, this split scene experience of a life in which I am always part observer and never fully integrated into the fabric of daily life. I feel oddly safe despite being vulnerable and isolated. I feel privileged to be with but not a part of the culture. I feel anonymous, but special. I am feel like I am walking toward a revelation buried in the distance.
I know that what I can see from here is not what I can see when I am thrust into the middle of the city. There, the sidewalks teem with color and movement. Crisp edges define space, with curbs separating foot traffic from automobiles. Lights flash. Cars screech. Horn honk. People shout. Music leaks from the windows of the apartments and cafes. It is noisy and messy and alive. The pulse of the city overwhelms the senses. No matter where you stand, you cannot fully take in all that is happening. And yet these are one and the same place, just observed from two different vantage points.
My reality is shape shifting. With each step I take down the mountain, I feel grounded, yet somehow more free. Expanding. Opening. Something new has wedged itself into my mind, and is pushing me forward into the unknown. My senses are on alert. I notice the details. The uneven curb heights. The crumbling sidewalk. The struggling hibiscus blossom, trumpeting its fragile beauty at the end of a parched stem. The plastic water bottles glistening in the weeds. The security guard dozing at his post. The taxi driver talking on his cell phone.
I am sure I am noticed. There are not many pedestrians on this stretch of roadway. Occasionally someone stops to offer me a ride. I always refuse, preferring to walk in silence. I feel invisible, cloaked in my own thoughts.
I am drawn to this dichotomy, this split scene experience of a life in which I am always part observer and never fully integrated into the fabric of daily life. I feel oddly safe despite being vulnerable and isolated. I feel privileged to be with but not a part of the culture. I feel anonymous, but special. I am feel like I am walking toward a revelation buried in the distance.
Thursday, 6 September 2012
LOST AND FOUND
A few months ago, I read Geneen Roth's, WOMEN, FOOD AND GOD. It rocked my soul. So when I spotted her latest book, LOST AND FOUND, I snatched it up and downloaded it to my I-pad. In the aftermath of the Bernie Madoff debacle,which wiped out her life savings, she explores her relationship with money and the deep-seated beliefs which drive her spending habits, her investment strategy and her sense of self-worth. Again, she somehow climbed into the deepest recesses of my own unconscious, and rooted around to dig up thoughts, feelings and beliefs that have shaped by own life. I read it cover to cover in a couple of hours.
Her writing holds up a mirror for me....a magnifying mirror that illuminates each and every imperfection. She pulls off the covers to reveal my craziness. She forces a conversation with myself. A difficult conversation. Her brutally honest revelations of her own convuluted manipulations of her thought processes and behaviors give me permission to be honest with myself. She encourages me to take ownership of my dark side. She helps me examine hidden feelings of shame and unworthiness. She nudges me forward, encouraging me to accept my imperfections. She illuminates my shadow side and in doing so reveals my humanity. She gives me permission to be real, without offering answers, without making excuses. She reminds me that I am not special; not especially good or bad, and more like other people than I might imagine.
This is a book for anyone who has an emotionally charged relationship with money and the things that money can buy. That's pretty much everyone I know...
Her writing holds up a mirror for me....a magnifying mirror that illuminates each and every imperfection. She pulls off the covers to reveal my craziness. She forces a conversation with myself. A difficult conversation. Her brutally honest revelations of her own convuluted manipulations of her thought processes and behaviors give me permission to be honest with myself. She encourages me to take ownership of my dark side. She helps me examine hidden feelings of shame and unworthiness. She nudges me forward, encouraging me to accept my imperfections. She illuminates my shadow side and in doing so reveals my humanity. She gives me permission to be real, without offering answers, without making excuses. She reminds me that I am not special; not especially good or bad, and more like other people than I might imagine.
This is a book for anyone who has an emotionally charged relationship with money and the things that money can buy. That's pretty much everyone I know...
Up in Smoke
While policymakers are making a modest effort to curb smoking in Turkey, the tide has not yet turned. Cigarette smoke hangs in the air outside office buildings, in courtyards, taxi cabs and outdoor restaurants. Everyone smokes; men, women, young and old. Ashtrays are perched on outdoor dining and coffee shop tables everywhere you go. This, despite packaging that boasts clear and succint health warnings, like " cigarette smoking causes cancer, " in bold black and white graphics. These dire warnings are punctuated with graphic illustrations of human body parts disfigured by glossy tumors. No one seems to notice. Cigarettes are expensive. Given the rapidly rising cost of living, most working class folks can ill afford their smoking habit. Still smoking seems to be an unquestioned social ritual. Cigarettes dangle from the lips of bus drivers and security guards, office workers and students, old women sitting on park benches,young women sitting on bar stools and old men playing backgammom at coffeeshops.
Stepping into public spaces where stale smoke hangs heavy in the air brings a rush of memories from a time when Americans indulged their own addiction to tobacco without concern for their future health. It takes me back to the 1960's and 70's, before the link between cancer and smoking was cemented into our public awareness. It brings back memories of my father and his ever present pack of Benson & Hedges. The smell triggers memories of raucous family gatherings where the adults smoked and drank and played cards late into the night. Times when the children were excused from early bedtimes and romped through the house playing hide and seek, eating potato chips slathered with onion dip and sneaking the occassional sip of beer from a bottle left unattended on the kitchen counter.
Times when the future seemed less important than the pleasures of the moment. While I am appreciative of the health benefits of a smoke-free lifestyle and grateful for the fresh air quality of our public spaces, I miss the free and unfettered enjoyment of socializing without fear of reprisal, judgement or future consequence.
Stepping into public spaces where stale smoke hangs heavy in the air brings a rush of memories from a time when Americans indulged their own addiction to tobacco without concern for their future health. It takes me back to the 1960's and 70's, before the link between cancer and smoking was cemented into our public awareness. It brings back memories of my father and his ever present pack of Benson & Hedges. The smell triggers memories of raucous family gatherings where the adults smoked and drank and played cards late into the night. Times when the children were excused from early bedtimes and romped through the house playing hide and seek, eating potato chips slathered with onion dip and sneaking the occassional sip of beer from a bottle left unattended on the kitchen counter.
Times when the future seemed less important than the pleasures of the moment. While I am appreciative of the health benefits of a smoke-free lifestyle and grateful for the fresh air quality of our public spaces, I miss the free and unfettered enjoyment of socializing without fear of reprisal, judgement or future consequence.
Tuesday, 4 September 2012
FORTY RULES OF LOVE
Just finished this novel by Elif Shafak, which interweaves a modern love story with a retelling of the friendship between Rumi and Shams of Tabriz. Not a fan of this book, but appreciated learning more about Sufiism. The book's central theme is love and the importance of following your heart. In the end, Ella, the heroine of the book, abandons her husband and family for a man who is dying of cancer. Despite the judgements of friends and family, her bold and unexpected decision is portrayed as a step toward living a more authentic and meaningful life. Should we live to meet our obligations and responsibilities or pursue love and joy? Shafak explores big themes like this one. She digs deep into the meaning of life, the nature of time, the failure of religion and the limitations of words to communicate thoughts. Ironic that her word choices failed to resonate with me, despite the value of the questions she raised.
Monday, 3 September 2012
Wedding Bells
At the invitation of one of the employees of the firm with which Nabil is working, we attended our first Turkish wedding on Saturday. It was an evening wedding held outside in a garden setting, under a huge tented pavilion. A beautiful flower arrangement floated on a small reflecting pool that was the focal point of the seating area. At one end of the pool was a stage for the entertainers and in front of it was a generous dance floor. Centerpieces graced the round tables skirted in white tablecloths.
In many ways, the celebration mirrored US customs. Wine flowed freely. A sit down dinner, featuring the obligatory banquet style chicken dinner was served. The bride wore a white strapless gown, and short veiled headpiece edged in rhinestones; the groom a tux. There were assigned tables. Everyone was dressed to the nines. There was the announced entrance of the bride and groom, the first dance, and a cake cutting ceremony.
The only and most remarkable difference between a Turkish wedding and a US wedding is that EVERYONE dances. Mid point through the celebration, a scan of the room revealed that the only people sitting at the tables were the old and infirm...and even a few of them boldly made their way to the dance floor. You don't see men dragged reluctantly to the dance floor to appease their wives. Instead, men participate equally and fully in the festivities. Some even lead the charge. Women, men and children sing, dance and revel in the festivities, from the first note of music that welcomes the bride and groom to the dance floor until the last chord of music is played at the end of the night. From traditional Turkish folk songs and dances to Latin rhythms, to sixties rock and roll, they sing and dance to it all. There are no dour- faced observers holding court at the tables, waiting to escape unnoticed into the parking lot for a quick exit. Instead, a wedding is just another opportunity to unleash the Turks' love of music.
Under a full moon, in a Turkish garden, we drank wine, ate stuffed grape leaves and halloumi cheese. We traded stories with new acquaintances. We danced under the stars, celebrating with strangers, to music that was sometimes unfamiliar and sometimes not. We toasted to love, to life and to the bride and groom...greatful for the opportunity to participate in such a rich and culturally diverse life.
In many ways, the celebration mirrored US customs. Wine flowed freely. A sit down dinner, featuring the obligatory banquet style chicken dinner was served. The bride wore a white strapless gown, and short veiled headpiece edged in rhinestones; the groom a tux. There were assigned tables. Everyone was dressed to the nines. There was the announced entrance of the bride and groom, the first dance, and a cake cutting ceremony.
The only and most remarkable difference between a Turkish wedding and a US wedding is that EVERYONE dances. Mid point through the celebration, a scan of the room revealed that the only people sitting at the tables were the old and infirm...and even a few of them boldly made their way to the dance floor. You don't see men dragged reluctantly to the dance floor to appease their wives. Instead, men participate equally and fully in the festivities. Some even lead the charge. Women, men and children sing, dance and revel in the festivities, from the first note of music that welcomes the bride and groom to the dance floor until the last chord of music is played at the end of the night. From traditional Turkish folk songs and dances to Latin rhythms, to sixties rock and roll, they sing and dance to it all. There are no dour- faced observers holding court at the tables, waiting to escape unnoticed into the parking lot for a quick exit. Instead, a wedding is just another opportunity to unleash the Turks' love of music.
Under a full moon, in a Turkish garden, we drank wine, ate stuffed grape leaves and halloumi cheese. We traded stories with new acquaintances. We danced under the stars, celebrating with strangers, to music that was sometimes unfamiliar and sometimes not. We toasted to love, to life and to the bride and groom...greatful for the opportunity to participate in such a rich and culturally diverse life.
Movie Maniacs
Movies have always been a huge part of our life. When Nabil and I were in college, we would scour our apartment for loose change and if we were lucky enough to accumulate $2.50 for two tickets (student discount), we would head off to the local cinema (two screen maximum) and hunker down to get lost in other people's stories. We are indiscriminate. We love all movies. Fantasy, drama, cartoons, science fiction, foreign films, quirky independent flicks, summer blockbusters. Our passion for moviegoing has never faded. When our daughter was born we would time our film escapes to mesh with her nap times. By the time baby two arrived, we could afford a sitter, and movies were once again our escape mechanism. And with baby three, movies became a family affair. We have passed our passion on to our kids and we are all avid movie-goers.
The good news is that movie theaters, like shopping malls, are generously sprinkled throughout the Ankara province. There are four multiplex theaters within a ten-minute drive of our apartment. They are big monster theaters, with up to 12 large screen viewing rooms and comfortable lounge chairs. A ticket is about half the cost of movie ticket in US cities, but there is no senior citizen discount. The concession stands are well stocked, with a Ben & Jerry's franchise and a cappuccino machine in most. They offer similar package deals on snacks and beverages, though we haven't taken advantage of these. I don't know if they have found a way to avoid the rancid warmed over flavor of movie popcorn, but there are definitely fewer popcorn-eaters in the audience than in US theaters.
The bad news is that all of these theaters offer the same films, with even less variety than in US multiplex cinemas. Worse yet, only about half the films are English speaking. About a quarter are produced in Turkey and the rest are foreign films, dubbed in Turkish. The genre of US films that do run in Turkey are primarily of the blockbuster, crash and burn variety...gangster, sci-fi, car chase and disaster films. We have seen THE DARK KNIGHT, SPIDERMAN, THE BOURNE LEGACY and SAVAGES. But the subtler films that speak to the variety of life experiences in the US are in short supply. We desperately miss those films. More importantly, this skewed distribution algorithm really misrepresents US culture, giving the impression that gangsters and drug lords are on a rampage wreaking havoc in our cities and suburbs.
There are a few other important differences that movie goers have to get used to in Turkey. When purchasing tickets, you also purchase assigned seats. Great in theory, but the theaters don't use a common numbering scheme for their seating arrangements and trying to locate the assigned seats can be an embarrassing challenge when you are climbing over people who don't understand a word you are saying.
The previews are also more limited. They also play more commercials than most US theaters feature prior to the start of the feature film. The commercials rely on comic elements, run on for two minutes or more and some are so long, that you begin to wonder if you might have wandered into the wrong film. And of course,mother English speaking films are dubbed in Turkish. When watching a foreign film dubbed in English, I am never distracted by the subtitles. In fact, a few minutes into the film, I actually forget that I am reading, and it seems as if the characters are actually speaking in English. On the other hand, when watching an English speaking film, subtitled in Turkish, I cannot ignore the subtitles. I find myself trying to decipher the words on screen and match them to the dialogue and then get annoyed by the disconnect.
The most difficult adjustment has been getting used to "intermission breaks". Apparently, Turkish marketeers have decided that they can ramp up concession sales by scheduling a break in the film that allows patrons to take a second look at the goodies they offer. (Or perhaps, the Turks have small bladders or are heavy drinkers and cannot hold their water for the entirety of a film.). Whatever the reason, at some arbitrary point in the film, the movie stops abruptly, a muppet style character appears on screen and barks a message, and the theater goes dark. Then the lights come up and everyone exits the theater. The break lasts about 10 minutes, and then just as abruptly, and often without any warning, the film starts up again. It is a maddening ritual, made worse by the poor timing of the breaks, which usually come just as the film is picking momentum. Totally immersed in the flow of the story, you find yourself rudely awakened, and reminded that you are back in the real world, and in fact, not in the comfort of your own reality, but a foreign one!
My next challenge is to figure out a way to get international access to Netflix. If that can be accomplished, we will be able to get our fix of independent films in the comfort of our home, without commercial breaks or intermission. In the meantime, we will seek sanctuary in the theaters of Turkey, just as we have done in the US for so many years.
The good news is that movie theaters, like shopping malls, are generously sprinkled throughout the Ankara province. There are four multiplex theaters within a ten-minute drive of our apartment. They are big monster theaters, with up to 12 large screen viewing rooms and comfortable lounge chairs. A ticket is about half the cost of movie ticket in US cities, but there is no senior citizen discount. The concession stands are well stocked, with a Ben & Jerry's franchise and a cappuccino machine in most. They offer similar package deals on snacks and beverages, though we haven't taken advantage of these. I don't know if they have found a way to avoid the rancid warmed over flavor of movie popcorn, but there are definitely fewer popcorn-eaters in the audience than in US theaters.
The bad news is that all of these theaters offer the same films, with even less variety than in US multiplex cinemas. Worse yet, only about half the films are English speaking. About a quarter are produced in Turkey and the rest are foreign films, dubbed in Turkish. The genre of US films that do run in Turkey are primarily of the blockbuster, crash and burn variety...gangster, sci-fi, car chase and disaster films. We have seen THE DARK KNIGHT, SPIDERMAN, THE BOURNE LEGACY and SAVAGES. But the subtler films that speak to the variety of life experiences in the US are in short supply. We desperately miss those films. More importantly, this skewed distribution algorithm really misrepresents US culture, giving the impression that gangsters and drug lords are on a rampage wreaking havoc in our cities and suburbs.
There are a few other important differences that movie goers have to get used to in Turkey. When purchasing tickets, you also purchase assigned seats. Great in theory, but the theaters don't use a common numbering scheme for their seating arrangements and trying to locate the assigned seats can be an embarrassing challenge when you are climbing over people who don't understand a word you are saying.
The previews are also more limited. They also play more commercials than most US theaters feature prior to the start of the feature film. The commercials rely on comic elements, run on for two minutes or more and some are so long, that you begin to wonder if you might have wandered into the wrong film. And of course,mother English speaking films are dubbed in Turkish. When watching a foreign film dubbed in English, I am never distracted by the subtitles. In fact, a few minutes into the film, I actually forget that I am reading, and it seems as if the characters are actually speaking in English. On the other hand, when watching an English speaking film, subtitled in Turkish, I cannot ignore the subtitles. I find myself trying to decipher the words on screen and match them to the dialogue and then get annoyed by the disconnect.
The most difficult adjustment has been getting used to "intermission breaks". Apparently, Turkish marketeers have decided that they can ramp up concession sales by scheduling a break in the film that allows patrons to take a second look at the goodies they offer. (Or perhaps, the Turks have small bladders or are heavy drinkers and cannot hold their water for the entirety of a film.). Whatever the reason, at some arbitrary point in the film, the movie stops abruptly, a muppet style character appears on screen and barks a message, and the theater goes dark. Then the lights come up and everyone exits the theater. The break lasts about 10 minutes, and then just as abruptly, and often without any warning, the film starts up again. It is a maddening ritual, made worse by the poor timing of the breaks, which usually come just as the film is picking momentum. Totally immersed in the flow of the story, you find yourself rudely awakened, and reminded that you are back in the real world, and in fact, not in the comfort of your own reality, but a foreign one!
My next challenge is to figure out a way to get international access to Netflix. If that can be accomplished, we will be able to get our fix of independent films in the comfort of our home, without commercial breaks or intermission. In the meantime, we will seek sanctuary in the theaters of Turkey, just as we have done in the US for so many years.
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