1. 2/5BZ - KOZMiK OPUA



    In  country’s environment of toolerance and dialogue, this time, another accident happens in a coal mine. The utmost authority decrees: “it is in the nature, in the destiny of this event.” And adds: “I say it is in this occupation’s destiny. Nobody’s mental capabilities and intellectual depth is enough to discuss this issue out of this context. Why not? Because, if you do not have faith in destiny, then I have nothing to discuss with you.”

    In other words, no one can dare to sweep the wide-spread affluence under the rug, and those bother to open up their mouths against the unconcealed upturn, are naturally knocked out of the government’s faith-bound decree rocket; before they even see the stratosphere, they plunk.
    The utmost authority thinks the best for all of us, only he can say what is in our destiny. He is omniscient, and hence a superman, and us, mortal souls are expected to bow and scrape in the presence of his Excellency. As it is in the decree, the country takes an undeterred upturn on a global scale to the benefit of everybody. Yet, how can a reckless optimism and a consenting with foreseeable destiny go hand in hand, and that intimately? What sort of an elixir is it that these supermen are making us drink, and drink peacefully?

    In this pretty environment of toolerance and dialogue, a wise old saint from the fifth dimension enters the scene. He haunts those who happen to forget the virtues of the decree, in their dreams. He gives a Mevlana  capsule to those who could not catch up with the ultimate quality of life. For those who could wait patiently for that dream to come true, he presents the global Lost church, where the gates to the secret open up and fill the environment with holy light, the living and the dead smile in delight. “You just want it” in this life, or the next life, maybe the past life. “Love” saves us all, and it saves its author more than all.
    These palaverel tales are ineliminable. Those looking for fresh air get a black smoke, and the black smoke does fill every hole. So said optimism is but a new holy wine in old bottles. We think positive, things turn positive, and more, your soul mate enters the room, you take good vibes, things go excellently… If not “that is the destiny”, what else can we do, “there must be a divine wisdom to it” in every single geography. But, whose pockets is it that this wisdom is filling? Who is subjugated to whose power, for he has a divine wisdom accompanying to it?
    Those natural born good souls, those innately positive-thinking brains, once pushed with scientific proof, sees a silver lining in every dawn. As a transformer, they never give up spreading good vibes, posivitiy is never gone. They are never late for their periodic aura cleansing, nor forget the daily antidepressant wax for their grinning faces. After all, buy a cosmic charm with the state and mafia subsidy, get an aura cleansing, and it is free for all ages.
    Those born-flawed, less positive, lower souls are rapidly taught to think positive, become the owner of his own boat to sail in blurry waters. Their brains are formatted to get ready for uploading new programs, with the books, cassettes, seminars, natural stones, healing waters, colors of the worst kind and matter. The toll-manufacturing of those biometrically-beautiful on the outside, spiritually-beautiful on the inside are undertaken with utmost care, and it is rated high. The words of fresh liberalism’s iron lady ring once again in our ears: “there is no such thing as society” but individuals. Then on, the individuals are wind up for power, strength, self-esteem, and endeavor for a better standard of living. It only comes through positive thinking. As the value of the individual is calculated by his consumption scheme, the posetive are entitled to more, ever more, and the best of everything. It is so said that these individuals also are capable of changing the world, not by acting, but only through positive thinking. They learn its rules, they put them into effect, and they try to come over the difficulties. Yet, at the same time, as the rules dictate, they turn a blind eye to those having their own objections to the injustices. Objection brings negative vibes, and so do the facts of life, especially when it is not the happy news, pleasant events, and merry happenings.
    The companies that “think big” can maximize their profit, with the motivation of their employees. With positive thinking, and a posetive world-view, the success is guaranteed. Then “if you are not successful enough, it is because you have not wanted enough.” The “individuals that think big” and the “firms that think big” take it as their natural right to destruct, destroy, and kill. “Doing what it takes” is already a sign of wanting enough.

    Those who foresee the upturn, those who put their faith in this foreseeable destiny win a free pass to universes. Those who cannot free pass, see a text message in their mobile devices: “Unemployment is a virtual problem”, with the message fee already paid by the unemployed masses. It is expected that those who read the message are instantaneously enlightened, and pass to the palaverel universe. In this palaverel universe, it is advised that you listen to those who appear every second, think the best for you, and say “you will be bosses in the future, why bother the workers”. It is advised that you love thyself, and maybe go for a television program to receive positive vibes from the one you love. Indeed, poverty, crisis, running amok, death is only tangent to the positive thinking individuals, as they feed themselves with motivation, sustain a living with self-esteem.

    Last but not least, Spam Usta News Agency reports from the tangent universe: “Here, the statement “destiny is but a moment” is widely heard in respectable scientific circles. With the destiny engine in the computer games, the fresh ottoman is fueled in Turkish and flying in African, Middle Eastern, and Central Asian skies –the omniscient sultans once again purr with delight. Security is maintained with public order sodas. The skies are filled with shopping malls. “For You”s sell cosmic food supplements, wankers’ generation antidepressants. Those who take the pills are relieved of the troubles of pessimism and critical thinking. Dissent has evaporated. As everyone is after happy news, pleasant activities, merry happenings, censorship has already retired to an Aegean village, and is busy with running b&b, night club, biennial… The ones who begrudge the cosmic pills are after getting a job as a democratic tiger keeper in Anatolia.”








    A fresh ottoman seasoning is poured into the populist discourse of the government –a discourse, getting more authoritarian in darker shades. While reproducing the legitimacy of the government, this seasoning is mixed not only into the foreign policy soup, but into everything afresh. The seasoning is fresh but as a genetically modified flesh.

    As the government is creating and distributing the rent, creating if not favoring its own cadres, it operates within a very closed and a strict definition of “us”. It takes the distance to this “us”, a prerequisite for even sustaining a living. As the fresh ottoman seasoning enters the scene, this “us” appears to include everybody, appears to provide everyone with an opportunity for enrichment, or at least well-being

    In the recent wearetheottomans.biz tale, everyone is provided with a different point of attraction. There are versions for the democrats and multiculturalists; warriors, and the hedonists, and those who focus on the arts and sciences enjoy a tale of their own. It has intrigues, heroisms when wanted or inner peace cut out of Sufism when desired; and the background of the tale is glossy too –palace-like work offices, the smartest of all residences, and the space-age mosques exclusive to the elite.

    The new geography of the tale offers new opportunities, not only for the nouveau-riche, but for the old-money as well. The news of incoming Middle Eastern money never stop, then the money picks up local partners, in the favorable markets all around, opens up greater fields, and plays ball. The international capital, tending to lay artificial turf in the Middle Eastern fields, to avoid any injury or pain, makes use of the ottoman seasoning in the most swollen kind. The African and Central Asian fields are not open for the games yet, but teams are lining up for training, time and again.

    In this tale, the raider Malkocoglu is disguised as a fresh ottoman businessman; he twists his moustache and rigs the home and the away game. To lay low, he sends marcher lords from the scientist and the artists. Dialogue is established, bridges are built. Institutions and boards work on full force. Money is poured over the hard-working. A quiverful of exhibitions is opened, conferences are made, and journals are published. The fields are made legible and intelligible there and then.

    Hence, the words of the government, the eye of the capital enter into the fresh ottoman orbit, looking how very nice, so contemporary, really modern and indeed scientific. In the away game, the name may not always be fresh ottoman. Sister cities, open cities, swollen meetings, alluring fairs never end. For those who put on the scarf and the leash, exchange and sexchange go hand in hand. When the fresh ottoman dressing is missing, the exotic is marketed; the eager marcher lords’ function does not change.

    Those who govern sciences do not leave a space to breathe, let alone move the pinky of a hand. If the place itself is valuable, the buyer is already lined up on the front door of the land. The hodja, producing information for the market, receives support from the fresh ottoman as well. As new markets are opened for the privatized education, the chieftain of hodjas asks: “Would not it be nice to have a information village in Istanbul?” Indeed, “… it is tax-free, subsidized sweetly, customers ready in the Middle East, if not Central Asia… How about those customers in Africa?” The pretext is “filling the empty seats at schools”, yet the seats go to whoever pays for it. Those running from one field to another become a hodja on their own account, managing to remain shiny on the shop window. Some people of science remain on the verges; their share is to be made confused more and more.

    The madams of arts and sciences raise to the bait of markets, opening in fields so vast. The depots, warehouses, foundations, platforms promise a bright future. Record-breaking prices in auctions make one want more. Some raiders go enthusiastic. The enthusiasts become militants as they take higher market shares, or as they become more famous, or more powerful. “Sharing knowledge and cooperation” is what is being said, but everyone’s interest, in this depot, is seamed together with a fake red thread. Such like platforms offer guarantees, if not here, then in Dubai for sure. Istanbul is the eternal capital of culture, paradise of science, finance/faith center. If Istanbul is not enough, contemporary art, and latest brand of culture is brought together with the tourist, under a unique history, along with the sea, sun and sand.

    The “we” of the government is becoming more drastic. For those who do no buy, sell, tell, swallow the wearetheottomans.biz tale in any size and shape, no room is left to live. The dissidents who do not find a suitable role in a version of this tale, is left without a voice and a word to say. In the expanding fields, security is maintained with the latest and most scientific methods. In the name of markets, the government, with toolerance and dialogue, is controlling us afresh.

    Spamullah  28.03.2010


    i couldn’t love enough your satellite eyes nor your new flag enough.

    i couldn’t love enough your satellite eyes nor your new flag enough.



    Its eyes turned green with jealousy, our path it crossed. That green-eyed thing, market of arts as it was disguised, said, “You are mine”, and then we fled. It wanted us as a trophy wife for a poseur’s call, a mistress on the fetishist institution’s hall, and we fled. It was a roaming biennial, a different love story we enjoyed. Landing from Istanbul to Berlin and Belgrade, ours was not the only path for sure, on which its green-eyes dawned.
    Once upon a time, and under a desiring gaze, freak is the one the green-eyed thing looked out; it was a duty call. For, on the outskirts of the circus and the fair, exoticism is the freak’s license; he was set out for a stroll. If a connoisseur was willing to pay for a glance, the freak was tolerated to get out, within the limits of the wall. Often the freak was strong enough, then opened an arena, and he was let out, as long as the patrons did not appall. When the patrons asked for entertainment, to their table came the freak, allowed to sit out, but not for hospitality at all.

    The creatures to be moved out, boot out, walled out, put out; they are called freaks, the subject we address with the words below. Take the freak as the scary monster, the creepy creature, anyone unusual, in his physical appearance or patterns of behavior. Freakiness is in the eyes of the beholder, may he be the patron or the connoisseur, he is guarded by eyes so green, and up above. New rules of inclusion and exclusion are set in the city; gentrification and security are the themes that blink on the shiny screen, hung on the city’s door.
    In today’s cityscape, the connoisseur is after exchanging a glance, a glance that would maximize his gain, make him want more and more again. For the green-eyed thing, this is the sign of the times, today’s ultimate claim. As the search for gain lands him on urban rent, appropriating the place the freak lives in becomes the connoisseur’s aim. The connoisseur is taken over by the green-eyed thing, to say it once again. Read jealousy as greed, the connoisseur yearns to be the patron; green-eyes flare the same.

    Asking for more, the greedy displaces us, but not as a whole. First he targets the freak, questions what the freak is doing in this hole. “Get the hell out of here” says his inner voice. He whispers sweet words, but then comes an iron fist, banging on the freak’s door. He announces: “These freaks, aren’t they the criminals, threats, enemies? We have to get rid of them once and for all.” He demands stamps on ass, chips in arms, and says: “We can mop them out behind walls and barbed wires, outside the frontiers of our hall. Isn’t this the most secure and efficient of it all?” Gentrification, regeneration, sustainability is the catch phrase; the greedy is the connoisseur, the standard-bearer of this call.
    That green-eyed thing, it fixes the desiring gaze on them again. The greedy is able to reconstruct the freak, searching to maximize his gain. There is the exotic, the gifted, the beautiful among the freak, why bother the slain. He takes the talent, exhibits the gift, embodies the beauty, the genie, whatever the freak has as for a peculiarity; this is his optimistic claim. “Enjoy the bridge… Join the dialogue… Cooperate…” he says, without any shame. When recruitment does not pay, he can start all over again. He institutes a brand new market; grins the green-eyed thing, for this is in its name.

    “The city does not want you, if you do not have market value.” says the green-eyed thing, it is the command. No room for mockery, criticism or comment. Those who dare to challenge this, grow a third eye, sixth finger, a tail or a horn. They become the freak, the threat, the enemy; the greedy is in a battle, but he is not forlorn. They have a file, wide open, seen with eyes so green. “Bio-measure out, gene out, heat out, but efficiently”, so says the decree. It is written in the greedy’s name, in the highest degree of security.
    “The city does not want you, if you do not buy market value” adds the greedy; it makes the green-eyes gleam. “Consumption means acceptability, otherwise it is freaky” are the words that go with the stream. The stream pushes the freak to a distant playground, only there, he is let to live, go wild and scream. Yet he should not leave the playground, as the mess, scattered outside these limits, contaminates the dream. The dream belongs to the green-eyed thing; without the freak in it, the city is secure, neat and clean.
    In matters of inclusion and exclusion, the patrons’ authority is absolute; the green-eyed thing is in vain. Do not ask whether the connoisseur is jealous of the freak; his home, his peculiarity, his existence is in line, for the sake of greed. The gods of the new and expanding market are now disguised as high-security, they demand obedience; otherwise you are the broken reed. They ask for sacrifice, day in, day out, this is how the green-eyes feed. Yet it wants new flavors after a point , meaning sacrifices in new terrains, in a more exotic breed.

    Urban-lousy, patrons-greedy, take jealousy as the base-line or the cream. Freakiness is in the eyes of the beholder; the beholder looks for new markets, it is not a daydream. The freaks become the new dragons, cyclops, monsters, creeps, dinosaurs of the old maps; the unknown is hand in hand with any unbearable thing. What are the freaks supposed to do then? We do not know, nor can we provide the ultimate cling. Keep in mind, there are escape routes for the unrecruitable, and they are on the brink.
    In the escape routes, let us not hesitate being lousier than the cityscape, and care to fall no prey to the greedy, the security, nor to become a decoration in the extended market scheme. Let us keep on becoming the dragons, cyclops, monsters, creeps, dinosaurs, freaks of our own maps, speak our own words independently, get together and then flee in different directions, taking pains to remain outside in every moment and in every scene.   06.2010