Lojman by Ebru Ojen

Author:Ebru Ojen
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: City Lights Publishers

WHEN SELMA WALKED INTO THE LIVING ROOM, SHE saw her children sitting among scattered objects. She was brimming with the desire to destroy everything in her path, conscience be damned. The village, the school, the house, her children, Metin, all of them were stuck in her throat, choking her.

Then she decided, suddenly, that she wasn’t going to remember the horrifying moments in the coal shed. She was going to forgive her daughter’s betrayal, erase from her memory that Görkem had heard her but hadn’t come to her aid. She would swallow her resentments, try to live on, seemingly resigned to her fate, live as someone else, keep on breathing in her false, foul existence, pretending to be alive. That clammy, suffocating feeling overcame her movements, her body, and finally, her entire being. Her words, quietly mumbled at first, soon became frenzied, meaningless sentences that issued from her lips as she trembled in a delirious rapture.

“There’s life outside—thunder, rumble, landslide—sounds exist to tell human beings that we don’t really exist—we don’t—Metin and I don’t exist—this mountain village, this lojman, they don’t exist—Murat and the baby don’t exist—grayness, snowstorms, long roads, death don’t—sinkholes do—black holes, space exist but not Görkem—not poetry, not the howls—the holes between our thighs, wet, curvy holes, they exist—vile whirlpools, yes, but not us—no hope, no crying, no daydreams—none of our fears—not our infernal geography

“our eyes that detect light, our souls, they exist

“something flows from our abdomen, our bodies, and mixes with life, something colorful, bright, liquid, something that can sneak into any place—there is no gossip that makes our ears ring, only endless murmurs—no sand dunes formed by windstorms, no desert flowers, nor chess—toilets exist, piss, insects, rodents, borers, gnawers, stingers exist, so does mercury—my heart doesn’t exist; my throat does—physics, no, allegory, yes, rhythm, no, beats, yes—there are pills, there is a satanic battle—there are frame-ups, weapons, exploding floors, weddings, and electric saz—we don’t exist, forbearance exists, graveyards, too—no pages, no holy mosques, no wellsprings—there’s cyberpunk, pornpolitics, hajj—no hot springs, no volcanic or tectonic rocks—no obstructions, no painful serums, methane gas or citric acid—there’s vapor, there’s sulphur—apricot crates, slit cheeks, cold climates, the Night of the Ascension, and the torso—there’s habit, attachment, there’s bonding—and suckling—there’s fibula, no tibia, no scapula!—there are figs dipped in flour, plants whose sap causes lesions, itchy skin, fragrant handkerchiefs, profanity, there is forgetting …”

Her mind was out of control, spinning and swerving in the world of objects. There is, there isn’t, there is, there isn’t, there is, there isn’t …

“no courtesy, no gaudy scarves, no white heels, no mucus—no head buried in the sand, no rats lost in mazes, no smallpox, or malaria—no supplies, dark nights, hypocrisy, expropriation, expansive landscapes—there’s no Metin—no township, no treetoads, no lake shore, monsters, wild weeds, no red rope, no dull days, no passion—there is the stratosphere and the ionosphere, there’s decadence, there is swimming, there’s getting somewhere, there’s perfect form—no syncopation, no vibration, there’s only sound—no mechanism for movable structures—there are active apposable organs—no deltoid,

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