Letters from Vietnam 44

31 October 2006 – 18:34 – HCMC

What am I supposed to do if I don’t write? I told A that I am giving one-week break to writing in order to listen myself and have a better start after a quiet week but soon later I noticed that it is almost impossible to stop writing? First, I need something else to make myself busy so that I can maintain my distance from writing. I know that what I write on my blog can not be considered as creative writing and I know that all blog entries do not worth more than a single short story. However, my purpose in keeping the blog does not contradict with this insufficiency. Basically, I am keeping the blog just because I can not create fiction. The day I can start writing stories again, probably I will either ignore the blog or quit keeping it totally. I don’t know what keeps me away from writing in last few years. I lost my old glorious days of “sitting in a quiet room and stay motionless until finishing the work”. Now, I am more impatient, more amateur, and duller in terms of creating something artistic.

I can also judge myself with this claim: I am keeping the blog because I am lazy to imagine fiction. One easily accepts that keeping a journal is much easier than writing fiction since writing the life only has nothing to do with art. It could be either history or observation. Because art is a recreation of life, not the life itself and it can be shown in a story. Years pass and people die. We may not know how Dostoyevsky lived his life day by day but we all know how Raskolnikov killed two women. Because Dostoyevsky lived a real life and it is definitely less interesting than fictious life of Raskolnikov. Some people might want to read Dostoyevsky’s journals but again the reason for this would be Raskolnikov. Dostoyevsky’s life is important to the readers because he is such a great writer who once created Raskolnikov brilliantly.

Right now there are many half stories waiting to be completed but I have no idea how I can make them full stories. I should stop blogging and start worrying about creating characters but this itself is a big problem in these days. My biggest problem is being away from the sources of my first language. I have not read a beautiful paragraph in Turkish for almost six months. The only Turkish I read is the news from Internet sites. As it can be imagined Turkish newspapers do not have a fantastic way of giving news to the readers. I guess this only makes me thirstier because the bad Turkish and usually bad grammar keep me more away from the beauty of the language. I sometimes read online magazines on the Net but except for a few, they are also usually not very well-designed in terms of the way they use the language. Writing in Turkish now is scary as if I am walking in a lake where I do not know the depth of the water for my next step. I am not confident… Then why am I writing in English? It is because I have an excuse if someone says “stop writing bullshit”. I can tell him/her that this is not my first language and I have right not to write beautifully. This inferiority complex makes everything more imbalanced for me. The more I write in English, the more I feel inferior in writing English because I will never be confident in writing English and I am definitely sure that neither my English nor my imaginary writing skills improve by this way.

Now I can think of only one solution: Stop reading/writing English and start practicing writing in Turkish again as if I am discovering my language again. This definitely might help me if I can keep going and supporting myself with good stories from the Net. Of course, I will read and write English at work and for e-mails/letters to friends but other than that I will only use Turkish for writing fiction.

* * *

J is coming this Thursday. I am very happy since at least there will be someone to talk with at home. It may not seem so good in terms of writing but who cares! What did I write when she was away? Nothing! Then I should stop thinking that loneliness is necessary for writing. It is a relatively concept. I need her and I need her presence beside me while I am busy with writing. Her presence is enough to keep me working on rational works.

What else? What else? What else?

Nothing else… I want to read some stories from online magazines and go to bed early…

This is all I want to do now!!!

I have three classes tomorrow…

Letters from Vietnam 43

28^th October 2006 – 06:20 – HCMC

The alarm clock was set to 7 am but I could not sleep. What woke me up? A deadly dream… I was eating in a friendly environment. I guess my brothers were with me on the table. Then I felt the food on my throat. I did not consider it as a problem and continued eating. After a while whatever I ate stuck somewhere at my throat. I was not able to breathe. I put my hand into my throat and tried to remove the pieces from my throat by my fingers. Then I felt the spasm of my entire body. The shivering and shaking took me away from my purpose. I tried to drink some water. I had one glass but it did not help me. I drank another glass… Then I woke up breathing frequently as if I am just given the chance. I looked around. It was still dark outside. I tried to sleep but I could not.

This is second dream I have experienced this week. Both dreams are similar to each other. I am losing the control of my life and messing up with the things around me. Is it loneliness making me this much desperate? Or is it the days which are passing unsatisfied in terms of reading and writing? I don’t know! Probably I will never know… I feel sleepy and tired! It is morning 06:31…I have two classes today but I feel no urgency to feel the burden.

I got e-mails from friends. A. writes about my obsession to Kafka. He thinks that I should overcome with the obsession and look forward to the future. But this is hard for someone who has no future! I can not write Turkish any more! When I try it takes an hour to write a paragraph. Being away from my language has made me infertile. I can’t find the right words and I can not use them properly to create something poetic. It is so hard! I need to read something Turkish other than news and confession…

C sent an e-mail too. He got the postcard I sent him three weeks ago. He talks about being 30 and looking at life from the age of 30+. I also feel like I am getting closer to 30 and did not achieve a single thing in my life yet. I worry about myself and meaning of my life. What is the point in living if not creating something? Either a child or a story! I am infertile for both purposes. Life is not a dream any more! It is as solid as a rock. During the university years, I felt somewhere inside me that I was different from others. This difference made me feel optimistic since I wanted to do the things nobody else did. But now, I look at my life and regret the null past. Now I am an ordinary person. Nothing makes me special. I was always an ordinary person. The worst thing is I believe this now by myself without the help of anyone. I found that I am useless and unnecessary for the people around me. I found that the light inside me is not strong enough to make the street bright so I and others can benefit from it.

I just opened the window and raised the curtains. The light of the morning sun filled the room with some kind of happiness which is still not touching me. There is a little bird outside, singing for the new morning. I tried to find it but all my attempts failed with looking up and down from the balcony. It should be hard to sing this long with this voice.

I talked with J yesterday evening. She said there is one more ceremony for her grandmother this weekend. Then she will be free. I told here, buy a ticket and come! It is hard to live alone. I need a company in this silence. Someone who can make noise in the kitchen, someone who can ask me how I am and how my day was! Once a person gets used to it, it becomes addiction. To be addicted to a person is not a bad thing at all. Although it makes you weaker and more vulnerable, it is still worth to try in terms of sharing a life and catching the happiness in small things. She told me that she translated my river story into Thai and read to her mother. She said, she cried while reading. Her mother fell in sleep!!! I laughed a lot yesterday after hearing this. At the end, it is only a page… If you were awake at the beginning, you are supposed to be awake at the end too. It must have a strong sleeping pill inside the story which I did not mean.

By the way, someone took the dead Gregory Samsa from my door. I saw it yesterday morning too but it was not there in the evening. Kafka turned a man to a large beetle and made a historical touch to the modern literature. What if we think that beetles become men! Isn’t it more likely? I think it is worth to imagine!

Time for breakfast! I will write a short story today or tomorrow… Let’s see how it goes…

Letters from Vietnam 42

27^th October 2006 - 17:43 - HCMC

When Z claimed that he wanted to live without being part of a category, his friends and his parents tried to persuade him for not pursuing an ideal which has no exit. Nobody knew his motivation and nobody had chance to learn. However, Z believed in himself and he continued to do what he really dreamed of. He first got rid of all social obligations, and then isolated himself from all worldly businesses. He was free at the end! He was selfless because he did not take any history together with him. He did not have a past and he did not have a prospective future. There was only ‘now’ for him and he lived only for ‘now’. It did not take long for him to see that self is an illusion which comes from where he belongs to. The more he stayed away from his past, the more he felt weightless. He lived the life of an ‘absolutely free man’. Nobody told him what to do and he decided on everything for the best benefit of himself. He lived a life of a dervish in the heart of the city, in a small apartment. But soon his fame spread to the entire building, then to the street and to the whole city. It did not take long for the entire population of the country learnt about his lifestyle.

Then a few young people wanted to have a same kind of freedom for themselves. They all isolated themselves from all the categories they belong to and started a free life. They felt as light as a feather as if they are not bounded by any rules of the categories which they left behind. It was like an earth of no gravity! You can stand but only if you really want! A place with no authority! A place with no self in itself!

Soon later, these category-free people felt that if there is no rule, then they can do everything they wanted. This of course caused a big problem for the people who still belong to other certain categories. First security forces warned them to keep quiet. When a few category-free people have been arrested by the police for excessive use of certain things, people from other categories united against them and had large demonstrations on the streets. It was time to get together for category-free people but nobody knew how!

Firstly, it was hard since if they come together then they will lose their most important characteristic which makes them unique. They had meetings but could not reach to a common point. Many of them left the life style of category-free people and joined one of the big categories in the society. The rest stayed silent for a short time until someone made a standing for the rest.

One day, Z talked with another category-free man and told him that category-free people must have some common points other than being part of category-free. They both put all their tangible characteristics to compare and at the end they found a common point: Both of them were drinking the coffee without sugar and with cream. This was the only common point in both. Now it was time to find others who also like to do same thing. It did not take too long to find a few more who also like to drink the coffee with cream and without the sugar. Then, Z invited them to join them so that they will have a ‘self’ and possibly a ‘history’. Almost all the category-free people joined them. The rest died without any category and being forgotten soon. Those who joined to this new category wrote their history. Z has always been remembered as the founder of this new category and his category-free years have been recognized by “dark ages” of his life. His first meeting with the other category-free man was official beginning of time for the new category and the history for them started at that point. Before that there was only darkness and chaos. After that there was sun light and joy.

Years later, one woman in the category of the people who like the coffee without sugar and with cream, accidentally has tasted the coffee with sugar and with cream. She exclaimed with her slowly enlarging eyes! “This is good!” she said without knowing that it was the sugar which made it tastier for her. She offered the same coffee to her friends who are also in the same category. Soon later, there was a small category whose members were enjoying the coffee with sugar and cream. But this caused another problem with the old members of the category. They said it is against the rules of the category and those who continue drinking coffee with sugar and milk have to leave because they are ruining the glorious future of the category by betraying the history.

All the new adventurers turned back to old habit of drinking coffee without sugar and with cream again except for one. Her name was L and she said she would rather to become category-free than return to old fashion. Her friends tried to persuade her not to pursue an ideal which has no exit but she did not listen to them. He started a new life for herself only and did everything she wanted without considering her history. She was feeling selfless like Z felt long ago. But the fame which destroyed Z did not leave her alone either…

The cycle of category-free people never ended…

Nobody knew that this was the history of self!

Letters from Vietnam 41

24^th October 2006 – 16:41 – HCMC

I don’t like being touched by the ticket guy whenever I want to get on the bus! I actually did not understand the true function of his action when he tries to hold a passenger’s arm and pulls him inside the bus. I am sure most of the people can get on the bus without his assistance. There might be some very old passengers who are in need of his help but the rest is usually ok. The way he holds and sometimes even squizzes my arm is very unpleasant. He also does similar thing to the young girls and I have seen the dismay on the faces of several young girls when he tries to hold them and almost drag them to the seat. Two days ago I told him not to touch me with both in my body language and in English. I don’t know what he understood but at least I was safe on my own feet. I did not let him to pull me inside the bus while the bus was still moving with a low speed. I wonder he does this thing because he does not have many things in the bus to make himself busy enough. This happens when someone’s job is too slack for his/her potential. He might not have any other duty than collecting money from passengers. Then whenever he has time, he goes to the door and tells to the passengers who want to get on to wait for the ones who are getting off. But isn’t this a stupid problem? If the chauffer opens both doors, then one can be used for getting on and the other one can be used for getting off. If everybody uses the same method, soon people will stop using the back door to get on the bus. Anyway, it is not my job to change the bus services in HCMC.

They have removed all the red tiles from the wall of the stairs and painted the wall white. Now, it looks much better than it was before. Last semester, whenever I walked up to those stairs, I felt like I am climbing one of the towers of a castle. Because there was no sunlight coming in to the stairs, they have installed lights, which always reminded me the torches on the walls.

The metaphor of the castle reminded me Kafka again. I have sent my diploma to the embassy of Turkey before going to Thailand. When I returned, I got it back with the necessary –according to who?- stamps on it. The lady at the embassy did a great job by translating the official stamps of Foreign Ministry and Education Ministry into English. She also sealed the translations with the stamps of Embassy. I was hopeful that the process of authentication is over this time. Soon I realized that we are living in a Kafkaesque world and hope is only a tool to prolong the torture. I went to Human Resources department in the afternoon to ask the situation about my diploma. This time the problem was unsolvable. In my diploma my two names were written together as if I have a 7 letter name. But on the authentication papers, on the passport and on my transcripts, my name is written as two names (3 + 4). Immigration department asks me to authenticate that I am the same person whose name is written on the diploma. Basically, what they want me to prove is 3+4=7. I was shocked since I have never imagined this could cause a real trouble. I have worked as a Math teacher in 4 different schools before and none of them minded this little difference. Now I have to prove that the diploma is mine! Because three authentication stamps on the diploma are only verifying that the diploma is from a valid educational institution but proving that the name on the diploma is mine. I talked to the HR lady and told her that I will not pursue anything anymore. If the officials in the immigration think that all these stamps are not enough, then I will return my home upon the expiry of my visa. I am tired of the long process and I am tired of asking people for a favour. She did not say anything! I left the room and I haven’t heard anything from her again.

The only solution to my problem I can think of is to go back to my university and ask for a new diploma on which my name is written in 3+4 form. Since this thing requires enormous energy, time and money, I would rather not to pursue the procedure and stop at the point where I can not go anymore. These guys at the immigration have no idea about what job I am doing and how it is impossible to teach Statistics or Discrete Mathematics without having a proper Mathematics degree. I gave up!

When I arrive at home, the little cockroach was lying upside down in front of the door. Then I laughed reminiscently while looking at Mr. Gregory Samsa who already reached to the end of the novel. He was lying there, in front of my door, making me laugh at myself since I was the one who could not get the way inside the castle in spite of my all optimistic efforts. All the roads going to the castle seem clean and tidy if I look from a distance but once I tried to enter those roads, I see the impossibility of my dreams, the utopia…

I was planning to write another short story today but the little cockroach and the authentication problem threw me out of my planned path. I will write on the concept of “self”, “freedom” and “dependence” tomorrow. Right now I am only writing the question which will lead me to the story: Are you from those who can not be categorized? Life goes on… I am hungry…

Letters from Vietnam 40

23^rd October 2006 – 22:20 – HCMC

I have to write now! Although I am feeling a little bit tired now and I have a class early tomorrow morning, I have to write. It is an urgency to express my gratitude or confused mind.

I went to the Bayram Party of little Turkish community tonight if the word “party” could be good enough to describe the event. It was like a wedding party with lots of colourful balloons and children chasing them in an indefinite cat-mouse game. It was to commemorate the Bayram all together with happiness and joy. The main purpose is of course to remember that we are one and we will always be one. The unity messages are always followed by applauds and whistles. The good words and good wishes were everywhere. Everyone bought presents for everyone and I was the one of the few people who did not buy a present. This made me feel troubled a little bit. As a person who is not very social, I always feel like I am not good when it comes to make people around me happy. However, this time I had an excuse. I did not imagine that the party would be this kind. Funny thing was I was the one of the few outsiders in the party because I cannot be easily categorized. I felt the strange inferiority of the state of “not being able to be categorized”. There were students, there were teachers, there were businessmen, there were children, there were locals, there were foreigners and there were waiters. Actually I was one of the many teachers in the party if the profession is concerned but definitely I was different. The best definition for myself would be “a guest” and thanks to the anchors who spoke on the stage I really felt like a true “guest”. They were all friendly people and sometimes I could not stop myself laughing at the words or the gestures. Some of them reminded me my old days, some made me laugh simply because they were funny. It was one of the best experiences I have ever had in Vietnam. I left the party with a growing faith inside me. A faith to happiness and joy of life… A faith which is dedicated to the human’s uniqueness filled my heart as if I was the unclaimed baggage which is found on the luggage band after thousands of rotations. Before leaving the party, I was greeted by a lady whose name was A (I guess it was beginning with A but I am still not sure). She was the spouse of one of the top administrators in HCMC. She surprisingly shook my hand and said one more “good bye”. I thought about this gesture and tried to catch the change in the movement. This party was quite different from how it must have been! Or my mind is still old fashioned and things change in the Turkish community very quickly. I would not mind to exchange a few words with a lady from the community but shaking hands was something unusual –or I suspect so-. I went downstairs with a little bit bewilderment but soon I forgot everything… I was happy somehow with the feeling of “home”. These people invited me to their parties and made me feel like I am having a bayram at home. I did not know how to thank them so I guess my silence could be explained by the embarrassment of a beggar when he has been given a gold necklace. I will definitely see them again in near future with a few gifts in my hands. At the end, I owe them this extraordinary feeling of joy for tonight.

I left home around 5 pm. I took the 102 bus and arrived to Ben Than in 30 minutes. Then I walked up Le Loi road. I walked up to the Rex hotel and realized that I was on the wrong road. While I pass the street, I saw this little guy with green uniform. I guess he is one of the tourist polices. I am still not sure whether I should call him police or not but he somehow looks like a policeman. His main job was to cross the street with the pedestrians. He just stands and waits for tourist to pile up at one side of the street. When he I ready, he gives them a sign and starts to walk with them. He crosses the street probably twice every minute. I thought about this little guy and his job. It can not be considered as a dangerous or a lucrative job. It is as simple as walking. Then the easier his job is the less he will get paid. I stood at one side of the road and watched him for a while. He was a serious guy and doing his job properly. It is all about caring about others. I thought about him as if he is one of the most important figures in the city. If he disappears now, nobody would notice his absence except for his supervisor. His job requires almost no skills. However, there was something attractive about his job. He was outside all day and observing all kinds of people. He helps drunken tourists to cross the road. He helps young children, pregnant women, businessmen, old ladies, government officials, students, young lovers, flower sellers, beggars, teachers etc… He observes them all. He must feel that the city needs him. His assistance is not something unnecessary.

While standing there, I decided to make the imagination longer and went through it. This guy’s grandfather had worked on Mekong river as a sailor. He was doing almost the same job with his tiny boat. The grandfather was taking passengers from one side of the river to the other side of the river. He listened to all sorts of the stories about his grandfather from his own father. In one of the story, grandfather tells how one can listen to the advice of river for a better living. Grandfather believed in the river as if the river is life itself. All the stories he narrated came from the heart of the river which flows through the purely refined human experiences. River speaks, river cries, river gets angry, river feels joyous, river keeps silent and even river sings… The summary of life can be found the infinite length of its current.

But one day, the grandfather did not listen to the river. It was a windy day. The current was strong. A few people came to spread the ashes of their loved one to the river. The grandfather asked to the river. The river told him that death is not the only thing these people are afraid of. They are more afraid of the people who might knock their doors in the night. Grandfather knew that only those who are not honest to themselves are scared of uninvited guests of darkness. Instead of rejecting them, he took them to the middle of the river. Nobody knew what he wanted to do. He might have felt the threatening look in the eyes.

They arrived to the middle of the river. Then the current became stronger, the wind blew harder… The boat capsized and all the people on the board have been killed by the current.

His father did not pursue the same job because there was no enough money in it. He basically started a small business but failed. Before his father died, he told him how grandfather died in the river and how important to listen to the river if one wants to survive. Then this little guy took this job to achieve his father’s wish…

* * *

It could be a story If I work on it but I am lazy to start a new story now. There are many incomplete ones and I should work on them before starting a new one.

I am tired again… Time to sleep… I hope I can write better things in coming days…

Letters from Vietnam 39

22 October 2006 – 21:02 – HCMC

This is the end of weekend or beginning of next week. I have no idea what I have done for last two days. Yesterday morning, I wrote a page and left home to walk around the city. I went to some bookstores to find some second hand books. Of course the one with the most books is n Pahm Ngu Lao road. I bought Sartre’s “The Nausea” and a book on Jung’s psychology. In the afternoon, I went to Mexican Restaurant. It is a nice place with a beautiful music but the constant intrusion of local sellers makes it a little bit less charming. I sat there and read David Park’s novel. Then I came back to write more. I was tired of walking but still could not sleep until 3 am. I watched football matches of two British teams and I chatted with an old student for more than an hour. The more I chat with him, the more I felt guilty of wasting time.

Today was a little bit different… I woke up around 9 am, had some breakfast and sleep again until 2 pm. Because there was a dinner at the hotel with a few teachers from the school, I have cancelled my plans of playing Frisbee…. Instead of Frisbee, I went to gym to work out.

Ohhh, I feel so sleepy now… I want to write a few things but they are not so important… I will get back to writing soon… Tomorrow evening I hope…

Now, I am going to bed now to have a long sleep…

Here is the beginning of the story I started to write yesterday. I don't know when I will finish it. I don't even know whether I will finish it or not. It looks ok to me by this way although it can not be considered as a story...

The Mousetrap

I woke up with a confused mind this morning. That was just a dream but I could not decide whether it was a drama or a comedy! I was driving a red Ferrari in an unknown place. At the beginning I felt the happiness of driving a luxury car but soon after this fake gladness, I fell into the guilt of a thief or a betrayer! Something was wrong! The girl sitting beside me was neither my wife nor someone I knew. Then something terrible happened. The steering wheel of the car broke off and I was in the middle of the road without any control on the car. The steering wheel was in my hands without any connection to the car’s body. It was funny if I had been a cartoon character. I threw the steering wheel out of he car and tried to control the car without thinking about decreasing the speed. Somehow I managed driving but soon I realized that I could not be able to stop the car by pressing the pedals. The guilt inside me grew larger and larger as if it wants to swallow me while I was busy with the car’s problem. There was no way to stop it and the girl beside me seemed untroubled with the problem. “Who was she? I asked myself after waking up. A lady with large sparkling eyes unlike the small unsown slits of those who come from her ancestors’ country! I knew where she was from! I knew the odour of her breath! I knew the smoothness of her skin without touching her neither in dream nor in real… However, it was still scary to be with her.

I started to interpret this dream even before I woke up. I don’t know how and during what portion of my sleep but I remember the thoughts passed through my mind. Am I losing the control of my life with a single look of a woman? Her presence beside me and her calm reaction to the occasion made me think that she enjoyed the whole occasion somehow. While I was bewildered with the lack of control, she was happy with sitting beside me as if the only thing she wanted to achieve in her life was to sit there beside me and smile.

All my day passed with the thoughts about this dream. Wherever I looked in the room, I saw her face. I tried to forget but the more I tried the more it sticked to my mind like overly chewed gum in the hands of a little girl. I remembered the first day I saw her! The first encounter, the first smile and the first words to be exchanged! Her eyes were trying to escape from direct contact as if eyes are the first witnesses of passionate loves; her hands were holding each other as if they are protecting themselves from my hands. I thought melodramatic fantasies in which she was a victim and I was a hero. The wrong thing about these fantasies was the laughter escorting it at all the time as if she was watching and recording the scenes of my mind with an illegal camera. In fact, there was something illicit about her, something incoherent, and something threatening!

While crossing the street, I, unintentionally, behaved like her husband and she briefly dismissed my attempt of protecting her by keeping her at my left side while cars were coming from right side. Similar thing happened in the bus too. I was leaving her the windowside like good husbands do but she looked at my face and forced me to sit on the windowside. I felt embarrassed with her independence or at least beingindependent from myself.

When she said that she has been married for four years I felt happy but later the similar guilt settled on my soul again. I questioned my happiness! Did I feel it in a way I should have as a friend or a co-worker? I doubted it. It was more or less the possibility of sharing a sin! Unfortunately, the possibility of sharing something unethical made me feel better since I would be able to confront myself with claiming half of the responsibility if it really occurs. The shame of provocative thoughts held me in the air for a while as if I am the hat of a guest waiting for being hanged to the nail on the wall. The fire of passion surrendered my mind in a way I could not think logically any more. It was a fire and like all the fires I decided to wait for the end so that I can discover the cause of it. But what if it never extinguishes? What if it burns and destroys everything I have before it stops. I felt like a helpless mouse in front of a trap. I am in front of it and I knew what will happen if I take my next step. I knew it clearly by observation but I still attempt to put my foot in the trap and get caught by the enormous pain of self-infliction. The piece of cheese was not the thing which can be held responsible for all this. It was never-ending hunger inside me…

Letters from Vietnam 38

19th October 2006 – 9:49 – HCMC
For the memory of grandmother…

“This is the river!” a boy shouted as if he has never seen it before. They were on the road for more than two hours to release the ashes of grandmother to the infinitely long surface of the river. They have carried the ashes in specially decorated containers and this is the last journey grandmother is going to take. The children were joyous with the first scene of the water and they were giggling with the happiness growing inside them. They were not aware of what made them happy but somehow they were thinking that it may not be so right to show happiness where others were either looking pale or shedding tears quietly and invisibly.

The coolness of the fresh water easily spread into the air with its strong odour. Everyone in the bus was stunned by the glimmering light beams coming from the surface of the river and it was difficult not to feel the power of life once watching the elegance of the purity in the water. Although they came here to commemorate grandmother’s death, livelihood of the water and its indefinite being force people to be optimistic for their future. The river was there, before they came, before the little boy exclaimed, before grandmother was born… It was infinite with its people around…The river created the people and gave life to villages around. It was the power of life they came to celebrate. It was recycling itself through mountains and the ocean. It becomes rain, then river, then ocean, then air, then cloud and then rain again…

The sun was setting down on the downside of the river as if the whole river is pouring into the sun to cool it down. It was late afternoon and soon it will be night with the silence of mourning family members and sound of flowing stream. The river was only one! It was one piece with arms, feet and body. It was a living creature same as people and trees. It was both the source of life and the life itself. It was one at every point as if it wants to deny the existence of time. At the beginning, at the middle and at the end where it joins to the ocean, there was only one river. All the fluctuations and turbulences happening in the river will disappear when it reaches to the ocean as if a crying child is hugged by his mother and soon he calmed down.

The family members stood beside the river and looked at it as if it is the one who will take the grandmother away from them. The cycle soon will be completed by the return of the ashes to the water again. Then, grandmother will travel in the wind and water, she will be part of earth and ocean, she will be part of indefinite cycles of being, births and deaths. It is the last journey for the people who are sending her but it is only a small part of a big journey of life which has no end in the every sense. She soon will be flying in the chaotic turbulences of wind then will land on the little waves of the water then soon she will join to the ocean where she actually came from.

The shimmering light from the surface of the river was amazingly vivid in the eyes of the family members as if they are spreading the ashes to a mirror whose surface is cracked and thousands of suns were blinking. Each fraction was a moment in the life of grandmother. Here she was born, here she got married, here she gave her first child, here she lost her husband, here she saw her first grandchild, and here she learnt she is sick… All the tiny reflections of sun were giving a little clue about her life. One of her life-long friends looked at the river as if she was looking at her friend. They were going to school together somewhere on this river… She tried to catch the moments of joyful days on the glimmering surface.

Then, the oldest son took a handful of ashes into his right hand. It was time to say good bye but it was difficult somehow. He has seen others were doing this ceremony many times without feeling what it really means for the ones who lose their loved ones. He looked at his children’s faces and saw his mother’s deep silhouette. Without any intention, he smiled shortly. The birds were still singing with the joy because they knew that if the sun sets today, it will rise tomorrow again. But the eldest son of grandmother knew that this is the last time he will have chance to be with his mother. He released the ashes in his hand to the wind… The colour of gray started to move from his hand as if a sort of magical elixir was flying away from an alchemist’s hands. The ashes soon became the part of the air. It did not take more than a few seconds for the ashes to disappear with the power of the wind. They were in the river now as invisible tiny dust particles moving with the current of the water toward the redness of the setting sun. One more time, grandmother was moving in the hand of nature as if a body floats on surface of the water without caring where the waves take it just because the ultimate trust between the waves and his/her body. She will soon arrive at the ocean to unify with the “one” and melt in the pot of “oneness”. Some call it God, some simply call it nature, and some call it Brahman. It does not matter what worldly name you give to the light of one regarding on your belief. The ultimate end for everyone and for everything does not change… To return where we came from!

Then other sons and daughters came one by one… They did the same thing while hardly keeping the tears in their eyes. The river promised them that grandmother will safely take the journey and will soon be “one” in the boundless mercy of the ocean. There was a silence in everybody’s heart… Silence for grandmother’s long prosperous life… Prosperous with deeds and children…

The silence was broken with buzzing sound of a telephone. It was the eldest grandson, calling from hospital. He told his father that he just held his first baby girl in his arms. Father smiled and without much thinking asked his son what name he plans to give to the new baby. The eldest son understood what his father wants to say. He slowly said the name of grandmother to the ears of his father as if there was no other choice. Father smiled and lifted his telephone to the air to show people around him as if he is showing the baby. He shouted “My son had a daughter…” The people smiled with enormous relief. Then father added the words, “She will carry my mother’s name…” The joy one more time struck to the family. Grandmother was back! As the river promised, the ashes become water, water becomes air, air becomes clouds, clouds become rain and rain becomes river…

Letters from Vietnam 37

18^th October 2006 – 06:23 – HCMC

Arrival to Vietnam was quite easy this time. Nothing was surprising! The military-dressed custom officials, long queues in front of the desks, taxi drivers who ask every 3 seconds where I want to go and of course the sounds of honking cars… Everything was ok! I did not feel strange in Vietnam this time. I might be getting used to the invisible order in the chaos! I rejected all the taxi drivers and walked to the bus, which was waiting just 50 metre away from the exit door of the airport. I waited 10 minutes in the bus and then the journey started. I was starting to feel sleepy due to the meal I had in the airplane. Instead of putting my head into the book’s pages, I watched the city through the window.

Motorcycles were moving like ants! Their movement reminds me the rush of ants carrying grains of rice to their home. The main purpose of the movement is to get the best benefit for the future of the colony. Especially the workers live only for the sake of the queen and the queen lives only for the sake of the next generation. As soon as the queen becomes useless to the colony, workers eat the queen too. Eventually, the only thing the ants serve is next generation. The selfishness of productivity! These motorcycles were doing the same thing! They drive with the highest speed they can and they beep as frequent as possible to make the journey easier for everybody. I was not sure they were rushing either for reproduction or money but if we think human life as a whole, it is impossible to deny the desire to have children for a person. Then everything we make is a result of our desire for next generation. This is what we call “life”.

When there is no order in a system, the chaos evolves to order in a matter of time. Here the traffic can be considered as the system and it is determined by individual motorcycles and cars. There are certain rules, which are known to everyone but still they are not enough. There is a cyclic relationship between the individual vehicles and the traffic. They determine each other and at the end the best for all works. For example, the speed of an individual motorcycle is determined by the density of the traffic and at the same time density of the traffic is determined by the speeds of all motorcycles. –we can think of the average speed-. The chaotic scene disappears once a motorcycle enters into the system because chaos is only visible to outsiders. Those who do not observe the rules of the engagement from inside may not be able to see the order and how order is created by chaos. I think the evolution of living things can be understood by the same way. That is why we call the most primitive form of life as “selfish gene”. The sperms race for the egg and the strongest one can enter the garden of magic. The French feminist writer, Simone de Beauvoir, denies this process for the ground it supports masculinity of the society. In her famous book, “Second Sex”, she argues that the egg plays an active role when it lets the sperm gets inside. She also shows scientific studies regarding this rarely known fact. What she says is basically the egg chooses the best of the sperms which are somehow equally strong to enter. I don’t know what modern science really says about it but if it is true, it might change our perception of power struggles of genders in modern society.

After motorcycles I have seen the booksellers on the pavement. I have seen English or French books before but these were Vietnamese books. It reminded me Istanbul streets again… While I was looking out the window, I felt that the young girl sitting at the other side of the midway was looking at me as if she wants me to talk with her. I don’t remember how we started talking but soon I learnt that she is a high school student and simply wants to practice her English. I wish I could tell her that I am not the person she was looking for to practice speaking. I talked with her about her school and her preferences about the university. She said she wanted to study design. At that moment, I remembered that there was a very nice article in the newspaper I bought in Bangkok. I gave it to her. She was surprised as if I was giving her something valuable. She thanked me and gave me a paper crane she just made by using the ticket for the bus.

At Ben Than I walked shortly to the bus station. There were people everywhere. One funny thing about Vietnam is lady motorcycle drivers. They drive motorcycles but they do not ignore their health. It is very easy to see ladies riding motorcycles as if they just robbed a bank because the cloth they cover their face with shows them like burglars. I guess the function of the cloth on their faces is to protect their lungs from the dust and gas. They also cover their arms and hands with long hand gloves. J thinks that Vietnamese women care about their skins more than Thai women do. I think it might be correct because Thai women consider only about skin colour as the factor of the beauty. Since Vietnamese people have a lighter skin, they might be considering the smoothness and softness of the skin as a main factor.

Then I arrived at home. It costed me only 4,000 VND to come home. If I have taken a taxi, I guess I would have paid more than 100,000 VND. I liked the deal and happily entered the apartment. The room was smelly and the floor was dusty. I opened the windows and let the fresh air to come in. At the end, it was nice to be home… I say home although I did not really enjoy living here but as a simple person I usually feel I am belong to where I make money and where I keep my books, computer and letters… From this perspective, my home is Vietnam now and it will not change for at least eight months more. Then I will decide whether I will stay here longer or not.

After putting my bag down and giving a noisy breath, I said to myself –because there was nobody to greet me- “Welcome back home!”.

Letters from Vietnam 36

17^th October 2006 – 10:04 – HCMC

As soon as I woke up, I realized that I lost Lodge’s novel which I was planning to read and finish in the bus. Technically, it was not lost because I knew where I left it in the bus. With the disappointment of darkness in the bus, I put the book in the pocket of the front seat. Then, it must be still there if nobody found it late… It was bad for me because there were only 20 pages to finish the novel and now the only thing I can do is to imagine the rest of the story myself…

After having a shower, I went outside and made a few phone calls. First, I went to meet with a Turkish friend, H. I have never met him before ad we knew each other from the e-mail group which has been set up for Turkish people living in Thailand. We sat and talked about various things. He is one of the few people reading my blog and even commenting. I went to buy more books from Dasa. I looked for my lost book so I can sit and read there until I finish the novel but they did not have another copy. I bought two books from Ben Okri and a novel from David Park. Park’s novel is called “The Big Snow” and on the cover, it says “if you liked McEwan’s “Atonement”, you will adore this.” I did not read “Atonement” but I read “The Daydreamer” and “Enduring Love” from Mc Ewan and I enjoyed both of them. The story reminds me Pamuk’s “Snow” but I think in essence it is very different… This is more about family affairs, the silence of snow and a murder. At least, this one is not political.

When I looked at the cover of the book, I wished there could be snow, which can cover my past. I wish I had a storm inside me and that storm brings some kind of snow which can smooth all the turbulences, all the fluctuations and all the vexations of my life… Snow, in its silence and potential power to hide the differences is a unique image for literature people. It covers all the differences, all the ugly scenes and all the undesired effects of the past. Before it snows; usually the cold weather and storm send people to indoors. Then, the sound becomes nothing as if there is only the snow on the earth. The crowd of the cities, the honks of cars, screams of children disappear. People prefer to stay at home and enjoy watching how the snow wipes out everything visible and create a new world which is temporary in every perspective. Soon later, all the artificial differences become invisible to bare eyes so the whole world becomes “one thing” as if just created. This “one thing” is actually what many humanist philosophers dreamed as the only future of the human kind to survive. Under the snow, it does not matter the type of the soil or the quality of the road. Before anybody walks on the snow, it seems like nobody lived on this earth and nobody will live. The smoothness of the surface, the brightness of the snow tells thousands of stories about loneliness, abandonment and worthlessness. Because we can not differentiate the differences any more, the temporary equality of all things in the nature makes the world more liveable and even more loveable.

However, I knew that the snow inside will be more deadly than snow outside. To forget the past, to ignore all the priorities and to wipe out the devil appearances will not make me a happier person. It is because I am who I am with my past experiences and whenever I wipe my past, I wipe myself. This is one of the reasons why the idea of heaven is absurd. In heaven, we are not supposed to get bored. This means, there will be no boring times in heaven. But this also means that there will be no pleasure because we can know pleasure by only denying boredom. If we wipe out all the undesired characteristics of a person, he will not be a “human” any more. He might be called “angel” but not “human” since we are product of antagonist/dialectical powers inside us. I will be definitely rejecting to be a person who is not be able to think of bad things because that person will not be me. In this case, the heaven will be full of zombies who are incapable of doing what they want just because their free will has been cleared by a snow storm before entering the kingdom of God.

I left the bookstore and went to meet another friend. In the evening, I had dinner in front my hotel. The cook was a woman whose right hand was amputated. She was cooking with her left hand but she seemed a happy woman. Her husband and her child were around her, helping her to run the business. I looked at her deeply, talked with her about the daily things and definitely admired her hard-working. With these poor conditions, she was not making problem to anyone and working for her family. I was a little bit ashamed of myself. Probably, I make at least 5 times more money than she makes and probably I have more things to make me happy in this life, I always look at the empty part of the glass and complain. This is what tyring to be western minded makes me. Thai people are usually satisfied with what they have in their lives and they do not complain much with the things the do not have. Of course, there are people who are happy only with money everywhere in the world, especially in big cities but generally speaking, Thailand deserves the reputation of land of smiles with the people who enjoy the simple lives and traditions. She lost her right hand but she knows how to keep her spirit high by forgetting her lost hand and keeping her work with left hand. This is the secret of happiness. As I mentioned above, the snow already smoothed her past and with her family she can look at he future with hope…

During the dinner, I met with an Australian guy, P, who was a supporter of Hitler. I did not like him and I did not want to argue with him about Holocaust. He showed me the anti-Semitic tattoos on his body. One of hem was saying: Death to Zionism. I tried to change the topic of our conversation to different things like football –with an Australian guy!!!- or Thailand. Then he said he had a trouble with a young girl in recent days and it costed him 25,000 Baht. Apparently, the girl got pregnant and he had to pay for the expenses of abortion. I left him on the dinner table with his bottle of beer and fried scorpion/insects. I went to my room, read a few pages from the biography of Kafka and fell in sleep very easily.

Next morning, I woke up late and around 11 am, left the hotel for the airport. This time my experience with the airport was easier. The only problem I had was the difficulty of finding a public phone which works properly. I tried four telephones and none worked. At the end, in the room where we are supposed to wait for the airplane, I found a public phone and it worked. I called J and told her that I am safely boarding the airplane. She wished me good luck. Then, a few minutes later I was on the clouds with the following –somehow familiar- paragraphs from Kafka’s letter to Oskar Pollak:

“But it does one good when the conscience receives extensive wounds, because they make it more sensitive to each prick. I believe, one should read only the books that bite and sting. If a book we are reading, doesn’t wake us up with a punch on the head, what are we reading it for? … We need the books which affect us like a disaster, which pain us deeply, like the death of someone dearer to us than ourselves, like being lost in the woods, far from everyone, like suicide, a book must be the axe for the frozen sea in us.”

It is interesting that Kafka uses the metaphor of “lost in the woods” very often. In his another letter to Pollak, he writes this:

We are abandoned like lost children in the woods. When you stand and look at me, what do you know of the pain within me and what do I know of yours?

I will write about Kafka in coming days…

Letters From Vietnam 35

16^th October 2006 – 15:11 – HCMC

My last day in the village was very lonely because the whole family was busy with the funeral preparation. J’s aunts went shopping and her father was busy with planning. J and one of her cousins came home in the afternoon to print the invitations for the funeral. I kept reading almost all day. In the evening, just one hour before the trip to Bangkok, I went to the house of grandmother to say goodbye to everyone. Actually, J’s parents wanted me to come because they wanted to take photos with the coffin. I went inside the house after greeting more than a dozen of people. We sat in front of the colourful freezer which was now covered with flowers and all sorts of flashing lights and our photos have been taken several times. I was totally against this thing but J forced me to do this because according to her this was a tradition. I thought it can be only a matter of advertising because they put our names on the flowers –including my name because J bought some- so we have to prove that we attended the funeral personally. I was confused with the “proof” part because I did not understand for who I have to prove that I was there!!! Another thing kept my mind busy was our appearances! Were we supposed to smile or look sad when the photo in front of a coffin taken? I am sure we should not smile with a grin on our faces but what is the point to make a fake sadness –since people around there were not sad any more, outside some men were playing gamble, some were drinking beer and whiskey- when others around were smiling. I tried to put a meaningless expression on my face and left the room as soon as the job was done. I thought about the grandmother at that moment. In her silence presence, death and life look almost the same to me. It was because those who did not die yet can also use the death for their own worldly benefits. She was wit us, not physically but somehow her death was managing the whole funeral business. Before leaving the room, I lit a candle one more time and wished her a good journey. Although people around were not sad –or not looking sad-, thinking that a real woman lying in that large freezer and soon her ashes will be the only thing left behind made me almost cry. It was difficult and it becomes more difficult when you think about it. I went back to car and J’s father drove to bus station…

The journey from Ban Then to Bangkok was terrible. It was scheduled at 9 pm but the bus came almost 30 minutes late. That was ok since the later I arrive Bangkok, the easier it will be for me to find a decent hotel. The smell of beer and glances of drunken eyes stroke me as soon as I stepped inside. People must be drinking to fall in sleep easily. Then, the lady who in charge of the seats showed me my place but there was a problem. The woman and her baby were covering two thirds of the double seats. There were so many things on the floor that it was impossible to extend my legs to front. J was outside, looking at me with her sad eyes. It was more difficult for her this time because of the recent events happened in the village. She cried a little when I hugged her outside and kissed her cheeks and forehead to keep her tears in the place where they belong to. I wish I could stay longer but I had to get back to Vietnam for my work on Monday morning. She will come here whenever she feels ready after the funeral… Probably, she will be here at the end of this month.

The baby was very cute and I spent a few minutes with playing with the baby and making him smile. This of course made the mother happy as well. However, the problems did not end. As soon as the bus took off, they turned the lights off. I was planning to finish Lodge’s novel in this trip and start a new book in Bangkok. They turned off all the lights so it was impossible to see anything if not trying to read! I was helpless again! Neither I could sleep because of the water container nor read a book because of the darkness, I asked the lady to change my place. She smiled and showed me another place which was beside a young woman. She even said something in English when I tried to move my backpack but I could not understand her accent. Then, the sound from the ceiling started to trouble me! It was not a small sound! It was like a drill working on a concrete wall and it did not stop until the bus arrived to Bangkok. So the entire night, I turned left and right, looked out the window, tried to figure out some stories, thought about J and her family… I did not sleep all night until 3 am. At 3 am, a couple from front seat got off the bus and I jumped on their seats. The sound was less intense in the front side and I had a larger space to put my body. I slept in that place for an hour. It was ironical because the girl who was sitting beside me in my second place came and woke me up.

I got off the bus and soon took a taxi. It was amazing that there was traffic at 4 am in Bangkok. The entrances of some junctions were full of taxis. I told the taxi driver to take me to somewhere near BTS and away from bars. In 20 minutes, we were in Nana. He showed me BTS and he left. I walked on the streets with my big bag on my back. It was another experience about Bangkok since I have never walked in the city streets this late –or this early- before. The roads were full of people coming from bars. There were so many foreigner men with their young, tiny Thai girlfriends. Actually, the word “girlfriend” is a little bit ambiguous here since it usually implies a serious relationship between partners. In Western countries, “girlfriend” and “wife” are almost the same things in some places like Holland, Austria and even England. In Thailand, people use the word “girlfriend” for the girls they met a few hours ago. I never used the word “girlfriend” for J. She was my friend, then became my “love”, then became “indispensable for me”, then became “wife”. I don’t like the word “girlfriend” just because it spoils the two single words, which make up the composition. “Girl” and “friend” have their own meaning but when they are put together, the meaning jumps over something very different.

It was amazing to see that how the hookers beside the road catcall me with the words “I love you!” At that moment, I thought about what she means by “I love you”. It reminded me the Vietnamese girl in Kubrick’ cult movie “Full Metal Jacket”. She was saying “Me love you long time!” The sentence “I love you” becomes a tool for communication in the early mornings of Bangkok, instead of being a tool for expression. When she says “I love you!” to a man she saw first time in her life, she means two things. One is obvious: I love your money! She might be seeing me as a sack of US Dollars! The second thing is deeper and more painful: She loves a man just because he passes through the road at that moment. She communicates with me by using the most cliché words she can ever imagine. Her voice sounds like a note on a window of a shop selling mobile phones or furniture. She says I am ready to be your slave for an hour or two as long as you pay me well! What she can give me is a big question! Other than an illusion or fear of self-denial! What makes her behave like this is seeing a white man walking on the street at 4 am in the morning. This is basically a summary of Bangkok in the nights. Daytime, it is very easy to spot 70 years old western men with 20 years old Thai girls. Some of these men are shy with the age of their partners so they don’t walk together. The men go in front and the girl follows him as if the entire city is a spy on their relationship and the distance between them protects him from being embarrassed. The man looks back every five seconds to watch his partner if she follows or not. What are they shy of is a mystery because Thai people think it as a normal thing. Nobody blames those girls as long as they make money for the country. They live a miserable life but they make good money comparing with the ones who work at the factories or in the rice farms. Does anybody care about the image of the country in international arena?

I walked through the road and saw a small hotel. I went inside and after a few seconds I left. What I have seen inside the lobby was enough for me to leave! There were three foreigner men and two Thai men at the reception. All were drunk. One foreigner was sitting on the reception desk and others were forcing him to drink more. They were probably the happiest creatures on the earth at that moment but this happiness was enough to make me to leave the place. I took another taxi and asked him –clearly and distinctly this time- to take me somewhere without bars, bargirls, drunken people etc… He took me to the other side of the city. Then, I checked in a small hotel which was relatively quiet and clean. At least, I haven’t seen any girl or drunken foreigner around when I checked in. I went to room and fell in sleep very easily. When I woke up, time was 12 o’clock.

Day 7 - Math and Art

13 October 2006 – 12:01 – Chaiyapum

Today is my last day in Chaiyapum and this is probably the last post to my blog during my Thailand visit. I will be in Bangkok tomorrow morning to see a few more friends, to buy a few more books and to visit a few more places. I was planning to write on Orhan Pamuk, Nobel Prize and Armenian Genocide but a question, which has been posted on Math World (Matematik Dunyasi) e-mail group caused a swift change in my mind. It will also be better for me to read and think more before writing on controversial issues like genocide or Nobel Prize.

The question was about the relationship between Art and Mathematics. In recent years, it is a raising issue in young people’s minds and it is very easy to find plenty of information on Internet if one only tries to search. Once you click on search button, you will definitely find thousands of web pages devoted to Fibonacci Numbers, Escher’s paintings, Golden Ratio, Functions with Complex Variables and Fractals etc… It is very common in modern world to connect everything with everything without knowing the real source of the connection. To appreciate the beauty is always considered one of the main responses to an art object. This is why when we stand in front of an art piece, we appreciate both the art and the artist. I believe that almost all mathematicians have a desire to show to the whole world that Math itself is beautiful and it does not need any other supplementary factor to make it look more beautiful. Actually, I know that this is one of the main principles of the Matematik Dunyasi. Unfortunately, it is impossible not to indulge the mathematicians with external beauties.

Firstly, I would like to say that I am sick to death of the articles on finding Fibonacci Numbers and Golden Ratio in nature, drawing fractals on computer with admiring sounds, figuring out how mathematically perfect bodies we have etc… The writers of these articles usually have two main purposes. They would like to gain attention of mathematically-blind – This is a new word. It might mean the people who do not spend much time Mathematical concepts more than daily needs like addition, multiplication etc… - people by surprising them so that the article –or the book where the article is located- will be sold more. The other reason is unrelated with Math but more related with religion. The writer wants to say that our minds and the nature both have been created by the same omnipotent/omniscient God. Therefore, we are here to find it out and appreciate His beautiful design and art. It can also be interpreted as our minds, our bodies and our thought are all coming from the nature in the evolutionary perspective but the writers usually skip this alternative because it is totally against the message they want to give. I am against to both of these approaches. Let me explain why!

Firstly, there is nothing more usual than finding the Golden Ratio in nature. We can find it in the nature because the ratio itself is natural. When I say it is natural, I don’t mean the golden ratio itself is a natural number. It is well-known that the number is irrational. What I am trying to say is the ratio comes as a result of a natural sequence. At the end, Fibonacci numbers can be found in nature wherever we have reproduction process. It is a sequence of all zeros (babies) become one (adult who is ready to give birth) and all ones give birth to a zero while keeping itself alive at each step of reproduction. We start with a 0, then it second ste, it becomes 1, then 1 becomes 10 (itself and the baby) and 1 again becomes 10 and 0 become 1, so we have 101, then 10110, 10110101, 1011010110110, 101101011011010110101 etc… As you easily see, the number of digits sums up to Fibonacci Numbers. Once you divide consecutive terms, the limit will approach to 1.618033988… ,which is known as golden ratio. This kind of reproduction can be seen in sunflowers, seashells and the leaves of trees. In the famous “kitch” novel “Da Vinci Code” , the writer gives Fibonacci sequence as a password of a bank account. Then the novel goes with other secrets of Mona Lisa… We all get surprised when we read the paragraphs with mathematical concepts since it sounds exciting. But why do we get excited when we see these numbers in an artwork or in the columns of a temple! Isn’t it normal?

I used to believe that Mathematics is queen of all knowledge because it is not empirical like Physics, Chemistry or Biology which are usually called natural sciences because they are based on observation and experiment. It is party true that mathematical knowledge is based on deductive reasoning much more than any other source of knowledge like experiment or observation. Mathematicians, throughout the centuries, believed that Math is a pure product of our mind, it is irrefutable, undeniable and permanent. Since the time of Plato, philosophers had this definition for Math and kept it as a last castle to be occupied by the skeptics. However, the recent developments in Physics and Mathematics changed people’s paradigm. We have found that even in Math there can be more than on truth at the same time relative to where you stand. Euclidian and Riemanian spaces do not form a consistent unique Math. Conversely, they create different Maths. This can bring a big question to our mind! Is mathematics really pure product of human mind? I doubt it! I might define Mathematics as a generalization of the natural objects. I admit that there is no circle in nature, so we have defined it in the world of Mathematics. We don’t have Euclidian space but we could have been imagined a perfectly smooth surface and had perfect lines, points, rays, triangles etc… on it. Once we have lines and squares, we can have the concept of area. Then, we can prove Pythagorean Theorem, then we can prove many other theorems. Proving processes do not need observations since the mathematical objects are perfectly defined and isolated from effects of worldly troubles. It does not matter whether North Korea tries another Nuclear Bomb or President Bush picks his nose while trying to clear another microphone gaff for the fact of 28 is a perfect number. 28 is a perfect number because it satisfies all the conditions of being a perfect number. However, the concept of number or the concept of adding is not something we discovered from out of nowhere. Basically, Math was never somewhere in our brain faculties. Slowly and patiently, human civilization built it on the basis of observation and generalization. I don’t believe the flying man – a man who is lack of his five senses- of Ibn-I Sina can understand the Mathematical concepts as we can. For more information about the nature of mathematical knowledge, I got most of these opinions from David Deutch’s famous book which I have read years ago: The Fabric of Reality: http://www.qubit.org/people/david/FabricOfReality/FoR.html He basically claims a similar thing that I tried to explain in above paragraphs briefly.

If we can accept that Mathematics was born from basic observations of daily life and developed as a generalizations and evolution of these observations, we can now start to talk about art. In classical term, art is defined as imitation of reality. From Plato to Renaissance, there was not much change. Art object was not supposed to show the incompleteness of reality because eventually reality itself is an imitation of ideal world. A certain person might have messed up his life, might have an unusual body or might have cheated on his wife but the perfect man in the realm of ideas is very different. He is more or less similar to statue of Alexander the Great or David. The main target of the artist is to depict the idea, not the reality. This concept of art naturally modified to today’s modern art with the advent of developments in Science and Technology. Stendhal defines novel as “take a mirror in your hand and walk through the streets of Paris”. How many of us can define man’s body better than Michalengelo’s David or a woman’s body better than Boticelli’s Venus? However, in literature, Flaubert’s Madame Bovary symbolizes the end of the era because Emma Bovary was not a perfect woman. Neither was Anna Karenina or Sonya! Actually, the concept of perfect man or woman also varies in different times and different societies but this is another issue. Today’s artists express art in different ways. An artist can depict the problems in the poor countries of Africa and it is obvious that the realm of perfect ideas will not be enough to reach this target. Renaissance art imitated reality in a way, which is supposed to be more perfect than the reality itself. This makes sense for the ones who try to find a connection between Mona Lisa and Golden Ratio or the columns of Parathion and golden rectangle.

As a conclusion, Mathematics and Art can be considered as related and there is nothing extraordinary about it because they are both coming from the same source. They both imitate reality to some extent and take their own methods to reach their targets. Math itself is beautiful with simple proofs of complicated theorems, with the way of thinking straight, with the methodology of using mind correctly. This should be enough to appreciate Mathematics, as it is itself an art piece created by accumulated efforts of all humanity. Of course, there is no point in hanging the frame of a printed version of Euler Equation in your living room. That is why we appreciate the works of Escher and Bach. Both of these artists have strong mathematical background in their art. We can see the mathematical complexity in Escher’s paintings as well as the harmony in Bach’s music. The beauty in math is not something visible. It is more like mental beauty and can be revealed by the interpretation of either artist or the mathematician. I am sure, those who enjoy doing math can understand me better. As a Math teacher I used to tell my students “Math is beautiful” and they always blamed me for this optimism toward Math. However, I had the privilege of having some smart and caring students who understood my words after working hard to learn Math. At the end, As Mevlana says, if you want to know how it feels to be burnt alive, you must enter our dergah (community of dervishes).

Vacation in Thailand - Day 6

12 October 2006 – Chaiyapum – 23:51

Grandmother passed away at 9:05 pm. I and J were sitting in the living room. I was reading Lodge’s novel and she was looking at the TV. Then the phone rang. J’s mother called her to her uncle’s house where grandmother was staying. She was in very critical condition. I said to J that I am coming with you. There was no reaction! She did not say anything. I started to motorcycle and we were in the other house in less than 2 minutes.

The house was filled with more than twenty people. Three daughters of grandmother were sitting beside the bed and holding grandmother’s body. The sons and son-in-laws either running around for some arrangements or standing still. The eldest son who has a paralyzed leg and an arm, was sitting on a wooden sofa far from the grandmother. It was impossible not to feel the grief once I entered to the room. I first hesitated to enter the room because I was unaware of behaving in a room like this. Then I decided to enter. I stood still lvery near to the bed and watched grandmother’s face. She was in pain and rejecting all kind of medical treatment. There was nothing to do for the people there other than waiting for the end. I saw all the daughters and daughters of daughters were crying. No men seem to be emotional except for the eldest son. In his silent look, he seemed weak and helpless.

Although there was a great grief in the room, the people waiting outside were behaving quite differently. I heard some people were laughing loudly. A kid –one of the grandsons- was playing a computer game. Nobody was blaming others for not being respectful to the patient. I found this very interesting because in my culture the kids are not even allowed to the room of dying person. They are not allowed to witness death. However, in this culture, death is part of an ongoing process of life. Everybody can watch the patient and his/her last breath.

Soon time arrived! Grandmother gave her last breath with the tears dropping from the eyes of her daughters and granddaughters. I was still standing without knowing what to do and where to go. I put my arms crossed on my chest with the same feeling of weakness. I did not know where to put them so to bind them on my chest was the easiest way. Somebody before my eyes gave her last breath and there was nothing I could do other than watching her and the people around. Soon, people stopped crying. The oldest man in the room checked grandmother’s pulse and made sure that she is really not with us any more. Then, they prepared grandmother for bathing. I helped people to carry the things around. They first carried grandmother to the frontyard of the house. There, they cleaned her body with warm water. It was another amazing scene because everyone in the village was coming to have a look at the bathing ceremony. Some people were crying while others were laughing during the job. I was bewildered but somehow considered it as normal. After finishing the washing, they brought her body back to the same room. Daughters and the oldest man powdered her body, dressed her with clean clothes and put her eyeglasses on. She was ready for the funeral.

Then, the coffin came. I again helped to carry the coffin and put grandmother’s body inside. That was the only time I had a chance to touch her skin. Her body was still warm and very soft. It reminded me my wedding party where she tied white threads around my wrist while she prays for J and me. She devoted her last years in temple life and used to stay in a small temple away from the village. Last Songkran, we visited her in that temple and I poured water into her hands while she was murmuring her good wishes.

Then, we closed the cover of the coffin. One of the daughters brought a few personal belongings she used in her last days. A comb, a silver color metal belt, pillow etc… Some of them are put in the coffin and some are put in another plastic bag. I later heard from J that all these things will be burnt together with grandmother’s body. I was actually shocked with the speed of all this progress. They even did not wait for a medical doctor to declare the death. I remember my own grandmother’s death. After her last breath, everyone waited for a medical expert from city municipality to make sure that she is dead. Then they took her body to the nearest mosque for the final bathing. Here the process is very fast.

There were pictures of grandmother and her deceased husband on the walls of the room. Her husband also has died of a similar type of cancer long ago. When the big freezer arrived to the house, I again gave hand to carry it. It was very heavy but because at least ten men held it somehow, it did not take too long to install it in the room. By the time, we brought the freezer inside, oldest man and some grandmother’s son-in-laws were discussing the direction of the coffin and other details for the visitors. At the end, they agreed on a direction. We put the coffin inside the freezer. A monk who was long waiting outside came in and lit a big candle by the side of the freezer. The picture of grandmother was replaced beside the freezer. An electrician installed flashing colored lights on it. After all this work, the freezer reminded me colorful door of a karaoke bar –sorry for the analogy but this is what it reminded me, no offense!-. It was colorful with the density of yellow but flashing blues and reds were making it look very cheerful. People started to bow before the freezer one by one, lit a candlestick and pray for a few seconds. I did the same thing just after J did. Since I did not know what to say in my pray, I said a few Turkish words as a good wish. I wish I could come up with better things but in that time I could not figure out something deep and meaningful. If God really exists, I am sure He would understand all the languages and even the feelings of speechless people. I was one of them!

There were more people coming after me to say their good wishes. I sat beside the wall and watched the people. After a while, I realized that nothing else would happen. The older people made a circle to talk about the funeral issues. I saw J’s father writing the items to be purchased or to be done. I asked J if I can go home since I was feeling useless sitting beside the wall and looking at people’s faces without understanding what they were talking about. She gave me the keys for the house and now I am at home.

J just arrived at home with her two young nieces. They were taking baths now. I guess it is time to stop now and go to bed. I feel tired, physically and emotionally…

Vacation in Thailand - Day 3 - 6

12 October 2006 – 15:35 – Thursday – Chaiyapum

Reading David Lodge reminds me Thailand and the expatriate residents of the country. When one of the characters in the novel talks about the artificiality of Hawaii, the picture she depicts just fit to my mind as if the character actually talking about Pattaya or Phuket. Here is a few quotes from the page 176 of Paradise News:

Life here is incredibly bland. Nothing important happened in Hawaii since Pearl Harbor. The sixties passed almost unnoticed. News from the rest of the world takes so long to get here that by the time it arrives here, it is not news any more. ……. It makes you feel out of time, somehow, as if you have fallen asleep and woken up in a kind of dreamy lotus-land, where everyday is the same as the one before. Perhaps that is why so many people retire to Hawaii. It gives them the illusion that they won’t die, because they are a kind of dead already, just by being here. It is the same with the absence of seasons. We have a lot of weather, a lot of climate but no seasons, not so you’d notice. Seasons remind you that time is passing. I can’t tell you how much I miss New England fall. The maple leaves turning red, yellow brown, dropping off the trees till the branches are black and bare. Then the first frost: Snow. Skating out of doors. Then the spring shoots appearing, buds, blossom… here it is blossom all fucking year…

Grand mother’s health is getting worse every second. They took her to another house for a reason I can not figure out. For a patient in her condition, I would rather not to move her to anywhere else. I am alone at home. Everyone in the family went to see her supposing that this might be her last day. They even did not ask me if I want to come with them. I guess they don’t want to see a non-Thai who will look bewildered and shocked all the time around the sick person.

This is another thing about Thai society. When they are happy, they like to share their happiness with foreigners. But when it comes to a tragic occasion, a foreigner must be out of vision to make the things clearer for them. I am not bothered with this attitude but somehow being excluded from a family tragedy makes me feel sick as if I am a stranger. I am part of the family and I want to be treated as a part of the family. I try my best not to make mistakes against their well-known customs and I spend enormous effort not to offend anyone by my usual manner – like walking stiff beside elders, extending legs in front of parents etc… - . It was different when J went to Turkey with me. My family took her as a new member of the family. She ate what we ate, she went where we went and she was happy with being a new member of a large family. I never feel this warm welcome from my in-laws. It might be because I am usually alone in my own world with the books and they may not want to trouble me. I don’t know why! I only know one thing: It is very common to say Thai people are friendly, warm-hearted and tolerant. But I also want to add a few more things: It is very difficult to make a Thai friend –I don’t mean having a Thai girl-friend- because Thai people usually keep the distance with foreigners as if we are the rivals. I haven’t seen any foreigner friend who had a Thai friend for long time. I had co-workers but I rarely went with them. Is this because I am so anti-social? But I easily make friends in expatriate communities. I have friends from all around the world but Thailand! I had some Thai friends from gym but somehow we could not be strong friends to keep it long time. Once should accept that the easiest thing in Thailand for a foreigner is to find a girlfriend if the word means “walking together, shopping together and sleeping together”. Actually, it is considered girlfriend even only the last condition holds. I have a friend from Alaska. Due to the health issues, he used to come to Chiang Mai every year to stay up to 3 months and then going to stay in Antalya for another 3 months. But for the last 2 years, he stopped visiting Thailand. The main reason for this he told me later was being so lonely in a society where people keep the distance with foreigners. Basically, he could not make friends here. Now he is spending the other 3 months in Mendoza. Partly I am happy for him since he found a solution for his problem but I am also sad for myself because I lost the only chance to see him during his visits to Chiang Mai.

Anyway, I actually intended to write something very different but the storm of disappointing things deviated me from my target. There was a Japanese man at the hotel we stayed in the first two nights of our visit. When I saw him first, he was drinking beer in the morning at 7:30. I saw him in the same day around 9 pm and this time he was drinking whiskey. Next morning, I saw him again, on the same table drinking beer again. What a wonderful life I said to myself. He was already drunk in the morning and trying to throw a feather stick to a nail on the wall. I watched him reminiscently. He threw it many times but the feather stick dropped on the floor in each attempt. Then, the owner of the restaurant tried to teach him how to throw it. He failed as well. Two foreigner tourists were also watching them. They wanted to try. Each of them tried twice and they gave up. The game –what else I can call?- was gaining more attention from the people around. By the time I was leavng the restaurant, Japanese guy took the turn again It reminded me the short story of Italo Calvino… Mary the key!!!

I and J went to visit our tenant on Monday afternoon. Because we had plenty of time, we first went to Mo Chit bus station and kept our bags in a safe. Then, we went to Future Park. I met with a Turkish friend to give him what he has ordered from Vietnam for his two little kids. We sat and talked for 20 minutes about his military service adventures and the recent coup in Thailand. By the time we were ready to visit our house, the rain started. It was raining crazy but somehow we managed to find a taxi without getting wet. The lady who rented the house was welcome to us. We had a long chat on the problems of the school for which I used to work till June 2006 and she started working 3 months ago. I left a box of chocolate to her so she can give them to my students from last year. Wanted to visit them but time was limited and there were many things to do.
We left the house and realized that Bangkok is under the threat of a certain flood. All the streets were filled with water. As soon as we arrived to Rangsit-Nakorn Nayok Road, the traffic started and did not ease until the junction of Ladprao. It took more than 2 hours to get to Mo Chit bus station by a taxi. This time taxi driver spoke only when he wanted to complain about the rain and the traffic. When we saw the depth of the water level at some points on the road, he kept making the sound of “o hoooo!!!” as if he is supposed to pass it bare footed.

We arrived at the Mo Chit and took the bus for Chaiyapum. It was a comfortable journey. I slept for the entire trip…