hinterlander

This Neighborhood Became a Graveyard “I was trying to reach the jet pilots,” Nur says, “the jet pilots and the snipers.” “Reach them how?” I say. She says the bombers would only fly over on clear days. The children would wake up and come outside; for a brief moment they were happy in the beautiful weather, and then they would remember what it meant and their faces would fall. The first sign of the bombers would be a glint of reflected sunlight just above the horizon, silent, ominous. Then came the drone of the engines. But the most terrifying sound was the electric whine of the bomb bays opening. When the first explosions came, if you could hear them then you at least knew that you were still alive. But there was always a second strike. The planes would spiral higher and higher and that time was the worst, waiting, knowing that more bombs would come but not when or where. The pilots were so high, so far from the ground, that they couldn't see that these were human beings below them.

A trip into the aftermath of the 2023 Turkey-Syria earthquakes. Stories of survival and life in the wreckage of Antakya. Meditations on life and death.

https://hinterlander.substack.com/p/this-neighborhood-became-a-graveyard

Oh wait does What's Hot mean the other kind of hot?

All attempts to kill the chosen name will be referred to as skeet shooting.

The little poem above came to me while I was walking in my favorite graveyard yesterday morning. For me it has a very pleasing symmetry in Turkish, but it doesn't translate into English very well. Such is life.

Turkish graveyards are incredibly beautiful places. Each grave is a little garden, and you can pay your respects by watering, or planting flowers, or weeding. Many graves have a little bird bath at the foot, so that birds will come and keep company with the dead.

Her mezar bir bahçedir, her bahçe mezar
Her geçen öğretmendir, öğrenci dahi geçer

Every grave is a garden,
every garden a grave
Every passerby* is a teacher,
even the student passes away

* also "dead person"

Putting it differently, practicing scales and chords might help you make fewer "mistakes" but it won't help you sing your heart out, that comes from a different place.

Just to offer a different viewpoint on your practice, maybe it's not the lack of boring exercises but the fear of getting it "wrong" that really holds us back. My experience is that the more I let that go, the more I find that I'm better than I thought I was at many things, not just guitar.

A beast with no shape and every shape
Squats vast, unseen, bones piled on bones
Arteries branching, bloodlines entangled
Ravenous, gobbling, succulent, festering
Trillions of mouths,
out of one I call mine
comes this song

The Ramadan fasting is not as strict as it seems. Some of my friends go into hiding for a snack, some water, or a smoke. But many people hold to it; you can hear their tongues sticking to their mouths after a day without water in this desert climate. Their commitment and determination touches me.

The logistics of iftar, the evening meal that breaks the fast, are impressive. Restaurants prepare to feed as many people as possible, with tables in the street, and then after everyone eats their food all at once, they break down as fast as possible so they can get home. One manic meal per day!

In this conservative Turkish city, drinking in public during daylight hours is frowned upon, not just alcohol but even water, because it's Ramadan. The few open cafes put up barriers lest we be seen from the street, and sipping tea with a friend feels a little perverted. Social pressure is powerful!

King, the peasants with torches and pitchforks were ready to go, but the whole rebellion got ruined when you switched to a nomadic lifestyle. I'm still looking for a position as court jester though, hmu.

Still trying to figure that out, but whatever they are, I doubt anybody is better qualified to post about them than you.

It's not redundant because it implies that you were inside at some point.

In retrospect, it wasn't the greatest idea to use a ball of yarn as the detonation mechanism.

Rich, this is cute, but you're still my favorite poster for your politics.

Water learns to chase the mountain's wrinkles
The mountain learns the river's wild bends
The sands of time spill from their eternal kiss
The beach learns the shape of my foot
And then, under the ocean's tongue, forgets

I love it though! Please don't forget to optimize for older devices like codices and scrolls.

My greatest ambition is to help heal the psychic misery and spiritual poverty that I see in my own people. I don't know how to go about it yet, so I decided to trust [higher power] to guide me, and it's been the most rewarding and enjoyable part of my life so far. Can't wait to see what's next.

I translated medieval Sufi folk poetry from Turkish (https://a.co/d/5XRJHC5) and now I'm working on songs, trying to fuse that vibe with the American singer-songwriter culture of my youth. To me Turkish folkways are like a lovely smile on a careworn face, and I want to show the world what I see.

Born and raised in the country by back-to-the-land hippies with a software company. Mom's a songwriter, Dad's a programmer, I'm both, trying to make words and shapes go together. Feels like I've lived many lives, currently in my dervish phase, learning Turkish to decode ancient Anatolian wisdom.

I want to be a tough old bird. Wrinkles like a treasure map to the good life, folded and unfolded so many times. A cracked voice that speaks no bullshit, and nourishes like bone broth cooked on the stove all night long. For my riches, only friends and a heart full of stories and songs.

I was thinking of it like Blooskee, because there's a trope where Americans during the Cold War called the Russians "Rooskees". Is that how the word for blouses sounds in Polish?

I just need to ask ya a coupla questions Mr. Bluesky. Bluesky, is that Polish or somethin? Are ya a Rusky, Bluesky?

Look, we know ya was runnin a numbers racket, we got all the evidence we need. Just tell me the truth and they'll go easier on ya!

Another essay about material wealth and spiritual poverty from when I was walking from Delaware to Ohio pushing my stuff in a homemade cart: https://hinterlander.substack.com/p/advanced-homelessness

Do you have any thoughts about this topic? I'd love to hear them.

Being back in Istanbul and seeing how the wealthy live here has got me thinking about an essay I wrote last year. I'm still fascinated by the question of how wealth and freedom can lead to spiritual poverty. Here it is:

https://hinterlander.substack.com/p/the-sultan-and-the-shepherd

More than you ever wanted to know: https://www.lesswrong.com/posts/rtM3jFaoQn3eoAiPh/explaining-the-twitter-postrat-scene

After reading the book three times, the closest I've come to understanding what goes wrong is that the spiritual breakthrough Abel is seeking is some kind of final perfect state, and only death (or absolute nothingness) can really measure up to the perfection he's imagining.

Meanwhile Abel continues with increasingly unhinged attempts to reach a spiritual breakthrough by taking more and more massive doses of acid. But every time he gets close to the breakthrough, he realizes that it is the void of death and he's too scared to cross over.