The Wit and Wisdom of Ali Ihsan ELMAS

"Isn't it strange", I said, "that we work and work, and then when we finally have free time, we don't even know what to do with it? We just look for different ways to kill it, because deep down we only want to get rid of it." "What do you mean?" he said. "If you don't know what to do, just go and see the famous places in the city. Don't try to over-intellectualise things." "You mean tourist attractions?" I asked. "The 'places you must see before you die' sections in magazines? That bullshit?" "Yeah," he said. "Why not?" Maybe he had a point. And I didn't have any better ideas, so I said, "Okay, I'll give it a try." I found a list of places to see in the city, and the Book of Kells was at the top. Some ancient book kept in Trinity College. I like universities, so I thought, what the hell, I'll go there. I bought the ticket, took the train, and got off at Trinity....

 I think it was 2018. I can’t remember which girlfriend I had broken up with at the time. Maybe it was one of those empty periods between my short-lived loves, when I was single but not exactly free. Back then, I always had someone, though it usually didn’t mean much. By then, I had accepted a certain truth about dating apps. I didn’t have the photos, the clothes, or the polished little lifestyle required to fuck nice, beautiful blondes. I don't dress well. I don't even like dressing well. Put me in a fashionable suit and I felt stupid, uncomfortable, like someone had dressed up a criminal for court. So I did what a man does when he wants experience more than beauty, I took whatever I could get my hands on. Usually, that meant the ugly and fat ones and that girl was no exception. She constantly taltked about sex. She was a veteran in the field. She told me stories about lesbian adventures, threesomes, things she had done, things she wanted to do. I wasn’t exactly attracted to h...

 Dear Mr. Fante, We never met, but a long time ago a common friend, Chinaski, told me you were a writer better than him. At first I didn’t believe it. You know how these things go. Bukowski says something like that and you think he’s either drunk, being generous, or both. But he kept at it. He told me to read you and decide for myself. So I did. Six or seven books later, I have to admit it: he was right. Good writers make me feel like giving them a call after reading their work, just to have a friendly chat. That’s how I decide if someone is a good writer or not. But you are dead and don’t have a phone, so I’m writing instead of calling. I hope you don’t mind. The reason for that call changes for me from writer to writer. For example, Kafka made me want to call him just to say take it easy and not be so harsh on himself. Stefan Zweig made me want to call him to discuss the world. Dostoyevsky made me want to call him to talk about the pain that people have to endure and whether it h...

 Dear Holden, How are you, man? Long time no see. The last time I heard from you, you needed some rest and you were staying at that sanatorium. You must have already left that place and gotten back to school by now, but we couldn’t talk after your treatment. Are you okay now—mentally and physically? You told me the doctor advised you to stop smoking; did you follow his advice? I read somewhere that even if you recover from pneumonia, it still leaves its marks, and if you aren’t careful it can come back even worse. I know you like smoking, but man, you’re too young to die—so take it a little slow, will you? I also remember you were talking with some shrinks, right? How did it go? Did they tell you something you didn’t already know? Or did they help you notice something about yourself or the world? If so, please let me know—I also want to learn. Anyway, you must be surprised to see this mail from me after all this time. The reason I’m writing is that I just wanted to chat with an old...

 Dear Bukoswki, I know you’re dead. It’s okay, so many people are dead: my father is dead, my grandma is dead, my uncle-in-law is dead. Even Lemmy is dead! I’ll be dead in 40 years, at most. But still, it doesn’t matter. I’ve read all your novels and stories, many of your poems, and I’ve even listened to your readings. That’s why I wanted to write to you: I take you as a friend. Anyhow, I’m writing this letter to ask for some advice. I’m feeling confused, Charles. I don’t know what the hell is going on with me—or with the world itself. I don’t have any answers, and probably not even the right questions, but with all your wisdom maybe you can enlighten me. Here’s how I feel, dear Hank: I feel like I’m waiting for something to happen. Something big, something that would give meaning to my life. No one ever promised, or even said, that anything important would happen to me, but I still wait anyway. Something that would put some joy in the air, some excitement, some gamble. Something t...

    Pondering:     Sitting at home on a lonely night. Thinking about the past, and how I wasted my life and am still wasting it. I don't know what I want to do with my life, and I feel the same old cliché: we never know what we have or what's important until it's completely gone and there's no way to get it back. Usually, we look for happiness in the wrong places as we misunderstand what's causing us trouble. Deceiving ourselves with the hope of happiness, thinking that "thing" we want will make everything fine. But I guess there's no perfect day, no perfect moment that will be. You won't be happy when you bang that girl or have that new outfit. It's just another way to keep yourself busy and escape from boredom. Time needs to pass somehow, so we need to do something - anything.      Reflecting:     I was looking at the photo where I'm with my father. I thought about how I never had the chance to know him. I mean, what were his fears? What ...