On a steep and narrow street in Istanbul, there is an antique store. One of many in that street.
This one is large, with many rooms all connecting by narrow hallways, all full. The store smells like old memories, belonging to other people. People you don’t know. And things you don’t know if they wanted to keep or not.
Touching them is like reading someone’s diary; not daring to do so, but you can’t resist. In the middle of the store, two men with gray hair, and a woman that you can guess has gray hair under her hijab, are sitting around a small table, with their finished coffee cups, cold; and their ashtray full, staring into the space around the cellphone on the table. Bukowski’s voice is saying:
Style is the answer to everything.
A fresh way to approach a dull or dangerous thing.
To do a dull thing with style is preferable to doing a dangerous thing without it.
To do a dangerous thing with style is what I call art.
Bullfighting can be an art.
Boxing can be an art.
Loving can be an art.
Opening a can of sardines can be an art.
Not many have style.
Not many can keep style.
I have seen dogs with more style than men.
although not many dogs have style.
Cats have it with abundance…
On a warm July noon, words are flowing in there. With their cigarette smoke touching every old
Watch
Frame
Record
Coat
Hat
Book
Photo
… When Hemingway put his brains to the wall with a shotgun,
that was style.
Or sometimes people give you style.
Joan of Arc had style.
John the Baptist.
Christ.
Socrates.
Caesar.
Garcia Lorca.
I have met men in jail with style.
I have met more men in jail with style than men out of jail.
Style is the difference, a way of doing, a way of being done.
Six herons standing quietly in a pool of water.
or you, naked, walking out of the bathroom without seeing me.
words ballade 