an itinerant observer

I didn’t think much of it back then - Konya. A few days carved out from a longer trip. A loosely held plan. But now, years later, I can still recall how it felt. Getting to Konya wasn’t easy, or at least not emotionally. I took a ten-hour overnight coach from Gaziantep. It wasn’t just a geographic shift. It was me, testing myself. Years ago, on my first trip to Istanbul in the late 2000s, I was mugged; trapped, manhandled, left shaken . That experience embedded a quiet anxiety whenever I thought about returning to Turkey. But this trip was different. I needed to reclaim something. I wanted to prove to myself that I could be in this country, move through it alone, and feel safe. And I did. Nothing happened. Not in Konya, not elsewhere. That, in itself, was a kind of healing. Now mind you, Konya wasn’t dramatic. There was no thunderclap, no burning bush. Just presence. And silence. Not empty silence, but the kind that listens back. I stayed two nights. Walked between Rumi’s tomb an...

There’s a cat. There’s no dialogue. There are no humans. That’s how Flow begins; quietly, like a breath held underwater. A world submerged, not just in water, but in silence, memory, and what’s left when the Anthropocene folds in on itself. The cat doesn’t meow for help. It doesn’t explain. It moves: hesitant, curious, sometimes afraid. We follow. And perhaps, like me, you start seeing yourself in the cat. Not in some mystical reincarnation way, but in the way it stares at a collapsing world and keeps moving forward. Alone. Until it isn’t. Flight Time, Liminal Time It’s not the first time a film has gripped me midair. Something about that altitude - between departure and arrival, held in suspension - tunes the soul to a different frequency. Last time, it was Mother, Couch and Lost Lake Confessions during a layover that stirred meditations on mortality and the tragic absurdity of family (as I wrote in “ Under the Weight of Absurdity ” ). This time, it was Flow: silent, surreal...