A blind man is walking in the forest with arm stretched out, his hands in front of him. A poor, unfortunate soul, one ponders when one sees him. For he obviously can not see and we can. Weeds brush against his unprotected body. The blind man Dr. Factual Nonsense doesn’t even bother to slow down too much. His hands stroke and sometimes carelessly grab the dense and rough bushes in the unkempt wilderness. Leafy plants graze, thorny shrubbery scrapes his exposed arms and ankles leaving pink cuts and scratch marks on bare flesh. He obviously is accustomed to pain, or he doesn’t mind it. The doctor often changes his direction never hesitating, never colliding with any of tree trunks. Twigs snap and crackle under his feet. He sometimes stumbles and trips over the stretched out roots of the trees, though never seems to fall or go down. He smiles with his tightly closed eyes. Presumably the Doctor may not even be blind. He surely hears and smells the forest.
The medallion of the daily equilibrium
Ribbons of obscure statements
One day distinguished honors
The trophy of mortal sins
The badge of hesitation
Decoration of prevailing customs
The medal of recent agenda
Emblems of praised tranquility
Commemoration of the cheap (1)
Müderrisoğlu, though his name refers to teachers, doesn’t teach nor does he learn (at least not the way we teachers casually refer to the act of teaching). He smells and sniffs his way within the perpetual paradoxes of artmaking. (What ever that means?) He sneers and jeers at the wolf traps on his way. He sets out on journeys that have no premeditated destinations. The Wolfman entrusts his hunches, and he always gets there. As to his tin and bottle cap medallions… Luck bastard…(2)
Let’s have a war of honor. Gracefully search, aim and destroy. Relish blood and gore spurt out of round, darkened ruptures on mortal skin. Slay, annihilate and kill for glory. Cut, maim and mutilate courageously. Let the glow in the scorched piles of served limbs inflame our bravery. Let our gallantry be commended among the sour stench of blood and guts. Hail the sound of shattering boned beneath blows, punches and jabs. Let’s kick ass. Let’s murder. Let’s win, and be praised for it. In the name of loyalty and devotion, let us die in wretched and miserable ways, and be praised for it. (3)
ERDAĞ AKSEL ANKARA 1994 (4)
(1) 101-İSM: the tendency of pick apart, often minute detail, all aspects of life using half-understood pop psychology as a tool. (Generation X) (2) DORIAN GRAYIN: The unwillingness to gracefully allow one’s body to show signs of aging. (Generation X) (3) From a heavy metal song I either have dreamed of, or saw on MTV one late evening. (4) An ambiguous instructor who doesn’t believe in objectivity and enjoys Ahmet Müderrisoğlu’s work. He wrote this cryptic text at the said location and date.
