It’s been an eye opening experience here in the beautiful isolation of this bay; to observe the season’s change, whilst swimming during the day and getting some work done at nights, eating fresh fish and vegetables from the garden — of the family run bed and breakfast: Yakamoz. Paradise.
As the news of the world penetrates the peace and quiet here, the philosophy congealing inside me as a new code of articulation, complete with its meta-language (across images, sounds, words and my presence which has begun to perform The Poet), manifesting the universality of mathematical conscience –properties of the number 9 – to erode every constructed, therefore, inferior reality to the naked truth, saved from abstraction for the synthesis of these disparate, alienated and enumerated fragments; that are us.
The purpose of poetry, after all, is not to make art for words, but to short-circuit the mind in order to jumpstart what lies dormant inside each situation, critical in the identification of the malaise we create for ourselves.
This is the mindset mining a certain perspective, the work of my life, seeded in me as the child who spoke with the patterns inside woodcuts and ancient marble, thanks to growing up running around the antiquities of Mediterranean.
History always caresses me and gives me all her pearls. It turns out, fate brought me here to Halicarnassus where Herodotus was born, to download essential memories from the sea and trees in Caria, Anatolia. All of this will end up in the film I am preparing. A film-vehicle which I know will carry a narrative like no other.
— Yakamoz, Mazi.