I have written fifteen plays so far. During an interview, I said that I forgot my plays shortly after I wrote and finished them. Is correct. Full house. I had taken the leaves out of my mind for the sake of collecting different leaves by entrusting them to the director, actor and audience. So is the curfew. Master Harpagon, the Men's Restroom, and the others. If someone were to ask, "What is the subject of such and such game?" I cannot answer for a long time. They are all mixed together in my memory. It takes a lot of time to weed out.
As time passed and my plays started to be staged, I felt that I was watching them from a different perspective. As if someone else wrote it. I criticized it sometimes while watching. Sometimes I got angry with the author for making the point. Sometimes I got angry with the director for it. I even got angry with the actors, albeit very rarely. Nevertheless, the spirit of the plays on stage reflected my soul, no matter what. Whether I am angry, angry or sometimes boring, I realized that I actually love them all.
When games are played, they come to life and take shape. Every game of mine that was played made me reconsider what I wrote. Pouring the printed and my own scribbles in front of me, I re-read, trimmed, corrected typographical errors, made minor additions; It's like a father who, even if he is not always interested in his children, occasionally straightens his hair and tries to keep them in order.
First, I thought of photographs from games played as book covers. However, since the bureaucracy of this business exceeded my tolerance limits, I could not realize my wish. It took several visits and as many phone calls to find out to which part of the theater I had to petition for permission. Finally bored, gave up. Maybe that was the truth. A plain cover leaves the plays out of their scene backgrounds. You deliver the game to your imagination in its purest form, without paralleling any staged version or the actors playing the role.
I also surrender my games to your imagination.
There is not a single living creature in the world that misses me and wants to hear my voice. '
Full leaves are the game of those who try to scream to life even though they do not make their voices.
'Is there anybody out there?'
Life has never been embraced in the bivr phase,
for those who are forced to live in solitary cells in the middle of the huge city.
The only way is to find someone similar to them. But actually there is no 'someone like them'.
Because even they are not like them in that environment. So it is necessary to melt the reality into the virtual and to reshape it.
'Full Leaves' are the efforts of those wandering on the edge of nothingness to exist and rewrite their lives.
ROMANIA ELVIRA GODEANU THEATER INTERNATIONAL FESTIVAL BEST WOMEN PLAYER AWARD (ÖZLEM GÜVELİ)
MGD 16. GOLDEN LENS AWARDS (2009) BEST THEATER GAME OF THE YEAR
MGD 16. GOLDEN LENS AWARDS (2009) BEST THEATER PLAYER OF THE YEAR (Musa Uzunlar)
Müçteba Bey : It is now ... (He takes out his watch and looks at it) Seven, three minutes and sixteen seconds pass. An old couple will enter through this door shortly. Tonight is the fortieth wedding anniversary. Our hotel made a surprise for them. They will spend the night in the wedding rooms forty years ago. When we arrived at the hotel, a magnificent welcome ceremony was held for them in front of the entrance door. Oh, neither cheering nor cheering. Applause, whistles, confetti. Then, in the upper hall, photojournalists, the chief waiter and his assistants, other customers, and a coffee mock alone, accompanied by string instruments. In the meantime, we are planning to publish a memoir book as part of the centennial celebration activities. Memories, records, list of our distinguished guests ... I think it will come out at the end of this month. I want to write a memoir of mine. Like the night I served the Queen. Or the wedding of the daughter of the President. I haven't decided which one to write yet. I say wait for the queen's second visit, but then I'll be late. The book has already been published. Frankly, it would not be the right thing to write a memory that has not yet happened. Time has gone well. They even got on the elevator by having them look at the coffee fortunes. (Heard for a moment) They're in elevators right now. The man is still coughing. The woman still speaks. Obstinately. (Walks towards the doorway) Yes ... Ten, nine, eight ... (sees the sheets) Spare sheets! Oh those floor attendants! (While taking the sheets in haste) Six, five, four, three ... (He opens the intermediate door, enters, closes the door, then reopens it, stretches his head and starts counting) Zero!
WOMAN: “Surprise, you weren't shot in the heel! But you're still dead! " (Laughter) An Achilles shot in the temple! How unattractive. Moreover, you tainted my dear jacket. You can't go to a wedding with a stained tuxedo! (Silence) I bent down, took the gun from your hand and kissed you on the lips. I kissed maybe a thousand times without getting tired. My tears dripped onto your face and then floated down your cheeks. Was it you or me who cried? My Akhellius. I waited for hours by my bedside.
“I have always loved you, Opheliam. And I was jealous like crazy. And I've never been in love with another woman. Farewell ... You are your Akhellius ”(Silence)
Author : It used to be an ocean. A gleaming ocean stretched from the tip of my toes towards the horizon, its eaves knotted with grains of sand. I can't figure out which one it is. I think it was the sum of all oceans, my own ocean that I laid to dream. My dream. My waters. My ocean had blue and white patterns. Foam foam. I was walking along the eaves of my ocean. And silence. There is no problem in the universe. Neither a rustle of clouds nor a starburst. And peace. Suddenly, the waters recede in silence. The universe in my dream is filled with sand from top to bottom. Suddenly. As much sand as you can get. My dream is yellow now. My dream is warm. My dream. My grains of sand. My feet are bare. I like this warmth. I walk for a while on my floors and my own grains of sand, just like that, for some reason? .. I guess there is no reason for this. I think the program is. I must walk without thinking in my dreams. Without question. And it's like I've been doing just that from the first moment I started forming. Like a waddling duck. There is nothing else to do anyway. I said it's sand everywhere. According to the finger calculations of the Archimedes master, a full vigintillion grains of sand were needed to fill the universe. But I got more into my dream. If I can do that, my brain must be at least as large as the universe. Bravo to me. Then suddenly I feel a strange pain in my sole. It is unusual for a smooth dream. It is an unpleasant coincidence for a dream-dweller who has just reached peace. Even though I am not one of the main drivers of my dream, I bend over as the sole owner. What is this! A pebble! A pebble in the desert. Look at the wound. Who could have threw it? Who can enter my dream without knowing me?
4th OĞUZ ATAY EVENT - THEATER AWARD RESULT DECLARATION
Tuesday, December 08, 2009
As a result of our evaluation, after the first meeting where we reduced the number of authors to five, we unanimously deemed the author CİVAN CANOVA worthy of the Oğuz Atay Theater Play award in the voting for the result we made in the second meeting. Regards.