I don’t remember when I watched Chantal Akerman’s Saute ma ville for the first time. Or how many times I watched it again. The only thing I’m sure is that every time I watch it, I feel like the death is calling me, with its hysterical laugh in my ears. So familiar yet so terrifying. Today I watched Saute ma ville, again. And I heard that hysterical laugh, again. Death called me on my birthday, in a very casual tone, do you wanna come over, she said, I have wine and pasta with tomato sauce.
With Chantal, it’s always related to life, death or suicide. I know that I’ll never get to watch No Home Movie, for it’s unbearable to see her alive while death is there, looming over. I keep telling myself that I’ll probably watch it when my mum dies. And then maybe… Maybe, I’ll do what Chantal did. Or maybe… Maybe the things that keep us alive, that tie us to life with a thin thread are different. Who knows? Yet, the suicide is something else, you know. I wonder how Sylvia Plath could manage to ‘do it again’. But I, myself, also feel like a sort of walking miracle. I don’t know why and how I still insist on living. Tired of living and afraid of dying, my body is in limbo for 27 years. And will probably stay there for a while.
ÖYKÜ SOFUOĞLU 