Monkey’s Talk


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175 in stock


A Diary
By Fatma Durmush

ISBN: 978-1-84991-272-3
Published: 2010
Pages: 92
Key Themes: diary, poetry, memories, philosophy


Monkey’s Talk is a diary and poetry collection. Durmush found this book very difficult to manage. It seemed that she gushed emotions which spiralled and made wounds heal. Her health restored she was left with something that contained herself.

Durmush did not want to be in the book but she was. It is an emotionally charged book with demons trying to take control.
Whether reality or not does not matter for what is reality? What is fiction? What is anything but the purpose of writing? Of being?
Reading this book one is left clutching straws for that is the purpose. Why write something you can’t contain? Why? Just for the sake of it.
What isn’t this book is a? Well people must make up their own minds. My mind is not made up. Written the demons and now let them be in that book trapped for ever. Let them have company or not as the case may be.

This book is about childhood and memories of the past and the present, feelings of despair and anxiety about the future and the problems of living within means at disposal. For everyone has to live as well as they can and make the most of life. For without that what would the world be but living on borrowed time and money and maybe causing so many scandals because can’t pay bills. The height of immorality is when can’t pay bills.

It is also about the future and a bit of philosophy and ethics and what is ethical behaviour and what is not. It is not taking the piss but it is tongue in check. It is about the family history and anger and dismay and how people see things differently but remain the same people.

About the Author

Fatma Durmush has written for a long time and has a great deal of energy and wit. Her recovery is due to her getting out her demons onto paper.
Getting rid of her demons, Durmush strives and struggles sometimes painful to watch her schizophrenia is controlled but her demons are there with her. Dogging her steps making her aware that she is vulnerable.
Her art is what makes her a survivor.
Her balance of mind is delicate sea shore of impressions whether true or false she leaves to the reader. Her writing is nothing personal to anyone but the ghosts of her demons.

Durmush was born in 1959 in Cyprus and is British but Turkish as well. She has a degree and is a master of the Arts. Durmush is studying for a second degree in Psychology because she said that as she hasn’t got anything to do all day she needs to use her mind to keep it working.

She is in voluntary work with a Turkish group and she loves to be bossy and analytical. She does the teas and makes everyone draw or paint. She has recently started to translate her work into Turkish so that the Turkish group can read her work.

She is always painting in pastels or other mediums. But at the moment she is painting pastels in very small dimensions and is waiting to be included maybe in a exhibition. She is writing her final essay for this year and is about to start her second year at the OU. She is enjoying this very much for it is extending her horizons and she has new interests always a bonus for a writer.
She is also at the stage in her life when past is more real and reality more unreal so she is exploring this in her writing. Her reading has taken her farther than when she had began and it is getting her into deep waters with psychology and philosophy and the meaning of her existence as well as the memories and what is real and unreal?

She is not allergic to truth but sometimes the truth is allergic to her and everyone’s memories are different not everyone remembers the same take for example the court cases all the witnesses do not agree and then they have no verdict. So this book might be no verdict.

Book Extract


What have I seen? What eventuates? What can’t transpire in this world? We all seem to be reliving the same thing over and over as if it’s a reel like groundhogs day, eventually despair consumes us. What’s despair? It’s a joke told by a dirty old man.

All begins to make sense, does it? Loathing and repulsion, misery that I’ve not died. Dad has, guilt, jealousy, that sense of making it ok. For after all mustn’t think these thoughts. Shouldn’t but can’t help it.

Violence this feeling is dangerous on edge, mayhem. What troubles my fine friend? This ordinary citizen writing this diary wriggling out of life and landing flat on her face. Let’s see if she can get up again, maybe she can demonstrate how she fell felt on her face and then we can take pictures?

Why didn’t see this? Sooner or later was bound to, blindingly obvious couldn’t. Maybe all that is water washed to sea. Am at the edge of something. A lifeline has been thrown only to be blinded by the light. It’s as if I can see more than ever seen before.

This is the locus of my despair, that I’m now alone, an adult. Detest adults. Adults are lone creatures all alone doing the work of their lives. Living in strait jackets serving others but never themselves.

What blindness in the Turkish shop going to the check out without money. At Morrison’s paying for a meal but seemingly oblivious to the waitress with the food, our food. Sitting in state as if she a pasha and these waitresses and these people ignorant of her state. What state we are as poor as our thoughts?

This is mother who’s filled with loathing. Something in the past, confirming her frenzy. What’s the thought processes in all this? It’s blind fury, no thinking. She’s seen a long time ago and she’s too stubborn to let go of it.

Good thing if the slut died on the job serving me her mother who gave her health and freedom to look after me.

She wishes to be alone at the same time terrified at the prospect. A million reasons why she wants to be alone but ten million why she shouldn’t be.

Past more real than present, and today’s shadows; are the people she has born. Brought up and made into us. Never loved.

My money her money, it’s as if she’s never satisfied. Grasping all the time, clawing, feeds on things I have. Never repentant. Brought her up as she should be she’s a good girl no secrets tells mummy everything and that is as it should be. Mummies girl devoted to me as it should be everything as it should be. No secrets no life as it should be all above broad nothing unusual about us.

We are ok we do everything and it should be noted she’s a good girl. No secrets from Mummy nothing like that I am the one she answers to. Her father might be dead but am now able to control my daughters just as if he were alive. No rampant sexuality no mash mash of things falling in the night nothing but this clear crystal image of a little girl writing nice things about nice people.

We are all nice people. We are excellent people no secrets from each other we are an example to the community. Nothing to hide and all our lives we have been similar to everyone else just like eggs in a box. We are troubled by nothing except occasional ailments. There is no goings on that can’t be stopped nothing but clear money worries which we are on the point of remedying and that is easily remedied.


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