Anatomical Distribution of Silence

By Atemi Kayaky

We are faced with an industrialization phenomenon that makes itself felt in literature as well as in every other subject. The reshaping of literature according to the conditions of market capitalism turns literary products into simple consumables. Newly released literary novels, stories, poems, essays, etc. literary products no longer have an artistic quality, they are consumed quickly and resemble Hollywood movies…

 

Identical, fabricated books adorn the shelves of the bookstore. We are faced with books that appeal to the eye, not to the pleasure of reading. Every day, we are showered with novels whose content resembles a movie script, and the most popular ones are immediately adapted to the cinema. Their styles, plots and even the subjects themselves are extremely superficial, identical books are everywhere.

 

There are quite a few pages in such works, but it is possible to read and finish them in a short time. We would like to say that the reason for this is that it is written in a successful language. However, if we consider that the majority of the people who read these books find it boring and they find it boring, this is not the main reason. The main reason is that in such industrial novels, whether it is character analysis, description of environment and events, a very superficial work is done. Writers don't think about these things. Because – a group of authors should be excluded from this – what is important for authors now is the sales figures and the amounts they will earn, rather than the literary and aesthetic characteristics of their works.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Atemi Kayaky
• Release date: Sep 9, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201301699

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Samet Işıkay • Anatomical Distribution of Silence

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The number of nights I couldn't sleep had increased considerably. Some nights I was so tired that I could not walk, and in return I only dreamed of a sound sleep. But when I buried it in my pillow, a piece of wood weighed on my head. As if that wasn't enough, it bothered me to feel that my bed, which had been accompanying my sleeps for years, was gagging at me like a piece of food accidentally passed down my throat. I could hear the sound of this bellow. The sound I heard reminded me of an old woman dying. The ceiling had that foamy smell of decay. The ceiling was wet, water droplets formed. I'm stuck, my friends. I was carrying something as heavy as that crane that we love to watch. That crane was tipping over, I was staggering. My steps were going back and forth.   It's getting to me my friends, not being able to walk. That heavy thing that I carried inside me covered me all over me. The wounds surrounding me, the wounds that you couldn't help but dressing, constituted the geography inside me. My steps were short and slow, I resisted. Every time I reached a corner , I tasted blood. It scared me to turn around and be on a new street. There were battlements in those streets; the gratings that I used as an ashtray for years, those gratings that frighten me now. I had barely turned that corner. There were buildings lined up side by side, balconies on their laps. Laundry hanging on the balcony waiting to dry was waving at me. I had seen the grotto where he had urinated into the old building on my left. I was approaching softly towards the battlement. Meanwhile, my knees were shaking and my teeth were clashing. The parts of me that made up me were slowly breaking away from my body, being tossed left and right. I'm falling apart, my friends. When I came to the front of the grotto, the thing that looked at me from that gap was my heart. My heart took refuge in that battlement right in front of this old building. If he had any consciousness, he would have stopped throwing. But she was resisting, watching the laundry on the balcony from the gap. The disintegration had begun, I could feel it in my bones. There were gaps in my body. I'm getting transparent, my friends. In this case, while I was waiting for it to get lighter, on the contrary, what I was carrying inside was getting heavier. My resistance to walking was getting less and less. He had a cough. I was making synchronous sounds. I was rolling up a piece of tobacco, leaving the battlement behind, and heading for a corner. I was afraid I would vomit my lungs, at least one. As I filled my lungs with the smoke of my tobacco, the noise stopped and I became a little more docile. It was like giving a pacifier to a crying baby, my lungs getting louder as I took a deep breath. I saw them as I slowly lifted my head. I don't remember vomiting. But a pair of lungs were floating, holding hands, chasing the smoke from the tobacco I rolled. There was a house just ahead, run down. From the outside you can see inside, a stove in the middle, a large painting on the wall, a red armchair in front of the painting. On the red couch, my liver is chasing cirrhosis wrapped in a blue blanket. I'm falling apart, my friends. My nose is after the smells of the past. Wouldn't that happen to you too? The smell of a street puts me in my grandmother's wooden suitcase. The smell of a flower whose name I don't even know, my childhood is smoking. The smell of tobacco crumbs from my coat from last winter, the smell of my sweaty palms, and sometimes even the sad smell of the dead; It is the scent of the best times of my youth. My nose is my most resilient partner. I don't remember where I left my ears. What I remember was they heard less than before. He had raised his threshold for familiar sounds, not needing to perceive them. My ear, four letter, two syllable transcript. Look, now I remember my friends, my ears have been wandering around in a group of trees, since their voice, spreading in the void, will perish on a tree, since they left me. The emptiness inside me had increased considerably, and on the other hand, the thing I was carrying inside was heavier than I expected. All my cells were scattered in the side streets of the city, and those who could manage were nailing themselves to the corner. The rest softened the ground that people stepped on in the streets and gave them the feeling of walking on the beach, even for a moment. But with every step, hundreds of them were disappearing. That heavy thing that I carried inside me was this silence. I was transparent, human beings were passing through me, they did not notice me. The veins that pierced my cavities remained, I could see them. They resembled a deflated tire. They were all around my soul, squeezing. My soul is stuck, my friends. Then it's cold, I'm so cold, I'm cold. Being cold was a habit I picked up on the way back when I drove the woman I loved home. Now, one of the nights I can't sleep, I feel very cold. And now in this silence, my feelings hang above my words.      

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Fırat Cewerî • My Life Story - Oggito

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I woke up early in the morning with a weight on me. It was as if someone had hit me in the head with a mallet. I slowly came to myself. Honestly, I wasn't quite myself. I still had a hangover. When I felt a lightness, I realized that I was naked. Then I sat on the bed with a shudder. God, where was I? Whose house was I at? Whose bed was I in? How did I get into this bed?

There was a pink duvet on the black bed. As I searched the room with my eyes, I saw myself in the huge mirror in front of me. My face was full of lipstick stains. So much so that I could barely recognize myself. Above the bed was a painting by Modigliani , and the room looked very erotic with the pink curtains. Yes, it looked erotic, but what was I doing in this erotic room? How, when and how did I get here?

I was sitting cross-legged on the bed in this strange house, thinking strange things. At that moment, a slender, smiling, naked woman with long hair falling out over her white skin appeared with a breakfast tray in her hand and began to come towards me affectionately. He placed the tray slowly on the edge of the bed, bent down and kissed my lips. Still in the whirlpool of imagination, I did not return his kiss and gazed into his eyes with curiosity. The lust of her green eyes stirred something like love in me, and that love was not satisfied with kissing on the lips; I sucked on his lips, a shudder took over his body in response, blood rushed through my veins. Woman, yes, woman; because I didn't know her name yet, she licked her lips and took the breakfast tray and placed it in the middle of the bed. It was a beautiful silver tray. He had poured orange juice into two crystal glasses, two soft-boiled eggs in the egg cups, a sliced ​​French loaf on the breadbasket, a few fried sausages, two cups of coffee next to the orange juice glasses, and a few napkins on the rim of the tray. But I hadn't heard this belle's voice yet, not a word had yet come out of her mouth. I didn't know what nationality he was, what language he spoke, but most of all, I didn't know when I met him; How I became close to him and came to his house. So he stood naked in front of me, pointed to the tray with his hand, and said,

Here you go, he said.

He went to bed and sat cross-legged like me.

He told me yes in Kurdish, and I was really surprised at this. He must have noticed my surprise:

- You're wondering who I am, aren't you, dear?

Yes, dear, I said. The word dear just came out of my mouth. Not even from my mouth, but from my heart. He too began to caress, rubbing his thin fingers through my hair above my ears and blending in with me in a kiss that joined the mouth and tongue. He kissed me, caressed me. Then he pushed it lightly and handed me one of the orange juice from the crystal glass, and took the other to drink himself. But as he brought the glass closer to his lips, which were the same color as the quilt, he looked deeply into my eyes. my god! These green eyes, these eyes that steal their color from nature are familiar, familiar, but from where? It's like I know him so well and I've never seen him before.

You drank too much last night, he said. You drank a bottle of whiskey alone. If it wasn't for me, you would have driven your car like that. But we left your car at the restaurant and