Because I'm Watching People

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: 9798201808280

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Atemi Kayaky

ISBN: XXXXXXXXX

Atemi Publishing 20 18

*****one*****

Ahmet Murat Öz • Because I'm Watching People

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They took me to a psychologist because I was watching people, dozens of times in the military. Society excluded me, so the female psychologist once said. I dream of people watching each other, I said. For a moment, I had to explain that everyone should stop and watch each other, my dear. He also told me the word of our age: Our time is up! If our time hadn't run out, I guess I would have said I wanted to fuck our era. It would not be a shame, my dear, why should it be a shame, our age would understand me. I had to quit because the word our time's up started another epoch, because these times were like mechanical articulations, one triggering the other, and the other triggering the other, infallible. For a while I didn't know what to do, I was in a gray hallway and I was doing what I used to do when I was in elementary school: I was rubbing against the walls, and the wall seemed to be rubbing against me, the wonder of the universe: movement. Then I saw my gun, the limb of our age. I delivered it to a private named Güven, my bunk friend Güven, secretly jerking off at night and then staring silently into her kaleidoscope. Did you manage to solve the teacher's rest, he said, and held out my gun. First I got my gun, but I guess my gun took me, not mine. I said no, time was not enough. Then it's next Tuesday, he said, You have to continue where you left off, or you'll be back to the beginning. He was pulling on his pants. How many months do we have left, Trust, I said, Ooo there's more, everything is dark, he said. We were in the middle of the line, let's see, I said. Canteen?" he said. No, I said, maybe to the dormitory. He smiled, don't sleep, he said, we have a little talk, I also have a cigarette. OK, I said, and I smiled too. I walked to the back of the line, it was ending at the entrance,I slung my gun on my back, pulled my downy trousers up to my navel, and got back in line. At this speed, the time would come to me quickly again.

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*****2nd*****

Yeliz Akıncılar • That Child - Oggito

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How long will Sedat look at that paper? These glasses make your face look thinner and more worried than it is. The sounds on which we close the door continue to create their own crowd in the corridor. I want to disappear with the smells of this old building with everything. The sky, despite the polluted air of the city, passes through the huge windows in the light. Finally, he raises his head and places the envelope on the table. Coming to me. So we will keep silent. I understand. He takes off his glasses, but his face is still just as thin. What do you think of Naci's proposal? I turn my head to the sky that fills the high-ceilinged rooms of Sample. I hear the ferries. The exchanges approaching Haydarpaşa. Early rakers who toast in Mythos. The prayers rising from Karacaahmet. Cypresses bow over the living and the dead. Says the clouds in the flow of the whole earth . How long have I been out of this flow, I'm tired. So you're saying it's useless to try again. Approaching the window. It opens one of the large wings. He asks permission, showing the pack of cigarettes he took out of his pocket. You are killing yourself. I'm drinking on doctor's check, don't worry. What a good friend you are, Sedat. You're not funny, but you're fine. A friend who helps us soften difficult moments in our chest. I'm getting up. I'm going. Stop by Naci, he's waiting for news. Not now, Sedat, let me get some air. I don't want to pass by the lab. It's the busiest time. I'm going down directly, first the stairs, then the slope that goes down to Haydarpaşa. My feet make their way to the sea end of Haydarpaşa Station by themselves. I'm getting crushed. If only there was a piece of bagel. The wind is salty and harsh, if only someone could block my coat. The sharp cold is menacing, leaving no people in the street. On the side is a man wrapping a rope around the wearer's head. Three seedy seagulls. Further ahead, a boy who ripped off his hand and threw it into the sea. We are a woman who is trying to restrain her, the net of her shalwar is waving in the wind. I forgot my scarf at the hospital. If it was, I'd wrap my head now. Will my neck also be held from the wind? Naci plains evening. He warms it first with his big palms. His thick fingers run from my neck to my head. When I touch it, it seems like the paths it has opened in my body will never end. How his hands are transformed, larger than he is, grasping. His big body turns into a boat in which I hide. The shake is crazy, the foam is foamy. I can't give birth to the child of the man I love and make love to like this. Even one of the many beauties he left in me cannot turn into a happiness that I can give in his lap. What did you say sister? I said bagel, give me a bagel, bro. I think I'm going crazy. Maybe this is better. Well, if madness is genetic, my baby would be mad too. We will ask the expert at home in the evening. Naci once said; Besides, the world is the place of fire, my beautiful. What incurable troubles I see in the hospital every day. Isn't it insane to bring a child into such a life? he said. We are both so beautiful. Let's get married. Since we are so brave, let's raise an orphaned pup. Aren't all the children of the world ours, darling? He was saying it just to console me. Sadat did not forget either. I can't remember which failed experiment it was after. I sat uncomfortably on the side of the high pavement, as if clinging to it. I was startled when the bagel in my hand slipped through my fingers. A round face passed before me, with short drawn-out lips that seemed to hang down, and strange almond-shaped eyes. His furious fingers began to tear the bagel he had taken from my hand with strange, rhythmic movements far from each other, toss it into the sea, and toss it to the birds. The woman I had just seen at the far end was beside us at an unexpected speed for her age. My dear Netettin, as soon as it is taken away from the hands of others, my mother, permission is asked, my pasha. Never mind, my lady. He hesitates, he doesn't actually do such a thing, what did he think when you hold it in your hand, do you hand it to him? Some do not know, they will learn like this. Come on, pasha, let's go now, that's enough to linger. The child's facial expression is difficult to interpret, he seems to understand what the woman is saying, but not. He has a strange balance that finds itself in the crookedness of his misplaced smile and the wobbling of his body. He must be six or seven years old. The woman is almost old. Late births also have such risks. I'm not young anymore either. Maybe I'm pushing my luck. Maybe if I get pregnant. Am I at the center of the world? How is it that even when looking at the suffering of others, I only see my own problem. But the strange thing is that neither the child's nor the woman's demeanor has any traces of an unusual, tiring, revolting state. I notice the inscription on the nylon bag that the woman wears on her arm: Adapazarı Craftsman Cooperative. On her head, she has a sequined white clasp, and a blue Yemeni with embroidered gold lace. His speech, this hand, embraces the side of his arm. What a high acceptance. It happened once," he says. What to do,