Good Morning, Good Morning My Lamb

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: 9798201639396

Book preview

*****one*****

Condolence - Oggito

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Later that night, my sister called. We took my father to the hospital. He wants to see you, she said. Should I go visit a man I've killed in my head many times before? I do not know. While thinking about these, I came to the bus station. I bought a ticket from the front seat of the bus. At this time of night, the lights of the cars coming from the opposite side on the big plain, on the road that goes like a line, reminded me of the magnificent beautiful marbles of my childhood. I smiled. Whereas my father used to say that even the rainbow is not beautiful. 

When I arrived at the hospital in the morning, they took my father to the morgue. My mother and sister were crying in a corner. I was calm. In one corner, my uncle was crouching in the hospital corridor, staring at one point in thought. Imam entered his room. I entered too. He opened the notebook. He made me sign some places. I'm out. I looked at the gray and damp walls. Then I went to my uncle. Quietly, How was it? I asked. Before he had time to answer me, the imam, who had just started his shift, called me. He was destroying my father. His assistant has gone to his hometown. Couldn't turn it alone. As I held my father and turned him inside out, I remembered my childhood, I felt a pain in my arms. When I was a kid, he slapped me and bit my arms if he didn't get on his nerves. It still stings from time to time. It would remind me why I had to stay away from this city. Face your past, my psychologist friend said last year. I said whether I would settle accounts with my father who did not accept me, my mother and sister who did not keep his word , or those who care more about kinship relations than truth . I left them eight hundred kilometers away.  

I learn from this city. Did my problem go away? Can I love this city anymore? Even my friends here did not accept me. Would my father put up with me?

After washing my father, we loaded it into the car. Because my father was a burden to me. It would just load. He also burdened me with familylessness . Vehicles stopped halfway through the cemetery. The road is bad. From now on, we would take my father on our shoulders. It doesn't deserve it, but I'm going to put up with it for once.

I went to my uncle while walking in the hot weather. I asked. His chest hurts. .. How did it happen?.. Actually, I don't care. He's dead. No matter how he dies. They always ask at work. They want to know the details of the event. How was it? When I repeated my question, my uncle went to the back of the group .  

After burying my father, we were walking towards the cars. The elders sat on the outer wall of the cemetery. They were waiting for us to bring the cars. People I barely remember or didn't know at all were saying good-bye to me. Someone asked, How did it happen? saying. I took a deep breath. "I said I do not know. He thought I said that out of sadness. The wise pedant shook his head and left.

We came to the condolence tent. Everyone was drinking tea and chatting in a corner. A period in my life has come to an end. But I didn't feel that way. It had been a long time since I had killed him in my thoughts. Today I came to bury.

My uncle was talking in the middle of the crowd in the corner among those sitting on wicker chairs. I entered the crowd. Maybe I'll find out without asking. Then, I thought I would add to what I learned and explain. I brought the low wicker seat close to it. They are silent. They took turns saying good-bye and left. I looked at my uncle, he wasn't looking at me. He got up from his seat. was going. Uncle... I said. He turned to me. There was anger in his eyes. He came near me. He leaned into my ear. Because of you. His heart couldn't take it... We don't have any fag relatives. You go now too.

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

Good Morning, Good Morning My Lamb - Oggito

Every summer, my dear aunt comes to the town on vacation: with her bird, her dog...

He loved animals very much when he was little. My grandparents tell a lot of stories. My grandmother begins: She was still in swaddling clothes, I lifted her pillow, a snake is curled up under it. I grabbed it and ran away. Then my grandfather begins: I never forget. We entered the Ulucami and stopped to pray. This one is retiring. You go after the big, big mouse, ' busting it '. We broke the prayer immediately. Then my grandmother intervenes: The mouse will eat the child who is crying , I said run, grab it. The stories about my aunt and her animals are endless: What is it, sir, one day, a truck hit his chicken, and he cried and mourned for days. From my aunt's teaching Turkish to the goats to my father's cry for not killing the rabbits they come across while driving on the road, there are no stories or stories. What, sir , they killed his  son . Who did this, my grandparents keep it a secret. Because if they do, he might go and kill her. He always thinks that humans are more dangerous than animals. She was still dreaming of her wrapping...  

One day, while he was driving, a cat came across him. The cat stopped , and the cat passed by and what was it, sir, that cat thanked him. She turned to look at him and thanked him. Sure still, thank you cats. They already have character. For example, you cannot love a cat without it asking for it.

When I said cat and character, it came to my mind. According to my aunt, people in general, women in particular, are either cat or dog characters. He likes dogs, but never  dislikes  dog-like human beings . He does n't like it... of the humanoids.

When people said it, another story came to mind. His job before Christmas mail to have come from an e-mail mischievous colleagues. A crossword puzzle has been prepared. Whatever you see first will be your destiny in the new year. Of course, this does not miss the funny things... He looked and saw the first joy and health, laughed, passed. Then, before Christmas, he bought himself a budgie as a Christmas present. When he was trying to name it, a crossword puzzle came to his mind and he said Joy. Her name must be Neşe, at least she must have kept a prophecy. Yes, my dear aunt, who got her Joy in the new year like this ...

The result of these, actually, I should not have been surprised by anything, but I am still in the position of astonishment, as my aunt puts it. One day, my aunt said, What was that station of astonishment, because she did not think of the station of astonishment. Meanwhile, her  Astonished  are always down human beings. That's why in our house it is always called the mode of being surprised. That's where I'm at. Maybe the morning sickness has something to do with it. But I think the biggest factor is the work fatigue from the day before...  

He can never put us down, but we started to work. Still can't believe we're working. We are still his little birds or black bugs  because... He called in the evening,  Come, blackbug , let's go swimming together. Okay, still, I needed it too, I said, what can I say. His love has come, his kiss has come, his black beetle ... Do you still know? I am grown now. Really? When? My aunt doesn't seem to take anything seriously. There's always a witty answer to everything. It is ready-made. Memories like jokes are told. It is said that sometimes it puts people into fits of laughter. What women are, there is even talk of an innovative idea such as men's pads  . Maybe it will be invented. As a precaution against missing gold due to the laughing crisis.

Luckily we had dinner Kakari to the kikiri We slept late. I slept on one of the sofas in the living room. My aunt slept in her room. My aunt got up early as usual and was preparing breakfast in the kitchen with the habits of her motherly nature. Of course, I sleep soundly too. I jumped off the couch with a loud noise, looking around. There is no one in the hall. One more thing I wondered. I am restless. Anyway, the same voice again: Good morning, good morning my dear! And the sound is extremely melodious. Once again, I found where the sound was coming from. The sound came from the cage on the nesting table in the living room . Our gguk bird named Neşe was giving a wake-up call at eight in the morning. In opera form... I don't know how many times I've said that. But I still tell it with the same enthusiasm, bewildered. I said that now it is obligatory to write... Good morning, good morning my lamb. Good morning !   

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*****3*****

Laundry - Oggito

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I stand in front of his neatly arranged drawer. Gray socks, burgundy socks, navy blue socks, brown socks, white, gray and black sports socks... Each in a separate compartment. I'm brooding over the burgundy socks I've just matched through the pile of washed and dried laundry. Which compartment should I put them in?

It would not be possible to put it between white spores. Bordeaux immediately betrays me; okay so himself. The best is the gray sock compartment. Enough to get on her nerves, not enough for her to blame me. My hand slipped into that compartment. What should I do, right next to the burgundy compartment... Sorry, husband . As soon as I say it, he just glares at me with his blue eyes that have turned gray. He clenches his fist, bites his thick lower lip, but does not bark. It just hisses through your nose. As he stares at it, my eyes get bigger like innocent cat eyes. My huge pupils swallow his lightning.

I have been arranging colors for eight years. Stockings, panties, belts, trousers, shirts... Until last year, a white shirt did not mix with a cream shirt in the closet. I was afraid of his anger. All colors stood side by side with their fellows. Until that night...

He goes to the pavilion three nights a week. I know too. When he returns home, he