Short Story - Interactive Poetry

in WORLD OF XPILAR2 months ago

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“I'm sorry that my work is interrupted," said Özgüç, who had two arms in plaster. Özgüç was in a private room at Eyupoglu Hospital. He had an accident two days ago.

Özgüç is a good kid, but he's a bit weird. The words “a bit” may not be enough to describe his weirdness. Özgüç is very strange. His goodness and the strangeness are extreme. I can't say I'm good if you ask me. At least I'm harmless. Why did I bring the word to me? Because I'm a young person who wants to draw attention.

Some types are folded on themselves, even buried in themselves. They replicate themselves so much that they are stuck in their own network like a fish, just like Özgüç. He is my roommate. I can't think of a better roommate for a poet. Who gave me the "poet" title? I guess I wasn't the subject here. The issue is almost always us, but at the moment, I want to tell the story of Özgüç.

Although I am the poet of the house, it was Özgüç who obsessed with some poems. He's an obsessive person; I must admit I am too. His world is like a four-dimensional sphere, so there is no way for him to quit. While you think can there be a four-dimensional sphere, let me continue my narration.

The number of obsessive people in the world is more than you think. These people are like cats who try to hide their wounds. They may also be like cats licking their wounds. Özgüç found a version of Edip Cansever's "Not Called Yakup" poem converted into a computer game. They have recently started to transform images of poetry into digital images using an AI algorithm. Özgüç liked the game so much that he wanted to contact the young man who developed it. However, the person who designed the game was neither young nor man. He convinced the lady to give him the codes of the game. I don't know how he did it; perhaps she was scared of his crazy stare.

Özgüç's world was shrinking. Even a person stuck in his own network like a fish has a lot of areas. You can walk around the garden of your memory at any time. No matter how good a poem is, its universe is limited by nature. Özgüç knows that, but he doesn't stop accusing me of being jealous of the poet Edip Cansever. I'm did not say to him, don't be silly because it is useless to object to a person who makes such a ridiculous claim. I opposed this initiative because I respected poetry.

I had the opportunity to look at the game when Özgüç started to dive into the subject and experience deep intoxication. The game's main character was a man with a crooked face, similar to women in Picasso paintings. You could send him to look at frogs. He could also drop sluggish, rotten water from his inside. When you press the Q button, the guy threw out the old piece of paper from his pockets. There were cats running in red flames. Our character was making love to a woman with glasses under a twitchy sheet.

The visuals were so sloppy; the program was so far away from a game that it was not possible not to be horrified.

I think this strange computer program was an insult both to poetry and the world of games. I was more interested in the poetry part of the issue, of course. I told Özgüç, "I am a person who respects experiments. In principle, I do not object to the idea. But if you want to make this poem interactive, don't try to build your work on that woman's code."

He told me, “Mind your own business, fat man.” Do you know a fat poet? I didn't know any. I don't mind Özgüç talking to me that way because I've been fat and poet for a very long time. Anything can happen in the world.

After he began working on the game "Not Called Yakup," Özgüç started not to take care of me. He didn't come to dinner; he didn't answer my questions. I couldn't tolerate this kind of behavior in those mourning days when magazines continually rejected my poems. I decided to talk to him.

“Am I your mother? Am I your girlfriend? Why should I care about you? We are roommates,” Özgüç said.

“But friends must support each other.”

“You know I love computer games and poetry. Now I've decided what to do with my life: I'm going to convert poetry into games. And I was so eager to embrace it…”

“The food will be eaten at the table, and my questions will be answered," I said, ”I don't want an objection." He shook his head like a good boy when I stood out so hard.

The desire to produce something was good for Özgüç. When his father died early and inherited three flats, he had the luxury of living in an extended student period. We even had a tabletop hologram player in our sweet home.

My job was pretty hard. I decided to operate a forklift instead of being a member of the army of unemployed college graduates. Do you know a forklift operator who is famous for his poetry? I was one of the employees shown with a finger in the workplace with my forklift riding style. So much so that they came to watch me. For example, the chief engineer was a fan. People like to exaggerate things; some of them likened my ride to a ballet performance, some to a dance performance. I was telling Özgüç's story, but it came to me again.

I think Özgüç was trying to do something big. He didn't have enough coding knowledge to write the game. He also had no experience in graphic design. However, it is necessary to appreciate his determination. He was learning slowly, and he managed to visualize the dirty old chariot stated in the poem, and the seashore, adorned with moss, sand, and turritella. But as time went on, I could see he was tired, impatient, and his determination began to break. I don't think it was a good idea to put the program code on the game producers' board. The only comment was, “I've never seen such a terrible thing in my life.” I think he wanted to return to his former carefree and happy life, and he took a break from the design and coding job using the release of Civilization 9 as an excuse. I was glad to see the old carefree Özgüç. I also stopped working on poetry. I didn't think it was right to push things too hard.

It wasn’t good for us to give up our dreams. It was not good for me to be caught in Yosun while Sema was in love with me. Sometimes the frequencies don't match. When time went on, and he could not restart building the interactive game, Özgüç became furious. He became stagnant when he was unable to sit back and make progress after trying a few times. Did I tell you Özgüç was obsessed? Which one of us isn't? Life breaks you if you are not flexible. When Özgüç was in such a state of recession, a cargo drone fell on him. Of course, it is impossible to know how much the accident is associated with the recession. Maybe he was destined.

At the hospital, a high school student visited him and said that he was interested in poetry and computer games. He said he liked his game; he should never give up, he could help with coding. He decided to reconsider the program with renewed determination.

Özgüç said one of the tiles on the floor of the hospital room is different from the others. This is so uncomfortable that they put a little carpet in there. He's obsessed with the rug this time. I've been thinking about Nurperi. But am I the subject here? Yeah, why not. I think we like each other; she even says I have a poet spirit. Maybe someday I'll start writing poetry again.

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Do you know a fat poet? I didn't know any.

haha... So true! :)

'' Bazı türler kendi üzerine katlanır, hatta kendi içlerine gömülür. Tıpkı Özgüç gibi kendilerini bir balık gibi kendi ağlarında sıkışıp kalacak kadar çoğalıyorlar. ''; Hocam bu öykünüz de diğer öyküleriniz gibi keyifli ve anlamlıydı teşekkür ederim :))

Beğenmene sevindim. 3 yıl önce yazmıştım bu öyküyü. Dün dönüp okuyunca benim de hoşuma gitti.

Bari Türkçesini yazayım ilgili kısmın :) "Kendisinin üzerine katlanmış, hatta kendisine gömülmüş tipler vardır. Kendisini öylesine çoğaltmış ki artık bir balık gibi kendi ağına takılmış. Özgüç öyledir işte."

Evet çok hoş hocam, ayrıca çeviri yapınca farklı çıkıyormuş teşekkür ederim Türkçe çevirisi için :))