Being An Author With The Words of Roland Barthes

Roomy Meditations on a Book on Writing a Book,
Thinking with R. Barthes
(does he have a twitter account?)

Unpublished Story, Armagan Kilci, Istanbul, 2014

(portrait of R. Barthes, cropped by me, reminding R. Mappletroph)

Roland Barthes is on my mic now or these are the stains of his "black ink".
Because, this text will be talking about Roland Barthes by using my voice.

In his translated book, PREPARATION OF NOVEL, a lonely man, with eight (VIII) glasses, two (II) for one (I) eye, two (II) for the other (I) and four (IV) for hands (II) and his feet (II)... is Roland Barthes.

He eats glasses, because anything is relevant with writing (and writing is about eyes and eyes is about glasses if you are writing lots) when Barthes is considered (or should I say, "...when Barthes' eating"?). Yes, I am killing you right now. Let's re-begin as I always do.

Focus on foxes! He was Roland Barthes when he was alive. He is still R. Barthes. Who knows, he will remain Barthes till the last day of my life.

When I read the pages of that old man's mature voice and the rules of the castle of the rules, I remembered/learned (what is the main difference if you've got fish memory?) that each word has an aura. Each mark has a micro-aura. You can not touch them, even though you may touch the writer, you might cut the brain of the writer into tiny, examinable parts, you might even put the head into a neuroscientific oven: But, you can not touch the words. However, they grasp you. They might torture you or arouse you.. they might even open the doors of fake heaven. (pessimists might prefer "celluloid hell" or "wet cotton purgatory", but not me... I believe in heaven, even though I made it fake for the sake of visuality of the language).

Yes, my precious and unique reader, I agree to Barthes. Words are powerful and when they do not exist, neither power nor Barthes might have been on this piece of shit. So, Barthes, with reference to my world and my study desk and my bed, is a smart gentleman who was intelligent enough to choose "WRITING" as the topic of his scholarly locomotion.

This evening, I have read a part on dominance of egoism over the structure of writer's life. Half an hour ago, while I was reading him, he emphasized the room, the house, the dinner table, the bed and isolation of the writer. So, now I am emphasizing it with many words. Because if being a parrot will make me Barthes, I might be a parrot for one night. Because I respect him and love him/her (his writer's persona).

OK! No hysteria! Not now! But for sure, I am interested in him. When I was reading his lines, some part of my brain was imagining his apperance; his pale, white skin or white, pale?

Tonight, Barthes reminded me the significance (academic language) of chronology:

Do the night or the day come first? In Turkish, a saying says that "Each night has a daytime" (Her gecenin bir gündüzü vardır) or some says it as "each night has a morning" (her gecenin bir sabahı vardır)... So, according to this phrase: night comes first, then the day/morning appears. Night, as you may imagine, means burdens, frustrations, depressions or anything bad and the morning is the cure, it suggests. But, anyway, night (the bad destiny) comes first and the tranquility, hope etc. When I was reading Barthes, I thought that this saying suggests that at first the night was created, then the morning. But, now, I am not that sure about it. Barthes:

"The Germain believed that Night is older than Day, says Tacitus. Nox dicere diem videtur (As if the night is drifting the day away)" [My translation]

So, if Night is older than the Day... and if I am here writing with the red bulb on my side at night...

Am I feeling older?

All these things are -although not complicated- make me want to describe Barthes as a butterfly on the piano buttons of Satie. ("are...make me want to"..."great sentence darling, keep it up" said my little Barthes birdie inside my perception.. "never erase any part of you, mistakes are your trademarks" he added, "but show your rationality if you want respect and to be with me" insisted he).

How can I loose myself within all the fictions of oral tradition and written literatures? That was my point, so I might give a break to Barthes and listen to the melody.

Reading Barthes, while alone, with Satie...

to all my imitations and realities of being a person...

to the cute victims who sacrifice their persona for the sake understandibilty and accucary.

to all the autists who forget or may not comprehend the correct version of earthly fictions.

Reading Barthes, with no effort, still listening the same melody. Don't want to be lost between the pages.

He, the writer of the book of writers, Barthes; divides the author or writer into thousand pieces. He talks about me. If he talks about the previous me, does he still talk about me? I was a writer, because I was writing everyday fifty pages at least and taking notes all the time. I was trying to complete the work of two poles with all the emotions in it, more cinema than cinema and more music than a silent orchestra. Then, I do not know what has changed.. but, for sure, I am going to investigate. Something's (perception) been changed. It was spiral and has become square. I discoered that writing makes me sick.. but later, I realized that it does not make me sick. People make me sick. What is sickness anyway? "some twisted minded person sees me as someone that I don't want to be seen as." That is THE sickness.

I might be wrong and cruel about my potential, the potential of the world, and Barthes. May be I am in a flow of potency. Let's turn to the basics: I know that I love Barthes, sometimes. I love myself, all the time (because I am always with me! I should love anything which is always by my side and accept me, anyways, let's don't be complicated from the beginning), I love world (because this is an experience), I love writing (it helps me to erase borders and rebuild new contours).

I have no obligation in anywhere, anytime.. neither now nor there. Forgive me Barthes, I've already missed your words. My words are out of focus now. I'd prefer we fall in love at first sight without seeing each other... Then, how great it would be for me to write a text called "Love @ 1st Sight With Roland Barthes Via Timeless Travels".

When I write something Dear Barthes... I feel as if some people (if they'd read me) would criticize me, I do not like the presence of fear... I believe that if I fear that thing happens.. so, I am stuck, and I also believe that this is my imagination, being stuck is my fiction. But since I made it up: it is real! It becomes real and I need support to save me from all thes unnecessary flow of mind. So, when I write someting, I am disturbed, not by you, but people that I know.. People, that I know with their reactions to other people. This does not help. But, I SHOULD open a space for me with positive ideals and positive histories and futures. I think that you may help me Barthes, you and your horizontally distributed friends (in terms of voice)... I mean, other writers, or word-masters.

I think you are a word master. I think I am a sorcerer. And there are other specialisations that I might not recall.