Kaveh and Geroge Michael!

Why not approach with less defiance?

Beyt..

Dar e meykhaaneh bebastand, khodaayaa mapasand
Ke dar e khaaneye tazvir o riyaa bogshaayand...

Stuff

I just learned something new about myself. I like going through old records and discovering things. Strange for someone who is not particularly a fan of reading history books. I think the nosiness I have combined with "Johnny Dollar" genes from my grandma work to my advantage.
I found a document I was looking for in a Newsweek magazine, year 1955!!
This brings me to my second idea. Ok, I'm absolutely blown away by the diligence and motivation of people who manage libraries and collect records. I mean, they are UNBELIEVABLE! If you just feel like knowing what people in the British Parliament were talking about on a specific date, boom, it's there. Someone has organized it such that it's easy to use. Oh, and I love control F too. What would we have done without it? (I guess what I did for finding this document, checking page by page through 52 issues of a magazine..Can you believe my good luck? It was in the 4th issue out of the 55!)
You could drown your days into learning nuances of making bibliographies and working with their softwares. It's literally a world of information, and you'd be surprised to know how much people actually care about the seemingly unimportant issues of formatting and font and such...

Umm, George Orwell is a great writer by the way. He is not exactly sentimental, but his account of poverty makes me shiver. I have never heard such a believable story of poverty as he gives in his book "Down and About in Paris and London". Every time I'm throwing away food, I think of Boris. Colorful character, he is, That Boris.

Consulted Hafiz, as usual, when I was disappointed in myself for not being ideal.
this came out:
Chon maslahat andishi door ast ze darvishi
ham sineh por az aatash, ham dideh por aab ola

Smooth Criminal

You know when you hear a pop song that you don't like much, but then there is a catchy line in it? You know how it feels when someone else with a sense of humor similar to yours all of a sudden sings that same exact line at EXACTLY the right (appropriate) moment?

Aha,that's what happened to me, just recently....

You've been hit by
You've been struck by
A smoooooooooooooooooth criminal...

Afraa Takhte

Everywhere was green.
Underneath our car, an unpaved road.
Tall trees on both sides of the road, and smell of the village, as we drove up the circles, up the mountain. Anticipation in my heart for the number of honks needed to inform those already "up" there how many of us were going. That was our contract. No phones to inform them, you know.
In the green land rover, underneath our feet, big bulks of ice we had bought from the local store. In our hands, bottles of "Canada Dry" or cones of ice cream.
Day dreams, non-stop, about the horses I'd ride, walks I'd take, little mud statues I'd make, books I'd read lying down under the sky, warm underneath heavy comforters when it was windy outside. Long nights of "Mosha'ere" or "Ranjesh o Tahseen". That was something. They'd sit someone down and criticize them for their bad behavior so far and praise them for what they had done right. You didn't have the right to defend yourself right then; had to go think by yourself before you're allowed to say anything.
Where was I? Oh, the drive. In my small world, which of course didn't seem small at the time, it was crucial in whose car we drove up; who came along?
Those were exciting times, plans for working my way into my favorite car with my favorite passengers. That "sigh" of relief after I succeeded!
And Readings of "Arash e Kamangir" in the car. JOY.
This is Alborz mountain, the mountain the poem is about. Looked around myself. Was it really Alborz? Did it really matter? It was a bog forest. Looking around, I was amazed by the grandeur of it all.
Last night, I was in my bed, very early, reading that poem to myself. Loudly, I read the entire poem to an imaginary audience. Surprisingly, I broke into tears, yet again, while reading it. Then, I put it down, and decided to think instead about the green road and all the anticipation it brought about...

Marzhaye molk,
hamcho sar haddaat e daamangostar e andisheh,
bi saamaan
Borjhaaye shahr,
hamchoo baaroohaaye del,
beshkasteh o viraan
doshmanaan bogzashteh az sar haddo az baaroo.....

Africa

I don't want to say much.
Instead, I want to post what a dear friend of mine wrote to me from Africa. I have asked for her permission, and she gracefully allowed me to post her writing on my blog. She has a beautiful way of explaining her experience traveling as a woman(quite a pretty woman, I must say) in Africa:

"...Traveling Africa is difficult for a woman, especially for a white woman – you get so much attention (including marriage proposals on the bus station), that even despite animosity for guided tours, I am considering signing up for a couple – to blend more with human surroundings – in this case, other tourists ;)

Some of my truly African experiences include: a visit to a crocodile farm, waking up at 4:30 either because of chanting in the nearby mosque or a sermon with loudspeakers from a neighboring church (it is not too bad –the sunrises are breathtaking), and, of course, a ride in a matola (open pick-up truck, infinitely extendable – they are never considered full – if another person wants to jump in, passengers just get more tightly squeezed inside).

Erica (another girl working on this project) and I mounted one in sincere hope that we can handle 10 kilometers ride. Big expectations!
First, after circling the city in search of passengers for a while in vain, the driver stopped to wait for them. Waiting was more fruitful – in just about forty minutes enough people jumped in for us to get up – one occupies much less space standing. Another half an hour – I have never had such a tight physical contact with strangers – we are literally squeezed into each other. And then a true test of compressibility of human body comes – a
woman with a basket of tomatoes! The driver opens the back door – placed horizontally, it provides additional space – enough to regroup and accommodate the tomatoes for safe transportation. We literally fled the vehicle at its first stop..."


That's it for today...and as for poem of the day:

Malool az hamrahaan budan tarigh e kaarvaani nist
Bekesh doshvaarie manzel, be yaad e ahd e aasaani..
....

for Amoo Shari

Khonok aan ghomaar baazi ke bebaakht har che boodash
benamaand heechash ella havas e ghomaar e digar
...

Ey aanke ghamgenio sezaavaari...
I read to myself, trying to sound like you when you'd sing this for me. I clearly remember the day you taught me this poem.I don't think you do.
You had me recite it over and over again, in the green land rover you drove. I was sad and worried about maman gorgani. I thought she may never recover. And she did; and she lived for much much longer.
The poem, I thought was unfair, as I still do. But I just wanted to seek comfort in you and in some absolute wisdom as, again, I still do today.
And you know, there may be a bug in my system in general, but I never liked the "Chonaan namaand o chonin niz ham nakhaahad maand" remedy. It never comforted me. I need more stability, you know?

I'm having hard days. What is this amoo shari? How come my logic doesn't help?

It's now that I miss ,even more, the lovely feeling of sitting with you and Fariba joon, eating pomegranate until we can't breathe any longer...
You know, having family like you makes me feel like things will be ok again, some day.
I mean, there is always del o jegar and good poems and interesting advise with some sense of humor waiting on the other side of the line, right?

ey aanke ke ghamgeni o sezaavaari
vandar nahaan sereshk hami baari
raft aanke raaft amaad aank aamad
bud aanche bud, khireh che gham daari?
sho taa ghiaamat aayad zaari kon,
key rafte raa be zaari baaz aari?
aazaar bish zin gardoon bini
gar to be har bahaane biaazaari
Hamvaar kard khaahi gitee ra?
giteest, key pazirad havmaari??
...
gooyee gomaashtast balaayee oo
bar har ke to del baroo bogmaari...

Now

1. Attended a very interesting panel discussion at the Business school in Stanford. It was about politics and energy and oil. Very good conversations moderated by the chief editor(online)and business column writer of the Wall Street journal. Balanced panel, smart audience, interesting discussions.

2. In the personal realm, things are tough. Can't seem to talk(here) or even clearly think about them. Lots of mood swings, endless anxiety attacks that thankfully do not last too long. Last night, I woke up at 3 am because my whole body was itching. I literally was scratching myself in sleep, and that woke me up. Turned on the light and realized my hands are entirely red and irritated. Like an itch attack, or some sort of a breakout! It was crazy. I couldn't sleep for a bit and was thinking of putting gloves on so I won't scratch myself to death! Anyhow, I forced myself to sleep, and in the morning, everything was all right. The redness, the breakout, everything was gone. I guess my body is just extremely connected (and sensitive) to my emotions. The first time when I went back to Iran, I was so extremely happy and excited, that my cheeks burned; they literally burned, as in 1st degree burning. You know how when you are excited your cheeks become hot? well, mine became so hot that they burned. I had red marks on my cheeks for a week or so, a sign on my absolute excitement about being back home.

3. There are good moments too; when I have ambition; when I am relaxed and hopeful. They have just become few and far between. Thankfully, I have not COMPLETELY lost my attention span and am still able to read; JOY of these days.

4. Watched a movie by Kiarostami that I liked. Except, it was set in a place just like "afra takhteh" and I cried through half of the movie because I just would give ANYTHING to go back there again, and what if I can't? Plus, I was just sad that day anyway.

5. I keep telling myself "bar oo taazim o bonyadash barandazim, bonyadash barandazim...barandazim, barandazim..." . Let's hope I will.

6. I think I still like to become a journalist

7. (I'm talking to myself here) You know what, it's fine if you think I ghor too much or look for things to be depressed about. I am aware of it and try not to do this, but it's not helpful to think of people who may read this and think, oh, yeah, there she goes again. I don't like censoring myself, and I do that QUITE a lot here. For fear of unfair judgment or being passive aggressive.

7. I'm going to cherish all those little moments when I'm happy and keep them for use when I feel like this. I'm too sensitive, and it is hard. I mean, it gets unbearable at times, but I also feel even the simple joys of life in an exaggerated way. Thinking about that helps.

8. Sa'diaa hobb e vatan garche hadisit sahih
natavaan mord be sakhti ke man injaa zaadam

natavaan?

Judgments

I came across this article yesterday. It's not mind blowing in anyway, nor does it present a brand new idea. But it's a clear, to-the-point article about an interesting topic.
http://paulgraham.com/judgement.html

Schizophernia among other things

1. Knowing you have to do something, not doing it almost intentionally, and then worrying constantly about it. This, I think runs in my family. At least, Kaveh and I both have it. I even see it in paying bills. I leave them sometimes, and then I feel bad about having left them. As my "bad feeling" keeps getting worse, I am less and less able to deal with them (i.e. pay them). Instead I imagine them away...but there is this anxiety that is always in your heart about things being overdue, apartment being dirty, running out of clothes because you have not done laundry. The drama of it appeals somehow! Am I crazy?

2. Am I truly non judgmental, or does the fear of confrontation run so deep, I'll simply allow ANYTHING in my presence?

3. Had a horrible nightmare last night. People were trying to kill me and were following me everywhere. At some point, I went to my mom and dad's bed and asked them to let me sleep next to them. The fear wouldn't go away. I went back to my room, and people came and put a knife in my body 3 places. I was speechless and frightened. Woke up and found myself in my apartment in downtown SF. Can't begin to explain the relief I felt in the minute after this realization and before realizing my real location, geographically and emotionally.

4. I'm reading a book about Schizophrenia. Sad, but also very fascinating. Somehow, this topic has always been of great interest to me. It's informative and fun to read this short, blue-green, book. It's amazing how some of their concerns are just extremely magnified versions of psychological struggles of us seemingly normals!
Here are some lines from it:

From a patient: I am more and more loosing contact with my environment and myself... I cannot picture anything more frightful than for a well-endowed cultivated human being to live through his own gradual deterioration fully aware of it all the time. But that's what is happening to me.

About a patient: This man seemed to go about his day to day affairs in the ward reasonably happily, dressed normally, and could conduct a conversation on everyday matters reasonably appropriately. Nonetheless, he expressed the belief that there was a fish on his shoulder all the time. He'd say "How could a cream possibly help with a fish? It's a fish. it's the place, not PLACE but the PLAICE on my shoulder. It's there all the time"
How the play on words between place and plaice came into all of this, we could not determine.

And Again...

Goftam ke nush e la'lat, maa raa be aarezu kosht
Gofta to bandegi kon, ku bandeh parvar aayad...

Hafez

Shaah neshin e cheshm e man, tekyeh gah e khiaal e tost....

Slow...

The book was great. The Passion.
As I was reading the very last pages, I felt anxious and sad(!) over "coming to the end"! I felt like the tone of the book started slowing down.
I was in Caltrain. It was a familiar feeling. As I looked out the window, I remembered that it EXACTLY felt the same as when I was on a boat on the Caspian sea coming back from "Ashooradeh", a port(or an island) on the Caspian.
We went there for good fish, and for showing our little town to outsiders. We rented a boat to get to the island. It was gorgeous, windy, and usually cold; there was always a subtle fear of falling into the dark blue water; and that proud look of the boatman calling himself "Naakhoda Ali" or something to that effect.It was fun and scary getting on and off the boat. It moved constantly. I always proudly demonstrated my talent in getting in and out of the boat. It felt good to be from the hood!
Anyhow, when we came back from the restaurant, we were a fun boat ride away from our car.
And when we got close to the shore, "Nakhoda Ali" would turn off the engine. The boat would slow down and move to the rhythm of the sea.
slowly, we got closer to the end. Everything slowed down; you had time to enjoy (noshkhar) the last minutes. Calm, and somewhat sad.
I loved those short lunch trips, and Nakhoda Ali, and the way you got to hug everyone because you were scared.

Did I mention, people no longer live in "Ashooradeh". It went under the sea.

Now and then

Khaamosh maneshin khodaa raa,
Pish azaanke dar ashk gharghe shavam
Az eshgh
Chizi begooy....

....
Aay eshgh, aay eshgh, chehreye aabiat peydaa nist...

Stream of Incoherent Complains...

I'm scared these days; of so many things; of loneliness, sickness (thanks to sicko!), uncertain future, useless life, of not being able to go home.
I push the fear away, sweep it under the rug. But I know it's there. It comes back in my dreams. It haunts me as an underlying anxiety running through my days.
There is some anticipation, but not enough... not enough.
No complains. My life is good. It really is.
But something is missing. I'm full of "rekhvat". I need an electric shock of some sort to take this "Bakhtak" away from me.

It's called being lazy...that's what it is. I have to change many things about myself and my life style, but I'm too lazy to do it. To start with, I have to exercise. I have to think about where I want to be in life in a year or two. I have to face my personality problems and try to fix them. I have to look at what's not right and change it.
Instead, like an addicted person, I continue my routine. I'm terribly addicted to my routine; (i guess that's what a routine is, isn't it?!)
At least I'm not passive about it!
I actively indulge. I indulge in reading books, thinking impossible thoughts, remembering old loves, imagining new ones. It's always the case that I have to force myself out of my comfort zone!
that's just ironic. we create comfort zones because they are comfortable; because we love them. I have a love-hate relationship with my comfort zone.
What scares me about this is that I feel my mind is also becoming lazy. I don't learn as much and don't challenge my brain as much. It's sitting still. I feel like I burnt out too soon in terms of learning.
Will I ever become a good cook? a good hostess?
Would I ever trust my level of happiness enough not to get thrown away by a day or two of mood swings?
If I submit, will the world give me a day or two per year to stay a carefree child with her feet in the "shofazh" reading a book and eating vanilla ice cream?

Vahshi: On love and politics...

doostaan sharh e parishaanie man goosh konid
Daastaan e gham e penhaanie man goosh konid
Ghesseye bisar o saamaanie man goosh konid
Goftogooye man o heyraanie man goosh konid

Sharh e in aatash e jaansooz nagoftan taa key?
Sookhtam sookhtam in raaz nahoftan taa key?

Imagery

I have never been good at painting. That is not a big deal by itself. The issue is that I have images in my head that are very difficult to communicate in any other way but painting. My dear friend, Sara, is a great painter. She tried to teach me, but I was just bad at it. I asked her if I could explain my thoughts to her so she could paint them...never really happened. I want to try and paint with words; It's hard.
An image came to me twice this past week. Once, when I was listening to Leonard Cohen's "Waiting for a Miracle", and another time when reading a poem by Hafiz.

the thought before the image was something like this:
I heard this song (read this poem) when I was 16,17 (in Iran) and related to it just as strongly as I do now; but in a different way. I have become a different person, but somehow have kept some of the elements that defined "me" back then. I vividly remember how I'd turn my head and sing along with this same song; how the words of this same poem touched my heart so deeply.

Now, the image:
It's a bright picture. It's as if my personality is a peechak(Ivy), twisting and turning around this pillar that is my "essence". It twists and turns and in the process relates in all different ways possible to the poetry of Hafiz; to the music of Leonard Cohen.

Maybe that is what life is all about; to twist and turn and be amazed by all the many ways you can relate to your favorite poem.



Moshkel e eshgh na dar hoseleye daanesh e maast
halle in nokte bedin fekr e khataa natvaan kard
be joz abrooye to mehraab e del e haafez nist
taa'at e gheyre to dar mazhab e maa natvaan kard

Quote: The passion

You play, you win, you play, you loose. You play. It's the playing that's irresistible. Dicing from one year to the next with the things you love, what you risk reveals what you value.

Madness

Dar kherman e sad zaahed e aaghel zanad aatash
In daagh ke maa bar del e divaaneh nahaadim

"The Passion" by Jeanette Winetrson.

I. Most people thought King and Queen were right though King and Queen had no care for us except as revenue and scenery. For the most part, my friends in the village could not speak of their unease, but I saw it in their shoulders as they rounded up the cattle, saw it in their faces as they listened to the priest in the church. We were always helpless, whoever was in power.

II. He was in love with himself and France joined in. It was a romance. Perhaps all romance is like that; not a contract between equal parties but an explosion of dreams and desires that can find no outlet in everyday life. Only a drama will do and while the fireworks last, the sky is a different color.

III. When she died, suddenly, at noon, the light went out of his voice...he could hardly harvest the land let alone bring up six children. She had made him possible. In that sense, she was his god. Like God, she was neglected.

IV. He was great. Greatness like his, is hard to be sensible about.

and I've JUST started reading this. This book touches deeply.

On my mind

1. I am angry.
I was worried I had forgotten how to be and act angry. It's still very painful for me to be upset at people; don't like it at all. However, recently, I find myself screaming when I read the news, blogs and when I think about what is happening around me. I can't seem to decide if it's becoming worse by the day or I'm just becoming aware of it now. What is happening is horrible, upsetting, painful and UNFAIR. I LOATH those who knowingly do wrong when what they do affects so many people's lives. Their personal lives, their basic rights to happiness. (gooeyaa baavar nemidaarand rooz e daavari...)
And I raise my hat to those who speak their minds when it can cost them much more than I can even fathom.

2. Rocio thought my Persian accent when speaking English was minimal. She didn't think it was good though. To her, it signaled some sort of lack of character. Her thick, cute, Argentinean accent made her who she was. She would say "could" instead of "would", and mixed her b's and v's. She wanted to be that way. She has a rough personality. Most people don't like her. She speaks her mind and is rude a lot of times, but she has a kind heart. She has a warm, rich personality if she likes you. She is a bit condescending when it comes to accepting people's intelligence levels. She is prejudiced and a big time nationalist, and somewhat of a racist; and she's proud of it. She has a lot of what in Persian we call "Daafe'e". (something that would push people away).
she thought I didn't. She thought I was "too nice". I felt bad about my English and my niceness around her. Maybe she just didn't know a better word, and that's why she used "nice". To this day, I feel like I want to defend my personality when I think of her. I want to tell her she doesn't know the nuances of my personality. I don't like the word "nice". that's it.

Vafaa konim o malamat keshim o khosh baashim,
ke dar tarighat e maa kaafarist ranjidan.
...

Na har ke chehreh barafrookht delbari daanad
Na har ke aayneh saazad sekandari daanad
Na har ke tarf e kolah kaj nahaad o tond neshast
Kolaah daari o aayeen e sarvari daanad
Hezaar nokteye barik tar ze moo injaast
na har ke sar betaraashad ghalandari daanad
Vafaa o ahd nekoo baashad ar biaamoozi
Vagarna har ke to bini setamgari daanad

The perfectionist

To remember, is fascinating.
You can remember events, thoughts, feelings, looks, smells..so many things.
Sometimes, I remember something and am able to relive it. Relive the feelings I mean. Other times, I get so anxious to do just that, and so worried I may not be able to, that I loose the entire memory all together.
Today, on Caltrain I remembered something. It doesn't belong to any one category (smell, feeling, event)..but it includes them all. Imagine:
In their navy "Mantou" and white "Maghna'e", girls play in their school yard. It's time to start a game. Two people start forming two different teams, and then they pick their teammates.
The feeling I'm talking about is that of knowing, so certainly, that EVERYONE wants you on their team. You haven't worked for it, it just IS that way. Undeserved, maybe, but very enjoyable nevertheless. You are always the "Captain" of your team without anyone really knowing what being a captain entails. It's just good.
That, we all knew.
I had never thought about how it felt to be the "other".To not be wanted on any team, or even to not be the person EVERYONE wanted on their team.
The unfair thing was that we were all aware of this , often unspoken, ranking, and it somehow applied to so many other aspects of our student lives. I sometimes thought some of those people, hopefully, were not aware of all this, or even better, couldn't care less..but is that true? If not, how did they submit to a life of "less than ideal" ranking? Had they believed it to be an " unchangable reality"? or was it really that they didn't care?
This concept of unspoken, yet universally known, ranking is everywhere. It was in the International House with which country you were from. (Pakistan, not so cool, Spain oh very cool, we all agreed)
And this repeats itself in so many forms and situations throughout our lives.

When I am forced to accept "defeat" of this sort, and I have been forced quite a number of times after leaving Iran, I only begin to realize how those girls in Navy outfits must have felt when they were chosen the last or when they caused their team to loose yet another time. It's tough. It's painful.
But I, then, close my eyes and remember that I have a little girl with a Navy "mantou" in my heart that KNOWS she's the captain...

Jonoon, again

Aamadeam ke taa be khod, goosh keshaan keshaanamat
bi del o bi khodat konam, dar del o jaan neshaanamat....

Leyla ro bordan...

Korush Yaghmayee in my ears, I read on about politics of Iranian Diaspora...
And all of a sudden, a "heavy" feeling is all over me.I imagine my dad sitting in our living room, glued to TV, waiting for his destiny to be decided by forces outside of his reach. Ah, that frustration. From inside and outside, no one cares. Even if they do, it's just too complicated to do anything...
Frustration is not "tailored" enough to communicate what I feel.
It breaks my heart that my dad still dreams of better days. He's still hopeful; and these goddamn "abarghodrats" never think about the man in Gorgan. No one does.
What they do, though, may take away the chance for me to stand on his feet and force him to talk to me.

"vaghtee baa man mimooni, tanhaayeemo baad mibare
do ta cheshmaam baaroon e shaboone karde........."

he likes this song. That simple.

On a good day...

1. Am I getting old?! The harmless thought of spending a night away from my home, and the city, makes me feel uncomfortable. I keep thinking to myself, what do you have to do at home? I can't pinpoint it. It's just that good feeling...I had mentioned before that I'm in love with the city. I guess it is love, and I can't stand "hejr".

2. sometimes when I read a book or watch a movie, I get too preoccupied with "deciding" if it's good or bad, if it's worth my time or not, etc. There is an imaginary universal court of justice in my head. I subject books, movies, people, actions, beliefs (including my own)to it. It's quite absolutist by nature. I try to mediate it.

3. I want to start doing grocery shopping and cooking. Every time I have tried, really tried, it has turned out well. Maybe if I do that it feels less like I’m waiting for my life to start. Maybe now that I have a job that I like,(and that pays) and am spending my days in a fairly happy way, is the time to believe my life has “started”.

4. It is scary when you talk to a friend, who thinks life means nothing; who reminds you that most of the time you are waiting for “recess bell” to get out. At nights, you wait for bed-time to come… at work for 5 o clock, at restaurants for the bill, and in your personal life, for love. You constantly seek distraction in books, movies, love affairs and New Yorker cartoons. You hurt and get hurt. My logic can’t say much to that. I guess that’s true. But so what? I seem to feel that we are able to enjoy little moments. It’s true; I watch movies and read and eat and fall in love to be distracted, but what’s wrong with that? I hurt and get hurt, but I also love and get loved! Maybe it’s all “heech”, but it can be beautifully so; maybe I’m too much of a child, but I still think of “del o jegar” nights with Amoo Shari, beautiful yellow leaves, good vanilla ice cream, great poems and deep embraces and feel happily alive.

Funny in Gorgani

So there is this lovely lady, let's say my second mom. She is suffering from a really funny "condition". Whenever she hears a sentence (from people, radio, TV, newspaper..anything)she HAS to count the dots used in the sentence! She HAS TO!
Sometimes, she cannot follow a conversation because she's counting, but most of the time, it's not a problem for her; she's a pro. Most words we normal people use, she already knows the number of dots for. She told me last night she is having difficulty sleeping these days because she remembers sentences and has to count the dots all over again. Now, the really funny part is that for some god unknown reason, the number of dots MUST end up being a multiple of 5!!!!!!! If they do not, she has to say a word or two in her head with appropriate number of dots to fix the issue, and the words have to make sense. It's keeping her up. Thank god she already knows to use "khob" when she needs two to go or "na" when she needs just one...
Now you tell me: My family is "colorful", or what?

Kindergarten Nostalgia

There is a smell. When it comes, I get butterflies in my stomach. I mean, my heart misses a bit out of some sort of unfamiliar fear.
It happens now and then, like today, walking towards caltrain. I think a lady walking by me was wearing the perfume.
Every time it happens, I search in my head and my heart to find out what this brings up.Some smells, like "America smell" are known. It's the smell that all the suitcases and magazines from America have. It's funny how even my bags and clothes smell like "America" only when I take them to Iran.
But this smell, it reminds me of my kindergarten, perhaps the first day and the fear of it. I stop and say to myself "I'll think about it and will figure out what this is later".
The thought, though, is slippery. I can't hold on to it. I can't figure it out. It's frustrating. Memories come on top of one another, get complicated, and I can't disentangle them. It's scary, I basically don't remember my memories, and that's the way it is; no "I'll remember some day".This is it.
I'm going to call it the kindergarten smell.
Think of a sunny day in Gorgan, in a car with your mom. You stop at the door and are thrown into this place where there is a bear to scare bad kids. If you're nice, you'll be fine. You also pray and chant this scary song before eating. you have to adjust; and you have to wait to go back to the familiarity of your home.
Somehow, this brings out a train of images of all your life in that city. All the mundane minutes of "YOUR" life that has passed already. Those lazy afternoons..
The hope to have you teacher say: your mom called and said you should go to "fariba joon's" for lunch today. AKKH, that joy. That feeling of importance. Those dark Friday evenings when "Azaan" was on TV, and everyone was upstairs getting ready for a party. The sound of your mom's blow drier. The safety of knowing they are upstairs, when you were in the living room, ready to go out. Worries about which shoes to wear, and whose opinion counts more, baba's or Kaveh's?
Worries, loves, fears...every little feeling you had and you have forgotten now.
And the thought that you don't remember the person you were; You no longer are the person you were.

All of that, is in that one moment when the kindergarten smell arrives.

My new friend

I don't miss him anymore. Can you believe this?
She said this to me today over a cup of tea. Her name is Alice. I met her yesterday. She's from England. "25 years in America, and I'm still quite English. I utterly despise the way Americans eat. They cut everything with two hands, put the knife away and shove in. Absolutely unbearable! I think to myself, what if I had to live with someone who ate like this? John is British, of course"!
she is in her early-mid fifties, wears glasses and has thin, short,orange hair. She dresses like she doesn't really care that much. just a little bit.she is very energetic and friendly. She shoots hellos and smiles at people in the streets. She knows the names of the cook at the Business school, the mail man, the elevator operating manager..everyone. She knows when and where they vacationed last and what "usual" dish they like to eat on Thursdays.
Next to her I feel shy and quiet. I listen to her attentively.
She talks about her ex-husband of 30 years, John, with so much love and forgiveness, it's unbelievable. She says she is not going to ever have another relationship. Why, I asked. She answered: Because I married the only man I could ever love.
Then the British realism kicked in and she said, not to say there is only one person in the world, a soul mate or anything. I just can't have what I have with him with anyone else. 30 years of a great marriage, and 2 lovely daughters.
They met at 16 and got married very young...grew up together, literally.
"He left me for a younger woman. That simple. they say it's midlife crisis".
He had had an affair for 2 years. TWO years.. and then she found out. they tried to work it out and move beyond it, but..:
"one day, we woke up in our bed..I looked at him and said, John, you are leaving me today, aren't you? and he said, yes, on 22nd of October. He left on a business trip to Russia and never came back home. He got another house. He decided he liked her more than he liked me".
vaay.
The girl was a co-worker, a friend of hers actually.
Now in my mind, I keep thinking two years..two complete years of having been fooled.
She lost 60 pounds and didn't stop crying for a year.
"I cat-napped for 3 years after he left", she said. She couldn't sleep in the bed that used to be "theirs".

the beautiful thing about it is how fair she was when she told the story. She realized in a very realistic way how John had done her wrong. She was upset at him for that; very much so, actually. But she still knew how to love him.

"He has been really fair in our financial settlement. He wants to me to be well off. We settled everything with no court.. But he asked me to tell our daughters that I left him and then he met this woman so "our daughters wouldn't get hurt". It's amazing. He is a smart, very smart , and very successful man, but he acts like an 8 year old child when it comes to our relationship. He thinks by denying what happened, it would all go away. Familiar, ha?"

He wants to be friends with her now. He keeps visiting her They play scrabble. He doesn't want to let her go.(mind you, he doesn't want to let the other girl go, either).

Would you ever take him back, I asked? YES. she answered, with a smile and without a pause: because I'm stupid.

list

I'm going to list what has been on my mind so I will remember it later:

1. The girl was crying loudly. Very very loudly. I wanted to go hold her, but then she didn't know me. She cried and cried, and I stared at her feeling useless. Then, I jsut left. I had to catch the last train, you know.

2. Sunny days, caltrain routine. People on caltrain are very different from those on bus line 27. Caltrain has clean cut yuppies. Even the bus towards caltrain has lots of professionals. It feels better not to go in the middle of the tenderloin and sit next to drunk men, but I miss those young mothers and old ladies with their bags and their familiar, old lady perfumes.

3. The man speaks his heart. He told me his heart aches for home. I know that feeling.

4. Painful dreams can at the same time be full of love. full of caring.

5. I feel like I want to show my emotions more. I also feel like I have these stereotypically "feminine" or "maternal" emotions and have no channel to express them. I have never had them before and don't quite know what to do with them. Somewhat out of character, but they are here. I can't deny them.

6. umm, dar nazar e saboktagin, eyb e ayaaz mikoni.

Khajoo

Goftaa sar e che daari kaz sar khabar nadaari?
Goftam bar aastaanat, daram sar e gedaayee

Nocturnal: Zolf bar baad - Mohsen Namjoo

Now, I have to be sleeping, but I can't seem to be able to.
Walking from the bus station today, I felt alive, loved, relaxed. I listened to "Zolf Bar Baad" by Namjoo. Maybe, one of HAfiz's most beautiful love poems, with great music and his unique voice. He really made that poem come to life in a deep way.
The poem is interesting. It's limiting the beloved and setting her free at the same time:
Yaar e bigaane masho ta nabari az khiiiiiiiisham,
Gham e aghyaar makhor ta nakoni nashaadam
Zolf ra halghle makon ta nakoni dar bandam
Torre ra Taab nade ta nadahi bar baadam
.....
Rokh bar afrooz, ke faaregh koni az barg e golam
Ghad barafraaz ke az sarv koni azaadam....

And then it comes...
.
Hafez az jor e to HAASHAA ke begardaanad rooy
MAN AZ AAN RUZ KE DAR BAND E TOAM AAZAADAM.....
....
That. That is just it. No one ever needs to say more than that.

Friday Night Blues

I'm getting ready to go out.
In my head, a Shamloo like voice reads..
Sarv e chamaan e man cheraa meyl e chaman nemikonad?

Mundane

1. I want a deep embrace; a big hug, so to speak.
tang o tulani.

2. Today I asked my "supervisor" if there is a dress code. He answered:
The way you are is perfect.
He has a way of putting the most mundane things in sentences that touch your heart.

3. I read half of Golestaan e Sa'di last night. I wanted to find a story that Amoo Shari had read to me this last time I went home. Then I just read one more, and then another....he writes incredibly well. Even with all his close mindedness and blind absolutism, he is a wise man.
But is that even possible?
I always struggle with him.I like to take comfort in his wisdom, but it's impossible. He leaves me with the the scary realization that there is no absolute wisdom. No baba to run to and be safe. Even the man who is sounding so wise, is not all that.
To learn to look at this world more realistically,I suggest one should read Golestaan!

Dylan

..
....
I'm ready to go anywhere, I'm ready for to fade
Into my own parade, cast your dancing spell my way,
I promise to go under it.
.....
Then take me disappearin' through the smoke rings of my mind,
Down the foggy ruins of time, far past the frozen leaves,
The haunted, frightened trees, out to the windy beach,
Far from the twisted reach of crazy sorrow....

Finally...

It happened..
They made me an offer I couldn't refuse.
I,now, understand this paradox quite well.

For The Three ladies in Shomal, with unconditional love

This is inspired by our conversation today, and the story of the fork...and by how colorfull each of you are..

Some people, when you throw a pebble at them, respond with throwing a brick at you.
Some don't.
Some people forget and forgive.
Some don’t.
Some people threaten you to take their “love” away from you
Some don’t.
Some people make you feel safe and secure.
Some don’t.
Some people need a “reason” to love you.
Some don’t.
...
...
Some people take it easy.
Some don’t.

Hejab, personal

1. I was going to the "Institution for Building Schools" in Tehran for getting data about school construction. It was in a nice neighborhood in northern Tehran, in a little alley.I went there with proper hejab, a "maghna'e" I had borrowed from a cousin and a long, black "roopoosh", and no makeup, obviously. I went inside and three middle aged men were sitting in the lobby. They were all unshaven and dressed in the typical white blouse and baggy gray pants; They looked kind of unprofessional and careless. The first thing they said after hello was: "khanoom", please fix your hejab. I looked at them with awe. I could not fix it anymore, really. Anyway, I pulled my "maghna'e" further down into myface just to make them feel better. Then they asked for an ID,and the only ID I had was my California Driver License!!! Not only was my head not covered in the picture, I was also wearing a revealing top! I gave it to them, somewhat embarrassed. They accepted it, stared at it, and gave me an unpleasant smile. I just ignored them and left.
I came down to leave an hour or so later, upset at the system for not keeping data, for being so short sighted, irresponsible and unprofessional; for not caring at all. I got to the lobby, and of the three men, there was only one left, and he was on the phone. Before I got to talk at all, an old man, the servant (abdarchi) came up to me, with his blue uniform and a kind, fatherly smile. He looked like a "babaye madrese". He opened his shabby coat and from his inside pocket took out my driver license. He said : Ghaayemesh kardam ke hich ki nabine.[I hid it so no one would look at you (without hejab)].
This was just too cute.
I smiled back.I was thankful to him for doing that. For protecting my dignity the only way he knew how to. By hiding the real me!!

2. Maman gorgani was not religious at all, not even conservative, really. When I went back to Iran over the summer, I used to visit her everyday in the afternoon. In the unbearable heat(and humidity) of Gorgan, I usually wore as little as I could manage inside the house without baba saying that our "saraydar" would be insulted. Maman lived next door, so I'd just put on a roopoosh and run to her house. when I took the roopoosh out, she would look at me with amazement, her eyes twice their usual size. Then she would say "Unjaa intori miri birooon?"[do you go out like this in the US??] and I would say yes (while actually it wasn't exactly true). She would bite her lips,move her head to left and right in disapproval and say "VAAA", Na, pretending it's so outragous she couldn't believe it.This was our daily routine; I think both of us knew this was just a game, but I just loved to look sexier each time to induce her to play her role in a more exagerated way. Then we'd both laugh and say KHOB, now what's new today?!!

Q & not A

1. How do things we do when no one is watching define who we are? Are those moments the “real” us, if that even means anything? [For a very simplified example, think picking your nose]. ( An interesting film: Death and the Maiden by Roman Polanski; not about picking your nose)

2.What is “sharm”? I disagree with the person who translated Salman Rushdie’s “shame” into Farsi and called it “sharm”. Sharm is not shame.
Sharm can be kind. Shame, not so much.
Shame is built up. It is a feeling you develop based on a thought.
Sharm, on the hand, is sudden. It just wraps herself around you, like silk, for a moment and disappears once you become conscious of it.
But what IS sharm?

Johnny boy: this one is too looong

Johnny boy and I quickly became friends. We lived next to each other and were together almost all the time. In the mornings, I would knock on his door to wake him up. If it wasn't for me, he'd be late for all his classes. I felt shy knocking on his door because I thought his roommate would think I was in love with him. He probably did. But I cared too much for him to care about the roommate.
Then we'd walk to campus.
He would skip and sing with almost a childish melody:
Gooooooood morning Mr. Sunshine
Gooooooood morning Mr. Plante
Gooooooood morning Mr. Fungus.
Every time he said “gooooood”, I would laugh out loud. It was a game. We were walking among the trees and he sang to them all. He explained words such as “plante” and “fungus” to me. He was very animated.
And then he would say: Come on Negster, sing along.
I was too shy.
Once, he told me he would not speak to me if I didn't sing! He hummed a tune and said, talk on this melody.. Say whatever you want, just with this melody!
I was too shy.
I liked him so much and felt so comfortable I wanted to let my clown out. It would not come out. It was an even more uncomfortable clown back then.
We almost always ate together without ever having agreed upon it. There was a lovely anxiety around each meal, waiting for his melodic knock on my door. It almost never failed. He'd be at the door, with his usual smile and the brown wooden necklace around his neck, looking sharp.
We had very long conversations, very emotional or philosophical at times, and I tried hard to sound intelligent in English. Sometimes I'd go to my room at nights frustrated, with tears in my eyes because I felt like I sounded like an 8 year old. My thoughts were mature, my language was not; but Johnny boy didn't seem to care.
He wrote a poem in Greek for his dad’s birthday. I secretly suspected it was crap(!) and thought how estranged his dad probably felt that his son couldn’t speak his native language. He loved his mom and his mom would come and take him home every weekend. His mom reminded me of Iranian moms. I never met her. Her name,I knew, was Vanessa.
For me, Johnny boy was a window into a new world. One day he came to my room and announced: "this room needs music". We started some sort of pop- musical education: He taught me who Dave Mathew’s band and Sara McLaughlin were. He blushed at the lyrics of Adia because he said it was about Lesbian love. He had “sharm”. That was what I loved about him.
He wanted to convince me that Jesus was right. We had never ending conversations about god and Christianity, and that was the only thing I didn't like much about being with him.
I was too unaware to have formed anything sexual for him. I think he may have "liked" me though. I remember his heart beat really fast one time when we took a picture, just the two of us.
As for me, I remember one evening, when I walked to the lab and saw him passing a notebook to another girl. Just that, and my heart stopped beating for a moment and I was upset that entire night. I couldn't believe he could have a friend, especially a girl, without my knowing. I never told him that. I just imagined that whole night away. I was 19.
He knew maman gorgani, all my Sara's, and all my family, or my tribe, as he would call them.
The night before one of our finals, he came to my room and wanted to stay up all night to study. I never stayed up at nights, so at some point I told him, you continue, I'll sleep.
When I woke up, he was still there, in my room. He told me I slept with my eyes open and talked and scared the shit out of him.
I had never felt so close to anyone in America.
He almost carried me home one day when I had taken one too many shot of DayQuill in the morning on an empty stomach and was about to faint."Negster is drunk on DayQuill " he sang all the way home from class.
Everyone thought we were “dating”. We were not.
It was a beautiful friendship; maybe a start to a series of undefined relationships with men for me; something between friendship, love, crush, becoming one, or even becoming like family. It was, for sure the most pure of them all.We were kids; we lived and sang together; we even showered next door to one another in the dorms and occasionally passed along a bar of soap or something to one another while in the shower.
He wanted to become a doctor. He was a good Christian. He was half Yugoslavian, half Greek and was born and raised in the US. He played the saxophone. His handwriting was flawless, his room, clean and spotless.
He used to visit me years after we moved out of the dorms and he left berkeley.He would bring me cherries from the tree in their backyard in Saratoga.
One day he called me. He was at my door and said he had a surprise for me.
I screamed OH GREAT, you finally brought your dog so I'd meet her! It’s about time!!
He said, no, no, don't guess anymore; just come down.
It turned out he wanted to "introduce" his "bible study friend" to me; a nice girl with long hair. I don’t remember much about her. She was American looking; that’s as much as I remember.
Somehow, I never heard from him after that day.
I don't know how it happened that he just disappeared. I want to know about his dad, his mom,his Greek grandma with a goat in her backyard in Menlo Park,his dog(I can't believe I forgot her name)... I want to know about his life.
I want him to see how I have grown into this new person that I am. I want him to see I am not as shy anymore; that I'm trying.
I fancy that I run into him one day in streets of San Francisco. I pat him on the shoulder and say: Johnny boy, it's negster!!!
And I will finally sing in the melodic, funny way he used to sing for me:
Goooooood morning Mr. Sunshine...

Familia..

What would you do with deep love that's intertwined with absurdities ?
[more than occasional judgments, at times harsh unfairness or wrong actions ]

I take the love, and color all those absurdities...
cute.

Positive...

I hung up, politely, on the telemarketer
New strategy cooks up in his head for faster convincing
...
next time.

Wild is the wind...

How far away from the world of my childhood am I going to be able to go before I collapse? Just how far?
I feel estranged. I have lost "myself".

Ey vaay bar asiri kaz yaad rafte baashad
dar daam maandeh baashad, sayyaad rafte baashad

Aah az dami ke tanhaa, baa yaad e u cho laaleh
dar khoon neshaste baasham, chon baad rafte baashad

Pain

Man dard dar ragaanam
hasrat dar ostekhaanam
chizi nazir e aatash dar jaanam pichid....



[Pain in my vains,
Regret in my bones,
..Something like fire swirled in my soul...]

Songs..

It ain't me babe.. no no no, it ain't me babe..
It ain't me you're looking for babe..

Bang bang, he shot me down, bang bang, I hit the ground, bang bang, that aweful sound..bang bang..

She always had that little drop of poison.

Man gholam e ghamaram, gheyr e ghamar heech magoo

Yaa jaame baadeh, yaa ghesse kutaah..!

Ideas

I have too many ideas in my head and not enough coherence at the moment..so let me shoot:

1. I all of a sudden had a Eureka moment with this part of this Namjoo song. It's an OK song, geographical determination, not one of the magical ones. It said:
...
That they want nothing to do with you
That they don't let you in their game
That they keep fooling you around
That you have been born in Asia, is called geographical determination
...
I related to this. As a girl from my small town,I really did.

2.I'm thinking about the concept of eastern love vs. Western love. Abbas Milani touched on this concept in his memoirs. To paraphrase, he claimed, Westerners fall in love; we "become" in love. An astute observation, I thought.
I will elaborate on this later; just to not forget, the impracticality and psychological absurdity of this type of loving in this day and age is very interesting to me. Mainly, take this line by Hafiz:

laaf e eshgh o geleh az yaar? Zehi laaf e khalaaf
Eshghbaazaan e chonin, mostahagh e hejraanand!
(Roughly it says: you claim to be in love and complain about your beloved?! Nonsense! Lovers like you deserve to suffer through separation from their beloved).

How would modern psychology deal with this madness? really, isn't it down right abusive?

3. Sometimes, I have subtle feelings that for a strange reason I have associated with masculinity. It, somehow, makes me feel very strong and self confident to have and realize these feelings. An example would be becoming aware of a sexual (and only sexual) attraction in the middle of a mundane conversation. When you are talking to someone and thinking things to yourself that only you know.Things completely irrelevant to the conversation, of course;
Like you think to yourself, I want to just stop him in the middle of his sentence with a kiss on his lips. (or your imagination could take you even further).
I have always been told that " men think very bad thoughts in their heads about women"; "bad" meant sexual! I never really thought it was bad.
But, to have them mself, makes me feel empowered; It makes me feel real, in a strange way.
that is just one small example of the kind of feeling I'm talking about; what was interesting to me was the realization of an association with masculinity I had given these feelings.

All of a sudden, everything made some more sense!

Of Poetry and Madness

Poetry is a big part of my life. It has shaped who I am (and for that, it owes me a big explanation if not an apology). It has formed the way I think about life, love, friendship, honesty, dignity... It has changed the way I talk (and has caused miscommunication in many ocasions : the only thing that comes to my mind is a poem and the person on the other side would not understand it..).
I was telling a friend just recently, that I think I belong to the time where these poems were written; the time when you could afford to sit and write poems and feel your feelings..certainly not modern times.
Haifz is a great man. His poetry is beautiful and thought provoking..It speaks to your heart. There is something about him that you trust. I imagine him as a wise man with a "know it all" kind of a smile, with a glass of wine in his hands..
Molavi (Rumi), on the other hand, is INSANE. The man has what it takes to bring a whole nation to madness. He has jonoon. He is "sheydaa". His language is never as sophisticated as that of Hafiz, but, what he does to the heart is beyond explanation. It touches that harp of madness I have in my heart; it's something I cherish but keep hidden because it's not functional in our time. It's the feeling when you want to move your head and jump up and down and scream with pride of what's in your heart. You want to break, shake, love, chant...
Last night, I let my madness out. I indulged in the madness. I can't explain the feeling. It's just in your heart.

Degar Baare beshooridam, bedaan saanam be jaan e to
ke har badni ke bar bandi, bedarraanam be jaan e to
.....
bikhod shode am liken, bikhod tar azin khaaham..
yek tarafi aabam azoo, yek tarafi naaram azoo...
miaan e khoonam o tarsam ke gar aayad khial e oo,
ze bikhishi khialash ra be khoon e dide aalaayam...

zakhme bezani, zakhme nazani..
eyyyyvaaaaaaaaaaay e man..

Jomleye bigharariat, az talab e gharar e tost
taaleb e bigharaar sho ta ke gharaar aayadat..

Danz, how about this?

It's not you; It's you AND the rest of humanity! There is nothing to be ashamed of my dear. You can indulge in your simpleton-ness forever with no shame.
I will be contemplating affairs of the world in my castle, and ponder on how it would have been had I been like you. It must be fun. Trust me, it's not easy being this complex. It is almost a full time job.

Yours truly,
The complex Galileo of our modern time

Book affairs..

These days, I'm in a poly-amorous relationship with my books. I pick one, become infatuated with it for a short period (dating period) only to find another one to jump to. I have not read a book cover to cover-without interruption- for months now.
BUT, I have enjoyed a variety of great writing! Parallel relationships per se.
Relationships with variety AND quality; now, that's not always easy to find.

I may be jumping from one book to the other. But, there is one that is there to stay, and has been my "sogoli" all along. That, is the old Hafiz book I've had since I was 5 or 6. My very own old and shabby Hafiz.

You know, he is the man I wanted to marry when I was 5. (yes, yes, I was crazy and had strange taste in men even then).

Unrealistic love, maybe, but what can I do? He has said it perfectly himself:

Az hamcho to deldaari, del barnakanam, aari
chon taab kesham baari, zaan zolf e betaab Olaa

Haalat

In Kherghe ke man daaram, dar rahn e sharaab Olaa
Vin daftar e bi ma'ni, ghargh e mey e naab Olaa....
...
Ham sineh por az aatash, ham dideh por aab Olaa

Bay To Breakers!

Today was Bay To Breakers day! A big day in San Francisco..
It was fun. Not to be philosophical or negative, but I constantly felt like nothing more than an observer. Somehow it reminded me of the days I was in a dorm in Berkeley. I had the same exact feeling when we went to "house" parties, or even barhopping. It was the same nerdy-uncomfortable feeling of "I can't do these things" (like I'm too serious for it). The funny thing is that I'm really not. I can be a clown, but not as often or as easily as I'd have liked to. I think Afshean (one of my friends) had the same feeling. He kept telling me that it's not in our culture to let go, but we all need one day to be "all out".
I had a fun day, but there is this heavy thing in my heart that I cannot not write. It really was not that bad, but anyway. I was standing at a corner with another friend (female). A very drunk guy walked by, and all of a sudden, he spanked me and grabbed my ass. Just like that, in the middle of San Francisco.. I felt SO VIOLATED, I can't begin to explain it. There is no point in explaining it anyway. He had done the same thing to my friend apparently. I was speechless. All I could do was to stare at him with eyes that had something like anger in them. He thought he was being very cute. He wasn't. I didn't want to make a big deal out of it. I mean, he was drunk and didn't know what he was doing. But it felt horrible. I'm a bit sensitive these days anyway, and I really felt like crying; but of course, I didn't.
It just was bad on many levels. I felt like someone hit me for no reason, and they touched me inappropriately..
Anyway..it was fun besides that. I walked for the entire day, observed democracy fail on a local level(friends)..and had some bad food and good tea.

Now I'm back to my place; with my Hafiz on my bed, and my book ready to be devoured!

Hafiz ( as well as political propaganda) of the day:(some horrible translation, of course)

These days, more bitter than poison, will pass, and again, sugar sweet days will arrive...

Besieged

Touching and pleasing to the eye, this relatively old movie by Bernardo Bertolucci leaves you thinking about subtleties of feelings, beauty of love, importance of when and where you are born..among so many other things.

After watching the film I kept re-singing this Namjoo song in my head:
That you are born in Asia, is called "Geographical Determination".

This has been on my mind for quite a while now. A troubled mind looks at things differently. Many a time, it has happened to me that my interpretation of a situation, a look, or a conversation, has been the most absurd and often bothersome one possible.
After all, I am from Iran; to this day seeing a police car automatically makes me want to lower the volume of my car stereo; fire alarm awakens more than just fear of fire in my heart..

For me, on top of all that, there is a strong feeling of confusion about being female. All it has brought me, and so much I feel it has taken away from me. Limitations I feel like I face; justifications I feel like I owe to everyone. The image I feel I have to embody, and the fear I feel for not being able to live up to it. Fear of being judged for less than who I am by men..coexisting in my head with my own harsh judgment of my fellow women. Love I feel like I can give; chains I feel around my emotions..

Beautiful and painful all at the same time.

All that confusion..and geographical determination!

Update..Kaveh's attention

Baradar jan,
I am reading a book that I think you would like. It's beautifully written, and it gives you a very broad taste of a country that we don't know much about: Spain. I came across it very accidentally. Leeza was reading it, and I just picked it up to see what it was. It's irresistible. For someone like me who is not a big fan of historical books, this one is something different. It's not just history. It's everything. It's called "The New Spaniards". I also have a number of attractive books in my cue. (To name a few: Atonement, I, etc., ).
I discovered some new Music too. (Well, other than Namjoo who is still rocking my world). AND, I did net-flix those two movies; will watch them soon and report.

Inside me, there is a volcano. "man khamoosham o oo dar faghaan o dar ghoghaast"...You know how that goes. I think I may be too involved in my psychological development for my own good. Sometimes I feel like I live inside myself, analyze and study all the time. My brain needs to take it easy; But, I sense that some wonderful realizations are coming my way.

I miss home, and you, and the opportunity to talk freely about everything with you. It sucks that you are not here. In fact, I have a mini-you in my head with whom I talk about new shit that comes up! (Or through whose eyes I see and interpret what happens areound me). I have a mini-amoo shari for whom I read poetry out loud at nights; a mini-baba with whom I make jokes about "Afshin Peyrovani". A mini maman to whom I talk and justify my thoughts or emotions. Sometimes, when we talk on the phone, I feel sad that we are out of context of each others' lives. I mean, we both know enough, but then are too removed to be able to see the subtleties. You know what I mean?
In any case, you are part of my everyday routines, somehow. The other day, I was at Poopak's for a dosage of twin therapy!! I was looking at Holden, and all of a sudden I imagined how you would react to seeing him. With your somewhat clumsy half-smile and your gij way of dealing with kids; doing beeb beeb to his nose or something; just like myself.

Anyhow, I want to keep learning and feel better. I want to become the person I have always wanted to be. I know you do too; but somehow, the inertia and KG thing make me not go forward as fast or as much as I'd like to. I think you are in the same predicament; but at least you have your job. Hopefully, I will too. Actually, I have always envied your sense of self reliance, or at least the appearance of it that you carry around; you come across as being much less dependent on others; or perhaps it's my skewed imagination of how men feel? I don't know..I'm trying to be more like you in this respect anyway.
You know what I miss? Torkan Loo sense of humor on your side, and sharing New Yorker cartoons with you on mine.

oh, and I will give two CD's to Agha Pat to bring for you. Arash's and all the Namjoo songs I have. I'm glad you, too, like Namjoo!!!

kisses,
garne

Ode to child within!

Sometimes, knowing that a few people read these lines makes it much harder to write. I feel like I’m being exposed or being “passive aggressive” about things. Yet, the satisfaction of letting your thoughts fly in the cyber space overrules these fears. The facade of having enough courage to openly talk is too enjoyable to let go of.

Of being a child, I have a lot left in me. I love freely. I can live in my imagination if I'm not bothered. I forgive and forget. I, in fact, reset. A dear friend once said children build and then destroy so easily just to build again; they become all excited and they believe you when you give them a lollypop .At the time, somehow, I was a bit hurt by this last statement, thinking it referred to me being fooled easily. But I have come to realize that that's true. Children don’t really comprehend “no” as an answer, yet they easily move on. They refresh and get up with new energy. A kid hates her brother for bothering her, and the next morning, he is the dearest thing in the world to her. Kids have the, somewhat unreal, understanding and expectation of unconditionally. Kids offer their heart in its entirety with almost no expectation (mainly because they imagine other people’s hearts and minds function just like theirs).
Like Pam's Labyrinth, I live on imagining. I have a parallel world in my head with all the things I like in it. When things get difficult, my child within imagines them away. At times, though, I have to stop and wonder if I'm going crazy or if I'm driving people around me crazy. At times like this I wonder what This guy thought when he said:

Man anaari mikonam daaneh be del migooyam
khoob bood in mardom, daaneh haye deleshan peydaa bood


All this said, the child within doesn’t feel like taking anything too seriously. It’s lovelier that way. Much Lovelier!

Warning, Hafiz style

Agar gham lashgar angizad ke khoon e aasheghaan rizad
Man o saaghi be ham saazim o bonyaadash barandaazim....

But how can I translate this?

Bonnie

I don't know how you spell her name. The way I got to know her was interesting. Energetic and somewhat bizarre, she gave away of herself little by little. She has a boyfriend. She lives in the Marin (She has a friendly smile). Leonard Cohen is her man, along with this guy named David Burns and some obscure English Guitar player. She travels outside of the U.S. just so "She can breathe" at least once a year. she gets excited easily; she befriends quickly;
She got us seats doing the "voodoo" that she do(!)with the waiter..

and then boom, it came:

And clenching your fist for the ones like us
who are oppressed by the figures of beauty,
you fixed yourself, you said, "Well never mind,
we are ugly but we have the music.

She cried.
She said this is "THE LINE". We're ugly, but we have the music.
It touched somehwere deep in my heart, perhaps because of the martinis I'd had..but still. I just felt an overwhelming sense of..empathy, maybe?
I wish there was a way of transferring that atmosphere by writing. I can't seem to do it. Meanwhile, I'm thinking about Bonnie ,Janet and Daniel, knowing Janet will ask herself at some point, what happened to that girl that night?
She's just fine.

Conversation

-You are worth much more. You're selling yourself short.
-But I'm not SELLING myself

Dance and Cheese!

I woke up this morning with a sweet memory of a beautiful dance to this song. Drunk on wine, and high on dance..

Like a flower bending in the breeze
Bend with me, sway with ease
When we dance you have a way with me
Stay with me, sway with me
....
Make me thrill as only you know how
Sway me smooth, sway me now

Make me thrill as only you know how...

umm

The urge to write is there..I just don't seem to have organized thoughts or emotions. I've let them out to play; you know how that feels? when you let your thoughts and emotions play as children in parks? well, even freer than that. they get to go anywhere they like. No red lines; none, whatsoever. Think all they like, love all they can...FREE. When they come back, I know more about them. I manage them and will fit them where they belong and can function.
Currently, they are out playing. Instead, my heart is filled with poetry. filled.

Daro divar e in sineh hami darrad ze anboohi
ke andar dar nemigonjad, pas az divaar miaayad...

Fascinating..

is the moment when you wake up. It probably is less than a minute, when reality comes back to you in "pieces". It's like an unstoppable train, going fast and careless:
First, you locate yourself geographically: oh, I'm in my bed, my apartment, America.. Then comes emotional location: oh, that was last night, oh I am this person who feels such and such for this person and that person, and oh, I'm alone (or not)..oh, existential crisis? another day you want to end?
Then, you come to your senses: no no, skip those thoughts..oh..farid is dead. whatever, forget that, run to get the news with a bowl of cereal. surrender to the beauty of routine. Have to do work, good, I'm useful; and even novelties..I have this amazing cd I can listen to (now radio or cd? have to choose), oh, exciting!
I'm happy. this is today.
All this, in such little time...fascinating.

Nature

There is a battle between a great white shark and a little dolphin. The white shark is much more powerful and strong and is faster when it goes a straight line, but it cannot turn as quickly as the dolphin can. It's all about power vs. agility.

It IS ALL about power vs. agility....

Poem of the day:
Dar khaaneh jahad, mohlat nadahad...oo bas nakonad, pas man che konam?..
Man chang e toam zakhme bezani, zakhme nazani.....

Ramblings..

I do carry a piece of paper with me to take notes of the thoughts that attack me in the middle of my days, at work, or when I'm trying to concentrate on something..I have a number of thoughts, but right now, I'm a bit off balance so I don't want to follow those thoughts. I want to give in to ramblings and let my thoughts flow..this may help me move on. After all, a sudden death of a part of my childhood has just shocked me. Shocked, is the word. During the day, the thought of him comes to my mind, and as if to torture myself I repeat to myself Farid is dead. dead. dead. Still, it carries no meaning. Whatever, I don't need to face it now, do I? I can let it sink in the way maman gorgani's did.
One thought I have these days is about the concept of "satisfaction" although in somewhat of a particular context. Am I satisfied with where I am or who I want to be? When the answer is negative, it's , at times, mainly because what I have aspired to be is not quite known.
For example, I want to be strong; but what does that mean anyway? A couple of days ago, in the middle of the day, as I was working at the radio, it "came" to me. I was happy; I was glad to be where I was, to be doing what I was doing, and for a fraction of a minute, I felt that lovely feeling of being complete. I felt like I did not need anyone to be happy. just this job, and my mental activities were enough.I thought to myself, only if I could freeze this moment...
Interestingly enough, now I think that may have been the problem itself. Why is it that the idea of strength is defined when you don't need anyone, only your job? Then I thought, to me, it may be because I have a workaholic dad! In my mind, he was strong, and he appeared to not need anyone in particular. How vivid are in my mind the days I had to fight with the news paper over his attention or to tip toe my way into "zir zameen" where he wrote under a picture of Maxim Gorky, wrapped in the smell of his coffee and cigarettes and that black khodnevis...
I, then, came to think men are mostly like that, and I , oh so hopelessly, desired to be one of them. Strong, independent, careless!!
Now how do you convince your HEART (and not mind) that strength is not just one thing. it's not continuous either. You can be strong today and not so very strong another day; that loving another person does not make you less strong..
how does the heart actually come to realize "strong" doesn't mean shit??
And most importantly, in my case, how do you make peace with the split parts of your personality..when one wants to be harshly alone and independent and the other one whispers:
Yek rooz be sheydayee dar zolf e to avizam....

This one, in Farsi

Sar e aan nadarad emshab ke baraayad aaftaabi
Che khiaalhaa gozar kard o gozar nakard khaabi...

Baaz in che shooresh ast ke dar khalgh e aalam ast?

Environmentalism 101

Something interesting has happened to me since I started writing my thoughts. As if they were imprisoned in a clogged pipe, my thoughts, slide into my head and want to burst out! I write one, and the other one in the line is waiting to be written..And I can't think it's only because I have suddenly transformed into this creative person..because they come to me in the "Weblog" format!! just to be written here. Sometimes I find myself forming sentences in my mind..and then I stop, thinking it would be cheating..it just has to flow. that is how I write.

OK, so this is the first thought in the line. You know, not that I'm proud of this, but I'm no environmentalist, really; it maybe because I lived in a place where worrying about energy conservation, ironically, seemed too removed from reality. I mean, people are unemployed, you don't have money, and you are bombarded with religious propaganda..who has time for the environment? Think about the martyrs! forget the environment! and anyhow, each person has their taste and their priorities..and mine was not the environment. This is not to say I was not concious; just not passionate. Finally, I put it all off by philosophising..when I'm dead, I won't be here to "feel" anything. What do I care even if the world comes to an end? I'd be dead anyway...
One night, this last time I was home, I was talking to my dad over dinner. He's not an environmentalist either, but he was put off by what he thought was my exaggerated "self centrism". He claimed to be worried about me. What kind of an egocentric life would I lead? What about others in the world? Then, he asked me: If I told you that because you don't do something (or do something) a very big stone will fall from heavens on Kaveh's head (admittedly, quite a comic thought!) would you still continue with it? Let's say it falls once you're dead!!(god forbid)
I was speechless. Well. Of course I would not; not even if the stone were to fall on Kaveh's kids' heads!!!! in a matter of a minute, I got it!! I'm going to put environmentalism in this very "primitive" framework of mine. Stone on Kaveh's head: bad.
I'm hereby, an avid environmentalist. I recycle, I care..I may even become passionate someday!!! (But I still didn't like the Al Gore movie..it was too much lecture, too little art for my taste)

Thought

I watched that PBS documentary about Iranians going to Karbala a while ago. It made me cry, mostly because I had to face what I had gone through as a child..By that, I don't mean the sound of "red siren" or anything..I mean the mentality that we all had to submit to. The absurdity of it all...
I remember once they asked us at school what we had for dinner, and Sahar and I went into an elaborate story of how our mother's prepare "hors d'oeuvre" for our father's "Aab e Ananas", (Pineapple Juice) which apparently was our family's nickname for Vodka!!! That caused some problems, but then it was a small town, and everyone knew our family, and it was all fixed quickly.
But that aside, Pooya mentioned something during the film that was very interesting; more so because I had failed to notice it myself. There was footage of revolution and demonstrations.and people were shouting "Death to Shaah". Now why not impeach Shah? or kick him out of the office? No..they wanted him dead. I was thinking, maybe because he had shown to people, somehow, that the only way for him to be out of the office is for him to be dead. But is that really true? OR is this because we are simply intolerant?
When I was watching this film again, with a group of friends, one of them kept saying he wanted to kill the people in the movie. (Of course, it was a figure of speech, but still). Some of them were annoying to me as well, but do we really want them not to exist? My reaction was more of amazement, and I thought of it as a challenge to come to terms with the fact that these people are parts of my country.
...my complex, turmoiled country!

Reiner

You know who I'd like to be like?? Reiner. Yes, Reiner, the 60 something man in our extended family. He may very well be the most "positive" person I have met. When you ask how he is, he says "GREAT" in such a genuine tone, you really wonder what makes him this happy. (OK, and yes, he looks cute and cuddly too, and seems to be kind as well)
..and I can't accept that he's not smart enough to have thought about existential questions. I'm sure he has. He's just managed to stay balanced. I don't think he will ever know this (let's hope he won't!!), but he really is an example I'd like to follow. A man with a big, honest smile, and yes, some German accent to top it off...

Once this pain, this damn real pain, goes away, I aspire to be like Reiner. I think I will, because some where deep in me, there is this sensation that, as if from underneath a bunch of comforters(!!), peaks its head out and sings:

Falak raa saghf beshkaafim o tarhi no dar andaazim...

Mundane

Rough day at work..but maybe a milestone in becoming a stronger character!!!
On my way home, as I was adjusting to being back on the bus line 27 with the same old crowd, a concept formed in my mind..by way of articulation!!
So, I think there is something called being judgmental and another thing, being "placemental". I think I'm much more of the latter. By that I mean I put people in some predefined, or quickly assembled, category when I meet them. my "placement" of them, then, gets updated graciously and continuously...I don't think I really judge them. being a placemental is nothing to be proud of, but it sure is better than being judgmental, I think .(let's not think about this judgement!!)...now, maybe my fear is for others to "place" me, and, then, somehow forget to update their placement!

Oh, and there was this little cute kid, maybe 2 years old, on the bus in the morning. We met and quickly became friends; and then, there it was...that strong blue Polo odor that brings out lots of memories, new and old...
My little friend was wearing it, ice cream in hands, and generous with his smile...

One Beyt, or more

Maman gorgani liked this line a great deal, and recited it very beautifully:
"Gofte budam cho biayee, gham e del ba to begooyam
Che begooyam ke gham az del beravad chon to biayee"
"I had planned to talk about my sorrows with you when you come..but what can I do? sorrow leaves my heart once you arrive..."

I was like that with her. The funny thing is, I'm like that with her memory too. The thought of her puts a smile on my face!
lucky me...
and this is to her memory: To kamaan gerefte o dar kamin...

or no, even better, the sexy cheesy poem she learned when she was about 80!:

"Shenide am ke dahi boose o setaani jan
Bia, bede, besetan, khatm kon moamele ra"...
"I have heard that you give kisses and take lives.. come, give, take, and do away with the deal!!!"

Come, give, take...

Missing..

The unassuming hand around the waist; the subtle glance from across the room at a night party....
I miss them.

Good Nostalgia..

I have this strange feeling that my life is going to start at some point in the future, and I am rehearsing it for the time being. My sense of perfectionism, then, makes me want to take as long as I can to "enter" the life so when I do, it would be flawless.
The scary moments when I realize "this is it"..I look away and recite a beautiful poem in my head and think about people I love; or my childhood.

Today, I was remembering the long hours of "Mosha'ere" in my family. Moshaere is a game where one person recites a poem, and the next person has to "give" a poem that starts with the letter the previous poem ended with. Maman gorgani always won. She had a trick. She memorized poems based on the letters they started with. She knew many poems that started with the letter "d", because somehow, that was the most commonly used letter at the end of poems we all knew!! A statistician at heart, she was.

The interesting thing about my situation is, the child within me is still that happy, clown like kid that I become whenever I go home. I dance like crazy people and speak in an accent that I have created (and ALL my aunts and uncles follow!). I'm loud, proactive, comfortable and FILLED with love. Even the moments of despair are wrapped in some deeply rooted feeling of warmth. What is it about them that makes me feel this way? Their simple lives? Their "out there" sort of loving?
It feels good to have a place, imaginary or not, that you think you can go to and it will always be there. with green trees, pretty memories, and a number of people you love so much you can explode.

mmm

Raw emotions...

Yet Another Maman Gorgani Story

Once upon a time, there was a girl who had a problem controlling her farts. She was nicknamed "Khanoom Goozoo" (the farty lady). Her mother was really scared that with this condition, no one would ever want to marry her daughter; but Khanoom goozoo's mother was a smart lady and was not ready to accept defeat and live with the shame of having a "torshideh" (pickled!!)daughter. She came up with an idea to solve her daughter's problem. She made this thing called a "tooppi" and gave it to khanoom goozoo to put in her ass. Somehow, this thing took care of the sound..(don't ask about the smell, none of knows what happened to that). With the help of the "tooppy", Khanoom goozoo managed to survive the "khastegari", and finally got married to a man who worked at the railroad station. At nights, when they went to bed, Khanoom goozoo inserted the tooppiin her bottom and took care of the problem. One night, when it was dark, khanoom goozoo reached to get her tooppi, but accidentally took her busband's whistle and inserted it in her ass!! in the middle of the night, as she farted as usual, certain of the amazing powers of the toopi, the whistle started going off. Her husband thought he was hearing the train and ran to the station to find it empty and quiet..He returned home and fell asleep, only to wake up to another sound of whistle blowing!! This was repeated a number of times until khanoom goozoo suddenly realized what had happened..she quickly removed the whistle and put it back where it really belonged, on her husband's bedside table! The husband came back and said: I don't know what's happening, I keep hearing this noise, but there is nothing in the station..Oh, and what is this?? (pointing at the tooppi). Kahnoom goozoo quickly said, oh I don't know how this got there. It's nothing, just trash...and took it away. She calmed her husband, inserted the tooppi where it belonged, and they both slept well. After that day, she was extra careful not to make any mistakes and they lived happily ever after.
Now, you tell me, wouldn't you just love to have had Maman Gorgani as a grandma?

critical?

It hurts when someone criticises you for something, and you know they are right. It cuts painfully all the way in. I just had one of those moments this morning. I'm impressed by the person for having observed such a subtle point in my personality. Upon second thought, this may very well be something I have to address very soon..and it may even be very liberating and life changing for me once I do that.
Of the people I love, there are very few that somehow bring bad parts of my personality out. Maybe because they touch parts of my soul that is weak and vulnerable..next to them, I sometimes become vicious. I had noticed that for a while. Today, I had someone tell me just this. How do I go about changing this now? I am full of the will for it..
Maybe, after all, a friend is someone who tells you such a thing knowing it would hurt; just maybe.

subtle

Subtle, like that feeling, or that shooting star of a thought when you explain something to someone, and they say something in reply that assures you they didn't understand you; at least not completely; but then you don't feel like going back and telling them...and who knows? they may even be aware of it themselves. This happens more when you speak in a language other than what you consider yours.
I remember when I had first come here, my cousins would ask me: "what percentage of these English films do you understand?!" It was a measure of some sort for how much I knew English. I remember the days when I said maybe 60%? Today, in the middle of a conversation with a professor, I thought to myself..well, 100%!!!

Talkh, maybe?

I'm feeling down; down and confused. I wish I could type in Farsi so I could wrtie this poem by Shamloo that is lingering in my head..
Oh, did I mention I think there is a problem with parking in San Francisco? Everyday, I feel like I'm getting this message from them: don't drive a car if you live here. Fair, I take that. But then I expect a better functioning public transportation system, and I don't think this is too much to ask; oh, and perhaps cheaper too.
I watched "Before Sunset"; recommend it. Somehow, I don't like the first one of the series much, but I'm a fan of this second one. This afternoon, I ASPIRE to go to Borders, order a drink, sit, and read a collection of short stories by Susan Sontag. If I can manage to get of my apartment, that is.
For those who may relate: "Aab e daryaahaa sakht talkh ast aghaa"...

Story, again!

Oh, and about the title! I remembere the story now; well. somewhat!
Once upon a time, there was a man who married a woman named "Kojaberinam" (Literally: where should I defecate?!). One day, the couple went to a mosque. As custom dictates, they took their shoes off and went in. He went trhough the men's entrance, and she the women's. When he came out, he couldn't find her. Now, this part of the story I don't clearly remember. Either him, or a very bad man, had defecated in everyone's shoes at the mosque door while everyone else was inside!!!!! Anyhow, the man came out, and since he couldn't find his wife, he started yelling her name: Kojaberinam?! Kojaberinam?!
People coming out, disgusted with seeing human shit in their shoes, looked at him angrily and said, you have taken a shit everywhere, what's the asking for???
YES. My grandma, god bless her soul, had a talent for telling obscure stories with no clear begining, ending, or a message, for that matter! Her talent was in making them all sound so mezmorising that you just did not want them to end. And, of course, she made a case for using all the prohibited words like shit, fart, butt..all of them.
Maybe one my greatest regrets in life is not having recorded her voice when she told me stories. Or when she tilted her head and said "salaam" in that way that is only hers.

Being a foreigner

This is what's on my mind lately. To not belong, and to choose not to belong. I mean, I feel torn on daily basis. I have chosen to leave my home, my family, my friends; all of this, I have chosen to bring upon myself. I was thinking today about those who never have to face this decision. Does this entirely change one's perspective on life? Would I ever be able to understand how it feels to think you can grow old at "home"? Would they ever know the struggles I face knowing that living a "comfortable" life costs parts of my happiness??
I drive during the day, daydreaming in another land. And you know what's amazing about it? I even have pre-packaged daydreams! Like I say let's see the day when I go home and so and so is there. I see each and every smile and re-play each encounter millions of times. This is when I can't come up with a new story; when I just want the sweet, deceiving feeling of belonging and being loved.
Oh, and another thing... I have become obsessed with communicating with others. I worry about lost subtleties, the subtle movement of the eye that may mean something different to another person;something I would never know; like that "noch" sound I make when I mean no.
I'm full of poems. ambiguous poems.
Do I even make sense?