Thursday, September 13, 2007
Friday, August 24, 2007
Beyt..
Dar e meykhaaneh bebastand, khodaayaa mapasand
Ke dar e khaaneye tazvir o riyaa bogshaayand...
Ke dar e khaaneye tazvir o riyaa bogshaayand...
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
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
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
Monday, August 20, 2007
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...
Aha,that's what happened to me, just recently....
You've been hit by
You've been struck by
A smoooooooooooooooooth criminal...
Thursday, August 16, 2007
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.....
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.....
Friday, August 10, 2007
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..
....
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..
....
Wednesday, August 8, 2007
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...
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...
Monday, August 6, 2007
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?
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?
Wednesday, August 1, 2007
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
http://paulgraham.com/judgement.html
Tuesday, July 31, 2007
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.
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.
Sunday, July 29, 2007
And Again...
Goftam ke nush e la'lat, maa raa be aarezu kosht
Gofta to bandegi kon, ku bandeh parvar aayad...
Gofta to bandegi kon, ku bandeh parvar aayad...
Saturday, July 28, 2007
Thursday, July 26, 2007
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.
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.
Wednesday, July 25, 2007
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...
Pish azaanke dar ashk gharghe shavam
Az eshgh
Chizi begooy....
....
Aay eshgh, aay eshgh, chehreye aabiat peydaa nist...
Monday, July 23, 2007
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?
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?
Wednesday, July 18, 2007
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?
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?
Tuesday, July 17, 2007
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
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
Friday, July 13, 2007
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.
Thursday, July 12, 2007
"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.
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.
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