Dear Life

khatami should come

2008-11-08T12:30:00.002-05:00

etemaad newspaper شنبه، 18 آبان 1387 - شماره 1814
همايش دعوت از خاتمي
موج سوم در صحنه انتخابات

ليلا حاتمي بازيگر سينما پشت تريبون قرار گرفت و ايمان خاتمي را به او يادآور شد. ليلا حاتمي با لحني بغض آلود که جمعيت حاضر

را به شدت متاثر کرده بود، گفت؛ آقاي خاتمي ما از شما مي خواهيم به اندازه ايمان تان مصمم باشيد و به خاطر کودکان و کساني که نمي خواهند کشور را ترک کنند در انتخابات حاضر شويد.

for mom

2008-01-15T18:28:00.005-05:00

As she stood there
in the middle of the night
in front of the gate
that opened its metal mouth
and devoured her like a tiny piece of flesh,
she looked so fragile
that i felt i heard,
i actually heard
the ceaseless cracking of her skin,
from beyond the taxi window,
loud as if the glass pane of the entrance broke down
against the coldness of that most freezing winter
spreading there on the gray-with-gasoline snow piles;
she broke down
but when i looked out
for one last time
before the taxi prepared to leave
she was still standing there
in one piece
her right hand frozen on her mouth
as if to stop
her soul from leaving her body
as if to stop
all her sadness from becoming a loud cry that would wake people up;
and the taxi took its leave
leaving me with that lonely picture of her standing tall
to haunt me all the way to the airport

back home

2007-12-22T17:50:00.001-05:00

The following two pieces I wrote when i was in Tehran. I can see some smiling when they get to the end of the first piece, but continue with the second then decide!

Nothing feels like yesterday,
even among the same people,
even when i walk in the same streets.
Something has changed here,
maybe it's the time,
maybe it's the place,
or maybe it's just me.
I sit among the same old
people
friends
family,
I walk in the same old
quarters
streets
alleys,
yet something inside feels different
a differentness that is unfamiliar
a differentness that's making me feel uneasy
making my breath run short
making me feel suffocated
when I see myself surrounded by all
the good old familiar

You are in this one place
and every so often, tears boil up in your eyes
because
you feel happy being in that place
while
you feel sad knowing that you have to leave;
and right then you hate your own happiness
as you can already foresee the sadness;
so you just wish it to end
before it is too late;
and then you force your legs to move
to help you run away
far from
in time
in place
before it's too late
before it gets into you
once again
as before
as always
as forever

flirting

2007-12-21T23:02:00.001-05:00

He sits nearby,
close enough
for the scent of his body
to bring my heart to a beat
to bring my heart to a halt;
for his presence
to run through me
to give me shivers;
he sits nearby
and he flirts,
on the phone or
with the girl sitting to his side;
i smile a sad smile and look away;
he flirts
and i hate myself
and i just stand up and walk away

missing 2

2007-12-20T18:11:00.000-05:00

you miss him
in the wrongest times of all
you miss him
when you think you are well beyond him
you miss him
when have another next to you
you miss him
even when yo have him next to you
don't fool yourself
it's not him that you miss
its the you that you were next to him
once upon a time
dissolved in him
in the heavens
in love

missing

2007-11-02T14:35:00.000-04:00

It's not you whom I am missing
It's not you whom I am aching for
It's not you whom I am longing for
No, my dearest,
No, my love,
Don't flatter yourself,
Don't praise yourself too high,
It's the shoulder that I'm missing
the shoulder that let me lean on,
It's the chest that I'm missing
the chest that welcomed my head on,
It's the hair that I'm missing
the hair that brushed over my breasts,
It's the hands that I'm missing
the hands that caressed my thighs,
It's the lips that I'm missing
the lips that felt wet over mine,
It's the eyes that I am missing
the eyes that shied away from me,
It's the voice that I'm missing
the voice that told me
"I wish i could live with you,"
So, my love,
Don't flatter yourself,
This has got nothing to do with you.

us

2007-11-02T14:15:00.000-04:00

I remember the first night
that first night when there was not even an "us"
just you and me
as it had always been;
I remember the second night
the night when we moved beyond you and me
beyond the familiar you and me,
the night we created an "us"
a secret "us";
I remember the nights that came
I remember all of them,
I remind myself of most of them
I discard some of them;
that second night
when we kissed in our secret union
you promised me:
that we would be
that we would stay
forever
as we had once been
even if not as what we were becoming;
that we would stay
you and me,
if not "us"
but you and me
together;
today I have lost you;
today I have lost me;
there is nothing left
of you and me;
you lied to me and I believed you
I lied to me and I believed me.

Scan

2007-09-23T21:52:00.000-04:00

from Scan, by Helen Simpson, (Granta mag. no:98)

(the character is stuck in a train tunnel, on her way to doing a brain scan) perhaps this was what it was like, being born, the claustrophobic tunnel; ... what about before you were born, though? before you were conceived? Well, you can't remember it so it can't have been too bad, she told herself; presumably it will be the same after you've died. The trouble with this idea, was, before you've been born you've not been you; but once you've been alive you definitely have been you; and the idea of the extinction of the you that has definitely existed is quite different from the idea of your non-existence before you did exist.

(getting ready for the brain scan) Once naked she realized she was still wearing her watch, and unstrapped it. She was outside time now, along with the sick and the dead.

(of the scan) Never mind seeing her with no clothes on; she was about to be seen with no flesh on. The medical gaze was nothing if not penetrating.

Time was just another name for death, she got the point.

dear life 95

2007-09-23T21:20:00.000-04:00

dear life,
a coinicidence, again. take a look at post no 93 and then check this out:
http://books.guardian.co.uk/graphic/0,,2155831,00.html

september 15, 2007

2007-09-19T04:21:00.000-04:00

September 15, 2007.
the clickings of an old type writer.
it was September 15, 2007.
the voice of this narrator, starting to remember loudly.
around 12 pm, an area of DC started to be trotted by small and large groups, scattered here and there, all heading to that one and only destination, to that center of the world dicisions, to that white building, to that White House.
the voice of the narrator, a faded-out picture of an unfamiliar or unrecognizable room.
groups pointed out by yellow dots, yellow dots moving, dots overhead, dots hanging in the air, stranded, waiting, moving, walking, in groups, toward that White House. I was going around, confused, in a hurry, desperate, lost in between the desire to stay and the obligation to go. yellow banners over stickers, moving in people's hand.
the narrator voice. the picture leaves the hazy room. the picture follows his narration. in black and white.
i went around, as if this crazy person with this need for that yellow color. "can you give me a banner? can you give me a banner?" i begged them, i plead with them. none wanted to let go of that yellowness, of those black words printed over. none. they led me to get it. they led me and i had no time to look for it. someone offered me this blue banner. there was a pigeon.
the clicking of the typewriter gets faster and faster. the smoke rises up over the narrator's figure, sitting, behind the typewriter, facing the wall.
the white pigeon. there was a branch. clinging to its mouth. it seemed to be flying. "don't go anywhere, i need you," i pleaded. it got stuck on the blue banner. i looked at the banner in my hand. people moved around me. toward the White House, they were heading, they were heading there and i was stuck there with that banner in my hand. someone said something, that someone handed me a paper and a pen. that someone asked me to fill something . i filled it. i didn't even know who she was, why she was asking for information. i was giving it to her, not listening to her, not seeing her, listening to the hubble bubble around me, staring at the space in between the bodies rushing past me.
the narrator's voice takes a faster pace. the narration. in black and white. a crowd. trees. police guards. vendors of printed out slogans. t-shirt slogans. a crowd. the space. the narrator goes on.
i had to leave. i was late, i am forever late, i hate being late.
the shabby desk. the room, the smoke is rising into the room.
i was late. i couldn't leave. i went on. among them.
banners, t-shirts, pamphlets. nuns and buddhist monks, just people, cowboy-looking men, old women, children, hippies, just people, in black and white, smoke. the narrator.
i moved around a while. i needed to stay and yet this shit work thing was nagging, making me suffocate in the one place i had to be, right there, right then. i wanted to be part of this and i had to leave. i left the crowd. i left myself among the crowd and i left.
the smoke is rising into the room. a wooden shabby desk, a bare lamp hanging from the ceiling, the sound of the typewriter.
the picture. black and white.
the yellow banner. i left without the yellow banner.
the yellow banner, in black it read, "Stop this war!"
the blue banner, in white it read, "War is not the answer!"
an old speaker, someone's voice aired and broadcasted, black and white. "for the sake of freedom, for the sake of security, for the sake of democracy, for the sake of humanity."
black and white. an old radio broadcasting somewhere. "we need to stop them, we need to be here for our people."
another voice. the narrator is gone. no radio in the picture. the voice comes of a radio, somewhere.
"tension in the region, security wall, checkpoints, nuclear bombs, freedom, retaliation, bombs, our soldiers, our people, them, their weapons, our security, their disobeying international laws, our obeying all laws, we are the law, they are the enemy."
smoke is filling the old shabby room. the old typewriter is clicking again. the narrator is talking again:
on September 15, 2007, people gathered, people shouted, slogans, for and against, for different reasons, with different beliefs. it was just one day. they let us shout and have some weight off our shoulders. it has been the same for all wars, and all wars has happened, as planned, as they have been necessary, as they have been decided. this was, this is, and this will be forever.
the clicking, the typewriter. the smoke. the radio is off. the light bulb hangs from the ceiling. the narrator:
we know better, we know what the larger picture is about, we are the enemy, we are bad, they have to bomb us, even if some of them are against it. we are a threat. but still they want to free us. with wrapping us into the net of sanctions. with chaining us to our poverty and misery. they want to give us democracy. with making us believe in their dictatorship. they want to offer us a new life. with giving us life after death. they want all good, not only for their people, but also for us. we will understand one day.
black and white, the picture. the light is still burning, but the smoke has filled the room. the typewriter is not typing anymore. the narrator's voice:
on September 15, 2007, it is said that some 100,000 people gathered in front of the White House to shout their opposition against the Iraq War. it is said to have been one of the largest anti-war demonstrations in recent years.
but on the following days the news were no different. iraq. afghanistan. iran. all the same bullshit about them.
how many died for afghanistan? how many died for iraq? do the numbers even mean anything anymore? since when did the lives of the people of the "region" get so cheap? each day, four people, fourteen, forty. what difference does it make when human beings become merely figures for statistics?
the narrator's voice goes into the smoke. the radio starts broadcasting once again. all black.
"we need to look at the larger picture, we need to be strong. we are here to save humanity, and we will. humanity will be saved and history will decide about us."

http://www.pslweb.org/site/News2?page=NewsArticle&id=7297&news_iv_ctrl=1261

http://www.pslweb.org/site/News2?page=NewsArticle&id=7315

http://www.pephost.org/site/News2?page=NewsArticle&id=8663&news_iv_ctrl=3361

Somewhere towards the end

2007-09-10T13:43:00.000-04:00

From Somewhere towards the end, by Diana Athill (Granta mag. no:98)

an article on her life and getting old, esp. from the point of view of relationships and men: (i make no comments, just bring some parts, guess that quoting is comment enough)

... the most obvious thing about moving into my seventies was the disappearance of what used to be the most important thing in my life: i might not look, or even feel, all that old, but i had ceased to be a sexual being, a condition which had gone through several stages and had not always been a happy one, but which had always seemed central to my existence.

... a broken heart mends much faster from a conclusive blow than it does from slow strangulation.

... Loyalty unearned is simply the husk of a notion developed to benefit the bosses in feudal system. When spouses are concerned, it seems to me that kindness and consideration should be the key words, not loyalty, and sexual infidelity does not necessarily wipe them out.
Fidelity in the sense of keeping one's word, i respect, but i think it tiresome that it is tied so tightly in people's minds to the idea of sex. ... why, given our bone-deep, basic need for one another, do men and women have to put so much weight on this particular, unreliable aspect of it?

... gradually, i had become aware that my interest in, and therefore my physical response to, making love to my dear habitual companion was dwindling: familiarity had made the touch of his hand feel so like the touch of my own hand that it no longer conveyed a thrill.

... the really important thing we had in common was that neither of us had any wish to fall in love or to become responsible for someone's else peace of mind. We didn't even need to see a great deal of each other. We knew that we would give each other no trouble.

... (after the death of her last companion) ... after his death, Sam became more vivid in my mind ... I saw him with photographic clarity - still can. ... particularly i remember the feel of him. his skin ... and his smell was pleasant and healthy. i feel him lying beside me after making love, both of us on our backs, hands linked, arms and legs touching in a friendly way. his physical presence is so clear, even now, that it is almost like a haunt (an amiable one).

two good movies

2007-09-10T12:55:00.000-04:00

Two good movies i enjoyed (this is another post for the promise i made to share the good things i read or see here, esp. with my friends back home)

"2 days in paris", which i had talked to you before on one other post, actually before i saw it. the film was good, french-american funny. written, directed, and starred by Julie Delpy (the girl from before sunset and before sunrise). i read an interesting point later on in FLM - an independant film magazine - of her childhood, quoting her own words: "My parents started giving me an education in art and film early on ... Okay, so we didn't have a bathroom until i was eight (actually, public baths were not as bad as you would think) but they gave me so many other things. They sent me to music, dance, photography, painting and writing classes on top of regular school."
the movie official website is: http://www.2daysinparisthefilm.com/

the other movie was "paris je t'aime", a collection of eighteen snippets from different great directors, a diverse collection of diverse experiences and life moments going on around paris. they make you laugh, cry, think, smile, cherish, envy, ... all in a tour of paris. it is a must see. not a usual movie, more a collage of kind of very short moving pictures, maybe you can call them kind of movie nanotales. i would enjoy seeing it one more time.
the movie official website is: http://www.firstlookstudios.com/pjt/

it seems that paris is everywhere. (for me this is more true since my translated book of the famous bookstore there - shakespeare and company - is getting closer and closer to publication, hopefully after ershad permission.) and i am making this promise to myself that paris will be an out of this world experience to me when i visit it.
hope you can find the movies and watch them.

he

2007-09-05T06:59:00.000-04:00

haunted i am,
confused, by an illusion,
by his vision,
by a vision, of him,
of a man;
do i know him?
i don't know if i know him,
does it matter?
no, it doesn't,
as long as he offers me his chest,
to lean my head on,
to lose myself in;
his lips,
to rest my lips on,
to dissolve into;
his hands,
to take in mine,
to caress my body;
his arms,
to embrace me,
to lead me.
his vision,
a vision,
do i care who he is?
as long as he loves me,
seduces me, embraces me, kisses me,
fucks me, warms me, calms me?
do i care who he is?
as long as i get lost,
in him, with him?
i care,
his vision haunts me,
his and only his.
who is he?
they ask,
they think.
i know
and i don't give a fuck what they think;
i know
and i don't give a damn if they are wrong;
i know
and i don't give a shit to make them right.
let them be,
let me be, with his vision,
his vision, only his,
haunting me.

the back alley

2007-08-30T15:08:00.000-04:00

The lamp post stands tall into the sky. Tall yet lonely. Tall yet old, tall yet out of place if you take a glance at the new building built nearby. Tall yet failing to light a wide range around. The alley is dark a few meters away, even the circle around, you wouldn’t call bright or luminous, it’s just a hazy bright, an electric candle lit in the midst of the back alley. A few steps away from it and as the light grows weaker and weaker, the patches of tar, here and there to mend the pavement, which look more like these huge dots splashed over the dark surface, start to melt into the tar darkness gaining more and more weight toward the end, the end of the alley where a fence is raised high to make it a dead-end.
The weather gets darker and then brighter as lightning strikes the grayish clouds scattered here and there, far and away. Lights of the cars coming to a halt behind the traffic light, lights of the cars driving away and around, get blurry and blurrier. The rain has started. If you stare at that very hazy light of the lamp post for a while, you can see the rain pouring. The occasional sirens of ambulances and fire engines rushing through the wet streets are the only sounds disturbing the silence of the falling shower.
The clouds gradually put down their loads. The weather gradually loses its weight. Darkness gradually starts to fade, and the hazy light of the lamp post fades alongside in the first rays of light creeping over the alley.
Little pounds of rainwater encircle the mending patches of tar here and there on the pavement. Larger ones encircle the seemingly out of order ventilation systems left over the roof of the building to the right, making them look like kind of tiny watermills alongside the patches of grass grown here and there over the rooftop, grass green as those of meadows wet with the early morning dew.
The fence at the end of the alley glitters with drops of water still clinging to its metal net. So do the ones bordering the unattended-to back yards of the one or two shabby houses lining the alley to the left. Little patches of some puffy material you can see along the fence, one in the street, another one or two in one of the back yards. You are just imagining they are some wind-blown dry bushes, some wadded garbage, or maybe some outcast’s clothing, when one of them, the one at the foot of the lonely lamp post starts moving around, not any huge leaps, just minuscule crawls that you have to open your eyes and look a little bit more to grasp. You look a little bit more and there is no doubt that the tiny mass of the puffy thing is moving toward the fence. And then suddenly as if in a kind of an improvised play, the other two, the ones in the yard also move toward the fence, to the very spot the first one had started to move. You pay attention and there awaits them a bowl, perhaps of some food, now more of a soup with all the rain water added to. The two from the yard reach the bowl and busy themselves licking, sometimes playing naughty, most of the times just licking. The one outside, the one who had first started moving, has just stopped, you realize, a few steps from the lamp post, seemingly cuddling itself, taking a nap in the middle of the road.
A wind blows, some leaves move around the pavement. A towel is hung over the balcony rail of one of the shabby houses, the one to the left, with terra cotta bricks, one of the windows of which has a cracked glass, and the railings of which are rusted over and over again that there seems to be left nothing more inside their metal bars. You have missed who hung the towel there. Something moves along the building to the right, taking your gaze to itself. A woman comes out, a large throwaway plate in her hand, filled with something that looks like a puree of something. She moves to the fence, the puffy creatures move back, she puts the plate down, pours water out of the bowl, puts it back, moves the plate next to the bowl, steps back toward the building and goes in. the creatures move back to take their position. The other one is not moving, and then you see one more, all black, moving, over the huge metallic green crane parked in the middle of the alley, toward this other end, the open end. It moves mischievously, playfully, and jumps to the ground with the flexibility and strength of tiny kittens. It joins the crowd around the bowl. You look around and the towel in the balcony is gone.
Hours pass by. A young man appears from the building, the one to the right, the same one the woman appeared from. He walks the few meters to the other side, toward the fence, and as he walks these pigeons busy picking on the pavement scatter around, not flying by, just walking lazily a few steps here and there, just scattering. The man looks at the large plate, walks a few steps around, walks back to the plate, looks at the bowl, walks a little bit more around, a few more steps further, scattering the birds a little bit more, comes back to the plate, to the bowl, looks around, takes the plate, looks at it, looks around, smells the food, pours out the little water in it, puts the plate back, walks around, looks around, stops at the fence and then goes back to the building to the right. You look around and your lazy kitten is no more near the lamp post. You look around and your gaze gets stock upon the wooden plates blocking the window panels of this building under restoration. You wonder how does it look from inside, you wonder what can be going on on the other side. You steal away your gaze and you find your kitten, near the fence, its head bowed into the bowl. The towel is again on the balcony rail.
Hours pass by. You look at the alley and nothing is moving, all is still, all is safe. You take in the whole picture and can easily imagine Timbuktu wandering around the corner, shyly stealing some food from the large plate, yet leaving some, hiding in a dark corner to lie down, and feeling all the sadness of the world upon him as he sees the fences at the end of the alley as he little by little feels heavy under the spell of sleep. You look around and nothing moves. All is still. All is safe.
Minutes pass by. You are not looking at the alley. You are just dreaming the dream of Timbuktu. And then you are startled out of it by cries, loud, in anger, in desperation. The shouting goes on. You look at the back alley. All is the same. The shouting goes on and on, for seconds, for minutes. You look around and on the other side of the shabby buildings along the pavement of the newly-built huge chrome modern establishment on the other side, walks this teenager, his baggy jeans barely clinging to his waist, his white T-shirt two sizes large, his cap hiding his face from the heat of the sun. He is shouting into his cell phone, shouting, cursing, shouting, cursing. A man and woman, the man hugging the woman, both in swimsuits, lean on the rails of the rooftop to watch. The boy continues pacing up and down, all the time shouting and cursing.
You move your eyes from the street, from the building to your shabby back alley. You close your ears to all the cursing. The tiny creatures move around the bowl. The lamp post stands tall into the sky. The pigeons sit silently over the electricity line leading to the lamp post. And next to the fences at the end of the alley, you see this lump that you decide is one or another Timbuktu and is perhaps nothing but a dry old piece of a dead tree trunk.

a piece with two endings

2007-08-22T15:30:00.000-04:00

Words are rushing to my head. Boiling up, up there in my head.
They keep coming, rushing, a stream, a flow, only a few nonsense, most lining one after another, as if ideas, in sentences, in paragraphs. My head is still lying on my arm, my body lying on the couch.
Words keep rushing and my hands are weary to start moving on the paper, on the keyboard; my body feels weak, every part of it, every tiny cell of it.
Words rush in and my hands still feel numb under the very same head that is weighing heavy with words.
Words rush in. i am writing up in my head.
The music soars high and i suddenly feel this urge to make love; my heart beat quickens, my chest feels heavy with its presence. The music beat, the words, the story, the urge, the desire, my heart beat ...
(1) My body just collapses under the pressure. It faints, not ready for all this.
The music continues.
My body just dies away with every note.
(2) All are rushing inside me, undressing me, softly, slowly, violently, quickly. the music beat, the words, the words, they are touching me everywhere; kissing me here and there;
I feel my heart pacing up to keep with the flow, with all that is running through me, my veins, my cells.
I breathe in, I breathe out. I feel the rush, i feel the words, the music, the story, the urge, the desire.
I have written my piece. I have had my orgasm.

Lover's Wine

2007-08-22T15:21:00.000-04:00

lines of a poem by Charles Baudelaire,
Lover's Wine

Today the universe is splendid -
Without death, without hope, without brides,
We are grooms of a horse drunk on wine,
Galloping beneath this divine iron sky

...
Paris Review, summer 2007

dear life 94

2007-08-22T15:15:00.000-04:00

dear life,
had i told you before that solitude is my best friend, giving me the gift of words and inspiration? my best enemy, reviving memories - memories i am happy to have lived through, sad to leave, so nostalgic to remember; memories i am sad to have lived through, happy to leave, so not so crazy about to remember.
and the amazing thing is that this solitude not only can bring you pain and joy in different occasions, it can push you in the middle of both at the same time, leaving you confused of how to describe yourself, your feelings at the moment, leaving you confused of whether to like the solitude or just run away from it? maybe it is all the pain that makes the joy so joyful! don't know. guess i am just losing it.

dear life 93

2007-08-22T15:00:00.000-04:00

dear life,
coincidences, coincidences, again, again,
i am reading this book, The Art of Travel, by Alain de Botton, (i just don't know how this friend of mine does it, proposing books that are just perfect timing, guess he knows too well!) anyway, i read about paintings of this guy, i look at his first painting in the book, and sth feels familiar about it, i keep reading and a couple of pages next there is another picture, and i tell myself, "this is the same guy whose painting my friend in spain loved, the picture of the lonely girl sitting on the edge of a bed," something in it just tells me so, a few more pages and there it is, the same picture, the very same that announced the exhibition we visited last year in madrid, the very same that exposed the girl's loneliness and sadness in big dimensions. the painter was Edward Hopper.
i open my emails and there it is, the weekly books update, and there it is all these articles and images of the bookcovers in different languages of "On the Road", a book by Jack Kerouac.
i walk to this bookstore, looking around, and in the literary criticism shelves the first book that takes my attention is "up is up, down is down" a glimpse of the literary scene of NY. i continue browsing, and i see this other book, "a short history of tractors in ukraine".
hours later in another bookstore, there it is a new publication of "On the road" with essays and discussions on it, the same i have read about in NYTimes.
guess, i should stop calling these coinicidences, it is just shared knowledge coming up here and there. of course it would, wouldn't it?

dear life 92

2007-08-13T15:02:00.000-04:00

Dear life,
It was Saturday, the weekend; I wore my swimsuit (the blue one, do you remember, the one I bought a couple of weeks before leaving Tehran? no not for here, for the Fridays we were still to enjoy there) and headed to the pool on the rooftop to have a swim in the middle of a very low day, maybe to help raise my spirits. I had been told that the pool is busy during weekends, but nothing could have prepared me for the crowd I saw around and in the pool. No place to lie down for a tan, no way to swim, as people were hanging out, relaxing as of course it was their weekend, laughing, talking in groups of two or three. I stayed for while, sitting in a not-crowded corner away from the pool, reading and staring over the city of Washington spreading all around the building, but I couldn’t stay long, just couldn’t, not the heat, you idiot, you know I enjoy the heat, no, it was just too much to bear, the situation, I needed a swim to get this lowness out of myself, but instead I found myself going more and more down. The weekend is kind of our Friday, and for me Friday at least during this summer has been equal to throwing pool parties and having friends over, drinks in one shared bowl, Shatoot (kind of berries not found in this side of the world) right from the tree, kabobs and sandwiches right next to the pool, music in the garden, hookah afterwards, cakes and sweets, taking a nap - a day of fun and relaxation, similar to what was going on on the rooftop - and so sitting there I felt an stranger, just missing so badly our own pool which felt like a haven, surrounded with trees standing tall into the air, with the sound of birds hiding in between, and with friend’s laughters vibrating the air around, a joy that nothing in the world can make up for. So, yesterday I made a decision: no more swimming in the rooftop pool on weekends - at least not during the busy hours of the day, cause on Sunday morning when I woke up I so needed a swim that I took the risk to head upstairs, but it was eight in the morning and safe I was.

Dear life 91

2007-08-13T15:01:00.000-04:00

Dear life,
Before leaving for DC, I made this decision of posting on my blog the interesting things that I read or hear. So from now on, some of my posts will just be notes on what I have found worth noting and perhaps links to the original articles.

A musical play by New Jersey Repertory Co. brings to stage lives of two rare book dealers. That in itself is amazing. But the point that took my attention is that these two dealers, Madeline B. Stern and Leona Rostenberg, actually read every book they got and sold. No more words on that!
The article you can find at: New York Times under the title “A Writer Finds the Rare Lives of Two Rare-Book Dealers Worth Singing About.”

Sex. That is an issue, a significant one in all our lives, right? No argue on that. But what are our reasons for having sex? (I know, some of you would now say “do we need a reason?”) Come on, have you ever thought about that? Now, psychologists at the University of Texas at Austin have carried out a research on the reasons why people have sex and they have actually listed 237 ones! Can you believe that? The reasons vary from “being drunk”, “to get things, like a promotion, a raise” (this is the case more for men, unlike the reputation that goes for women, or is it that women don’t confess to it?!), “burn calories” (you exercise addicts!), “making the partner feel good about himself/herself” (what sacrifices we do for people!), to even “wanting to feel closer to God” (can you believe it?). And the list is a not-yet-complete one, going on and on. So what reasons have you had for having sex?
If you want to know more go to New York Times and find the article “The Whys of Mating: 237 Reasons and Counting”

A friend noted an interesting point the other night, one of these cultural translation barriers. What’s the English equivalent for مرام? I have been thinking it over and not any good ideas. Really, what is it? Anyone got any suggestions?

Language evolution. I remember how many lessons and articles we studied on the subject in school - not that I remember the contents, but at least I remember Chomsky and the fact that the subject like many other scientific ones is one of controversy. Anyway, there is a new book on the matter, “The First Word” by “Christine Kenneally”. The thing mentioned in the review I read about the book that made me think was the question the book author had put forward, “Imagine a group of infants stranded on the Galapagos Islands, provided with all the necessities of life but no access to speech. Would they create a language? How many babies would it take, what might their language be like, and how would it change over the generations?” The answers her interviewees provided ranged from no language to a complete one, but what I myself have been thinking about is: what does she mean by “all the necessities of life”? Does that mean stuff to just survive or stuff to live a normal life? Then if they are “infants”, who are to care for them so that they grow up in the first place? Necessarily there should be some adults, but would these adults also be lacking language or just restrain from using it (could they?)? Then would the word “stranded” have a meaning at all? Then again what does she mean by “no access to speech”?
When I read the word “access”, this thought string just brings this other word to my mind: “internet”! So do they have access for example to internet (isn’t it a necessity of life today?) books, newspapers, or any kind of written language, or nothing of the kind? I think it would be a more interesting case if we imagine them having access to written words and yet having no idea how to read them or pronounce them and having to find out instead of they themselves inventing their own. Anyway, the review of the book can be found at New York Times, “Language Evolution’s Slippery Tropes”

Dear life 90

2007-08-13T15:00:00.000-04:00

Dear life,
Coincidences, coincidences, it’s as if they get going whenever I get to this other side of the world, or maybe it’s me wanting to get meaning out of everything, kind of a game to amuse myself.
On the plane I decide to sleep (not that I need to decide to sleep!), I wear my ipod earphones (ok, this is IranAir to London, not Virgin to DC, so don’t be surprised cause there are no music channels to tune into!), and the very first song I am hearing sings, “… go to sleep, everything is all right …” no 12 in a selection of 16 compiled by a friend who told me “the selection starts from a bad mood which I know you are in right now, cheers up little by little, to the best of moods in the last song” when he handed it to me the night I was leaving. (Funny, his choice for the last song, a recital of the famous poem “Howl” by Alan Ginsberg, which starts with the very word “America”) So, each of the songs on the selection had a word with me, no doubt, great choices, but to go to sleep to those very words at that moment was kind of reassuring.
In DC, the very first website that I check out is Villagevoice (ok, I confess, after my emails, of course!) and to the right of the screen I saw this movie ad which I usually would not check, but somehow the title is inviting, “2 Days in Paris” and the actress is "Julie Delpy", who has also played my top favorite movies, "Before sunrise" (1995) and its sequel "Before sunset" (2004). It seems that she always comes to screen during my strange emotional phases. Always. Strange. Anyway, I have to check out the movie. It is an emotional comedy, so it may not be anything like the other two, but just her coming up, right now, right here, that’s enough to make my day.
Last night, in a really desperate down mood, I choose this folder of Farhad music in another selection a friend had offered for New Year, which I had not listened to before arriving in US (software problems, no offense!) and of course you know how Farhad can help you feel more nostalgic and sad and cry as much as you like, but there was more to it last night; the album was his concert in US and the very first song was all about the concept of one’s home country, in which he sang, “What if one could move his home country with himself wherever he went?” not a bad idea, right? But then how could you get nostalgic about leaving it? Sad that no place smelt like it? Sad that no place felt like it? And yet happy that it is yours forever and it would wait for you to go back?
Coincidences or whatever, at least I have this game I can play with you and whatever you put in front of me in the solitude of this far away land.
Ps. Another coincidence just came up after I finished writing this and setting to work on the book I am translating. I guess just noting the sentence would suffice: “What difference is there now between what I am now and what this city will make of me: something that is happening to me right now and that, like the cows about to be sacrificed, I cannot see?” (The Tango Singer, page 99).

dear life 89

2007-08-13T14:25:00.000-04:00

Dear life,
In Heathrow airport, between my two flights, I head towards the bookstore on one corner of the airport terminal. Let’s just not say anything of Harry Potter being here and there, everywhere. I open this book, Wall and Piece, by Bansky, which has pictures of different walls around the world (seems he is a well-known UK graffiti artist and this is a collection of his works). There were these pages on the Palestine wall, Occupation wall, whatever it is called, and besides the pictures what shook me were these sentences (I have forgotten the exact quotes, but I jot down the ideas):
Palestine is actually the largest open-air prison in the world – I had never thought of it that way, but when you think of it, you think that’s right and sad and devastating. But then again, this idea suddenly pops up to my mind: even if there is not a wall around your country, yet you are not allowed to travel freely or to have contact with the outside world, just because of the borders you live in and the place you call home, because politicians in and out decide so, isn’t it just some other kind of prison, less obvious than any other? And if you want to think this even farther aren’t we all living in some kind of prison, consciously or unconsciously?
Then there was this other information: The occupation wall is one of the world’s key attractions to graffiti artists, who travel to the area sometime around the year to use it as their free canvas. You think it doesn’t bother anyone and it even makes the wall more bearable, but then there follows words by a Palestinian: We don’t want the wall and you come here to make it beautiful? And then you think to yourself what use is it to make something so despised beautiful, doesn’t it make it even harder to bear, cause it shows you how others are strangers to your feelings toward that entity?
I am just thinking how different the world seems when seen from different points of view. How different.

dear life 88

2007-08-06T17:29:00.000-04:00

dear life,
i am out of tehran again, i am in DC again, change comes again, new start again, i have to adapt once again, i have not to look back once again, i have to write to you in detail, this won;t work like this, anyway,
was just browsing friend's blogs as usual and look what i found: http://iranprison.blogspot.com/ the post dating august 06, 2007.
i sometimes think i don't deserve this much kindness. thanks parvaneh from miles and miles away.

dear life 87

2007-07-31T05:06:00.000-04:00

dear life,
a couple of days ago i went with a friend to Tehran's grand bazaar and from there we passed through "Seid Esmail Bazaar". If you haven't heard of the place, it is an old market where they sell robbed stuff, whatever you can think of, where the air is heavy with men gathering around shops all looking as if they have something to hide yet they don't care as it is their place and no one dares to attack them there, where there is not one woman around. we pass in front of this tea house - you know the old traditional type, with tall windows showing inside, plastic chairs, old tables, and of course samavars and hookahs, a men-only environment, and this is not any men-only space, as the men are the looti type, thieves and drug addicts type, the ones you see in old Iranian films. my friend teases me, "would you like a tea here?" he doesn't believe i would take it seriously and dare or feel at ease to go in. we pass by the street looking around at the shops some of which are even smaller than one square meter, making fun of the situation and the tea house issue, and then he moves toward the main street. "aren't we going to have tea?" i ask. he looks me up and says he has no problem with it; i thought to myself, "he thinks i am joking." so i make a uturn and we head toward the tea house. he asks the server preparing hookah in front of the door to the shop if he would serve us tea. the guy looks at me and says, "i don't think this is a proper place for a lady." i smile at him and say, "i didn't ask you to decide whether it is proper or not, that i can decide for myself; just tell us whether you serve us tea." he is shocked but doesn't want to look so. he looks inside the shop and murmers, apparently not so happy, "let me prepare a table for you in one corner, come to the other door," and i can hear him saying under his breath, "why this place?" we go to the other door and sit at the table he has chosen for us, a table he has decided is safer than the rest as more distance seperates it from others. we wait for the tea and it really feels exciting to me thinking what all these men around me are thinking or how strange they are feeling in my presence. i tell my friend of how i don't feel at all at ill at such a place and how i would no doubt feel at ill at a place that seems of my own kind yet is not part of my familiar surrounding. "the more different it is, the easier to absorb it," i conclude. we are making fun of what would happen if i asked the server to serve me hookah! oh my god! the guy sitting on the other end of our table is smoking it so deep, and i am sure he is high on something else, probably opium. i feel even my friend not being at ease, despite himself denying it. the server arrives with two teas and says again, "so many places to have tea and you have to choose here?" he is really not happy of our choosing his tea house. it is funny how i feel thrilled of all this. it is like breaking this barrier, even a barrier as absurd as that, even if in the presence of a male friend alongside who is considered kind of an assurance, is giving me this confidence about myself. breaking taboos can give you energy and make you feel good about yourself, or maybe that's just me. i don't know. i don't care. that tea really tasted good, although i am sure the taste did not come from the tea itself. that tea tasted much better than a hundred drunk in our usual coffee shop.

dear life 86

2007-07-12T15:08:00.000-04:00

dear life,
this morning i am having a hard start, a really hard one - don't ask why and what, that is off the question - anyhow, then i open Shargh newspaper and on the cover page of its thursdays' supplement - Cafe Shargh - i read this one sentence: "a best friend is a dead friend." i read inside, the sentence is apparently by Albert Camus from La Chute; the rest of the article reads as touchingly and funnily: a best wife, husband, son, ... are all dead ones. as i read on and the writer "Seyed Ali Mirfattah" goes on with his own justifications, i am building in my mind my very personal picture: probably being dead is the safest choice possible to an alive person (hey, i like that sentence!); if you are dead you won't have to make decisions; if you are dead you won't make mistakes; if you are dead you won't risk; if you are dead you won't hurt anyone, most importantly yourself; so it is no wonder that you'll make the best friend, the best husband, wife, daughter, etc. but then again, where would lie all the joy and excitement (besides the misery and the hardship)?
i am writing this and a friend calls. he sounds down although he laughs. i ask him why. surprised that i have noticed, he tells me that a friend of his has passed away and he has received the news late last night in an email! he misses his friend - no, he didn't say the passed-away friend was his best one, sorry to disappoint you! anyway.
ps. i had another thing heard of the dead a few days ago. my editor and I were going through the final draft of my book translation when he told me: "don't be so silly. be a little creative. i read this sentence a few days ago from ... [i don't remember the guy's name, i have to ask him again]: 'the only truly fluent language is the language of the dead.' i loved the sentence, i am thinking of making it my moto; so stop being so goddamn strict and inflexible." so, you see, the dead even have a safer language!
seems, we alive people have infinite problems, the final solution to it all DEATH!!
pps. i just remembered another quote about the dead - don't remember where i read it, i have to look that up too - i liked this one a lot a lot: "even to be dead, you need to be alive!" i love this one. one for the alive finally!

dear life 85

2007-06-28T02:12:00.000-04:00

dear life,
ok, this time i am not going to nag to you or blame you or the events of this world, as it happens often when i am down. today i want to confess to you how angry i am with myself.
last night, i shared an interesting dinner with some friends in one of the top-noche restaurants of tehran, a group of friends who have lived abroad and are either back to iran for good or for couple of months for study or work. interesting discussions, interesting views. when we are getting back home, my friend giving me a ride, we find ourselves in an strangely heavy traffic around midnight. an accident, police or islamic guards having a checkpoint, a fire, or just bad luck in choosing the road, we guess. we are considering taking a turn and taking another way back home. but the traffic is limited to a stretch of the street and we decide to pass through it.
"there's something wrong, people are gathering around and in the midst of the street, they have their cell phones in hand taking pictures or movies. cars are stopping, something is wrong ..." i tell my friend.
"but motorists are whisteling, cars are honking their horns, people are shouthing, it should be a football match," she responds.
"no football, there was nothing in the papers. there is the gas station a few meters away. it should be something about the gas and maybe the new rationing system they have been talking about," i tell her.
she disagrees.
we move little by little. the gas station is closed down. cars are standing in line, waiting, a line stretched for i don't know how many kilometers. we just go home and sleep.
we spend time in a restaurant talking, we don't know what is going on around us, and even if we do, we don't take any action, we don't even consider our right to react. i am angry of my own indifference, not indifference, cause i know that i care, i am angry of my own passiveness, of my confusion and not knowing what reaction i should choose, what i can do to show that i care, that i want to do something, not just watch and pass through.
i am angry, i question my job, my dreams, my beliefs. so what? what good you will be to this country that is everyday faced with a new dillema?
today the traffic is strangely low, the weather is cloudy, it is as if a gray powder has been blown in the air, over the streets and highways of the city. everywhere i turn there is talk of the gas and the prices and the ration and last night's disorder and even gas stations being set on fire. i had witnessed it and just passed by it as if nothing was wrong. i am angry and think to myself: was i less concerned than those who stood by and watched? and then answer myself: what difference does it really make?
a woman sitting next to me in the taxi tells her friend, "not bad at all, look how we are rid of the heavy traffic," and i just want to hit her or open the taxi door and get out, right there, in the middle of the highway, and i think to myself, we sure need the nuclear energy now that we have solved our gas problems and don't need to process it in order to prevent importing it.
i am angry for having enjoyed a carefree dinner in a not so cheap restaurant, for listening to great music and tasting great food, when all around me the world seems to start to crack down. i am angry because i will go on with my life as it is, and the only difference is that the bothering feeling is never leaving my side.
A friend once told me, "it is not your fault, it is all just part of being a bourgeois." i am beginning to think that he is right.
i invite my friends to a pool party for Friday. you see what i mean?

dear life 84

2007-06-27T19:08:00.000-04:00

dear life,
listen to what the Iranian nobel-prize winning lawyer, Shirin Ebadi, has said yesterday in the conference on "The right to peace" held in Tehran (Shargh newspaper, 5 Tir 1386): "peace is one of the basic human rights and without it, other human rights, inlcuding freedom of speech, the right to education, to take part in free elections, will all lose their meaning." what is interesting is the definition she provides of peace: "The question is if a country is not directly involved in a war, is it [necessarily] in peace? if this is a correct definition of peace, it should be said that it is a definition for previous centuries and today with the new conditions of the current society, a new definition is given of peace. Based on international definitions, peace is: the combination of conditions in which people can express their ideas and beliefs, their human integrity is respected, and their needs is satisfied with no fear of punishment." she concludes with the striking question: So what will we understand with just a quick glimpse at our own country? Are we living in peace?
that really makes you think. Are we already involved in a war without ourselves consciouly admitting it?

dear life 83

2007-03-06T13:22:00.000-05:00

dear life,
i had heard the news of women being arrested during a calm protest in front of Iran's Revolution Court. I had read about the event beforehand, thinking to myself, shouldn't you as one of the women of this country, as someone who claims she is concerned with what goes on around her, be taking part? and i had immediately answered to myself, there will surely be arrests, and what use would be in all the hassle? and it the whole thing just went hide itself somewhere in my mind.
Then the news came, yes women were arrested. i didn't follow more. you know me, the less politics the better. (but is this really politics? or just social activities aiming at some development, some improvement?) Yesterday, i was invited to take part in the weekly meeting of a kind of news agency website. there i stood next to them, girls and boys, men and women, to sing a song of solidarity for a piece to show support, support for those women, for a campaign, for rights, for laws, to show that we care. i stood there and sang alongside them, i stood there and listened to their debate, and i thought to myself, would all this energy be worth something? and i immediately answered to myself, of course it would. if not, you should sit and just wait for death to come. you have no other way but to believe in your power to change, in your power as one in many, in your power joining that of others. it felt good to do something, even something as small as lending a voice to that song.
Late at night, at home, i read on friends' (reporters and photographers) weblogs of their missing arrested friends, and then a string of names, first names, some of which seem familiar but can be of any girl, and then on one blog, i see the pictures of some of those arrested, and i stare, i stare for a long while; those first names are not of any girl, they are of girls i once shared hours with, at office and on a trip, of some of my colleagues, some names i know when i read in full, some i don't, but faces i know, and it's as if i am shocked by a strong current of electricity. these are girls and women just like you, just in search of a better future, if not today; these are girls and women from as different social and ideological backgrounds as their numbers suggest, but these are women who believe in having to do something, who are still hopeful, hopeful that something can be done, that they are the ones who have to do something, that they can do something, whatever the price.
This i write as the smallest tribute to them, praying for their freedom, praying for the success of their movement and that of others who try to make the best of life, and most importantly praying to find in myself the courage they have found in them, and to find the way fitting me best to be of some positive influence in the world i live in.

dear life 82

2007-02-09T16:19:00.000-05:00

dear life,
do you know that you really suck sometimes? have you ever wondered about how a mom can manage the loss of her only son? a son she has just said goodbye for a great day of skiing and having fun with friends? a son she has become closer and closer to over the past year or so since dad moved out? a son she has poured her life and heart into making as happy as possible?
You really suck, you know? As i watched her looking into nothingness, as i watched his picture next to the white flowers and candles burning, i remembered her once saying to me that she wished he would one day find a bride like me, but what did she know? i remembered seeing him flirting with his lovely girlfriend, him making fun with his mom in his calm shy way about no matter what, and of her telling me how he was all she had and lived for. How could she see this doom day?
You really suck sometimes, you know? Today i took my ipod and went out for a walk during which i tried to think of nothing but the walk itself, not you ofcourse. and guess what, there it was, a folder on my playlist entitled "Dara's selection", the first collection i ever put on my ipod. Where is Dara now? What are his mom and dad going to do? How can they manage you? How can his girlfriend manage you? and his friends, all tasting the bitter taste of losing someone dear to a force they can do nothing to but to sit and watch, to bear in silence, to accept and to live on?
We can only calm ourselves by thinking that the calm pure boy we all knew with those lively naughty twinkles in his eyes has gone forward to a better place. We can only calm ourselves by thinking that there is a higher reason for this all, and we can only pray for his mom and dad, his beloved, his causin who were a sister to him, his aunt, grandpa, and all family and friends to be bestowed patience to live through this.
How do you find the heart to sit and watch their desperation, their loneliness, their suffering, and their missing him so bad they want to rip their clothes off? How can you? How?

dear life 81

2007-02-05T19:18:00.000-05:00

dear life,
did you know that every three minutes one woman dies due to intentional abortion around the world?
did you know that suicide is the third cause of death among adolescents around the world? did you know that women commit suicide more than men, but men die more of it because of the more violent methods they use? did you know that using pesticides is the first method to commit suicide?
well, you know now! where are we going really? suicide, abortion, divorce, war, poverty, political conflicts, global warming, pollution, depression, unjust distribution of resources ... guess i better not continue with the list.

dear life 80

2007-01-19T22:33:00.000-05:00

Dear life,
Such a long time has passed by since the last time I wrote to you and I am sure you won't read this letter as enthusiastically as the first ones I wrote to you, as I am not as enthusiastic as I was back then. But anyhow, I felt I needed to write to you again, to connect to you through this page and these words.
You know yourself better than anyone else that my not writing to you was not because I had forgotten you, or because I did not want to talk to you. These past couple of months, I have rather been so involved with you, although it has not been easy, although it has been rather hard, and although one might say our relationship has not been on very good terms. Anyway; I was just talking to a friend and his sadness was the trigger I needed to sit and write to you, as I felt I am not alone in this bitterness of yours we are tasting. So I decided to start writing to you once again, hoping that you answer me back and we communicate more.
Nowadays, you have become a burden, a burden that seems to get heavier and heavier with everyday that passes by; the more we try to understand you, the more we get lost; we try to find joy in you, and we do, for moments, for times that seem to pass by as quickly as they have arrived, and then again, we are alone with you, alone in you, in a kind of lost land, in a maze that gets us more lost the more we try to find our way out of it. I see around me friends, people who are not friends, who feel the same desperation when faced with you. We feel lost, we feel sad, we feel incapable, we feel defeated by the conditions around us – the conditions forced upon us by the society, by the politicians, by the world powers, by the economy, by future, by ourselves, by you; we feel numb and powerless in the struggle to make peace with you.
There were times we were so carefree, so weightless, so joyous, with every little offering you had for us; we were courageous and we were hopeful, hopeful of the perspective of the you we had in front of us. There are still people around who feel so in peace with you, so accepting you, smiling as they live you through day by day. How can they manage that? Are they not seeing what goes around? Or have they found a way to untie the knots and enjoy it all, no matter how hard? How do they do it?
You have become so hard, so complicated, so untouchable, … Yet whenever I thing these thoughts, I start rethinking with myself that maybe it is just that you have changed colors, maybe I have to stop comparing you with the old you; maybe it is just that I don't want to see the changes in you. They say if change doesn't happen death will come, gradually, unnoticeably. They say you should accept people the way they are, enjoy their favored characteristics and forget about others, learning to avoid them in yourselves. But what if the person in front of you is a mystery and you don’t know how to handle them, as you are, a mystery that even if you cease to wish to solve is hard to face with? They say unreasonable expectations, that is the reason. Are any expectations of joy and happiness unreasonable?
We are becoming weaker and weaker in the face of your mystery, a mystery no one has ever prepared us for, but who has been prepared? Everyone is unprepared, everyone learns you by living you, don't they? So, guess we are going the wrong way somewhere. I am thinking to myself, I am telling myself, hoping that I would believe in what I am saying, you are beautiful, no matter what mask you wear, no matter what hardships, what confusions, you make us face. I tell myself we may not be as weightless as before, we may not be as carefree as before, but we are now newer people with new experiences, having more of you behind us, inside us, with us, and maybe that is what we are unaccustomed to: so much life inside us, maybe that is what we do not want to accept and enjoy.
So, you tell me yourself. I will be happy to hear back from you - I know you have never stopped talking to me, but I mean please write me, give me a sign; I feel it's time you … I don't know, just take my hand, take the hands of all I know and don't know who are sad of your leaving them lonely, take our hands, take us wherever you want to, as we can't oppose that, but don't leave us all lonely in that path of yours.
What a coincidence that exactly as I jot down the last words of my letter, James Blunt words spread in my room, "My life is brilliant …" Are you already giving me my sign?!

dear life 79

2006-06-25T22:37:00.000-04:00

dear life,
this is the report of one day of my work, a day i really enjoyed.

The day was a day of mixed feelings. I went out to do this report - my first reporting in the country they call the land of opportunities and for TV- on a festival held in an American museum on the Persian poet, Mowlana, or as the world know him, Rumi. So right at this point you may guess where the mixed feelings boiled from (considering my bad history with homesickness and all that stuff) but it is interesting to hear the rest of the story too.
On the way to the museum … no let me start from the very beginning, from how I actually found about the festival.
One day as usual, I was checking out the website I once worked for, chn.ir, and there, I found the news of the English translator of Rumi poems traveling to Iran, to Isfahan; I read the article and noted the guy's name down to search more on him, and find his English books and to check them out. I was interested to know how the translations had come out.
The CHN reporter had made a delicate point, to rephrase her: "The Rumi the Americans know lives in the 21st century, you know why? Because Coleman Barks translates him into free verse and into modern language." As such, Barks' translations are actually considered recreations, recreations that have sold more than a quarter of a million, making him one of the most-read poets in the Unites States.
On his website I read that he was going to come to Baltimore, a city at one-hour driving distance from us, for a festival on Rumi. One search led to another, to some phone calls, and to arrangements to cover the festival and actually talk to the guy in person.
So we set off to meet the guy who through Rumi has built a bridge not only between the two languages, but also between the two cultures, the two eras, and the two worlds.
The museum exterior is decorated in a contemporary fashion, with little broken-into-pieces mirrors and colorful glasses covering one of the walls, a huge metal statue of a guitar forming the surreal body of a bird on another wall, and an inspiring artificial tree made with the same mirrors and glasses on the sidewalk, the articles hanging loose, letting themselves embrace the wind that blew in the hot humid weather of Baltimore.
And then there were posters of the festival with the picture of Rumi on the doors, and the tickets with the picture of Sama dancers carried around by the attendants of the festival, most of whom were Americans in love with the poet and his beliefs.
Entering the hall where Barks was to recite some poems, we were welcomed by the sound of musical instruments getting ready to play to the hearts of the audience, taking them out of this world to the void of the lyrics hand in hand with the universal language of music. Even the preparation was spiritual enough to make you forget about where you were, where you were from, where you were to go, what mattered was just listening. The point was that you could feel love, right then, right there.
There were posters by an artist named Michael Green, whose hands and nails, I noticed when later on I interviewed him, bore witness to his work, or shall we say to his identity? Works that belong to no other time and era but to the 21st century, as they have been created by use of old methods and digital technology combined, that are surreal and sometimes too modern, but all of which carry the message he has got from Rumi, the message of unity, as is most prominently shown in the picture of a Jew and a Muslim embracing each other at the feet of the Wailing Wall of Jerusalem.
As I sat with Coleman Barks, he told me, with the same passion of his storytelling and poetry reciting, how a friend had introduced him to Rumi, asking him to free the words from the cage of their previous literary translation, and how he had sat everyday for seven years after teaching classes in university in a restaurant alone with Rumi words to reincarnate them; he told me about the mystical dream he had had one year after he had set off on the mission, of the man with a white shawl expressing to him his love in the dream, and he to him. And laughing in high spirits, he told me of a childhood memory, which he now believed was a joke of synchronicity the universe had played on him.
With a great passion for geography, the little Coleman had known the name of capitals of all countries around the world by heart, except one, presented to him as a challenge by a Latin teacher: Cappadocia, and that place became his given name, a name he is still called with. "I was named after what I did not know, my ignorance" as he himself puts it, just for him to find out years later in life that the place had Rumi's hometown as its central city.
Before Barks started his program, an Imam said Azan in the balcony over Baltimore port. لا اله الا الله ... حی علی الصلوه، حی علی الفلاح ... لا اله الا الله and I sat there on the sit behind the piano of the hall – that according to one of museum officials was once a whiskey brewing place – facing the sun going down, tilting toward his voice, as if his words were spreading, as they were branches of a tree suddenly growing, inside my body.
When Barks started his reciting with his humorous soft voice, the message of Rumi was amplified by music, music so different from the Iranian traditional one, so different from the ones the Sama dancers dance to, yet penetrating the heart of those sitting and listening with closed eyes, those standing, and the one brought into some kind of a ritual dance.
Barks read, "Where have I come from, Why am I here?" and the band followed in a hymn. Barks read and the band played Blues. Barks read a phrase and Kabir, the young lead singer who was actually the son of the artist, sang accompanied by notes played on his guitar joined with those of his percussionist, his violinist…
People had gathered to share an already shared experience with Barks and those who had Rumi in their hearts; these people's appearances revealed their not being attached to materials, their demeanors were proof of their being filled with love and respect for each other, and their movements made you feel their lightness, their being free of the weight so many carry around these days. The lady with a white scarf, the man with the dervish-like beard, the hippy young girl, the all-American-looking boy, the man in the wheelchair, the husband and wife with their kid, all were there to commemorate the 800th anniversary of a poet who in their own words had been there for them in time of sadness and sorrow, who had been their refuge, who had saved them, who had shown them that there were no real boundaries when you go inside.
The smile on the face of the museum director, that Azan, that poetry recitation, the interviews, the day … the report had come to me to lighten me up, to open me to a new understanding.
On our way to the museum with the cameraman, we had listened to Daryush, his sad yet mesmerizing voice filling us both with the burden of being so far away from home; on our way back home, we listened to Coleman Barks reciting our poet with the music of two other American musicians at the background, thinking to ourselves that maybe love can really conquer all the barriers, maybe there are no barriers after all, surely there is none ….

dear life 78

2006-05-21T20:20:00.000-04:00

Dear life,
these are my reflections on the movie "water", if you haven't seen it yet, i suggest you do to see how you are so hard for some in some corners of the world.

In a two-hour voyage to the land of mysteries and mystics, currents of water took us to witness the lives of people who suffer inhumane conditions, women who does not have the power - or maybe the will - to change those conditions, and women who will. Alongside currents of a sacred river that has for ages offered its waves as the bed to the joy of marriage, the sorrow of death, and to the song of loneliness, people live lives rooted in beliefs and rituals that are sometimes entangled with the atrocities of those in power. Among them, the female kind is the weaker kind, the kind whose destiny is shaped not only by those in power but by the male only in power with them, and then there is the weakest kind, the girls who face the bitterness of enforced life before they taste the sweetness of childhood. And then there are the few who will to face all hardships because they still have the flame of life burning inside them; those are the ones who dare to dream and to change. Withstanding all the storms, they swim to the very depth of the currents of life, happy that they have had the opportunity of feeling, really feeling what it means to love and be loved, what it means to be free with one's heart and soul and to change. Those who dare to open up are bathed with the real sacred waters, and in their bathing, they splash drops here and there on those around. And the people who have tasted the true taste of the purified water of life will not go back to taste anything less; they won't settle for less than the sacred waters; they too will enjoy the lightness of a joyful heart.

"Water" brings to the screen the story of a little joyous girl whose life is the extreme manifestation of traditions that cause some to suffer misery and loss. The little girl who is forced to live in a house of widows when she loses her husband, whom she remembers nothing of marrying to, expect the sweets of her wedding night, is not defeated and does not lose hope, but rather with her courage and liveliness, and with the compassion of her newly-found friend, brings change to the devastated group of widows surrounded by walls of social physical and mental poverty. The story of our little girl is intertwined with the love story of her friend, a young widow who has no right to life but to be a prostitute to bring money to the house, but whose life is changed forever with the pure love of a man. Although the love story is not a happy-ending one, "water" helps us accept it with a soft transition to the other side of the story, the story of a nation finding new hope and courage through the words of a new leader, Gandhi. The little girl who came to a house of aging widows under the shadow of sadness brought life to them and they in turn gave her back to life as they let her loose into the currents of a revolution that changed the beliefs and history of a whole nation.

dear life 77

2006-04-30T19:05:00.000-04:00

dear life,
yesterday as we volunteered to serve food for the needy in a community shelter, i was really amazed by these people's characteristics. they stood in a line to get to the counter, they did not kill themselves to get more food (have you seen the scene when food is being served in Iranian wedding ceremonies?) and one even asked to get less pasta cause "i can not eat all that, i don;t want to ruin the food", and they were all so nice and friendly, greeting us and chatting with us with open hearts and smiles - a huge black guy with a problem in one of his eyes said as he waited to take his plate, "Oh, what is this, a beauty pageon with models serving us?" and as they asked of whether our team was related or not (as it was a party and we were trying to get to know each other, no social borders in between), another asked one of us among his laughter, "so, you are available for a date?" and i was ashamed of myself asking so much of you and of god when i saw how they did not resent us or you or god for where they were, when i saw how they had accepted you as you were, making peace with you. we met an Iranian too there, his face a proof to all the hardships he surely had undergone, yet he too smiled, a smile that touched you to the bottom of your heart. wish i could have just a small portion of the peace they had inside.

dear life 76

2006-04-30T18:15:00.000-04:00

dear life,
this is the story of my first trip to New York two weeks ago. it is some kind of a report, it did not came out like i wanted it to, but anway, better than nothing to remember the journey by:

"Ok, everybody knows New York, and everybody whom we know and don't know who has visited the city talks of its strangeness and uniqueness and everybody whom we know and don’t know who has not visited the city dreams of once visiting it. The metropolitan is of worldly fame – some loving it for its artistic venues, some for the night life, some for its money and stock markets, some for the shopping, some for the sake of the famous residing there, some for the towers blown up, some just for the fact that others do so, yet there are just those who can’t stand all the life going on around the city, the population, the uncleanness, the traffic, the noise; however, the point is that you have to see New York at least once in your lifetime – who can decide your view of the city better than yourself?
I was doubting the lovely remarks of the city more and more as I drove toward it, pollution hanging over it like a brown feathery giant spreading its wings over the flesh and blood running through the veins of the city, traffic jam creeping in every lane of the several-storey maze of George Washington Bridge like the thousand-head snake of old fables. We were not sure of the route we were driving in, as it did not match the map we had in hand. Passing underneath several stone bridges which looked like the older segments of a not-so-long- history, with cars congested together in the somber air peculiar to the 21st century, it felt strange, not good strange, but saddening, as when you start to doubt modernity in its whole and feel sorry for the human kind altogether, and of course it felt frightening, being lost in a craze that you don’t know to where is taking you.
To be lost feels really bad, doesn’t it? Yet, there always comes that sign which tells you of your next step and with it, comes that sigh of relief which takes away all the pressure. So came the sign and we drove to Connecticut, an hour north of the famed city to drop off one member, park the car – everybody knows parking in New York is a problem of its own – and lead back toward the city to unravel it up close and personal hours later with a train.
The house of the family we went to in Connecticut can have a story of its own, so I will not tell it here, not to ruin the fun of both stories.
As the train started its journey toward New York passing through several small towns and then quarters before our destination, the images at the other side of the window were as unwelcoming as the scenes when we were nearing the city – industrial areas, houses with backyards filled with unwanted objects and children's stuff scattered here and there, even with clothes hanging on ropes in some, Harlem and its apartments, its graffiti and narrow streets, and the narrow green space in between the rails and the fences separating them from the social atmosphere behind which were spotted with garbage among the not so fresh trees which we could assume were craving for the once good old times.
Then the train arrived in the Grand Central Station, the oldest of its kind in all US. It was … - I am trying to find the right adjective - giving you that first image of the New York you know from movies.
That half a day and the next whole one spent in the cosmopolitan city served quite well to change those first images and you thought to yourself, "so, that is the reason why New York has become New York, why it is there in the books, in the movies, and in people's thoughts."
As we put the first step out in the street, the heavy rain forced us to open up umbrellas. With our host in New York we walked through Fifth Avenue and Broadway, people moving around attending whatever business they had, umbrellas touching each other's arms as they swept by each other.
The Rockefeller Center rising high into the sky welcomed us in, as we walked in the hallways to look for the two spaces dedicated to the sale of part of Elton John's closet to aid the kids suffering from AIDS. We watched through the window the group inside who were going through the stuff – one coat was priced just 25000 dollars, another … - we made our jokes as we passed by the eager buyers who looked strange enough New Yorkers. "So can’t he just spare some money for the aid and also give away the clothes as another form of charity?" (but then who can make use of those fancy clothes? So guess he has made the right choice!) or "Maybe he has just bought the clothes cheap and is selling them with a higher price."
Lights in Time Square were beginning to be turned on one after another when we arrived there. We opened our way to go downstairs to Hard Rock Café. As I was walking in, I heard this father behind me telling his son, "Look," and I looked too with the boy, "Have you seen a TV as large as that anywhere before?" I hadn't; the screen had three sections to cover the whole façade of the building in front. Both I and the boy were amazed of the gigantic pictures imposing themselves to the passersby.
The Café has branches all around the world, so you almost know what to expect. Guitars of the famous, teddy bears with the name of the city over their blouses as souvenirs sold, rock music played loud, … but here the guitars on the walls belonged to ones like AC/DC and Kiss to name just a few and in a window installed just down the stairs, the Beatles' suits and their backpacks (which looked so ordinary and somehow ugly, like the uniforms of schoolboys) showed off.
Our friends' house was in East Village, where we took a short rest before going out for dinner. An Italian restaurant, full of young and old trying to have a good time in the small but friendly atmosphere, to whom we joined, enjoying ourselves for the next one or two hours.
The club we headed to afterwards was the complete opposite of the grand several-storey ones found in DC or California. The small space created a somehow cozy atmosphere where you could relax and dance a few steps to the international mood enhanced by the music playing in the air.
Walking back toward home, we stopped at a small bar to amuse our ears to the soft live jazz music played inside before dropping dead after such long hours of driving and tourist walking to get ready for yet another day of New York sightseeing to come.

The second day we were the exact embodiment of tourists with little time and lots of things to see in a city with so much to see. A friend from Toronto whom we had not seen for some nine months joined us and our four-strong group started our tour from in front of the oldest pub in New York where they served beer out of those old-style wooden barrels.
Another friend, a Columbian woman whom I had come to known while she was living in Tehran joined us too for a few hours. Not only was seeing her and talking of nothing but everything great, but also what was fabulous was her actually being a tour leader; so from then on we were real real tourists in New York.
East village toward Greenwich, George Washington Square with its first Roman-style arch, the vicinity of New York University – its library, Islamic center, the alley where the faculty houses were located, its law department, etc – then to Soho – where artists presented their art, mostly paintings and photography works, on the sidewalks, one having his CD player with a bunch of CDs over his car parked just behind him, the other with her storage room in the back of her van – then toward little Italy – where the Italians, whom we found were the second most prosperous group of immigrants after the Jewish in the US, had settled in the first time they had arrived in the city years ago; tables were awaiting customers on the sidewalks in front of the restaurants and cafes, waiters setting them and inviting the tourists in, just to give you the feeling of being in a Europe in the middle of the US; the quarter however has today some sort of Chinese identity to it, as the Chinese population from the neighboring China Town has crept into the area over the years – the China town is something like Iranian bazaars, where you can find no matter what: duplications of many famous brands, copied DVDs of the latest movies, etc. all in apparently cheap prices , and lots of lots of people packed together moving around like a swarm of bees going from shop to shop to satiate their self thirst with some money spending; we couldn’t wait to get out of here and our Columbian friend bid us farewell giving us directions for the rest of our tour.
We then headed toward the Ground Zero, an unusually void space in the middle of high-rises and congested city life. Once here stood two towers, high into the heart of the skies, boasting to all others around of their grandeur and of being a symbol of New York. Today, only posters rest to tell of that one-time glory and add to it the story of how they were gone, in just minutes, taking with them lives endeared by many, the story of how people united to soothe the pain, and the story of the new baby to be born out of the sadness, suffering, hatred, love, and passion, to let the future generations remember the two buildings which turned into ashes and whose ashes changed the history of not only a city and a country but the whole globe.
Each of us told our own story of where we were and how we reacted when the planes hit the first and then the second tower. None of us had believed the incident to be true, but today it felt truer than anything else around us, as wars have been started and are to be started, just because some fundamentalists chose to prove themselves right as they did on that particular day. And now years after, it was just announced in the news the day before we visited the site that remains of bones from those people exploded in the towers had been found on the roof of another high-rise nearby which was to undergo renovation (and we thought "How come? Is this another version of remnants of our Iran-Iraq war martyrs still being found from time to time, reminding us of the brutality and invigorating the pain and sufferings?")
Next we walked through Wall Street and its famous bull statue, then we went on a fairy to Staten Island to see at least from a distance the Statue of Liberty; afterwards we had lunch on the Fishermen's port where people and tourists were enjoying the sun and the show by an African-American who seemed to have no bones in his body as he moved around more like a snake than a human (He surely did not have any bones in his body!) on a weekend. We rested for a few hours next to the water, facing Manhattan and Brooklyn Bridges.
With too much still to see and tiredness gradually taking us over, we decided to skip the upper town Central Park and the museums, and to get back to the Village; this time walking through Greenwich and the West Village.
What made these neighborhoods noteworthy was of course their structure and buildings as if reincarnated from another time and space, but also the people walking around: The punk guy with his cock like blue hair and black t-shirt and shorts took you back to the eighties; the chic ladies in the latest fashions took you the glamorous prêt-a-porter runway shows; the gay lovers walking hand in hand presented you with a reality you had till now just read in books about, and the hippy girls and boys made you envy the carefree life they were living. The characteristic features of the area that could otherwise be paradoxical combined as shades of one color, the color of New York: people queued up to the next corner in front of the most famous cup cake store in all the city; a bookstore graced another corner with its large sign of Biography Bookshop; the boutiques of stylish brands seduced shoppers with their unique window arrangements, and a restaurant with an odd setting served a Brazilian-style sushi, a new innovation bringing good fortunes to the owner.
Then there were all these small flower booths all around the streets we walked by, fresh flowers which painted the sidewalks with fresh rainbows of color and a taste of nature in the middle of modern life. And the petit cafes and bars all around were just incredible; with styles as diverse as the nationalities residing there, none were empty, all hosting at least one or two guests: the Irish pub, the Chinese bar, the French café, the one whose owner's apartment was next door and as he chatted with a neighbor, the door ajar let us pick inside, where his baby son was playing and the hall windows opened to a small yet beautiful backyard, and the Moroccan one which we took special interest in, with its eastern-style tiled tables and seats set outside just a few steps lower than the sidewalk level in which a middle-aged man and a gypsy-dressing woman sat to relax while amusing themselves with some guitar playing.
The next stop was another European-style (a New-Yorker reading this would probably get offended, "European-style, ha!") attraction of the city. In Union Square artists of all ages set tables at one side of the place selling paintings, t-shirts, pins, and in another part, a farmers' market was set up, where you could buy the freshest vegetables and fruits and various types of bread direct from the producer, or could freshen up on a glass of grapefruit juice from the flask of a not-so-young woman who also sold home-made cookies and cakes.
And although we were running out of time, the fatigued group of ours decided not to leave the metropolitan with a taste of its famous cheesecake. We waited in line for some time as the bakery was packed with people coming from far and near to prepare for the Easter celebration the day after with rabbit chocolates, cookies, and cakes.

A taste of New York cheesecake still in our mouth and the experience of things both strangely odd and familiar becoming a new part to our entity, we bid farewell to our great hosts, wishing to return to the city to discover more of what still remained to be explored."

dear life 75

2006-04-21T04:32:00.000-04:00

dear life,
tonight we went to the stand-up comedy show of Ebrahim Nabavi. you know him of course and his famous funny stories on the everyday problems of Iran's society and politics.
I was sitting among this crowd of some two hundred Iranians and felt such an stranger to the place and people. i listened to his words, i laughed, but yet my heart cried bringing tears to my eyes and ache to every muscle in my body. whatever downside he refered to of the country with so much problems made me think of why i have left to come where i don't belong and made me miss the place like hell. i feel so lost here, i just want to be there, sit in the bus, be stuck in the crazy traffic of tehran, be furious over people just throwing their garbage here and there, be sorry for all the hardships, but be there, just be there.

dear life 74

2006-04-08T16:33:00.000-04:00

dear life,
it is raining cats and dogs outside. the window opens to a beautiful lake with trees all around, spotted by a few cherry blossoms here and there. the music is playing in the living room - so close so far - and i am feeling so close so far from home. Thousands of miles away, i have chatted with a friend, talked to another, and i have felt this damn distance, yet i feel somehow calm, as i have all of it - the places, the people, the love, the craziness, the whole life - in a safe corner of my heart, and that is mine forever and that gives me joy as i try to embrace the new beauties you are presenting with open arms. just need some strength, so you have to help me out and wish me luck.

dear life 73

2006-04-03T13:39:00.000-04:00

dear life,
this is the story of my carry-on which got lost during my trip to DC. hope you enjoy it.
"Oops, where am I? Have we already arrived?" I look around, paying as much attention as I can with my sleepy head. I hear some mumbling and as I listen more carefully; I understand English spoken around, so, guess we are there – but wait a minute, the accent is not American, it is pure British mixed with some Hindu-British, and so I start wandering. Weren't we supposed to go to the States? Where is my mom? Where are the ones I made friends with during the flight?
I eye everywhere, but no sign of mom, no sign of familiar faces; wait, there is one far away. The little black boy who sat next to me in the plane as we talked of our first experience of a trip so long. He was funny ok, yet he had that sense of having it inside him to turn into a great bully one day, soon that he had traveled enough to be able to boast of it to others. I open my mouth to call him to see if he knows what is going on, but before I can say anything, someone reaches for him from out of nowhere and takes him away, smiling as she welcomes him. So gone he is! The others around are big guys, mostly on the verge of explosion of so much food they have stuffed inside before leaving for the trip as to assure for a safer stay in an unfamiliar land. They are all busy looking for their loved ones scattered around in the airport. The good thing is they can not leave the spot and have to wait for their loved ones to pick them up, so I have more time to search for a familiar face, not feeling as lonely, even though I am trembling of fear as I am starting to feel left behind and lost, yet do not dare to raise my childish voice to get some attention.
One by one they are gone into tired but familiar arms - some are welcomed by a big hug, some by just a smile – the kind that comes when you see your family after a while - some are taken off their feet with excitement, and some are just simply gone. And suddenly I am left all alone.
Tears start to fall down my face, over my red dress we had bought new for the trip with my mom, which is now wrinkled and not so much fresh, exactly like my own features.
I remember just a few hours ago when I parted my mom in another airport where we began our journey into the unknown. We were supposed to sit next to each other, but then the airport official asked her to sit me in another section where I would have more space to play around, assuring her that I would be in good hands and she would have me back safe and sound when we arrived in our final destination. I saw the perplexed look in her eyes for a moment – the look she has whenever she is not sure and is afraid yet does not dare to reveal - then she took out something she had put in my bag to keep for her and kissed me goodbye, whispering in my ears soft words, "Go find some friends, have fun, and promise to be a good girl. See you when we get there," she concluded as she straightened my dress and handed me to the young man standing at the foot of the plane stairs waiting for me and other kids to be taken to the playground at the lower level of the plane. She once more asked the officer to make sure that I would be taken care of till the final destination where she could have me in her sweet arms. And as such we had parted!
And now here I am, left alone, tears all over my face, asking for my mom while sobbing and running out of breath. Then a lady in airport uniform nears me with worrying eyes. "Why are you crying, you little beautiful girl? What a nice red dress you have! Where is your mom?" she asks in her British accent and I continue to sob with even a greater enthusiasm. Caressing me with her soft manicured hands, she starts to look for the identification card given to me before getting into the plane. "Oh, so that is why. You were supposed to go on yet another plane. They just thought your mom was taking off here. Don’t worry, I am gonna take good care of you. Come on, don’t cry now. Let’s wash your face and give you some … what do you like to eat? Icecream? Or a hamburger?" she takes my hands in hers and off we go.
So she does as she promised, she takes good care of me for the next 24 hours until she gives me to another officer to put me on a plane straight to DC, to my mom.
Passing through that day is quite hard, considering it is my first flight out of the country, actually my first flight at all; hard it was, even with the nice lady trying her best not to let me miss my mom, yet as I sit in the next plane, I think to myself, "Wow! I not only did my first flight, I did a whole day all alone without my mom! I have grown big now!" I smile to myself, my eyes shining with an unknown pleasure as the stewardess offers me an orange juice and some cookies.
That day was hard for my mom too, I find out later. After such a long journey, she had waited and waited for a long time for me to come out and join her in the airport, but as all passengers had embarked, she had finally come to the understanding that I was missing. Cursing herself for taking not good care of me, thinking that she had not explained well to the officer where I was destined, thinking all the worst with herself, she had explained the situation to an officer of the airline, who had told her to go to the office and file a missing report.
So she had left without me, passing through customs and finding dad at the other side of the line. They had hugged and kissed, seeing each other after such a long time, but her thoughts were with me, so they had gone straight to the office and did as she was told. "It would take at least 24 hours until we find any clues. We will contact you," the officer had said.
Those hours and minutes had passed so slowly for her, yet she had all the luck as a friend back at home with some friends in the airline searched for me from there and found, before the officer called her, that I was mistakenly in England, but I was safe and sound and would be flown to her the next day.
So she just had to wait.
And she waits until finally the call comes, "I am calling to see if anyone is at home for the delivery of your baby girl in the next four hours," the voice on the other end says. "Of course!" so she waits some more four hours, and then the door bell is rang, and there I am, in the same red dress my mom had left me in with the officer at the airport home, with a smile on my face and a candy in my hand. I throw myself into her arms, saying with all the excitement boiling in my voice, "Mom, I have grown up! I did my first flight without you, I lived one day without you!" and she kisses my hair as she thanks the delivery man, signs for my receipt, and closes the door to our new home miles and miles away from home.

dear life 72

2006-02-23T21:37:00.001-05:00

dear life,
seven days of public mourning are announced for the destruction of Shiite shrines in Iraq, people come to streets to protest in thousands in Islamic countries, and religious leaders cry in hatred for those responsible; and one wonders if the lives of innocent people, children, and women were taken as precious. yes, the buildings are sacred, but are they more sacred than the life god has blown into our human bodies? one wonders over the values ruling over our world. one wonders over so many things.

dear life 71

2006-02-03T16:53:00.000-05:00

dear life,
yesterday as i was preparing a translation on the new google china web site and its censorship issues, i thought to myself, just a hundred years ago there was no google, and today we wonder how we can live even one day by without the search engine in existence. then as i checked my email, i found one threatening of yahoo mail shutting down for those who don't forward the particular mail - probaby nothing but a spam - but i thought what if one day we open our email account and found it blocked, erased, just gone. how much of our identity would we lose forever and ever, and we have no way of protecting ourselves against that. we may even consider the day yahoo and hotmail email accounts disappear for good as one of the greatest catastrophic days of the modern world of technology, don't you think so?

dear life 70

2006-01-27T04:29:00.000-05:00

dear life,
that day i had a really hectic day; then i had coffee in my quiet favourite coffee shop and relaxed to refreshen for the rest to come. as i came out, it was still raining, and as i walked to the bus stop, the unusual traffic - you know how bad is tehran's traffic even in its usual sense - took me by surprise; yet i was happy that i had so much time to get to my next appointment. as i stood with so many others waiting for the bus or a taxi, i got more and more nervous as each moment passed by - no bus arriving, all taxis passing by full, and the traffic increasing. i was thinking of how to get there on time, of how tired i was, of how shitty everything was, and then i saw these two men waiting for the bus just a few meters from me. they laughed as they talked humurously of the situation, making jokes with the drivers passing by, creating a bright side to it all. they were both tired and were getting back home from a busy day at work, they had had a rough day you could see, but they were making the best of the moment. their courage and good humour toward you and your difficulties was just so amazing that i could do nothing but to admire them as i left the bus stop with a smile on my face to get to my appointment from another route. some people are really amazing.

dear life 69

2006-01-09T17:49:00.000-05:00

dear life,
i am sending you a piece i wrote after a great night after a friend's house; the gathering was so strange, reminding me of the cultures from all around the world mixing into new forms, presenting new challenges yet new horizons of life in the 21st century.

"They say Iran is the land of paradoxes, the land of people with two lives, inside and outside the house, with family and friends and with strangers, but feeling those paradoxes up close and personal is a different experience.

Many outside the country know the country as one of the extreme Islamist ones around the world, where even foreign women are not allowed to move around without a veil, foreigners are not allowed to have alchoholic drinks, and where there exists no bars, discos, or casinos, where many tourists rethink their decision to choose it as a holiday destination despite all the cultural natural heritage scattered around.

The country is also notorious for political reasons, from being included on the US list of axis of devil to its nuclear activities to the comments by the new president about Israel.

Iran is also known by some specially in scholarly grounds as the land of the talented young who when get their foot in univiesities of the developed countries discover new horizons, blooming and help the booming of the new world. Iranian immigrants are known as one of the most respectful beneficial groups to the societies they are living in no matter where on the planet.

Many (specially some Iranian immigrants living abroad) categorize the situation of the country as black black, and the government inside describes it as white, the ground of a growing democracy based on religious godly ideologies. The situation however is not as black or white, and paradoxes are felt in each and every corner of the people’s lives.

A gathering last night in one middle-class Iranian family in Tehran, of course a not-so-typical one- reminded me of these paradoxes, not always so negative, but maybe if looked from a new perspective, representing new grounds where cultural differences are forgotten or at least overseen.

At four pm, a class of reciting poetry by Hafiz and Rumi, starts, taught by the head of the family, a zoroastrian single-mom; the students of different ages, sexes. At one corner of the hall, a christmas tree decorated beautifully is shining; the tree is set for the new Christian year, for the son is a Christian. They read Rumi, the sufi poet, and find in his teachings elements shared by all beliefs of zoroastrians, christians, Jews, and Muslims, and yet the teacher tells of an interview with the world’s religious leaders, in which all revealed that only their own followers and none other have a place in heavens and I thought of the wars and hostilities that one simple sentence can ignite.

After the class, friends gather, for one is leaving for the States; young and old from different backgrounds, from a foreign ambassador to the one serving drinks gather around as five young men sit around to play traditional Iranian music. Tar, Setar, flute, and Daf sounds mix with poems of Hafiz and Rumi being recited with the Christmas tree lights blinking in the background, creating a mystic strange mood that makes you soar the ground and feel empty, free from all. The Dafs start talking to each other, whispering first, then talking, raising their voices as if they are taking critical desicions, reaching a climax, and then calming down, as two lovers finding peace in each other’s arms.
A young friend of the host’s son, a twenty-something boy joins in to help sing one of Hafiz’s poems along with Tar and flute. His looks are those of a typical American-European boy of his age: jeans, snickers, a sweetshirt, hair styled with the latest fashion, and as I looked at him I never could have imagined him being able to recite Hafiz or play Daf. And then I remembered an article I once red in Guardian on the anniversary day of Hafiz. Noting the Iranian youmg paying tribute to the tomb of their famous poet, Hafiz, after so many centuries, the author had wondered how many English girls and boys have the same sentiments toward their world-renown author of all times, Shakespeare?

A gay combination of Kurdish folklore dance and Brazilian steps to the Daf music brings the gathering to an end, just to remind us of how beautifully cultures can mix in joy and happiness, putting behind differences. If only it was that simple in the outside world of politics, governments, ideologies, and economy.

In Iran people watch the latest hollywood movies, write blogs to become one of the largest population of blogwriters througout the world, surf the net despite all the official limitations, listen to the latest music, and wear to the latest fashion to be even more fashionable than the young abroad; and then in Iran the same people go to mosques to pray, to listen to preachings, wear black on the occasion of their religious feagure’s death anniversaries, hold ceremonies and cook special food to mark religious occasions, stop drinking on those occasions, and fast.

In Iran government believes and rules one thing, people live another. In Iran people live one thing inside their houses, live another outside in the society. In Iran people think one thing and live another. In Iran paradoxes rule, a ruling that sometimes makes people pay heavy prices and sometimes teaches them to find new voices, greater patience, and new meanings and perspectives toward life."

dear life 68

2005-12-12T16:48:00.001-05:00

dear life,
has it ever happened to you that your own being becomes the greatest mystery of the world to you? can that mystery be solved at all? is it meant to be solved at all?

dear life 67

2005-12-08T03:32:00.000-05:00

dear life,
everywhere is gray, everywhere is cold, everywhere is sad. everywhere are cars, and streets are deserted of living people, as if you are leaving us all alone, not even looking back. maybe you are looking back but you can't see anything as the pollution is making you blind. the smug is covering the city, the smug is bringing us to tears, the smug is making us cough, the smug is choking us. and yet you are not doing anything for us; but really, why should you when we ourselves are not doing anything for ourselves? all i am thinking of now is a novel i once read entitled "blindness". how much more time do we have till we reach that blindness?

dear life 66

2005-12-08T02:36:00.000-05:00

dear life,
an old plane crashes down and kills tens of iranian journalists, tv reporters, photographers, ... mothers are crying, children are crying, friends are caught in desperation and disbelief, colleagues are shocked, ... are those fucking sanctions doing any good to change what governments do or are we people the only true victims to a fight we are not fighting?

dear life 65

2005-12-04T22:21:00.000-05:00

dear life,
the traffic is terrible, the air is polluted, the sound of the cars' horns is soaring up to the sky, the people are jammed together in the bus, a woman is begging with her kid on her knees in the sidewalk, the taxi driver is having a fight with a passenger, the people are rushing to work with sad faces, but today is a beautiful day, cause today is my birthday!!!

dear life 64

2005-12-02T09:01:00.000-05:00

dear life,
the ensemble played, the master sang, and the sentiments people felt and expressed i had never seen ever before for any others. and then the master sang, a song the nation has cherished for generations, a song of love, pain, and happiness, and that was when we all became one in giving in to the magic of the music.

dear life 63

2005-11-29T01:40:00.000-05:00

dear life,
for weeks, a guy sleeping underneath cartons and blankets filled with holes was the familiar scene of the pedestrian crossover i took to work. today, as i rushed over the noises of the city life, i paused for a moment as i noticed his empty corner. today i missed him being there. how do i know, maybe it was a she?

dear life 62

2005-11-29T01:19:00.000-05:00

dear life,
A friend living abroad was telling me of how she misses the leaves of trees turning orange and yellow in the autumn time, and when i returned back home, it was maybe for the first time ever that i really looked and appreciated all the autumn colors around me, especially the orange and yellow leaves of the trees, doing their best to stay on top, but finally accepting to fall down to become just anther colored spot on the heavy gray asphalts of the city.

dear life 61

2005-11-14T00:26:00.000-05:00

dear life,
want to hear a sweet love story? last night a mexican girl sent her love in spain some food she had prepared by post, along with a letter which was filled with words of love and affection. today the boy sent her 25 branches of red rose, do you know why? no, not for the years she has lived, but for the hours he thinks of her every day while he is miles and miles away.

dear life 60

2005-11-11T21:37:00.000-05:00

dear life,
last night through ''the secret life of words'' we lived for just two hours with all the sadness and bitterness a girl can bear, with all the cruelty the humans are able to put each other through, with the strange lives of a handful of men in the middle of the ocean who have preferred being hugged by the sound of waves and oil production machines to being hugged by other humans, each meditating on their own terms. through the secret life of words we witnessed the power the pure love of a man had to open a girl´s heart closed to the simplest pleasures of life with an iron bar. through the secret life of words we felt for the xth time the dumbness of war, and the power of love over hatred, the beauty of two human beings joining together with their bodies and souls.

dear life 59

2005-11-07T23:52:00.000-05:00

dear life,
the latest thing you have thought me and i am so thankful to you for is that to judge other people is so wrong, to just sit outside the circle and announce someone as the right doer and the other as the wrong doer is so wrong, to judge people by the tags the society puts on them is so wrong, to see people as black and white is so wrong. when i have not lived in that experience, when i have not lived in his-her skin, who am i to judge and to talk?

dear life 58

2005-11-07T23:50:00.000-05:00

dear life,
each experience we live through, no matter how sad or cherishable, no matter how tiny or huge, adds to our being something, something that makes us a new person each and every second.

dear life 57

2005-11-07T23:44:00.000-05:00

dear life,
there are as many ways to live you as the number of the people living you on this planet, and it´s funny, or better say sad, how we get stuck in seeing one way, our way, as the one and only, regarding all others as impossible or incorrect. how much we judge others due to that belief of ours.

dear life 56

2005-11-07T22:42:00.000-05:00

dear life,
is there really a wrong way of living you? who is determining which way is right and which is wrong? why does the society convicts people to live you under a set of predetermined norms?

dear life 55

2005-10-25T23:20:00.000-04:00

dear life,
On your way to Tehran cemetery, the road is spotted by numerous flower boys and girls; yellow, red, pink, white flowers colouring the scenery are in heavy contrast with the mood the people in the cars are bearing: sorrow, love, and grief for the ones they have lost; the children's energy and desire to sell shows of the life zest they hold inside, the heavy aura of the quarter smells of death, of us passing through; the contrast makes you ponder, and then you just feel the strangest calmness as you sit over the grave to pray for your lost loved one.

dear life 54

2005-10-25T21:47:00.000-04:00

dear life,
these days my heart feels so heavy. just help me not make a mistake. just help me make the best decision.

dear life 53

2005-10-16T20:56:00.000-04:00

dear life,
how strange games you sometimes play with us, taking us from the safest spot to the most bizarre one. isn't your unexpectedness what makes you so unique?

dear life 52

2005-10-16T20:52:00.000-04:00

dear life,
it is funny how the private parts of the body seem to be our most private possessions, not to be talked of. but isn't really our mind the most private?

dear life 51

2005-09-26T00:10:00.000-04:00

(should be posted on Sept. 14)
dear life,
we have all heard of the saying "home is where happiness lives", but guess we never truly feel it until we experience the opposite. home is really where happiness lives; no matter how big the house, no matter how good the facilities, as long as we have a roof over our head and love for life and the world in our hearts, we can just lay back, close our eyes, and enjoy taking in each and every breath. thank you life for giving me the chance to understand this. it came with a high price, but the good news is i took the message. thanks.

dear life 50

2005-09-25T22:39:00.000-04:00

(should be posted on Sept. 11)
dear life,
today is September 11 anniversary, how many days have passed since those shocking moments, i am not sure. but one thing i am sure of: the world is no more the place it once was. even before those buildings were leveled to the ground, we faced challenges and clashes every now and then, but since then, we are living in a constant war, a war entitled against terror, a war in reality of beliefs, of ideologies, a war between the good guys and the bad. but really, who is the bad guy? who is the good guy? do politicians let us see what is really going on?!! today i just want to pray in silence for the guy whose deadly fall out of the building was made eternal in pictures, for the ones who were taken amidst the fire escapes, for those who burnt into ashes, for the firemen who lost their lives, for those in the hijacked airplanes, for .... if only the world was a more peaceful place!!!

dear life 49

2005-09-25T22:14:00.000-04:00

dear life,
it is a long time since i have written to you, sorry. i was so busy with work and everything as you may know. actually, i have written things to you, just couldn't post them. so the next notes may be a little late considering their related events, but wanted to share them anyway. thanks for being always there to listen.

dear life 48

2005-08-31T20:39:00.000-04:00

dear life,
did you see the young boy selling flowers at the red light? the young girl selling poetry notes at the crossroad? te sisters begging some money, any money? their feet all so bruised? their hands so small yet so callous? their faces all so dirty unwashed for so long? their bodies so fragile? did you take notice of their eyes? so innocent, so begging? sometimes filled with pitty for themselves for the share you have given them of yourself, sometimes filled with hope of the share you may bestow on them? then there passes by the all new BMW. two boys are looking out of the car window. they are not seeing the young boy selling flowers, the young girl selling poetry, the sisters. they are looking to see the attention they are receiving, to see how many have taken notice. they live in another world, on another planet. they live too.

dear life 47

2005-08-31T19:24:00.000-04:00

dear life,
want to hear about a paradox situation? it was in the news that a Thai elephant has been given a new artificial leg by scientists. how did it lose its leg? he stepped on a human-made mine!!!!

dear life 46

2005-08-11T00:29:00.000-04:00

dear life,
i am tired, i am restless. i need to go somewhere, i don't know where. i need to do something, i don't know what. i need to say something, i don't know how. i need to see someone, i don't know whom. i need to choose something, i don't know which. i need to believe in something, ... that i know. thank heavens!!!

dear life 45

2005-08-10T00:23:00.000-04:00

dear life,
Discovery entered the atmosphere safely and landed on earth safely a while ago. it is amazing how much humans have achieved. we do such unthinkable things, then leave the thinkable to be resolved for itself. traveling into the space to know our universe is such great achievement, but what are we achieving for our small universe here on earth? for our continent? our country? our city? our village? our community? our home? what are we achieving for ourselves?

dear life 44

2005-08-03T12:23:00.000-04:00

dear life,
as i write to you my tears are running down my face for my heart is aching with sorrow and despair. yesterday we bed farewell to Khatami and today the new guy is swearing in for his four-year presidency. i am crying for myself and for all those who watched as their dreams and hopes for a better future were gone in two weeks of presidential campaign. i cry for those who really wanted and who tried with all they could to bring some change to this country. i cry for all that we achieved will be gone in no time with the new wave of officials and their thoughts spreading its shadow over the small rays of lights we were inviting in. what will come next is so uncertain, even when we were certain the events turned out to our shock, so what now?

dear life 43

2005-08-01T12:41:00.000-04:00

dear life,
lately all i am thinking of is the idea of moving, of leaving my country at least for a while to find myself and what i want of me and you together. i think of all the logical reasons that i should this, and i think of all the logical reasons that i should not do this. then i feel feelings rooted deep inside of me for the country that has given me so much and yet taken so much from me, feelings positive and negative. the decision is hard to make, i am not sure of what road will lead to the best for me, but one thing i am sure of: the experience, althought hard to begin, is worth the effort. do you agree?

dear life 42

2005-07-25T20:22:00.000-04:00

dear life,
nearing the end of our one-month vacation, everything is less vivid than the first day, mixing up my thoughts more than ever before. we left on the day that the results of the presidential elections came out and the destiny of our country took an unexpected turn. that result brought me to think not only of what is going on in my country, but of what is going on with me. what i really want is now a matter more vague than ever before. i am not sure of what i want more than everything else for my near future, and i am thinking day and night of what i would do if dared to dream my dreams (are my dreams for real or not?) and what i could do if i dared to change, to accept new situations, and to benefit the possibilities i have. you know life, i am afraid to take the first steps, and your helping me would mean a world to me. i am reaching to you for help (maybe you just need to show me somehow that i should pay more attention to receive the signs you are sending me). waiting for your kindest reply.

dear life 41

2005-07-18T02:16:00.000-04:00

dear life,
last night we took part in the joyous marriage celebration of two love birds who came from two different cultures, spoke different native langauges, yet shared love, passion, and respect for each other. they gave their hearts and lives together in a simple yet beautiful ceremony attended by people from all around the world. Jewish and Muslim, Iranian, American, and Israeli guests sat together to witness their celebration of love and peace. saying their vows to share the future, the love birds were proof that no matter what your culture, no matter what your origins, no matter what your lables, you can open up your heart and you can join each other to face the world and the challenges it brings you with nothing but love, respect, and pure intentions. shall they live with love and peace as all the world deserves the same.

dear life 40

2005-07-13T18:27:00.000-04:00

dear life,
last night i had a beautiful dream of a beautiful friend. a friend who opened my heart to love and life so many years ago, securing an eternal place for himself among my memories of the carefree days of teenage life. i may not have been for him what he was for me, but no matter what i still cherish those happy days of my journey. i have not heard of him for so long and have no idea of what has become of him, so i am asking you to send him my thoughts and good wishes wherever he is in this large yet small world. i hope that one day our paths cross once again.

dear life 39

2005-07-01T13:20:00.000-04:00

dear life,
please help me find out what i want to do with you, please help me have a more profound understanding of myself and my relationship with you, please help me make sure of the what, where, when, and hows that will make me feel satisfied with you and myself (maybe my problem is not knowing how to be satisfied?!!) i have lived up so many years of you, and not being sure of what it is that i really am looking and aiming for is becoming my greatest challenge. please help me out in winning over my - our - challenge.

dear life 38

2005-06-25T15:03:00.000-04:00

dear life,
Sitting in the airplane, high above in the skies, surrounded by the light and the clouds, i feel my life as a young iranian more cloudy than ever before. the results of the run-off elections were coming out as we boarded the plane, brining with them more and more thoughts and doubts. i am now questioning my loyalty to my nation, to the people whom today i see as strangers, whom i do not understand, whom i feel so far away from. i am questioning my struggles and my aims. do i know my people? do i know myself? do i know my world? do i know you? have i closed my eyes and ears to what have been going on around me? where do i stand among my people? have any of my dids proved worthy for my homeland? should i leave like so many others who did, either by force or by will? is it all about politics? have our minds become targets for politicians and their dirty games? please help me find the knowledge and strength to follow my meant-to-be path of life, to decide, and to keep hope. please save us all from all the malice surrounding us in the world.

dear life 37

2005-06-25T02:46:00.000-04:00

dear life,
can i bother you with giving my love and regards to President Khatami? please tell him that i feel endebted to him for the political cultural insights i have gained throughout these past years. please let him know that no matter what people say today, there are many like myself who believe in his beleifs, who have fought and will continue to fight his fight, and who see the world through glasses similar to his. my experiences during the last two or three weeks of debates, disagreements, and presidential despair have urged me to talk to him throught you. please tell him that many like myself do not consider him a failure, that we love him and we will love him even more and miss him so much now that the one replacing him is in no ways comparable to him. please tell President Khatami: "thank you for all you did for me, for us, for our nation, for Iran." as he himself said once, history will decide. it sure will.

dear life 36

2005-06-23T01:11:00.000-04:00

dear life,
i am leaving home for a one-month vacation in two days. i feel excited and happy, but at the same time i am worried for my nation is to choose its president for the next four years. the elections have gone to a run-off and the situation is really one of a kind with an unpredictable competition between a new hardliner face and a moderate molla whose previous office has brought too much trouble to this land. i just hope and pray for the best for my homeland, for my nation, and for myself.

dear life 35

2005-06-16T22:09:00.000-04:00

dear life,
tomorrow my country is facing an important decision, a decision that will shape its destiny and history. tomorrow we are to select our new president, a president who is to respond to our needs and to bring us new horizons of unity, prosperity, and knowledge. during the recent weeks, whereever we went, whenever we met, with whomever we talked, we talked of the upcoming presidential election. the young campaigning in unique sometimes bizarre ways, candidates talking of ever-before tabooed issues, reporters and media traveling to the capital from all around the world, even a famous Hollywood figure showing face in the most relgious gathering of the country ... are events not to be forgotten easily. all will one day be history and the history will surely remember the enthusiam and vigor of the young, the contemplations of the old, and the hopes of the middle-aged. tomorrow we will decide, hoping that all will turn out for the best. tomorrow we will turn a highlighted page in our history book, taking an oath to continue to care for our land forever and ever and to work hand in hand to build its future, a future that we can boast to as much as to its past.

Dear life 34

2005-06-09T08:09:00.000-04:00

dear life,
last night Iran's national football team won Bahrain 1-0 and was admitted as the second team to enter the world cup 2006. the victory brought a whole country, young and old, male and female, conservative and liberal, to a collective joy. a joy that kept cities and villages awake late into the night. a joy prompted by the unity and cooperation of a sports team led by a popular loveable leader continued into expressions of unity of people with different opinions and police forces. last night poeple held hands, blew their car horns, danced, and cheered. marching in the streets, they all cried, "Viva Iran!" viva Iran, we'll cry till the day we die.

dear life 33

2005-05-30T20:09:00.000-04:00

dear life,
my mom and dad will be back home tonight after such a long time. i am so happy of seeing them, but then i am thinking of him and how much he, and i myself, are missing his dad. there is no more hugging and teasing each other in this world. what keep us happy meanwhile are the memories of him and our life together to cherish forever and ever. what makes us happy is our ability to have him with us in our hearts, to hug him and to kiss him whenever we want, wherever we want in the world we behold in our hearts.

dear life 32

2005-05-26T03:09:00.000-04:00

dear life,
it is amazing how we all the time change our view toward you and what you offer us. this morning when i had a tour of Tehran with a great knowledgeable tour guide, i loved having you in this great city and felt honored of its past. now here i am, ten hours later, in the traffic jam of a weekend night and rethinking my previous feelings. people are going nuts, swerving not to let each other pass, cursing, putting on a show that you do not want to be watching at all. how can you change faces so easily and how can one find out where she is standing in her relation to you?

dear life 31

2005-05-22T22:14:00.000-04:00

dear life,
despite all the hard times you have put me through during the past years, i now feel grateful to you. it is because of all those hardships and the people you encountered me with all along that i learned to look into your eyes and see new things and to choose to have a new view toward you and your behaviors. it is because of all your offerings that i am now trying to take a new path through you and to live you in a different manner, to the fullest. i am thankful to you because today i can enjoy a beautiful flower, breathe in the fresh air of spring with all my heart, and to see in me strenghts i was never aware of. thank you for everything.

dear life 30

2005-05-20T22:29:00.000-04:00

Dear life,
I love you for all the things you are, despite all the things you are. I love you despite you getting from me my loved ones, I love you despite putting me in situations I didn’t think I could endure, despite introducing me to dark corners of peoples’ personalities, I love you despite all the hardship you have put me through, despite all the misery and sadness in the world that you face me with everyday. I love you for the strenght you offered me through all this, for opening my eyes to aspects of you i was incapable of seeing before, for introducing to me qualities in me I was so far unaware of, for giving me the ability to see the good in people, I love you for helping me find joy in all the little things, for helping me find new meanings to you, and for all the lessons you saw me worthy of learning, even the hard way. I love you for who you are and what you do, for whatever you offer me, cause I have come to understand that you have a reason for each and every one of them, a reason that sometimes is yet to unfold. Thank you for your love and friendship.

dear life 29

2005-05-11T00:09:00.000-04:00

dear life,
Someone once said that the paths to reach God are as many as the people of the world. Last Wednesday, on the roof of a four-storey building, surrounded by night lights of Tehran, and with the sound of cars as the background music, i understood that the paths to feel and express love, too, are as many as the people of the world. That night i witnessed a special kind of love between two special people. this note is more for those two who love so beautifully. what is more to life than love, really?

dear life 28

2005-04-30T18:09:00.000-04:00

dear life,
Alfie asks his viewers a question that i believe is a question for all of us:
"what is it all really about?" and i want to ask you once again. what is it all really about? can you please provide us with signs to find why we really are here and what we are ought to do? waiting for your soon reply.

dear life 27

2005-04-21T01:19:00.000-04:00

Dear life,
I love you for all the things you are, despite all the things you are. I love you despite you getting from me my loved ones, I love you despite putting me in situations I didn’t think I could endure, despite introducing me to dark corners of peoples' personalities, I love you despite all the hardship you have put me through, despite all the misery and sadness in the world that you face me with everyday. I love you for the strenght you offered me through all this, for opening my eyes to aspects of you i was incapable of seeing before, for introducing to me qualities in me I was so far unaware of, for giving me the ability to see the good in people, I love you for helping me find joy in all the little things, for helping me find new meanings to you, and for all the lessons you saw me worthy of learning, even the hard way. I love you for who you are and what you do, for whatever you offer me, cause I have come to understand that you have a reason for each and every one of them, a reason that sometimes is yet to unfold. Thank you for your love and friendship.

dear life 26

2005-04-08T21:20:00.000-04:00

dear life
i want to share with you what i wrote after watching Pope's funeral on tv. I am sure you agree with me for the most part, don't you?
"Pope John Paul II's death brought not only the catholic christians, but the whole world together, at least for a short time.
Not as a Pope, but actually as a human being who tried within his powers to help humanity and change the world that is going mad even a little bit, John Pope II is being remembered with love all around the globe.
Kings, queens, and world leaders, enemies who do their best to destroy each other, gathered in Vatican, sitting next to each other to bid farewell to a man whom they all respected.
People in different countries gathered to watch as the church chorus sang and the religious men said blessings; they gathered to say their prayers in their own languages, in their own ways.
It is amazing to see how people have filled the churches and gathered in the streets, taking each other's hands and embracing, as the event has brought them to tears. tears that have united us all spiritually.
These tears are not just for losing Pope, but a sign of the humanity that still resides in us, a sign of the need for a more sinificant part for spirituality in our lives, a sign that we can change the world to a better place if only we pay more attention to the human part of us that keeps us holding together in times of despair and hardship.
Let us join together in saying a prayer for John Pope II, for our own loved lost ones, and for ourselves. let us pray that we be given the knowledge and power to work more on a part we tend to forget in our hectic modern lives. let us pray for a more peaceful world."

dear life 33

2005-04-08T08:09:00.000-04:00

dear life 25

2005-03-22T02:26:00.000-05:00

dear life
eidet mobarak. wish you all the best in the new year and hope you bring with you all the good things possible to all the people who try to bring to you something good. wish you joy and happiness in the new year and hope you do great wherever you are, whatever you do. your joy and happiness means a lot to us.
take care. hugs and kisses.

dear life 24

2005-03-13T00:26:00.000-05:00

dear life
have you noticed how we humans sometimes get arrogant of ourwelves? of who we are and what we do? we believe that the thinking power God has bestowed on us makes us so better than all the other creatures in the world. then shouldn't we take a look at the animal world of dogs.here are animals who may not be able to think as we do, to commuicate as we do, or to invent technologies to improve the world as we do, but their love and affection is so pure and unconditional that maybe it's us who should envy them not vice versa. they posses something that if more common among our species, would have made the world we live in a much better place to live in. it is a gift to be able to love others as they are, for who they are, and not always wanting to change them to fit into our own judgemental categories. to love as such would help us look beyond the immediate, to forget about judging, considering, and choosing, to love as such would surely help us give the world and you a hand in making it all more fair, more enjoyable, and more loveable. it won't hurt if for once we tried to learn something from human's best friends: dogs, would it?

dear life 23

2005-02-20T23:39:00.001-05:00

dear life
today was considered an important religious day for Shiite Muslims, and our country as always was up front in holding memorial ceremonies. people gather in mosques and even set up tents around the city to hold preachings and mourn for their loss, they cook food that is believed to bring God's blessings, they march in the streets with symbolic performances, ... all of which seem of great values. but it is so contradictory to see how in their namingly spiritual festivities, they forget to somehow observe the rights of other humans. they cause traffic, they make noises, they sacrifice animals, they cook food to feed the well-fed people, they leave trash all over the streets, ... as such, do the ceremonies really help them find some spiritual meaning, or are they again some means for achieving more and more of the worldly part of you? isn't there any better way to use the festivities in better ways?
i was wondering how God sees and judges such matters? does these really mean something to him, considering all the wrong involved, all the wrong the same men commit day in, day out? i would be thankful if you could ask him for me about that, and i am all ears for an answer. thanks.

dear life 22

2005-02-08T17:54:00.000-05:00

dear life
lately your pal, nature, has been acting so strangely. Do you remember the earthquake of Bam who took so many of our countrymen from us? that was one year ago, and this year the tsunami hit asia nearly at the same time of the year, and we never found out how many died or went missing in the disaster. it took people from all around the world and once more brought human beings together to answer the cries for help. today nature has shown our town another bizaare face of hers- a beautiful face that we hope won't bring destruction with it. it has been snowing for several days now. everywhere looks so white, so pure, and so beautiful. as i write, the construction workers of the building next to us are playing and laughing in the snow with such high spirits that makes me envy them. their laughters and free souls is really a gift they may not be aware of. they remind me that happiness is really a matter of choice and attitude, an issue that we keep forgetting and you, hand in hand with your friends, keep reminding us. help us enjoy you as long as we can.

dear life 21

2005-01-26T18:20:00.000-05:00

dear life:
today i met the assistant superintendant of my primary school in the street. Her car parked infront of her house had reminded me of her all through these years, yet it was so amazing how we both stopped when we were to pass each other today, and more amazing was how she remembered me, one in a million of her students! she took me back in time to some 18 years ago as she hugged me so affectionately for several moments. 18 years have passed, yet it is as if it all happened just a blink ago.
i exactly remember the day when a drug trafficker was being hung in the middle of Tajrish Square when we were going to school. The picture of the man hanging high in the air and all those peope watching is still as horrifying as that day, and yet the picture of Mrs. ... waiting there in school to comfort all of us, the little ones who had to face a small portion of the ugly realities of life, is still as comforting. Today i once more felt the comfort that she offered us that day, the comfort of a carefree childhood, when our biggest problem was our childish rivalries with our friends and classmates.
I was so glad to hear of my first grade teacher, and to find out that she still lives in the house which whenever i passedby i wondered about her and wished for her wellbeing. I was also shocked to find out that my 4th grade teacher, to whom i owe my Persian handwriting, has passed away. As i write this i go back to her classroom and standing at her table i send her a prayer with all my heart.
Meeting Mrs. ... really made my day today. It made sure that whatever facilities our schools lacked, love was surely not one of them. i really feel endepthed to thank Mrs. .... and all my beloved teachers who helped me become who I am today. Thank you.

dear life 20

2004-12-31T21:28:00.000-05:00

dear life
my best friend's dad passed away a few days ago and these days i think of death more and more, as a part of you, a part so tangible and so near to you. and you know what has been amazing to me? the fact that how different and yet the same people face death. everybody misses the loved one you seemingly have left, but everybody does so in his own special way, everybody tries to keep on living you without the loved one physically around, but everybody does so in his own special way. today at my friend's home, we will surely miss him talking so passionately of his experiences and great knowledge of this world, of you and of humanity. and this great passion of his for you became more evident to me when he dedicated his corpse to a medical college, as a means to serve the humanity. and his act opened yet another door toward you for me. we can serve the people of this world even when our soul resides in another. we can serve them even with the memories we leave them and with the things we inspire them by. we can serve no matter when, no matter when, only if we want and we try. tonight we will drink some wine in his remembrance, and thank him for ever changing us and our views toward you and toward death.

dear life 19

2004-12-21T21:22:00.000-05:00

dear life
just today i was browsing the music in my computer that i came by the clip made by a friend's friend (Ali Herischi) in tribure of the earthquake that brought Bam and its people to their knees. and hours later the BBC reminded me of the fact that today is the first anniversary of that devastating earthquake.
It's funny how time passes by so quickly and how we continue to live on our lives, forgetting and putting the grief and sadness some place unknown. one year has passed by of those sombre days, days in which you put our humanities to test, a test that some passed proudly and some failed. just some days ago a report was published in Hamshahri of the grand sale of all the aids sent for the people of Bam, in some storage houses near Tehran's cemetery (Behesht-e Zahra). aids that were sent with love and passion by so many who hoped and wanted so badly to help. aids that could have saved so many of the earthquake stricken people helped instead some other to follow their aims and greeds. the aids that have today reached near Tehran's cemetry were destined to reach bam,to hopefully stop some from entering the populated cemetry of bam, or at least alleviate the pain of those crying over its unnamed mass graves of their loved ones.
today the cemetry of bam survives to remind us of all that went by and to be a witness of all that is still going on (or of what should be going on and is not). and one day it may tell and help unravel the sad story of bam for those who will come years and centuries later (as do today the bodies found in the ruined walls of the citadel that was and is the symbol of that city).
the least i could do was to write to you, to get others i know to join me in saying a prayer for the ones we lost,in remembering one important heritage of our land and in asking you for a hand in doing what really means something and being a human.

dear life 18

2004-12-19T02:49:00.000-05:00

dear life
have you noticed that one of the things we do most is to judge people? we sit by ourselves and think of the things we see those around us do, say ... and we so easily lable them as black, white, good, bad, worthy, unworthy ... and yet we don't want to pay attention to the fact that what we see of others is just part of their personality, the appearance, or what we want to see. even the worst person is dear to someone who loves him, and even the greatest person to many is surely full of vices left unnoticed. think of a king, president ... who may be considered a tyrant to many of his country fellowmen and others around the world, yet for his wife and children he is the solid rock they turn to in need. think of an actress who lives the glorious life of fame and wealth, who even appears naked in front of the camera, or the dancer who dances the dances that many consider shameful or unworthy, who seems to be just a dancer and nobody to many, and based on these acts both are despised by so many, and yet one day you hear them talk, and you find out that one is so pure and kind that bears with herself the sorrow of the war and poverty stricken children of the world, and the other is filled with the love for his country and fellow human beings, and you find out that there are other angels to their personalities- angles that are helping the world become a better place, even a little bit. so who are we to judge other humans whose complex beings is surely one of the greatest mysteries of the world? isn't there any other way to look at people? how does god look at us and judge us?

dear life 17

2004-12-04T20:51:00.000-05:00

dear life
27 years ago on this day i opened my eyes to you. i don't remember a thing of that day, but they say i was crying (as everybody does when they leave the warmth inside their loved mothers) and was welcomed by family and friends. today 27 years later here i am, writing to you, i guess to thank you for the opportunities you put infront of me all through these years- the opportunity of being a kid, a teenager, growing up, meeting new people, making new friends and trying to keep the ones i made, the opportunity of reading and learning each and every day, and most importantly that of being loved and being able to love. you surely have not been easy, but maybe that is what you are about, ha? this year i miss parents who are miles and miles away from me, and of course the loved one whom we lost just 41 days ago. but still i feel warm hugged by the love of those who are here with me. as a 27 year old who has not always been gratefull of you, i am writing to you to say thank you, and to let you know that i am trying to learn from each and every piece of you, and to cherish you. isn't that what really counts? so could you please wish me a happy birthday?

dear life 16

2004-11-27T04:49:00.000-05:00

dear life
someone said a few days ago that "a normal wish, a normal dream, and a normal life" are the only things which make sense, the ensuing of which makes life enjoyable and lovable. he said that most of us can't become "the famous one", the one set higher than others, reminded forever for some great (or devil!) deed. actually none of those people started out to become the noted one they became; they just followed the normal thing they wanted to do and then following their path and doing that simple normal thing of theirs led them to that not so normal, spectacular position of theirs.
It somehow makes sense, doesn't it? being able to enjoy the normal life is really a great gift to be given- or not, it surely is worth to be learnt.

dear life 15

2004-11-27T04:43:00.000-05:00

Dear life
Isn't love the most beautiful? the most precious? the only saviour?

dear life 14

2004-11-22T04:57:00.000-05:00

dear life
it seems that lately i write to you just after watching movies! maybe i am not embracing you strongly enough to find things to talk to you about elsewhere. anyway. it seems that everywhere we look, or let's say everywhere i look, there is talk of war, war and war. Duel of Ahmadreza Darvish says a story of our nation taken in war, trying to do what is right, trying to save their land and their loves, and yet trying to manage to understand those who use them, their beliefs and loves to get to what they cherish, and what else is that except power and wealth to feed their never-to-be-fed hunger for staying on top of others? the story takes us also to the times that only in appearance are post war times. the real war still continues, the war for proving oneself over the other? the power struggle continues everywhere, not only between the tribal men and their women, not only between the old enemies and the new ones residing in Darvish's movie, but in the world we are living in. some need to answer their needs that are shown to be those of the world and of the human race, and to accomplish that they give themselves the permission to do no matter what, no matter where, no matter what the price? would there be an end to these foolish selfish acts some day? let's pray so.

dear life 13

2004-11-16T03:15:00.000-05:00

dear life
have you seen the movie "turtles fly too" by Bahman Ghobadi? guess you should have seen the real thing. The real disaster, the real mysery, the real sadness, and yet the real innocence, joy and love of the Iraqi children, who represent all those living in war and poverty stricken countries of the world.
what can i say? what can i do besides crying and detesting myself for not doing anything to relieve them even a little bit from their pain? how can we call ourselves humans when we don't stand up to help? and how can those who cause all this call themselves humans? isn't there anything you could do to help, life? at least help us find the insight and the strength in ourselves to do something to change what is going on.

dear life 12

2004-11-16T02:49:00.000-05:00

dear life
it is getting cold outside and the leaves are turning pale, leaving their nests up in the trees to join the earth, to be crossed over by the pedestrians hurrying past the beauties of nature. help us keep our hearts and the hearts of those around us warm, warm enough not only to get by you but to enjoy all there is to enjoy.