Blue Ashes

ashes to ashes

2011-06-12T11:54:00.000-05:00

and i can't help but wonder (feel, hope?) that if i never sleep again, i'll never have to awake to this--to its (my?) reality, its (non-?)existence, its always-alreadyness (neverhood?).

xx / lover / loved / the perpetual fool / dreaming wide awake of the only beauty i know / life lingering in the depth of death / yearning desperately to be lived.

The Me in Me -2- left behind

2011-04-04T11:57:00.004-05:00

Breathing down into you
I melted to the ground.

Sitting up on my feet
You settled in the sky.

Never has eying
-watching from afar-
proved this pleasurable.

Confessions of a Tischaholic -7- happy yaldaa

2010-12-22T01:52:00.007-06:00

fall -- neurotic verses a la reverie
II. solstice vs. equinox

There’s always a letter—but only for the exceptional ones. The expected letter has arrived; as expected, it has been, and will be read, again and again, and then once more, again. She’s reading it to me, word by word, while I write, carelessly using different words with multiple meanings. She “rights” while I “write”: she “rights” his injustice, yet there is no justice in the world which can restore the brittle, bleeding heart left behind in the colorfully lifeless, crackling leaves covering the alley floor. The same alley she passes through at nights drained of moonlight; every pore of her body a wild eye searching for his presence; the ecstasy of a chance encounter overflowing from the cup of her soul; rendering her once again the mad lover that she was. The same alley in which, amid its towering spruces, she whispers a silent prayer for Fereidoon Moshiri in her head, as her mouth moves to form his eternal words:

بی تو مهتاب شبی باز از آن کوچه گذشتم
همه تن چشم شدم ﺧﻴره به دنبال تو گشتم
شوق دﻳدار تو لبرﻳز شد از جام وجودم
شدم آن عاشق دﻳوانه که بودم

I have, on occasion and under the guise of my red cloak, followed her there and watched as she has busied herself reinterpreting the words he has used to interpret the river of feelings he still holds for her; its heavy flow the very same reason he deems accountable for the fact that she must now dance alone. The fog always rushes to embrace her intoxicating beauty as she tries—again and again, for his sake—to right the injustices of love; of vindictive kohl-rimmed eyes and glove-covered velvet hands, caught up in the sweet, scorching tactility of the cinnamon covering their blurry clouds of breath.

Today, I bear witness to her turbulent movements once again. Yet I fear that she has read my hand, that she is withholding her pain from coursing through my eager vision and sympathetically concerned heart. The arching of her body forms a bubble deep in my being, rising to the surface as a sorrowful aching in my soul. It inconspicuously works itself out of the tear duct of my left eye and entraps the four corners of the hands of her mind, gesturing now this way, the next the other. She is sketching both their long-lost and newly emerging worlds by the docile touch of her fingertips, the mystical allure of her gleaming green-blue irises, and the astonishingly vivid imagination of an inspired lover.

She repeats her motions; I fall into a trance, and realize that I have indeed been overly sympathetic and plagued by my own ego: I know nothing of the singularity of her pain, always already dissolving before it reaches its pinnacle of pleasure.
As I glimpse my pretentious compassion's fall with a blink of her right eye, my selfish reasons for claiming ownership of her sorrow skid off their highchairs, my crown collapsing over my own eclipsed heart. Sympathy is highly overrated; humans, highly irrational.

Yesterday, her delicate, marble hands had sculpted the enchanted landmarks of the moonlit alleys of a couple’s “fall.” But in this instant, as the cries of “encore” ring loudly in her expecting ears—too loud for her to hear—she knows that "writing" can never "right." There is no right, no justice. We’re all wrong, and the illusion of justice dies at the fall equinox, assuring that every single step from that point on is a bold, obstinate venture into increasingly darker days and nights. With this cruel realization, other people’s lies become her reality as they presently set her tormented spirit on fire, burning her red fury and his love letter to icy blue ashes.

Tomorrow, I will celebrate the winter solstice as she arises from the dimly glowing residue a serene queen: the queen of winter, having defeated the forces of evil and overturned the battle between day and night in favor of a new equinox, her eternal shimmer defying the ephemerality of love and life. And in that same moment, as she outlines the horizons with her rosy complexion while she clutches her reclaimed heart, I will find myself clutching his hand in futile attempts to leave unclaimed the promise of our sudden, overtime death in a brutally passionate, utterly predictable "fall."

--performing fiction--

The Me in Me -1- self-infatuation

2010-11-03T15:43:00.006-05:00

Sareh

“Queen.” Also rendered Sarai, Sara, Serah, Serai. Persian forms referred to a matriarchal government, evolving into “temple of women,” seraglio, or harem.

Sareh was the maternal goddess of the “Abraham” tribe that formed an alliance with Egypt in the 3rd millennium B.C. This was the real meaning of the embarrassing biblical story about Abraham pimping for his wife (Genesis 12). According to Jewish tradition, Sareh ranked higher than her husband, and her death brought “confusion” to a nation that was in good order while she lived. She was interred in the holy cave of Machpelah, a womb-necropolis of the Goddess of the Anakim. Votive idols in this cave were later adopted by the Jews and called by the names of deified ancestors: Sareh, Abraham, Isaac, Rebekah, Leah, and Jacob.

Walker, Barbara G. (1983). The woman's encyclopedia of myths and secrets. HarperCollins.

Confessions of a Tischaholic -6- not not (snookie)haters

2010-11-02T08:11:00.008-05:00

When you arrive at PS at the ungodly hour of 8 am, and look for any excuse to put off the work you'd hoped to do...

Confessions of a Tischaholic -5- auster vs. calle

2010-10-29T17:47:00.003-05:00

Not all books can haunt--and not all audiences possess the mystical potential to be haunted, to reckon with ghosts.

Leviathan haunts, passionately; and I'm excessively susceptible to becoming the haunted.
It was love at first sight (site? cite?).

Once upon a time, in a land far far away, there lived a little girl named Sophie. As all little girls, Sophie had numerous wonderful talents, such as chasing rainbows and strangers; but she excelled best at growing up. In fact, she was so exemplary at this one act, that people gave her gaily wrapped gifts and presents every year as proof; and to this very day the crazy colorful packages are the first glinting articles reflected in the mirrors of the eyes of anyone who visits her warm and welcoming home.* Legend has it that sometimes the shimmering pools of light have made people leave her apartment completely blind. You see, having grown up to the point of perfection, Sophie became an object of envy –by both grown-up little girls and boys alike.

But, as luck would have it, one grown-up little boy –who lived not too far away– stood apart from this dreary crowd of spiteful on-lookers. It’s still a baffling mystery to many, how Paul came to possess such desirable and alluring magical powers. “Could it be that he was the chosen one?” people would ask silently. Some speculate that his secret resided in the shards of broken glass he carried around in his pockets; they say he’d been seen around town, pulling them out of his pockets and bestowing them upon passersby who seemed to have forgotten the beauty they reflected when they smiled and talked to strangers. But my dear, what’s important isn’t the number of raging two-headed monsters and terrifying fire-breathing chimeras he had to fight in order to find the light. What matters is that once he discovered it, he tried to ignite sparks within those that crossed his path –even himself. In the course of illumination, Paul found himself to be a Peter –and not just any Peter, but the Peter who had glimpsed the inner Maria in grown-up little Sophie. And one day, as Sophie stood –far far away– in her phone booth covered in the mirrors she kept surreptitiously, she caught two things: a flash of Maria, and fire. As she walked out of the cubicle, rising fresh from her ashes, she knew, for certain, that she had once again found true love. And they –Paul and Peter– lived happily ever after.

* "Don't tell me the moon is shining/show me the glint of light on broken glass." - Anton Chekhov
excerpt written apropos my unofficial, unannounced, and unapproved collaboration with my own good friend...

Confessions of a Tischaholic -4- Prenez Soins de Vous

2010-10-29T16:59:00.006-05:00

Different people break off romantic relationships in different ways. Different people react to their partner's attempts to terminate such intimacies in different ways.

G. decided to break up in an email. Sophie Calle decided to go on being Sophie Calle.

I didn't decide to respond. But when asked to, I decided to respond in the following way.

PRENEZ SOIN DE VOUS

Pensively perched atop the promise of possible death
Rage ringing anew in rows of raw silence
Entranced encore avec the ephemerality of endemic love
Nascent nostalgia ablaze with nightmares of narcotic repose
Eloquence eclipsed above the embraces of elliptic words
Zombified zest along the Zeitgeist of zero-hour

Sophie, ça suffit
Ominous obsolescence overwhelming my future
Illicit idleness impoverishing my fate
Neglected narcissism nauseating my focus

Disheveled decadence displeasing my façade
Exigent entanglement exonerating my flee

Vicious “vous” is votre valeure
Offside oases your optimum horreur
Unraveled unity – upsy-daisy!
Sois souriante, Sophie; ça suffit.

Confessions of a Tischaholic -3- Love and Bellyaches

2010-10-29T16:39:00.002-05:00

Ultimately, we're all plagiarists at heart.

Love and Bellyaches

She was once again restless, preoccupied with the whims born out of an idle imagination. In the absence of paints and clay, her hands were swollen with the grave desire to wash themselves with blood drenched in crime—like any artist with no art form, she had become dangerous. If only it weren’t for that goddamned gaping hole in her world, she could at least ponder something, anything, to engage her tremendous curiosity and her gift for metaphor; and forget momentarily her craving for the other half of her equation.

A new September was timidly forcing its presence on Manhattan’s street-lining trees; and as always, it brought her leaves along with distance; a distance which seemed to stretch on infinitely, marking the scathing emptiness of that un-holiest of holes—the one occupying the place where he used to be. It was this hole that she found herself constantly tiptoeing about in the daytime, and falling into sometime around midnight. It always started around midnight. Every night, as the city sun fell over her and New York fell into discord, she’d lose herself for a minute or two, in books soaked with words bragging about sober moments in which some witty fool had rewrote time. And then, like some foolish wit lost in the haze of words, she’d try to humor herself into believing she could plagiarize thought and create alternate realities. Her mind—infiltrated with a rush of feral waves of perfume-scented, candle-lit memories—would ameliorate her ability to envision herself traveling back, and traveling abroad to the lands of eternal bliss. Yet even in those desperate moments when she would temporarily forget the world she was long forgotten by, she couldn’t quite comprehend why she thought they could have been happy together, if only they’d moved abroad? A change of environment, she knew, was the traditional fallacy upon which doomed loves, and lungs, relied. And as her imagination stumbled over the banal details which interrupted every journey—experienced in body or soul—the two perfect circles of the curl of their entwined bodies would come undone. Her oxygen-deprived, scorching lungs would indeed scream as she’d start to drown, alone, in the web of solitary years grown long, patience grown short. And as she’d struggle upwards to free herself from the murky waters of her absurd history, she’d see every one of those failed years; years that had each gone by exactly like the last. They would stream right past her like credits on a screen, pronouncing his memory as it blazed through her, burning not just her lungs, but everything in her being.

Allowing her fiery passion to consume her, she would close her eyes, plagued by the pictures stained on her eyelids. Knowing that suicide was her only alibi, she would tell herself that it was time to start her descent. And so her thrashing limbs would quiet down, a serene calmness settling over her trembling body, as she surrendered herself and died in the grief of the voice which told her: “I love your hands.”

She would plant her hands in the garden, and they would grow—she knew it would be so. As the sun rose over the skyscrapers, the city landscape coming into view, her sweaty skin let her know that she had to grow her hands, so that swallows could lay eggs in the hollow of her ink-stained hands. She knew that another birth was near. As she started to repeat to herself the things that she always said to make herself feel good again, a string of: “I’ll speak, I’ll write, I’ll laugh, I’ll lie”; she was certain that the worst had come to pass for another season. She would again grow her hands, laugh as she lied, spoke as she wrote; and all the while swallows would once again lay eggs in the hollow of her love-stained heart.

Key

“Love and Bellyaches,” expression coined during a great night by a very sick Harley Prechtel-Cortez of Red Cortez, Oct. 23, 2009.

Toni Morrison, Sula:

In a way, her strangeness, her naïveté, her craving for the other half of her equation was the consequence of an idle imagination. Had she paints, or clay, or knew the discipline of the dance, or strings; had she anything to engage her tremendous curiosity and her gift for metaphor, she might have exchanged the restlessness and preoccupation with whim for an activity that provided her with all she yearned for, And like any artist with no art form, she became dangerous.

Forough Farrokhzad, Another Birth (poem: Earthly Verses)

People

the fallen masses of people

heartsick, broken, stunned,

dragged their ill-omened carcasses

from one alienation to another

and the grave will to kill

swelled in their hands.

Edna St. Vincent Millay, Letters of Edna St. Vincent Millay:

Where you used to be, there is a hole in the world, which I find myself constantly walking around in the daytime, and falling in at night. I miss you like hell.

Native, Wrestling Moves

September brought leaves and distance. (song: Five Year Payoff)

Our years grow long; our patience short / At nightfall the city brings discord. (song: Backseat Crew)

Books soaked with the words describing the nights that we rewrote time. (song: Ponyboy)

We plagiarize thinking. (song: Shirts and Skins)

P.J. Harvey ft. Thom Yorke, Stories from the City, Stories from the Sea

And you must leave now, before the sun rises, over the skyscrapers, and the city landscape comes into view, sweat on my skin / The city sun set over me (song: This Mess We’re In)

The Airborne Toxic Event, The Airborne Toxic Event

And it starts sometime around midnight, or at least that’s when you lose yourself for a minute or two. / And so there’s a change in your emotions when all these memories come rushing like feral waves to your mind: of the curl of your bodies like two perfect circles entwined. (song: Sometime Around Midnight)

And my closet is filled with all these endless accoutrements: these shoes, these scarves, these shirts, these ties, and these things I say to make myself feel good again, “I’ll speak. I’ll write. I’ll laugh. I’ll lie.” (song: This Is Nowhere)

Now these years have seen so many imitations turning green. Each like the last, they go right past like credits on a screen, with your memory blazing through me, burning everything. (song: Gasoline)

You thought suicide was an alibi (Wishing Well)

Shakespeare, Twelfth Night:

Better a witty fool than a foolish wit.

Alexander Pope, Eloisa to Abelard:

How happy is the blameless vestal’s lot!

The world forgetting, by the world forgot.

Eternal sunshine of the spotless mind!

Each pray’r accepted, and each wish resign’d.

Vladimir Nabokov, Lolita:

Why did I hope we would be happy abroad? A change of environment is the traditional fallacy upon which doomed loves, and lungs, rely.

Forough Farrokhzad, Another Birth (poem: Another Birth)

This is my lot

My lot is

A sky which is taken away at the drop of a curtain

My lot is going down a flight of disused stairs

And regaining something amid putrefaction and nostalgia

My lot is a sad promenade in the garden of memories

And dying in the grief of a voice which tells me

“I love your hands.”

I will grow my hands in the garden

I will grow, I know I know I know

and swallows will lay eggs

in the hollow of my ink-stained hands

I shall wear a pair of twin cherries as earrings

and I shall put dahlia petals on my fingernails…

Guilty Pleasures -1- Eat, pray, love

2010-09-07T20:32:00.001-05:00

About a month ago, we hung out. Old friends, kicking it around. Or so I thought.
We went to the movies; it was my idea, dinner and movies on me. How else can one properly celebrate a birthday with only two people around?

I could have done more, yes. But I was burnt out. This past summer really did me in. I loved every minute of it, sure. I'm murderously obsessed with school, umhum. And yet, I still feel mentally and physically behind myself. I'm already looking forward to next summer, since I've made plans to spend my winter break finishing up my play, writing up the theory, and developing the blueprint for my final project. Excited, really. Very very tired, truly.

The movie ended, discussions ensued. It must be weird to live in a world where "praying" and "loving" become cliches to its inhabitants. My friend said the scenes from India and Bali provoked no internal response.

It's equally bizarre to share an intimate setting with someone for long days, only to become aware of the fact that you're coursing through different time/space equations; to realize that what was will never be again, and to bear witness to the simple truth that even the closest friends can become unapologetically estranged.

n, y, and c -2- vicious cycle

2010-08-23T17:52:00.000-05:00

You slow down -momentarily- to check out the gorgeous, unearthly guy whose seething presence demands pause... only to realize -before even coming to a full stop- that he himself had only slowed down -momentarily- to check out the other gorgeous, unearthly guy whose seething presence demanded pause.

n, y, and c -1- carpe diem

2010-08-21T07:26:00.002-05:00

There are those of us that are born with the potential to enjoy morning runs.

The rest of us learn early on how to indulge in the simple luxury of sleeping in.

Confessions of a Tischaholic -2- first impressions

2010-08-20T19:23:00.010-05:00

Tragedies are crafted when it's realized that your intro to your intro portfolio probably could do with its own intro.

An Introduction to Introduction to Performance Studies: The Things Performance Studies Does

Happy families are all alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.

–Leo Tolstoy, Anna Karenina

Yellow brick buildings, dating back to the early 1930s. Towering trees providing shade for the vast spread of walkways occupying the space between the yellow bricks and the green patches of grass and botany. Water running down quickly in the small brooks aligning the pavement, the meditative trickling sound of its jubilance evoking memories of chasing after your feet while running down a soft slope on a cool summer day. A stray cat here, a love-stricken couple there, crows lurking in the skies, crowds generating distant brouhahas, books and magazines and newspapers held in hands, backpacks and messenger bags slung over the confident figure of youth, the defeated student leaning against a tree which grants the support lacking in an infelicitous romantic relationship –all makings for a typical college campus.

Except this college campus is anything but typical, located in the heart of a city which does anything but boast its approximate population of 12 million. The city is Tehran, capital to a climatically diverse country sometimes still referred to as Persia, which for its inhabitants resonates a time of greatness. A time that –given the linearity with which they have been taught to progress through temporal dimensions– they have no hopes of ever experiencing, ever repeating, except by its realization via their rich oral culture. A culture driven to basements under a totalitarian regime fearful of its own shadow, and concealed in the safe depths of the hearts of its loyal parish. An oral (aural) tradition fabled to be safeguarded behind the affective gazes of the students constituting this very college’s devoted body. The college, the oldest new school in the Middle East. The college, a university. The college, The University of Tehran.

And at this non-typical university, there are very typical schools –highly typical departmental divisions. The five-story School of Engineering sits opposite its twin, the School of Sciences, with a park moderate in size disjointing the two. To forge a connection seems impossible in this narration, for the narrator is well-aware of a grave injustice; an injustice stemming from the lack of justice of the type Derrida was concerned with. A justice impregnated with a sense of responsibility to those not present; or better to say, those whose absence signifies their presence. The absentee here is a free-standing Persian language: ruptured and colonialized by the penetration of French, Arabic and English, this living force serves not just as an archival form, but as a repertoire for the Iranian population. This repertoire consists of an embodiment of the textual repository of knowledge, thus rendering it transmittable in a visceral fashion. As a culture which expresses, acts, and lives with and through its poetic language, this infiltration –while problematic– also serves as a problem which unifies and links different societal generations. A DNA pattern, one based in performance, is formed in this bothersome way.

Let us return however, to the problem arising from linking –in a totalitarian fashion unaware of the true happenings within the campus– the two aforementioned structures. This dilemma is embedded in the very name of the “School of Sciences,” for this school is not the school of sciences at all. Or at least, its Persian name –which in fact uses an Arabic term– does not imply so. In this literal translation, sciences is meant to represent the term o’loum: an Arabic word in the plural form, the singular of which is elm. The trouble here, is that based on its mode of employment in Farsi, elm should be translated as knowledge. Translation thus becomes a double-edged sword: not only is this complexity one emergent from translation, but it is also one only recognizable through translation.

In a world where mere words do things, where uttering a statement can make it so, referring to “knowledge” as “science” engenders a crisis, the extent of which is hidden to no one dedicated to the study of performance. To performance studies, epistemology is grounded in embodied comprehension: performance knowledge is a form of knowledge which is embodied. Words –which perform actions in their own respect, and can elicit actions in return– are also vessels which bottle knowledge. This is precisely why translation is so fundamental to this field of study; as important perhaps, as articulation to the arena of everyday life. And if we’re to accept the veracity –or the felicity– of Roderick Hart’s statement, “freedom goes to the articulate,” then perhaps we can go a step further and conclude that proper translation is a must, if we are ever to approach the hopes of a just society, which understands the importance of artistic and aesthetic expression to the annihilation of totalitarian rule.

Since we have already docked at the School of Sciences, let us investigate it further. At this school, one can excel in one of many academic fields: Chemistry, Physics, Mathematics, and other “core” sciences. Yet whatever discipline is chosen, one must also decide upon a branch: Pure or Practical, that is the question! While the dichotomous structure imposed in this manner can be effortlessly deconstructed with a gentle critical push, it is one worth considering; for its roots speak to our ontological understanding of disciplinary fields in the academic world. Our need to somehow arbitrarily classify that which we realize through not just our five senses, but also our sixth, has led to our creation of countless “either/or” dichotomies. While we may do so with the intent of increasing our ease of access to the material, natural, and supernatural world surrounding us, we are in fact partaking in a losing battle: such categorizations are incapable of doing much more beyond limiting our means of travel –mental or physical– from one plain to the next.

This cruel reality is of course no secret –as the many who have exhausted years of their academic careers toward its revelation can tell you. The twentieth century saw a rise in the number of scholars who sought to break the conventional dualities which the majority of our modern, capitalist thinking patterns lead us to perceive as a given fact, the “truth” of which cannot be questioned. Inherent in this way of thought was, and continues to be, accepting the hierarchical power relations birthed out of exclusionary binaries. The contestation of such widely standardized constructs was picked up by J. L. Austin as well. Sadly however, while Austin did put one dichotomy behind him, he substituted it with another: utterances were to be happy or unhappy, felicitous or infelicitous, as opposed to “true” or “non-true.” Of course, breaking away from the neo-Aristotelian tradition of the Enlightenment era which honored truth and perfection above all was in itself commendable. The worth of Austin’s work is also in his introducing the idea of the performative: a controversial move which sparked much academic debate and squabbles, and opened up a space for the discussion of such possibilities, creating a stage full of potentialities. This potential, similar to others of its kind, generated a liminal space from which emerged the interdisciplinary field of Performance Studies.

Performance studies is situated in that connection which is impossible to forge: the connection which can be used not only to fuse together the different branches of one entity, but also to chain links among multiple entities. Performance studies can be viewed as betwixt and between; hop-scotching from theater, to anthropology, to photography, to literature, to rhetoric, to philosophy, to ethnography, to hauntology, supplementing one with the other and ultimately –going to infinity and beyond. And it is in those joyous moments of leverage, of hovering above, and simultaneously transcending across the borders of any conventional discipline, that the ontology of performance itself is understood. An ontology fixed in “liveness,” and a performative mode of being which is always on the verge of disappearance. As for the ontology of performance studies, we can conclude it to be a chimera of sorts, an intellectually eclectic method of studying the practices of everyday life. A continuous process accomplished by means of the various clever ways in which humankind has managed to engage itself with the world, and from which it has skillfully fabricated different lines of knowledge.

Having already addressed matters of epistemology and ontology –and bearing in mind a Persian proverb which can be clumsily translated as “unless there’s three, there’s no game,” probably arising from the notion of stability embodied by triangular forms comprised of three sides, and simmering down to the need to do things thrice– it seems rather immature to close this essay without attending to the notion of axiology in performance studies. Concerned with the nature of “truth,” this topic in itself appears as somewhat at odds with what Austin was trying to prove, at least in relation to speech utterances. This might lead to certain sloppy conclusions, purporting that “truth” is always a relative perception in the study of performance studies. Conclusive remarks of this nature are in large part correct: the notion of intentionality and attempts to uncover motives are considered a trap scholars should safely distance themselves from. Interpretation is fundamental in performance and its study, and is the sole thing one can ever hope to speculate about; inferences made based upon one’s own personal experiences which inform a certain attitude toward life. However, the use of the defining adjective “sloppy” just a few short sentences ago was intentional. This is because although we cannot fully understand the intention behind a performance, ideological performances should be singled out. Clearly, ideologies do have a specific take on the nature of truth: they believe in a single truth, and seek methods with which to pronounce it. Marxist devotee’s will always consider the exploitation of the laborer to be embedded in the power structure currently prevalent in the world, while feminist scholars will always believe misogyny to be the “truth” in today’s societies. While these ideological approaches have neo-Aristotelian presumptions, post-structuralists subscribe to no ideology, believing that all systems, even the one through which “truth” is understood, will be deconstructed through their own defective essence. It should be noted that here as well, similar to ontology, it is necessary to make a distinction between performance studies and performance.

In performance studies, it is the beholder who comes to life in response to the performer. It is in how one chooses to behold an action, a showing of a doing, that a performance is signified and understood. This notion of course implies the necessity for someone to audit a performance, placing a heavy weight on the importance of spectatorship and audience appraisal in its actuality. The perlocutionary act is at the heart of these performances, a placement in line with the movement away from l’art pour l’art, to l’art pour tous. These performances can range from the extraordinary epic theatrical creations facilitated by technology and exported worldwide, to the mundane ritualistic performances of everyday life carried out in the most banal way, in the confines of one’s home. They can even be as simple as a speech utterance in naming a pet, a plant, or a stuffed creature. Speech utterances which in this case, would most likely be happy, and felicitous; yet as curious creatures, it is seldom that we devote our time to their study. For it is precisely as Tolstoy puts it in the opening sentence of Anna Karenina: a happy statement is terminated, and therefore every felicitous statement resembles the next, just as all “happy families are… alike.” It is the unhappy statement that “pricks” us, the infelicitous misfires and abuses which delight our inquisitive nature, and fuel performance studies –sometimes forward, other times back– into the vast unknown pleasures of time and space.

Confessions of a Tischaholic -1- things I learned in school

2010-08-20T19:21:00.004-05:00

weeks 1, 2, and 3.

-how to play (with?) dirty harry.
-Adrian Piper: Cornered
-life is full of awful choices.
-the future creates the past.
-shit can seriously embody the slipperiness of abjection.
-I have to read Yellowface.
-repertoires are so much more fun than archives.
-everyone's traumatized; few of us think it.
-psychoanalysis is about what two people can say to each other if they agree not to have sex.
-Freud's work on mourning and melancholia?fucking. brilliant.
-there's no such thing as boredom -as soon as you start attending to your boredom, you're technically no longer boredom.
-the denial of death compels us to act out death upon others, over and over again.
-psychoanalysis is a modern secular practice in which ghosts are talked to.
-melancholia is knowing who you've lost -yet not realizing what you've lost.
-I too have unconsciously become a mausoleum for objects lost.
-even the past is unsettled by reperformance.
-Barthes' Camera Lucida goes beyond expectations: "death is the eidos of photography" (p. 15). "photography is subversive not when it frightens, repels, or even stigmatizes, but when it is pensive, when it thinks" - "photographs of landscapes must be livable, not visitable" (p. 38)...
-theatre? tableau vivant.
-capitalism is in fact, not as natural as it may seem.
-seriously, what if a commodity could speak?
-I resent being considered a commodity.
-we all need a little bit of "Act UP."
-die-ins? genious.
-"through the media, not to the media."
-Ricardo Montez is one of god's most perfect creations.
-you have to actually experience jam-packed subway trains to understand the desire Keith Haring was alluding to.
-Nelson Sullivan was probably abducted by aliens.
-De Certeau is what I wanna be.
-racial desire is oftentimes sold.
-Dynasty Handbag thinks its cool if we call her Jibz Cameron.
-according to Jibz, "sometimes when people are telling you to be free all the time, it's very controlling."
-Barbara and her son love ponytail.
-Zizek is still an interesting fella, but that's probably all he'll ever be.
-so Lacan (Freud on high-grade cocaine mixed with hallucinogens) thinks that "love is that thing you can't have that you want to give to someone who doesn't want it" -go figure.
-people are still pretty cool with the idea of caging the indigenous as ethnographic specimens for heightened pleasure in their spectatorship.
-thanks to Dan, we all now know that "loving musical theater doesn't make you gay -it just makes you awful."
-you shame, and are shamed.
-lots of times, i can't read my own handwriting.
-what does it mean, to write about something you love?
-"in times of great danger I try to understand which words have no footfall and sorrow apprehends."
-one cane dare to allow for the failure of interpellation.
-"straight" moments in the p.s. may be few and far in between, but they do exist.
-if someone graduates without queer sensibility, i don't think it should count.
-assigning readings from Lacan is considered a form of punishment by most professors.
-best high yet? Shoshana on the seductiveness of Don Juan and J. L. Austin. mmm.

to be continued...

Take 25: going, going...

2010-05-29T16:52:00.003-05:00

... gone.

Take 24: Ways to say goodbye

2010-05-28T18:49:00.001-05:00

And now
I know.

This is how they'll look
when I won't be there, looking in.

برداشت 23: ماه تام و داستان ناتمام

2010-05-27T23:41:00.001-05:00

"شبي در خواب و بيداري
بر مهتابي ياس‌گون‌ام
ديدم دو بوته‌ي آويزان
كه در بر مي‌گرفتند رز عاشقي را
به چشم خويش ديدم
ارغواني گشت رز سفيد
افسوس كه
با نخستين بوسه‌ي عشق
گلبرگ‌هايش از آتش سوختند و
با درد ريختند.
كه گل نازك و شكننده‌اي بود..."

فدريکو گارسيا لورکا - دوشيزه رزيتا

ترجمه فانوس بهاروند - انتشارات مینا

Take 22: on the verge of anxiety

2010-05-25T22:50:00.070-05:00

And nwi, I will miss. I'll miss the radiance of the face that continues to glow despite its bearer's visible apprehension, growing by the hour as what promises to be her personal roller coaster approaches quick. Her heart -which is as big as love- I will miss.

And I'll miss the girl who I'm certain I'm best-friends with in some distant parallel universe, where life consists of drama, sunshine, beach balls and hockey; and the boy who reminds me so much of myself, his nonchalant ways speaking volumes of the turmoil he hides inside, an anxiousness I can't put a finger on...

And, nwi, I will miss.

Take 21: after forever

2010-05-24T23:32:00.002-05:00

On certain spring days, it's perfectly fine to play xmas jingles.
It's perfectly fine to dance to the beegees, overdose on pistachio ice cream, and hug, soberly.
Perfectly fine to doze off under the sprawling sun; and then hazily discuss "the past" and not the past.

On certain days, it's perfectly fine to let go.
It's perfectly fine to lean back, strip bare. to melt away, sweat in the heat.
Perfectly fine to twinkle your eyes, knowingly; and stand out of position, purposefully.

Today, it was perfectly fine to be good, and not just fine.

I'm good.
I'm... good.

Take 19: Vocational Insight, and Pieces of You.

2010-05-19T21:46:00.002-05:00

The little things do matter.
These are the people I want to be associated with. People who care.

"My dear, I have just rescheduled an ultrasound so that when I go to campus on Thur I can see you! I am sorry I just "lost it" this weekend. I have been sleeping only about 4 hours a night and with difficulty. A lesson for young women in this is do take care of your physical health when you are young. Don't let employers, school, institutions, etc., push you to the extreme limits of your physical capacities. Say NO to some things! And consume lots of calcium. Ok, I am rambling. That might be the pain killers. I have a meeting at 12:00 that should end about 2 or 2:30. Now that you are having to leave early, please know that you can stay at my condo in Chicago. I live alone and there is plenty of room (my daughter stays in the city and her room is free). Also, it's more fun here than Hammond!!! Call me. I am at 708-------. The paper is YOURS--don't ever forget that in this post-democratic society. Sometimes instiuttions will try to claim your academic work as their own, esp. if it's electronic material. So feel more than free to post on your blog. And I strongly encourage you to look for a journal that will publish it.Oh, I forgot to mention that you have an A in the class! I always forget that we finally have to post a grade. It always seems like an afterfact in a grad course where the work is so good. Hugs. C"

-----------------------
I never thought it possible, but I'll miss PUC. I'll miss the beautiful people. And you.

Take 18: two + one

2010-05-18T23:42:00.000-05:00

And after 20 years, it finally happened. I missed her birthday.

I love you. I miss you.

happy birthday juj.

Take 17: Pointless Practice

2010-05-17T21:52:00.006-05:00

I walked, because had I not, they would have thought it was because they weren't there.
They weren't there, and therefore I had no reason to walk.

In my twisted mind, the void-est of arguments can make sense.

Take 16: My Poetic Ancestry

2010-05-14T00:00:00.012-05:00

They say that passionate poets are the most honest historians of their times.

Maybe someday, I'll write poetry.
Maybe then, you'll know that it was all about you...

ps poster designed by badass graphic artist, Sahar Afshar.

Take 15: Stepping Back

2010-05-13T22:15:00.005-05:00

I lay broken
You, lay bent.
We gazed -hopelessly-
at the rearview mirror.

It spoke of the cursed path
we'd have to retrace in the future.

Take 14: Me and Max

2010-05-12T22:07:00.001-05:00

To be published...

In the meantime: Mary and Max.

Take 13: Got Book?

2010-05-11T23:56:00.004-05:00

"Did you sell your books?"

"I'm sorry,... were you talking to me?"

"Yeah, I said did you sell your books -your textbooks?"

I stared back at her. Blankly.

I haven't sold any of my books since I was in 6th grade. High school was coming and I figured I should move on, sell my "Babysitter's Club" collection... I never got over my regret for that one single impulsive decision: I sold a part of me.

I don't sell books.

***

I've never quite cared for "owning" a house. Or property... My home doesn't make me -I make it.
Ironically though, I've always wanted my own little private library... I haven't sold any of my books since I was in 6th grade -14 years and counting. Maybe someday, maybe a small one with asymmetrical shelves...

Take 12: Rotten With Perfection

2010-05-10T23:55:00.049-05:00

And then there are A's. There are those last A's in those last comm classes in those last semesters of your master's program...

BEING BODIES THAT LEARN LANGUAGE / THEREBY BECOMING WORDLINGS / HUMANS ARE THE / SYMBOL MAKING, SYMBOL-USING, SYMBOL-MISUSING ANIMAL / INVENTOR OF THE NEGATIVE / SEPARATED FROM OUR NATURAL CONDITION / BY INSTRUMENTS OF OUR OWN MAKING / GOADED BY THE SPIRIT OF HIERARCHY / ACQUIRING FOREKNOWLEDGE OF DEATH/ AND ROTTEN WITH PERFECTION -- Kenneth Burke.

Take 11: Drawing Closer

2010-05-09T09:05:00.011-05:00

Your feet tangle in red ribbons ablaze
I continue to draw with both hands my red lines
eyes glinting impishly.

I continue to draw with both hands
first with one, then with the other
the red lines for you to venture across
on your way to conquering
the rich warmth of my heart.

Take 10: My Favourite Monster

2010-05-08T01:16:00.006-05:00

If you listen closely, you'll hear Thom Yorke say "Cookie Monster."
If you listen more closely, you'll also hear him say "I'm not coming back."

Take 9: Vertical Horizons

2010-05-07T17:31:00.012-05:00

It'll never be late enough to stop waiting.

Take 8: mon coeur est presque nu

2010-05-06T23:57:00.004-05:00

And just like that, it came to an end. Someone's out of town, someone hasn't been responding to texts, I fell asleep, and so, rather unceremoniously, we each said goodbye to an undeclared tradition which I only now realize looking forward to has helped me salvage through the endless weeks of this cruel semester.

And years from now, I'll be thinking back on our little Thursday Night Equipe and posting blogs tagged as "nostalgia"... the ENGL 104 TAs, all our pseudo-serious discussions and arguments over food and drinks, revolving around whether or not "sex" actually exists, or whether it's merely another social construct born out of the distinctions made between heterosexual/homosexual acts; whether ideas can be formulated without language; whether there's any truth out there; whether the body should be dumped completely in feminist theory; how I initially cursed at the person whom I misconceived as an illiterate editor when I came across "bell hooks" in an article...

If nothing, it was a great practice of stepping out of your own bounds. Of comprehending that by trying to grasp the logic behind someone else's reasoning, you're not necessarily buying their account of reality, yet you can appreciate their understanding of the world for what it is. It's not an easy art to master, and I personally believe that educational institutions, in a manner which is strikingly similar to that of religious institutions, aim to teach us the exact opposite of this. Which is why so many professors are blacklisted even here, in a nation which boasts its allowance of free speech. Which is why I've been touched to the point that I, Ms. More-or-Less-Didn't-Attend-School-for-the-First-Three-Years-of-Her-Undergraduate-Study-Cause-I-Was-Too-Cool-for-School, have decided to continue in academia, to always have it as a part of my life, no matter how small. Not so I can "impart wisdom" (right?), but rather because I feel I learn so much just by being in a classroom full of different voices and experiences. I hear the real stuff - all that you can't find in a textbook.

I finally went ahead and cut my hair. I'd been so focused on trying to appear older than the students I was teaching that I was trying to control everything about my appearance: avoiding jeans (fail), no backpacks (fail), formal shirts (fail), wearing heels (fail), highlights (big-time fail), straight hair (almost gone)... To make a long story short, less eccentric, and more... well, credible. I realized that I'll probably never look intimidating to them (a few of my mentors actually made a point of telling me this) and, more importantly, that I didn't want to come across as domineering anyway. And now I'm rambling, because I really want to say something else, but can't bring myself to. Instead I'll pursue my endless wandering until I wear out the circular path from my heart to my head...

The English students would tell me to go for it; Crazy liberals, indeed!! But I know that I'd get more than a few (well-deserved) frowns from my Comm friends if I were to ever act upon this inconceivable impulse. So, while I sit here trying to resolve my inner conflicts in cyberspace, I'll keep listening to Francoise Hardy, remembering why it is I've always tried to speak my mind in such circumstances...

Et je serai poussière, pour toujours demain...

ps having read over this, I realize fully well just how narcissistic I come across... At least I'm open to criticism.

Take 7: On this day in 2009...

2010-05-05T17:42:00.009-05:00

I hadn't been that happy all year long.

Delightedly gliding my hungry eyes over the stark nakedness of my room, I called a friend to let him know I was ready. Ready to take flight; ready for nights full of warmth and laughter, music and dancing, friends and family, tears and passion, glances and stares; ready for nights which started late and ended too late; ready to sleep in my own bed again, surrounded by my red walls, books I've cherished as uncovered hidden treasures, overt yet subtle hints of friendships and acquaintances sliding in and out between the memorabilia covering every inch of the dark rick cherry-colored wood...
I was ready to go home.

I still remember the cropped pants and boots; the long argyle socks I'd made sure to pack somewhere easily accessible, to cover with the few inches of flesh peeking out from between the two; the blue shawl and gray shirt tucked away to be taken out before boarding for Tehran; the frilly smock that I planned to substitute for a manteau; the caramel macchiatos and blueberry muffins; the unbearable humidity which had brought with it the warmer weather I had longed for, yet been denied since the moment I stepped out of O'Hare on 9/3/08. It was May, the 5th, 2009, and I had a million pieces of luggage and not enough hands, my travel backpack that was dangerously close to dragging on the ground, and a return ticket to the arms of my dearests, to a city I love.

The flight to Istanbul was pure magic: A gorgeous and kind flight attendant who taught me to say "teşekkürler," switched my meal with a vegetarian one without complaining about my negligence in requesting one when making my reservation, and tried to make conversation despite his broken English during the 12-hour, nearly empty flight. I was so well-rested by the time I stepped out into Ataturk Airport that I merely smiled when I was told of the increase in my layover time. I found a small cafe, bought me some caffeine, and sat down to, well -um- homework. Pathetic, but I'd been in such a rush to get out of Northwest Indiana, and to make it in time to work at the Int'l Book Fair that I left well before the semester was over. Luckily, I realized that I hadn't packed my notes, couldn't write the paper, and started a random conversation with the stranger sitting next to me (a move I later paid back for with the single A- that ruined my 4.00 - yes, I'm a geek).

The book fair just started today in Tehran. Tehran, one of my two city, the one which I found myself crying rivers for, in anticipation of it's gripping embrace.The same city that I couldn't even walk around in when I was first forced to move there, despite my continuous bickering... An over-populated, highly-polluted metropolitan sprawl with no clear architectural planning in its design... An ugly city... home to 15 million people every day. The same city whose trees I'd fallen in love with once I lowered my guards and moved past my knee-jerk reaction of dislike for the non-pretty.

The plane's descent was accompanied by my inexplicable, dizzy tears, chocked back and silenced. I pulled my shawl up to my head, using its soft tassels to cushion my tears' suicidal falls... A billion shimmering lights twinkling in the valleys and mountains down below, the buildings seemingly stretching on infinitely... The faint smell of smog evading my soul once again...

I was home.

But, this year, there is no home. There are phone calls from home, talks with all the usual suspects. My dad who told me it's just this one year, and promised they'd come visit me instead. My mom who still insists I shouldn't worry about money, that they'll pay for everything, and that financial independence is overrated anyway.

My sister who spoke to me of her first day at this year's Book Fair, and of all my former coworkers: Davoud, the philosopher, who had added a beard to the mustache I absolutely loved on him, and will maybe one day decide to marry; Elham, my beautiful, dainty partner in crime with whom we sold the classics and the poetry; Javad and Sadra who'd been joined this year by their brother Reza; Mahya who was working alone in Saba's absence this year; and Momeni, aka Meimoon Derakhtiye khodemoon, who is still as annoying as, and this year more protective of her than ever.

I wonder if he'll be back. The boy who I sold Camus' "The Stranger" and Constant's "Confidence for Confidence" to, along with a copy of Homer's "Iliad and Odyssey" for his cousin. The one who came back the following night and bought a second copy of Homer's masterpiece, then held up a book for me to see, asking if I'd read it, and proceeded to leave it on the counter while walking into the crowd, telling me he'd bought it for me. I ran after him with my flip-flop-less feet, the same ones he'd commented on a few times... I asked him his name. Young and foolish, he promised me we'd meet again, that names meant nothing.

He said he'd be back this year. I wonder if he really will...

I won't be back. I'll be here, packing my things, anticipating another empty apartment, feigning permanent residence till the day I pull on my traveling backpack, denying the simple truth that I'll have to bid farewell to the people I've come to love out here...

There's nothing sweet about parting. There's just something very sorrowful to those sweet moments of reunion.

----
On this day in 2010, I finally changed the timestamps, so they'd reflect GMT -06:00 instead of GMT +03:30... I'm now living on the wrong side of the equation.

Take 6: Purposefully Intended Distraction

2010-05-04T14:53:00.003-05:00

Breathe in... a flash of freshly cut grass.
Breathe out... flip-flops kicked aside.

Breathe in... dewy green tickling in between my toes.
Breathe out... wet yoga pants for an hour.

Breathe in... let go of all your mental blocks.
Breathe out... focus on your intent.

Breathe in... so which are you?
Breathe out... who's blocking who?

Breathe in... what's your purpose for being here?
Breathe out... remember, purpose; not goal.

Breathe in... you're merely a distraction.
Breathe out... you're invading my world.

Breathe in... I entertain thoughts of clouds.
Breathe out... flying on dandelions made of cotton candy.

Breathe in... I block me on my way to you.
Breathe out... you stare and stare and stare.

Breathe in... flowers embrace the morning's song.
Breahte out... feathers catch on my breath.

Breathe in... you break past my walls.
Breathe out... the light shyly shines through.

Breathe in... the music fades out.
Breathe out... Namaste.

Take 5: Kizmet

2010-05-03T15:48:00.009-05:00

We finally got the coffee together.
We've talked a lot in the past, and I didn't quite see what role the coffee would play -why it was given one at all.

For some strange reason though, it made all the difference... she said words I'll always carry with me in my blue backpack. The one that's adorned with the MBKs my sister designed; the same one that has latched on to a conspicuous green ribbon I hope it will one day be able to let go it's grip on... one day soon...

I think for once I listened more than I spoke -never an easy task. I was relieved to hear the words I've only ever dared think flow from someone else. Someone who I have the utmost respect for... the same someone who told me some day very soon I'd have to choose a method of writing, and reassured me that I have what it takes to do so in a creative fashion. Close enough to graduation to not really care anymore, I disclosed to her how I had rarely read the texts I was assigned to throughout my studies... I shared with her how I would only read a few pages and then conjure up the rest in my head; and then I braced myself for criticism -which astonishingly never came. She said it's to be expected, she said I have my own world, one which parallels the real one, one in which I imagine things as they should be, not as they are...

She read me, she made sense of me in a way that I have never been able to make sense of anyone, and she left me with thoughts of me on my bicycle, dancing up and down a bridge, swimming around my head. She said I had to find a way to move back and forth between the creative end and the rational end; that the best of them can only settle somewhere in the middle and compromise between the two. She spoke of its difficulties, she spoke of the many times she'd ran out of breath and wanted to simply settle down at one extreme, but the most important part, she left unsaid. She needn't have uttered a word for me to understand what it was that made it all worth it... she herself embodied all that can be achieved by taking this tortuous route.

As I thanked her for the coffee, I felt her not passing on a torch, but allowing me to light mine in her presence. I 'm desperately tired; yet so ready.

***************************

- I miss writing. Schoolwork doesn't count.
- I miss writing about anything and everything, even senseless blabber that I need to empty from my mind. Even confuzzling abstract stories like Take 4 which revolve around a central character I probably wholly despise and consider worth nothing, especially not the time spent writing/reading about them.
- I miss my aimless wandering which allowed me to walk in the real world and think in my imaginary one - hopefully that will be remedied in a few weeks.
- I miss the pre-Facebook days, for its mere existence has led me to distrust those who beg for attention via cryptic messages (and more painfully, via blatant ones as well) and therefore I have inadvertently stopped using them. I nearly cried not being able to post the status I wanted to on Fb today, the only place you might read it, after... I need an output.
- I miss being younger and thinking the world revolved around me and my friends. It doesn't, evidently. So please, stop coinciding things. I'm too exhausted for mind games. Talk.
- I miss him, but that's over and I know it. I just have to remind myself to care enough to care enough about someone again.
- I miss having all the details to look back on. I wrote every little thing when I first started out at college, and have hilarious tales which light up my face with a mere review. I have written nothing about my experience as a graduate student. Thankfully, I'm being given a second chance to make-up for it.
- I miss being home. There's no way to get around that.
- I miss you.

برداشت چهارم - بهارِ ما گذشته

2010-02-15T00:44:00.002-06:00

...به یاد روزهایی که می نوشتم. از تهِ دل و با تموم وجود می نوشتم. بی پروا و ساکت می نوشتم

یادته؟

(خاطرات 22 شهریور 1385)

ـ خوب كجا بريم؟؛
ـ چرا از من مي‌پرسي؟ تو كارم داشتي! برو هر جا دوست داري… اصلن ببرم يه جا سوپرايزم كن!؛
ـ جدن؟! يعني حاضري بياي هر جا كه من ببرمت؟؛
ـ مي‌خواي كجا ببريم خُب؟؛
ـ نه ديگه، نشد! مي‌خوام بدونم هنوز به من انقدر اعتماد داري كه همين‌جوري بذاري ببرمت يه جايي يا نه؟؛
ـ ...؛
ـ ساره؟؛
ـ بريم!؛

نفهميدم چرا. خيلي وقته نه ديدمت، نه به فكرت بودم، نه كوچك‌ترين ارتباطي بوده بينمون. ولي ديشب اومدي سراغم. گفتي كارم داري. مهمه. زياد طول نكشيد تا بپذيرم. گذاشتم من‌و ببري. رسيديم ديدم كنارِ دريا نشستيم. همون دريايي كه روزي روزگاري قرار بود بريم كنارش بشينيم، ولي نشد؛ همه چيز خيلي زود خراب شد! شايد هم خيلي دير...؛

صبح كه بيدار شدم حس عجيبي داشتم، ولي نمي‌تونستم هيچي رو به ياد بيارم. تا اين‌كه نم نمك شروع شد...؛

ياد اولين باري افتادم كه متوجهت شده بودم. فقط يادمه كه خيلي نگاه مي‌كردي. همين‌طوري، بر و بر، خجالت‌م نمي‌كشيدي! مونده بودم تو ديگه چطور خونواده‌اي داري؛ آخه مگه بار اولت بود دختر مي‌ديدي كه اين‌جوري يه بند نگاه مي‌كردي به سمت ما؟ فكر كنم 2 ساعتي شد… البته قبول دارم كه ما هم بي‌تقصير نبوديم. با فضيلت بودم اون روز. هنوز اون زمان‌هايي بود كه خونواده‌هامون ترجيح مي‌دادن ما دو تا تكي و جدا از هم بريم بيرون. مي‌گفتن به هم كه مي‌افتيم بيش از حد شلوغيم و چشم مردم‌و مي‌گيريم. راست مي‌گفتن. اون روز هم سنگ تموم گذاشته بوديم. شروع يه دوره‌ي جديد بود و ما دو تا ذوق‌زده… ولي انصافن چقـــــــــدر نگاه مي‌كردي! عكس دارم هنوز از اون موقع‌ها… يادته؟ موهات بلند بود… خدا رو شكر كه كوتاهشون كردي. گر چه هنوز كه هنوزه، نه با تيپت حال مي‌كنم، نه با قيافه‌ت! ولي خُب طبيعيه! تو اين چند سال كمتر پسري بوده كه بتونم توي ذهنم به عنوان خوش تيپ و قيافه مجسمش كنم. انگشت‌شمار؛ اونم انگشت‌هاي يه دست! مي‌دونم داري چي فكر مي‌كني: مگه من كي‌ام، كه بخوام راجع به تيپ و قيافه نظر بدم؟ حق با تو اِ، مي‌دونم تو هم نسبت به من احساس مشابهي داشتي، ولي هر چي بود، اين يه دونه رو هيچ وقت تو روي هم نگفتيم...؛

گذشت. چند ماه بعد تازه همه چيز شروع شد. تو چيزي رو ديدي كه از همه پنهان مي‌كردم. يه شب كه خيال مي‌كردم تنهاي تنهام، آوردمش بيرون. نشوندمش كنارم. مال خودم بود و نمي‌خواستم با دنيا تقسيم‌ش كنم. يه مرتبه خودكارم رو گذاشتي جلوم. گفتي جا مونده، انقدر هم قشنگه كه ترسيدي اگه بيشتر از اين نگه‌ش داري، ديگه نتوني پسش بدي. نگاهت معني‌دار بود. همون شب از دستش دادم. چند ماه طول كشيد ولي… جرقه رو زدي و رفتي…؛

چقدر واسه‌ي هم خرت و پرت خريديم. يادته؟ عجيبه، هنوز همه‌شون دمِ دست‌ن و جلوي چشم. تنها كسي بودي كه تموم يادگار‌هاشو بعد از خداحافظي جمع نكردم. فكر كنم اولين بار تو شروع كردي. مسافرت بودم و سوغاتي خواستي. من‌م از خدا خواسته. هدف يكي ديگه بوده. يادت نيست، چون نمي‌دوني… ولي وقتي برگشتم ديدم اون‌م برام كادو خريده. چند ماه بعد چي كشيدم از دست اون، يادته؟ بهت گفتم، چون اون موقع ديگه خيلي چيز‌ها رو بي‌واهمه به هم مي‌گفتيم. كادوي خيلي قشنگي بود، دوست داشتني… يه روز جلوي خودت دادم‌ش رفت، به يه دختر ديگه. اولین و آخرین باری که چنین کاری کردم. ولي نه تو و نه هيچ‌كس نفهميد، كه جدايي از اون هديه به اندازه‌ي نگه‌داشتن‌ش برام سخت بود. راستي عجب خوش سليقه بودي ولي! نمي‌دونم، وقت مي‌ذاشتي يا نه. يادمه يه بار لب دريا كه بودم باهام تماس گرفتي. طبق انتظارم ازم سوغاتي خواستي. يادمه اومدم تهران خريدم. يادته حدس زدي؟ انكار كردم… ولي واقعيت اين بود كه هيچ به ياد ندارم روي چيزايي كه براي‌ت مي‌گرفتم وقت بذارم.؛

ازم راجع به نماز پرسيدي. گفتيم و شنيديم. همين يه كم پيش وايسادم پاش. سر تا پا سفيد پوشيدم. جانمازم رو باز كردم و تسبيح چوبي رو كه همين 2 ماه پيش، كه با فضيلت رفته بوديم مشهد خريدم، انداختم دور گردنم… مشهدو يادته؟ زنگ زدي بهم، دنبال تسبيح چوبي مي‌گشتم براي‌ت. درست مثلِ هميني كه الآن دور گردنمه. نمي‌فهميدم چرا ديگه بايد از مشهد برات سوغاتي بيارم. تو مي‌گفتي چه فرقي داره؟ رسم، رسمه! من‌م حوصله‌ي بحث نداشتم. آخرش هم پيدا نكردم. بازم مجبور شدم بيام تهران و… يادمه يه مرتبه دلم برات تنگ شد اون شب. اما تو كجا و من كجا؟ اون شب تازه فهميدم كه فقط در صورتي مي‌تونم براي‌ت دل‌تنگ بشم كه خودت رو پيش رو نداشته باشم. وقتي مي‌ديدمت، يادم مي‌اومد كي هستي و كي نيستي، همه‌اش مي‌پريد. اون شب فهميدم كه اوني كه مي‌شينم جلوش و احساس مي‌كنم دلم لحظه به لحظه بيشتر براي‌ش تنگ مي‌شه… بگذريم.؛

هميشه باهات راحت بودم. چون دوسِت نداشتم. لااقل به عنوان يه پسر دوستت نداشتم. مطمئن بودم تو هم در من يك دختر نمي‌بيني. ما براي هم همون دو نفري بوديم كه همه‌ي حرف‌هاي هم‌و قبول مي‌كرديم، بي چون و چرا. يادته اون شب؟ گفتي خسته‌اي. بي‌هدف. گفتي همه كاري كردي. حتي تونستي زمان رو متوقف كني. سعي كردم باز هم بهت سمت و سو بدم. يه چيز بهتر، بزرگ‌تر. نمي‌دونم چرا اون لحظه حواسم پرت شد. بايد ازت مي‌خواستم ياد بگيري زمان رو به عقب برگردوني. اون موقع كه تو هنوز خودت بودي و مي‌تونستي لحظه‌ها رو ساكن كني، من‌م هنوز خودم بودم و مي‌تونستم تو رو باور كنم. يادته؟ اون موقع باور كردن از نكردن راحت‌تر بود. اون موقع خودكار من واقعن گم مي‌شد و واقعن سر از جيب تو در مي‌اورد. اون موقع من هنوز هموني بودم كه تو فكر مي‌كردي… ولي يادمه، كه دقيقن كدوم روز من عوض شدم. شدم اوني كه تو فكر نمي‌كردي. هنوز راحت بوديم با هم. كارم داشتي. مثل همون روزها، بهت اعتماد كردم و بردي سوپرايزم كردي. گفتي. شنيدم. قبول كردم. بي چون و چرا. نپرسيدم پس كي‌ام؟ از اون مهم‌تر، تا حالا كي بوده‌ام؟ ولي حتي بعد از اون روز هم، تو هنوز هموني بودي كه من فكر مي‌كردم…؛

ديشب بهم چند تا عكس نشون دادي. عكس‌هاي يك زن. گفتي مطمئنن مي‌دونم كه اين زن، مادرته. گفتم كه نمي‌تونم مطمئن باشم، چون هنوز همه‌ي خواهرهات‌و نديده‌ام. فقط يكي. خنديدي و گفتي خواهري نداري، تنهايي. نگاه پرسش‌گرم‌و با يه نگاه قانع كردي و من باز هم قبول كردم، درست مثل همون وقتا. هميشه برام سوال بود، كه چطور هر چي وارد خونه‌تون مي‌شه، تو مي‌شي صاحب اختيارش. يادته؟ دوچرخه‌ت‌و مي‌گم، همون كه زنگ داشت… چقدر دلم به حال خواهرت سوخت، كه مطمئن بودم از حسادت نشسته‌ كنج خونه و فقط گه‌گاهي با شنيدن صداي زنگ از كوچه، نگاهش‌و به سمت پنجره مي‌دوزه و تو رو ساكت نفرين مي‌كنه كه عزيز كرده‌ي خونواده‌اي…؛

يادمه، خوب يادمه كه نظر من كي عوض شد. روزي كه تو در نظر من عوض شدي. هيچ از هم پنهان نمي‌كرديم. عاشق و دل‌دار نبوديم. من به تو در رسيدن به دختر‌هاي مورد علاقه‌ات كمك مي‌كردم، تو هم به كمك مي‌كردي من با اين موضوع كنار بيام كه پسر مورد علاقه‌ي من وجود نداره. اسم تك تك دخترها رو مي‌دانستم. با همه‌شون دوست بودم. يادمه گاهي اوقات دوست داشتم با دست‌هاي خودم خفه‌ت كنم. وقتي مي‌ديدم دختر چطوري تمام محاسني كه داري و نداري رو پشت سر هم براي‌م رديف مي‌كنه و هي مي‌ره آسمون و مياد زمين و فداي تو مي‌شه، مي‌خواستم خفه‌ات كنم. مي‌دونستم كه تو عاشق هيچ ‌كدومشون نيستي. مي‌دونستم كه الآن كه اين يكي دختر پيش منه، تو خودت پيش يه دختر ديگه‌اي. ولي همه‌ي اينا رو تحمل مي‌كردم. چون تو، تو بودي و من در كنار تو من. تا اون روزي كه باز بردي غافل‌گيرم كني. گفتي بيا، گفتم باشه. بردي، اما دستم‌و نگرفتي. هيچ‌وقت دست هم‌و نمي‌گرفتيم، يادته؟ اون موقع‌ها كه هنوز كوچيك بوديم، دستت‌و نمي‌گرفتم، چون هيچ‌وقت به چشم يك پسر بهت نگاه نمي‌كردم. وقتي هم كه بزرگ شديم، فهميدم كه هرطور بهت نگاه كنم، باز تو يه پسري. منطق تو رو هم هيچ‌وقت نپرسيدم؛ من دست تو رو نمي‌گرفتم، تو هم كاري به دست‌هاي من نداشتي. جز يه بار. كه نزديك بود خفه‌ات كنم. همون بار آخري كه بهت اعتماد كردم. چشم‌هام رو بستم و تو منو بردي… معشوقه‌ي جديدت. يادته؟ نشسته بودي جلوي من و هر چي بهت ياد داده بودم، سر دوست من پياده مي‌كردي. انگار مي‌خواستي من به خودم افتخار كنم. به خودم و تو و مهارتت و مهارتم و شكار جديدت. داشتم خفه‌ت مي‌كردم، يادته؟ ولي زور تو بيشتر بود! كاش لااقل با اون زورت تو من‌و خفه مي‌كردي. چون من، ديگه نه تنها براي تو، براي خودم هم من نبودم. خوشحال، متعجب، عصباني، ناراحت، پشيمون، آروم و ساكت… قرمز، زرد، بنفش، آبي، نارنجي، سفيد و سياه و سرمه‌اي! هي رنگ عوض كردي، آخرش شدي رنگين‌كمون، بارونِ بهاري كه باريد، تو هم يواش يواش ناپديد شدي. رفتي و رفتم.؛

چقدر ازت عكس دارم؟ اگه تو توي كادو خريدن سليقه به خرج مي‌دادي، به جاش من‌م تو عكس گرفتن خودم‌و نشون مي‌دادم. همه‌ي عكس‌هات قشنگ‌ن، جوري كه تو هيچ‌وقت نتونستي قشنگ باشي. ولي تو، موقع عكس گرفتن درست مي‌شدي من به دنبال كادوي مناسب. با عجله و بي‌حوصله، كليك، كليك، كليك… يادته؟ همين‌طوري عكس مي‌گرفتي. تا بالاخره به بهونه‌ي فلاش هم كه شده بهت بخندم. تازه مي‌فهميدم من كي‌ام. در ذهن تو و در خارج از ذهن تو. لبخند از لب‌هام پريد. ديگه نديدم‌ش، تا روزي كه تو عاقبت خودت رفتي كنار. خيلي آروم و بي سر و صدا. آخه تو جنتل‌من بودي. از اون نوع پسر‌ها كه دختر‌ها مي‌بردن به خونوادهاشون با افتخار معرفي مي‌كردن. جنتل‌من بودي و من ليدي، هيچ‌وقت حاضر نبودي مزاحم‌م بشي… رفتي و من باز جون گرفتم. از نو. جوني كه ديگه نه باوري توش مونده بود، نه سوپرايزي.؛

ديشب چي شد؟ سحر بود؟ نفهميدم! فقط ضربه رو احساس كردم، و بعد، بلافاصله، بوسه‌ي تو بر پيشونيم بود كه نذاشت درد رو احساس كنم. جا خوردم. فقط خاطره‌ي خشونت روز آخر دست‌هات توي ذهنم مونده بود. تفاوتش از زمين تا آسمون بود. از زرد تا آبي. آخرش هم نگفتي چه كارم داشتي. ماسه‌ها خشك شد. دريا ته كشيد. صبح از راه رسيد و يه مشت عكس و هديه و خاطره… راستي چي مي‌شد اگه الآن مي‌تونستي زمان رو به عقب برگردوني؟ كاش مي‌دونستم كه خواسته‌ي تو هم خلافِ اينه… نگران نباش. تو براي من همون‌طوري كه مي‌خواي موندي. من هنوز تو رو همون پسري مي‌بينم كه از زندگي قبلي روح من در اعماق اون رودخونه با خبره. يادته؟ خودت حدس زدي و من اين بار ديگه دست از انكار برداشتم. يادمه قول دادي تو زندگي بعدي‌م پيدام كني. مي‌دونم كه منتظر مي‌مونم. مي‌دونم كه دلم تنگ مي‌شه. نه مثل دل‌تنگي‌هاي يه دختر براي يك پسر. شايد چيزي شبيه دل‌تنگي‌هاي يك پسر براي يك دختر. خيلي هم از هم دور نبوديم و نيستيم. زندگي بعدي هم همين‌طور خواهد بود. شايد هم براي همين هيچ‌وقت سعي نكردي زمان رو به عقب بازگردوني. نگه داشتن بعضي از لحظه‌ها و ماندگار كردن همونا، براي اين زندگي كافي بود. باشه براي عمر‌هاي بعدي… ؛

...برداشت سوم - خیال در جوارِ آرام

2009-12-25T10:12:00.009-06:00

هیچ اندیشیده ای

(که اگر خاک زین پس مردگانش را به خود نپذیرد (فرخزاد، 1342

بر سر اقیانوس ها چه خواهد آمد؟

سانتا باربارا - روز کریسمس 88

:فرخزاد، ف. (1342). آیه های زمینی. برگرفته از آوای آزاد

http://www.avayeazad.com/foroogh_farokhzad/tavalodi_digar/23.htm

برداشت دوم - جریمه

2009-11-21T21:22:00.003-06:00

باید توی بلاگم بنویسم
باید توی بلاگم بنویسم
باید توی بلاگم بنویسم
باید توی بلاگم بنویسم
باید توی بلاگم بنویسم
باید توی بلاگم بنویسم
باید توی بلاگم بنویسم
باید توی بلاگم بنویسم
باید توی بلاگم بنویسم
باید توی بلاگم بنویسم
باید توی بلاگم بنویسم
باید توی بلاگم بنویسم
باید توی بلاگم بنویسم
...

Take 1

2009-01-01T14:20:00.003-06:00

My resolution for 2009:

"If I do not want what you want, please try not to tell me that my want is wrong.

Or if I believe other than you, at least pause before you correct my view.

Or if my emotion is less than yours, or more, given the same circumstances, try not to ask me to feel more strongly or weakly.

Or yet if I act, or fail to act, in the manner of your design for action, let me be.

I do not, for the moment at least, ask you to understand me. That will come only when you are willing to give up changing me into a copy of you.

I may be your spouse, your parent, your offspring, your friend, or your colleague. If you will allow me any of my own wants, or emotions, or beliefs, or actions, then you open yourself, so that some day these ways of mine might not seem so wrong, and might finally appear to you as right-for me. To put up with me is the first step to understanding me. Not that you embrace my ways as right for you, but that you are no longer irritated or disappointed with me for my seeming waywardness. And in understanding me you might come to prize my differences from you, and, far from seeking to change me, preserve and even nurture those differences."

Keirsey & Bates, Please Understand Me, 1984

The year has been dubbed as the year for change; Join me, if you will, in the celebration of ourselves -not by ourselves, but rather, as a whole.

Behind those grey and lonely eyes (aka where I stood)

2008-11-02T12:33:00.001-06:00

"Face down I just break down when I see you cry... all the time"

And I do cry, you know... all the time...
I just can't hold on anymore.

Enough with the crying. I'm not even trying to be poetic about this. All that once lived within me has broken free, fleeing from the shattered shards of glass lying around in my wasteland... I know no poetry, I know no sentiment, I know no love.

If you'd rather not accept this as an early birthday gift, take it as a farewell...

All's Fair in Love and Despair

2008-07-04T15:29:00.001-05:00

“A writer once said that it is not time that changes man, nor knowledge; the only thing that can change someone’s mind is love. What nonsense! The person who wrote that clearly knew only one side of the coin.

Love was undoubtedly one of the things capable of changing a person’s whole life, from one moment to the next. But there was the other side of the coin, the second thing that could make a human being take a totally different course from the one he or she had planned; and that was despair. Yes, perhaps love really could transform someone, but despair did the job more quickly.”

I just started a new Coelho novel tonight, entitled Eleven Minutes, while I waddled away in my loneliness, and wondered as to why I let you leave me alone to beg for attention once again. As the hours passed, first my frustration grew; eventually it led to anger; and finally, it docked at despair. Despair. I started to think of the things I could never expect from you. Of my constant longing for affection. Of everything you one day were, and now, either willingly or forcefully, have stopped to be. Most importantly, I started to think about what your eyes used to assure me of: respect. Respect I have been deprived of for some time now, only sometimes unknowingly.

By the time you called, every line on my face was etched with despair. I said I was apologizing “in hopes of” – yet another one of life’s daily paradoxes. I was hopeless. Your call angered me. Your calm tone in response to my tears. Your pretending like everything will be alright. Your favorite new line: we’ll talk tomorrow. Tomorrow never seems to come these days.

Yet after hanging up… I started to wonder about love. About love and the conversation and your alibi and the loss of a loved one. Despair had driven me to say hateful things. Despair had driven you to call me selfish on a day I had told you I required your full attention. And then… How many times have I wept having one of my parents go away on a flight, not having made amends, worried stiff, thinking the unthinkable, that hollow what if…? What if I never got to speak to them again? And it got me thinking, how sure could I be that you would go to sleep tonight and wake up tomorrow morning? How sure could I be that something terrible won’t happen to you in the blink of an eye, and I won’t ever be able to take back what I said?

That’s why I texted you that message… the one you still haven’t replied to. Love took over once again. I realized that no matter how much my pride would hurt from taking the first step and throwing myself off my wall of stubbornness; it couldn’t compare with the hurt my heart would feel if I were to have to hold those last words in for the rest of my life.

Thinking over my words, people reading this might think I’m finally close to attaining my goal of living in the moment; I’ve only achieved the easier half. In the first part of this whole obscene mess, I focused on the past: I let despair take control. In the last, the future ruled mightily, along with my heart.

I’d love to say that if one of us were to regret what we did tonight, I hope it wouldn’t have to be you regretting never having replied. But the truth of the matter is…

Self-Destruction

2008-03-03T19:29:00.002-06:00

It's something you can see in any futuristic movie these days: a self-destructing message of some sort. The message being delivered, a sexy, mysterious female voice delivers the final note, which usually goes something in the lines of, "This message will self-destruct in x seconds". Then comes the usual frantic motions, vain efforts to put some sort of distance between the recipient and the message in the allotted time-frame.

It got me thinking... What if I were to tell people that? What If I were to tell them something in the lines of, "This person will self-destruct in x seconds"; or minutes, or hours, or days even, whichever you prefer. I wonder if I'd see the same sort of anxious reaction. I wonder if everyone would make a run for it, increasing their distance as the seconds go by…

Actually, no. What I'm really wondering is whether anyone would care enough to stay.

آب سرد

2008-03-02T18:01:00.003-06:00

...نمي‌دونم بايد با خودم چي كار كنم

آمد خزان

2007-10-26T17:49:00.000-05:00

اي باغبان، اي باغبان، آمد خزان، آمد خزان
بر شاخ و برگ از درد دل بنگر نشان، بنگر نشان

اي باغبان، هين، گوش كن، ناله‌ي درختان نوش كن
نوحه كنان از هر طرف صد بي‌زبان، صد بي‌زبان

هرگز نباشد بي‌سبب گريان دو چشم و خشك‌لب
نبود كسي بي درد دل، رخ زعفران، رخ زعفران

حاصل، درآمد زاغ غم در باغ و مي‌كوبد قدم
پرسان به افسوس و ستم، كو گلستان؟ كو گلستان؟

كو سوسن و كو نسترن؟ كو سرو و لاله و ياسمن؟
كو سبزپوشان چمن؟ كو ارغوان؟ كو ارغوان؟

كو ميوه‌ها را دايگان؟ كو شهد و شكر رايگان؟
خشك است از شير روان، هر شيردان، هر شيردان

كو بلبل شيرين فنم؟ كو فاخته‌ي كوكو زنم؟
طاووس خوب چون صنم، كو طوطيان؟ كو طوطيان؟

خورده چو آدم دانه‌اي، افتاد كاشانه‌اي
پرّيده تاج و حلّه‌شان زين اِفتنان، زين اِفتنان

گلشن چو آدم مستضر، هم نوحه‌گر، هم منتظر
چون گفتشان: ‍"لا تَقْنَطوا" ذوالاِمتِنان، ذوالاِمتِنان

جمله درختان صف‌زده، جامه‌سيه، ماتم‌زده
بي‌برگ و زار و نوحه‌گر، زان امتحان، زان امتحان

اي لكلك و سالارِ ده، آخر جوابي باز ده
در قعر رفتي، يا شدي بر آسمان، بر آسمان

گفتند: "اي زاغ عدو، آن آب باز آيد به جو
عالم شود پر رنگ و بو، همچون جنان، همچون جنان"؛

مسافر

2007-10-13T15:13:00.000-05:00

پلك چشمم مي‌پره... خوب مي‌دونم كي تو راهه!؛

Save the Best for Last

2007-09-23T14:33:00.000-05:00

And then there was one... or better yet, then there was no one!

1st day of school. We had our own little ritual. Walk through 16th of Azar (my Bday!) Street over to Enghelab Street, walk along the southern grounds of campus, and start things by walking through the main gates: The University of Tehran, whose infamous gates are portrayed on every 50 tomans bill across the country - now replaced by the 50 tomans coin, which depicts a pheonix.

First year, 3 of us made the trip. Eventually we became 2, and this year, my last year, I was alone. It felt sad, and I was even tempted to take a shorter route, but there was a deep feeling of deception, one I can't quite put my finger on, in not keeping with it. So I did. I played Fort Minors' "Where'd U Go" as I made my way over to the gates, walked up past "Kajestan" (roughly meaning field of pine trees and the most beautiful and cozy space on the central campus), the Faculty of Law and Political Sciences, and headed up towards my own faculty, Engineering, or as we locals simply call it, Fanni. This time around, there was no grin on my face, and I would've punched someone down had they nudged a friend signaling an approaching freshman. This time around I was alone, and in a hurry to make it to class. I didn't even bother looking around as I made my way up to my department to figure out which classroom was waiting for me; I actually kept my headphones on, playing my iPod at its highest volume, in hopes not to even hear anyone in case they called out or whatever - not that it was highly anticipated. Everything just felt... normal. As though I hadn't been away for a whole summer, as though I hadnt missed anyone, the tiles, the stairs, the announces' boards, the high cieling, the columns stretching across the huge "lobby" of the building, those same ones i'd used to conducte innumerous games of hide and seek from, avoiding people. The three tiny steps at each end of the lobby, leading to the best lockers in the building - one of which I owned the only other key to for the past 3 yrs - the steps I'd sat on for countless hours, with or without people, just to blow off steam, kill time, read, or people watch as I passed all those endless hours I'd wasted off in my first four years as a student in Fanni... Even saying these things now, I'm no longer tempted to go and take a look, see who's enjoying all my precedent passtimes, sometimes oin a desperate attempt to just have time pass them by...
The volleyball net behind Fanni's been taken down, completely... We used to play, Faz and I, even at times like these, even when it was Ramadan and we were fasting (her actually, I only started last year) we'd play and play and play, till we'd hear the azan and, the long wait being over, could go get something to eat...

It was a pretty boring day to be a 1st day of school sort of thing... The weather was hot, no one could eat, having it be Ramadan and such, and all I could think to myself was what the hell are they gonna do to make it memorable? Maybe it's just me, maybe I'm too old... Or maybe I'm just too alone. Nothing feels the same. Maybe in time though, I can find some comfort in everything new. But I'm not holding my breath or anything. As a wise man used to say: "We'll see".

It annoys me. In highschool, every single so-called 1st day of school, my dad dropped me off himself... every single one, except the last. He was away for 3 weeks. It was lame and pathetic, I know, but it brought more than just a few tears seeing the ritual broken; it made me cry. This year, maybe because I've become more rough around the edges, there weren't any tears or even dewy moments. There was just this awful bitter feeling, one that kept nagging, one that kept asking: Why this time around? Why this very last time around?

The Last Day of Summer

2007-09-22T15:08:00.000-05:00

Maybe the last day of my last summer...

بدون شرح

2007-09-16T01:25:00.001-05:00

ديروز بعد از مدت‌ها گذارم افتاد به اميرآقا. واسه كاري كه طبق معمول انجام هم نشد. اطلاعيه‌هاي ناقص دانشكده هيچ چيز جديدي نبود. كتاب‌خونه‌ي معدن كه به عبارتي تا الاغش پر بود! و كتاب‌خونه‌ي متال رو هم كه داشتن با وقاحت هر چه تمام‌تر به يه رنگ زرد كريه آغشته مي‌كردن، تعطيل بود. ولي ذهنم تموم مدت جاي ديگه بود. اين كه آخرين باري كه اومده بودم امير‌آباد جشن فارغ‌التحصيلي آذين اينا بود. هيچ وقت حس نبودن يك آدم رو به اين شدت تجربه نكرده بودم. مسئله اين نيست كه ايميل و تلفن و اس.ام.اس. و چت و هزار و يك راه ارتباطي بينمون هست و زبونامون لال طرف كه نمرده. مسئله اين جاست كه آذين ديگه نه جزئي از دانشكده‌ي برق كامپيوتره، نه جزئي از دانشكده فني، نه جزئي از دانشگاه تهران، و نه حتي جزئي از خود تهران! آذين ديگه از ايران رفته، مشغول چيدن زندگي‌اش تو يه كشور غريبه شده. كشوري كه براي من يكي خيلي هم غريب نيست. 8 سال كم وقتي نيست. مسئله كشور نيست. مسئله تموم اون مجموعه‌هايي كه به ناچار بايد يواش يواش تركشون كني، و فقط نسبت به‌شون تعلق خاطر داشته باشي؛ تموم مجموعه‌هايي جديدي كه اجباراً بايد جايگزين قبليا بكني. مجموعه‌ي دوستان، هم‌كلاسي‌ها، اساتيد، هم محل‌ها، هم‌شهري‌ها و ...ۀ

مسئله به سادگي يه تماس تلفني حل نمي‌شه. دور خونه مي‌گردي و كارت تلفن پيدا نمي‌كني. پيدا هم بكني از شانست وقتي دنبال كاناداييش باشي اروپايي از آب در مياد و بالعكس. اگر اروپا باشه بايد ميل تماس‌هاي صبحانه رو واسه يه جو روحيه قبل از رفتن سر كار و زندگيت تو خودت بكشي، مبادا طرفت رو بيدار كني و امروز ويكندِ و فرداش هاليديِ و مبادا از خواب بيدارش كني. اگرم مقصد آمريكا و كانادا باشه كه ديگه افتضاح! هي بشين و 8 ساعت بالا پايين كن. الان خوابه. الان كلاسه. الان شبه بيرونه. الان ظهره ناهاره. نه به خدا، فاصله خيلي فراتر از يه تماس تلفنيه.ۀ

ناراحت نيستم از اين كه آذين رفت. از اين كه فضيلت نيست. از اين كه فلاني و بهماني هم نيستند يا همين روزا ديگه نخواهند بود. خودم هم تصميم به موندن ندارم. از همين تصميمم ناراحتم. از اون چه كه مجبورم مي‌كنه اين تصميم رو بگيرم ناراحتم. از مملكت و مردمانش ناراحتم. نه مشكلم اونايي كه ميان ديش ماهواره جمع مي‌كنن و تو خيابون به سرتاپات گير ميدن و پشت فرمون بي‌خودي جلوتو مي‌گيرن واسه اين هزار تومن بذاري كف دستشون تا رد شي بري، نيستن. ديشامونو جمع كردن، جاش داريم كتاب مي‌خونيم. تو خيابون بهم گير دادن، ديگه اون‌ورا نرفتم. پشت فرمون خواستن درجه حرارت بخاريمو زياد كنم تا دستاشون يخ نزنه، جريمَمو گرفتم و گذاشتم انگشتاشون يكي يكي بيفتن. مسئله اينا نيستن. مسئله اونايين كه از برنامه‌هاي ماهواره اي فقط كانالاي موزيك و مد رو كشف كردن. اونايي كه تو خيابون با تيكه‌هاشون باعث مي‌شن تو به چشم اونايي بياي كه مسئول گير دادنَن . مسئله‌ي من به اصطلاح "امثال من" هستن. خودمونيم. بد نسلي از آب در اومديم؛ نه حتي تو زرد، بلكه تو خالي.ۀ

ناراحتيه من اينه كه بايد موقع نوشتن هم‌چين پستي همين طور بي وقفه اشك بريزم. مسئله‌ي من اتاق جديدمه كه هر چيز جديدي براش مي‌گيرم دلم تير مي‌كشه، چون مي‌دونم نبايد دل ببندم يا حتي به خودم اجازه بدم با اين اتاق انس بگيرم. مسئله‌ي من اينه كه مجبور شدم زندگي‌م رو روي حالت "پاز" بذارم و فقط بشينم به اين اميد كه يه روز يه جايي دوباره بتونم زندگي‌م رو به حركت در بيارم. مسئله‌ي من اينه كه وقتي مامانم اينا ميگن آخه تو دخترموني، يعني واقعاً مي‌خواي بذاري و بري، مي‌خواي بري چيزي بخوني كه هيچ‌وقت نتوني برگردي ايران كنار اين مردم كار كني و زندگي كني؟ مجبورم جلوي گريه‌م رو بگيرم و بگم آره، راه ديگه‌اي نمي‌بينم. چرا كه رضايت از زندگي‌م رو حق خودم مي‌بينم. حقي كه توي ايران امكان رسيدن بهش براي هم چون مني تعريف نمي‌شه. مجبورم با گريه‌هام به خلوت اتاقم پناه ببرم و بي‌وقفه از خدا بخوام كه يه جايي رو توي مسير زندگي‌م پيش‌بيني كنه كه دوباره بتونم به خونواده‌ي كوچيكي كه آغوشش از آغوش همه‌ي دنيا گرم‌تر و بزرگ‌تره برگردم. گريه ديگه امونم نمي‌ده و بهم اجازه‌ي ادامه رو نمي‌ده. بهتر.ۀ

چيز زيادي نمي‌خوام. فقط دوست داشتم مي‌تونستم هر شب سر افطار به فضيلت زنگ بزنم و ازش التماس دعا كنم. دوست داشتم هر از گاهي بتونم كرم بريزم و نصفه شب آذين رو بيدار كنم كه نماز صبحش رو بخونه... فحش بشنوم و بد و بيراه. همين.ۀ

The Next Train

2007-09-14T02:05:00.000-05:00

I'm so psyched to see this page back up again, I can't hold back to post everything else I've written during this time! Hopefully I can fill in the gaps as time goes by...

I was reading an essay last night, on college life. I came across something pertinent to what's been casting a shadow over my thoughts for the past week:

-Whether the changes are all on a larger or a smaller scale, whether they are permanent and slow to evolve or temporary and quickly assumed, they are evidence of a fundamental characteristic of human nature. No individual is a single personality; his several selves develop and shift and mingle as he moves through experience, and each part contributes to the making of a whole.-

Needless to say, what I've developed into over these four years doesn't impress me much; and no, I don't feel as though I'm being to harsh on myself. I've only always expected myself to do my best, even though in reality I've laid off my work pretty easily and without much conscious thought, and sadly, continue to do so. In truth, none of that hurts as much as the reason I see to all that. Even up to a week ago, I was simply content to think I gave it up for a cause I thought worthy. For friends who cherished me the way I did them; thought of me as I did of them. To have all that taken away has left me empty-handed, and I can't seem to find enough courage inside to get a train ticket to a new destination. As I always used to say, there's a light at the end of every tunnel... hopefully it's not a train!
This time though, hope seems too little to go on. This time I need certainty to push me forward into a new path.

Truly, ignorance is bliss.

صداقت : روايتي از منِ 16 ساله

2007-09-06T09:54:00.000-05:00

:چيز‌هايي كه من را من مي‌كنند
جدي - بدجنسي - بي‌خيال - علاقه‌مند به موسيقي - ساعي - ورزش دوست - پر روي به جا(!) - رك - مؤدب - باهوش - دورو - اهل شوخي - خون‌گرم - زورگو - خوش‌قلب - زرنگ - بعضي اوقات بي‌ادب - بهداشتي - خيانت‌كار - اسكيت‌باز - خوش اخلاق - مهربان - شلوغ - بي‌علاقه نسبت به خانه‌داري - پرحرف - درس‌خوان - كم غذا - عاشق ماكاروني - باحال - منظم - علاقه‌مند به سينما - بامزه - بامعرفت - دروغ‌گو - عاشق طبيعت - اعتماد به نفس دار(!)ۀ

دوم دبيرستان درسي داشتيم به اسم مهارت‌هاي زندگي. اين هفته بالاخره وقت كردم (بعد 6 ماه) همه چيز رو توي اتاق جديدم جا كنم. يه پوشه پيدا كردم اون لاماها كه مربوط مي‌شد به تمريناي اين درس، كه ناگفته نمونه، از اون جايي كه اصولاً همه‌ي كلاسايي كه بهم اجازه‌ي ابراز وجود مي‌دادن رو مي‌پسنديدم، درس(!) موردعلاقه‌‌م بود اون سال. (البته اين هم ناگفته نمونه كه نه اين كه فكر كنين بي‌نظمَم و از ديدن اين جزوه و پي بردن به اين‌كه هنوز وجود خارجي داره و تو آتيشاي چهارشنبه سوري در راه شادي جمع فنا نشده تعجب كردما،نه... بلكه! از اون جايي كه هنوز كتاب دفتراي دوران دبستانم رو هم كه از اونور آب كشوندم آوردم اينجا دارم، يه جورايي برخورد كردن باهاش برام خالي از هيجان نبود)ۀ

نه قرار بود اولويت‌بندي باشه نه هيچي. اين ويژگي‌ها رو هم پخش و پلا تو يه كاغذ كلاسور نوشته بودم و تحويل داده بودم.خوشم مياد اون موقع‌ها كمتر خودم رو سانسور مي‌كردم. چه تو جنبه‌هاي مثبت قضيه، چه اون جايي كه رذالت ذاتي‌م رو فاش مي‌كردم. نمي‌دونم خاصيت دوران نوجواني بود، يا از اثرات اون ور آب بزرگ شدن كه هنوز خيلي جاها سر بيرون مي‌كردن و خود خوشكل‌شون رو در معرض ديد همگان قرار مي‌دادن و بيشتر مواقع هم موجب شرم و خجلت بنده مي‌شدن (توجه‌تون رو به عبارت اعتماد به نفس دار جلب مي‌كنم) ولي هر چي كه بود... دلم لك زده واسه يه خورده سادگي. سادگي‌اي كه فقط اين جا و توي ايران اين طوري تعريف مي‌شه. سادگي‌اي كه ترجيح مي‌دم اسمش رو بذارم صداقت.ۀ

قاصدك

2007-09-03T12:46:00.000-05:00

قاصدك يكه و تنها كنار جاده مشغول تماشاي آمد و شدِ تك و توك نفراتي بود كه اون مسير رو براي رسيدن به مقصدشون انتخاب كرده بودن. مقصدي كه با وجود انتخاب اون جاده‌ي دل‌نشين، وسط اين شهري كه بويي از زيبايي نبرده، باز هم انقدر مهم به نظر ميومد كه به عابرها اجازه‌ي اين رو نمي‌داد كه متوجه‌ جزئياتش شن. اما من، شايد به واسطه‌ي اين كه مقصدم خانه‌ي خالي بود و هيچ عجله‌اي براي رسيدن نداشتم؛ شايد هم به اين دليل كه از همه‌ي دوستام دور افتاده بودم و با يه كوله‌بار پيغام كوتاه و بلند تنها مونده بودم؛ و از اون مهم‌تر، كوهي از تنهايي كه بهم اجازه‌ي هم‌دردي با موقعيت قاصدك رو بين اون همه گياه و بته‌اي كه هيچ شباهتي به خودش نداشتن، مي‌داد. هر چي كه بود... قاصدك رو ديدم. با اين وجود تمايلي به چيدنش نداشتم. خم شدم بالاي سرش و ازش كمك خواستم، فوت كردم، به همون تعدادي كه لازم‌َم بود پيغام راهي كردم و به راهم ادامه دادم... شايد روزي يكي ديگه، دلتنگ‌تر از خودم گذارِش به اون‌ورا بيفته... شايد اون روز، اون شخص، خود من باشم.ة

قاب عكس

2007-09-01T15:02:00.000-05:00

يه نگاه كوتاه، بي جواب

در انتظاري بي ثمر، رويايي كوتاه، اندكي خواب

...اينك تو رفته‌اي و من موندم، بگي نگي (سام‌وار!) بي‌تاب

خيلي‌ها رو اين روزها كم ميارم. لحظات بي معني و تعريف نشده، گاهي تلخ، اما اغلب آميخته با حسرتي گنگ؛ حسرت ساعت‌هايي كه پر شد از بهانه‌هاي رنگارنگ، دقايقي سرشار از توجيه، و ثانيه‌هايي كه ناچيز فرض شدند، تا كه بار تنهايي رو بي دردسر با خود حمل كنند.ـ

...آذين، تو هم مي‌دوني كه خونواده‌ي من بدون تو ناقص مي‌مونه. به اميد روزي كه اولين عكسمون رو قاب كنيم

قياس

2007-08-30T18:07:00.000-05:00

“هر آدمي هر جا كه به نفعش باشه تو رو با بقيه مقايسه مي‌كنه...‏”

آذين (ره)‏

Something Old & Something New

2007-08-29T20:20:00.000-05:00

I thought it'd be different this time around, but in the end it never is. I've stopped my consistent writing for almost a year now. I kept changing notepads, the results were never quite what I was hoping for. And now, weblogs... still no spark. I walked home all the way from work yesterday, taking a path all too familiar (Oh no! Intersection up ahead.) in hopes of some inspiration, some fond memories. I took a longer path home, through our old block, taking in the changes and choking on innumerous emotions, each experienced in countless different ways, over the six years or so I'd spent living there. So surely, you'd think I could come up with something better than THIS... A close friend left last night. Another vaguely asked not to be called again, unless it was urgent. I have to attend a goodbye party tomorrow, a day I knew would come, but never even began to imagine it really happening. Too much is changing, too fast; and yet it's not enough. I feel as though I'm bored, the whole process is being prolonged despite my desire. Nothing, nothing seems good enough, not anymore.

عشقه

2007-08-24T12:56:00.001-05:00

عشق را از عَشَقه گرفته‌اند و آن گياهيست كه در باغ پديد آيد در بن درخت، اول بيخ در زمين سخت كند، پس سربرآرد و خود را در درخت مي‌پيچد و هم‌چنان مي‌رود تا جمله درخت را فرا گيرد و چنانش در شكنجه كند كه نم در ميان درخت نماند و هر غذا كه به واسطه‌ي آب و هوا به درخت مي‌رسد به تاراج مي‌برد تا آن‌گاه كه درخت خشك شود...‏
و چون اين شجره‌ي طيبه باليدن آغاز كند و نزديك كمال رسد، عشق از گوشه‌اي سر برآرد و خود را درو پيچد تا بجايي رسد كه هيچ نم بشريت در او نگذارد... و شايسته‌ي آن شود كه در باغ الهي جاي گيرد...‏

شيخ شهاب الدين سهروردي
رسالة في حقيقة العشق