Friday, July 13, 2007
Mohsen came with much more white hairs. Now is his turn to get age and be forgotten in the local highway; as it happened to his fathers, brothers and sisters from 120 years ago, the time that we stepped into a local highway toward freedom.
Coffee and cigarettes is not only the name of a movie but also it is how people communicate in local highway. We were in the same cafe with the same owner, same people and the same bullshits but more awful for both of us. We were in a bubble; a bubble full of intellectual anxieties about Eco and Walter Benyamin, show-off about sexual freedom and drugs by human-shaped books like MP3 sounds out of computer speakers covered by a layer of smoke.
We rolled up to explode the bubble and enter again in our local highway. He is obviously happier in his car and I am more comfortable when he is happy. Once he told me he is spending most of his time in his car because it is the only place that he can be on his own as he wants.
500% increment in the price of petrol made local highways 500% less crowded and we were both happy for that. He was arguing that now you can see real archetypes in the local highways, the car-human pairs that must be in the local highways to define their identities.
And I like his argument. When I was looking around with his warm voice, I could have managed to see properly from the other side of the sunset to the stars bridge and I understood no one knows who is asleep and who is awake. Someone wants the sun to laugh and someone else wishes the rain. Someone closes the window and someone else again knocks the door.
I realized that all of us in the local highways have thousands of stories to tell, about our debts and needs, about our happiness and cries regardless if we are poor or rich, Persian or European and I think our portion in this juncture, more or less, is a basket full of smile for a momentary sadness or vice versa.
Mohsen and I on that time-space coordinate were traveling together in a local highway thinking how we can convert the cars into drops of rain although both of us believed that the global highway is going to end in a desert near no mans land.
It was our last meeting. She was going to another local highway and I in another one the day after. We were in her sister's house. She was not home but her 5 years old son, Bahador, was sleeping in the smallest room. It was midnight and I had a flower fully naked in front of mine.
We slept together and made love very slowly. It took long long time in silence. Before going to bathroom she said thank you and I said the same. We had nothing else to say. She slept immidiately and I started another night crawling. I couldn't have gone out because I didn't have the key so I went to the smallest room to take a look to Bahador's dream.
I think Bahador was dreaming a flower with three different faces. The first one was a 24 years old girl with a nice body and smile, a girl that you really feel responsibility to take care of her. But the first face was so sleepy and as far as it slept, a silly 8 years old boy woke up and made Bahador mad. He really wanted to punch his face but he didn't because he was really afraid of his shouting so he just ate his anger and the boy's crap. But at some point he started vomiting. Third face came after vomiting; when Bahador saw a miserable girl in his age crying so so painful but in her silence. The girl couldn't find any one to play with. Once she found another Bahodor and she forced herself to love him. But another Bahodor didn't want to play. That's why after that she lost her confidence. She became like a black cat attacking every Bahadors who want to play with her, a flower who had a great talent to find drawbacks in butterflies and saying NO.
I was sure that Bahador felt sorry for her but he had to leave her to play with me in his dream. We went together to a park. He was running so freely just like a bird. All of a sudden he stopped and looked to the floor. Then he turned back and gazed at me with a couple of eyes full of questions.
- Ali, are dogs getting married?
I didn't know how to answer. He understood. He changed the topic and started running again.
- Uncle Ali, I am going to my headquarter. Are you coming with me?
- No, I have to go back to your aunt. If she wakes up and can't find me she is gonna be sad and worried.
He looked at me again and to the floor as well. I turned back and left the park to enter the local highway ending to his aunt. He run like a bullet toward his headquarter, the place that no one can enter except him. He knew that so he pretended that he believed my justification.
When I entered the room she woke up. I looked at her naked body and felt effectively satisfied thinking that I was inside it twice that night.
- Ali, could you hear that?
- Someone is crying so far in space and time.
- It was just the wind
I kissed her and she just needed that to sleep again. I followed her nice neck to reach to the window and see how trees were dancing in Tehran's summer breeze.
I took an airbus for 6 hours in an aerial highway and I ended into 20 Centigrade less tempreture. Yannis was alone in the office.
We went to OVT to have a pint. It seemed that it was years between our pints. I really missed his company.
It is raining now and I am in another local highway, with black boots and a leather jacket.
After a long procedure, I've decided to finish posting in this blog with a poem which will not be posted here but in another blog. I think I've gathered enough principles to be a system freak.
That's how system freaks finish a local highway, when there is no reason for not starting a new local highway.
This is the last post of this blog.
Wednesday, June 27, 2007
It was a clear image but I didn’t have my camera to capture its history.
I woke up around 4 PM…I had my shoes on… After that I was in between of libido and logic for a while and of course libido took over. The window was open and I could have smelled the rain…Now, it is Tehran’s turn….
My mom was in front of TV as well as my father. She is reading less than before. But my father is the same; he has plan up to the age of 95.
Tiger Lilies and “Reading Lolita in Tehran”…That was the plan that I finished in the afternoon.
The price of petrol increased 500% in the news.
I could have imagined long queue in local highways. We were in one toward a tunnel. We stopped behind a traffic light. Red with a counter: 23, 22, 21, 20, 19, …
The highway went into darkness because of electric cut off. In the car beside, two girls were kissing passionately.
Green and the first gear: we went toward the tunnel full of cars with people inside.
I was thinking how many stories can be written just in this tunnel, a tunnel toward future.
I am sure these cars will move soon although the price of petrol is 5 times more than before in this tunnel linking 2 local highways.
“If you want, you can pay first. I have many books”. I said to the girl behind me in the queue. She didn’t say a word. Her shy blue eyes was locked on the title of her book: “Ansichten eines clowns”
Nima came with a book in his hand. He read the first sentence of the book with a massive smile:
“Democracy is against all religions, particularly Islam”. All of us started smiling in the queue.
I think these smiles are so promising.
Mr. Abbassi is an engineer who is working in this book shop, a simple man, thinner than me with a moustache. He brought another book:
“It has been translated recently. It is amazing”
Butterfly and Tank: the fifth column and four stories of the Spanish civil war.
Our eyes converged to each other on the title, like two parallel lines meeting in infinity.
Both of us bought the book and went toward our mutual destiny in different local highways.
I’ve always liked to write a story ending with heart attack, a scenario that Amir had played up to the end.
I can remember the last lines that he wrote in a local highway:
“I’ve gradually came to this point that western intellectuals owe a great respect to third world intellectuals, because of the great pain that they are receiving for being intellectuals.”
Reza, the book terrorist, stole my new book. We went to his house after visiting my uncle who had an open heart surgery a couple of days ago.
In the beginning of the book I wrote:
“I am so crazy that I have still hope to this stupid friendship, which is full of rubbery and abuse. I was crazy, I am crazy and I will be crazy.
I hope at least you allow me to read the lines that I’ve paid for it.
You know how much I love you and Maryam but what I wrote is none of your business”
I still haven’t written a story ending with heart attack.
Monday, June 25, 2007
It was a point at the end of a highway. Then it was converted to a yellow beetle and gradually gradually to a car with a kid on the back. The kid of our story waved his hand and I did so. Then Nima turned to left and his mom to right while both of us were looking at each other and enjoying the last moment of our friendship.
That kid in the yellow car faded in another highway and we in another one, but he helped me to write an afterword for my last post.
Sometimes we have to see certain people in our life and pass them. As soon as we pass them or maybe a while after, we will realize how important they were for us.
It happened to me with 180 kilometres per hour plus the speed of his mom’s car.
She came here for the first time and we had dinner with my parents. I took her hard drive to copy some music.
Double Whiskey and a couple of Margarita…My father treats girls much better than guys. When we had dinner my father asked:
“So, is she your mom, aunt, sister, or what?”
I have 3 moms, 5 aunts and 19 sisters. But Nima has one mom, one aunt and no sister. Thanks god that both of us have just one father.
“I’m just Ali’s friend; we know each other for 12 years”
We didn’t say anything more about that. Nima joined us and we enjoyed the rest of the night around the table.
She went to a highway to come back another day.
I really like my new T-shirt, but it will not help me if I really need to go to toilet.
I urgently needed one. My gut was like a Piton full of shit. I had no way except going to the posh restaurant nearby.
It was a queue on the entrance for getting served. But I didn’t want to be served. That’s why I passed all the people in the queue and went inside.
It was so intensive that I turned to the first door without looking to the sign. Instead of toilet it was manager’s room. She was in my age, I think.
When I saw her, I didn’t know what to say. She asked in a very polite way: “What can I do for you, sir”.
I wanted to say I am looking for the toilet but instead I farted loudly with a sticky smell.
It was 10 second silence and drops of sweat all over. I dived in the ocean of shame with my new T-short.
It took another 10 seconds for her to tell me:
“End of corridor, on the right”
I did exactly the same, but when I opened the door I just heard a massive girlish shout.
Apparently on that particular space-time coordinate, “on the right” meant “on my left” as far as shitting is concerned.
When I was serving their fancy toilet with a dish of Piton in tomato sauce, I was thinking how many internal and external highways we have to pass to realize how to forgive ourselves because of the silly things that we did in our life, either we were responsible or not.
I really like my new T-shirt although Nima said that I look like rubbish collectors working from midnight till morning in local highways.
Sunday, June 24, 2007
When Hamid showed up, it was almost midnight. I was talking with another Maryam, Reza’s wife. We were in a highway down in time, to our memories from university, her dream to have a baby, and my cell in a remote island which was so far from the reality that I was breathing at the moment.
I saw him as always with a cosy nest full of smile. Deep black eyes and long black hair brought his face out of my ancient myths, the components that we should re-narrate nowadays.
I’m dying to say
Just a word…
Just a word ?!
Keep it silent
“Don’t worry, this is also passing. Can’t you see it?” He said.
That’s the way to drain in our being. When we were in the elevator at 3:00 AM, I was sure that I am going to see him again, since he promised me by his eyes not a word.
We were in another highway with a squadron of humming birds above us. Tehran is a mega polis with an absolutely chaotic transportation network. Cars and people reach to sort of unity. This is the reason that cars can act like people and people like cars.
Chasing in highways, working in highways, racing in highways, jogging in highways, spying in highways, kissing in highways, fighting in highways, socking in highways, partying in highways, drinking in highways, thinking in highways, smoking in highways, reading in highways, sniffing in highways, praying in highways, dying in highways…Everyone in this jungle deal with highways in his/her own way.
Before fading in our back, I could have managed to read the name of the manufacturer: “Support Foundation of Miserable in Islamic Revolution”
Apparently, it is one of the wealthiest cartels in the whole world, based on Economist. They have business from construction to oil business and from carpet to agriculture. My parent’s flat is in one of the high rises built by them. There are always some doll girls and westernized boys in the lobby full of makeup and boot fit jeans.
At the end, when we passed a truck full of machinery carpets, I had this feeling that my tribal being is the Meta archetype of Persian carpet, full of colours and paradoxical forms, all drown in a unique canvas.
We were in the highway ending to Shian nuclear site in east of Tehran. But instead of going there, we turned in the last round about to go to north and enjoy the green part of the country for some days. We passed mountains and peaks to go down and see how green can gradually cover the land without any explicit indication.
Based on the WMO, Iran has 12 different climates out of 19 possible climates.
Totally we drove 1000 kilometres in 3 days and experienced 5 of them.
“You can’t smoke here.” I was in Hotel Ramsar’s lobby with an absolutely full stomach. I went out to finish my cigarette. On my back was green mountains covered by fog and in front Caspian Sea with shinny blue waves.
While finishing my cigarette, I was defragging my mind in the safe mode. I know that many of my hidden files are still not in order.
I always want to overcome myself, many times without any reason.
When I came inside, I saw the guys sitting on the sofa with 3 girls. They were young painters and wondered if we are photographer.
It took 15 minutes for me to tell her what I’m doing in my life. She understood, but I got lost more. That’s why I couldn’t realize that we were already in a local highway down to sex, drugs and rock’n’roll.
In the morning when we came out from Dr. Golmohammadi’s place, the landscape was covered by the thick blanket of fog, like many of my hidden files.
Sometimes I don’t need to see everything around and indeed I can enjoy with this ignorance.
We were less than half a meter far from hell. The car decided to stop at the last moment. We even didn’t take off to see what was going on. Mani was continuing his funny story. I was 10 centimetres far from having heart attack because of laughing at his story.
We know how to make jocks out of tragedies, although we can be part of tragedy.
Sunday, June 17, 2007
Drunk and in love…Drunk and not in love…Not drunk and in love…Not drunk and not in love…Whatever…
My mobile says it is 5:30 AM, although here is 8:30 AM…This is also one of the wired things that we’ve got used to it. When we used to something, we will spoil it for sure…Like time, space, nature and chances that come into our life.
I’m in Dubai international airport trying to write something:
Drops of rain
All over the garden
And fade away
Maybe it was a reason behind it or even wisdom. Or maybe it is just one of the eastern belief, although I think all the major stuffs in our life happens quite randomly, at least from our point of view if we want to just stick to the sensible information.
But I like Spinoza crappy bullshits. It is almost 10 years that I have been trying to find the evidences to prove there is something beyond our sensible information. Up to some extent I was successful. But I am still not sure, especially if I want to stick to the last pairs in my information time series
“Maybe you were just a breath far from the truth, but you couldn’t stand it”. Yannis told me the other day.
After each major earthquake, there are several minor ones. Last one happened in the Birmingham airport. I was in the pub and a little bit drunk. Two couples and a single guy around 60 were playing boring pub quiz. They were British but not from Birmingham. So what the fuck they were doing there? I never understood and I will never understand. Maybe just to make an earthquake…
- Who was the inventor of colt?
None of them could answer. I was beside them. Without any control I said:
- Samuel Colt, American inventor, 1814-1862
This word was like a tunnel brought me back to my 8th years of age, when I was struggling with my grandpa’s encyclopedia. Odipos, Sophokolos, Machiavelli, Gagarin, De Vinci, Neil Armstrong, Ben Sina and many other names…But on that particular time I was just thinking about Ernest Hemingway. A sudden enlightening told me why. Why he was ended by a bullet. He was in front of me drinking his last drops of whisky. Thanks god that Samuel was not around. He was just an answer in the quiz.
A theoretical physicist told me that my major earthquake was at least around 9 Richter… 9 Richter in a box…If it happened in Tehran, minimum 6 million people would die. But I’m still alive. Should I be happy for that?
It is 9:30 here and I am in the middle of dream and reality. In my dream, I’m telling my future daughter her favorite story…How I traveled into a stone…
- Daddy, tell me the story of your travel into the stone.
I cover her with the blanket, like clouds cover the sun.
- Once upon a time daddy saw a stone, which seemed to be so comfortable to live. So daddy went inside and cleaned all the room. Then daddy brought some smaller stoned as table and chairs…
Her shinny questioning eyes was locked on my mouth.
- And what happened next?
- Then daddy cooked a delicious meal with wild flowers, a real rebellious dish.
That was the end of the story. It has been always important for her to hear the last part of the story, always. I think for her this story was like a Columbus gate to his father’s new world.
When I opened my eyes, my head was full of numb feelings and some memories which should be expressed by a broken leg not words. I was analyzing the smashed parts of mine, the particles which are all related to a period with no shape, no form…A series of events that happened like a broken wings.
In the reality, I am trying to find something for a girl back home. At the end, I am sure I am not going to buy anything because I don’t feel.
Maybe her words remember me…
Two Arabs are passing by with at least 6 times more weight than me, but 6 times less than the weight of the names in my brain.
When I got to Tehran, it was my brother and only my brother. I hugged him and he smiled. He took my stuff. I wanted to smoke. He took the car and we drove in the highway to home.
I saw my ancient land for another time. Tinder sticks and my brother and a poem in my head:
These expensive trips
To the gate of being
To one, dying of another one
Doesn’t make any difference
Sometimes, my heart is clapping for me
It is taking me by hand
And kicking me by legs
Logic with rotten brain
Has no way to be back
When Pegout 206 is in the highway
When the poverty and crack is on the table
My heart is flying in the desert
When there are chains and locks
When the door of jail is open
The one who is escaping
Is a real wonker
Everything is laughing at us, Nima
Everything is ruining with us, Nima
Everything is burning with us, Nima
When the pray is finishing
When the peace is ending
When the honesty is shivering
It is the time to take a shower
Wow, if it rains
If it rains
When they put your head in the gutter
Write your biography on the water
When they take your hand from behind
Just write on the surface of bubble
Write for love, wine, flowers
But don’t forget the darkness
Wow, when your history is finishing
When the words are ending
When others are kidding with your honesty
I just want to cut
I just want to cut
I just want to cut
This is the story of my tribe.
Reza and Niki came together. He stole the new book that I was reading, big bustard. When it is coming to books he is a real son-of-a-bitch.
I was talking with my mom about translation and she gave me some stuff from one of her students:
Stood on your feet
Like a human being
Not like an animal
Like a tree, oak
Raised and died”
(The tragic sense of life in men and nations, Miguel de Unamuno)
Why this one? I looked at her, and she looked back. In between was a flooding river of unspoken words.
Apparently, it is flooding in Birmingham as well.
I went out with my brothers friends. I think Persian beauty is a real fact not an illusion. Maryam is a Persian girl, with American passport, carrying an amazing hidden beauty not only in her face but also in her soul. We went together to Tehran Museum of Contemporary Art.
It was 35 Maryams there with Iranian passport.
I have been trying to post in Blogger for the last 2 hours. The only thing that coming on the screen is this message:
“This page can not be displayed”
Even the Blogger website is filtered in this country.
However, we know how to deal with restrictions. We’ve got used to it. I called a friend and he is going to send me an EXE file to break the wall….Nothing can stop us… Nothing…
Monday, June 11, 2007
I opened the most crappy box in mankind's soul and explored all inside for a week. After that I understood that I shouldn't try to open everything in my soul although it is challenging and adventurous. Being brave sometimes (in my case, most of the time recently) means stupidity.
After 10 days, another stability. Or maybe just a self protection. After lots of hassles, I could have managed to close the box and put it in the corner of myself. Maybe it wasn't me and it was closed by itself or at least the box pretend to be closed. I am not gonna open it again, simply because I am really afraid of this particular box. But I have to be very careful with the other boxes there. I hope they are not going to be opened by themselves...
Thursday, June 07, 2007
Monday: a hole
Tuesday: a couple of holes
Wednesday:two holes and another hole
Thursday: many holes
Friday: holes on the road
Saturday: holes in my home
Sunday: my whole is a hole
Hey you, the flag,
On the tower of wind
You'll also fall one day
Tuesday, June 05, 2007
I called your mouth, apple
Naked fire, delicious landscape
You want me to not like you?
With these oaks, trees,
With these nights, snows
With two birds
And a couple of
When did I find myself like that?
Like the sixth sense,
Tired of you,
But more from mine
I walked in an unknown street
And I thought about the pleasure
Just passed by in a funeral
You were so simple and nice
With a green hat and dark pants
You were born in my poems
Sunday, June 03, 2007
Sometimes I am thinking that the whole story is not important. Not at all actually. All ups and downs, mental and physical trips are just residuals. The importance, maybe, just lays down in some rare moments, some images, and these images make us to live the story or let say bare the story.
We never start a story. Story will start by itself and finish by itself.
The story that I wanted to tell finished by itself before starting, although I am living with its clear images.
A key which was initially lost and finally found, a discussion in pub, 4 poems and a phone call.
Thursday, May 31, 2007
Rain is touching the window
Like the angle's finger
Memories are falling
The sun, and the farm
The morning breeze
Will blow us like a seed
In the darkside of the ground
"And at night
You will look up at stars
Where I live
Everything is so small
I cannot show you where
My star is to be found.
It is better like that.
My star will just be
one of the stars,
So you will love
To watch all the stars
in the sky...
They will be all your friends..."
Tuesday, May 29, 2007
It was another spring and I was young, actually younger. I was writing a paper days and nights and drinking coffee. Although I had a very clear mind about working and sacrificing because of my future, I was very board. I was even jealous to cats in the park nearby. I could hear them making love. All of a sudden I stopped writing and looked at my desk. Such a time I had on that desk the spring before. I was even younger and spring was more spring or if you want springer. But time passed. She was a nice girl and we were together just 4 weeks. But it was enough to remember her the spring after and I really mean it.
I called her and it was answering machine: "Please leave your message after the tone"... But who puts a message in spring. Spring is the time for momentary passion not putting the message.
My parents were at home. I hadn't seen them for 2 days. I was all the time in my room. My brother was coming to my room, but my parents not. They knew me and they knew that I prefer to be alone. They were so understanding and they are still, although they are older now and of course I'm with more responsibility, if I realize.
I took a shower. I couldn't stand the room anymore. I should go out but where. To that friend? no. To that place? no. I was only thinking about one concept: Katy.
Katy on that time was a student in political science, but we never ever talked about politics. Actually it was only one time that we talked properly and it was the first day that we met. I was in a friend's house having a small gathering and she was there as well. We talked about movies and music and then I got her number.
I don't know actually why I remember this story now. Maybe because my housemate received an unexpected call 2 days ago or maybe because I didn't have a cigarette for the last 3 hours, or maybe because I really want a coffee and I mean it.
I went out without saying anything to my parents. Her house was in walking distance from my parents house. It was in the afternoon and still the mountains was full of snow. I went to her door and did the bravest stuff in my life. I rang the bell.
I heard that somebody is coming down from the stairs. By each step, my heart was falling into my stomach and again coming back to its place somewhere on the left hand side of my body. I was like a yo yo. Moving between spring before somewhere on my desk and the door. Someone open the door. It was her. She couldn't believe that; I as well.
- Hi, what are you doing here?
- I was just passing from your door and I wanted to say hello....Happy new year by the way.
- Oh, after a month!? but thanks.
- What are you doing?
- Nothing, my parents are in vacation. I am home alone.
That was the thing I wanted to hear. All of a sudden I felt that something moving under neat of my under wear. Apparently, the monster woke up after his winter hibernation. She was much better than before.
It was a massive silence for 30 seconds. I thought that "Ali, you have to make a move" and all of a sudden a word came to my brain: Coffee.
- Would you like to have a coffee?
- I had mine just 5 minutes ago, but well, you can come in and have a coffee. The stuffs are on the table.
I jumped in as I conquered the most inaccessible land of the world. I was following her through stairs. She was in a skirt and I could see absolutely everything. Jesus Christ man, this girl is even better than 30 seconds ago.
When we were in the kitchen, the monster was completely awake and looking for a pride.
- How is your life going?
- I didn't know that you are interested in my life.
- Come on Katy, of course I am.
- OK, I've got a new boyfriend. What about you?
Well, what about me? Very good question. After that coffee, which was the last time I met you, I had another coffee and another coffees. But nothing changed Katy. I am still typing a fucking paper, not in Iran but in UK. I am still struggling with myself and my surroundings. Do you remember? you told me you are not gonna be satisfied in your life, because you are always looking up to the sky. I remember clearly you and that night now. We were smoking near the window in your parents house and of course I was looking up to the sky and I was tiered of your lab lab labs.
I don't know what are you doing now. I heard that you graduated a year after the last coffee and you were thinking to go abroad to your brother in Austria. Are you there now?
My desk is not the same desk, my computer as well, my cloths as well. Nothing is the same but I am still the same, in love with the sky and the bullshits over there. I still love the sky Katy, although I got hurt for it a lot but I've enjoyed it as well, quite a lot. I know you didn't love me, and I didn't love you. That's why it has been finished. But I miss you, because it is spring and I am still young and moreover, I really want to have a coffee with you and tell many things to you about the sky and the things that I found there and the things that I lost there, although most probably, you are not interested to hear them. Your are down, on the earth, as you were. That's why I didn't remember you up to now that I really want to have a coffee.
I think I deserve to have at least a coffee with you in this spring and talk about movies and music. Like the first night. I think you also agree with me, don't you? But the problem is that I don't know your address, email, mobile number, nothing. Maybe you are on the other side of Atlantic, or in Iran or even in walking distance again. Does it make any difference? Of course not.
On that day I didn't tell you that I missed you and why I came to your door, because I hadn't missed you. You thought that I was a good one that you know with an innocent concern of saying hello. But now I am mature enough to tell you that I miss you a lot, maybe because I wrote about you. Potentially, last night I could have looked into my magic box, the one that you liked but never touched, and I might have found the first or even the last words that you wrote for me. Most probably you don't remember, I am as well. It was full of complain about me and my irregularities. At the end, you wrote me:
I hope I see you one day coming back to the earth, not for me but for yourself.
I didn't, because I didn't want to have coffee last night and there is also not such a line. You never wrote to me, and I didn't as well. But I've got the message.
Monday, May 28, 2007
Years after he went to school of agricultural engineering in University of Tehran and he understood that his brother was not that wrong. He realized that I've started a story there.
Many stories can start from a same point, in space, time or even both. I have a grandma who was driving alone between Tehran to Isfahan with a Mercedes Benz during 1970s. This is the same start as the story of plastic bag in space but not in time. On that time, I might be just a banana tree in Africa. I was not even existing in the world of ideas. But she was a very stylish middle-age woman with tones of proud and make up. Because she was so unique (Of course. who was driving such a car on that time and space alone? Full of lorry drivers with horny mustache, neither Sofia Loren nor Tall Pari(1) couldn't have done that) she could have had an idea about everything from cooking rice to the war between Arabs and Judds. She was also a fan of western music. Frank Sinatra, Andy Williams, Elton John. Although she didn't know English at all, she could understand that these are proper music because proper people listen to that when she had been abroad. She was an experienced woman. Loads of restaurant and traveling abroad. She was not only eating in restaurant, she was also learning culture and class. A proper one, which suits with her shoes and car.
On that time, it was a shame for my parents to listen to those crap. Especially my dad, although I found those signs of status years after in his old tapes and discs.
Years passed and one day her son had a terrible accident with the Mercedes Benz and that was the time. All of a sudden she understood that she is getting old and the days are not similar to the past. Her rice cooking skill was not as NUMBER ONE as before. Politics as well. In 1979 revolution happened and it made such a thunder that the business of my grandpa collapsed from the roof of the country. Her grandson also, I mean me, had a terrible diary in Italy. It was so terrible that my grandma smelled it in Tehran and on such days, bloods and bullets, flew to Italy to bring a plastic bag for me, but she couldn't manage to bring the highway. Never mind, highways can be found every where. But Italy was not the same as before, because the price of Dollar for my granny was not as before. She should have stayed in my parents house instead of a 5 star hotel. Such a shame.
I said all of that to just start a story. This story now has Alzheimer and is looking at the TV screen, all night sometimes, to make sure that thieves are not coming into her place from TV. Don't think that she is getting crazy, not at all. In Christmas when I went back she told me:
- Safa, I think I will not see your wedding although I am sure you are not virgin. That makes me happy.
She was always very right and wise. I was thinking such a hard time this old wisdom has passed during these years after that tragic accident. One day she was praying and I was listening. She was singing Feeling of Andy Williams instead of the true pray. She knew the lyrics by heart. I didn't tell that to my mom because I liked the song, it reminded me the first morning that I wasn't virgin anymore. On that time, my parents and brother were in the Tehran-Isfahan highway without me and any plastic bag. I was drunk driving all the highway down from the city of her black eyes to small lovely village of her toes. The highway was passing from mountains and jungles. In the middle of one of the jungles just some minutes after the vast abyss of her stomach, it was a lake that I stopped to have a swim there. Beside the lake was a pack of small plastic bags.
"In such a condition, you should expect everything from your patient"
Her Doctor said to my mom yesterday at the same time but not space. Yesterday, I was 6000 KM away, on my bed and trying to show her how you can send thieves in to the computer screen. She couldn't believe that I could monitor the location of people who are coming to my blog. Yes, I can as my grandma can monitor the clouds in her ocean of thoughts. I am the only bird there who is bringing bread and Notella for his kid laying down on the sofa. Chick Chick Chick.
This story hasn't been finished as well, although many stories have started, grown, and vanished from a plastic bag or into a plastic bag or even both.
(1) Tall Pari was a very famous prostitute during late 1960s and 1970s in Iran who was hanged after the revolution.
Sunday, May 27, 2007
One morning, I woke up and I remembered that I should go to London to deliver something. I was like a pizza boy....From: Birmingham, To: London. Thanks god, these days at least pizza business is going well.
I had a backpack full of 1 pound stuffs, 5 books, and 1 bubble sword. It was also some knowledge there. Finite element and these sort of bullshits. It was like a modern painting somehow. Very avaunt-guard. From Allen De Boton to TESCO perfume...
They had something in common though: For all of them you have to pay...
I should have also paid. For instance I paid for the ticket to London. In front of me in the queue was an ass chewing gum and I was thinking if she can make bubbles as well or not. It was a nice pair of ass reading SUN and chewing gum.
When I got to the train, I decided (again with no reason) gaze to the eyes of people like a stubborn donkey. I stopped reading. In front of me was a middle class lady, who didn't like me. maybe because of the nuclear sign on my cap. Also I hit her foot 15.5 times without even moving my leg after each hit. I was like the German army in the beginning of the war; just going forward without compensation.
I started gazing to her eyes. She was trimming her nails. She hit my foot and immediately told me sorry, in her language. In my language it means:
You, fucking foreigner hippie, should have said sorry 15.5 times.
I told to her it's OK in my language. In her language it means:
Fuck you, old bitch...
After 10 seconds gazing at her eyes, I understood that without her nails she is just like a fly without wings. A Blondie fly which you can find everywhere even in Taiwan. She was looking at a magazine full of hair colors, with a Chinese advert.
The nails were telling me, you asshole can't even speak English properly. And I replied back: I know; she is telling me the same.
It was a chav and his slut. I understood that when he told her: You are me love. And she replied back by touching his penis. It was a very nice way of communication actually. It has a universal meaning:
Wait for 2 hours...
A girl came in and sat beside me. It was a tall girl, a horse in my age, with Arab origin. I was reading a book in Persian and she asked me where are you come from? I told her I am from this planet where are you from. She smiled and told me I am from here.
I didn't know that Beirut is in UK. But it is. There are loads of Lebanese tastes in London, from Kebab to girls.
They had something in common though: For all of them you have to pay...
I was in a restaurant although in her eyes.
When I was leaving the train, I was dreaming about a group of blonde flys who are smelling a portion of Chinese rice and Arab lamp kebab from a British restaurant in Tehran and they know that the food is gonna be enough for all.
I looked at my nails and wrote: They need to be cut.
My words as well...
Wednesday, May 23, 2007
When I heard that Haleh Esfandiari has been arrested, I immediately remembered my late friend Amir Esfandiari. He had a big belly, a web blog and a profile in orkut. But non of them exist anymore. They expired like his bones.
We have to be optimistic. She is still alive. There are tones of stuff about her in Internet, TV, papers, here and there. But what about him? The difference is just a first name: Amir, Haleh...Surname is the same: Esfandiari
(I remember the last email that he sent to me. A document was attached titled: Joining_Iran_to_WTO.pdf....It was written by him)
There is an ancient Persian belief saying good people die early...He was a good guy. But Haleh is also a good one.
This is a paradox, a logical paradox...
I've discovered that our surrounding is full of paradox. For instance this bloody time which has been sleeping for ages here in this boring office. Time here went to bed at 10:45 (AM or PM, I haven't got a clue) and then immediately froze in the clock. Even a single movement in the bed, nothing. The clock is like a quantum freezer which can take the time temperature down to -273.15 Centigrade, the zero of Kelvin
I was walking to university and constantly complaining about her shoes. Poor girl. It was a very nice weather and I had my "Trout Fishing in America". So it was double sin to go to the office directly. After a while, I jumped on the grass and started reading a short story about a trout who became a terrorist and another one who had a bookshop and the other one who was alcoholic and the one who didn't have condom. I really felt sorry for the last one, actually.
That's why I carry condom as a soldier carry his riffle. There is one always with me. You never know what's gonna happen...Last night I gave one to the moon to have a quickie with a lake. I went for a walk at 1:15 and I saw them in a park nearby hugging each other, touching each other, kissing each other, and well...
- Sorry sir, have you got a condom? She asked me like she was looking for a lighter.
- Yes, Yes. Here you go. I lighted it up for her.
- Are you smoking as well?
- Yes, sometimes.
When I was in late 17 or early 18, three things changed my life. The Doors of Perception, Pinkfloyd and a prostitute called angel-moon; in English, I mean. We were in my friend's house. My friend told me that her vagina is like a lake full of trouts although I was reading about trouts today at 10:45, in Persian though...
This is another paradox, a linguistic paradox...
When I saw the god-damn prostitute, I was a high school kid smelling a naked desire laying down on his friend's bed. Shameless whore had one leg horizontal and the other one up, like 10:45 or 1:15. I knew that I was not comfortable with this position especially for a holy job like fishing. Anyway I had never been that near to a lake in my life. Fishes were jumping out of the lake and my boat were getting bigger and bigger. At the end I understood that the best thing for me (and for lake as well) was just swimming. I took out my cloths and asked her if it is possible to jump in the lake. She told me: "I should never say NO". When I jumped in the lake I could manage to take some fish as well, because I was not stupid.
This is another paradox, a sexual paradox...
Through this time, I mean from a kid to a system freak, I swam in many lakes from all over the world. After I drawn in one, I realized that I should never ever say NO to three things: Having fun, a nice wine or a rolled-up and the truth in any from of existence, if there is any.
This is another paradox, a philosophic paradox...
It was 10:45 in my office and in the whole university. We were still sitting on the grass and she was telling me about that teacher in Basque country which I personally don't know him, (Simply, because I haven't been there in my life) but he was the reason that I met Aiora and Aiora was the reason that I met her and meeting her was the reason that I was sitting with her on the grass at 10:45 Birmingham time. So he is a very important person in my life; very influential.
This is another paradox, a modern paradox...
She went to her office. I spent more time to make sure that going to the office is not a sin anymore and of course I went to my office. The first person who said hello was a dirty bitch called 10:45. I still don't know her surname. AM or PM?
A simple arithmetic made me sure that Haleh should know this cheap old witch as 1:15, now that she is in Evin jail, Tehran. But she doesn't know her surname as well, I mean 10:45 of me and 1:15 of her.
This is another paradox, a perceptional paradox...
"I don't think that you need to know the surname of a prostitute if you want to make a business with her. You just need a number, some money and a horny hard penis"
Such a wise statement. Was it 10:45 or 1:15 when Amir told me that? He was still breathing on that time. He grabbed the phone and dialled an unknown number... The number was not answering...
This is another paradox, an existential paradox...
Tuesday, May 22, 2007
"Being" is not only being together
You promised to bring a bunch of dark purple
Roses from the bright land of your falling tears
Do you remember?
I was in a boat going down all the way
To your chin.
You don't remember, do you?
There are always some trips
Before the journey
Once upon a time, it was a little red penis who loved a hairy black ass. But because the black ass was so hairy, the little red penis could have never ever managed to kiss hairy black ass's lips. Years and years passed and the red penis is still little and the black ass is still hairy.
I've been told that you've stopped reading recently. You also have gone for that crappy life which has been followed for years and years; everybody, everywhere, here and there. I am still free man, I think I still haven't stepped into the shit but I'm not much better. I mean happier. But you know bloody son-of-a-bitch, at least I don't have an hairy black ass. Actually, I have no ass.
Maybe if you start reading again, the dark tropical jungle around your ass is going to burn. So my little red penis can kiss your nice flat ass lips. Who knows?
(We were on that dusty boiling office when you shouted "Long live impossibility"...)
Miss you buddy and take a very good care of your loneliness surrounded by people
It is so nice to wake up
In the morning and fart
Without having some one
Who doesn't like the sound
I went up and up in the stream
And down and down in myself
I realized the difference between
You and the others is just a name
The man is lonely here
Under neat of a tree
Which its shadow
Flows up to infinity
Shall I drink more wine tonight?
Friday, May 18, 2007
2- Every agents in the universal modern world can be conceptually described by a system.
3- Systems can be definite, probabilistic, stochastic, fuzzy, gray, or even chaotic.
4- There are some agents in the universal modern world that can be formulated quantitatively.
5- The relationships among agents is a massive connectional system.
6- Each connection by itself is a system.
7- There are some connectional systems that can be described quantitatively.
8- Mathematics is the framework of systems.
9- Mathematics is an element in our knowledge
10- Our knowledge is a layer.
11- Knowledge can be described as multi-dimensional system.
12- There are infinite number of surfaces in this system. The union of these surfaces called universal knowledge.
13- The whole universal modern world CAN NOT described by a systematic knowledge although different modules and connections can be described by a system.
* Personal conclusion regarding to PhD: There is a long way home.
* Personal conclusion regarding to my country: I have to start reading about Franco period in Spain.
* Personal conclusion regarding to my sexual life: It can not be described by a system of knowledge.
(Introduction to complex knowledge: Maybe the universal modern world can be described by a complex infinite scale, infinite agent, dynamic mathematical framework called complex knowledge system in which some properties of systematic knowledge get relaxed: x+iy+jz+.... But this is also another layer, for sure)
* Personal quote of the day: "I've made poetry for 7 years in order to learn how to make a sentence because I really like to write. I think before knowing how to make a sentence, you can't write (Richard Brautigan)''
* Personal philosophy: There is no philosophy. It is all about a certain group of linguistic systems
* Personal state:
I Just wrote
a Haiku for you...
* Personal path: . . .
Thursday, May 17, 2007
We talked alot. He wants to leave the country as well. I am happy for him, but what about the country?
- We have nothing for the modern world, nothing.
- Maybe post modernism can help us to survive, just maybe.
- 10,000 years of history shouldn't be vanished
He brought me a book, the same book that I was reading 2 months ago: "Trouth fishing in America". I bought him the same book in English.
We were in the bar when I was telling him:
"I like to think
(and the sooner the better!)
of a cybernetic meadow
where mammals and computers
live together in mutually
like pure water
touching clear sky.
I like to think
(right now, please!)
of a cybernetic forest
filled with pines and electronics
where deer stroll peacefully
past computers as if
they were flowers
with spinning blossoms.
I like to think
(it has to be!)
of a cybernetic ecology
where we are free of our labors
and joined back to nature,
returned to our mammal
brothers and sisters,
and all watched over
by machines of loving grace."
Wednesday, May 16, 2007
I was just some steps far from the former house of Ayatollah Khomeini. The steep narrow allays which is typical for north of Tehran....Alborz mountains and the breeze of 7 PM in 16th of May 2004...I was talking with a girl on the phone. Around was full with the voice of Koran. She was in Dubai and I was going to be there the day after.
- Tell my mom to put my swimming suite in the stuff that you are bringing
- OK, So see you tomorrow.
- Why so early? Again you are period?
- No, I am just tired and I am fucking paying the international phone call by my mobile...I see you tomorrow anyway, why you are upset?
I was tired of her. It was not going well with her, because of that old bitch. I loved her, but she was not my girl. I knew that and I accepted that. She was beautiful, kind and very sexy. Type of girls that being with them give you satisfaction. You admire yourself. But it was a problem (and still is). We were too different in the way of thinking, and that old bitch, I mean her mom.
2 months after that, we broke up. I did miss her badly 5 months after, during XMAS time when I was in England, alone for a month. Such a nightmare it was. No supervisor, no research, all my dreams went to shit, and I was alone. I even cried one night for her. Anyway...
I hanged up the phone. In front of me was a group of 18, 19 years old Bassij militia. Non of them met Khomeini but he was their legend.
They didn't like me. I was sure. I didn't like them as well. I remember several times that we were bitten up by them. It was the era of reform in Iran. Khatami project, talking about democracy, Che, Bob Dylan, right of women, philosophy, poetry, quick loves, and hot discussions and hope. Hope for better days.
It was the last days of that tragic era. We had already lost the game. We had 3 choices. Leave the country, go to jail or shut up. I'd decided to leave. I wanted to see more, more, more...
I was on the door.
- Where are you going?
- I want to see Mr. Prophet
He looked to me for the second times, from bottom to the top. He told to his colleague
- Call Dr. Prophet
And he looked at me again.
- Second floor, room 54
I was in a small empty room. It was a bed, a desk and some books. Nonlinear finite elements, Koran and the images of Bertolucci. Very simple decoration, almost nothing. He was praying. I looked at him. He was not there. I swear that he was not there
- Nice to see you Mr. Nazemi. Sorry for the wait.
- No problem brother. I hope it is accepted.
- I hope god accepts
I was so stressed. He was the only one that I could talk to him. Non of my friends, no one among 12,000,000 samples in Tehran except him.
- Tomorrow I am going to Dubai. I want to apply for US visa.
- I hope the best happens
- You know, last night again the guy said something. It is for the second time. Do you remember the time that I applied for that conference?
- Don't worry Mr. Nazemi. You will reach the point. I know. What about England?
- I don't even think about it. I have no funding from there. After this, I will apply for Canada.
I looked at his eyes, full of calm. Simple, simple man. Unknown soul for most of the people. Most of them hate him. You know why? Because he looks like a Bassiji. A bad guy. An ass hole. But he is not. He is the best person I have ever met. The most beautiful mind in math, a genius in classic Persian poetry, a good man.
He was my only escape on that day. The only only only one.
All the credit for his belief. Marx said that religion is the opium of mass. Let's agree on that. Is anyone going to ask why Dali used drug, or Winston Churchill used opium when he was 15?
We have to look at the feedback. Religion makes this guy pure. OK, it is not my way. Actually, what is my way? Math, music, bugs, darkness, love, suicide, going to a remote place back home as a teacher, bookshop, PhD, blogging, being rich, writing, what?
I don't know...I don't really know
- OK, thanks for your company. It was a nice walk.
- Don't forget the god in your interview, and I am sure the best is gonna happen. I think you should consider the Birmingham chance as well.
- I hope Colorado and then if not Edmonton. I want to be in Fort Collins. I want.
- Don't fight with your destiny Mr. Nazemi.
We shacked hands. I got a taxi and he was whispering something with himself. He was praying.
After 3 years, and exactly 3 years, he is coming today to Birmingham along with Mr. X. I will see him in 90 minutes. I should admit I am a bit worry about Mr. X. I have to talk with him, the prophet.
Tuesday, May 15, 2007
I am, yes, I am
Doing what I can
I am going
keep on growing.
Wait and let
What we'll see
Black, black, black
I'm passing darkness
To reach nothing
Good days and bad
ones are the same;
Absolutely the same
Is it another message from my past?
Are you still there?
Waiting, waiting, waiting
One track of Pearl Jam
At least 100 times today.
I am not kidding...
Working, working, working...
"1, 2, 1, 2, 3
Know a man, his face seems pulled and tense
Like he is riding on a motorbike in the strongest winds
So I approach with tact, suggest that he should relax
But he is always moving much too fast..."
Monday, May 14, 2007
There is an office, some lights,
A head and bunch of thoughts
"I am still alive"
3 hours from sun dawn
My soul started to fly
Hoping to keep sun from clouds
From the city down to the cave
Such a master, such a slave
3 hours from London, my mind is free
Taking the boat down to the sea
Such a story never begins
3 hours to sleep, not wanting to be
3 hours to wonder, 3 hours to death
3 hours, 3 days, 3 months, 3 years
And again another 3 hours...
Have you seen the land
Sitting by the breeze?
Have you seen the light
Under neat of trees?
Tell me what have you found
Show me what you have to show
I am still here
Waiting like a blind
When the day is gone
Along with everything
Lost in mine
It is midnight...
Sunday, May 13, 2007
But you have friends,
What do you offer your friends to make them so supportive?
What do you offer?
100, 91, 84, 81, 72, 69, 58, 44, 37, 38, 42, 21, 28, 12, 7
The television talks Full of eyes
The spirits of sight
And now I am so afraid
I'm seeing things
I'm hearing things
The piecemeal crumple of my mind
Where do I start?
Where do I stop?
How do I stop?
When sanity visits
For one hour and twelve minutes
I am in my right mind
When it has passed
I shall be gone again
Remember the light and believe the light
Nothing matters more
A table, two chairs and no window
Here I am
And there is my body
Dancing on glass
In accident time where there are no accidents
You have no choice
The choice comes after
I shall sleep.
What do you offer?
See - Nothing
Still black water
As deep as forever
As cold as the sky
As still as my heart
When your voice is gone
I shall freeze in hell
The happy hour
When clarity visits
Which soaks my eyes
Saturday, May 12, 2007
"Here is dark, so dark"
The spirit of dead fishes
cried in AN old picture
of a pond.
It was Yanni's house,
Behind the wall was
that I should meet
"Bastards, I am free"
A guy from army, Tom Waits
Philosopher, mama, and me
Miki was sleeping.
We were laughing
in a language for all distant myths
When traitors are
Running your country?
All the money that you've made
Is not gonna save your soul
Are you painting me in black?
Friday, May 11, 2007
It's difficult, It's very tough.
I said to the man who'd been sleeping rough
To sit within a fragrant breeze
All among the nodding trees
That hang heavy with the stuff
He threw his arms around my neck
He brushed the tear from my cheek
And held my soft white hand
He was an understanding man
He did not even barely hardly speak
Rain it down on the wife and the kids
Rain it down on the house where we live
Rain until you got nothing left to give
And rain that ever-loving stuff down on me
All the things for which my heart yearns
Gives joy in diminishing returns
He kissed me on the mouth
His hands they headed south
And my cheek it burned
Money, man, it is a bitch
The poor, they spoil it for the rich
With my face pressed in the clover
I wondered when this would be over
And at home we are all so guilty-sad
Pour it down the open drain
Pour it all through my veins
Pour it down, yeah, let it rain
And pour that ever-loving stuff down on me
Now, I'm sitting pretty down on the bank
Life shuffles past at a low interest rate
In the money-coloured meadows
And all the interesting shadows
They leap up, then dissipate
Tuesday, May 08, 2007
its our little penthouse,
we call it our own,
it's got lots of features,
a gold plated phone
and it's all that we've got
to lower the tone at
five o'clock in the morning.
it's cock up and shut up,
it's right and it's wrong,
it's see you tomorrow,
be weak or be strong,
it's hit or be hit,
you know I don't care,
it's five o'clock in the morning.
the red ,white and blue,
it's such a bore,
but it's better than being poor
and it's better than being ignored
at five o'clock in the morning.
so vomit your guts out on the floor,
you know you will be a pawn even though
we are the ones that you adore
at five o'clock in the morning.
Life, space, time
Me, me, and me
The one that you know
The one that I know
The one that nobody knows
I (the one in Mud Cafe)
Threw them 6 times.
Is it mutually Independent?
Sunday, May 06, 2007
By the way, my words are written. Yes, I wrote them. Wind is waiting for my sentence. My long flight is finished. Trip is done. Although I am not sure where I am gonna land. Doesn't matter, somewhere around. At least in this planet.
Wind should be there, waiting for me. I'm gonna have his lift. I miss him. I am pretty sure that he has carried on playing freaky threesome chess and smoking. What about the old guy? Is he drunk or dead? Never mind, I am not thinking about it anymore. For me, he is under tones of shit either dead or alive...
Next trip is gonna be soon...Very soon...
Thursday, May 03, 2007
There is no neverland
Even this narrow river
Is not gonna end here.
It is not getting blind
Here, in this old farm.
It Just needs a moment,
spark, to be in a rose or cry
To sit inside a fruit,
Takes a boat and lands
On the other side of
How do you know?
Anoshe might take it to sky
It might be next year in Venus:
A naive plant will grow beside a stone
How do you know?
A random sheep there
Might fall in love,
And how do you know?
If Persian eyes
were seen by another eye
Monalisa might be just a gene
Lost in 7,000,000,000
Neverland is a joke
A hoax for tired ones
Don't worry for bullets
They're gonna be bits of
A poem in my mind.
There is no neverland
Under neat of this thick ice
The body of girls, beauties
Is waiting for the sun.
There is no neverland
Each thought has a route
In another one
Each lie in another lie
I wish you realized
That our knowledge
Comes from nothing
And then in another
Nothing makes love
With politics, economy
I wish you knew that
Nothing is so full of us
That there is no place