بار دیگر، شهری که - در روزگاری دور* - دوست میداشتم

یک-حدود یک ماه پیش، بعد از تقریبا دو سال، سه هفته‌ای ایران بودم. مثل همیشه وقتی‌ مدتی‌ نیستم، تغییرات خیلی‌ به چشم می‌آیند: اولین چیزی که به چشمم خورد، تظاهر بیش از اندازه آدم‌ها بود. انگار یکی‌ یک تابلو دستشان گرفته باشند که "لطفا من را نگاه کنید". دختران بسیار زیبا با آرایش و موهای رنگ شده، روپوش‌های خوش برش و شال‌های خوش طرح و رنگ که یا بیشتر زینتی هستند برای موهای درست شده، یا آویزانند به تودهٔ توپ مانند عظیمی‌ که شباهت دوری به کلیپس‌های قدیمی‌ دههٔ شصت دارد. گرچه در ابعادی بسیار عظیم تر. پسر‌ها هم یا آراسته و ابرو برداشته اند، یا مدل مو و ریش عجیب غریب دارند. هیکل‌ها هم ماشالله همه ورزشکاری! این "همه" که میگویم البته مسلما همهٔ جمعیت چند میلیونی را شامل نمی‌شود؛ بیشترین چهره‌هایی‌ که من در شهر دیدم. حتا ساندویچ‌ها هم متظاهر شده اند. ساندویچ دیگر "استیک" یا "هات داگ" یا "ژامبون با پنیر و قارچ " نیست. اسمش هست "ساندویچ ویژه"، و همهٔ اقلام بالا را با هم دارد

دو- مردم اصلا اعصاب ندارند. اصلا و ابدا. چهار -پنج روز اول استرس روزانه‌ ترافیک را با اینرسی آرامش به جا مانده از زندگی‌ در کانادا با لبخند گذراندم، به هفتهٔ دوم که رسید، با شگفتی تمام خودم را مشاهده کردم که دارم به رانندهٔ وانتی که از ماشینمان سبقت خطرناکی می‌گرفت بلند بلند بد و بیراه میگویم. دلیل بی‌ اعصابی روشن شد

سه- فقط اعصاب نداشتن نیست. رفتار‌ها بسیار تهاجمی است. سر صف ایستادن، راه رفتن، خرید کردن، حتا مراودات روزانه. همه میخواهند کلهٔ آدم را گاز بگیرند. در زوج‌های جوان تازه عروسی‌ کرده یا با بچه کوچک، موارد زیادی از خشونت خانگی هست. آنقدر که من باورم نمی‌شد. زن و مرد هم ندارد. همچنان از نظر آماری مرد‌ها بیشتر، ولی‌ زن‌ها هم به جرگه پیوسته اند

چهار- ورزش اما آرام آرام دارد جا باز می‌کند. خیلی‌ از خانم‌ها به پارک‌ها میروند و ورزش میکنند، همراه یا بدون مردشان. مرد‌ها هم یا باشگاه میروند یا پارک. مشاور رفتن و به برنامه‌های روانشناسی‌ گوش دادن هم همینطور. سی‌ دی‌های دکتر هلاکویی حد‌اقل در نسل جوان جا باز کرده. حتا اگر فعلا یک مد جدید روشنفکری باشد، جای امیدواری دارد. دیدن زنانی که تلاش بسیار میکنند که توانایی و آگاهی‌ خودشان را بالا ببرند تا زندگی‌ بهتری برای خود و فرزندانشان فراهم کنند، تلخی‌ داستان‌های متعدد بی‌ وفایی‌‌ها و از تعهد شانه خالی‌ کردن‌ها را کمی‌ ملایم تر می‌کند

پنج-دو تا هم عروسی‌ رفتم. یکی‌ از طبقهٔ فوق ثروتمند، و دیگری از طبقهٔ متوسط جامعه. اولی‌ یک شب از سه شب مراسم عروس و داماد بود. یک نمایش کاملا برنامه ریزی شده، که به جز یک ساعت مخصوص رقص و پایکوبی مهمانان، باقی‌ مراسم نمایشی از توانایی‌ها و هنرنمایی‌های عروس و داماد بود. چون معامله به آن سنگینی‌، باید ارزشش را نشان میداد. شب، با حیرت از این همه خرج و چشم درد از درخشش لباس‌های آخرین مدل و سنگ‌ها و جواهرات برگشتم خانه

شش- عروسی‌ دوم، دلیل اصلی‌ سفرم بود. این یکی‌ معقول تر بود و به همه خوش گذشت. سادگی‌ اما دلیل ارزانی نبود. قیمت‌ها را که شنیدم - یک میلیون لباس، یک میلیون آرایش، چهار و نیم میلیون سالن، و اضافه کنید به اینها عکاس و فیلمبردار، موزیک و غذا را- سرم سوت کشید. پدر و مادر عروس و داماد و خودشان کارمند‌های کلاسیک طبقهٔ متوسط هستند. تقریبا تمام پس انداز زوج جوان برای مراسم خرج شد، به علاوه یک ماشین. عروس البته موفق شده بود جنجال خانوادگی مهریه را از سر به سلامت بگذراند: ۲۰۰ شاخه گل نرگس...اما راهی‌ طولانی‌ را طی‌ کرده بود. شکر خدا که آرایش خلیجی عروس دارد جایش را به آرایش‌های سادهٔ اروپایی‌ میدهد

هفت- پای صحبت اغلب کسانی‌ که می‌نشستم، غر می‌‌زدند. دیگر پنهان کاری هم ندارد. در کوچه و خیابان، همه به سیستم و شرایط بد و بیراه می‌گویند. می‌گویند و زندگی‌ میکنند. مشغولند با کانال‌های جدید ماهواره (که حالا اغلب دوبله‌های بد کیفیت فارسی هم دارند) و ترافیک و طرح زوج و فرد، و کنکور و مدرسه بچه‌ها و خرج دانشگاه. مشغولند و از سال قبل با حسرت تلخی‌ یاد میکنند و می‌گذرند. زندگی میکنند و آخر هفته‌ها "پارازیت" را نگاه میکنند و به تلخی‌ میخندند. آن‌هایی‌ که میتوانند، دست و پایی‌ میزنند برای کارت اقامتی جایی‌ دیگر، و آنها که نمی‌خواهند یا نمیتوانند، به دنبال گوشه‌ امنی‌ هستند برای تحمل شرایط: اکیپی، مشغولیتی، سرگرمی ای

هشت- اینها گوشه‌هایی‌ از مشاهدات من هستند از ۱۹-۲۰ روز. نه همه جای کشور را پوشش داده‌ام در این سفر، نه حتا همه جای تهران. نمونه مشاهداتی‌ام هم بیشتر طبقهٔ متوسط جامعه بوده. قضاوتی نمیکنم که حق ندارم بکنم. اما یک چیز را خوب می‌دانم. لیست دلایلی که شش سال پیش (پس از تجربه زندگی‌ داخل و خارج) نوشتم و بر اساس آنها تصمیم گرفتم کجا زندگی‌ کنم هیچ هیچ هیچ تغییری نکرده. مسلما متاسفانه. هنوز به برگشت دایمی فکر نمیکنم. دوری و دلتنگی‌ را تحمل می‌کنم، به ازای هزاران دلیل که هنوز به قوت تمام باقی‌ اند

***

مشخصا "در روزگاری دور" را من اضافه کرده ام. بقیه تیتر از مرحوم نادر ابراهیمی است*

The mystery of the unsolved crime(2010)

In any other situation, this could have been the storyline for a blockbuster movie. Sadly, the screenplay has an open end. I mean, it does have a bitter ending, but the truth was never revealed.

About nine years ago, a soccer player’s wife was killed. Naturally, he was primarily a suspect himself. Then another man was thought to be the killer, and then finally the news broke out: his mistress (although not very illegally according to religious laws) had killed his wife. It was shocking. She wouldn't confess at the beginning. Then she confessed, only out of love for him. Deal? No!

After the first confession, she never admitted she had done it. Many other evidences made the case more and more complicated. She replayed the crime scene, but said that she had hit her only once or twice. However, there were many more hits on the body, which could not be done by a woman. She also kept saying that someone had told her to visit the soccer player’s house since there was a crowd in front of it (He was on a trip to Germany at the time) and she's gone there and seen the corpse, but she hadn’t done it. There were evidences of sperm and maybe a rape on the corpse as revealed later. On the other hand, she showed a blood stain on the mattress, where police had missed it, and only she knew it was there.

So in the end, many believed that either she hadn’t done it, or she was not alone. She never named anyone else, and she never told the truth. The case was revisited many times, and the verdict was the same: guilty. Based on "her confession and the judge’s knowledge". No proof of evidences.
She was hanged last night, and took the mystery with herself to the grave.

I for one didn’t have any strong arguments against her being the killer. What drove me crazy in this case, was the fact that no one talked about the soccer player himself and his share in all this. There were photos and recorded films about their affair together, which were worth noting. The soccer player’s wife was from a super rich family. He and his mistress had more similar backgrounds and he obviously felt more comfortable in her house. He was a quite, low energy person, she was much more energetic (I’d even say more like a manic), while the wife was apparently depressed herself. The wife had problems with his addiction, whereas the mistress would spoil him, to the point of providing him the drugs. He never chose between the two, even though he knew she was trouble.

Also the possibility that she might not have been sane... I don’t mean she was insane, she didn’t seem so at first sight, but she obviously had personality disorders, least of them could be mania and/or histrionic personality disorder. In my inexpert opinion, she may even have suffered from multiple personality disorder. I know the cases are extremely rare, but it actually fits. She kept saying something about “they told me, they did this, someone else…”.

So, now the story is finished, and the credits are on the screen. I heard that one of the soccer player’s sons pushed the chair from beneath her feet…and I’m wondering, what will happen to these kids who witnessed this horrible story?

Things that get on my nerves, in sweet persian language... :)

شماره یک- چیز‌هایی‌ هست که نمی‌شود به زبان دیگر نوشت. یعنی‌ هرچه فکر کردم دیدم معادل انگلیسی‌ "روی اعصاب من راه میرود" آن صدای خرت‌خرت له‌ شدن اعصاب را نمیدهد. پیش خودم گفتم این باید‌ها و نباید‌ها را بگذار کنار. فوق فوقش میشود یک وبلاگ "شنبه- یکشنبه". مثل روز‌هایی‌ که با شلوار جین سورمه‌ای و بلوز مشکی، یواشکی جوراب صورتی‌ میپوشی. که توی آزمایشگاه که پا روی پا انداخته‌ای و پیپت را میخواهی‌ بیندازی دور، صورتی‌ جوراب از آن زیر چشمک میزند. گاهی "شنبه- یکشنبه" بودن اشکالی‌ هم ندارد. بنابراین از این به بعد ممکن است اینجا ملغمه‌ای باشد از فارسی و انگلیسی‌. برای روز‌هایی‌ که جز فارسی زبانی حس و حال آدم را در نمی‌‌آورد

شماره دو- داشتم می‌گفتم که چیزهایی‌ روی اعصاب من راه میروند. چرا یادشان افتادم؟ چون هفتهٔ پیش مهمان داشتیم. مهمان‌های تازه ویزا گرفتهٔ پروسهٔ مهاجرت پشت سر گذاشتهٔ "آه نفس بکش آزادی را، رسیدیم به بهشت!". قرار بود یکی‌ دو روزی بمانند تا خانه پیدا کنند. بگذریم که یکی‌ دو روز شد یک هفته، و آخر سر هم با دلخوری رفتند که منزل جدیدشان هنوز پرده ندارد. اما چیزی که واقعا پیاده روی میکرد روی اعصاب من، رفتار مرد خانواده بود با همسر هم سنّ و سال تحصیل کردهٔ کار کردهٔ هم رده اش. محض نمونه عرض می‌کنم، در حالی‌ که با دقت لیبل شیشهٔ آبجو را چک میکرد که چیزی را از قلم نینداخته باشد، به همسرش که یک بچه به بغل و یک کیف سنگین به دوش داشت غر میزد که "این چه بلوزیه پوشیدی؟ کمرت که بیرونه همش

شماره سه- چیزهای دیگری هم هستند. مثل زنانی که در مهمانی سر شام به همسرشان که دارد غذا میکشد جلوی دیگران می‌گویند "کافیه عزیزم، زیاد نخور، چاق میشی‌". فرزندان تنبل تن پرور پولدوستی که به اطمینان گمان میکنند لوس شدن برای مادر عزیزشان است که پول خوشگذرانی‌هایشان را از گلدانی روی طاقچه ی نا پیدایی در خانه میرویاند. نویسنده‌هایی‌ که از بی‌ وفایی‌‌هایشان به زن/شوهر/پارتنرشان مینویسند و سعی‌ دارند دیگران را قانع کنند که این منتهای روشنفکریست، مخصوصاً که با نثری ادبی‌ و فاخر نوشته شده. والدینی که شترق میزنند در گوش بچه ۵ ساله ای که در مغازهٔ "یک دلاری" تقاضای چیز مزخرفی کرده...این آخری اعصابم را به کلی‌ خط خطی‌ می‌کند. جوری که مجبورم کشان کشان خودم را با چشمانی پر از اشک از مغازه ببرم بیرون که حرفی‌ به والد احمق نزنم

شماره چهار- دو دوزه بازی، طعنه و متلک، خودشیفتگی، هورت کشیدن و همزمان فین فین بالا کشیدن دماغ هم در همین رونده‌ها بر اعصاب جا میگیرند. هم چنین است بعضی‌ اشخاص. نه فقط گفتار، حتی صدایشان. اشکالش این است که مستر الکمیست گاهی جهت برآورد مقاومت اعصابش به سخنوری‌هایشان گوش می‌کند. اعصابش که خرد شد به بد و بیراه گفتن می‌افتد. یکی‌ نیست بپرسد عزیز من مگر مجبوری؟ والا بخدا

Snapshots of a trip, or A persimmon a day...

* The sight of my aunt waiting for me in the airport alongside my family, and the smell of the tuberoses bouquet in her hand; that fragrance…

* The sparkle of consciousness in my Alzheimeric grandfather’s eyes, who recognized me only for a fraction of a second…

* The intimate morning chat with my mother-in-law, after the breakfast, about his son/my husband, my worries and her experiences…

* The smooth deep comforting voice of my sister-in-law, the yoga teacher, praying sweetly at the end of the session, which made my tears run down; apparently just like any other newcomer to her class…

* The day spent with my brother in Tehran, the loads of books we bought, the rain we ran under, the pomegranate juice we drank, the donuts we didn’t eat, and the pizza we shared…

* The fresh bread and yogurt, my favorite lunch with my father, who still keeps me guarded behind himself while passing the street; as if I’m forever his 7-year-old…

* My grandmother’s apartment, in front of which I still cry so hard to my own disbelief, waiting hopelessly for her to show up and invite me in…

* The dance we did as a family, to that happy moving song, on the highest point of the road between the newly snow-covered mountains, breathing the crisp clean fresh air…

* The lunch I had with my highschool friends, previous 16-year-olds now grown ups with loads of different experiences, laughing crazily just like the old days, and the comment one of us gave: "With your highschool friends, you don't really need to explain much about everything..."

* Bazaar and its ever alive atmosphere, and the five of us, mothers and sisters and daughters, now equally as five married women, chatting and laughing and eating in that busy restaurant, as if in a scene from a Mehrjui’s movie…

* And the unbelievably beautiful portrait of my cousin-the bride and her groom, waiting to get into the wedding party; and my tears of joy and love for them, for hadn't it been for her, I wouldn’t have taken this trip…

Pains of Autumn*

I don't like fall.

I dislike everything about it: the cold which serves as the introduction for winter, the grey of the sky, the rain. The instability which floats in the air makes me anxious. The chilly wind makes me nervous and agitated. Watching the nature getting ready to hibernate makes me deeply sad, and seeing the farmers market stands being replaced by the Halloween costumes and the Christmas trees, brings such a deep sorrow to my heart.

Add to all these, the high possibility of catching the cold. The feverish nose-dripping throat-itching body-aching cold, which sucks the life out of you as a deadly hollow.

I was born in spring. I guess to some extent that’s why I absolutely love spring. Since I moved to Canada and I learned how precious the sunlight and the warmth are, I love summer as well. I can still bear winter and its accompanying depression with the hope that the spring is just around the corner. But fall? I’m this close to hating it.

There is only one thing which keeps me from absolutely hating fall: the color of the leaves. The amazing reds and oranges and yellows. The last act of the nature before closing the curtains. The last medley song of the album before the end of record. The last high note of the singer before the end of opera.

That’s the only thing which catches my eyes and asks for my patience for the next spring, since in a couple of weeks the leaves will all die and the trees will be all naked. And then I’ll be longing for the spring again. Alongside the trees.

***

*The title is borrowed from a movie by the same name.

**The picture was taken in Mont-Tremblant, QC, Canada, last october.

"All I wanna say is that/ they don't really care about us..."

They came one morning, with their yellow safety hard hats and big boots. The decision was strange, "The soil around this area is contaminated, and has to be replaced."

To our much surprise, the big old trees were all cut. We joked, "Maybe the institute is out of budget and they are going to burn wood this winter to keep us warm!!". Big machines started digging around the building. Serious concerns came up, "If it’s this contaminated, how about us? What are we doing here?". In time intervals of morning to noon, between my changing shoes and going to the lab to coming back for lunch, there was a huge hole by my window. Small and big machines were coming and going and the hole got bigger and bigger. "Maybe we are all contaminated and considered a threat to the city, and they want to bury us all within the institute…Should I check to see if the main doors are locked?". In matter of a couple of days, bigger machines started to fill up the hole.

As funny as it sounds, there were huge holes being dug and filled. Sitting here by the window and analyzing my experiments results, I’m thinking that I’m not worried about the contamination, or the energy sources for this winter, or the building to fall apart. I’m worried about the little groundhog family who lives across the field from my office. They used to come out every day together, picnicking on the grass, chewing on the leaves and the yellow small flowers. And believe me, they were not showing the slightest sign of being contaminated, with their big happy cheeks and round bellies…
I hope they are still there, safe and not panicked. Maybe I should check on them when these machines are all gone.

The sum of all fears

I am waiting for the bus after a long day of work, and looking inside my bag for my bus-pass. A car passes by and from the corner of my eyes, I have a quick short glimpse of the car: a police vehicle. In a fraction of a second, my hand goes to my head to manage my scarf on my hair. I laugh at myself; silly me! This vehicle still intimidates me after all these years. I get on the bus and sit by the window. Somehow, something doesn’t quite feel right, and then suddenly, like the sudden beats of the bass drum at the end of a dark symphony, the horror begins.

I guess the image of the police vehicle and my hand automatically going for my scarf, has stimulated my brain center for the fear and related memories. Series of images, all dark and scary, start marching in front of my eyes…, the fear of a 4-year old getting lost in the street, the fear of a 9-year old sitting alone in the dark comforting her 2-year old brother and worrying for their parents, the fear of a 15-year old being assaulted in the bus while riding home from school, fear of a 20-year old being arrested for hiking with her friends; and the constant strong nightmare of being beaten and begging her to stop…

The former ones appear and disappear quickly, but the latter one stays, and stays, and stays…She is beating and I’m crying "Don’t!". I push the headphones inside my ears and turn up the music. Josh Groban singing "perché, perché…?" doesn’t help either. She is still beating and I’m running away, still begging her to stop. My tears are right behind my eyes and just about to drop. With difficulty seeing through them, I change the album, find "Shahram Shabpareh", turn it up some more, and by the next bus stop, I almost drop myself into one of my favorite places, the cozy little farmers market close to my place. She is still chasing me and I’m still running and begging. I try to focus on what I want to cook for dinner. Shahram is shouting in my ear and I’m taking deep breaths and smelling the melons, the peaches, the strawberries...and finally, the image starts fading away.

And then it’s gone…Whew! Just about time.

With a bag filled with fruits, and a recipe for dinner in my head, I walk towards home, and try to push the whole experience under the cover of “oh-it-was-that-time-of-the-month-again”. Although, somewhere deep in my heart, I know this is not true. The images keep coming back every now and then, to haunt me again. I’d better keep my ipod handy…

...نمیشه غصه ما رو، یه لحظه تنها بذاره

"The death can come to me at any time…although as long as I can live, I shouldn’t long for death. Of course if by any chance I’ll have to face it, which is inevitable, it won’t be a big deal. The most important thing is how my life or death, affects other’s lives…"
Samad Behrangi; teacher, writer

***

Thank you Mr. Noori for affecting many Iranian’s lives. Thanks for creating such wonderful moments and memories for us. Thanks for being there with us on our road trips. Thanks for being there for me when I was head to toe in love and in the mood only for too romantic songs. Thanks for being there for me, when I miss my family.
Thanks for bringing back to life many of the old folklore songs. Thanks for your deep, powerful, lovely voice, and your great taste in music. Thank you for being you, and living such a fruitful life.
I, for one, will always sing your songs to myself; when I drive, when I love, when I’m nostalgic.
I’m sure your voice will stay alive long after you.
May your soul rest in peace…

*Enjoy his great performance: Jeyran.

The metamorphosis

The grey lizard was crawling on the wall. Listening to its stomach growling and looking around, it saw a cockroach… "Mmmm! I’m soooo hungry."

"Hello, cockroach! How are you? Are you up for a referendum?"

The cockroach looked suspicious, "What are the options?"

"Well, since I’m hungry, and I care so much for democracy, I think we should vote to see if I can eat you for lunch or not."

"Stupid lizard! I’m bigger than your mouth. And I vote no!", the cockroach turned around to leave.

"No, no, I’m starving. How can you see me starving and walk away?"

"Helloooo! You want to eat me, and I should care for your hunger? Go look for a small mosquito."

The lizard looked around to find any other lizards on the wall. "No, wait. Let’s ask those green lizards there. Hey guys! I’m all for democracy. You vote. Should I eat this cockroach? Yes?"

The green lizards gathered around. "Cockroach? Ew! We only eat mosquitoes and small bugs. What did this poor cockroach do to you? No, we vote no."

The big grey lizard was getting angry. "What kind of lizards are you? Don’t defend this ugly creature. Go away. I shouldn’t have asked you in first place.", and angrily hit one of the smallest ones with its big tail. They started shouting and talking all at the same time. Some debating what to do with the injured one and the big grey lizard, the others complaining. "What a wall! They ask you whether or not to eat a cockroach – imagine!- and they don’t even care about your taste. Let’s leave and go to another wall."

The big grey lizard looked for the cockroach who was going away. "Where are you going? This is not finished yet. Hey, look! Some more lizards. Let’s ask them as the last group."
There were all different colors, some pale green, some with grey spots, some grey. "Hey guys! We are voting. Should I eat this cockroach, since I’m hungry?" The crowd murmured. 'We don’t know! Why do you ask us? What do we care? None of our business anyways.'
The grey lizard said temptingly, "But if you vote for me, I’ll give you a share too.'
The crowd seemed more interested. A couple of voices said 'Yes! Let’s eat."

The lizard didn’t wait any longer. It grabbed the back leg of the cockroach who was running away, "No other choices. Sorry! See, it’s democracy. They voted for eating you too." and took a bite. More and more lizards gathered around, busy biting and chewing on the poor cockroach. Some looked away, but keeping close to see what will remain.

Where was I in all this? Well I was in the room, looking and listening, which made sense since I was asleep and dreaming. Then once they started eating the cockroach, I felt disgusted. "Aaah! I feel like throwing up. Let’s go to another dream." I told myself. Walking away from the wall of the lizards, I saw a mirror beside the door. Looking inside to sort my hair out for the next dream, I gasped. A big lizard was looking back at me from inside the mirror…

For my Dance partner of 15 years...

We, the Method actors*

There are moments in which I open my eyes and ask myself, who is this person portraying me as me?... Then I remember; I am literally living through the characters I create, as many other people.

For me, it started pretty soon…maybe in school, when I learned that in order to "fit in", I had to behave/talk/act in a certain way. Later on in university, at work, and among the people around myself and in the society, most of my encounters confirmed my early impressions. I had to create more and more different characters and act as them, to be accepted. The number of characters became so many that sometimes I had to struggle to come out and be "me" again, even when I was with myself. At the end of the day, there were very few people in my life with whom I could and I chose to be myself. There were fewer people who decided to be themselves, when they were with me.

The day my mother told me, after we had a long conversation, that she couldn’t recognize me anymore, was a very painful day. Not because I was playing any characters when I was talking to her. But because I had decided to be myself, my plain self, and she couldn’t/didn’t want to recognize me. She preferred the made up character much better. Then I put on my mask, acted as the character she was used to see, and she felt safe again.

Problem was, my heart broke to pieces that day. One very important person was off my list….

***
*Method actors are often characterized as immersing themselves in their characters to the extent that they continue to portray them even offstage or off-camera for the duration of a project (Wikipedia).

The confessions of a cold-hearted murderer...

I guess I have killed the medicine ball, finally!

You see, it was not my fault. I can safely say it was self-defense. Doesn’t matter if every one says a ball is incapable of harming people. They don’t know this ball. I knew it.

Since the very first day that it came to our life, it didn’t like me. In fact, it even hated me. Mr. Alchemist had seen it in the store, bought it, brought it home, and filled it with air. Since that very first moment the ball turned happily towards him, played around his feet and carried him kindly when he leaned on the ball. Then came my turn. I leaned on the ball and it just threw me away! I couldn’t believe it. After Mr. Alchemist stopped laughing at me, he tried to demonstrate the exercise again, which felt like a charm. Smooth and easy. As soon as I went for the ball, it escaped, rolled over, and threw me again.

It didn’t stop there. At nights, I could hear the ball coming towards me, I would open my eyes very slowly, and the ball was just there, doing nothing, but I could swear it was closer to me than before. Sometimes I would squeeze in under an edge of a chair, or behind a stand. It would wait and wait, and when I was alone in the room, ironing or folding the laundry, would release itself and rushed to run over me…pretty creepy stuff, I know. But believe me, I was scared for my life. Specially that Mr. Alchemist thought I was paranoid. Whom could I turn to? 911? “Hello sir, our medicine ball is trying to kill me. I can feel it.”?

So I decided to take action. I waited for the right moment. Last week, an extermination of bed bugs was supposed to be done in our building. The preparation process required everything to be packed in big plastic bags. And there it was, the right moment. I put on my most innocent smile on a kind face, and with a cold heart, pulled the largest thickest plastic bag over the medicine ball. We left for the day, and by the time we went back home at night, the apartment smelt terrible, well, with all that poison and closed windows. Since then, I haven’t heard anything from the ball. I guess I have killed the ball, finally…

***
*In the anniversary of what happened last june in my country, with all my sorrow and desperation for I cannot do anything, with all the anger and sadness for the hopes that died away, this was the only thing I could do, to kill something, something, something...

I, a damn musician thief, and Karma

My santurs are stolen… all three of them.

I used to play santur when I was back in Iran. I didn’t show any extraordinary talent for it, but I was considered a good player. I had performed in a bunch of concerts and most of the time, at home, for myself. When I got married, the apartment was too small to play santur in it, and besides, we moved to Canada after a short period of time. I left my santurs behind.

There were three of them. Two were mine, different qualities. The third I had inherited from a late beloved family member. It was of great quality, very dear to me since the late uncle had played it. Every time I had a trip back home, I would sit behind it and play whatever song which was still lingering in my memory. The sound would still make my heart to skip a beat.

I decided that this time, when I go back home, I’ll bring one of them with me. I missed the sound and the songs. So I asked my father a couple of weeks ago to take them out of the storage room, have them tuned to pitch, give the first two for charity, and keep my inherited one to bring it with myself if I make it back home this year. Last week, he said that when he was taking them to get tuned; they were stolen. All three of them.

I was of course angry, I asked my father if he had reported to the police and he laughed at me, “Dear, they don’t care when much bigger things get lost in this country, let alone your santurs”. Then I was disappointed. I was sad, very sad. And I felt also a bit guilty, which was strange. Why did I feel guilty?

Then I figured it out. I was taking “Cause and Action” for “the order of happenings”. You see, for me, as a person who does not believe in any religion anymore, and at the same time is tending toward finding some meaning or pattern in the surrounding incidents, it is an old habit to relate one phenomenon to another. I was feeling that I had turned my back to my music instruments. I had turned my back at them and they had left me. Simple as that.

Then I shook my head: I am not the center of the universe. It has nothing to do with me and my decisions for life. The universe/life/nature goes its own way, and not everything is related to me. There may be some coincidences, but not everything is a consequence of my actions. There has been some carelessness, and a damn smart thief involved.

Honestly, it still keeps me busy thinking, how true and wide is Karma? I can see so many cases in which Karma doesn’t seem to exist at all, and some cases that can be very well explained by that. Is it true that absolutely everything which comes aroundis the result something which went around ? Then why sometimes it isn't? How many of the surrounding incidents are meaningless, merely “incidents”?
I am coming very close to believing that even if there is a pattern, I am not intelligent enough to find it. Maybe no one is intelligent enough to find it. It gets more and more obvious and clear to me, no one can broadcast their manifests “we know how the world works”. No one knows people, no one knows.

At the end, the matter of fact is, whatever the pattern, meaningless or meaningful, Karma or not, my santurs are gone. And I will forever miss them…

I...have a dream!

I should correct this: we have a dream.

It all started on a cold grey December day. My father had some errands to run and asked me to accompany him, what better than some quality father-daughter time? Somewhere between the grocery shopping and the bank, he called my brother and offered that we could pick him up from university as well, "we are going home soon anyways and you won’t need to take the bus". What my brother and I didn’t foresee was this old habit of my father, who likes to use us as the "safety lock" for the car, and the back up driver when there is no parking spot, "Sit behind the wheel, and watch out for the police. If you see one, just drive ahead. I’ll find you." So at some point he left us in the car to meet someone, "it will only take 10 minutes. Watch out for the police..."

It was already mid-afternoon and we were both very hungry. It was a windy day and we were too tired to get off and look for something to eat or drink. We just sat there and started munching on some dried fruits I always carry around. He started complaining first.

"I hate it when he uses me as the safety lock in the car. Had I known he wanted to leave us like this, I would have gone home by bus", he took another handful of raisins.
"I know, don’t forget that I was the safety lock before you!" I reminded him with a grin.
"No, really! Sometimes I’d like to ask him why do you always do this?" he groaned.
"If you get a chance, ask him why he thinks he is the one who has to offer everyone his service. And while you’re at it, ask mother why she acts as if she knows everything."
He got excited, "you know what, I wish we could have arranged a gathering and ask people our questions."
"Like uncle N! why are you always angry?"
"Or aunt Z! why are you so greedy?"
"Hey Mr. S! why don’t you want your photo to be taken?"
"Dear R! why are you so unbearably spoiled?"
"Hey F! why are you so hypocritical?"

By this time we were laughing uncontrollably. He said, "Oh I wish we could have also invited some big names from the upper levels in the society and ask them some questions."
"Uh! Tell me about it. I would have asked…"

(Well, we did list the people and the questions we wanted to ask them, but I leave it to your own imagination!)

"You know what? We should invite them all to the big stadium. We will have too many people to ask "why"."
"Then we can have the VIP section for the dead, and a super VIP as well; why not bring up god as the special guest?"

The door opened and my father rushed into the car. "Don’t you see the policeman getting close? He is two cars behind us. If I hadn’t seen him, we would have got a ticket. Why were you two not watching? What are you laughing at?"

Well, we didn’t get the ticket, but we both had stomach ache, since we'd laughed our guts out. But, that hilarious dream somehow stuck around somewhere in our heads. Even now, when we talk over the phone, every now and then we add someone new to the list of the invited guests to that big stadium and we ask them "why…?"

The requiem

"We don't, we don't, we don't wanna die!" they said,
"You are the enemies, the enemies, the public enemies!" they were told.
They said it humbly, just so humbly,
and they were killed simply, so very simply.
And their death was so despised, so cheap,
that any effort to live,
seemed so painfully stupid,
as a rough, tough, quite bitter journey
through a rather complicated labyrinthine maze,
seeking nihility…


***
*This is my take/translation of a poem with the same name from a great poet of our recent history, Ahmad Shamloo. It's been playing in my head over and over recently...

For the five senses and more...

- The sight of the bus coming on a snowy windy cold grey day after work, and those empty seats...
- The sound of pigeons on an early morning...
- The smell of dried mint on the cucumber-tomato salad...
- The taste of butter and honey on bread, followed by a sip of sweetened tea...
- The touch of grandma’s hands, stroking your hair...
- The moment of vernal equinox...

Cuba, the warm country of warm-hearted people...

Wanna travel to another world? Go to Cuba!

Well it’s not quite another world. However, this warm nice beautiful piece of earth with its beaches, the deep blue of the Caribbean sea, its bright sun and its special people has been my exit from the everyday routine of life, already twice. If we decide to forget about all the worries and deadlines, and just take one week off life, Cuba is our special getaway. One week of warmth, quite, laziness…let’s get lost on the island!

But the whole “all-inclusive”ness of this trip aside, the Cubans amaze me. These not wealthy people have such rich souls. They are constantly singing, dancing, and looking happy. At least from what I observed, and I didn’t stay only at the resort. I went inside the cities, where the tours usually don’t take you. You cannot believe your eyes when you see the ruins in which people live. Not even caricatures of houses, literally ruins. A big metal/brick/cement cube, with square holes as the windows and a rectangular one as the door. Amazingly, this cube is colored: pink, green, blue, beige. From these cubes, come out girls, dressed in bright colors, beautiful and well figured, make up on face and nail polish (if not artificial cosmetic nails) on hands. Man and woman, cheerful and smiley, they wave at you or the other neighbor. You pass the door, not believing your eyes and sneaking a peek inside; there are flowers in a broken vase on an old table…

There are new apartment buildings though, and new cars. From what I understood, the car and the apartment are one’s property for life. Meaning that they are inherited and cannot be bought and sold, although people do it illegally. That’s why most of the cars on the road are left from the 40s and 50s. If you have enough money to buy a new car, or one of the newly built apartments by the government, first you have to prove where and how you earned this money. Then, you’ll have the car/apartment, and it’s yours for life again.

People are very smart, educated and most of them brilliant. There are doctors, dentists, scientists, engineers, who earn decent money, which means buying a pair of shoes can still cost one month of salary. That’s why so many of them turn to careers in tourism. At least there are "tips", and although they have to change the cash tips for their own money – again, so that "they" know how much one has earned – there are often other things: new and used clothes and shoes, toothbrush and toothpaste, soap and razor. Believe it or not, these are not easily available in stores for public. There are shares for each family, and the qualities are not so good. So they welcome the tips, though with such pride and greatness, that I haven’t seen in any other culture, so far. Least of all in my own people. Their reaction to the tips is someone’s reaction to a gift: thankful, righteous and proud. They don’t even dislike these rich lazy fancy-living tourists. Something I’m sure I would have definitely had, would I have been in their shoes. They live their lives fully, take advantage of the kind, drunk, in-a-state-of-peace-with-earth generous tourists, smile and enjoy the rest of the day; working or not, singing and dancing.

This distance I see between their attitude towards life and ours (as in easterners) is very interesting and in my opinion can be a subject of social studies. Why is it that in east, we tend to get more introverted, get depressed, and even expressing ourselves in poems and metaphores, and these people with their difficult lifestyles are so happy and joyful inside and out? Don't get me wrong, I'm not saying they are numb or don't see the differences between their lives and others', or they don't object any of the decisions which are made for them from up there in the system. In fact, the new generation have started showing "some" dissatisfaction which shows up gradually, very gradually in the system. What I mean is, some ego-culture-histori-geographical difference which I can easily observe between their and my own people's attitude towards life and its difficulties.

Thinking about all these differences, I close my eyes and enjoy the sunny beach with its pleasant see breeze...before I open my eyes and check the weather outside: grey, cloudy, cold and rainy. Good thing I took 500+ pictures :)

Back to the present!

There are days in which all you can do is just keep breathing…
and breathing…
and breathing…
and after a while, you notice that you are living in the present, right now, neither regretting the past, nor worrying about the future. Too bad this doesn’t take long and you usually get back to your old self.

2009 was a strange year, so strange that it even dragged the weirdness with itself to 2010. It was the year of hopes which crashed to pieces, dreams which turned into nightmares, excitements which turned to nervousness. More than anything, it was the year of struggle.
I, and many others around me or close to my heart, had to struggle; to achieve some natural right; to keep some dreams alive; sometimes even to live.

I fought stubbornly at work. Too bad I couldn’t change my job; there were more than a couple of factors involved. The equation couldn’t be solved easily. The breath-taking fight led to an article in the end, although I was so tired that I couldn’t even enjoy the fruit of my plant.

Friendship was another major issue in my life during the last 15 months. It was one of the main subjects of my observations and thoughts. I found friends, lost friends, met friends, missed friends, made friendships, broke up some ties. I watched my friends going through struggles of their own. I watched friends of my friends, their relatives, and the strangers. I watched people of my country struggling. It was a dark era. I’m not going to write about it here and now... maybe some other time.

But then, in the middle of all this, I somehow survived. I went through the five stages of grief for my lost hopes and ruined plans: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. I screamed and wept, worried and panicked, complained and nagged. Neither got anywhere, so I simply stopped. Now I look at the last 15 months as another part of my life. Nothing major has changed. Nothing big has happened. There is only one thing: since I’ve lost hope, I live much easier.