“War is not merely a political act, but also a real political instrument, a continuation of political commerce, a carrying out of the same by other means. All beyond this which is strictly peculiar to War relates merely to the peculiar nature of the means which it uses. That the tendencies and views of policy shall not be incompatible with these means, the Art of War in general and the Commander in each particular case may demand, and this claim is truly not a trifling one. But however powerfully this may react on political views in particular cases, still it must always be regarded as only a modification of them; for the political view is the object, War is the means, and the means must always include the object in our conception.” (Carl Von Clausewitz 1780-1831)
I was about to start my night shift when I received his email. After all regular stuff that is repeated in every email, he asked about some old stories that I had not even remembered them. Some crappy family stories from 40 years ago when none of us was even on the earth.
Why is he concerned about these issues, the stuffs that he didn’t take part in any of them?
“…I want to know what did happen when your dad was in Seattle. Why did their relationship change dramatically after they met each other in Portland?...”
I don’t fucking give a shit why. They are two adults and responsible for their own deeds. I’ve not got a clue.
And just look at it:
“…I believe this is our job to find what happened on that summer. This is part of our heritage…”
Heritage!? Do you call that shit heritage? I don’t even consider our 300 years family documentations as heritage…
Nima calls it the book of “Who shagged who” and my father always looks at him irritatingly
I think this guy is too American…
I don’t really know how I should answer him. How could I explain him something that I don’t know or if I used to know I don’t remember it anymore?
I have my own problems.
I am sure he is in front of the screen, smoking cigarettes after cigarettes and checking his email every 30 seconds; although, I haven’t met him in my life.
But I know he is a chain smoker, pretty much like me.
I also know that he was in the first Gulf war in 1990, but he served in Saudi Arabia, in a camp which was exploded two years after.
They said that the explosion was made by Iranian IRGC. No one has proved it yet.
I know other stuff about him as well. For instance, I know once in 1987 he left the house and no one heard about him for three months. After three months he called his mom and informed her that he got married, living in Montana.
Montana?! Yes, Montana.
Four months after he came back home on Thanksgiving Day. His father didn’t talk to him for two months.
Then for his birthday he bought him a pickup truck and told him: Happy Birthday.
Happy Birthday too daddy!!...
Because they were born in a same day; with 35 years difference though.
Sometimes, I am thinking this guy is not only in a kind of identity dilemma but also his genes are in paradox too. I mean his cells, his organs.
But you can say all of us may have such a physical paradox. For instance I do have paradox between my brain and my heart or even when I am drunk between my legs and tongue. But I think his case is a real one, not a Mickey Mousy stuff.
I can imagine him lighting up another cigarette, standing, going toward the hi-fi and turn the volume up. It should be after his work.
He is working from 7:00 AM to 4:30PM. That’s why he is still dependant to his dad financially.
I can imagine him now going in front of Tele, sitting down beside Emily. Emily is asking:
- Has he replied?
- Not yet.
- OK, it is late in UK now. He is sleeping.
- No, he is living like a rat.
- But rats can also sleep.
Emily, as every one said, is a nice blond Californian girl. They met each other in UCLA after the Montana story and Gulf war, I think in 1993.
I can imagine her chubby legs on the table, changing the channels on the Tele and she is now stopping on Fox News.
I think Fox News, because she voted for G.W. Bush as his dad did.
“And finally from Tehran, Iran — Iran's military said Tuesday it has manufactured a new missile with a range of 1,200 miles capable of reaching Israel and U.S. bases across the Mideast, the official news agency IRNA reported. The defense minister, Gen. Mostafa Mohammad Najjar, did not say whether Iran had test fired the Ashoura or had plans to do so…”
- It is all bullshit.. Change this shit. They want to send us to a new war. If they attack Iran I will burn myself in front of the White fucking House. They can’t do it. There are 2 million Persians just in California. We don’t let them to invade our country.
Emily is changing the channel unwillingly.
He is standing again, going behind the computer and checking his email….Still nothing, nothing as nothing…
He is lighting another cigarette. He is thinking, perhaps, that I am not taking his email seriously.
- I am not in their game. I am simply not in. They don’t let me know. He was my last hope. But he is the same, absolutely the same. They don’t consider me as one of them. I have the same blood. But they don't want to believe it, because I just can’t talk the language. But what could I do? My dad has never taught me.
He is whispering with himself.
- Come on honey. Let’s go to Music Pub. Today is fusion night.
Emily is saying
She is right...9215 W Olympic Blvd, Beverly Hills, CA is just in walking distance. Go man, go…Don't kill your time like this.
Kill it like that...
He is turning back and Emily can see a couple of tears on his chin.
- OK, I am calling Julie and Dean to join us. I think Dean is working till late but Julie is off today.
She is going to pick the phone and give a call to Julie. He is checking his email again.
- Nothing, still nothing…
He is lighting another cigarette, sinking in the sofa, staring at the computer screen and floating in his dreams about his identity.
“…In Tehran, Gen. Mohammed Ali Jafari, the head of the Revolutionary Guards, warned against growing pressure on his country in comments obliquely directed toward Washington. The ocean of the Iranian nation may sometimes look calm but if it becomes stormy it will create tsunamis, Jafari said...”
Emily is turning the Tele off and looking at him from the corner of the living room anxiously. She is so worried for him and of course for herself.
She is pregnant.
Friday 30 November 2007
Monday 26 November 2007
Photo threat
"... Farzad is right. Put on a dog photo on your profile! or should I send you a picture from our school trip in 1996?!..." Part of a friend's message in facebook (19 November 2007)
1.
There is something invisible, like a hand, which I cannot see, but I can feel, I can comprehend. It pushes me this way and that.
2.
Okay! Raise your head a little. Open up your eyebrows. Smile. Look into the camera. I’ll count to three. Be careful not to move. Otherwise your portrait will be no good. Ready! One, two, three…
3.
Two nights later, he was going up the stairs of the photo shop to collect his photo. He was playing in his hand the receipt given to him by the photographer. He remembered that two nights earlier the photographer had asked,
—Your name? And he had given his name.
—Regular six by four? How about a postcard size as well? And he had answered,
—Just one... as a sample.
—It’ll be ready the day after tomorrow... eight in the evening.
Before opening the door, he looked at his watch and saw that it was already past eight. He whispered to himself,
—It must definitely be ready by now.
The photographer’s assistant, who was sitting at a desk, stood up for him. He sat down on a chair after. He looked at the assistant without recognition.
—It would seem that he’s not in?
—Yes... yes... he was here just now.
—This receipt...
He took the receipt out of his pocket and put it on the desk. The photographer’s assistant picked it up read it and said respectfully:
—Yes, sir, it’s for tonight…But you have to wait for him to come.
He was about to say, “I’m terribly busy”. He only managed to say, “I’m terrible …” and sank into the chair. He found it better to busy himself with something. He started to turn the pages of an album.... He asked again,
—Isn’t he coming?
—Of course he is. In a few minutes...
He made himself busy looking at the photographs on the wall.
4.
After a quarter of an hour, the photographer arrived.
—Welcome, sir.
And to his assistant:
—Has the gentleman been here too long?
And again to him:
—I’ll give them to you right now.
He rose from the chair, and went to the desk. The photographer took the photo from his workshop:
—Let me see, are they here? Yes, there they are.
He held out his hand and took the photos. He took a look at them, and then said:
—Not these. You’ve made a mistake.
—How come? What do you mean... ?
—You’ve made a mistake. I don’t have a moustache; these photos have a moustache... Besides, I don’t wear a hat.
The photographer took the photos. He looked at them carefully, and then at his face:
—Strange... but they resemble you very much.
—Resemble? I don’t see much resemblance...
The photographer hesitated a little. His assistant had left a while before (he had found it better to leave because he did not know what to do). He went into the workshop, took another bunch of photos and put them on the desk. While examining, he was whispering:
—Couldn’t be these.
They were photos of a girl.
—And not these.
Of a woman.
—Nor this.
Of a child.
—This?
He looked at the photo and the man:
—This one’s very much like you. Hasn’t got a hat... But still it’s got a moustache.
He bent his head forward:
—Let me see... No hat...
And he added:
—What do you mean, it’s very much like you? How could I think that’s my photo? Can’t I see my own face? Can’t I remember what it looks like? Don’t you have an order number to make sure the photos don’t get lost? Don’t you put numbers on them?
—Yes... We attach numbers to them, and we do have an order number. But what’s to be done with a careless assistant? It’s this assistant’s problem. He’s mixed them all up. For example, look at this: there are three series of photos all having the same number as on your receipt... What a mistake to employ an assistant after all these years! As if he’s on drugs or in love... He hasn't got a clue...
—What am I to do then? How long have I have to wait here, Mr. Photographer?
The photographer was still examining the photos.
—Not these.
It was the picture of a historic monument.
—Aha... that’s it.
He grabbed the photo.
—How could you say that’s it? There’s nothing about it that looks like me. I have never worn a jacket like that.
The photographer sat down:
—It’s not my business anymore. Maybe you had a jacket like that two days ago, and have changed it since.
—Impossible.
The photographer stood up again. He mouned:
—We don’t have any other photos here. It must be one of these...
He pushed his teeth together. After he calmed down a little, he said:
—These aren’t my photos. Six six-in-four photos and a postcard size, you’ve received the money, you have to give it to me...
The photographer put the photos before him.
—There you are, sir. There’s no reason to get angry. I really don’t understand. All three look like you, they’re your photos. One with moustache and a hat, one with moustache and without a hat, and one without moustache and without a hat. You can pick whichever you like.
—Whichever I like? What’s it got to do with liking? Mr. Photographer! You’re either nuts or trying to make fun of me. Haven’t you ever had customers? Don’t you have a job or life? Where on earth when someone goes to collect his photos, is he given three different photos, made a fool of, told that all three are your photos, pick whichever you like? Were you blind two days ago when you took my photo? I neither had a moustache, nor a hat and my jacket was not like this.
The photographer was angry. He rubbed his hands together and tried to keep himself calm. he replied:
—It’s all true, all logical, I agree. I swear to God that it’s all the fault of this stupid, foolish assistant who’s mixed them all up; who’s confused the numbers. Otherwise, I would’ve given you your photos at once, without all this fuss and argument. But I’m totally astonished at how much these three photos look like you. As if it’s you yourself. I really don’t know if they belong to you or someone else look like you... I don’t know what’s happened to your photo... How is it possible? ... How couldn’t you recognize your own face?
—Could you recognize it yourself?
—Why not? Just show me a photo of myself, no matter when it’s been taken, and I’ll tell you whether it’s mine or not. I’m amazed?...
—Amazed? Are all the people in the world have to recognize their own pictures? Now you’re a photographer, it’s your profession. But which hen could recognize its own egg? Look how they cheat people... how they waste their time for three or four days, keep them from their life and business, and then answer like this...
The photographer was about to explode. He took a mirror out of his pocket and gave it to him.
—It’s quite easy. Look! See if you look like these photos or not.
He took the mirror and looked into it. And then, holding the mirror in his hand, he sat on the chair. He was whispering below his breath.
And then he suddenly gave the mirror to the photographer, held his head in his hands, pressing it. The photographer asked in a low voice:
—You see?
He stood up. He walked to the desk again. He picked up the photos, looked at them, and gave them to the photographer. The photographer said:
—If you wait, the owners of these photos will come. It’s not bad to get known to your look-alikes.
He moved towards the door:
—It’s all bullshit. None of them are my photos. It’s not clear what’s happened to my real photo. Maybe you didn’t take my picture at all. Go to hell with your photo shop.
When he left, the photographer started walking round the room like a mad.
—Oh God, I’m getting crazy. How could he not recognize himself? How come all these photos looked like him? I’m about... I want to throw myself out of the window.
His assistant came back:
—Did he get his photos? I saw him going into the photo shop opposite here.
5.
There is something invisible, like a hand, which I cannot see, but I can feel, I can comprehend. It pushes me this way and that...
1.
There is something invisible, like a hand, which I cannot see, but I can feel, I can comprehend. It pushes me this way and that.
2.
Okay! Raise your head a little. Open up your eyebrows. Smile. Look into the camera. I’ll count to three. Be careful not to move. Otherwise your portrait will be no good. Ready! One, two, three…
3.
Two nights later, he was going up the stairs of the photo shop to collect his photo. He was playing in his hand the receipt given to him by the photographer. He remembered that two nights earlier the photographer had asked,
—Your name? And he had given his name.
—Regular six by four? How about a postcard size as well? And he had answered,
—Just one... as a sample.
—It’ll be ready the day after tomorrow... eight in the evening.
Before opening the door, he looked at his watch and saw that it was already past eight. He whispered to himself,
—It must definitely be ready by now.
The photographer’s assistant, who was sitting at a desk, stood up for him. He sat down on a chair after. He looked at the assistant without recognition.
—It would seem that he’s not in?
—Yes... yes... he was here just now.
—This receipt...
He took the receipt out of his pocket and put it on the desk. The photographer’s assistant picked it up read it and said respectfully:
—Yes, sir, it’s for tonight…But you have to wait for him to come.
He was about to say, “I’m terribly busy”. He only managed to say, “I’m terrible …” and sank into the chair. He found it better to busy himself with something. He started to turn the pages of an album.... He asked again,
—Isn’t he coming?
—Of course he is. In a few minutes...
He made himself busy looking at the photographs on the wall.
4.
After a quarter of an hour, the photographer arrived.
—Welcome, sir.
And to his assistant:
—Has the gentleman been here too long?
And again to him:
—I’ll give them to you right now.
He rose from the chair, and went to the desk. The photographer took the photo from his workshop:
—Let me see, are they here? Yes, there they are.
He held out his hand and took the photos. He took a look at them, and then said:
—Not these. You’ve made a mistake.
—How come? What do you mean... ?
—You’ve made a mistake. I don’t have a moustache; these photos have a moustache... Besides, I don’t wear a hat.
The photographer took the photos. He looked at them carefully, and then at his face:
—Strange... but they resemble you very much.
—Resemble? I don’t see much resemblance...
The photographer hesitated a little. His assistant had left a while before (he had found it better to leave because he did not know what to do). He went into the workshop, took another bunch of photos and put them on the desk. While examining, he was whispering:
—Couldn’t be these.
They were photos of a girl.
—And not these.
Of a woman.
—Nor this.
Of a child.
—This?
He looked at the photo and the man:
—This one’s very much like you. Hasn’t got a hat... But still it’s got a moustache.
He bent his head forward:
—Let me see... No hat...
And he added:
—What do you mean, it’s very much like you? How could I think that’s my photo? Can’t I see my own face? Can’t I remember what it looks like? Don’t you have an order number to make sure the photos don’t get lost? Don’t you put numbers on them?
—Yes... We attach numbers to them, and we do have an order number. But what’s to be done with a careless assistant? It’s this assistant’s problem. He’s mixed them all up. For example, look at this: there are three series of photos all having the same number as on your receipt... What a mistake to employ an assistant after all these years! As if he’s on drugs or in love... He hasn't got a clue...
—What am I to do then? How long have I have to wait here, Mr. Photographer?
The photographer was still examining the photos.
—Not these.
It was the picture of a historic monument.
—Aha... that’s it.
He grabbed the photo.
—How could you say that’s it? There’s nothing about it that looks like me. I have never worn a jacket like that.
The photographer sat down:
—It’s not my business anymore. Maybe you had a jacket like that two days ago, and have changed it since.
—Impossible.
The photographer stood up again. He mouned:
—We don’t have any other photos here. It must be one of these...
He pushed his teeth together. After he calmed down a little, he said:
—These aren’t my photos. Six six-in-four photos and a postcard size, you’ve received the money, you have to give it to me...
The photographer put the photos before him.
—There you are, sir. There’s no reason to get angry. I really don’t understand. All three look like you, they’re your photos. One with moustache and a hat, one with moustache and without a hat, and one without moustache and without a hat. You can pick whichever you like.
—Whichever I like? What’s it got to do with liking? Mr. Photographer! You’re either nuts or trying to make fun of me. Haven’t you ever had customers? Don’t you have a job or life? Where on earth when someone goes to collect his photos, is he given three different photos, made a fool of, told that all three are your photos, pick whichever you like? Were you blind two days ago when you took my photo? I neither had a moustache, nor a hat and my jacket was not like this.
The photographer was angry. He rubbed his hands together and tried to keep himself calm. he replied:
—It’s all true, all logical, I agree. I swear to God that it’s all the fault of this stupid, foolish assistant who’s mixed them all up; who’s confused the numbers. Otherwise, I would’ve given you your photos at once, without all this fuss and argument. But I’m totally astonished at how much these three photos look like you. As if it’s you yourself. I really don’t know if they belong to you or someone else look like you... I don’t know what’s happened to your photo... How is it possible? ... How couldn’t you recognize your own face?
—Could you recognize it yourself?
—Why not? Just show me a photo of myself, no matter when it’s been taken, and I’ll tell you whether it’s mine or not. I’m amazed?...
—Amazed? Are all the people in the world have to recognize their own pictures? Now you’re a photographer, it’s your profession. But which hen could recognize its own egg? Look how they cheat people... how they waste their time for three or four days, keep them from their life and business, and then answer like this...
The photographer was about to explode. He took a mirror out of his pocket and gave it to him.
—It’s quite easy. Look! See if you look like these photos or not.
He took the mirror and looked into it. And then, holding the mirror in his hand, he sat on the chair. He was whispering below his breath.
And then he suddenly gave the mirror to the photographer, held his head in his hands, pressing it. The photographer asked in a low voice:
—You see?
He stood up. He walked to the desk again. He picked up the photos, looked at them, and gave them to the photographer. The photographer said:
—If you wait, the owners of these photos will come. It’s not bad to get known to your look-alikes.
He moved towards the door:
—It’s all bullshit. None of them are my photos. It’s not clear what’s happened to my real photo. Maybe you didn’t take my picture at all. Go to hell with your photo shop.
When he left, the photographer started walking round the room like a mad.
—Oh God, I’m getting crazy. How could he not recognize himself? How come all these photos looked like him? I’m about... I want to throw myself out of the window.
His assistant came back:
—Did he get his photos? I saw him going into the photo shop opposite here.
5.
There is something invisible, like a hand, which I cannot see, but I can feel, I can comprehend. It pushes me this way and that...
Thursday 22 November 2007
There is a hard rain going to fall
" The UN atomic watchdog said Thursday it was in the dark about Iran's disputed nuclear programme, as its 35-member board seemed divided on how to get Tehran to shed more light on its activities..." VIENNA (AFP), six hours ago
I read this news behind this desk, like most of the news. Regardless if they are good or bad, personal or professional, local or global...
Actually, I have been sitting behind this desk for hours, staring into the darkened of evolving numbers. I love their presence, the gentle way they honor the screen they rest upon; although they vanish in a flash, so early.
What do they realize from life? How do they meet? Why do some survive?
I was kind of ignoring them for a while, like God ignoring his creatures. But they are as nice as before; genuine, honest and simple for the one who know their language.
It doesn't make any difference where a set of evolving numbers is placed in my computer, because nobody ever checks them out and nobody ever comes here to explore them. They are not that kind of numbers. They are another kind of numbers.
They are my numbers...
Sometimes my numbers are singing. But before anyone could hear them, they are dying. I know because I’ve been monitoring them for more than three years.
Three years in my scale means the whole history in their scale.
And someone is paying for it. That’s why I can do it.
I know it's going to rain, although it is near midnight. Clouds have been playing with the blue style of the sky all day long, moving their heavy black wardrobes in, but so far nothing rain has happened.
But tomorrow is going to rain. If not tomorrow, the day after or the days after…My numbers all sang before “There is a hard rain going to fall…”
So I am sure about that...
I turned off my computer and took the way back to my house, which is shared with two builders, one German and one ghost. I knew the path so well that I could do it in the dark; inner or outer doesn’t make any difference. I can walk through the darkness, I did it many times and I am still alive.
As far as I am alive, why do I need to know many things? Is there any morality apart from survival of the fittest?
Another day means another dollar…No dollar means no day...
The dark returning path to my house was made comfortable by thoughts of good times that I had, my unknown future and my numbers sleeping like a photograph somewhere in my computer, which is their local.
How do things work in their local? Is there any kind of Democracy? Are they also worried for the war?
I am about to sleep while so definite about one thing: “There is a hard rain going to fall…”
I read this news behind this desk, like most of the news. Regardless if they are good or bad, personal or professional, local or global...
Actually, I have been sitting behind this desk for hours, staring into the darkened of evolving numbers. I love their presence, the gentle way they honor the screen they rest upon; although they vanish in a flash, so early.
What do they realize from life? How do they meet? Why do some survive?
I was kind of ignoring them for a while, like God ignoring his creatures. But they are as nice as before; genuine, honest and simple for the one who know their language.
It doesn't make any difference where a set of evolving numbers is placed in my computer, because nobody ever checks them out and nobody ever comes here to explore them. They are not that kind of numbers. They are another kind of numbers.
They are my numbers...
Sometimes my numbers are singing. But before anyone could hear them, they are dying. I know because I’ve been monitoring them for more than three years.
Three years in my scale means the whole history in their scale.
And someone is paying for it. That’s why I can do it.
I know it's going to rain, although it is near midnight. Clouds have been playing with the blue style of the sky all day long, moving their heavy black wardrobes in, but so far nothing rain has happened.
But tomorrow is going to rain. If not tomorrow, the day after or the days after…My numbers all sang before “There is a hard rain going to fall…”
So I am sure about that...
I turned off my computer and took the way back to my house, which is shared with two builders, one German and one ghost. I knew the path so well that I could do it in the dark; inner or outer doesn’t make any difference. I can walk through the darkness, I did it many times and I am still alive.
As far as I am alive, why do I need to know many things? Is there any morality apart from survival of the fittest?
Another day means another dollar…No dollar means no day...
The dark returning path to my house was made comfortable by thoughts of good times that I had, my unknown future and my numbers sleeping like a photograph somewhere in my computer, which is their local.
How do things work in their local? Is there any kind of Democracy? Are they also worried for the war?
I am about to sleep while so definite about one thing: “There is a hard rain going to fall…”
Numbers funk
"...This is jut to let you know that I think I am totally in love. At least today I am. :)))))))) (and I reaaaaaally needed to share it!)..." From a friend's email
"...Maybe a better visualization of results can be found in Figure 5-25 which shows the histograms of best parametric convergence for NSGA-II, SCEM and MOSEM regarding RMSE(FDH) through 30 different runs. As can be investigated, for all parametric values, the support of the best parametric histogram related to NSGA-II is smaller than the corresponding one resulted from MOSCEM. Moreover, NSGA-II has more chance in reproducing the most likely best parametric values captured by SCEM comparing to MOSCEM. The same conclusion can be made for other objective functions. Therefore, it can be summarized that NSGA-II is more robust in terms of best parametric convergence than MOSCEM..." A part of my thesis
10...kiss me on the lips
9...Run your fingers to my hair
8...Touch me....Slowly...Slowly
7...Hold it
Let's go straight to number 1
6...Lips
5...Fingers
4...Play
3...
...Slowly
Let's go straight to number 1
"...Maybe a better visualization of results can be found in Figure 5-25 which shows the histograms of best parametric convergence for NSGA-II, SCEM and MOSEM regarding RMSE(FDH) through 30 different runs. As can be investigated, for all parametric values, the support of the best parametric histogram related to NSGA-II is smaller than the corresponding one resulted from MOSCEM. Moreover, NSGA-II has more chance in reproducing the most likely best parametric values captured by SCEM comparing to MOSCEM. The same conclusion can be made for other objective functions. Therefore, it can be summarized that NSGA-II is more robust in terms of best parametric convergence than MOSCEM..." A part of my thesis
10...kiss me on the lips
9...Run your fingers to my hair
8...Touch me....Slowly...Slowly
7...Hold it
Let's go straight to number 1
6...Lips
5...Fingers
4...Play
3...
...Slowly
Let's go straight to number 1
Thursday 15 November 2007
5:10 PM
Tripped...Ejaculated....Wiped out...
A female smell just a couple of feets far....I don't want to see her smile...No I don't want to hear her words....I want to be alone....Please...
Something can never ever be written or said...Specially important things...
I am sick of pretending...doubt...and my role with this piece of meat...dominancy...
I can't take it anymore...
I am tired of sex, alchohol, dope, research and everything else...
I wish you were here...You, I mean my only friend, who had rejected me and left forever...
Leave me alone...I even don't want to be with myself...I have no answer for my questions.... What about yours? I think you are just have blind hope, a stupid one...
But I have no way to smile back...
And this scene is just repeating, repeating, repeating like the cycle of life and death...
And maybe that's why you had left...
A female smell just a couple of feets far....I don't want to see her smile...No I don't want to hear her words....I want to be alone....Please...
Something can never ever be written or said...Specially important things...
I am sick of pretending...doubt...and my role with this piece of meat...dominancy...
I can't take it anymore...
I am tired of sex, alchohol, dope, research and everything else...
I wish you were here...You, I mean my only friend, who had rejected me and left forever...
Leave me alone...I even don't want to be with myself...I have no answer for my questions.... What about yours? I think you are just have blind hope, a stupid one...
But I have no way to smile back...
And this scene is just repeating, repeating, repeating like the cycle of life and death...
And maybe that's why you had left...
Foreplay, play, afterplay
Creation…Audition…conviction…negotiation…exploitation….expectation…sexual satisfaction…confliction…manipulation…brutalization….computation …migration…desperation….excitation…generation…Signification…recognition…determination….consumption….integration…representation….impression….patronization….reproduction….visualization….reflection…optimization….confusion…industrialization... domination….communication….procession…. globalization….possession….insulation…. information…documentation….temptation…corruption….implementation…transformation….observation….tradition….
Materialism…anti-fascism…infantilism…alcoholism….fetishism….structuralism… realism…nihilism…druidism…fundamentalism…Satanism….futurism…
Heartedness….endlessness….vastness….shallowness…loneliness…darkness…sharpness…tepidness….craziness….peachiness….warmness…nothingness...endlessness…timelessness… randomness…madness…
Interchangeable…obtainable…dialyzable…swappable…enlargeable…eatable… responsible….disguisable…amusable…enjoyable…forgettable…
People….Cash…power…dope…society…illusion...identity…role…....love...belief….opportunity…. extreme…chance…popular….spirituality….recovery…dilemma…background….scandal…funeral…rumors …blood…tragedy…idea…disease…revenge….accident….muffin…plot…archetype….substantial…religion….justice…agenda….Efficiency…diminishing….functional…under taker…settlement…digital…pathetic… notion….supportive…dying…
Materialism…anti-fascism…infantilism…alcoholism….fetishism….structuralism… realism…nihilism…druidism…fundamentalism…Satanism….futurism…
Heartedness….endlessness….vastness….shallowness…loneliness…darkness…sharpness…tepidness….craziness….peachiness….warmness…nothingness...endlessness…timelessness… randomness…madness…
Interchangeable…obtainable…dialyzable…swappable…enlargeable…eatable… responsible….disguisable…amusable…enjoyable…forgettable…
People….Cash…power…dope…society…illusion...identity…role…....love...belief….opportunity…. extreme…chance…popular….spirituality….recovery…dilemma…background….scandal…funeral…rumors …blood…tragedy…idea…disease…revenge….accident….muffin…plot…archetype….substantial…religion….justice…agenda….Efficiency…diminishing….functional…under taker…settlement…digital…pathetic… notion….supportive…dying…
Sunday 11 November 2007
Empty frames
1.
I know. I know. It is not a good habit. It's so disgusting to look into the other houses and try to find out what other people are doing in their own privacy. I know. This is total ignorance and carelessness. I can be criminal. But I can't help it. I know, please stop it. Yes, I can lose all that I've earned in my life: my status, my friends, my PhD and the little bit of money that I've saved. They will kick me out of this country and I have no way but going back to my parents at least for a while, the place that everything started from there.
My parents have been living in one of the high rises in Tehran for 18 years now. It is located in north-west of Tehran in a place called Shahrak-e-gharb, which can be translated as West County. It is a nice area which I quite like it and I don't think that I can live in any other area of Tehran anymore. West County is famous for its high rises, fancy shopping malls, doll girls and muscular guys, and the most important identity that it has: Iran Zamin (Iran Land) street. the long circular street which is all days full of expensive cars and sissy silly boys and girls chasing each other's cars and show off their parent's wealth. Sometimes the Basij paramilitary forces close the street and stop the cars. They might make a couple of buses full of these guys (one for girls and one for boys, a common sexual discrimination) and take them to their headquarter and release them afterward by some money (and of course hassles), to arrest them again sometimes in near future and this circle will continue again and again like Iran Zamin street.
But it was not as bad it is now when my parents had moved to the area. I was 12 years old on that time and we were like 15 boys and girls with 1 or 2 years differences in our neighborhood. From that group just three are still living in Iran. Although president Ahmadi nejad announced that we have no homosexuality in Iran, I should reveal that one of them is homosexual and she was very good friend of mine but I haven't known about it till just 5 years ago, the last time that I met her in a party. We were both shocked by seeing each other. We talked a little bit and exchanged our numbers but we never call each other. I just know that she is still in Iran.
In 2006, I heard about another girl in our group from a mutual friend in Canada, who is a very good friend of mine. He was mentioning a friend of him who is now a homosexual activist in Iran. In the middle of our talk, suddenly I discovered that she is my old lost little girl, the first girl in our teenage gang who had left home. I don't want to put her in trouble so I will call her by her initial which is S. S is 2 years younger than me and she was (and still I think) so so beautiful. When I was 14, we had a football team and we were playing with nearby areas teams and she was always one of our hooligans coming to every single match that we were playing. Many times, the match ended up with fight and I am sure the most important reason was her. When I was 15 we went to sort of regional football league. I was the captain of that team because I was the oldest guy. We did three games. We lost 7-5 and 5-4 in the first two matches. The last match was between us and the first team of the group which had won both teams who had beaten us. They had a forward who was at least 18 years old but the organizing committee had assumed that he was less than 16 because his brother was one of the committee members. We were already disqualified. I hated this guy and I really wanted to win the match. The reality was something else and we lost it 3-0 but I could have satisfied myself by sending him out of the pitch with a very nasty foul in the beginning of second half. I just got a yellow card but he couldn't have played in the tournament anymore and their team disqualified in the next stage.
When we were coming back from the match, S for the first time took my hand. Her hand was so soft and small. I had liked these hands from the summer before when I had started looking to her room from our balcony during the night. Her room was in opposite side, in front of our balcony, in the same level. I had thought that she didn't know about it but she told me at one of our earliest meetings (just 2 of us sort of meetings) that she had known that from the beginning and actually she confessed that she had kind of liked it. I think her feeling was like this sort of girly thing that I can never ever manage to understand. From that time up to the time that her parents moved to another place, it was something very private between us. It had been started by my suggestion and then her approval after a week. It was a pain in the ass, but I could have convinced her to switch on her lamp while I was in balcony. The yellow light of the room was converting her to an angle in pajamas laying down on the bed. After a while, we started to talk with the phone as well during our nightly hidden dates from distance.
She moved from C2 building when I was 16. She stopped calling me after 2 months, when she had been informed that I was flirting with a 17 years old girl who was kind of her first enemy in the building. She was so jealous of S from the beginning that she couldn't have stopped teasing her; although S was always respecting her at least for being 3 years older. But she had an advantage for me that S didn't have. She was one year older than me and that was the main reason of my attraction toward her. I was so passionate to discover an older girl. So I sold S to her. The last time S cried on the phone and she told me that I have to select one of them, either her or that old witch and I replied her that I have to think. She hanged the phone immediately.
She had never called back again. 6 months after I heard that her parents had sent her to France to study in a private art high school in Paris and we completely lost contact and it was the time that I terribly had missed her. The new girl that I had been flirting, ended up 1 month after S last phone call with a 20 years old guy who was the Don-Juan of the whole West County.
The new owner of S room used to close the curtains in the night. After 6 months, I was again in the balcony but this time staring at the closed curtains and imagining her marble body in a room which was occupied by a 7 years old kid.
This kid is now 21 and he is a friend of my brother's ex-girlfriend. My brother told me in July 2007 during my last travel back home , that he heard about S through his ex-girlfriend. Apparently, She is not any more back home but no one knows where she is. She had no way but to flee.
During these years that the 7 years old kid has passed to become the new Don-Juan of Shahrak-e-gharb, I have been looking in the other people's house wherever I have been living. Up to 10th June 2007, I completely had forgotten the origin of my anti-social behavior, the day that I dreamt S just in few minutes that I could have slept.
2.
The room was so simple and a bit dark. Apart from a simple desk, simple bed and a simple jar was nothing in the room. It was early November and it was already snowing....No one was in the room apart from her picture in an antique frame.
3.
She turned to the main street. The street was full of cars and people. She was going to see the room, but she didn't know that up to the time that she saw the corner cafe.
It was long time ago, when she was still young and slim. She was still junior student with lots of hopes and emotions and more over, she had been starting to have a feeling, something mysterious and strong.
He used to play in the corner cafe on Fridays from 6 to 12 which was mostly continued till 2 AM. He was 28 young post-grad musician from NYU, but she didn't know that up to the last time that they've met. It was no necessity for knowing that. For her it was not a big deal if he was a big name or just an unknown Banjo player.
Later on, she has realized that it had been indeed important.
Their meetings were so simple. She was going there all Fridays alone, listening to the music and ignoring men who were flirting with her. She was always the first and the last customer. When the owner was locking the door she was already in the musician arms, going to his place and in the morning when he was opening the place he knew that he is going to see them twisted together waiting for the cafe to be opened.
The Sunday breakfasts were always free.
She looked inside from the window. The picture of the fat owner was in a jazzy frame over the bar with a black ribbon on its left hand side.
She remembered the last time that she met him. It was Friday but the NYU musician was not there. He didn't have a clue either, up to the time that he received a phone call from his mom informing them that he can't make it today because he should meet up with an improtant friend.
- Did she tell you the name?
- Well, I didn't really hear the name. It was something starting with S. Sam?, Sal? I don't really know.
- OK, See you later.
- You haven't finished your coffee.
- Next time
- If there is any
She went out without looking back. The fat owner was trying to memorize her steps, because he has no hope of seeing them again.
She has never realized that.
4.
The room was so simple and a bit dark. Apart from a simple desk, simple bed and a simple jar was nothing in the room. It was early November and it was already snowing....No one was in the room apart from herself and her son’s picture in a cheap plastic frame. She was fixing the holes on his T-shirt with a red S on it.
The boy had a same T-shirt on, in the picture.
5.
When I woke up, Yannis was still sleeping and maybe still is...
I was walking to my office when I remembered the last time, few days ago, when I had remembered S but in the reality and more over in my neighborhood through a random house watching: I saw her when I was looking into her room. She was naked, in front of the mirror. It was early November but it was not snowing.
After some minutes, she switched off her lamp.
The cold british night was flavored with fireworks and huge BANG BANG in the sky, which completely destroyed the Banjo sound from Barrie's house.
I carried on walking. She slept and I think the empty frame on her desk did the same.
I know. I know. It is not a good habit. It's so disgusting to look into the other houses and try to find out what other people are doing in their own privacy. I know. This is total ignorance and carelessness. I can be criminal. But I can't help it. I know, please stop it. Yes, I can lose all that I've earned in my life: my status, my friends, my PhD and the little bit of money that I've saved. They will kick me out of this country and I have no way but going back to my parents at least for a while, the place that everything started from there.
My parents have been living in one of the high rises in Tehran for 18 years now. It is located in north-west of Tehran in a place called Shahrak-e-gharb, which can be translated as West County. It is a nice area which I quite like it and I don't think that I can live in any other area of Tehran anymore. West County is famous for its high rises, fancy shopping malls, doll girls and muscular guys, and the most important identity that it has: Iran Zamin (Iran Land) street. the long circular street which is all days full of expensive cars and sissy silly boys and girls chasing each other's cars and show off their parent's wealth. Sometimes the Basij paramilitary forces close the street and stop the cars. They might make a couple of buses full of these guys (one for girls and one for boys, a common sexual discrimination) and take them to their headquarter and release them afterward by some money (and of course hassles), to arrest them again sometimes in near future and this circle will continue again and again like Iran Zamin street.
But it was not as bad it is now when my parents had moved to the area. I was 12 years old on that time and we were like 15 boys and girls with 1 or 2 years differences in our neighborhood. From that group just three are still living in Iran. Although president Ahmadi nejad announced that we have no homosexuality in Iran, I should reveal that one of them is homosexual and she was very good friend of mine but I haven't known about it till just 5 years ago, the last time that I met her in a party. We were both shocked by seeing each other. We talked a little bit and exchanged our numbers but we never call each other. I just know that she is still in Iran.
In 2006, I heard about another girl in our group from a mutual friend in Canada, who is a very good friend of mine. He was mentioning a friend of him who is now a homosexual activist in Iran. In the middle of our talk, suddenly I discovered that she is my old lost little girl, the first girl in our teenage gang who had left home. I don't want to put her in trouble so I will call her by her initial which is S. S is 2 years younger than me and she was (and still I think) so so beautiful. When I was 14, we had a football team and we were playing with nearby areas teams and she was always one of our hooligans coming to every single match that we were playing. Many times, the match ended up with fight and I am sure the most important reason was her. When I was 15 we went to sort of regional football league. I was the captain of that team because I was the oldest guy. We did three games. We lost 7-5 and 5-4 in the first two matches. The last match was between us and the first team of the group which had won both teams who had beaten us. They had a forward who was at least 18 years old but the organizing committee had assumed that he was less than 16 because his brother was one of the committee members. We were already disqualified. I hated this guy and I really wanted to win the match. The reality was something else and we lost it 3-0 but I could have satisfied myself by sending him out of the pitch with a very nasty foul in the beginning of second half. I just got a yellow card but he couldn't have played in the tournament anymore and their team disqualified in the next stage.
When we were coming back from the match, S for the first time took my hand. Her hand was so soft and small. I had liked these hands from the summer before when I had started looking to her room from our balcony during the night. Her room was in opposite side, in front of our balcony, in the same level. I had thought that she didn't know about it but she told me at one of our earliest meetings (just 2 of us sort of meetings) that she had known that from the beginning and actually she confessed that she had kind of liked it. I think her feeling was like this sort of girly thing that I can never ever manage to understand. From that time up to the time that her parents moved to another place, it was something very private between us. It had been started by my suggestion and then her approval after a week. It was a pain in the ass, but I could have convinced her to switch on her lamp while I was in balcony. The yellow light of the room was converting her to an angle in pajamas laying down on the bed. After a while, we started to talk with the phone as well during our nightly hidden dates from distance.
She moved from C2 building when I was 16. She stopped calling me after 2 months, when she had been informed that I was flirting with a 17 years old girl who was kind of her first enemy in the building. She was so jealous of S from the beginning that she couldn't have stopped teasing her; although S was always respecting her at least for being 3 years older. But she had an advantage for me that S didn't have. She was one year older than me and that was the main reason of my attraction toward her. I was so passionate to discover an older girl. So I sold S to her. The last time S cried on the phone and she told me that I have to select one of them, either her or that old witch and I replied her that I have to think. She hanged the phone immediately.
She had never called back again. 6 months after I heard that her parents had sent her to France to study in a private art high school in Paris and we completely lost contact and it was the time that I terribly had missed her. The new girl that I had been flirting, ended up 1 month after S last phone call with a 20 years old guy who was the Don-Juan of the whole West County.
The new owner of S room used to close the curtains in the night. After 6 months, I was again in the balcony but this time staring at the closed curtains and imagining her marble body in a room which was occupied by a 7 years old kid.
This kid is now 21 and he is a friend of my brother's ex-girlfriend. My brother told me in July 2007 during my last travel back home , that he heard about S through his ex-girlfriend. Apparently, She is not any more back home but no one knows where she is. She had no way but to flee.
During these years that the 7 years old kid has passed to become the new Don-Juan of Shahrak-e-gharb, I have been looking in the other people's house wherever I have been living. Up to 10th June 2007, I completely had forgotten the origin of my anti-social behavior, the day that I dreamt S just in few minutes that I could have slept.
2.
The room was so simple and a bit dark. Apart from a simple desk, simple bed and a simple jar was nothing in the room. It was early November and it was already snowing....No one was in the room apart from her picture in an antique frame.
3.
She turned to the main street. The street was full of cars and people. She was going to see the room, but she didn't know that up to the time that she saw the corner cafe.
It was long time ago, when she was still young and slim. She was still junior student with lots of hopes and emotions and more over, she had been starting to have a feeling, something mysterious and strong.
He used to play in the corner cafe on Fridays from 6 to 12 which was mostly continued till 2 AM. He was 28 young post-grad musician from NYU, but she didn't know that up to the last time that they've met. It was no necessity for knowing that. For her it was not a big deal if he was a big name or just an unknown Banjo player.
Later on, she has realized that it had been indeed important.
Their meetings were so simple. She was going there all Fridays alone, listening to the music and ignoring men who were flirting with her. She was always the first and the last customer. When the owner was locking the door she was already in the musician arms, going to his place and in the morning when he was opening the place he knew that he is going to see them twisted together waiting for the cafe to be opened.
The Sunday breakfasts were always free.
She looked inside from the window. The picture of the fat owner was in a jazzy frame over the bar with a black ribbon on its left hand side.
She remembered the last time that she met him. It was Friday but the NYU musician was not there. He didn't have a clue either, up to the time that he received a phone call from his mom informing them that he can't make it today because he should meet up with an improtant friend.
- Did she tell you the name?
- Well, I didn't really hear the name. It was something starting with S. Sam?, Sal? I don't really know.
- OK, See you later.
- You haven't finished your coffee.
- Next time
- If there is any
She went out without looking back. The fat owner was trying to memorize her steps, because he has no hope of seeing them again.
She has never realized that.
4.
The room was so simple and a bit dark. Apart from a simple desk, simple bed and a simple jar was nothing in the room. It was early November and it was already snowing....No one was in the room apart from herself and her son’s picture in a cheap plastic frame. She was fixing the holes on his T-shirt with a red S on it.
The boy had a same T-shirt on, in the picture.
5.
When I woke up, Yannis was still sleeping and maybe still is...
I was walking to my office when I remembered the last time, few days ago, when I had remembered S but in the reality and more over in my neighborhood through a random house watching: I saw her when I was looking into her room. She was naked, in front of the mirror. It was early November but it was not snowing.
After some minutes, she switched off her lamp.
The cold british night was flavored with fireworks and huge BANG BANG in the sky, which completely destroyed the Banjo sound from Barrie's house.
I carried on walking. She slept and I think the empty frame on her desk did the same.
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