Flash Plots was initially designed as a platform for practicing creative writing. The process involved, has gradually lead itself into a searching task and soon after has established as a concrete, task-defined dialectical discourse titled, Searching for the President in Tehran. More accurately, Searching for the President in Tehran was born on 22 November 2007 at 12:32 PM in Harborne Park, Birmingham. He travelled to Tehran from 14 December 2007 to 4 January 2008. He died on 27 of April 2008 at 1:36 AM just couple of hundred meters far from his birthplace, No. 12 Lesson Walk, Birmingham.
The content of this blog can be considered as the row-blocks , or better said flash plots of what Searching for the President in Tehran is. As a result, several versions as well as arrangments have been already produced by modifying the flash plots presented in this blog.
The current evolved version of Searching for the President in Tehran has been just sent for further consideration and assessment to a couple of people in the field, I've been introduced by a friend who has been truly encouraging to keep me developing this discourse and has helped a lot in edition and modification of these noisy flash plots into an integrated and relatively coherent framework. The final outcome (after further modifications) will be presented in one or the other possible means (most probably as a free-access frozen blog), as the main delivery of Flash Plots, a strategy to contribute in creative writing.
Thanks for the readers of this blog and those comments that I have received especially from the people in creative writing course, in particular Alison and Peggy. I send you both a hug from this room, although you are in different continents now. But who cares? Internet always can solve the problem....!!
This blog will remain unchanged in Internet as it is. Although, it contains lots of grammatical mistakes, word usage etc; however not changing the contents, at least in this platform, is a rigid way to keep the commitment to the principle idea behind the creation of Flash Plots.
This is the last post of this blog...
Sunday 27 April 2008
Saturday 26 April 2008
A Funeral for Searching for the President in Tehran
In current social condition, in which success requires a loyal commitment to one and only one statement "Save your time", critical thinking has an unavoidable drawback: It wastes your time...
(Jean-François Lyotard, 1924-1998)
The way I received his passing and consequently the way I kept on moving, was so even and humble...Sometimes I am wondering, how come I am able to be that calm and act in such a modest way...Just sometimes, though...
The first time I observed this behaviour, I can surely remember, was in my grandpa funeral...I loved the man and now, I’ve truly understood, he was the first and the most influential person, or better said master, that I had in my life....
He bought me the first book I've ever read in my life apart from my school books ... "Around the world in 80 days".... It was after the last exam of my primary school....One day in June 1984, Tehran...
And I couldn't have made a tear in his funeral....Even one...
Maybe I didn’t cried, because I had cried before. The last time I met him in my life was one month before his death...He was going to Isfahan...On that day I had cried... Something unexplainable but surely perceptible in me had told me: “this is the last time”...
I’ve always remembered him while Searching for the President in Tehran....The old fellow who died for his ultimate commitment to smoking...From that sense, I am definitely carrying his genes....
In the last 10 years of his life he was just reading and solving crossword puzzles. In the evening (except on Thursdays in which he had his poker plan with old party fellows, even during Tehran's demolition by Sadam's American bombs) he used to sit on his rocking chair in the dark and gaze at the wall...We were all well informed that during his gazing period, he is just not there and he doesn't want to talk to anyone...But I was rebelling this unsaid rule....Because, I was also well informed how much this old (according to his age), careless (according to my grand mom), and loser (according to my dad) master loves me....For me, when I was a child, the man was like a doll...I wanted him whenever I wanted him...And not surprisingly, I wanted him when he didn't want me....
For me, this man during his gazing time was like a archetypical sculpture, a true piece of art...I was so jealous of his mysterious gaze, incredible calmness during these moments and of course his carelessness (the characteristics that grand mom hated) to my grand mom nasty comments....But I didn't like his dirty feet....That was the only thing I didn't like in him...But, only because of that and nothing else, I put the poor fellow so many times in trouble...I was complaining to grand mum about his feet and grand mum used to start her show and perform as a hardcore metal singer on the stage and shout about his carelessness and the bad influence that he had on a child behaviour for at least 2 well prepared songs....10 minutes full....
But he was so calm and keeping on solving his crossword puzzle and shaking his dirty feet...Sometimes when my granny was very loud, he was just going to his room and sleeping...I’ve never seen them sleeping in a same room....
After 16 years of intensive listening to rock music, I can claim that my granny had the vocal skills of those icons such as Ronny James Dio....But she was a bit unlucky...Instead of being in Tehran and getting married in the age of 19, she could have been a star in New York, or London during late 50s, early 60s and could have contributed a lot in the direction and future formation of rock music....
She also had the potentials to cope with celebrity life style...
But now, that I truly discovered the skills in her it is absolutely late....she is too old to do the job....She currently suffers from progressive Alzaimer, which itself is not a big deal for being a rock star, but it implies a label that I can’t avoid. How can I convince music industry to invest on her? Not only because she has Alzaimer but also this kind of skills doesn't attract music producers anymore....
Several time during his gazing moments, I approached to him....Because he was like a energy source attracting me....I used to stay on his side and just look at him....I knew the rules...He is now going to ignore me....Ok, he will look at me now but he will be well annoyed....Now he is going to again ignore me....Old bastard, I am bored....Which galaxy you are?....Come back, I want to talk to you....I want to play....I want to complain....I want....And I don't give a shit what you want...
But the model that I had built to assess and predict his behaviours was ensuring me that after sometime (the time depended to which galaxy he was at that moment), he will look at me again...He will give me a smile and will hug me....and that was the orgasmic feeling I always wanted, although it required his destruction....
Now, I've realized that I was certainly destructing him....But he never complained....
During my orgasmic experience in his arms, I was mainly questioning about Gods, heaven and hell, why I have been born or why he is my grandpa or why he doesn't pray or why in Thursdays with his friends, they are very cheerful and keep on drinking coke (I've been told that it was coke)...
And he was just listening to me and rarely talking....
I think he was kind of thinking about these questions....That's why he was not talking....
And I think these questions interacted with his life....The last couple of years in his life he started praying and not drinking coke with his mates....Actually, in the last two years of his life, he didn't play poker or smoke (I know he smoked though, because I was the one bringing him cigarettes but that was just between us and was buried with him)...
I think those were the main reason behind his death...
But sometimes my model was collapsing....My model was not able to predict his behaviours during certain times of his gazing periods....Especially, during the time that he had less destruction from my grand mom (because she was simply not home)....I remember that one time I asked him about why people are crying in the funerals although they know that the person died is going to merge with God....He replied....
I don’t know...
And that was a massive collapse in my model....He doesn’t know?!!...He didn’t even hug me that day. Instead, he called my parents to come and collect me...Then, he went in his room and closed the door...He had never closed the door even when my granny was shouting...
That was a real collapse of my model...
That incident had been taken place before he started praying....When he was still drinking coke...He had had some coke that day, I think, before I had arrived....
My father said once to my mom (I heard them, but they don’t know) that when the old man is drunk, he is saying non-senses ...Apparently, once he told to my dad, that he feels something that it is not explainable or show-able but it is clearly perceptible by him and it hurts him badly....That's why sometimes he is crying when he is gazing at the wall....
And I can imagine how my father was listening to him with his fake smile...
Before his death, I read most of his books...After his death, I collected the rest and I have started reading them....6 years before, I heard from my mom that there are more books in my granny's basement and I went and found the hidden treasury....I didn't take the books....They are still there except one that it is here now....on my desk...
This is the last last book of my first master that I hadn’t read before....I am kind of in doubt if he read the book himself or not; because it has been published 6 month before his death....But I read it...Now, I can claim that I am his true evolution....
The book is titled "A childish portrait of Gods" which is kind of essay written by an unknown Persian writer...I haven't heard his name and further search in the internet didn't help either....The book is full of bullshit with some glorious paragraphs such as:
“The only delivery of great narrative in western societies i.e., the modern project, is providing more security in daily-life scale; not only social security but also political and economical stability which made the people not think about the origin of system itself, but act unavoidably as part of the system proposed. One historically validated product of this system was World War-II but it has been never addressed properly as an ultimate product of dominant great narrative in Europe. That’s why the world, soon after, started to be covered by Fundamentalism, which is the immediate and definite outcome of this system in post-war world. The only reason behind the continuation of great narrative is the historical belief about the credibility of modern project and assuming it as the only approach to provide security, although we all know that security is the main issue in the global perspective.”
I did finish the book last night, before going to see Rene...He came down from Manchester to attend in the funeral....A funeral for Searching for the President in Tehran...."Being Desperate in Manchester" was also with him....She changed her name so many times during "Searching for the President in Tehran" but I know her perfectly even without her name. The label that she carries is not important for me....
I am going there now; it is just one minute walk.... Maybe this close distant, is the reason behind my expectation....I have no expectation....It would be another funeral, like all other funerals....We are going to talk about politics, world economy, sex and will attack each other by stupid non-senses with funny covers....During, this stupid funeral many events can happen, such as collapsing Maria's ceiling, shooting exchange between Iranian and American boats in Persian Gulf, a sexual intercourse in Melbourne that I will be informed the day after, as well as a personal perception or even an inner modelling attempt to describe the rational flow in our conversations....
I am not expecting anything....People in the funeral will look at me in the same way that they have always wanted: A Persian guy who sewers a lot...Nothing less but nothing more either...
This is what they expect from me in this system...If I am not going to be in the way that they expect, they start thinking that something is wrong....And they feel insecure, and think that there is something wrong. But there is something wrong although we want to forget about it...
If nothing is wrong in some time or some space, even if it is not explainable, yet surely perceptible; why we are all gathered in this funeral?
But people don't care....I personally don't think that I care more than others....so fare enough...At the end of the day, I think we have all contributed in his death equally...
He will be certainly dead forever. The funeral will officially confirm that....
Lay down buddy, Sleep and later fly....The ocean will die too
The way I received his passing and consequently the way I kept on moving, was so even and humble...Sometimes I am wondering, how come I am able to be that calm and act in such a modest way...Just sometimes, though...
I am coming back now from a funeral for Searching for the president in Tehran and am thinking about the paragraph that I should write as the overall conclusion in my thesis....The conclusion which is not limited to the research that I've been paid for but also covers the results of all searching attempts that I have done while "Searching for The President in Tehran"....The research which initially kicked off while I was trying to forecast his behaviour when he was gazing into the dark...
The time that I was staring at him with one eye full of admires and the other full of jealousy and waiting for an orgasmic feeling in his arms...
(Jean-François Lyotard, 1924-1998)
The way I received his passing and consequently the way I kept on moving, was so even and humble...Sometimes I am wondering, how come I am able to be that calm and act in such a modest way...Just sometimes, though...
The first time I observed this behaviour, I can surely remember, was in my grandpa funeral...I loved the man and now, I’ve truly understood, he was the first and the most influential person, or better said master, that I had in my life....
He bought me the first book I've ever read in my life apart from my school books ... "Around the world in 80 days".... It was after the last exam of my primary school....One day in June 1984, Tehran...
And I couldn't have made a tear in his funeral....Even one...
Maybe I didn’t cried, because I had cried before. The last time I met him in my life was one month before his death...He was going to Isfahan...On that day I had cried... Something unexplainable but surely perceptible in me had told me: “this is the last time”...
I’ve always remembered him while Searching for the President in Tehran....The old fellow who died for his ultimate commitment to smoking...From that sense, I am definitely carrying his genes....
In the last 10 years of his life he was just reading and solving crossword puzzles. In the evening (except on Thursdays in which he had his poker plan with old party fellows, even during Tehran's demolition by Sadam's American bombs) he used to sit on his rocking chair in the dark and gaze at the wall...We were all well informed that during his gazing period, he is just not there and he doesn't want to talk to anyone...But I was rebelling this unsaid rule....Because, I was also well informed how much this old (according to his age), careless (according to my grand mom), and loser (according to my dad) master loves me....For me, when I was a child, the man was like a doll...I wanted him whenever I wanted him...And not surprisingly, I wanted him when he didn't want me....
For me, this man during his gazing time was like a archetypical sculpture, a true piece of art...I was so jealous of his mysterious gaze, incredible calmness during these moments and of course his carelessness (the characteristics that grand mom hated) to my grand mom nasty comments....But I didn't like his dirty feet....That was the only thing I didn't like in him...But, only because of that and nothing else, I put the poor fellow so many times in trouble...I was complaining to grand mum about his feet and grand mum used to start her show and perform as a hardcore metal singer on the stage and shout about his carelessness and the bad influence that he had on a child behaviour for at least 2 well prepared songs....10 minutes full....
But he was so calm and keeping on solving his crossword puzzle and shaking his dirty feet...Sometimes when my granny was very loud, he was just going to his room and sleeping...I’ve never seen them sleeping in a same room....
After 16 years of intensive listening to rock music, I can claim that my granny had the vocal skills of those icons such as Ronny James Dio....But she was a bit unlucky...Instead of being in Tehran and getting married in the age of 19, she could have been a star in New York, or London during late 50s, early 60s and could have contributed a lot in the direction and future formation of rock music....
She also had the potentials to cope with celebrity life style...
But now, that I truly discovered the skills in her it is absolutely late....she is too old to do the job....She currently suffers from progressive Alzaimer, which itself is not a big deal for being a rock star, but it implies a label that I can’t avoid. How can I convince music industry to invest on her? Not only because she has Alzaimer but also this kind of skills doesn't attract music producers anymore....
Several time during his gazing moments, I approached to him....Because he was like a energy source attracting me....I used to stay on his side and just look at him....I knew the rules...He is now going to ignore me....Ok, he will look at me now but he will be well annoyed....Now he is going to again ignore me....Old bastard, I am bored....Which galaxy you are?....Come back, I want to talk to you....I want to play....I want to complain....I want....And I don't give a shit what you want...
But the model that I had built to assess and predict his behaviours was ensuring me that after sometime (the time depended to which galaxy he was at that moment), he will look at me again...He will give me a smile and will hug me....and that was the orgasmic feeling I always wanted, although it required his destruction....
Now, I've realized that I was certainly destructing him....But he never complained....
During my orgasmic experience in his arms, I was mainly questioning about Gods, heaven and hell, why I have been born or why he is my grandpa or why he doesn't pray or why in Thursdays with his friends, they are very cheerful and keep on drinking coke (I've been told that it was coke)...
And he was just listening to me and rarely talking....
I think he was kind of thinking about these questions....That's why he was not talking....
And I think these questions interacted with his life....The last couple of years in his life he started praying and not drinking coke with his mates....Actually, in the last two years of his life, he didn't play poker or smoke (I know he smoked though, because I was the one bringing him cigarettes but that was just between us and was buried with him)...
I think those were the main reason behind his death...
But sometimes my model was collapsing....My model was not able to predict his behaviours during certain times of his gazing periods....Especially, during the time that he had less destruction from my grand mom (because she was simply not home)....I remember that one time I asked him about why people are crying in the funerals although they know that the person died is going to merge with God....He replied....
I don’t know...
And that was a massive collapse in my model....He doesn’t know?!!...He didn’t even hug me that day. Instead, he called my parents to come and collect me...Then, he went in his room and closed the door...He had never closed the door even when my granny was shouting...
That was a real collapse of my model...
That incident had been taken place before he started praying....When he was still drinking coke...He had had some coke that day, I think, before I had arrived....
My father said once to my mom (I heard them, but they don’t know) that when the old man is drunk, he is saying non-senses ...Apparently, once he told to my dad, that he feels something that it is not explainable or show-able but it is clearly perceptible by him and it hurts him badly....That's why sometimes he is crying when he is gazing at the wall....
And I can imagine how my father was listening to him with his fake smile...
Before his death, I read most of his books...After his death, I collected the rest and I have started reading them....6 years before, I heard from my mom that there are more books in my granny's basement and I went and found the hidden treasury....I didn't take the books....They are still there except one that it is here now....on my desk...
This is the last last book of my first master that I hadn’t read before....I am kind of in doubt if he read the book himself or not; because it has been published 6 month before his death....But I read it...Now, I can claim that I am his true evolution....
The book is titled "A childish portrait of Gods" which is kind of essay written by an unknown Persian writer...I haven't heard his name and further search in the internet didn't help either....The book is full of bullshit with some glorious paragraphs such as:
“The only delivery of great narrative in western societies i.e., the modern project, is providing more security in daily-life scale; not only social security but also political and economical stability which made the people not think about the origin of system itself, but act unavoidably as part of the system proposed. One historically validated product of this system was World War-II but it has been never addressed properly as an ultimate product of dominant great narrative in Europe. That’s why the world, soon after, started to be covered by Fundamentalism, which is the immediate and definite outcome of this system in post-war world. The only reason behind the continuation of great narrative is the historical belief about the credibility of modern project and assuming it as the only approach to provide security, although we all know that security is the main issue in the global perspective.”
I did finish the book last night, before going to see Rene...He came down from Manchester to attend in the funeral....A funeral for Searching for the President in Tehran...."Being Desperate in Manchester" was also with him....She changed her name so many times during "Searching for the President in Tehran" but I know her perfectly even without her name. The label that she carries is not important for me....
I am going there now; it is just one minute walk.... Maybe this close distant, is the reason behind my expectation....I have no expectation....It would be another funeral, like all other funerals....We are going to talk about politics, world economy, sex and will attack each other by stupid non-senses with funny covers....During, this stupid funeral many events can happen, such as collapsing Maria's ceiling, shooting exchange between Iranian and American boats in Persian Gulf, a sexual intercourse in Melbourne that I will be informed the day after, as well as a personal perception or even an inner modelling attempt to describe the rational flow in our conversations....
I am not expecting anything....People in the funeral will look at me in the same way that they have always wanted: A Persian guy who sewers a lot...Nothing less but nothing more either...
This is what they expect from me in this system...If I am not going to be in the way that they expect, they start thinking that something is wrong....And they feel insecure, and think that there is something wrong. But there is something wrong although we want to forget about it...
If nothing is wrong in some time or some space, even if it is not explainable, yet surely perceptible; why we are all gathered in this funeral?
But people don't care....I personally don't think that I care more than others....so fare enough...At the end of the day, I think we have all contributed in his death equally...
He will be certainly dead forever. The funeral will officially confirm that....
Lay down buddy, Sleep and later fly....The ocean will die too
The way I received his passing and consequently the way I kept on moving, was so even and humble...Sometimes I am wondering, how come I am able to be that calm and act in such a modest way...Just sometimes, though...
I am coming back now from a funeral for Searching for the president in Tehran and am thinking about the paragraph that I should write as the overall conclusion in my thesis....The conclusion which is not limited to the research that I've been paid for but also covers the results of all searching attempts that I have done while "Searching for The President in Tehran"....The research which initially kicked off while I was trying to forecast his behaviour when he was gazing into the dark...
The time that I was staring at him with one eye full of admires and the other full of jealousy and waiting for an orgasmic feeling in his arms...
Monday 14 April 2008
The last time that I met Searching for the President in Tehran
"It hurts when you have to press that dull little thing
That you are supposed to use once and then discard
Wish I had more, more opportunity
More chances to remember something
You are personally responsible for
The entire strip to be washed away
Cleansed as if gallons of, um, rubbing alcohol
Flowed through the strip and were set on fire"
Kurt Cobain (February 1967-April 1994)
I saw him like always, with tight jeans, lose T-shirt and dirty Converse. He came toward me.
- Ali, The man died...
- When?
- Yesterday, I heard in Voice of America...In the morning...
- How?
- They said suicide, but you know how...
- Overdose?
- What else can be?...It is all for that bitch...
- Ditch the bitch...
- We are all gonna meet up after the school...In Sasan's basement...His brother and the band are gonna play for Kurt...
- But I don't think I can make it
- Why?!!
- I have to study
- Fuck you man...Today?
- I can't..
- Fuck you pussy...Go and fucking shave!!!
And I didn't answer....I didn't go but I didn't study either....I spend all day in my room listening to Nirvana. Yasha called me in the night....We went for a walk and talking about Kurt and making stupid comments about his death...
But the man was dead, regardless to our comments and the stories we were making by our imaginations....
The day after, it was around 40 of us in a hidden corner of Alborz with a portable HI-FI listening to Smell Like Teen Spirit....Some bastards informed the school officials, and well, my parents should have come to the school and met the officials for the second time in one week....
Of course we found out who the bastard was and we treated him nicely after the school...
It is now 14 years after that day and I am still listening to the man...I have changed, many things have changed...Non of school mates are in my life anymore but the man and his voice is still around...
And I am still studying....And still like old Innocent days, sometimes I just stay in my room and listen to Nirvana...
In this 14 years I've learnt many things...I've lost and I've gained more than I was expected...And that makes me happy and satisfied....
But, I think, my roots are the same....
During these years of Searching for the President in Tehran, I have seen that freedom is the product of justice and can be sung only by knowledge...Although, it might be painful, but that's the only way to achieve freedom...Inside or outside, the rules are the same...
During these years, I wrote freedom on many walls...In Iran or in mine...I shout it in different inner and outer cells while I was in different part of the globe and I've seen how freedom can become cheaply ridiculous just like a loaf of bread...Just the survival, not the fittest...
It has been proved to me that if freedom is a right, you have to fight for it and if it is expensive you have no way but pay for it...
We are responsible animals but responsibility is just a personal choice...And this constant choosing/withdrawal struggle makes us to constantly lose something but gain something else...And I think that is the real origin of transformation regardless to its direction....
But roots remain unchanged.
He is like always, with tight jeans, lose T-shirt and dirty Converse... He is still studying while the dead man is singing...
Yasha is calling me...I think, regardless how personal it is, I should tell him that I've completed Searching for the President in Tehran through surprisingly quick spirtual simulation...As a true freedom fighter (although, not in my way) he is gonna be happy....
That you are supposed to use once and then discard
Wish I had more, more opportunity
More chances to remember something
You are personally responsible for
The entire strip to be washed away
Cleansed as if gallons of, um, rubbing alcohol
Flowed through the strip and were set on fire"
Kurt Cobain (February 1967-April 1994)
I saw him like always, with tight jeans, lose T-shirt and dirty Converse. He came toward me.
- Ali, The man died...
- When?
- Yesterday, I heard in Voice of America...In the morning...
- How?
- They said suicide, but you know how...
- Overdose?
- What else can be?...It is all for that bitch...
- Ditch the bitch...
- We are all gonna meet up after the school...In Sasan's basement...His brother and the band are gonna play for Kurt...
- But I don't think I can make it
- Why?!!
- I have to study
- Fuck you man...Today?
- I can't..
- Fuck you pussy...Go and fucking shave!!!
And I didn't answer....I didn't go but I didn't study either....I spend all day in my room listening to Nirvana. Yasha called me in the night....We went for a walk and talking about Kurt and making stupid comments about his death...
But the man was dead, regardless to our comments and the stories we were making by our imaginations....
The day after, it was around 40 of us in a hidden corner of Alborz with a portable HI-FI listening to Smell Like Teen Spirit....Some bastards informed the school officials, and well, my parents should have come to the school and met the officials for the second time in one week....
Of course we found out who the bastard was and we treated him nicely after the school...
It is now 14 years after that day and I am still listening to the man...I have changed, many things have changed...Non of school mates are in my life anymore but the man and his voice is still around...
And I am still studying....And still like old Innocent days, sometimes I just stay in my room and listen to Nirvana...
In this 14 years I've learnt many things...I've lost and I've gained more than I was expected...And that makes me happy and satisfied....
But, I think, my roots are the same....
During these years of Searching for the President in Tehran, I have seen that freedom is the product of justice and can be sung only by knowledge...Although, it might be painful, but that's the only way to achieve freedom...Inside or outside, the rules are the same...
During these years, I wrote freedom on many walls...In Iran or in mine...I shout it in different inner and outer cells while I was in different part of the globe and I've seen how freedom can become cheaply ridiculous just like a loaf of bread...Just the survival, not the fittest...
It has been proved to me that if freedom is a right, you have to fight for it and if it is expensive you have no way but pay for it...
We are responsible animals but responsibility is just a personal choice...And this constant choosing/withdrawal struggle makes us to constantly lose something but gain something else...And I think that is the real origin of transformation regardless to its direction....
But roots remain unchanged.
He is like always, with tight jeans, lose T-shirt and dirty Converse... He is still studying while the dead man is singing...
Yasha is calling me...I think, regardless how personal it is, I should tell him that I've completed Searching for the President in Tehran through surprisingly quick spirtual simulation...As a true freedom fighter (although, not in my way) he is gonna be happy....
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