The genesis of mathematical creation is a problem which should intensely interest the psychologists. It is the activity in which the human mind seems to take least from the outside world. But surprisingly, it is the most successful way to discover the phenomenon which it has used least, i.e the outside world. (Henri Poincare, 1854-1912)
Many times and still, I have thought about that particular day, a moment in the history, we, I mean human beings, have realized how to use our thumb. Without any doubt, that was one of the most crucial discoveries of mankind in the history. We had come down from the trees and started making tools and means which ended at some points to wheels, swords, cultures, porn movies and finally nuclear energy.
Maybe my examples seem to be wired but I am the son of my time. Nothing more, nothing less...At most, if I am successful, I can narrate my time...
I am sure it was the history, the whole sequences of parallel time series in time-space coordinate, which made me to do something or confront with something or to be something at a particular time...
I, the son of my time, have different faces...
One face is a mathematical modeler...Kind of bullshiter...I am sorry for my language, but I am absolutely right...we are trying to model something that we still don't know what it is....Predicting the behavior of an unknown concept that we haven't realize what it is....Is it not a lie? But who cares? We get paid for it....
That's why we have many things...Airplanes, fancy cars, drugs, stock markets, wars and for instance computers...
I am using computers...
For me computers are like the mirrors for the ones who are truly using them...Kind of post modern dogs....I observed many synchronization between computers and human behaviors...
Because I had realized, long ago (is it important long ago or just a second ago? Memories have no dimension in time...They are just memories, a series of timeless images from the myths, dreams or past lives) that I still haven't been sure what should I model, I've started searching...Like a one trying to full a bucket with a hole...but I am still searching....I have been looking around for a long time....Sometimes in my computer, sometimes outside my computer....Sometimes in myself, sometimes out of myself....
But I still don't know what should I model. Moreover, I am forgetting many things related to my past:
As a child when did I first hear about puzzles? And from whom?
I still can't retrieve....But, sometimes hopelessly, I am keeping on observing....
A comment by "Searching for the President in Tehran":
From the time that my wife has left me, I am absolutely lonely...We lived the all our life together up to the time, some years ago, when her picture had felt down from the wall. I died and she left me alone....We didn't have any child but we were so happy with each other....Now, it is just me and bunch of memories which are fading from my mind gradually....A man, when he doesn't have a company, has to talk with himself or stay silence some where in a park or a pub and look at the people...I have chosen the second one, but people are passing without any attention...I am in between them but my mind is somewhere else....I am observing something but receiving something else....I have been always like that....I don't know anyone who is lazier, sillier, or more inconsiderate than me....I want always to be somewhere else....I can't get settled somewhere, just like gypsies....It is not dependent to my age or circumstances....I think it was a fundamental issue in my life and now in my death....For instance I don't know my exact name or my relatives....I don't know what I have or what I don't have....I have never looked at a mirror....So I am the one whom observed just by the others....The ones who can bother, turn to me and see who I am....Me, The one who still doesn't know many things....
But who cares?....I am alone and will be alone for ages, although I am dead....
Sunday, 9 December 2007
The message sent to "Searching for the President in Tehran"
She wouldn't believe
This pencil has
A magical eraser
She said I was a silly moo
She said I was a liar too
She dared me prove that it was true
And so what could I do-
I erased her
(Shel Silverstein, 1932-1999)
1.
Hi dear "Searching for the President in Tehran"
How are you? Have you catched up on replying to all the messages you had to reply whilst you were in "Searching for the President in Tehran"? Are you still living in "Searching for the President in Tehran" or are you relaxing in paradise?
Well I basically write to say I'm leaving "Drinking Coffee in Paris", kind of saying goodbye.. (though we can always keep in touch by internet is not the same feeling as knowing you're on the other side of the pond). I'm flying back home tomorrow. I don't regret of having done this experience. Sometimes we can plan things but "Drinking coffee in Paris" is one of those shaky terrains where we can find too many surprises. I came here not to teach Spanish as I knew from the beginning but to try to find "Drinking Coffee in Paris", to bring about closure in some areas of my life and I have done that.
I like "Drinking Coffee in Paris", it will always be beautiful, but for different reasons I didn't enjoy so much living like this. I will go back to "Being a mom in Mexico" and start there without dwelling too much, because I have closed a cycle and I'm ready to begin again, with my mind cleared and calmed.
Well darling, take care. Wish you the best. Do you celebrate Christmas in "Searching for the President in Tehran"?? (guess not... Christianism is not very welcome in "Searching for the President in Tehran"...) Anyway send you a big big hug and my best wishes for the end of this year and for starting 2008.
Smooches!!
Being a mom in Mexico
2.
Life is a trip which you neither know the destination nor the path. You just travel into it and get wondered. A scientist is nothing more than a wondering addict traveller (Bible of "Searching for the President in Tehran", book 30: The messages)
Hey "Being a mom in Mexico"
Hola, ketal?
Well, technically I am living in "Searching for the President in Tehran" but I do have my return flights to the paradise every now and then.
My dear little "Being a mom in Mexico", that was a good stuff that you felt having enough balls to give a try to "Drinking Coffee in Paris". I am proud of you. I am also happy that you closed the circle and want to start from sketch....It is such a freedom, isn't it? I just love it....
It doesn't make any difference where we are or what we are doing. Fuck the nonsense. The important stuff is that we are friends forever, either we are in touch or not....
Internet is always there and maybe other occasions that we might see each other again. So I am not saying you goodbye: Just see you later
Peace,
Searching for the President in Tehran
P.S. I wish you a warm cosy Christmas with your family and friends in sexy "Being a mom in Mexico"....Kisses
This pencil has
A magical eraser
She said I was a silly moo
She said I was a liar too
She dared me prove that it was true
And so what could I do-
I erased her
(Shel Silverstein, 1932-1999)
1.
Hi dear "Searching for the President in Tehran"
How are you? Have you catched up on replying to all the messages you had to reply whilst you were in "Searching for the President in Tehran"? Are you still living in "Searching for the President in Tehran" or are you relaxing in paradise?
Well I basically write to say I'm leaving "Drinking Coffee in Paris", kind of saying goodbye.. (though we can always keep in touch by internet is not the same feeling as knowing you're on the other side of the pond). I'm flying back home tomorrow. I don't regret of having done this experience. Sometimes we can plan things but "Drinking coffee in Paris" is one of those shaky terrains where we can find too many surprises. I came here not to teach Spanish as I knew from the beginning but to try to find "Drinking Coffee in Paris", to bring about closure in some areas of my life and I have done that.
I like "Drinking Coffee in Paris", it will always be beautiful, but for different reasons I didn't enjoy so much living like this. I will go back to "Being a mom in Mexico" and start there without dwelling too much, because I have closed a cycle and I'm ready to begin again, with my mind cleared and calmed.
Well darling, take care. Wish you the best. Do you celebrate Christmas in "Searching for the President in Tehran"?? (guess not... Christianism is not very welcome in "Searching for the President in Tehran"...) Anyway send you a big big hug and my best wishes for the end of this year and for starting 2008.
Smooches!!
Being a mom in Mexico
2.
Life is a trip which you neither know the destination nor the path. You just travel into it and get wondered. A scientist is nothing more than a wondering addict traveller (Bible of "Searching for the President in Tehran", book 30: The messages)
Hey "Being a mom in Mexico"
Hola, ketal?
Well, technically I am living in "Searching for the President in Tehran" but I do have my return flights to the paradise every now and then.
My dear little "Being a mom in Mexico", that was a good stuff that you felt having enough balls to give a try to "Drinking Coffee in Paris". I am proud of you. I am also happy that you closed the circle and want to start from sketch....It is such a freedom, isn't it? I just love it....
It doesn't make any difference where we are or what we are doing. Fuck the nonsense. The important stuff is that we are friends forever, either we are in touch or not....
Internet is always there and maybe other occasions that we might see each other again. So I am not saying you goodbye: Just see you later
Peace,
Searching for the President in Tehran
P.S. I wish you a warm cosy Christmas with your family and friends in sexy "Being a mom in Mexico"....Kisses
Searching for The President in Tehran: A prelude
In the name of mankind, save Persians from enemies, drought and lie (Cyrus the great, 590-530 BC)
As a child when did I first hear about puzzles? And from whom?
I can remember something about my grandpa...
The old ex-nationalist guy used to solve crossword puzzles. I can remember him without socks or slippers whenever he was home. When he was happy he was trying to tease me by showing his dirty foot and I used to complain to my granny that grandpa is so dirty. In contrary, my granny was such a stylish woman. Regardless if she was home or not, she was always with high hills and make up.
Grandpa is now dead and granny is in the queue to have her funeral. Like Ellie’s granny…Her funeral was in Manchester yesterday. They burnt the body. I was not there, but a friend was. I haven’t met her yet, not only Ellie but also my friend. However, I know much about her; actually a little bit too much...
But how come? Just an incident: Everything has started with a single click and then a particular day: 13 October 1977, my birthday; although, it has happened on 4 December 2007. I know...It is a total mess. Maybe I write about it more while "Searching for the President in Tehran", maybe not...Let's see...
She just asked about the name of my story and I replied her: “Searching for the President in Tehran”.
She thinks I am bit wired. She said: If it was me I would call it “You are dangerous”. And she laughed.
She meant I am dangerous.
But, it doesn't solve my problem: I still can't recall... As a child when did I first hear about puzzles? And From whom?
A comment by "Searching for the President in Tehran":
I would like to draw your attention, with wonder and particular amusement, to a bunch of monks in Persepolis on the year 560 BC celebrating the first human right constitution by drinking wine and flirting with Babylonian girls arrived to be used as sex toys in Cyrus’s crowning ceremony.
As a child when did I first hear about puzzles? And from whom?
I can remember something about my grandpa...
The old ex-nationalist guy used to solve crossword puzzles. I can remember him without socks or slippers whenever he was home. When he was happy he was trying to tease me by showing his dirty foot and I used to complain to my granny that grandpa is so dirty. In contrary, my granny was such a stylish woman. Regardless if she was home or not, she was always with high hills and make up.
Grandpa is now dead and granny is in the queue to have her funeral. Like Ellie’s granny…Her funeral was in Manchester yesterday. They burnt the body. I was not there, but a friend was. I haven’t met her yet, not only Ellie but also my friend. However, I know much about her; actually a little bit too much...
But how come? Just an incident: Everything has started with a single click and then a particular day: 13 October 1977, my birthday; although, it has happened on 4 December 2007. I know...It is a total mess. Maybe I write about it more while "Searching for the President in Tehran", maybe not...Let's see...
She just asked about the name of my story and I replied her: “Searching for the President in Tehran”.
She thinks I am bit wired. She said: If it was me I would call it “You are dangerous”. And she laughed.
She meant I am dangerous.
But, it doesn't solve my problem: I still can't recall... As a child when did I first hear about puzzles? And From whom?
A comment by "Searching for the President in Tehran":
I would like to draw your attention, with wonder and particular amusement, to a bunch of monks in Persepolis on the year 560 BC celebrating the first human right constitution by drinking wine and flirting with Babylonian girls arrived to be used as sex toys in Cyrus’s crowning ceremony.
Saturday, 1 December 2007
Annual accounting
Number of times that I've been born: 1. Number of my parents first landline in Iran: 21 85 9710. Number of shoes that I’ve bought this year: 3. Number of eggs that I’ve eaten in this year: 195. Number of times that I’ve hugged a baby in this year: 26. Number of houses that I’ve lived more than a week this year: 4. Number of nights that I’ve slept properly this year: 214. Number of the words that I’ve written this year: related to my research: 30456 unrelated to my research: 89932. Number of times that I’ve had sex this year: 15. Number of times that I’ve been really angry of myself in this year: 3. Number of times that I’ve been kind of angry of myself in this year: 145. Number of times that I’ve smiled to someone: 961. Number of times that I’ve received a smile: 789. Number of times that I’ve been in Toilet: 1460. Number of times that I’ve lied to people this year: Important stuff: 3. silly stuff: 387. Number of times that I’ve decided to do something really important and I have done it in this year: 2. I haven’t done: 4. Number of conferences that I’ve attended: 1. Number of conferences that I should have attended but haven’t: 2. Number of flies that I’ve killed this year: 75. Number of times that I’ve remembered something: 69754. Number of the times that I’ve forgotten something: 3675. Number of times that I’ve forgotten the name of my boss: 13. Number of times that I’ve stayed in the office till morning: 12. Number of times that I’ve laughed at people: 256. Number of times that I made other people laugh: 452. Number of times that I’ve said to myself “that’s enough”: 26. Number of housemates that I’ve had during this year: 17. Number of emails that I’ve received: Yahoo account: 2532. University account: 789. Number of emails that I’ve sent from both accounts: 635. Number of people that I’ve loved in this year: 1. Number of people that I’ve hated in this year: 2. Number of times that I’ve stayed in bed for the whole day: 2. Number of times that I’ve argued with my dad: face to face: 0. on the phone: 0. in my dream: 1. Number of times that I’ve forgiven someone: 31. Number of times that someone has forgiven me: 19. Number of books that I’ve read this year: related to my research: 1. Unrelated to my research: 26. Number of times that I’ve cancelled a meeting: 6. Number of times that I’ve heard “I love you”: 0. Number of times that I’ve told someone “I love you”: 1. Number of times that I’ve been in GYM: 49. Number of papers that I’ve published this year: 1. Number of papers that I’ve not published: 3. Number of hair that I’ve lost this year: 8593. Number of times that I’ve wanted to shout and I did: 4. I didn't: 26. Number of times that I met my second boss: 5. Number of kisses that I’ve given in this year: 658. I’ve received: 472. Number of cigarettes that I’ve smoked: 6935. Number of times that I’ve cried seriously: 2. Number of times that I’ve made someone cry (serious/unserious): 2. Number of gifts that I’ve bought for people in this year: 28. I’ve received: 19. Number of beers that I’ve drunk in this year: 452. Number of times that I’ve been really happy of myself: 2. A bit happy: 134. Number of dates that I’ve had: 3. Number of times that I’ve chassed a girl: 2. Number of times that a girl has chassed me: 1. Number of times that I’ve had Déjà vu: 15. Nightmares: 9. Number of times that I’ve felt really guilty: 5. Number of times that I’ve been really disappointed: 8. Number of times that I’ve taken sleeping pills: 1. Number of times that I’ve been really drunk: 7. Number of times that I’ve had breakdown: 1. Number of times that I’ve put a key into an electric socket: 1. Number of the times that I’ve died: 0.
Friday, 30 November 2007
Family crisis
“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.
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.
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…
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