Art Zone

apocalypse

2012-02-03T02:18:00.000+01:00

year is somewhere around 633-644, and only two existed: Persia as the first officially declared state, and its neighbor, the Roman Empire. Persia has had difficult times. and so did the Roman Empire... and so did all other old nations, from the far east, till Egypt, India, and the Land of Prophets. two thousands years before, the Aryans arrived in the land, where they shall dwell eternally. Three tribes formed the majority of these wanderers. the Persians, the Parthians and the Medes. the power was taken first by the latter. in whose region, numerous prophets are enterred, including Daniel and his wife. but it is with Persians, that glory and civlisation was born. Language and literacy was born, clothing, use of jewellery, freedom of expression, freedom of religion and Iranian identity. Jews, semitic people dispersed in Persia dating from the destruction of the first Temple in Jerusalem, were already cultivating the land. And it was under the Persians, that they got emancipated (Pourim), and they were welcome to both Persia, now their homeland, and their Holy Land. Cyrus' cylinder is a corroborative evidence of his policy of the repatriation of the Jewish people following their Babylonian captivity, an act mentioned in the Book of Ezra about Cyrus, and the text refers to the restauration of cult sanctuaries and repatriation of deported people. and thus, he commanded the second Temple of Jerusalem be built.

"So said Cyrus the king of Persia: All the kingdoms of the earth has the Lord G-d of the heavens delivered to me, and He commanded me to build Him a House in Jerusalem, which is in Judea. Who among you is of all His people, may the Lord his G-d be with him, and he may ascend." (Book of Kings)

Under Persians, Persia became the one we read in legends. gardens... wine... art... architecture... music... beautiful, endless palaces of Persepolis.... Pasargadae... and everywhere in the Empire blossomed. Iraq did, Afghanistan did, Egypt did, Israel did, Tajikistan, Uzbekistan did. people gained literacy, cities were built. gardens... Persian gardens... palaces... poetry... literature... music... instruments... and wine. Lutes were made. violins were made. Lutes were brought to Andalusia. Alcohol gained medical use, and Avicenna, asked what G-d was doing before creating the universe, when he was 5.

the Romans, the Greek and the Macedonians, with their great Alexander, attacked Persia, drunkard, uncivilized, nude all over, inside and outside, they burned Persepolis, and there, they learned people here have clothes, so the next Roman generation got to cover their genital.

and a civilization dies, where Ishmael's offspring, some other part of the world, not far from Persia, is empowered with Islam. gathering all the world's evil inside its doctrine, and killing and converting people with blood shed and sword. Persia was attacked. now the year is 633. and a civilization has died. Kasra, from the Sassanid dynasty, was the last king who stood against the Arab conquest of Persia. a civilization dies. now the Greeks are more civilized. Andalusians play guitar, and call their modes Isfahan, or Shiraz but nobody remembers Persia. Bach composes for Lute, but who knows where Lute came from? nobody calls its children Cyrus, or Darius anymore. Kasra...? no way. only apostates will do so. and now the land Aryans, dwelled first by its Jewry and then the Persians, people pick more Arabic names. for an Indo-European language, Arabic alphabet are adopted... and no body, remembers the green gardens of Shiraz, smelling all over authentic wine, in this other land of 30 Jewish prophets, whose Gulf has been 3000 years Persian and now they try to call it Arabian or Arabic or whatever the heck, where Zoroasthra was born, that one day was ruined by the Greek, whom were not yet taught ...

the civilization died, and year is 1830. Persia is dead. Greece is dead. even the Second Temple is completely ruined, again by those uncivilized, drunkards... and now, in the land where Jews were welcome as much as they were in Israel, for the first time in history, somewhere infeliticious on earth, very infeliticious and disgusting, called Mashhad, bare swords,... people armed with bare swords... and people crying Allah Akbar... and blood... precious blood.... blood of Jewish people... blood of Jewish Iranian people... and the civilization is dead. and i day by day, learn so much, that there is absolutely nothing left, that could connect me somehow in my country, whatsoever. disappointment overwhelms me from every existing dimension, and... no body no more remembers Persia. the only land i should have belonged.

this lullaby is so sad. this lullaby is, oh Lord, so sad. i think if some day people wanted to do tests on direct physical effects music can have on humans, they should not neglect this humble person's body. i think all, ALL my organs are shaking. i realise, perfectly, that i can not even type as good as i want. this lullaby is so good. the mother sings this lullaby to its son. to her beautiful son. the little boy is so beautiful. he is so small, he is so beautiful. he is so needy, so weak without his mother. he needs to cry. he needs to be fed. and he needs love. he needs to be cuddled. and feel the warmth and presence of his mother. his eyes are so beautiful. Lord has put all the necessary time to picture the most beautiful face of his little son. but the lullaby... tells about the end of the world. i will not sing this lullaby to my son. i will not. i will not let my son hear anything from Tchaikovsky. nothing. it sounds like, Tchaikovsky, has piled all the sadness, sorrow and pain of every single creature, all along history, and his tried to express it in this lullaby. no i will not sing this to my son. let the world end. but i will not do it. how could these people get to create these works? what did they know? were they superior human beings? were they human at all? did Tchaikovsky listen to music? did he cry? did he make love? what was he? how was he? what did he like to eat? did he take shower at all? did he make love to his cousin, Vladimir, whom he always loved? and what happened to Tchaikovsky? why did he write this lullaby? did he know this year the world is going end? no, i will not let that beautiful baby, hear this lullaby. he is too beautiful for this. he is too beautiful for anything. sometimes, when i analyse different classical works, i get to the modern idea of music historians, to unidolize great composers. so it somehow helps us to resolve the problem, of why these people are so extraordinary, and why this lullaby sounds so sound? and why does it tell that beautiful baby, that the end is so close? that he will never get to be one year old. but you finally see, that you, or any other great composer alive, can possibly never succeed to write even ONE melody as expressive as that. and that is why i think G-d has totally abandoned us. no more Mozarts, no more Mahlers, no more Tchaikovskys, he saw we did not deserve it. he saw how people cut their neighbors' throats with swords. and how Jewish people, were no more welcome in their own land. and how the Persians turned into hungry killers. G-d knows. no... no more Mahlers... and definitely no more da Vinci's... G-d... we are so sorry. we did not deserve it. we did not deserve anything. we deserve to be ended. end all. end us. end Persia. end ... no do not end this lullaby. it is so beautiful. i will not let the baby hear it, but i want to cry with it. i want to sob. i want to cry. what happened to my parents? what happened to my beautiful mother? what happened to my beautiful country? my beloved, beloved, beloved land of Persia. for whom i breathed. for whom my life was valueless. and this lullaby. G-d please... i know it is only a few months left.

the Chinese year is dragon. we never had as much natural disasters in whole history as the last two years. G-d.... oh... all the pain i have gone through, everyday of my life, for the Holocaust, comes back to my body. all my nerves. all my glands... that have to work hard to support all my tears. and Japan. i pray for Japan. i will always pray for Japan. everybody. please pray for Japan. those beautiful people. wonderful. kind. cultured. sweet, and calm and peaceful. no they did nothing. please no more hurricanes, no more tsunamis. there are so many babies there, beautiful, with divine eyes, who need the warmth of the body of their mothers... who need to be loved to grow... who need to be hugged to grow... the Chinese year is dragon, and the Chinese people like the Mayans, know this is the end. 2012 is the end. and no more sad lullabies... i feel so good actually. i am sick of living in exile. i want to be back. i am sick of seeing tsunamis in Japan. why? why why? what did they possible commit that they would deserve this? and i am sick of seeing Mashhadi Jews in dispersion. Iranian/Semitic looking people looking for some identity, which is theirs, in wealthy suburbs of Milan and New York, where unlike Mashhad, and unlike Israel, they do not belong. i am sick of seeing everybody, Jewish, not Jewish, Christian, or not, critizing Israel. i am sick of it. yes, it is the very right time. Iran is forced with nuclear arms. everybody knows it. creating and reaching to nuclear bombs? are you kidding me? they already have it, do not be naive. it is there. waiting. and the world ends. after 1400 years of fanaticism and bigotry, the Arab world is awaken! but again how naive one can be, that think they are not looking forward to deeper fanaticism. i know the whole scenario. Iran, 33 years ago, from a country equal to its European fellows, education, literacy, freedom, quality-wise, descended to a fanatic Muslim country, and by people's vote! exaclty like the whole Arab world. they all deserve to be ruined. and America is going to welcome missionaries as its president. that is definitely the end of a country, where artists sought refuge in, where painters from Paris and Berlin established the New York school, where Jewish people, oppressed and seeking only safety, could blossom. Coplands, Sondheims and Bernsteins were born. Jazz was born. Oscar Peterson, Bill Evans, Duke Ellington and Billie Holiday as the best ambassadors of a fine musical traditions, an American one. American literature, was superior to any other English language literature, O. Henry was O. Henry and Bukowski was only himself. Hemingway and the Steins... and now, the blessed land of America, welcomes missionaries as its presidents. Racist, homophobic, and discriminatory people, whose support of Israel even only is fostered by their ridiculous beliefs of establishing Jesus' kingdom in Jerusalem. no, NO, a big NO. Jerusalem is born Jewish... and will eternally be so. and only, and only Jewish. and the year is 2012. Lord does not even think anymore we need a Messiah. no, we did not deserve anything. we burned Persepolis. we destructed the Temples. people killed each other. Europeans, and Caucasians draw swastikas on their Semitic neighbors' synagogues, and Iranians decapitated their Jewish people in Mashhad. German nationalists, burned people to ashes, and made soap of them, gas chambers were full of most wonderful Jewish people, who did not have any idea, that if they were told they were going to take showers, why they are passing out one by one, and their families, who behind the fences of the camps, only could guess that maybe in the smoke gathered above the neighboring camp, they can smell the body of their beloved ones. and i am full. i am full of tears. the lullaby is so sad. and i am glad the world will end. the Mayans knew it. the Chinese year is dragon. the Mayans never have made a mistake. and Jewish people are killed, Israel has to be strong facing the whole world. Persia, where wine and music and green gardens were born, is only the land of these desperate lost Aryan people in the clothes of the Ishmaelites... now cursed more than ever. evil. armed with nuclear bombs.

we are done. we are done in this world. perfection was born. we are totally done. above all technologies, electricity, nuclear powers, internet, computers, cell phones... human created art. art... art... da Vinci was there, and Chagall, oh my, Chagall was there. Monet... who needs anything else where somewhere a work of Monet is present? literature... Camus wrote his words full of pain. full, overflowing with pain. everybody was dying in Oran. plague was everywhere. and yet everybody was blaming the rats. Algeria was beautiful. Algeria has always been beautiful. there is something so special about Algeria. something rare, that i can not exactly put my finger on. and Oran was even more beautiful than Algiers. plague was everywhere. but no body knew, the cause of the disaster that had overwhelmed the beautiful, historical city, was faith, that had left the hearts. was faith, and love. perfection was born. exactly one year before, before the end, before the end of lullaby, human's perfect work, reached its ultimate perfection. now the pinnacle was there, present, right there, in material, touchable, you could feel it, you could hear it, you could watch it. in every movie theater. human's most modern technology, art, now was complete. perfect. culminated. culminated in Melancholia. of two hours and a half hours, every single second, is a painting as beautiful as any da Vinci, any Chagall, any Monet. the music... plain music... appearing here and there, all along the film. is Wagner. this tremendous genius, whose genius is never discussed. Wagner's name is shadowed, shadowed with a dark shadow. scary name. scary genius. maybe Mahler even had nightmare about Wagner. about their meetings. their rehearsal sessions. and music is Wagner. the perfection in music. Tristan and Isolde. words of pain. music of pain. it is like reading the Plague. all the music is filled with dissonances, that eventually are never solved, or even if they are, they are only ressolved in a more dissonant dissonance. and the actors and actresses, are beyond anything else. why would i bother even talk about Melancholia? human created art, when he could not express himself with words. and now i, i am trying to describe Melancholia? who do i think i am? superior to those who created cinema? and the actors.. and the actresses... Gainsbourg's voice. her fine, refined British accent... her sweet voice... mystic... mysterious... she is Jewish. what could make her even more special? and the plot... every detail is extremely paid attention to. i thought only Iranian directors know how to include mysterious, and meaningful words and mean expressions, in every word of the scenario, something very special to Middle Eastern people. where you are not allowed to express yourself directly, but you have to bury everything you want to say, behind a pile of politesse, and etiquette and useless manners. and a bride who knows the end is close. that everyone is going to die. her, the Swedish castle, her sister, and her beloved nephew. and the world that ends. the beautiful planet of Melancholia that reaches the Earth. Melancholia knew well, that somewhere on Earth, once upon a time, the Greeks burned down Persepolis, as they did the Second Temple, and once upon a time Iranians attacked their own people, their brothers and sisters, only becasue they were Jewish. Melancholia knew the Chinese new year is Dragon, where every Chinese person is ready for catastrophes, that Jewish people are not even welcome in their homeland, and that Iran is armed with nuclear bombs. and that Wagner, was antisemitic, and the person who creatured Melancholia was antisemitic. it is perfectly the time. it is not the first time, life ends on Earth. we have had, different ice ages, and different lives between. Noahs came and went. and we never deserved love. we never deserved humanity, civilization, Mozart, Tchaikovsky, his lullaby, Melancholia, and this beautiful baby, who is breathing fastly, and his adorable stomach moves with every breath he takes. it is probably the most touching scene, to watch a little baby sleep.

the beautiful baby is sleeping. his nose is so little. one would even wonder how his life and breath could only depend on his nose. and his dearest, most beloved, little heart is so small, that one would wonder how this divine heart of this most beautiful creature is supporting his blood circulation. he is full of love. his young mother loves him. he is cuddled as much as he needs. and he is fed as much as he pleases. the lullaby is over. him... his mother... me... the two lands of prophets, Iran and Israel... Tchaikovsky and his beautiful lullaby... and Melancholia... we will all end.

el gusto

2012-01-29T02:38:00.002+01:00

i knew the music. it is a wonderful one. it is so beautiful that i can not even concentrate enough to write, i think i just do not want to miss anything of its beauty. i knew the music. sometimes you know it is almost impossible to have seen or heard something before, but the moment you see or hear it, you recognize them, vivid déjà vu. maybe a Platonian definition of templates for each creature? and that we've all of us have these music inside us? that you can not possibly find anyone who does not find it beautiful and moving. the music is beautiful. touching. we even sing on some of these tunes in our synagogue. and i do not know it is the prayers that i recall now that make me transcend or the touching Arabic instruments.
i think the music is so beautiful. the melody, seems perfectly suitable for this Algerian Arabic, French or liturgical Hebrew prayers. same melody, 3 different languages and 3 different purposes. wonderful. after 50 years, the now French, then-Algerian Jewish musicians have joined their Muslim colleagues, with whom they played in the old town of Algiers, in the streets, in weddings, bar mitzvahs, in Muslim and Jewish circumcisions, and they fought for Algeria's independence, its language, and its music. But all evil comes from "that" religion. the Jews had to leave home. the home of their forefathers. where they had composed. where they had loved. where they had loved Algeria. where they had home, home, home, Algeria.
the film was called El Gusto - a Judeo-Spanish-Algerian term only used in Algiers, meaning the joy and real taste of life. which in the case of these sensitive, suffered, Jewish and Muslim musiciians, reunioned after 50 years of separation, was their music, the music of the streets of the old town of Algiers. welcome to the circle of homeless people.

who ?

2012-01-07T04:11:00.002+01:00

well - it is gonna be far from easy. it's late. it's certainly cold. i like cold weather. i do not know if i really like it, or only like it, because when it's cold and i close my eyes, there is nothing to stop me from thinking once again i am in Tehran. it's late, it's cold. i am very stressed for tomorrow's presentation. music is being played. in my house, music is always being played. for the most of my life, my best friends were my books, but now, i have the best friend. music. it's cold. and the only things missing are those beautiful hands. beautiful, soft. very very beautiful. and very soft. very much. they were so finely shaped. the skin covering them was different than any other skin on earth, and by each touch, i could hear G-d telling me stories. his stories of creation, of wars, of lovers, of resurrections and of separations. i feel bad. i do not have anything to say. my back aches. my hands ache, too. i can not play what i have to play, and i can not reach the required tempo, put aside the desired musicality. i despair. i dive into my thoughts. they are not as dark as they used to be. but they get to be very dark sometimes. dark enough to waste all sunlight. and dark enough, to forget those hands. i miss those hands. where are they? what are they doing now?

the car is going further. going further, but i bet a turtle could have reached us. it is normal. Tehran is always crowded. no car moves. the traffic is just fixed where it is. it is fun though. people are alive. and people are dead. people smile. and people don't. they are Iranian. like i am. like we are. we 3, in the car, are Iranian. the young lady who's driving is in her early thirties, and the young girl, smiling and almost dancing somewhere around 10. we were heading for home. our apartment was far from there. we came from that neighborhood, which was like nowhere else. nowhere else in Tehran, nowhere else in Paris, nowhere else anywhere looks like that. everything is perfect and refined there. everything's perfectly clean. everything shines. in each old narrow street, you only have old trees, very old trees, hectars of green gardens, maybe nuts, orange, or grape. each side of them, you have only a few mansions, usually white, smaller and newer villas, or huge residential skycrapers. a few of those houses are different embassies, but each street has a security guard anyway. it is even much more beautiful when it snows. when it snows, everywhere is beautiful in Tehran, from there to the cemetery in the southermost point of the city, where i have never stepped. we used to visit my mother's uncle family there. the uncle who had lived so many years of his life in the States, had this beautiful duplex mansion. i always loved to have dinner in the garden. in a table inside the house, he had all kinds of his different pipes. Dunhill, Davidoff, ... and his kit for his nail care, and all those different colognes and watches he used to collect. but i have to say, i never met him in his life time, he had already passed away when i was born, but all these objects were still present in the house. and his wife... i guess i always had a special relationship with his wife. maybe until 3...4 i never knew the difference between her and my grandmother. and that probably was a good point, as when my grandmother left for Holland, i was 3, and my parents could console me with the presence of this lady. and even when we got older, my sister and I, always liked her. old days ...

the car is stuck in the traffic. the young lady, who drives the car, is very beautiful. she has always been beautiful. everybody knew she was beautiful. and she was so young. G-d, how could this young pretty lady be my mother? i can still remember my baby seat beside me, i never used to sit on it anymore. i was 3...4, i was a big boy now. and the music... the music........... the music........... oh my ... oh you Superior being, Omnipotent, Omnipresent, how could that music be Googoosh? has she always been in my life? has she always been in my life? Googoosh, Googoosh... with all those nostalgic love songs... songs that tell about stories of creation,... adorations... separations... and revolutions. how could her music be so deep in my soul? how could her music be so deep in all my memories? in everything i know. in everything i will know. in everything i was, i am, or i am gonna be.

it was cold... probably snowing. Tehran, the eternal city of all my love, attention and nostalgia was beautiful, needless to say. big and beautiful. not as beautiful as Paris, but times, times bigger. huge, endless. from mountains, where i lived, where you could only walk to the skiing piste, till those endless, tremendous deserts, where only there, you could talk to Him, and make sure He hears you. cold...snowing... Tehran... the young beautiful lady who once was my mother was driving this small yellow Renault, that she had already driven for a few years... and the music being played, unlike this touching Schubert of now, was Googoosh. how she is eternally dwelling deep in my heart.

those hands... those hands... Paris... cold... i love the cold... when Paris is cold, i have the privilege of thinking i am at home. poor me. once the City of Light and now the headquarter of Arab league, was still full of light. and which light more illuminous than those hands, and their owner? whom i adore endlessly? those hands, taking me to a concert. shall i name it the concert of my life. i do not need anymore attend a Mahler, not even my beloved Don Giovanni, maybe Schubert's Wintereisse? no i do not think so. i did attend the concert of my life. my heart... holy shit. my heart... is this a heart pulsating here? or an 8 cylinder engine? how is this even feasible? i knew... i knew she was going to be there. who cared? did not the fact that she and i were breathing under the same sky, in the same city suffice? she was there. i knew she was beautiful, too. she had always been beautiful. from her youth, when i was not born, and now in her 60s. she is eternal. she is a real star. a star once born, that shall never die. she walks. wow... did she ever walk? did Googoosh walk? did she eat? did she see? did she feel anything? or she was just born to be in every Iranian's heart? where was she? where? in California? i want to be in California. i want to be there. that is where i should be. yes, a piece of my homeland is in California. i will join the other one million Persians there. hey, i'm coming California... she sings.. she sings... and where am i? those soft, soft, very soft hands are in my hands... but please... my love... my adoring one of a kind love... i have to go now... i have to go now... we are stuck in the traffic... and my dearest, pretty, young mother is driving the yellow Renault... it had probably snowed there... i love snow... and the music... exactly like the music now at this concert hall... was Googoosh... Googoosh... Googoosh...

how could i ever define myself? do i ever need to define myself? what does even definition mean? what does this word mean? who am i? what is Kasra? what is Biglary? what is Iranian? what is born in Tehran? what does goy mean? what does Jewish mean? what does a musician mean? i am Kasra Biglary. that's what my passport says. the passport that belongs to me, but to which i do not belong. my passport is Iranian, is Persian, is issued by Cyrus the Great, by Darius, not the Islamic Republic of Iran. no, thank you, keep your piece of shit for you. but i am more than KB. i am lot like my father. physically, no doubt. and i have inherited 99% of my mother's taste, emotions and attitude. and certainly, i am beginning to act a lot like my grandmother. and i am Iranian. no one can be anymore Iranian than me. if someone out there is Iranian, that is undoubtedly me, but am i only that? what is an Iranian? then what happens to all my years outside? do i not have a special connection to Malaysia? to France? to Malaysian food, my dear Malaysian friends. my beloved city of Paris, the French language or my wonderful congregation here? so what happens Kaz? who are you? why? why? why so lost dear man? where are you going to? where are those hands. now, is the moment that i need them so badly. and unlike a few moments, Schubert is listening with me to Googoosh as well. i bet he finds her worth learning Persian for. this voice is powerful. yes, this is what a divine voice is going to sound like. powerful. clear. touching. strong. and belonging to her. no, i am none of it. my definition is not that. my name could be changed. my name could really be Nathaniel Weissenberg one day. my nationality could change... i could be anything. Turkish, English, French, Japanese, American or ... my appearance could change. but what defines me, is certainly what is not gonna change. and i will always love Googoosh. i will always dearly love my motherland, my native language. and i always will remain a Zionist. a very proud one. a damn proud one. once with some friends, i said Zionism is what defines me. it sounded so stupid. what a stupid person, with no other dimensions, that could only be defined in one word? but i spoke the truth. this Kasra Biglary, from Iran, a musician, could one day be Shimon ben Yehuda, be from Argentina and a doctor. but what remains, is that i can see myself, from Iran, from France, from Algeria... named Albert, named Jack or even Sara... a rabbi, a catholic priest or social worker of a mosque, i will remain a Zionist. maybe the price for it will be an endless war, and so many precious youth, and children's lives. sadly so, but this is the only way justice can ever show itself after 2000 years of the exile of Jewish people on this planet. the thought of the world without Israel is unbearable, and the right of this nation to exist. the most legitimate, clear, obvious right one could ever have.

cold.... i am terribly missing my beloved city ... but i rather think of the softness of those beautiful hands that could easily make me forget all the mental and physical pain i could ever have... the music being played is Googoosh. nothing feels better than speaking or hearing Persian. that's what i am made for. and no other part, among everything that could gather and define this humble person, could make me any prouder than being a Zionist. bonne nuit

my gulf will always be Persian

2011-12-05T14:32:00.001+01:00

no

2011-11-12T22:52:00.001+01:00

i'm sick

i will lose it all

humane passion, integrity, loyalty, honesty, faith

i am the man who has no country

only a map - only a picture, and hallucinations

what would it be like, when someone belongs somewhere?

why is that feeling so unfamiliar to me?

how does it feel when you live with a family?

it seems like i have never known this feeling

it is okay, i can not expect anymore

maybe i deserve this all, i am made for this

i was made, homeless

and the music that is being played... which is sad

maybe he was a good friend,

whom whose intelligence i always compared to Mozart, but ...

he left me, too,

he hurt me, too, insulted me, and then left me

and him, too

hurt me, insulted me, but was friendly to me,

although he did not ever understand how one respect his beloved ones,

if at all i ...

and then things i learn...

that i should no more be, faithful and loyal

and nice, understanding, sympathetic, and honest

and that i have no homeland,

how simple that is? do you see it, too?

simply no homeland

NOTHING, NOWHERE

take the chance and go...

2011-11-11T03:54:00.001+01:00

i had perfectly well imagined the plot, before taking the first effort, to hold the pen and write it on paper. who knows how many years ago, a few hundred years ago. we are somewhere, not far from it, or maybe actually in it, in Baghdad. the sun is shining. the sun is always shining there, hundred years ago, above the prominent Jewish community of the city which made up to half of the population, and now, above the head of the American troops. that is the game of history. what happened?

you dare to dream,
take the chance and go,
desire has taken hold,
now the passion haunts you so ...

i am not more going to describe the semantical difference of the west and east, and i am not going to... i do not know. let's see what comes up under these tired fingers, what sits on each key, and how the result will be. i am not willing to make it my conclusion post, my closing ceremony, but i am only a human who adapts himself to its respective circumstances. so if that's what i have to do, i will do it. i will end this, and all else that i thought i need to live with in my life.

and i am not certainly not going to remind myself of all those unlimited "why"s that i can ask myself with no end, but i might bring up one. why?
the world has become a scary place. i miss it terribly. i smell like sin. i have sinned. i smell like sin. i know i haved sinned. i look at my hands. i look at my skin. i look at the past. there is this particular smell in the air. what is it? is it how sin smells like? candles... i remember the candles. i remember the hot tea. Moroccan tea, and candles. expensive carpets. were they Iranian? if they were beautiful, then they were Iranian. and they were beautiful, so they were from where i was. so they were me. they were like me, and they were a part of me. i will make pilgrimage to those carpets this time.
i need to. i still need to. i have this Pacific ocean of tears just beneath my eyes. i did unleash a great part today. why? why did i have to go to watch that movie? i had seen it before. and i had slept during it. like Melancholia. how stupid of me to have slept during Melancholia. i think Melancholia is me. i think i live in Melancholia. i think the director is me. he knows. he knows all my feelings, he knows all my sentiments. only he knows. my mother knows, too. and those people who were burned alive in their homes, in Mashhad one day. those who were Iranians, but had no place in it. those who are born on Earth, but are not welcome in it. like those people who were born on Earth, but they took them to Dachau, to Auschwitz... i want to vomit, all my body organs, all my feelings, all my thoughts when i hear those places' names. my weak human, earthly body, sentiments are not strong enough. WAR-WAR-WAR. what a disgusting word.
the last phone call was painful. the voice of a beloved one, whose voice was innocent, light, white and innocent, and was telling me, that maybe she will not ever be able to speak to me. war... war... war... these three dirty letters. the most disgusting word one could ever hear. the most intolerable notion one could ever conceive.
and no, the beloved one, did not know my pain. she never knew it. and she did not know i had sinned. would my mother ever believe, her little kasra, who used to take the bottle from her inside the crib, now is a big sinner? who has broken hearts? yes, mama, i am growing up. these are all the symptoms. as he said, everyone hurts everyone. and i have joined the group. although i do not think i am welcome there either, if someone is not welcome in his country, he is not welcome anywhere.

war... war.. this evidence of Devil's presence in universe. i know war. i did not see war, but i learned about it, i studied it, i knew it. i saw it, and i read it. the sad memories of the unfair Iraq-Iran war is a part of every Iranian's life.
the voice is deep. the voice is very high, but it penetrates the soul, into its deepest fathom. she is singing this long, beautiful, virtuoso Italian bel canto of this great opera. yes, as the wiser than me put it once, sublime beauty.
i have quite firmly made up my mind. i think i will go there. i do not know, and i could not care less about the price i have to pay for this, about the things i have to give up for it. i will go there, i will live there, i will grow there, and i will die there. that's the plan, for now, and for ever.
why did i go and watch the film? the director had previously made a film, set in Iran, which was a favorite of anyone who did not like the Iranian government, but the new one, was absolutely like me. not welcome on Earth. Mathieu Amalric. Golshifteh Farahani. what a great choice of actors. what a great choice of music. Setar... Setar... had this instrument some spells in it? who had made it? where did that sound come from? with every note, i sobbed. i know why i went to watch the film. i could feel my city there. i could see the streets of my city there. yes, that is the only reason. i want to die. i want to die and go there, even dead. i just want to be there. my city. my city. the unlived love. the unfulfilled love. Mathieu Amalric. the violin. the wife. the children... and the scrumptious Persian dish which was the title of the film, Chicken with Plums. and the music... the Setar... the violin... and my city. my homeland.
and why did i go there? why did i watch the film? my hands were shaking. my hands are shaking now, too. my city was inside the film. but i was not in the city. it used to snow in the film. it has snowed now in Tehran, too. Tehran is all white. Tehran is white again, and all that beauty can be seen from the window of the home i no more belong to, and behind which, it seems impossible that i will ever stand once more. in the air of my city, no i did not smell sin. i had not yet become a sinner.
i am going there. i do not care. i do not want to know, i do not want to foresee anything. i just want to be there. i want to be sick there, i want to be happy there, i want to be sad there, i want to be crazy there, insane, in love, irrational, optimistic, pessimistic, tortured, loved, or whatever else, but just be there. and i am going there. i am going there very soon. that is what i have should done before. much earlier. the second minute i ever left my city, i should have returned back to it, that is what i should have done.

and now I know,
what I've become,
it haunts me so,
but I'll go on and on
I know the pain inside
is the price you pay to ride,
into the brightest flame,
never the same again...
you dare to dream
take the chance and go... la passione....

only a few people, very few people can conceive this. which is promising, which means that the world is not that full of injustice towards everyone. but again, this injustice is comprehensible for me. everything only works by chance. i am sorry. i am sorry for myself, that i could not change the slightest thing.
i will close my eyes. the plane will land. in the abhorrent airport of Tehran. i will walk down the streets. i will speak Farsi. i will speak Farsi in my mind, i will speak Farsi to the others, and i will speak Farsi to myself, and what's more is that i will even hear Farsi. i will hear Farsi wherever i go. i will smell the air, which then will smell like sin. the sins i have committed. we will have snow there. my city is always beautiful. i want to sit on the ground. the only little part of Earth, where i belong, or at least i imagine so. i will touch the soil. i will touch everything. the rocks, the mountains, the historical trees. and i will welcome myself, to the land, where i no more think, i am welcome at.

you dare to dream,
take the chance and go...

Kasra - Paris

Nov 11 2011

איך בין פארלוירן

2011-10-07T01:58:00.002+02:00

it's cold. i love it. i came to Europe to feel the cold. one of the innumerable things i missed about my beloved no more hometown that i found once again here. i love the cold. i can feel how every night it gets cooler, and i count the days out for snow. it does not sound like real. wow! once again... snow. like my Tehran. how old were i? when i used to look at the snowflakes falling down from the unkind, unjust sky, thru the window? i speak of the same famous window, which from one side used to open to the beautiful safaron gardens surrounding our house 5 minutes away from the skiing piste, and from the otherside, to our beautiful cozy kitchen, which had a light cream theme, and was enchanting to any eye. and even those days, when i was actually physically present there, i used to think of the days i was much younger, and used to wait for the morning news, that often announced the schools of the northern parts of the city off, due to heavy snow. so many adorable memories, that now seem to be so unreachable than ever. not unreachable, simply impossible.
i do not know how to name the feeling i constantly breath with. it is not exactly all about nostalgia, or melancholia, although a significant part of it is, but it is mostly the nihilistic feelings that have happened to get revived in me, feelings i did not have for a couple of years, probably my last experience was the time i used to read and make trouble for myself with complicated philosophies, and ... who said my nihilism had ever ceased to exist? probably it's just been there. maybe not even only in my unconscious mind, but also in my conscious human being. the questions were always difficult. and this time it is not about the cliche that says it gets even more difficult as you grow up, no i'm sorry, here, in this person's case, it has always been difficult, and has been about difficulty. i just even do not have any more ideas regarding the way i am gonna handle it. and what is there to handle? or rather, what is there left, worth, even a fraction, to be handled? the questions are plenty, and the answers a few, and them, too, mostly of non-sense and loads of crap.
i think i just have to stop all. and i literally mean, all, and everything, and everything! notably, my following of politics, which has to be stopped immediately before leading my little sanity left to vanish as well.
i have, in vain, put a huge amount of time and effort to follow, and sometimes to understand what is going on here, in the world, almost did not miss a single piece of news on France, the United States and of course, Israel, but they all did not but caused me to come to this conclusion : the world is full of shit.
well, at least, i can express a lil' happiness, as i have solved my big, insolvable question of Iran. unfortunately, i have successfully came out of the bubble i used to live in (or maybe this just means i have entered a totally different, yet new bubble). i never knew, the people i used to live among, could become so extremely fanatic, could become so dependent on their traditions, and religious beliefs, could become so racist, so discriminative and so unforgiving. i never knew, besides the high quality of education and degree-wise educatedness of all iranians, the quality and quantity and humane feelings are so low. i feel so sorry. i feel so sorry for the 2500 year old Aryan civilization. i feel bad for 2700 year old Jewish diaspora. i feel bad for the land where human rights and culture grew from. where, artists from the Roman Empire to China used to go to, to learn languages, learn culture, and learn art. and now, i have solved this big problem. wow! at least a good point here. LISTEN TO ME DEAR KASRA, THAT IS DEAD, THAT IRAN IS DEAD, THAT CULTURE IS DEAD, THAT HUMANITY NO LONGER EXISTS, EXCEPT IN TALES. and yes, sadly, i have concluded, i have no business to do there, nothing whatsoever, and there is nothing left there, anything of any kind, i could identify with, even an epsilon.
the French question is a little different. i am not going to enter there. the question of France is much more complicated, as the French society is composed of several different, yet all-French identities. and i feel sorry for France, too. where did the Paris of Stravinsky, Picasso and Modigliani disappear to? what happened? what happened to the French language? what happened to the literature? were all that crap, too? did it all deserve to disappear, too? based on antisemitism? if so, then i am glad. i feel bad for France though, still. or at least, i feel bad for young French citizens, who have not been in the age of Enlightment, who have not been colonialist, who have not been antisemitic, anti-arab, yet they are paying a huge price for all and everything.

G-d forbid when disappointment arrives... is everyone, on the left side, on the right side, on the international, religious, secular, ... side not just disappointed with the US? was it all only a surface? the land of hopes? where everyone blossomed? Italian workers got to have a first-class life. European Jewry from shtetls got to have senators, enjoy full citizenship, have financial success, be real Americans. where those who escaped Nazism established a real prominent New York school of art. Were the smiley faces, and "white hearts" only the surface? or beneath the "white hearts", bright smiley faces and good and simple hearts, we had a "Dogville" hidden?
what happened to that America? or it was never that America, except for in "tales", as well?
and... !
in that case, disappointment is only arriving. in case of Israel, disappointment is overwhelming. what is going on? what the hell is going on? i am not critizing. i am no one to do so, i am not Palestinian, i am not Israeli, i am not a journalist, i am not a politician, i am just confused. i am just asking, maybe only myself, what the hell is going on?
i look at my belove Israeli flag, at corner of my room, and i am again asking myself... what the future of my beloved Holy Land is going to be? i feel worried, i feel concerned, and i feel helpless.
i feel lost. i feel very lost. so very lost. i feel totally, completely lost.

where is mine?

2011-10-03T19:24:00.001+02:00

i never thought i have a big heart. but for the last two days, i feel it is bigger than what i actually need, my body moves with its each pulse, and makes me feel over excited, and not really comfortable at where i am.

too bad. i always missed out so easily. it was a long time, i had not listened to these beautiful transcriptions Liszt had done on different songs by Schubert. and now... i was truly moved... i could feel each pulse, right beneath my chest... wow

the delicate move of the right hand from right side to the left part of the piano, the majestic bass sound. which was powerful, and yet was speaking for a bleak weakness. and i remember the beautiful hands of the wonderful pianist.

Philippe, was always a great pianist. i was even wondering what was left there for him to learn? i knew Philippe from the very first day i entered the school, and eversince, i am constantly moved, touched and astounded by the fabulous sound he produces. perfection. surely of highest quality.

and now, again, he was playing these wonderful Liszts, making his wonderful repertoire even richer. and eversince, i could not take out of my mind this stunning, Austrian, Viennese, fine romantic Schubertian melody, which was euphonious, which was scary, which was full, rich, and ... so many other words that we do not yet have in any language. suffice it to: Schubert was Schubert, and so was Liszt, only Liszt.

very interesting, that although not so many professional musicians, would say Schubert as their favorite and beloved composer, but it has always been mine, eventhough later on i was overwhelmed by ingenuity and the genius Mozart was. all the same, Schubert's name, was profoundly associated with two of my dear friends. both of whom resided in Israel, and both of whom i had not seen for a while, and i miss so much.

i have lots of tears beneath my eyes, some more Schubert is enough, to unleash them...

there is something i find interesting about me. whenever i get drunk, the only thing i miss, the only thing i long for, besides Tehran, my beloved parents and my sister, is classical music. G-d, i remember Andrea's birthday. i was so very drunk, and i could not see anyone, i could not hear anything. the one hour way in the cab, i heard nothing, but Liszt. and a big wow, how interesting. then Liszt, and now again, Liszt... now i do not wonder why i am studying under my current professor.

and last night, too. i was drunk. i still am. and i want to be. i want to hear Liszt, Schubert, my favorite Beethovens, without any material obstacles. i do not need a piano, i do not need a disc, i want to hear that powerful bass of Liszt's right deep in my body. deep in my soul. ... and last night, too. the city was beautiful... Paris is always beautiful... people were nice... everyone is always nice... and i need my own city. where is my city? where is the soil i always thought i belonged? where are my parents? where is my father? how is he doing? where is my beloved mother? what is she doing? where is she going to? what is she eating? is she still driving fast? is she still listening to Turkish music? how could she? how could she sit in the same car, and listen to the same music, same Turkish music she listened to a million times with me?

how could they walk in those streets? in the streets one day i had walked in? i had made snowmen? i had slept on the snow, and i had adored every single snowflake that were making my beautiful, eternally well adored city even more beautiful? where is my city? where is it?

and yes, ... never forget... never forget to tell them... bury me there... naked... nude all over... i want to be one with the soil which was mine, only one day...

lots of thoughts again... again... am i going crazy again? it is okay. i am not surprised. i just happens, and i have already got used to it, what's the big deal about being crazy? let me be crazy, and be myself.

wooooooooooooah, can you hear the bass? what a beautiful melody. it still has a large part of the refined, crystal sound of the Austrian school, so courtly, so Mozartian, so Viennese, ... and now, so very Lisztian.

and she never told me. he never told me. what was going on there? so many thoughts, again, and again. so much politics, so much integration, disintegration, so much war, so much religion and so much trivia. where is he? please, please, show up. i need to ask you a million questions. i have to know. i have to know, even if there is absolutely nothing i could self-identify with. what a shame, but i'll have to buy it. and now again... this melody, and the same powerful bass... i want to shout, break the piano, break the claviers and the strings... and this music... and where is mine? where is my city? where is my family? "where is the girl, and her smile which one night, wind took with himself?"

transfigured night

2011-09-27T03:41:00.001+02:00

Two people are walking through a bare, cold wood;
the moon keeps pace with them and draws their gaze.
The moon moves along above tall oak trees,
there is no wisp of cloud to obscure the radiance
to which the black, jagged tips reach up.
A woman’s voice speaks:

“I am carrying a child, and not by you.
I am walking here with you in a state of sin.
I have offended grievously against myself.
I despaired of happiness,
and yet I still felt a grievous longing
for life’s fullness, for a mother’s joys
and duties; and so I sinned,
and so I yielded, shuddering, my sex
to the embrace of a stranger,
and even thought myself blessed.
Now life has taken its revenge,
and I have met you, met you.”

She walks on, stumbling.
She looks up; the moon keeps pace.
Her dark gaze drowns in light.
A man’s voice speaks:

“Do not let the child you have conceived
be a burden on your soul.
Look, how brightly the universe shines!
Splendour falls on everything around,
you are voyaging with me on a cold sea,
but there is the glow of an inner warmth
from you in me, from me in you.
That warmth will transfigure the stranger’s child,
and you bear it me, begot by me.
You have transfused me with splendour,
you have made a child of me.”

He puts an arm about her strong hips.
Their breath embraces in the air.
Two people walk on through the high, bright night.

baran

2011-09-13T22:10:00.002+02:00

امروز

کشور، نامعلوم

شهر نامعلوم

زمان نامعلوم

نویسنده، ناشناس یا شاید مفقود

احساسات، در زیر متری خاک، یا شاید نیمه جان

و یخ

مثل هوای آنروز آن شهر نامعلوم

نه بگذار ببینم

این خیابان آنقدرها هم ناشناس نیست

گوئی روزی آن را چند بار پیاده می رفتم و بر می گشتم

گویی یک روز در آن دست هایش را دستانم فشرده بودم

و گوئی روزی به آن فکر کرده بودم

امروز روزی بود نامعلوم

و من امروز در آن کوچه دوباره قدم زده بودم، داشتم قدم می زدم

افسوس که بدون او، و صدافسوس که بدون دست هایش

و بدون لبخند بچگانه اش، که گاه

تنها زیبائی بود که در دنیا می یافتم

او رو کجا گذاشته بودم؟ آیا او را جا گذاشته بودم؟

همه جا جایش خالی بود

در مترو جایش خالی بود، جای دستهایش نیز

جای دستهایش در دستان مشت شده من، و بر روی زانوهایم خالی بود

جای وجود پاک و معصومش در سراسر این خاک احساس می شد

و می دانم که در تمام این لحظات، او فقط در حال دور شدن بود

از او دور می شوم

احساس می کنم موسیقی درون گوشم خیلی بلند شده است

موسیقی ترکیه است

ولی ذاتش موسیقی و فرهنگ بی آلایش و بیخیال مدیترانه است

و سازهایش

سازهای موسیقی بی انتها زیبا و شهوتناک تانگو

و من چقدر احساس می کنم

که بیش و پیش از هر چیز و جای دیگر

فرزند خاورمیانه هستم

روزی

آن چهار حرف آن زبان مقدس

که قرار بود یک روز و یک جا، شاید معنا بدهند عشق

فقط بر روی جا کلیدی بزرگ و سردم نقش داشتند

اما امروز

با تمام دلتنگیم

در این کوچه ی پر از قطره های زشت و نفرت انگیز باران

دستم را به گردنم می برم

و آن چهار حرف را

که به ظریفی بر روی این زنجیر نقره ای معلق مانده اند

به مشت می گیرم

و به سختی تلاش می کنم، تا وجود او را

که داشت از من دور می شد

با تمام حواس بشریم حس کنم

اما افسوس

که جای لبخندش بیشتر از این حرف ها خالی بود

کسری

پاریس – 11 سپتامبر

anha

2011-09-04T05:36:00.003+02:00

مثل همیشه، یک چیزی تو گوشمه

چیز تعجب آوری نیست، چه چیزی می تواند مانند این همه گوشی های قدیمی و جدید

در رنگ های مختلف

که دائما در تلاش هستند تا موسیقی مورد علاقه صاحبان خود را پخش کنند

نشان دهنده تنهایی بشر در عصر حاضر باشد؟

من هم تنهام

من همیشه تنهام

او بهترین دوست من بود

خواننده ی مورد علاقه و احترامم

اریک اینستان، خواننده راک اسرائیلی

با سبیل های ترک مانند و زیبایش

که یکی از سمبل های هیپی گری و مکاتب مختلف جواننان عصر بود

کشوری که یک روز موسیقیش تقلیدی بود از ترکیه و یا یونان

ولی امروز خود یک اسطوره شده بود

با تلاش زیاد، می توانم چند کلمه، و یا حتی جمله ای عبری متوجه بشم

ولی باز در نهایت، اگر خیلی دلم بخواد معنی همه اش رو بفهمم

باید از رونی بپرسم

که یک روز این سیدی را به من هدیه داده بود

او با اینکه ساکن تل آویو بود، ولی این هدیه ای بود ازحیفا

تعجب نمی کنم، رونی شخصیتی فوق العاده، و البته فوق العاده عجیب بود

که عاشق تل آویو بود، ولی به جز به بهانه بیرون رفتن با نینا

دیگر دوست مشترکمان

خیلی در بین آن خانه های زیبای باوهاوس قدم نمی زد

اولین شهر عبری، که فقط کمی بیشتر از صد سال عمر داشت

می گفت، اندک خیابان های این شهر

او را یاد خانواده اش می اندازند

و در حالی که من در این موضوع، چیز غمگینی نمی بینم، ولی شدیدا در روحیه حساس او، تاثیر بدی داشت

او همچنین عاشق پاریس بود، و با این دکترای خود را از امریکا گرفته بود و بیشتر از 10 کتاب به زبان انگلیسی نوشته بود

ولی فرانسوی را خیلی بهتر حرف می زد، و هروقت از او درخواست می کردم، راجع به نیچه و یا ویتگنستاین به من توضیح بدهد

فوری می زد به کانال فرانسوی

البته او ییدیش را هم به راحتی تکلم می کرد، که این فقط یکی از میلیون نقاط مثبتش بود که باعث افتخار و حسودی من می شد

رونی یا هارون، رئیس دپارتمان فلسفه دانشگاه بار ایلان بود، و از آشناییمان که زمان زیادی از آن می گذرد

می گوید که به دانشجویان ایرانیش خیلی ارفاق می کند

او می گوید که در تمام دپارتمان فلسفه و آموزش، دو دانشجوی عرب وجود دارد

که یکی از آنان نیز مسیحی است، و دختری است فوق العاده باهوش

اتفاقا همین چند ماه پیش که با رونی فقط کنم شیرین 4 ساعت در یکی از کافه های نزدیک میدان رپوبلیک نشسته بودیم

او می گفت، که می خواهد برای یک سال به عنوان استاد مهمان بیاد به یکی از دانشگاه های پاریس و یا حومه

ولی امروز که از طریق یکی دیگر از دوستان مقیم یکی از شهرک های حومه تل آویو متوجه شده بود که مریضم و زنگ زد و جویای احوالم شد

فهمیدم که بهش یک پست بهتر در آمستردام دادند و من نیز به او شدیدا تبریک گفتم

کجا بهتر از هلند و کجا بهتر از آمستردام؟ هم از یهودستیزی ریشه دار و غیرقابل تحمل فرانسه در امان بود و هم اینکه آمستردام

برای خودش یک پایتخت روشنفکری بود، و یکی از معدود فرهنگ هایی که نباید نابود بشود و بسوزد بر خلاف اکثر کشورهای همسایش

رونی به هیچ عنوان حاضر نیست دیگر پایش را به امریکا بگذارد

مخصوصا از خاطره بد هفته ی اولش

که در منهتن سرش گیج می رود و غش می کند و آخر مجبور می شود

یک هفته در خانه یک بدکاره سیاه پوست که او را نجات داده بود اقامت کند

شروع جالبی نیست، ولی همیشه آمریکائی ها را سطحی و احمق می نامد

به نظر من که اصلا داوری جالبی نیست

آمریکائی پاک هستند، دروغ نمی گویند، و کار بد انجام نمی دهند

همه مثل بچه هایی معصوم و شیرین زبون، با مهربانی بی ریا

و اگر چیز هم می گویند که صحیح نیست و یا به دل نمیشیند

تقصیر آنها نیست، تقصیر کیفیت آموزش کشورشان است که زیر خط فقر به سر می برد

حتی پایین تر از اروپا

لیلی متولد نیویورک بود

در یکی از مناطق نه چندان اعیانی متولد شده بود ولی الان جائی بین

لانگ آیلند و منهتن زندگی می کرد

و هر روز، باید چند ساعت در ترافیک می ماند

تا فقط از پل بروکلین عبور کند و به دانشگاه برسد

او یکسال در پاریس زندگی کرد

و البته هیچ دوستی نداشت، تا این که من او را با دوستهایم آشنا کردم

یک سال در دانشگاه سوربن 1 مهمان بود

ولی همچنان آلمانی یا عبری را خیلی بهتر از فرانسوی صحبت می کرد

لهجه ی انگلیسی اش

لهجه ی بیکلاس نیویورک است

که اول از برده های جاماییکایی که انگلیسی لندنی حرف می زدند درآمد

و بعد شد لهجه ی ایتالیایی ها و یهودیان نیویورک

تمام مناطق بروکلین، یهودی و ایتالیایی نشین هستند

و به جز شباهت ظاهری، این دو قوم سال ها هم دردی را نیز تجربه کرده است

آن روزهایی که فقط این دو بودند که بر روی در رستوران ها و بارها و هتل ها

نوشته شده بود از پذیرفتن شما معذوریم

لیلی نیز مانند بقیه کلیمیان نیویورک، با سرعت دو برابر سایر آمریکائی ها سخن می گفت

و در هر جمله اش، حداقل یک کلمه ییدیش یافت می شد

پدر لیلی صاحب کمپانی بزرگ پارچه فروشی بود

که در هر پنجاه ایالت آمریکا شعبه مرکزی داشت

ولی قسمت بزرگ آن در دبی و پاریس بود

و هروقت همکاران ایرانیشان در دبی به آنها ایمیل میزد

فوری ایمیل را با ذوق به من می فرستاد، تا من به فارسی جواب بدهم

و تقریبا هر دو ماه یکبار پاسپورتش را عوض می کرد، چون بعد از هر سفر به اسرائیل

از سفر به سایر کشور های منطقه محروم می شد

دلم می خواست، یک بار دست جمعی به الجزیره برویم

الجزایر کاملا تبدیل شده به یکی از رویاهایم

این فرهنگ بزرگ، کبیر و تاریخی

واقعا مو بر اندامم سیخ می کند

و این همه روشنفکری، و شعور و فرهنگ مردمش

و واقعا جامعه فرانسه بدون شهروندان الجزایریش یعنی جامعه ای پوسیده

هرچند که اینان برخلاف شعارهای 3 گانه دولت فرانسه

همچنان شهروندان دسته دوم هستند

و در تقاضای استخدام، می دانند که آخر سر، اسم و یا فامیلی عربیشان کار دستشان خواهد داد

و همچنین در مدرسه و دانشگاه، آنگاه که وقت نمره دادن است

واقعا جمع بزرگی از بهترین دوستانم از الجزایر هستند، و عاشق تک تکشان هستم

و بی صبر که یک روز کشورشان را که یکی از غول های فرهنگی شرق است را ببینم

و البته خوش به حال دولت فرانسه

که هروقت کسی را پیدا نکرد تا برای چیزی آن را سرزنش کند

شهروندان فرانسوی عرب تبار حاضر هستند

بارک الله به این عدم تبعیض نژادی که به جز در کاغذ، هیچ وقت به مرحله اجرا در نیامد

حمید اهل الجزیره است

یکی از شهر هایی که صد در صد یک روز آن را برای سکونت دائم در به خاطر خواهم آورد

و هر وقت که به خانه اش می روم

چون می داند چقدر علاقه مند هستم، و البته بدون شک از روی محبت زیادش

برایم غذای الجزایری درست می کند

و برایم موسیقی بسیار زیبای عربی می گذارد که کاملا مرا یاد

سرزمین عزیز مادریم می اندازد

و به او جملاتی را به فرانسه می گویم

و او آن ها را به عربی و یا بربر، زبان مادریش تکرار می کند، و البته من کیف می کنم

حمید مهندس برق است و چندین اختراع دارد

یک عکس بزرگ از خانواده اش به دیوار خانه اش دارد

که پر است از صورت های زیبا

فکر می کنم تمام انسان ها در خاک الجزایر به طرز اعجاب انگیزی زیبا رو باشند

یاد الیز میافتم، که زیباییش باور نکردنی بود

و از یهودیان اسپانیای باستان بود که قرن ها بود در شمال الجزایر اقامت داشتند

نه خیلی دور از محل تولد آلبر کامو

و یاد کریم می افتم

که خجالت می کشیدم در کنارش قدم بزنم

و تمام انسان های اطراف به موهایش و به چشم هایش خیره می شدند

یادم می آید که یک بار در جمعی که فقط من و کریم اعضای مذکرش بودیم

بین دخترهای حاضر تقریبا دعوایی رخ داد سر اینکه کریم چه کسی را برساند خانه

حمید چندین سال در بارسلون زندگی کرده

و هم کاتالان و هم اسپانیایی را به روانی صحبت می کند

و پریروز مرا با سینمای الجزایر آشنا کرد، که به جرات می توانم بگویم یکی از قویترین فیلم هایی بود که دیده بودم، هرچند که من متخصص این زمینه نیستم

در جمع دوستانمان

تصمیم می گرفتیم که دختر های مختلفی را برای حمید کاندید کنیم

دیگر موهای سپیدش داشتند نمایان می شدند

و او که بر خلاف خانواده اش، بر فرهنگ بربرش متعصب بود

حتما دنبال دختری بربر می گشت

من هلن را می شناختم

هلن یکی از زیباترین دخترانی بود که دیدم بودم

او نیز پیانیست بود و پدرش بربر بود، یهودی تبار و سال های سال بود که از مراکش

به پاریس اومده بودند

اما حمید می خواست به زودی به کانادا برود پیش خواهر پیرش و برادرانش

و مسلما، هلن هیچ وقت از پاریس دل نخواهد کند

همه را به فراموشی می سپارم

همچنان تنهایم

تازه جواب دادن به ایمیل های بی انتهای لیلی را تمام کردم

او دوباره چهار روز دیگر پیش خودم خواهد بود

اول مادرید، بعد پورتو، بعد بروکسل و در آخر اینجا

تازگی به نمایشگاه های مختلف کمپانی پدرش می رفت

و کار هایی حقوقیشان را انجام می داد

می خواهم وقتی که اینجا می آید یا به یکی از اپرا های جدید روی صحنه برویم

و یا یکی از فیلم های مورد علاقه ام را، که البته مثل نقطه عطفی شده در زندگی ام

در سینما ببینیم

اتفاقا امروز نیز، قرار بود این فیلم را برای سومین بار ببینم

با حاتم، ولی او زنگ زد و قرار را کنسل کرد

او به من قول داده است که وقت بگذارد و به من عربی خیلی خوب یاد بدهد

شک نداشتم که استاد خوبی بود، چون در یکی از معتبرترین مراکز آموزش عالی سینمای پاریس تدریس می کرد

و با اینکه اهل تونس بود، می گفت عربی الجزایر را نیز متوجه خواهم شد

هرچند که در الجزیره تمام مردم فقط فرانسوی می دانستند

و برخلاف فرانسویان مارسی، فرانسوی را بدون لهجه های عجیب و غریب حرف می زنند

و علیرغم اینکه مدت طولانی بود با هم قرار گذاشته بودیم که امروز به سینما برویم

من اصلا عصبانی نشدم، چون تک تک استخوان هایم، عضلاتم و سلول هایم دارند در درد ذوب می شوند

البته برخلاف رویاهایم، دوستان عزیزتر از جانم نگذاشتند بخوابم، و حداقل ده تماس تلفنی مختلف دریافت کردم

که همگی نگران حال من بودند

رونی که همیشه شدیدا تحت تاثیر فرهنگ اشکنازی و ییدیش است

می گفت کاش خودم پاریس بودم و برایت سوپ مرغ درست می کردم، سوپ مامان بزرگ های روس و لهستانی یهودی که امروزه در نیویورک زندگی می کنند

فابیو که تمام پاریس را پر کرد از این خبر

بدتر از پاریس، تل آویو نیم وجبی که فوری خبر از این سرش رسید به آن سرش و در نهایت، بله

دانیال می گفت باید بری دکتر یا همین فردا میایم پاریس

دانیال به هر حال داشت آخر سپتامبر می آمد اینجا

و این دفعه با لسلی می آمد که او نیز مرا ببیند

دانیال و لسلی سال های سال بود با هم ازدواج کرده بودند

ولی با هم زندگی نمی کردند

لسلی صاحب یکی از بزرگترین هتل های زنجیره ای در سراسر تل آویو بود، در صورتی که دانیال یک کارمند فوق العاده ساده

لسلی متولد نیوزیلند بود، ولی در سوئیس درس خوانده بود، و زبان مادریش در اصل انگلیسی و فرانسه بود تا عبری

اما دانیال که یک سال در امریکا زندگی کرده بود، اصلا بلد نبود به انگلیسی بنویسد

ولی فوق العاده زیبا و به لهجه نیویورک حرف می زد

دقیقا مثل دوست دیگرم که مدت زیادی بود ازش بی خبر بودم، موشه

موشه نیز، چندین سال در نیویورک زندگی کرده بود، و آنجا انگلیسی را یاد گرفته بود

و به ییدیش تحصیل کرده بود و حاخام شده بود

و الان مدیر یکی از بزرگترین دانشگهای دروس مذهبی بود در اورشلیم

و البته فوق العاده شوخ طبع و بامزه بود و به زیبایی گیتار می نواخت و ترانه های خیلی قدیمی فرانسوی را همراهی می کرد

دانیال نیز فوق العاده شوخ طبع است

یک تماس تلفنی با دانیال کافی است تا برای یک هفته شاد بمانم

و در حالی که شوخی هایش بی نظیر هستند

اما به راحتی نیز گریه می کند

مخصوصا وقتی که از خواهرش که به یک کلیمی غیر یمنی شوهر کرده حرف می زند

و یا اینکه گویا دیگر در اسرائیل کسی به سبک کلیمیان یمن لباس نمی پوشد

و من با کمال تعجب به او زل می زنم و از خودم می پرسم، آیا فقط این من هستم که در این قضیه چیز گریه داری پیدا نمی کنم؟

ورونا نیز همینطور

دل نازک بود، او شاعر بود

و هر دو فرزندانش را در به دلایل مختلف از دست داده بود

او نه انگلیسی بلد است و با این که اشکنازی تبار است، ییدیش نیز بلد نیست

متولد بوینس آیرس است و مثل تمام آرژانتینی ها شیک، و با کلاس و همیشه دماغش بالا

به اسپانیایی شعر می گوید

و بعد از اینکه در جوانی به اسپانیا می رود، رومان نیز می نویسد

الان هم که در حیفا زندگی می کند، باز با اسپانیایی زندگیش را می چرخاند

حیفا پایتخت یهودیان مهاجر آرژانتین است، و شیک و در پارتی های چند هزار نفره، رقیب تل آویو

و همه می دانند

که استیک آرژانتینی را یا در بوینس آیرس خورد و یا در حیفا

و برای شنیدن تانگوی اصیل، یا بوینس آیرس و یا باز، در حیفا

هوا شدیدا گرم است، احساس تنهایی می کنم، دلم می خواهد پیش همه آنها باشم، رونی، دانیال، موشه، حمید.... و همه

ادامه دارد

کسری - پاریس 4 سپتامبر

this is not Tehran

2011-08-23T04:21:00.006+02:00

"O darling, O darling, look at us through the mirror
the mirror has shrunken from the shame of these people who have hundred different faces."
here, me, in Paris métro
August 15th, more than 2011 years is past from when
a Jewish boy was born in Bethlehem, whom they named Yeshua
they called him the Christ afterwards, and in his name, they killed plenty
blood was shed in Jerusalem, they burned the artists and scientists as sorcerers
and too, those men who slept with another men
but no one ever knew,
the one whose blood from his whipped back turned the Holy Soil of the Holy Land into red, and was carrying his cross,
was aiming for nothing, but peace.

"Immigration was just a mirage. A dream that never could be interpreted.
Anyone who was a friend one day, left me behind in here."
I have closed my eyes
My broken heart and I, are the only two alive, or rather half-alive creatures in the car.
the hands of my watch, who above this white screen, are rotating
the white screen on which it's written א ב ג ד ה ו ... and it's hands are moving towards twelve midnight
and in here, very soon
it will be tomorrow.
here, this is a beautiful city
this is a city in which everyone can rest assured on each day of his life
no matter how long, there will be enough beautiful scenes, monuments, parks to blow his mind out.
and this is called Paris, and they call her the City of Light
as she soon turned to be the residence of the philosophers and intellectuals of the Age of Enlightment,
the dirty and cursed age of Enlightment,
the age where Voltaire and his fellows, never ceased to level against their Jewish compatriots,
and not only where reasons for ghettos to be shaped
but also reached the evilness of Martin Luther and became a perfect ground
for the Third Reich's Final Solution, one day, hundred days and years ahead, in one of the neighbor countries
and yes, down with you and your neighbor country

"Here, except for pain and lie, we had no other roommate.
in my exile, no one was ever as lonely as me"
I close my eyes. My eyes are tired.
My eyes are small, and tired
Tired of seeing, watching, tired of seeing all this beauty, all this beauty which is nothing but a beautiful silk cover on these decrepit and rotten bodies
rusty of sin
"blood used to smell like opium
expecting women
gave birth to headless babies
and cradles from shame
sought refuge in graves
what bitter and dark days
bread had defeated the tremendous power of salvation
prophets, starving and miserable
walked away from their divine premises"
I close my tired eyes
and I see the image of that woman
that today, I am more confident than any other day
that I worship her
was it all about this specific song that reminded me of my mother, or any other song by Dariush?
have I ever, told her, how much I adore her?
have I ever.... have I ever...
have I ever told my mother that the pulsation of her small and beautiful heart I adore
the heart I have broken times, and is the best reason for my being alive?
and I still vividly remember those lucid pearls
and how they used to drop from that pair of two beautiful dark eyes and I did not notice them
and I did not notice them
and I still do remember, still, everyday and every second, I remember
that how the owner of that pair of eyes used to offer me love
and her hands, her fine and beautiful hands, that were perfectly suitable for a young lady
used to dance on the wheel
and to her, as well, did I ever tell her how much I love her? it's getting late, and later
did I ever tell my sister, that I love her?

same as usual, I have sitten in the last car
I do not insist to do so, but it is my preferable place
my eyes are open, still tired though
but I still remember that beautiful voice
that used to ask me with kindness and innocence
"Kasi, why do we have to always sit in the last car?"
and I had to explain
one day, in one of the sheets of the book of history
the famous book, full of lie, and full of curse
full of hatred and full of blood
one of those days, that the Vichy government of France collaborated with Nazi Germany, in peace and in friendship
only a part of the French citizens, were just limited to the last car of each train
those who used to wear badges on their arms with a big Maggen David on it
and those who used to recite the Torah, and the Seventh day of each week
they used to honour
and they shared the same faith with you
and so many of them, had the same surname as you do
let us, honour their memory, the memory of those people that each of them is beloved for me
it is too late, it is too late for everything now, but... just their memory... only a memory

the old métro is striving and moving making a lot of noise
it is quite rare for me to take this particular line, but tonight I happen to be glad to have taken it
somewhere, a few meters above my head
the historical ghetto is located, which is not far at all from the first settlements in this city by the Seine's bank
which once upon a time was inhabited by medieval criminals and prostitutes
this ghetto, which was primarily resided by Ashkenazi Jews from Eastern Europe
Jews who up to this day, some spoke French with lots of loan words and expressions from Yiddish
is now turned into one of the most elegant neighborhoods of the right bank of the Seine.
here, the only place where in my endless exile
I after all feel to be at home
the neighborhood which today is no more only dedicated to Ashkenazi Jews
but also to their Algerian correligionists
and homosexuals
and each Friday night, when the Jews are getting ready to well receive the Queen of the Seventh day
bars and clubs door to door of the Kosher restaurants
are filled with all these young and nice looking men
who still have to fight
fight in order to love
fight in order to be themselves
and in my ears, i still feel the sound resonated
the voice which was loud, and was going like
"we want marriage equality, this year in New York, next year in Paris"
in the same ghetto that one day Jewish mothers, like my mother
"were still thinking about the smile of a small innocent girl, whom one night, wind took with himself."

Dariush is already over. I am listening to Beethoven's 3rd concerto
I am addicted, just addicted
I shall never listen to any other piano,
except for that played by these precious hands belonging to Glenn Gould
I do not want to close my eyes
I have to get off in this stop
here, I am a few meters lower than that point on Earth
where if not all, at least 99% of all the beauties are gathered
and I know very well
somewhere around this point
Notre Dame cathedral is built
in which, one of the most precious literral works ever is based
the novel which has to be burned, the history which has to be burned, and the church
which undoubtedly
has to be destroyed and be burned
the church in whose name
the synagogues were desecrated, turned into pools
and the people who used to pray inside them,
were burned
and of them, were made soaps, for those who used to pray in churches to their G-d
the G-d who despite the tales, even if had resurrected from the dead
today, with no doubt, out of shame
would have himself crucified , this time eternally
and the same glamorous church
which was built from the starving's tax
and so many points of it
were full of statues
that are to symbolize
their hereditary and disgusting hatred
the statues of Jewish women
that are holding broken and burned Torahs
and statues that were left undone, as if they were not worth completing
and the same statues that, on their faces
when Sun used to show up in the sky
and was disappointed by her beauty in comparison with Paris
they were overwhelmed by the shadows of those "other" women
that were baptized in the name of Jesus Christ
and one day, on the day of Judgement
they will be resurrected
as if they were, of a superior race, a superior blood
every single bone in my body and I,
cry out together
"death to this dreadful lie"

how much I am missing him
to him, neither
I think I never told I love him
I put my hands in my pockets
and my cold key chain touches my hand
the big key chain, which is made of 4 letters
and together, they can, maybe, one day, somewhere in this world
mean "love".

I know, that even this small souvenir

is bought with a world of love

by those beautiful hands, innocent ones

that still remembered the coldness of my hands

all of a sudden, I remember my own hands

the beautiful ring that I am wearing

the ring that one day, maybe

will move to the finger in its juxtaposition

and will be the everlasting contract of my life

the ring on which it is finely etched

"Listen! O, Israel!..."

I already think, or I am sure

that now, it is tomorrow

why would I ever care? I want to listen to Dariush again

let the days go by

welcome to Ben Gurion airport

this is the only airport of this small Land of the Prophets

the Land that has been for thousands of years

the hope, and sometimes the only hope, of its twelve children

and from its birthday 63 years ago

had nothing to offer, but peace

but they made her, over and over again

to fight all evil

today is August 15th

and almost 1974 years have passed since

that sweet child, not very far from Jerusalem

was born onto the earthly world

on that day, that he never knew one day in the history

the Romans will call him the Son of G-d, by contract

it is 1974

and the Yom Kippur war is still warm

Israeli children, Palestinian children

fall asleep with the nightmare of that tremendous frightening sound

that they never understand where it came from and where it was heading for

this is the last days of this great woman's ministery

Golda Meir, who was light, and was the light of Israel and like Israel was the Light of the Nations.

Then the angel of the Lord called again to Abraham from heaven. “This is what the Lord says: Because you have obeyed me and have not withheld even your son, your only son, I swear by my own name that I will certainly bless you. I will multiply your descendants beyond number, like the stars in the sky and the sand on the seashore. Your descendants will conquer the cities of their enemies. And through your descendants all the nations of the earth will be blessed — all because you have obeyed me.”

today, August 15th 1974, Tel Aviv is only 65 years old

and still, German and Austrian immigrants

ornament the humid alleys of this hill

with Bauhaus architecture

and gigantic hotels

which today block the Mediterranean breeze into the city

where the children of Adam are reminded of their Eden from which they did not gain any benefit

were still incomplete.

in different points,

new immigrants have settled

those who speak Hebrew with American accent, those from Argentina who have a Neopolitan accent

those who although have journals in their mother tongue, but are obliged to speak Hebrew in the streets in lieu of the Russian they speak at home

and those dear and dearest ones

whose names are Persian, whose family names are Persian, whose souls are Persian, and with different accents from Mashhad, from Isfahan, from Kurdistan, and ... speak Hebrew.

IRAN MISSES YOU. WE ALL MISS YOU, YOUR EMPTY PLACE IN IRAN IS STILL HONORED, IS ETERNALLY GREEN.

was Iran missing me? was Tehran missing me?

I am close to my apartment. only a few seconds away from turning the key in the key hole

and there, I will stare in the mirror

and ask questions from myself, that I do not know which one is more real now

and ask one thousand more questions

for several hours, that go by, on my watch with Hebrew letters

I will ask, why, why, why...

I am the son of Tehran

I am the son of Tehran and that is the only soil that belongs to me

my heart is broken

I am missing it

Yes, maybe one day

I recall those days, how many years ago it was?

two years? three years?

that time, on this same screen which used not to be yet cracked

I used to see that beautiful name

with whose presence, only

I will consider these movements of my lungs, worth existing

and I strived, and tried hard

to keep those tears hidden

tears that were not as beautiful as those of my sister

and were not of pearl and were not precious

yet were tears

and I was awaiting to hear her voice

hear my mother's voice

have I ever... told her how much I lover her?

"Call my name
Your voice is fine.
Your voice is the chlorophyll of those strange plants
that can only grow
at the intimacy of sorrow.
In the dimensions of the era of darkness
I am lonelier than the taste of a soulful chord
played on the wide open palms
of the white, snowy, deserted lanes.
Tell me about the bombs that fell and I was asleep...
Tell me about the tears that flowed and I was asleep...
Tell me how many ducks fleed from the lakes?"

there, that place, was my city
I miss its each single street, its never fully green trees
maybe one day
Yes, undoubtedly, one day again
nude
"Nude, tell them bury me nude
how we pray the love,
that with no obstacles
I want to copulate with this soil"
tell them to bury me in Tehran
I am the son of Tehran
"Sun was dead
and no one used to know
that the name of that dead dove who has flown away from hearts
was Faith.
O, imprisoned voice
Will the glory of your hopelessness ever
burrow into the mask of this abhorrent night?
O, imprisoned voice
O, voice of the last voices."

O, G-D! Is it once again possible
that I wake up
and look at through the windows of the beautiful kitchen
where my mother used to cook in
and where from sometimes one could smell the heaven
look at my daughter in this bridal robe
which is made of snow and covers her body
which is not rotten and rusty of sin, and does not smell like opium
and to the girl, that one day the authors of the history
called Tehran
have a look?
only one look! I promise!
and with those people
to whom an unknown power called adoration was attaching me
drink warm tea?
and to have a look
at my dad's grey hair
that was my father, and was my pride, and my existence was from him
and to that day
the day that might be too far away
on which we are all only ourselves
and on that particular day
white doves and blue doves, the colors of the eternal flag of Israel
will fly over the rebuilt King Solomon's Temple
the church of the Holy Sepulchre and Masjid Al Aqsa
and on that day, I, again
will smile with the fall of those snow flakes
that the beloved body of that city
which will not be any more red, from the blood of
the one who thought, the one who criticized, and the open who opened mouth
will be covered with
the very same city
that once upon a time
was named, Tehran

Kasra - Paris Aug 16th

translation from the original Farsi text

inja tehran nist

2011-08-16T05:32:00.008+02:00

ای نازنین، ای نازنین، در آینه ما را ببین

از شرم این صد چهره ها در آینه افتاده چین

اینجا، من در متروی پاریس

پانزدهم اوت، بیشتر از 2011 سال از آن روز که کودکی یهودی به نام یشوعه در بیت اللحم به دنیا آمد گذشته است

آن پسربچه را بعد ها عیسی مسیح نامیدند، و به نام او آدم ها کشتند، اورشلیم را به خون کشاندند

هنرمندان و دانشمندان را به عنوان ساحر سوزاندند و نیز

آن مردانی که عاشق مردان دیگر بودند

اما هیچ وقت هیچ کس ندانست، که آن کس که از کمر شلاق خورده اش خاک مقدس سرزمین موعود قرمز رنگ می شد و صلیبش را حمل می کرد

خواستار چیزی جز صلح و دوستی نبود

هجرت سرابی بود و بس

خوابی که تعبیری نداشت، هرکس که روزی یار بود

اینجا مرا تنها گذاشت

چشمانم را بسته ام

من و دل تنگم، تنها دو موجود زنده، یا شاید نیمه زنده ی درون واگن هستیم

عقربه های ساعتم، که روی این صفحه سفید به آرامی، به آرامی هر ثانیه می چرخند

صفحه ی سفیدی که روی آن نوشته شده است א ב ג ד ה ו ... و عقربه هایش به طرف دوازده حرکت می کنند

و اینجا، به زودی فردا می شود

اینجا، اینجا شهری زیباست

اینجا شهری است، که هرکس می تواند اطمینان داشته باشد در هر روز زندگی اش

هرچقدر هم که طولانی، باز صحنه ای، پارکی، نمائی کشف خواهد کرد که هوش از ذهنش خواهد برد

و اینجا پاریس است، و ملقب به شهر نور

چرا که خیلی زود تبدیل شد به اقامتگاه فلاسفه، نویسندگان و دانشمندان عصر روشنگری، عصر کثیف و لعین روشنگری

عصری که ولتر و روشنگران همزمانش از هیچ ستیز و تهمتی بر ضد هم وطنان کلیمیشان دریغ نکردند

و نه تنها دلیلی شدند برای خاست گتوهای مختلف در خاک این کشور

بلکه دست مارتین لوتر را در پلیدی و شیطانیت از پشت بستند و زمین صافی شدند

برای بنای راه حل نهایی دولت رایش سوم، یک روز، صدها و ده ها سال بعد، در یکی از کشورها همسایه

و آری، لعنت به هر دو، به تو و آن کشور همسایه ات

اینجا به جز درد و دروغ، هم خانه ای با ما نبود

در غربت من، مثل من

هرگز کسی تنها نبود

چشمانم را می بندم، چشمان خسته ام

چشمانم کوچک هستند، و خسته

خسته از دیدن، خسته از دیدن این همه زیبائی، این همه زیبائی که چیزی نیستند جز یک تنپوش ابریشمی بر روی این تن های پوسیده

پوسیده از گناه

"خون بوی بنگ و افیون می داد
زنهای باردار
نوزادهای بی سر زاییدند
و گاهواره ها از شرم
به گورها پناه آوردند
چه روزگار تلخ و سیاهی
نان نیروی شگفت رسالت را
مغلوب کرده بود
پبغمبران گرسنه و مفلوک
از وعده گاههای الهی گریختند"

چشمان خسته ام را می بندم

و تصویر آن زنی را می بینم

که امروز بیشتر از هر روز اطمینان دارم

که او را می پرستم

آیا این ترانه به خصوص بود، که مرا یاد مادرم می انداخت؟ یا کلا هر داریوش دیگری؟

آیا هرگز به او گفته ام، که چقدر دوستش دارم؟

آیا هرگز.... آیا هرگز

آیا هرگز به مادرم گفتم، که طپش آن قلب کوچک و معصومش را

که بار ها شکانده ام بزرگترین و بهترین دلیل من است برای هر نفس؟

و هنوز آن مروارید های شفاف را به خوبی به خاطر می آورم

که چطور از آن دو چشم سیاه زیبا، می چکدیدند و من آن ها را ندیدم
و من آنها را ندیدم

و هنوز به خاطر میاورم، هنوز، و هر روز، و هر لحظه به خاطر می آورم

که چطور صاحب آن دو چشم سیاه به من عشق می ورزید

و دست هایش، دست های ظریف و زیبایش، که در نهایت کمال برازنده ی یک دختر جوان بودند

بر روی فرمان ماشین

تکان می خوردند

به او نیز، آیا هرگز به او گفتم چقدر او را دوست دارم؟ هر روز دیرتر می شود

آیا به خواهرم گفتم، که او را، می پرستم؟

مانند معمول، در آخرین واگن قطار نشسته ام

اصراری ندارم که همیشه در آخرین واگن بشینم اما اینجا را ترجیح می دهم

چشمانم باز، بازند، اما همچنان خسته

اما به خوبی آن صدای آشنا و مهربان را به یاد می آورم

که با همان سادگی و معصومیت معمول بچگانه اش، و با لهجه ی غلیظ و بی کلاس نیویورک می پرسید

کسری، چرا همیشه ما باید واگن آخر بشینیم؟

و من باید توضیح می دادم که

یک روز، در یکی از برگ های کتاب تاریخ

کتاب معروفی که پر از دروغ است و پر از نفرین

پر از نفرت است و پر از خون

آن روزهایی که دولت ویشی فرانسه در صلح و دوستی با دولت نازی همکاری کرد

بخشی از شهروندان فرانسوی، فقط محدود بودند به آخرین واگن هر قطار

آنان که بر بازوانشان باید، ستاره های بزرگ داوود می بستند

و همانان که تورات می خواندند، و روز هفتم هر هفته را

گرامی می داشتند

و آنان نیز هم کیشان تو بودند

و خیلیشان حتما با تو و پدرت همنام
بگذار یاد تک تک آن انسان های عزیز در ذهنمان باشد

دیر است، دیگر برای همه چیز دیرست، اما حداقل فقط یادشان.... این که چیز زیادی نیست

مترو قدیمی با سر و صدا حرکت می کند

خیلی کم پیش میاد که تو این خط بشینم، ولی اتفاقا امشب خوشحالم که اینجا نشستم

جائی، در چند متری بالای سرم

گتوی تاریخی یهودیان است، که البته خیلی دور نیست از اولین بناهای ساخته شده در پاریس کنار رود سن که روزگاری

تبدیل شده بود به محل تن فروشان و بزه کاران قرون وسطی

این گتو، که روزی فقط یهودیان اروپای شرقی با سنت های آلمانی در آن اقامت داشتند

یهودیانی که برخی از آنها حتی به امروز، فرانسوی را با لهجه و پر از کلمات و عبارات ییدیش به کار می برند

امروزه تبدیل شده است به یکی از گران قیمت ترین محله های کرانه ای راست رود سن
اینجا، تنهایی جایی که در این غربت بیکران، احساس می کنم در خانه ی واقعی هستم

محله ای که دیگر نه تنها امروز همچنان منزل یهودیان سابقا آلمانی تبار هست، بلکه به خانه همکیشان الجزایری آنان

و همجنسگرایان نیز تبدیل شده است

و هر جمعه شب، که کلیمیان به استقبال ملکه روز هفتم، شبات می روند

بار ها و دیسکو های دیوار به دیوار رستوران های تعطیل کوشر

پر می شود از این مردان و پسران جوان و خوشپوش

که همچنان باید بجنگند

بجنگند برای اینکه دوست داشته باشند

و بجنگند برای اینکه خودشان باشند

و هنوز گوش من پر است از فریادشان

که بلند بود و دیکته می کرد

ما برابری در ازدواج می خواهیم، امسال نیویورک، سال دیگر پاریس

در همان گتوئی که هنوز مادران یهودی ای هستند که مانند مادر من همچنان

" به تبسم معصوم دخترکی می اندیشند که یک شب او را باد با خود برد"

دیگر داریوش تمام شده است

دارم به کنسرتوی پیانو شماره 3 بتهوون گوش می دهم

معتادم، معتاد

دیگر به هیچ پیانویی گوش نخواهم داد، مگر آن پیانویی که

این دست های ارزشمند گلن گولد آن را به صدا در بیاورد

نمی خواهم چشمانم را ببندم

باید در این ایستگاه پیاده شوم

اینجا، چندین و چند متر پائین تر از آن نقطه از کره ی زمین هستم

آنجا که اگر نه همه، اما 99% تمام زیبائی های جهان گرد آمده است

و می دانم که جائی در همان نزدیکی

کلیسای نتردام قرار دارد

که در آن، یکی از زیباترین رومان های ادبی تاریخ شکل گرفته است

رومانی که باید سوزانده شود، تاریخی که باید سوزانده شود، و کلیسایی که بدون شک

باید تخریب شود و سوزانده

کلیسائی که به نامش

کنیساها تبدیل به استخر شدن

و آن انسان هایی که در آن دعا می خواندند

سوختند

تبدیل شدند به صابون های خانه های آن دیگرانی که در کلیسا به خدایشان دعا می خواندند

خدایی که برخلاف افسانه ها، اگر هم از مردگان برخاسته بود

امروزه بدون شک، از شرمندگی

خود را به صلیب می آویخت، اینبار برای همیشه

و همین کلیسای با شکوهی

که با مالیات مردم گرسنه ساخته شده بود

و در جای جای دیواره ی بیرونی آن

پر از مجسمه هایی بود

که سمبل هایی بودند

از این نفرت ذاتی و کثیفشان

مجسمه های زنان یهودی که

تورات های نیمه سوخته و نیمه شکسته به دست داشتند

و مجسمه هایی که نیمه تمام رها شده بودند، گوئی ارزش تمام شدن نداشتند

و همان مجسمه هایی، که بر رویشان

هنگامی که آفتاب بر آسمان سر می کشید

و در مقابل پاریس، به زیبایی چهره خود شک می کرد

سایه مجسمه آن زنان دیگر می افتاد

که به نام عیسی مسیح غسل داده شده بودند

و در یک روز، روزی به نام قیامت

از گور بر می خاستند

گوئی از نژاد و خونی بودند

برتر و رنگین تر

و من و تمام سلول های بدنم با هم فریاد می زنیم

"نفرین بر این دروغ، دروغ هراسناک"

چقدر دلم برایش تنگ شده است

به او نیز، گمان می کنم

که هیچ وقت نگفتم، دوستش دارم

دستم را در جیب فرو می برم

جا کلیدی بزرگم، مثل یخ دستم را لمس می کند

از چهار حرف بزرگ و زیبا تشکیل شده است

و در کل، می تواند، شاید، یک روز، یک جا

معنی بدهند، عشق

می دانم که همین یادگار کوچک نیز

با دنیایی از عشق خریده شده

توسط آن دستان کوچک و بچگانه ای

که هنوز بی مهری مرا به یاد داشتند

یاد دستان بی مهر خودم میافتم

انگشتر زیبایی که به دستم بزرگ است

انگشتری که یک روز، شاید

به انگشت بقلی حرکت می کند

و حلقه ی پیمان زندگی من می شود

حلقه ای که روی آن به ظرافت حک شده است

"...بشنو ای اسرائیل"

دیگر فکر می کنم، یا شاید مطمئنم

فردا شده است

چه اهمیتی دارد؟ دلم می خواهد دوباره به داریوش گوش بدهم
بگذار روز بعد و روزهای بعد فرا برسند

به فرودگاه بن گوریون خوش آمدید

اینجا تنها فرودگاه این سرزمین کوچک پیغمبران است

سرزمینی که برای چندین هزارسال

امید، و بعضی اوقات تنها امید دوازده فرزندش بوده است

و از اولین روز تولدش 63 سال پیش

چیزی نداشت جز پیام صلح

ولی مجبورش کردند، و باز مجبورش کردند

که به جنگ پلیدی ها برود

امروز پانزدهم اوت است

و تقریبا 1974 سال می گذرد از آن روز که

آن کودک شیرین و خوش سخن

نه خیلی دور از اورشلیم چشم به دنیا گشود

در آن روزی که، هیچ وقت نمی دانست که یک روز در تاریخ

در روم بر حسب قرارداد، او را فرزند خد.اوند خواهند نامید

سال 1974 است

هنوز صدای جنگ یوم کیپور در اذهان است

کودکان اسرائیلی، کودکان فلسطینی

با کابوس آن صداهای مهیب به خواب می روند

که هیچ وقت نفهمیدند از کجا آمد و به کجا می رود

آخرین روزهای وزارت این زن بزرگ تاریخ است

گلدا مایر، که نور بود و نور اسرائیل بود و و مثل اسراییل نور جهان بود

"بار دیگر، فرشته خد.اوند ابراهیم را از آسمان صدا زده، به او گفت:"خد.اوند می گوید به ذات خود قسم خورده ام که چون مرا اطاعت کردی و حتی یگانه پسرت را از من دریغ نداشتی، تو را چنان برکت دهم که نسل تو مانند ستارگان آسمان و شنهای دریا بی شمار گردند. آنها بر دشمنان خود پیروز شده، موجب برکت همه قوم های جهان خواهند گشت، زیرا تو مرا اطاعت کرده ای." آمین

امروز پانزدهم اوت، تل آویو، تپه ی همیشه بهار تنها 65 سال دارد

و هنوز مهاجران آلمانی و اطریشی

کوچه های مرطوب این تپه را

با معماری باوهاوس می آرایند

و هتل های غول آسا

که امروز جلوی آن نسیم رویایی تازه را می گیرند

در کرانه های مدیترانه که هم اکنون فرزندان آدم را

به یاد عدنی می اندازد که از آن محروم ماندند

هنوز نا تمام بودند

در جای جایش، مهاجران تازه وارد اقامت دارند

آنان که عبری را با لهجه ای آمریکایی سخن می گویند، آنان که از آرژانتین آمده اند و لهجه ی ناپلی دارند

آنان که هرچند روزنامه زبان ملی خود را نیز دارند، اما همچنان مجبورند به جای روسی خانگیشان در خیابان عبری حرف بزنند

و آن عزیزان و عزیزترانی که

نام هایشان فارسی است، نام خانوادگیشان فارسی است، روحشان ایرانی است و با لهجه های مشهدی، کردی، کرمانشاهی و اصفهانی عبری را تکلم می کنند

جای همه تان در ایران خالی خالی است

آیا جای من در ایران خالی بود؟ آیا جای من در تهران خالی بود؟

نزدیک خانه ام. چیزی نمانده که کلیدم را در قفل در بچرخانم

و آنجا، زل بزنم به آینه ام

و از خودم، که الان نمی دانم کدام واقعی تر است

بپرسم، و هزاران سوال دیگر بپرسم

و برای ساعت هایی که عقربه شان بر روی حروف عبریم می چرخند، بپرسم، چرا، چرا، چرا

من فرزند تهران بودم

من فرزند تهران بودم و آنجا تنها خاکی بود که به من تعلق داشت

دلم تنگ شده است

آری، شاید یک روز

به یاد آن روزها میافتم

چند سال پیش بود؟ دو سال پیش؟ سه سال پیش؟

آن موقع، در همین صفحه ای که آن روز ترک نخورده بود

نام زیبای آن موجود نازنینی را

که تنها با وجود او در دنیا

این حرکت نا محسوس شش هایم را سزاوار بودن می دیدم

و با سعی و تلاش زیاد

آن اشک های فراوان را قورت می دادم

اشک هایی که مانند اشک های خواهرم زیبا نبودند

و از مروارید نبودند و ناب نبودند

اما همچنان اشک بودند

و من منتظر بودم تا صدایش را بشنوم

صدای مادرم را بشنوم

آیا هرگز به او گفته بودم، چقدر دوستش دارم؟

"صدا کن مرا

صدای تو خوب است

صدای تو سبزینه آن گیاه عجیبی است

که در انتهای صمیمیت حزن می روید

و آنوقت حکایت کن از بمب هائی که من خواب بودم و افتاد

حکایت کن از گونه هایی که من خواب بودم و تر شد

بگو چند مرغابی از روی دریا پریدند؟"

آنجا، آن شهر، شهر من بود

دلم برای تک تک خیابان هایش، برای درختان نیمه سبزرنگ دلتنگش

تنگ شده است

شاید یک روز

آری، بدون شک یک روز دوباره

برهنه

"بگو برهنه به خاکم کنند

سراپا برهنه

بدان گونه که عشق را نماز می بریم

که بی شایبه حجابی

با خاک

عاشقانه در آمیختن می خواهم"

بگوئید در تهران خاکم کنند

من فرزند تهرانم

"خورشید مرده بود
و هیچ کس نمی دانست
که نام آن کبوتر غمگین
کز قلب ها گریخته ایمانست
آه ، ای صدای زندانی
ایا شکوه یأس تو هرگز
از هیچ سوی این شب منفور
نقبی به سوی نور نخواهد زد ؟
آه ای صدای زندانی
ای آخرین صدای صداها"

خد.اوندا! آیا یک روز دیگر نیز ممکن است

من بیدار شوم

از پنجره ی آشپزخانه ی زیبائی

که مادرم در آن غذا می پخت

و از آنجا به مراتب بوی بهشت می آمد

به دختر عزیزدردانه ام که عروس شده است

و لباس سفیدی از جنس برف به تن زیبایش

که بوی گناه، و بنگ و افیون نمی دهد، کرده است
و دختری که روزی نامش را نویسندگان تاریخ
تهران نهاده بودند

نگاه کنم؟
فقط یک نگاه! قول می دهم

و با آن انسان هائی

که احساس غریبی به نام عشق

یا شاید پرستش

مرا به آنها پیوند می داد

چای داغ بنوشم؟

و به مو های زیبای خاکستری رنگ پدرم

که پدر من بود، و وجود من او بود، و افتخار من بود

نگاهی دوباره بیندازم؟

به امید آن روز

آن روزی که شاید خیلی دور باشد

و در آن، ما همه خودمان هستیم

و در آن روز

کبوترهای سپید رنگ و آبی رنگ صلح به رنگ پرچم جاودانه اسرائیل

بار دیگر بر فراز معبد سلیمان پادشاه

کلیسای مقبره مقدس و مسجد الاقصی بال می گشایند

و من در آن روز

بار دیگر

با ریزش آن دانه های سفید رنگ
که تن آن شهر عزیز را
که بدنش دیگر سرخ نخواهد شد
از خون آن کس که فکر می کند، آن کس که می اندیشد، انتقاد می کند و دهان می گشاید
می پوشاند، لبخند بزنم
همان شهری که آن را
یک روز، یک روزگاری
تهران، نام نهادند

hiver

2011-08-11T03:10:00.009+02:00

where did this mood come from? i know the answer. i always know the answer. it all started long time ago. a very long, long time ago. and today, somewhere around two o' clock, i had to say goodbye to the person that i worship. and this person asks me, too, that were my different moods come from? my parents always dealt with it. i am so glad, i am so happy for them, that they do not have to deal with me anymore. i am sure, they are living a better life. i am lonely. i left my love at the airport. those hands... that face... those hands are so beautiful. they give life to my broken, hurt, cold soul. and that face, brings light to the darkness of my life. to this eternally winter of these leaves of my being. and those eyes, tell me everything. they teach me joy, they teach me kindness. they teach me how to smile. i like to hold that face between my hands. i like to touch that skin, which is beautiful, which is as beautiful as a peach.

on the metro, someone plays the accordion. the night before, too, someone was playing the accordion, when my love and i were sitting beside each other. and we could both feel the intensity of our love. and those hands were still so beautiful.

i love accordion. definitely if i had to pick a classical, "standard" or better "standardized" instrument, i would pick piano. but generally, this was accordion that sounded like what i always liked. it could sound, so russian, so french, so irish, and definitely my top favorites, Jewish, gypsy and iranian. i love Jewish music. i love Jewish feelings. Jewish feelings are my feelings. Jewish feelings know solitude. they know pain. Jewish feeling knows what being hurt, being discriminated means. and accordion could sound more Jewish than a piano, a violin and a clarinet together. my grandmother's mother was a princess. she is still a princess. the family still holds all the titles. to no avail. she, too, played the accordion. and the film i was watching too, had someone in it, who was playing the accordion. and again i was in the metro, and my love was sitting beside me.

gentlemen, David Lynch, Pedro Almodovar, Roman Polanski, Martin Scorsese, Stanley Kubrick, Giuseppe Tornatore and Theo Angelopoulos, please, HATS OFF. i am watching a film, by Mohsen Makhmalbaf. it is shot in Tajikistan. belongs to the artistic period of this director when he is definitely not allowed ever again to enter iran. and this film is everything. and i love the still very iranian culture of the former greater persian area, which includes Afghanistan and Tajikistan. what a beautiful accent. what a beautiful country. so many white souls still. so much less developed than iran. nothing. people still know music. people still know love, and people smile, from the bottom of their hearts. Mohsen Makhmalbaf is great. definitely one of the idols i grew up with, and was always mentioned in our house. from one of the must supportive people of the new Islamic regime he turned to one its enemies, and from a religious Muslim to a communist. and i never forget, how in one of his films, the star of Mercedes Benz symbolized bourgeoisie and how i still despise this brand. and Mohsen Makhmalbaf was so much my father. his name, his films just were my father. so many things were my father. opera was my father. rock music was my father. the beatles, pink floyd, black jay were my father. all star shoes are my father. bertolt brecht is my father, and da vinci is my father. i will always love rock music. i will always wear all star shoes. i want to be like my father. i do look like my father. i was 6...7, i used to go to a pre-elementary school, and i always asked my mother to comb my hair with my dad's comb. so that i could feel i had grown up, and i was a big man, and i was already like my father. i never turned to be like my father. i broke my father's heart, and i left him. and now, i have no father.

i did not watch the film. i do not remember when i came to my good senses. i was frozen. i was listening to that beautiful persian accent, which i have no doubt will make the iranians laugh, and i was listening to that beautiful poem. accordion was beautiful. a long story, a long history of persian empire, russian culture, poverty, prostitution, and discrimination. and my eyes were soaked, and my eyes were frozen, on the persian letters in the subtitle. the film was shot in farsi, but i was watching it in italian. Mohsen Makhmalbaf always takes part in Venice film festival, and he's part of the jury, there. and i was in Venice. i was in Venice with the love of my life. and i was holding those hands. and i still remember that divine voice. my love, my love, my love, never stop talking to me, i love to hear your voice. i love to be in your voice. i do not care about this accordion, i do not care about that eternal timpani. and i do not care about Mahler, Mozart... i need your voice. speak to me. talk to me. tell me about you. tell me how God created you so beautiful. and tell me about those bad days... and call my name:

Call my name
Your voice is fine.
Your voice is the chlorophyll of those strange plants

that can only grow
at the intimacy of sorrow.

In the dimensions of the era of darkness
I am lonelier than the taste of a soulful chord
played on the wide open palms
of the white, snowy, deserted lanes.

Tell me about the bombs that fell and I was asleep...

Tell me about the tears that flowed and I was asleep...

Tell me how many ducks fleed from the lakes?

my love. my eyes are tearful. i am so lonely. sometimes i think, i am dealing with too much loneliness. with too much shit. am i being a victim? is God victimizing me? is he having fun up there? God, my dear friend, did you see the bombs that fell when i was sleeping? did you see the tears that flowed when i was sleeping? when you were sleeping? YOU! YOU! YOU!

i believe in God. i started reading philosophy as soon as i had gained literacy, but never concluded anything about God. and as my family could not care less about God and religion, i just let it be that way. i do not care about the argument from beauty, morality, reason, consciousness or the problem of evil and hell and etc ad finitum. i found God in my love. and i found God, in that precious presence, in that precious body, and in those precious breaths. my love. breathe in my ears. let me feel them all. let me feel you. i still remember that voice, the precious voice, which was sent from heaven to save this humble's life, telling me, that "i am usually being hugged in the elevator." and i can not help my hugging my love. i want to jump into that body, i want to be in that soul. let us be one person. God, let us be only, one, one person.

i do not watch that film again tonight. it is too much memory, dark, cold, winter memories. and my heart, is dealing with enough grief. i do not want to read the poetry of my depression times either. i actually, do not remember anytime in my life when i was not depressed. depression started from when i got to know myself. probably i got to know myself with depression. and all this was always associated with Forough Farrokhzad. she was always with me. i knew everything by heart, but i still longed for arriving at home from school, and opening the book of her poetry, and jump into ecstasy. and she was my idol. she was a reason for me. she was like my mother. she was so close to my mother. and i was like her. and i was with her, and i was in her. maybe even if i was a poet, i could not express myself, as much as she could do express me.

My whole being is a dark chant
which will carry you
perpetuating you
to the dawn of eternal growths and blossoming.
In this chant I sighed you sighed
in this chant
I grafted you to the tree to the water to the fire.

I know a sad little fairy
who lives in an ocean
and ever so softly
plays her heart into a magic flute
a sad little fairy
who dies with one kiss each night
and is reborn with one kiss each dawn.

and i had this poem printed on the walls of my room in tehran. with her picture while smoking. and the poster was so beautiful, and so big. big enough, to be the first thing i liked to see every morning i opened eye, and the last thing i slept each night with.

Forough was my life. my mother was my life. once upon a time, my love for someone depended directly on that person's feeling and respect for my mother. if someone liked my mother, but hated me, i would love that person. if someone loved me, but not my mother, i would resent that person. and now, as i have no more any family, if someone likes Israel and the Jewish people, i like that person, and if he does not, sadly, no friendship is ever possible, no matter how hard i try to be tolerant of different beliefs and ideas. and my love is Jewish, too. my love is beautiful. my love is wonderful. i miss holding my love. i miss holding my love so close to me, as if only we two people existed.

the trip to Italy was great. it was perfect. Venice is monumental. definitely one of a kind. and every place on earth would be much more beautiful for someone who does NOT live in Paris. i can't help comparing everything i see with beautiful Parisian streets and their Haussmannian architecture. Milan is clean, friendly, charming. and Florence is definitely a powerful rival of Paris. Florence is chic, is elegant, is cultural. i love Florence. i never thought, before visiting Italy for the first time, that Venice could be that beautiful, even more beautiful than what i had heard, and i definitely never even imagined that this name, "Florence", signifies a wonderful, beautiful, exceptionally charming city. but i must say, i could hardly hide the feeling of being more comfortable and at home, the moment i realized i am back inside the French borders. and Paris is so beautiful. Paris is so beautiful. Paris is so beautiful. there are always things in this city that strike you out. there are always so many things that can make your eyes surprised. enough for a long lifetime. Paris is one. and my love is as beautiful. i love to walk in Paris with my love. i love to hold those hands. i love to hold my love in my arms, and walk in Paris. i like to conquer Paris with my love.

i am so happy i am a musician. i was never that talented, i had just perseverance, and love, and appreciation. my parents were happy that i am a musician. i may one day be starving, because i am a musician, as i do now. but why would i care? i was never scared of poverty. when i had a family, and when i lived in a familial environment, i had everything, and i experienced everything, i was thankful, and grateful. but never thought, that life without those will be difficult, and now, even a few years after, i still do not think so. let me starve, but leave me cd player so that i can ascend to Him with Mahler. leave me an out of tune rotten piano, so i could play some simple Mozart tunes, and forget my hunger, and forgive war, poverty and cruelty. so i could forget the absence of my family. so i could forgive my living in exile. so i could miss less the streets of my homeland. so i could forget about those hands, changing the gears, on which i put my hands, and we were listening to Papillon's soundtrack, and that those hands, those beautiful, small, precious hands, belonged to my mother. let me forget this. let me forgive this.

this eternal timpani

2011-07-27T21:59:00.000+02:00

two beats of timpani. what a powerful sound. what a majestic ambiance. two consecutive beats of timpani, and the first thing you are reminded of, is a march. right, a funeral march.
two beats of timpani. i am reminded of a funeral march. and i am reminded of a soft beautiful voice, who innocently asked me, "kasra, is this a funeral march?" and that beautiful voice belonged to my mother. and that voice was eternal. and so is eternal, her presence, and her love in my heart.
this is a march. it is not a funeral march. it is a supposedly French dance, but too sad to be a dance. it was composed by Handel. this was Handel's Sarabande in D minor. and D minor was the darkest key. D minor had always the shadow of death. Mozart's requiem was in D minor, and the first and one of the only two Mozart concertos in minor keys was in D minor. and D minor carried the shadow of death.
my mother did not know this was Handel, and did not know this belonged to the part, that were are going to see a funeral. one of the saddests ever. i can still hear the man who was weeping behind me. i still remember the tears of the young lady beside me, and my friend. and my tears...
two beats of timpani. the orchestra is singing... or no, let me correct myself, is crying. the orchestra is weeping, too. i can hear the harpsichord somewhere behind. i do not think all the people present could hear it. i am a musician. and i knew there should be a harpsichord, and i was sure there was a harpsichord. i love harpsichord. how courtly it is. how elegant. it sounds so English, and so Dutch. so majestic. and so sad.
i can see the name. what a name! OH GOD, what a name! what a name! what a name! what a glorious name! could anyone else, ever, ever, ever put his name, somewhere close to this name? to Stanley Kubrick? what a glorious name. this is a name, that makes all the humans ashamed of their being. why was he so great? why was Stanley Kubrick, Stanley Kubrick? and why this name signified so much greatness? so much wizardry? so much intelligence? so much artistry? was there ever any end, to the greatness of this name? and yes, he was the only, and only one. the only Stanley Kubrick ever. and the title appears. my body is tembling. i think my body had only trembled before, due to pain, never due to excitement. or maybe once, when i heard, Mahler's first symphony in a great concert hall, and with a high quality orchestra. what a great performance that was. all my hair was standing on its end. and i just closed my eyes. i do not know i was on earth, or in heaven, or maybe in hell. did it matter at all? it was Mahler being played. what else could possibly matter?
the title appears, in an elegant, fancy scripture. who could believe this, after one year again, i could see this masterpiece, this masterpiece, by that GREAT NAME, in Paris. Barry Lyndon. what a history. what a title. what a perfection of art. my body is all shaking. i hold my bag tightly in my arms, and just press it to my knees, so maybe my legs stopped shaking. i can not believe this. Stanley Kubrick, Barry Lyndon, and this Handel's D minor Sarabande, or better put by my dearest mother, funeral march.
this cinema is beautiful. it is dedicated to Stanley Kubrick this week, and it is always dedicated to cult films. i know the owner is Iranian. one of toppest figures in French cinema. the hall is full of weirdo and artistic looks. i think people are dying of excitement to watch Barry Lyndon. or anything else, just by Stanley Kubrick. the neighbor cinemas, are showing other classics. some film noirs, and some erotic and American classics. later, i learn that all the cinemas, in this beautiful neighborhood, Latin Quarter, belong to the same Iranian guy. no wonder my friend took me there.
this was not my first time watching this film. EVERY SINGLE SCENE, is a piece of art. EVERY SINGLE SCENE, is as precious as a da Vinci. it is unbelievable. the scenery. the light. the clothes. and the faces. what a handsome young man, Ryan O'Neal used to be. and as an Irish, how perfectly he could fit in as an elegant British man. everything was perfect. the film lasts for 3 hours, and the world, has the chance, to watch 3 hours of pure art. to bless the eyes with, with this work of refinement. and definitely to fondle the ears with. with this great music. with this great CHOICE of music. Stanley always had a perfect taste in music. each movie of his, is a pefect example of a beautiful, suitable soundtrack. who else has chosen Handel for soundtrack? who else has ever chosen works by legendary names of Ligeti, or Bartok? no, no one else!
i am not a specialist, but i guess, although a totally, very different style from Stanley Kubrick, it is only Pedro Almodovar whose films are truly perfect, and every single moment of the film, is a precious work of art. a precious Goya. every single second is a beautiful painting. and everything was so Spanish. the music was, the greatest music, by Alberto Iglesias, a graduate of my school, and he is just stunning. the soundtracks to Almdovar films, are so modern, and they well contain a great essence of Spanish feelings. notably by the sound of guitar. and of course, every single scene, contains something in red. you can never find a scene in Almodovar's without this color. at least a rose, a red tulip, or a tomato is included. and all the main characters, drive a red car... and the leading actresses, wear a red robe. and that is so Spanish. so Almodovar, and so perfect.

and i have to mention, one another director, who is truly a great artist as well, and is one of a few hopes for the American cinema, is Martin Scorsese. he is also one of the very few names who do not have any bad films in their résumé. and he, too, in his last masterpiece, showed his refined taste for music. WOW! what could equal the combination of di Caprio and Mark Ruffalo's remarkable performance along with Penderecki's symphony? and those gruesome yet picturesque scenes of war, accompanied by literally the most beautiful music of Gustav Mahler? his gut wrenching Quartet for strings and piano in A minor? WOW!
all these great names... all these legends. all this great music. all those beauteous scenes.
my legs were shaking. my hands were shaking. the march, the sarabande in D minor, was being played, in all its glory, in all its darkness. and i could hear the harpsichord here and there. and Stanley Kubrick was greater than ever. Barry Lyndon, had passed his glorious time. and now, he was marching behind his son's coffin. i have rarely seen any scene ever, sadder than this. everyone was crying. i was crying. and i still remember the tears of the young lady beside me. and i can hear the man, who was weeping right behind me. Barry Lyndon, the glorious, all conquering man, who had cheated many times, yet survived safe and sound, the aristocrat, had turned into a little nothing of a creature, only and only due to his son. God, how does your world work? all the greatest names, all the legends, have one nerve of sensibility and weakness, and that is their children. Barry, who had killed so many men, who treated his grandee wife as no one, who had beaten his step son in public although he was a lord, now was weeping. and the world had left only one purpose for him to live: Death.
the two beats of timpani are still here. in my mind. in my head. and they are constantly being heard from my broken computer. and they are constantly being played on my piano... the original tune, and its variations... with some improvisation. my mind, shall keep, and preserve all those beautiful scenes, so if one day, my eyes did not find anything else, no more beautiful, i think of them. i think of Stanley Kubrick, and his masterpiece, Barry Lyndon. what a name. what a name, God, what a great name.
the film is over. the people in the hall, and i, could not possibly take the most out of those 3 hours, if not watching this masterpiece. everything was perfect. what a perfection. what a great refinement, that only a human beings have reached. the film is over, some pair of eyes are still tearful, and God, too, is applauding in his Holiest Throne.

impossible

2011-07-21T02:07:00.002+02:00

les gens qui ne disent que de l'absurdité, et qui ne se croient pas non plus. c'est une très difficile vie. on en trouve souvent.
de l'autre coté, on trouverait des gens, qui parlent de gentillesse, d'humanité et de la paix, et qui ne sont jamais crus par les autres. c'est une impossible amitié.

mirror

2011-07-20T05:38:00.036+02:00

the weather is so cool. somewhere around 10 degrees. it is good, maybe finally i could find the same weather i adored in Tehran, in Paris. Paris reminds me of Tehran in so many ways, put aside that it is so much smaller, dirtier and is much more beautiful. Tehran was never as beautiful, but Isfahan is. i bet no other city could beat the beauty of Isfahan, maybe, only Jerusalem could.

the weather is cool, and i am listening to Marilyn Manson. i have always managed to communicate very well, with him and his music. i actually must say, i love him! i am often greeted with surprise, that how could a classical pianist listen to and enjoy Marilyn? well, my life is apparently going to be too short, to label myself. i am not a classical pianist, i am not a metalhead, i am a human, who plays the piano, and likes to listen to black metal music. isn't it simple?

the weather is cool, i am listening to Marilyn Manson, Paris is beautiful. even the thought of it, makes me so excited, that just in a short distance from where i am right now writing, Grand Palais is there, Musée d'Orsay is right there, and so are so many authentic Monet's and van Gogh's. as i have mentioned before, i have not been so much passionate about classical arts, i mean i was never much exposed to anything other than contemporary art. i have never seen, or at least never seen with enthusiasm, Rembrents or Raphaels. so i saw this advertisements in the métro about them, which i think i should go and visit. another must-see was Claude Cahun's exhibition. that one i should visit for sure. it would be going on till end September i guess.

it is cold, Marilyn Manson is singing my favorite song, Paris is stunning, and i have some exhibitions on my list to visit. i am not really happy. i mean i am usually NOT happy, but i sadly think i would remain to be so, probably forever. i mean why on earth i should be happy? what to be happy about?

"at the sixth hour darkness came over the whole land until the ninth hour. and at the ninth hour He criet out in a loud voice, "Eloi, Eloi, why have you forsaken me?" [Mark15:33-34]

and i understand him. but i am not gonna cry out. the Creator of every and any eye, should see Himself.

i look at the mirror. the mirror is not happy. what is he showing me? why is he not smiling? where do these tears come from? the mirror is showing me everything. he never lied to me. he never lies. i remember, i was so hurt so many times, because my family were lying to me. they still do. and they think they do it for my own good sake. but i am hurt. my beloved one lies, too. my beloved one is probably just used to lying. and i am not going to, and i can not change this habit. my beloved one and i, have to put an end to our love. that is what the mirror says.

and you know, the world inside the mirror is so dirty. is so foul. the soul smells. and the soil smells. the soil still carries the smell, of the corps of the witches and homosexuals who were burnt to ashes under the name of Christ. the soil still carries the smell of the blood of the handicap, the freemasons, the Jews and the homosexuals. and all these flies have gathered to smell the blood of my Iranian brothers and sisters who were killed during the Iraq-Iran war and by the "Islamic" government. they were all killed under the name of Allah. and i was holding the picture of one of these youths, she was only in her twenties, and she was beautiful. her face was full of blood. the blood that the mirror shows me. what an interesting world. i even can see my room! i even can see my face. God, do you see all? you can't see my room. you never see my room. you never see my face. God, have you seen my face? have you seen these bruises? have you seen the skin peeling? have you seen my tears, my pain, my grief? the mirror does. the Creator of the mirror does not.

God, the mirror saw, how the Jews were gassed, how they were made into soaps, how those brilliant scientists, poets, musicians were burnt, the mirror witnessed all, all the love stories between men who loved men, and were burnt, the mirror knows all about the political prisoners in Iran, those soldiers who left their houses, and never returned, and the tearful eyes of their children who still stare at the door, doors that one day, their fathers left them thru, and that day never came, that their fathers should have come home. God, it would be very much appreciated, if you had some glimpse to all this from time to time.

it is cold. Marilyn Manson is singing:

i want to fly into your sun
need faith to make me numb
live like a teenage Christ
i'm a saint, got a date with suicide

oh Mary, to be this young is oh so scary

i wanna live, i wanna love
but it's a long hard road, out of hell

you never said forever, could ever hurt like this

spin my way out of hell, there's nothing left in this soul to sell
live fast and die fast, too
how many times to do this for you?

Paris is gorgeous, and i have exhibitions on my list to visit. i am not happy. i am determined to leave my beloved one. and it is 5 AM sharp.

i love repeatingmyself . it is actually what my father used to do a lot. and physically, i am a certified copy of my father, so why not behave the same way? if my father did something, i have no doubt it has been the perfect choice. if my mother did something, i am sure that is the best thing to do, the perfect way. the holy way, the way that ends up being for the good of everyone, and never hurts anyone.

i have problems with Y. i have deeply rooted problems with my beloved one. maybe it is actually a proper time, a very proper time, to reflect on my use of the clause "beloved one".

it is so simple. i do not need to provide myself with further explanations and make a balagan of non sense philosophy of emotions and ethics. at least not anymore!

the history between Y and i is a dirty one, a nasty one. i have seen nothing more disturbing and disgusting than the wave of semitophile German literature and cinema that appeared right after the war, after the Nazis succeeded in whatsoever evil they wanted to commit. and now, what this movement is going to make up to the innumerable victims? and their families? and the aftermath? i wish i could punch the face of all those semitophile directors and writers with all my daily growing hatred. what a big deal! recompensating with worthless works of so-called art.

i can not get over history. how could i? how could we? what does it mean to get over history? how can history be forgotten? i am not posing this question from my heart, it comes directly from my brain, could not be any more logical. we are living in 2011, and if the Iranian revolution has happened in 1979, how could i forget it? is it not that 2011 has and contains 1979 inside itself? historically and mathemathically?

it bothers both of us. i have so much pain. and i get much more pain, when i see i transmit this pain to Y, while Y is trying everything in power to make it up to me. Y is a good person. Y is a nice person, warm, smiling, caring, and Y is very beautiful.

and why does Y call all this PAST, HISTORY? do we have different defitions for this word AS WELL? so far, i knew, we had quite different defitions of love, of relationship, of friendship, of lover, of ex-lover and of monogamy, but the word "history", notably for someone who holds a degree in history, could not suggest so many different meanings. every problem we have faced, we currently do face, now. nothing is PASSED, and that leaves no place for me to think about getting over the history. what history? is the moment we are right now living, called history, according to Y? nothing has changed, since the beginning, every thing is in its place, not to mention my gut wrenching pain and injured soul. my humiliated being. very nice of Y for sure to maltreat me, and at the end of day, it is me who has to behave himself, and try to be nice. too bad.

i do not think we can go one. everything has its own end at a certain point, and i think we have even gone much further than the point, in here meaning where i realized we had totally different understanding of a relationship and of love. so....

on the other hand, it will be very cruel of me to end it. i will be responsible for a second time to break hearts. once, apparently, i have broken the hearts of Y's lovers!!! God, how ridiculous is that. is there any end to how evil someone can be to tell you "do you know how bad my lovers felt?" IS THERE, EVER, ANYWHERE, ANY END TO THIS EVILNESS? I WILL NEVER, EVER FORGIVE THIS, NEITHER WILL I EVER FORGET IT, EVEN WHEN BURRIED DEEP IN THE HEART OF EARTH. so i couldn't care less now, to break and rip Y's own heart off. why Y could be cruel to me? why Y could destroy me? why Y could destroy me and tell me about not being aware of the caused destruction? why would i, why should i fight for something i can have very easily elsewhere? why should i feel that i am being GRANTED with something? with things that i consider very natural to be gained thru love. why should i beg Y for grace and mercy? this is not how relationships work out. this is absolutely not HOW they work out. i am tired of it. my body, my soul are tired of it. even though, even friendship with Y has a price for me to pay, even though Y is so much more forwards in life than me and that means we will miss experiencing so many things together, even though our relationship will and is not accepted by so many people, but Y has no sense of appreciation, and i always have to feel that everything between Y and i is out of his grace upon me. otherwise why would someone allow oneself to make such filthy statement?
i am not ungracious. Y is trying. i am trying to. Y is a good person, and has done everything possible to make it up to me. too late, too bad. an unconscious selective memory, it is not something i can deal with. life is too short, and world is too cruel. i am not ungrateful. Y has tried. Y is trying. Y is kind. but who says that to someone, one claims loves the most?
i hope the day come, that i review these posts, and i can laugh at them, that how stupid i was to in respect of all forgiveness i try to offer, and trying to be nice, i have to receive but maltreatment, and that accompanied by grace! how kind. too bad, i won't let this go on this way.
it is cold. Marilyn Manson is not singing anymore. Paris is beautiful, but under that beauty a dirty world of poverty, prostitution, drug, racism is hidden, though i still do not think so many Parisians are capable of telling their lovers that "do you know how bad my other lovers felt?". they have not turned into devils yet, and that is at least a good point. i have so many exhibitions on my list to visit. and i am determined to leave someone whom i won't call my beloved one anymore. i have made up my mind. i do hate Y.

white, black, why

2011-07-15T04:20:00.008+02:00

(Isfahan - Ali Qapu Palace in Naqshe-e Jahan Square)

i really think i have to start again reading philosophy. and i actually mean modern philosophy. i do not think i like something NOT modern. i do appreciate those schools which are not modern, be it in music, painting or philosophy... but they are not as expressive. Caravaggio is my favorite painter, which does not belong to a modern school. he is fabulous. he is Baroque. Baroque is too much for me. i come from a socialist/communist family, and Baroque is just too much for me. i think i like Monet. i have poorly attempted before here to desribe my feelings for Monet, and Impressionist music and painting, but I badly failed. Monet, and all the Impressionists are different than a normal human race. they are certainly superior. So perfect... so calm... so white! Their works are all like water, like a very smooth moonlight (as I despise sun and sunlight). Monet is amazing. i never get tired of Monet. i could live inside a cell, where all the walls are covered with Monet, and i could have a perfect life in there. Renoir and Pissarro come after. i like Pissarro. Pissarro is Sephardic, and i like everything Jewish. Pissarro was Danish, too. Impressionism was based in Paris. their beloved city. Paris is my beloved city, too. there is no end to Paris' beauty. everything in here is beautiful. the streets are beautiful, the houses, the mansions, the métro stops are beautiful. cafés are beautiful, so are the people. the Seine is too beautiful, and i love Catholic churches. churches in here are beautiful... paintings are beautiful. i love Monet. i love Renoir. no one beats Chagall, though. Chagall is so free. Surrealism is free, so is Impressionism. Chagall has a beautiful soul. i always liked Chagall. when in secondary school, the teachers were trying hard to teach us physics and math, i was reading art history books on my knees, and i remember i liked Chagall. i adore Modigliani, he is so different than everyone. Chagall, Modigliani, Picasso, were some of those pioneers who made Paris, the same Paris whose name made hair stand on its end. i loved Dali, too. my mother bought me a lot of books on Dali. my mother loved Dali, and i loved my mother. my mother used to take me to art galleries. she was more beautiful than any art gallery. with my parents, we used to watch a lot of movies in theaters. it was mainly my dad's passion. i like Iranian movies. they are truly one of a kind. probably one of the most forwards in the modern world. i like Polanski. Polanski is Jewish. Polanski is a genius, i love his emotions. i love people who have emotions. i do not get along with people who do not have emotions. emotions can be black and can be white. my mother emotions were all white. i have black emotions as well. my dad did not have black emotions. my dad was always a hope for the needy. my dad was gentle. my dad's name means happiness and satisfaction. my mother's name is beautiful. it is one of a kind, and is beautiful. my name is quite avant-garde. not so many people in a religious country pick this name. my dad detested religion. my family detested religion. i was born in an environment which could not get any more atheist. God and religion had absolutely no place in our house. Kasra is the king who ruled in the Greater Persian Empire including parts of modern-day Iraq, hence the name of the palace in Iraq, Kasra. and he is the one who insulted and fought against Muhammad, the prophet, and that was so pleasing to my father. so here i am, Kasra. the French pronounce my name interestingly. the Americans pronounce it beautifully. French accent is charming, English with a French accent is one of the most beautiful sounds i could think of. like the English that Mélanie Laurent spoke in that film, in that film that she was a dream, she was a fantasy. i actually had no understanding when people used to say they like foreign accents, i could not find anything interesting about them, until i heard a Greek speaking French, and it was just so charming, so musical and beautiful. Americans pronounce my name beautifully. American accent is beautiful, no matter what language they speak. American soul is beautiful. they are white. their soul is white, too. not everyone is white nowadays. i have quite got used to the way my name is pronounced abroad, which as opposed to the correct pronunciation of S in my name which would be better off written Kassra, is said with a Z sound. i never mind, though. i do not like correcting people, and in this case, it just does not matter. why would i care? one can call me David. one can call me Nick or anything one would desire. i like Hebrew names. i like Iranian names, too. my mother's name is exceptional. i love calling her name in my mind. i love remembering her in every single moment. i love to imagine her, and live with her again. she was kind. she was gentle. she did not have aggression. my parents did not have aggression. the loudest voice in our house was definitely the television, and when i got out of the country, i was so surprised to observe how loud people speak. not everyone is white. i try to be white. my parents are definitely white. Tehran was white. Tabriz was white. Tabriz is beautiful. Isfahan is more beautiful. Isfahan has turned to be one of my remotest dreams. if i ever could go back again to my country, i just want to sit on the soil in Isfahan, i want to rub the soil on my face, and feel it with my flesh, and smell it. i have been to Isfahan. i think i was 7. i do not remember much. i have not seen Rome, i have not seen Jerusalem, but Isfahan like Paris is one of those places that no matter where you turn your head to, you will find a masterpiece of art, a monument, an amazing historical sight to visit, a scene that makes your jaw drop, like every single street in Left Bank in Paris. God, Isfahan is beautiful. the river is beautiful there, and all those millions of years old bridges and synagogues are beautiful. Isfahan is white.

(Isfahan in white - Khaju bridge)

i do not think it snows much in Isfahan, but it is still white. i am so thankful to God, that it snows in Tehran. Tehran becomes the most beautiful bride. i used to live a 5 minute walk distance from one of the biggest pistes on earth. i loved our neighborhood. it was so clean, so glamorous, so courtly. people there were not white. but my parents were white. i love snow. i love snow. nothing pleases me more than snow. i remember one of my favorite poets ever writing:

(Tehran, the poem below "Winter" by Mehdi Akhavan Sales)

The trees are naked, like frozen, forsaken bones,

Earth is desolate, Sky is falling down.

Moon and Sun are lost behind Loads of Litter:

It is, indeed,

The Reign of Winter

this is sad. i like sad things. i like sad music. i like sad films. i was telling you, yes i like Polanski. he is great. Almodovar is definitely my beloved director. i like his attitude. he makes films as he had nothing to lose. he dares show and express everything he wants. he is an expressionist. Schoenberg was an expressionist. so many Iranian musicians like Schoenberg. i do not detest him, but i think i would never listen to him. i like Tchaikovsky. Tchaikovsky is romantic. and Tchaikovsky is sad. Tchaikovsky's music is not white. Tchaikovsky is very sad. Who can not feel the shadow of death is his 6th symphony? It was dedicated to his lover, to his cousin, Vladimir "Bob". and then he dies after the première. Mahler is not sad. Mahler is not white either. musicians can not be white. they absorb all the darkest thing on earth, and they become sad. like children. musicians are strange. Mahler is strange. no one is like Mahler. i adore Mahler. definitely the time i had no God, the empty room was all belonging to Mahler or Mozart. Mozart's is gay, joyous and sad. i think of all the human beings i know, friends, lover, painters, musicians, pianists, anyone and anything... only Mozart is close to perfection. he did his mission perfectly on earth. even if he had only composed his Requiem. only his 20th concerto. Piano shines when you are playing Mozart. that is the big difference. you have to listen to some good pianist, on a good piano, to enjoy Debussy, to enjoy Bach or Beethoven. Mozart does not need that, no matter whom being on the piano, the piano still sings, cries, shines and dances with Mozart. Mozart is Mozart, and no one else is Mozart. the famous tremendous GENIUS. i never liked Mozart. i was more towards Bach or Beethoven. now i do not like Bach. it is Baroque. it is too fancy. Beethoven depends. Glenn Gould plays Beethoven and i am no more on earth. but i do not think i would miss Beethoven if he did not exist. i would have missed Mahler. i never get tired of Mahler. i had times in Malaysia, when the only thing i did in 24 hours, was listening to Mahler. so dark. death was in there. death was recorded with the symphonies right in each atome of the CD. and Mahler sounded Austrian. Mahler sounded Jewish, sometimes he is happy, and you can feel a Yiddish wedding, but death is still watching us. he is always there. that is not white. i think i loved Prokofieff, i do not think i do now. my world is Mozart. my world is Mahler. how interesting, i had forgotten why i started to write this post, and now i coincidentally got back where i was! thank you God. i do not know if music is my world, or world is my music. that is exactly why i said i should restart modern philosophy. because playing with words plays the most important role in it. i liked Kant. his name is Immanuel, and i like Hebrew names. Kant was so interesting, and i got to get to Hume, and to Russell, but it was all culminated in Ludwig Wittgenstein, and of course the father of all these was Nietzsche. i do not like Wittgenstein. he was a convert to Protestantism. and that is evil. not that a Jew does not benefit from freedom of religion, of course he does, who the heck i am to decide for him, but converting to one of the most antisemitic movements, probably only for the purpose of gaining acceptance is unacceptable. maybe i should not have used the word "only". because gaining acceptance for a philosopher is not something to be used with a stupid determining adjective of "only". Nietzsche is brilliant. Schopenhauer is my favorite for sure. Schopenhauer loved music. i love his essays on music. Nietzsche, Schopenhauer and Wagner are a trio. tremendous genii, nihilists and evil antisemites. how could i reconciliate these attributes? i do not like Wagner. i never did. he is evil. his music sounds evil. his music is all black. he was black. but not every black is necessarily bad. but Wagner is bad. everything Hitler liked is bad. Beethoven is bad. i am glad Hitler did not like Mahler. how possibly could he? Mahler had to become a Catholic, and only out "generosity" and "kindness" of Wagner's antisemitic wife, who was also Franz Liszt's daughter, in order to be Wagner's conducting assistant. and Mahler did it. let's not judge people. we do not know the life a Jewish man lived in Austria at that time. do not judge people, my dear friend. i worship Mahler. i repeat myself, anything Jewish, has the most special place in my life. Schopenhauer was not Jewish, but i like him. Schopenhauer has no color. he likes music. he likes opera and theatre. my dad likes theatre. my dad wanted me to read Brecht and Camus. i love Camus. i guess he is my non-Iranian favorite writer. but he would have way to learn if he was a disciple of an Iranian writer. Camus is great. i read Camus, and i think Albert and I are one person. it is interesting, notably in the Plague, i found all the thoughts i had, especially when i was a great thinker at 10-12, shared with Camus. all my feelings. i do not have those feelings anymore. i do not suffer much anymore for being born, for being alive. now music is my world. and i like music. and i love my mother. and i miss my father's grey hair. i miss how my sister was intelligent and bright. my sister had beautiful hair. i have nice hair, too. it is a very Iranian hair. abundant, rough and tough. i like to look Iranian. i love to look Iranian. i am Iranian. Yasmina Reza is Iranian. she is the pride of three great people, the world Jewry, the French and the Iranians. i had never taken her serious, till she was discussed in the synagogue i frequent. she is probably the most well-regarded French playwright currently alive. and she is Jewish. and she is Iranian. Iran Darroudi is Iranian. she is not French. she is also of royal blood. she, too, from the former Soviet Union. she has lived in Austria and now lives in Paris. for so many many years already.

(Iran Darroudi)

Iran Darroudi is sad. she has lived a sad life. i went to her art gallery in Tehran's museum of contemporary art, which is usually full of pro-Palestinian crap, but was occasionally dedicated to this wonderful lady. all walls were full of compliments dedicated to her by Salvador Dali. i went there with my mother. my mother was beautiful. more beautiful that all those paintings. her hair was light brown. and her eyes were light brown. or maybe like honey. it was beautiful. it was the color, God had foreseen for my mother. but God, why did you foresee me for my mother? my mother is all white, Iran Darroudi's paintings are not. i love these paintings. i like to meet her in Paris, and kiss her hands. i like to kiss Martha Argerich's hands. she is beautiful. she is Jewish. she is from Argentina. and she is just beautiful. her black hair is beautiful, is so long, is so Middle Eastern, and she is short, and small and that is so Middle Eastern. and i love the Middle East. i love the Middle East. no where is like the Middle East. i like to feel Middle Eastern. i love to look Middle Eastern, but i am more comfortable in Europe. i like the art in Europe. we need peace in the Middle East. Middle East is God's blessed piece of land. Israel is God's Holy Land and it is in Jerusalem that God's kingdom is to be established. Jerusalem is holy, eternal, golden. Y is holy, eternal, golden. Y is beautiful. Rome is the eternal city, and is beautiful. Y is beautiful, too. Rome is not white. Rome has a dirty history. Berlin has a dirty history, so does Paris. Tehran has the dirtiest history. God, did you see, were you paying attention at all, how Islam was killing all my classmates, my brothers and sisters right in the streets of Tehran? God, i know you did not pay attention. I know you were paying more attention to Paris, to London. God why have you forsaken my city? why have you forsaken my country? i like Jesus. Jesus is a good man. Christianity has evil in it. Christ does not have evil in it. Jesus taught nothing bad. He never claimed to be the Messiah, and taught nothing but peace. Jesus cries out on his cross, "God, why have you forsaken me?". but Iran does not cry out why have you forsaken me. Iran is not entitled to, so simply. Evil is reigning in Iran. Islam is evil. i can blame Islam for all poverty, ignorance, disaster... even in those country where we have the least amount of Muslims. Muslims are victims, too. they were brought up that way, and they try to buy a place for themselves in Heaven by blowing themselves up. Islam is evil. Jesus was not evil. Jesus is gentle, is kind. Jesus is white. Jesus is a good man. exactly like my father. my father is whiter than Jesus. Jesus had enemies. my father does not have enemies. everyone loves my father. Mr. Biglari is the hope of millions of people. my father is a great man. he liked modern philosophy. but he did not like Nietzsche. my cousin likes Nietzsche. my cousin is a psycho. probably i am psycho, too. i do not mind. i do not like to be labelled, but i do not mind to be labelled either. what is wrong with being a psycho? i have Mahler, i have Mozart, and i have Monet, why would i mind being called a psycho then? Stanley Kubrick seems to be a psycho. he has films i do not like, but generally i admire him endlessly. he is just a great person. unrepeatable, one of a kind films, so many of which, other directors would not be able to do a copy of, in hundreds of years. i like Eyes Wide Shut. i like Nicole Kidman. she is pretty. she is white. she is a great actress. Australia has contributed to the film industry like no other country. Russell Crow, Cate Blanchett, Nicole Kidman and the greatest Heath Ledger are not names to be forgiven. their names will remain in history. it is not easy to have your name remain in history as a musician. Glenn Gould's name has remained in history with all its glory. Andras Schiff, calls him his Messiah. Glenn Gould is close to the perfection Mozart had gained. Glenn plays Bach, and it is as if king David was playing, considering that i am not a big fan of Bach. Glenn Gould plays Mozart, and that is the sound of all the angels singing in Heavens. Mozart would have been shocked and stunned, with all those beautiful articulations. Glenn Gould blessed, and gave huge honor to the residents of the Earth by his being born in here. and no one plays Beethoven like Glenn Gould. Daniel Barenboim plays Beethoven very German. i like it to be played Austrian, to sound like Mozart, like Schubert. Austrian is white. Vienna is white. it snows in there. it snows in Germany, too. but Germany has a dirty history. no snow can scrape off all that dirt. i am not the most forgiving person around. no, i do not like Berlin. Barenboim, conducts Wagner in Israel, and i am not again the most forgiving person around. why is he always known as an Argentinian pianist? how painful is that? he IS from ISRAEL, ISRAEL is where he has grown up, where he hold nationality and where he has been fostered and he has blossomed. i am tired of correcting people in music communities that yes he is Argentinian, but he is also from Israel. i am sick of that already. and Yefim Bronfman is Israeli. and Itzhak Perlman is Israeli, he was born Israeli, and he is BOTH Israeli and American, not Russian or ... . and so many other great people are Israeli. are they white people? is Itzhak Perlman a white soul? Martha Argerich's name is already carved on all the rocks of the history. she is one. she is one, and she is Martha. no one else has won Chopin, Brussels and Bolzano competitions subsequently and that, at the age of 16. no one else has ever learned Prokofieff's 3rd concerto by ears only. and no one else speaks Spanish, German, Italian, English, French, Japanese, Portuguese and etc ad infinitum fluently, and has interviews in all of those languages! and no one else is as beautiful. no one else is as charming. she actually looks like mother. my mother was beautiful, too. and they both have beautiful hair. i would like to call my daughter Martha, so that i could be remembered of her everytime i call my daughter's name. or maybe a Hebrew name. i like Aviva. Hebrew names are all pretty. i like Tal. i like Nathan, Yonathan. i like Noam. are all meaningful. holy. eternal. golden. like Y. Y's name is Hebrew. Y is holy, eternal, golden. Y has one of the most beautiful faces ever. is it Monet's art? no it can not be. it could be Caravaggio. i like Caravaggio. i like Durer, too. but my father liked da Vinci. my father does not love Almodovar. i love Almodovar. he makes films, the way i like them to be. i mean my heart, deeply connects to it. i like Scorsese. he is a great director. i do not think he has films i do not like. he picks the greatest musics for his film, exactly like Kubrick. or maybe just imitating him. but even if it is an imitation, i must confess, it is a great one. i like David Lynch. he is great. he is a psycho. it is good to be a psycho. when you are labelled as psycho, you have access to so many things you want to do, you like to do, or you think you should do, but you normally can't, because you want to be labelled as "normal". "NORMAL!" what a big deal! Giuseppe Tornatore is fabulous. i do not LOVE Italian art. i find it simple, naive and unsophisticated, and of course, this is not a specialist's point of view. i am no specialist. but Italian cinema, is definitely extra ordinary. and i have cried with Giuseppe Tornatore. i have cried my EYES out. and my mother cried, too. how cruel of me to make my mother cry. i knew it, i am not white. i always knew it. i like and do not like war movies. the German ones come from a DISGUSTING feeling of conscious and regrettion that make me vomit, they think they can make it up with their non sense war cinema. i like films which show war in the background. you have to be intelligent to get them. The Pianist is one of those. i do not think i really ever loved it, but i think my tears could feel a 2 litter bottle the last time i watched it, a couple of weeks ago. every single thing, they said, and i was made into tears. i just wanted to shout at myself "kaaaaaz, do not be so f**king touchy, boy!". but i could not help it. same story with Malèna. war has to be shown delicately, indirectly. i love the way war is depicted in it. "war is the dirtiest word ever." this is the most beautiful line, used in of those legendary Iranian films by Ebrahim Hatamikia. he always makes great films. so avant-garde. so very avant-garde. he is a gift. he is not who participates in Berlin, Cannes and Sundance every year, and he is only known in Iran, between those, who suffer everyday, with the memory of Iraq-Iran war, which was one of the most unfair wars in the history of humankind. all these being Islam's efforts. i like films. i like Aronofsky, i like Theo Angelopolous, and i like Dardenne brothers. i like Cronenberg, and i just love Almodovar. i do not like Bunuel. i do not like old films. i do not like film noir. i like modern. i like modern painting. i like modern music. i like modern philosophy.
when i was a kid, i must admit, i was always a good student. i loved my studies, i loved to be a student, i loved school, and my favorite subject was, Persian literature, and a little less than that, Persian grammar! i was probably in grade 6th, and my teacher was amazed by all those unlimited verses of great, great, great Persian modern poetry i knew by heart. and he loved me. and i think i loved him back. he liked the classics, i admire the classics, but i do not read them anymore, and i do not miss reading them. the classics do not know war, they do not know evil. my parents do not know evil. my parents think everyone is good, everything is perfect. they see everything as white. and i see everything as black. my teacher always told me i am going to be a great writer. i like writing. i like writing surreal. just hold a pen, or set your fingers on the keyboard, and let it go. do not go back to see what you have written. do not think. do not correct yourself. just let it go. and it will become what you like to do. what you like to say. it may give you the chance to be labelled as a psycho, and you have to be grateful for that. i let go of me when i write. i like writing in Farsi better. more words. more expressive tenses. English is beautiful. English does not need music, because English is a music. English has unlimited loanwords, and has become as much expressive as the modern age need. American literature is fascinating. is exotic, authentic. French literature is great. the Symbolists, and the Impressionists. and of course not to ignore the Romantics. but Romanticism in France was always an amateur copy of that based and originally made in German speaking countries. i know Hugo was Hugo, but Goethe was the Romanticist. and i could be tortured by French romantic music, and i just ask God for patience to tolerate those moments when a French romantic piece is being played in a concert hall. you can feel water in symbolist poetry, you can feel the moonlight. i had written Y one of my favorite symbolist poems. i do not think Y really cared. Y was probably receiving much more love words from the "others". and i was only one of them. and i put my time. and i put my heart. and i put my life for Y. and .... i feel like a fool. i feel like a stupid fool. i like Billie Holiday. i love Billie Holiday. Billie is American, and i like anything and everything American. i like American films, i like American music, i like American people. American soul is white. Billie is American, and Y has given me her music.
Billie sings:

I'm a fool to want you,
to want a love that can't be true
A love that's there for others, too...
I'm a fool to hold you,
such a fool to hold you,
To seek a kiss not mine alone
To share a kiss that Devil has known...

probably Y has known what to buy!
am i being a victim in here? i feel bad, though. i want to give Y all the chances, so maybe finally the person Y would like to choose for a life be determined. but that is so unfair! sometimes i am so determined to leave Y, and give both of us freedom. Y is probably stuck. Y is badly stuck, you can not dismiss easily all of your lovers. and Y thinks to play the role of Messiah, and so Y fails. Y wants to be there at the same time for everyone, and Y knows how i feel, but pretends to not understand. it is actually an intelligent and clever choice. i do not understand, so i am entitled to do whatever i want. what a brilliant philosophy. could i be stupid as well, and ignore all the love that Y offers me (not me alone, though!) and leave Y? honestly, this sounds much more fair. Y has to be really self deceiving to think that my patience is infinite and i will wait forever till all the other relationships have "naturally" come to an end, and then i will be still around! what a delightful way to join a monogamous relationship, isn't it? at the time that i am old enough to have grandchildren, finally my lover's other relationships have come to an end, probably due to natural death or other new relationships occuring, and then i have finally a person i love, only for me! it is very, very, so very fair, don't you think so? come on kaz, you are wasting your time. and Y is so cruel, and not understanding that turns and says to me:
" don't you know how bad they (other lovers) were feeling when i told them about you? "
dear reader of this blog, please you tell me, how should i respond to this STUPID statement. should one just not shout "GO! F---! YOURSELF!?!" first, i did not know that i should give a shit to how you and your lovers feel! then why are you blaming me for your own deeds? it is not me who cheats on everyone. it is not me who keeps starting new relationships. boy, it is enough that i recall this statement and i just vomit in the moment. how EVIL. how EVIL. how CRUEL. how HITLERIAN. and as Y feels like playing the Messiah's role, Y has to keep all those lovers, lest their hearts are broken, and then i have to buy the justification that the nature of relationships change, or some other nonsense. and i just have to calmly say, yes, ok, ok, ok. ENOUGH ALREADY. no one had given me so much pain ever. no one had ever tortured me. no one had ever this much humiliated me. i feel like being treated like an animal. one does not even tell oneself's abhorrent divorced former spouse the statement above. and i am that stupid that i have to deal with all. what would my family think if they knew i let someone humiliate me this much? what would my friends think if they knew about this?
i rather think again about my beloved Monet. about my beloved Renoir.

(Pierre-Auguste Renoir)

Y and I have both tried hard. Y can not let things go. i do not want to force Y to do something of course. i do not want Y to do anything for me. i do not want Y leave homeland for me and move in here in a remote future, lest Y would miss homeland and feel like nostalgic. i know what homelessness means, and i do not wish that for Satan. put aside how different it is to be homeless and to be expatriate. i had, and have always put Y's good prior to my own, and i think that is the way it should be. i never thought, i never saw, that in a relationship, not only you have to fight and be humiliated and be hurt so that it could turn to be monogamous, but also one turn and tell you that YOU ARE THE CAUSE THAT MY OTHER LOVERS FELT BAD. very nice. very very nice. God why have you forsaken me? God i am no Jesus, but you have forsaken me, too. i actually, probably wrongly thought, that when two people LOOK for a relationship, and when two people, two adult people decide together that they want to have a relationship and they want each other, it means that there is no other lover in the scene, and that you are not to be hidden from your lover's life, social life. however it appeared that this was not my case. it won't stay this way. i love Y. Y loves me. but although we try hard, we are getting nowhere. i try to compromise, i try to ignore things, i try to forget things. and even if i could forget everything, i could not ever possibly forget that statement, above, it is as it was tattooed in every visible part of my body. Y tries hard, too. Y tries to keep me. but Y tries to keep others, too! Y tries to please me, but Y tries to please everyone. Y does things for me that would no do for anyone else, but probably i am not the first one who benefits from all that, not the first one who hears all that. Y really tries hard, (but as one of the greatest lines ever now in my mind goes), "[probably] NOT ENOUGH". no, not enough. i have called Y, "Y" in here, because after all those sufferings, i am really asking myself, WHY, should i suffer? why should i suffer while it is every single person's natural right, to be with the person whom they love, notably when this feeling is claimed to be mutual. and am i not entitled to feel i have a love that is only MINE? WHY?

bleak memories

2011-07-13T03:41:00.004+02:00

i find the key hole. the door is opened. sadly. the door, is opened. i lock the door. i lock myself in. i lock myself inside. my eyes are still tearful. my eyes are, still, tearful. the distance between the métro stop and my place is about 10 minutes. or no, maybe 5. who knows? did i ever really pay attention to how much i spend walking to or from there? no, i certainly never did. did it ever matter to me? no, it honestly never did. i walked all this distance tonight, from the métro stop to my place. my eyes were tearful. my eyes are tearful. so many memories today were evoked. so many many. my eyes are tearful, and so is the music. it is my mother's favorite music. everything i like is my parents' favorite. am i my parents' favorite?
today i watched Beginners, for the second time. Mélanie Laurent plays a fantastic role in the film. i think she is not real. she is just a fantasy. i had to watch the film for the second time. i could not forget her beautiful image, her beautiful face, her beautiful, her beautiful movements, her remarkable character. i had to watch her again. i have to watch her again. she is beautiful. she is fantastic. my mother was beautiful. my mother was so beautiful. my mother had beautiful hands. she had small, beautifully shaped hands. her hands used to drive me from school. her hands took me to my piano lessons. her beautiful hands, made food for me. her small, beautiful hand, were in my hands, when it was me, who made my parents ashamed of themselves, ashamed of me. my mother had a beautiful voice. i remember... i used to live in Malaysia, and whenever my mother called me, i could see her most beautiful, MOST BEAUTIFUL name on my phone screen, and i did not know how to answer the phone without bursting into tears. mom, i remember your beautiful voice. mom, i do remember your most beautiful voice. it is still in my ears, the most beautiful music ever, way above all Mozarts, way above all Mahlers...
i clearly, very clearly, remember my mother's beautiful hands, that gave me the third volume of Harry Potter series, when i was 9..10 years old. and she was beautiful. she was kind. she was my mother. and she knew i loved reading. i learned to love reading from her. i learned how to read from her. i learned to be who i am from her. my mother is great. my mother is beautiful. mom did everything for me. mom, today i watched Harry Potter, and i all i was thinking was you. how great you were to me. why you were so good to me? why you were so good to the world? why you never understood evil? did you ever even notice the presence of the bad on earth? right beside you?
i am listening to my mother's favorite music. Dariush, some iranian oldies. it is sad. it is very sad. the music of the disappointment that appeared right after the freaking revolution, and it is very sad. my mother loved Dariush. my mother loved oldies. my mother loved rock music. no one has any greater taste in arts than my mother. mom, do you remember? my mother's beautiful hands use to take me out. Tehran was so beautiful. Tehran was then so beautiful. Valiasr, was the road to heaven. those trees, God, do tell me, Valiasr street is one of a kind in this world, isn't it? those trees, each a thousand years old... those mansions... the road to heaven... i remember, i did some part of my highschool there... God, i miss you, my beloved city, i miss you. i miss you, hear me, listen to me... i miss you. my mother land. the city that belongs to me, the city of my mother. God, you know, how many times, i used to walk the whole street up and down... my mother used to drive in the city, our moments were eternal. it did not matter if it was past after midnight. it did not matter if i had to go to school the following day. it was me. mom. the gorgeous tehran, sometimes sleeping under her bridehood white winter robe and sometimes not. we used to listen to music. my mother likes Turkish music. my mother likes Turkey, my mother likes Istanbul. i have very vivid memories, the Turkish channels were constantly on in our house, and my sister and i, notably my sister ended up understanding and speaking it quite well. now i must say, i do not know even a word. today, i wrote two of my dearest friends in Iran letters, and so sadly, very sadly, i realized i could not write fluently in Farsi unless i pay extreme attention to curves and dots. very sad. i realized i was only writing in Farsi after years. my mother liked rock music, or pop with some bluesy fusion. my mother read me books from the time i was able to understand words. she read me the greatest literal works of all the world, she read me poetry, beautiful poetry, she always had books for me. history, philosophy, poems. by the age of twelve, i had read a great deal of philosophical works, and i knew millions of verses of modern Persian poetry by heart. i love Persian literature. i love Persian poetry. i have to start again to read more. if i had a choice in a second life, maybe i would not choose to be Iranian again, but i would definitely love to speak Farsi again as my mother tongue. it is above all the languages i have heard and i know. we have millions of verbal tenses all of which are normally and casually used, and that makes the language incredibly expressive. the vocabulary is amazingly rich, notably the variant spoken in Iran which is completed by a good deal of Arabic words making it even more expressive. i miss Persian poetry. i miss Persian music. i miss my Persian instrument. i do not think i would be able to make a single musical sound out of it, any more.
my mother did not like Persian music. my father liked Persian music. my father liked English rock music as well. my father is Kurd, and he liked Kurdish music. my father is a great human. have my parents ever broken a heart? have my parents ever spoken nasty to someone? have my parents ever committed a bad or wrong deed? did my parents ever learn how to be bad? did my parents ever realize that the world is not that kind, that they might get abused?
my mother loved driving. my mother loved driving fast. my mother drove a beautiful car, a big car, which if not everywhere, at least outside our own neighborhood, used to draw attentions to itself. white car. they bought it white, because i liked it white. i like everything white. i love white. i love snow. i like white rooms, i like white hearts, i like white loves. i like to behave white. i like to speak white. i like to love white. my sister's car was white, too. that was as well my choice. my sister and i adore each other. she is far kinder than me. she is a good child for our parents. i am not a good child. i am ashamed of my own presence. my parents, my dear beloved good kind divine parents deserved much better. i am glad my sister is there. she is a gift. she is fruitful, she is intelligent, she is beautiful. she is my hope. my sister is very kind to me. sometimes i ask myself, could i ever make all this kindness up to her, one day? i guess not. i always fail to answer my family's kindness. God, please, you forgive me. my mother used to drive fast. the highways in Tehran are huge. i have not seen their peer in Malaysia or France. maybe in other places. we used to listen to Turkish music, and we would grab a drink as well. my sister joined us. my sister is a great young lady. she is very intelligent. she spent 4 years far from us, in a beautiful city called Tabriz. Tabriz used to be Iran's former capital, is the city of our cultural compatriots, has a glorious history, like my sister. Tabriz is very clean, like a Northern European country, and Tabriz is very wealthy. poverty exists not in Tabriz. my sister studied there. in a great college, a great place for a great person. my sister had 3 roommates all of which i like and admire like my own sister. my sister was beautiful. my sister is beautiful. my sister drove in that city. Tabriz is cold. it snows a lot. Tabriz is so very clean, and is very beautiful, people in Tabriz are beautiful, and the snow is beautiful there. my sister despises the cold. my sister drove a small car. i still remember her beautiful hands on the wheel. beautiful hands of a young lady, skinny, maybe sometimes wore gloves? i do not remember. beautiful, very bright skin, and fine fingers. fine to be a pianist. fine to be an artist. fine to be a great sister, a great wife and mother. i love my sister. she is the light of my life when i am hopeless. she is a bright young lady. i am so glad my father has my sister in his life. i am bizarre, i am no good. my father is proud of me though. he thinks i am intelligent. i look like my father. i look pretty much like my father. i look 100 percent, or even more like my father. it has so happened that i take the lift and when i enter, i am shocked for a moment, as i think the man in the mirror is my dad. my father is well-read. my father is well-educated. he has studied in one of the most prestigious colleges ever, and is a bright man. he runs a successful company, and builds subway in Tehran. my father is my pride. he is everyone's pride. his parents, his siblings, and my sister and my mother. my father is very kind. everyone who needs help, knows he is always there. my father, never complained about anything. i have made my father cry. i have made my father to be ashamed of himself and be ashamed of me. my dad liked Kurdish music, he is from Sanandaj, a small town in the West. my sister detested Kurdish music. my dad liked politics, philosophy. my dad liked me not to be like him, simple and naive and kind. he liked me to read Machiavelli so that i could get to know how to absorb every chance. but dad, why you did not yourself? dad, why you did not notice that you are too good for this world, for this time. my parents live in years...years ago. when evil did not exist, and God had not created the evil yet. when, in every where we had peace. even in Iran, even in Israel. i am listening to Turkish music. i remember, my mother had cried with this music. my mother had beautiful eyes. very bright brown eyes, a color that i have never seen in any one else's eyes, but my beautiful mother. my mother eyes were alike his dad's. my grandfather was handsome. my grandfather used to work in the army, he had a great life, but apparently never learned how to enjoy it. my grandmother does not like my grandfather. my uncle does not like my grandfather, either. and i do not think i like my uncle. i like my mother. she is so superior to my uncle. like my sister and me. they are not even comparable. my grandparents put their lives for my uncle, but he was unfruitful and ungracious, exactly like me, while my mother, as my sister, is a great child. someone whom one can be proud of. i am proud of my mother. i am proud of my sister. my eyes are tearful. the music is sad. Turkish music is great. a special feeling that i can find in Greek and Israeli music, as well. but not in Iranian music. Iranian music is way too sad, sometimes too deep for me. it needs concentration. first musical instrument was invented in Iran. the Iranians invented the Lute and Guitar in Europe, Spain and Andalusia, they invented the music scales. Iranians discovered alcohol. the comparison of a foreign literature with Persian literature is the comparison of Baghdad and Geneva. Iran is the land of odds. Zoroastrianism is an amazing wisdom,religion, great lessons of life and society. Jews in Iran are the oldest diaspora out of the mainland Israel and we have millions of different denominations of Christianity. Iran has the craziest and most evil government ruling it. that is a record, too. Iran is where political prisoners are raped. young girls are raped because apparently in that evil religion no one can be put to death virgin. and boys are raped, in a land where homosexuality has a death penalty. in a land that the president claims there are NO GAYS. this music is too sad. my mother had cried with this. that pair of beautiful light brown eyes had been full of tears. she was beautiful. my mother had beautiful hair. sometimes short, sometimes long. sometimes brown, sometimes lighter. she had always been beautiful. my dad was very handsome. he was even more when younger. i have pictures of his college years. he looks like a Beatle. and he wanted to. i forgot, did he like Pink Floyd more or the Beatles? my dad loved to read theatre plays. he loved Bertold Brecht. his favorite personalities where da Vinci, Machiavelli, Avicenna, Rumi, Einstein, Marie Curie, Beethoven...
does Y know i am in love? Y is a great person, too. Y lives far from me. Y is American. and as so far i have not seen any exceptions to American's being great and wonderful, Y is wonderful, too. i adore Y. i want to build a life with Y. but Y does not get so many things. Y and i have had a bad history. nasty. bad, dark. Y thinks we have come over it, but i sincerely think nothing is over yet. Y tries to justify so many things done in the past, but i can not accept them. somethings we do in relationships, those are quite destructive. Y has so many X, Y, Z, ... in life. i am not the only lover. Y thinks former lovers can be really only FORMER lovers. while i think why should one put oneself into situations where we can slip? Y is stuck. Y is doing the best possible, but sometimes fails. i am really trying to be understanding of Y's life. of Y's situation. it is not all Y's fault. Y has been alone. Y has had a bad history, sad one. when we have a bad history, a sad one, we give ourselves to do everything we want, maybe i, do, too. i remember Dr. Viktor Frankl, the Jewish Austrian Holocaust survivor, whose book i read a few times, and the whole books was soaked with my tears, saying that the Holocaust survivors back in Vienna, were so demanding. expecting respect, help, appreciation, money from everyone. i can understand them. nothing had been in anyone's hands. not in the hands of those soldiers who exterminated them, in those who survived, those who were gassed, or those luckiers ones who had remained in Vienna, and not in Auschwitz. X has no one in life. X is alone. X is kind. X is an artist. X is quiet, X spends time with me. X is only a great friend. X is a friend whom i can share things with. X is a person whom i can talk about Y, too. why does X has no one in life? is X's situation worse than mine? no, not possibly. at least X lives in a homeland. Y lives in a homeland, too. so many people live in their homelands. European Jews had no homeland. do they have a homeland, now? would finally this cruel world let them have a small piece of land of their own? a land that has belonged to them and their ancestors, a land that is dedicated to them, in a Holy Book that all the three Abrahamic religions believe on. Y is Jewish. X is probably Jewish, too. X speaks Hebrew fluently. i am being trained to speak Hebrew fluently, one day, as well. Jewish is good. everything Jewish is good. i do not really like something non-Jewish. i like so many non-Jewish people, though. being good, or being bad has nothing to do with your blood, with your religion. i am listening to Uzbek music. this music is great. sounds more Iranian. Uzbekistan was a colonized part of the great Persian Empire. an Empire that anywhere it conquered, lives were blossomed, wealth was multiplied, culture and literacy was taught and . an Empire where the first human rights were formed. X loves Tehran, like me. we have never discussed it. we have never talked much. i just saw a "I LOVE TEHRAN" page on X's Facebook page. Tehran is the soil that i belong. Tehran is the soil that belongs to me. Y, is a great human being. Y is very kind. Y does things and do not realize how hurtful they can be. probably X does, too. X is a friend, Y is my love of life. i do, too. sometimes advertently. Y, too, perhaps sometimes advertently hurts people. Y sometimes has a very bitter mouth, but i do not tell this back to Y. i want to have a life and future with Y. Y lives in New York. maybe Y and I would be happy to live in Paris, or in New York, or in my beloved Israel. not in Tehran. Y does not like that, Y would not feel good there, and i extremely feel unsafe to get back there. very interesting, huh? being scared to getting back to the city you belong, too. these odds only can happen in Iran. maybe X & Y day got to meet each other. very soon. my mother was born in Tehran. she was beautiful like Tehran. my father was born in Sanandaj, but grew up in Tehran. i was born in Tehran. where did i grow up? where should i say? Malaysia? Paris? nowhere? did i ever grow up? no, i do not think i did. i wish i had not. i am unproductive. my parents are good. they are angels. my parents would not be able to be proud of me. i never spoke to them. we never spoke to each other. i was my mother's best friend. she was my best friend. no one ever had seen us apart. from the moment i remember. with a pacifier and with my diaper, i used to carry pillows for my mother, when she had fallen sleep in front of the television. i adore my mother. i adore her voice. we were always together. shopping, going out, galleries, cinemas. why did i leave them? why did i leave my mother? why did i leave her world? why did i leave our beautiful neighborhood? why did i leave my room, which was embellished in green? what happened to that beautiful, antique carpet in our house? what happened to those beautiful, big, thick reddish doors? what is going on in my house now? how cruel of me to leave my mother? how cruel of me to leave my family? i miss my friends... i miss my home...

tonight's tango - more to tell

2011-06-03T02:40:00.003+02:00

i would not pay much attention to the title. evidently, nothing i write is much worth paying attention to. did i ever write i love tango? yes, i love tango, i love love love tango. i love all kinds of Argentinian music, classical, traditional, jazz and tango. there is something about it that attracts me a lot. Argentina is unique in so many ways. it is the only state in South America who has an official religion - Catholicism - it is the only state where about 50% of the population is of Italian descent, and is home to the largest Jewish community in Latin America. the Spanish they speak sounds like Italian, Italian of those people from Southern Italy, so different from the one i hear in Almodovar films. it is so cool, so warm, so comfortable! and i must add, so many precious musicians are from this country, Piazzolla, Barenboim and Martha Argerich, to name a few. besides these, i do not have much more information about Argentina, i just know that i would love to visit Buenos Aires one day and discover real tango played by real tango musicians, not that of famous musicians found in the recordings.

i do not remember how i ended up writing that, i intended to come here and write about how i was doing. i remember i had plans to write about how i got to know music, and how i became a musician, but i was so tired, so down and so unmotivated and i left all the posts to be forgotten. i do not regret that. who cares about how i got to know music? i do not care, personally. future is much more important. it is the only thing which i currently spend hours thinking about, and this time i do not buy any comments telling me i should not think about future. if one told me (actually almost everyone did) that i should come to 2011 and do not live anymore in the history (i was/am living mostly somewhere between 1900-1950) that would have sounded rational, but how could i not worry about my future? i am worried about collecting my blood test results tomorrow. i do not expect anything good there. now i am listening to a music i called the saddest music on earth some days ago... it is the saddest music... it is a lullaby written by Tchaikovsky, for voice and piano... the words are in Russian. it is a lullaby, but it does not make you fall asleep, it gives you all the motivation you need to slit your vein and sleep forever, no matter how happy you are in the moment. so sad. so sad. dear Piotr. I. Tchaikovsky, how did you manage to write this and still live years after that? does not sound fair to me. although he died a painful death. right after his 6th symphony. the famous melancholic hopeless symphony. a symphony which is a mausoleum of collective sorrow. so is Beethoven's Hammerklavier. i know i have written a million times about Hammerklavier everywhere i know, here, in papers, in classroom, on Facebook... but it is never enough. Hammerklavier... Hammerklavier... i do not believe Beethoven used the same notes we find on a piano. those are not notes. every single note in this sonata is a revelation by God. who wants a more definite proof of God's existence? who?

nice, nice. Hammerklavier brought me to a good point, something I was actually planning to write about beforehands. today i was reading some really good, literally good stuff. i read about Jewish philosophy, Jewish feminism, anti-Christian sentiments in Israel, the proofs for and against the existence of God which included the problem of Hell, Evil, inconsistent revelations. all of which are quite solved for me, already. but what was more interesting was reading about the Gospel of Barnabas, a narrative of Jesus' life. that is a book, which can change everything. EVERYTHING. it can change the WHOLE bases of Judaism, Christianity and Islam. EVERYTHING WOULD CHANGE. i am just shocked. i am JUST shocked, i could not believe. it is interesting how i was studying the other apocryphal Gospels, those by John, Philip and Myriam for example, but i never even bothered to read and learn about the Gospel by Barnabas. Holy God. i wish i knew which one speaks the truth. and does it make a difference? yes, absolutely. it does make a difference.

philosophy is again interesting me a lot. i remember i had not read any more philosophical stuff after my highschool or sometime around there. i have a whole WORLD of questions again, and although i have someone quite good in mind to ask all these questions from, everytime i dare do so, i confront the discouragement he gives me by saying that i better not waste my time and i should read the things he says.

i am in love. i am in love. i love a person, a lovely human being who walks on earth, and whose presence on earth is divine. but i am not sure if we are made for each other, i am not sure if everything, or at least somethings will work out the way we could stay together. i sometimes think that we should let each other ago, each one to the future will have. sometimes i just think i should fall in love with someone else, or something like i am fallen in love not with the right person. but who knows? whom could i ask this question from?

i am still listening to Tchaikovsky's lullaby,... too sad...

Eternal

2011-05-30T01:27:00.001+02:00

bavar kon...

2011-05-15T02:40:00.001+02:00

باور کن صدامو باور کن صدایی که تلخ و خسته اس

باور کن قلبمو باور کن قلبی که کوهه اما شکسته اس

باور کن دستامو باور کن که ساقه ی نوازشه

باور کن چشم منو باور کن که یک قصیده خواهشه

وسوسه ی عاشق شدن التهاب لحظه هامه

حسرت فریاد کردنه اسم کسی با صدامه

اسم تو هر اسمی که هست مثل غزل چه عاشقانه اس

پر وسوسه مثل سفر مثل غربت صادقانه اس

باور کن اسممو باور کن من فصل بارون برگم

مطرود باغ و گل و شبنم درختم درخت خشکی تو دست تگرگم

باور کن همیشه باور کن که من به عشق صادقم

باور کن حرف منو باور کن که من همیشه عاشقم

Googoosh - my beloved singer

nazanin

2011-05-15T02:22:00.003+02:00

ای نازنین، ای نازنین

در آینه ما را ببین

از شرم این صد چهره ها

در آینه افتاده چین

از تندباد حادثه

گفتی که جان در برده ایم

اما چه جان دربردنی

دیریست که در خود مرده ایم

اینجا به جز درد و دروغ

هم خانه ای با ما نبود

در غربت من مثل من

هرگز کسی تنها نبود

عشق و شعور و اعتقاد

کالای بازار کساد

سوداگران در شکل دوست

بر نا رفیقان شرم باد

هجرت سرابی بود و بس

خوابی که تعبیری نداشت

هر کس که روزی یار بود

اینجا مرا تنها گذاشت

من با تو گریه کرده ام

در سوگ همراهان خویش

آنان که عاشق مانده اند

در خانه بر پیمان خویش

ای مثل من در خود اسیر

لیلای من با من بمیر

تنها به یمن مرگ ما

این قصه می ماند به جا

Simin Bari

2011-04-21T00:17:00.001+02:00

سیمین بری گل پیکری آری از ماه و گل زیباتری آری

همچون پری افسونگری آری دیوانه رویت منم چه خواهی دگر از من

سرگشته کویت منم نداری خبر از من

هرشب که مه بر آسمان گردد عیان دامن کشان

گویم به او راز نهان که با من چه ها کردی

به جانم جفا کردی

هم جان و هم جانانه ای اما در دلبری افسانه ای اما

اما ز من بیگانه ای اما

آزرده ام خواهی چرا تو ای نوگل زیبا

افسرده ام خواهی چرا تو ای آفت دلها

عاشق کشی شوخی تو زیبایی

شیرین لبی اما دل آزاری

با ما سر جور و جفا داری

می سوزم از هجران تو نترسی ز آه من

دست من و دامان تو چه باشد گناه من

دارم ز تو نامهربان

شوقی به دل شوری به جان می سوزم از سوز نهان

ز جانم چه می خواهی نگاهی به من گاهی

یارب برس امشب به فریادم من جان از آن نامهربان دادم

بیداد او برکنده بنیادم گو ماه من در آسمان دمی چهره بنماید

تا شاهد امید من ز رخ پرده بگشاید

fiddler on the roof

2011-03-25T12:44:00.002+01:00

i am listening Ithzak Perlman, my idolized favorite violinist, playing this mesmerizing, extraterrestrial tune of "Yiddishe Mamme". i am floating in ecstasy with this culture, this invaluable heritage. i thank you for all.

i want to cry out to all the holies, i have no comprehension, of why some things are so impressive? so much of a turning point in our lives? inasmuch as, i am living in pure rapture. wish the time could stop, and i could always hear this bow dancing on those precious strings. on that instrument of Itzhak Perlman. maybe the same one on which he has played Schinlder's List soundtrack. who knows?

look at this painting. how great the most beautiful sentiments of a great name could be expressed? this is Marc Chagall. i still dream of his paintings. this is Chagall. this is what this great name has behind it. this wonderful Jewish heritage behind it. i still vividly remember every piece of art of his in the museum of the Jewish art and history in Paris. oh my. that was not real. no of course it was not real. if Chagall was real, if Chagall was not a dream, if was not my dreams, he would not be called a "surrealist". the greatest of all "surrealists".

i am listening to Perlman, this great artist, whose instrument is now chanting a Yiddish song. i am looking at this most beautiful painting, depicting this fiddler, on the roof, in a city who knows? maybe Jerusalem. playing what? who knows, maybe my Yiddishe Mamme.

all my vows

2011-03-23T01:44:00.001+01:00

what a strange feeling i have tonight. i have this calm soul inside me, who just wants to listen my Preisner's Red music... who wants to read just for self-amusement and who wants me to sleep deep. and i have this another voice inside me, who is listening to Jacqueline du Pré playing the prayer, Kol Nidre... and this voice who does not want me to cry right now. no i do not want, either.
sometimes i think, and sometimes i am sure, the best way to get me out of this chronic yet very deep depression, is to erase all the memory i have. probably strong medications will work out, as they already have, but they are not definite and it is just that i know, i am not to think. i have to stop thinking, i have to start remembering. remembering 19... 19 consecutive years, all of which i can't easily say i like. probably the first two, were fine. but actually, it is the very same first two, which could be much better, especially in case of their total absence. you sure know what i am aiming to say.
sometimes even myself, i can't believe how unhappy i am with my own existence. i think it is purposeless, and so often, this thought is a definite impeccable belief. well, why the hell not. and the answer to the question of my creation and my purposeless is left unanswered yet. nothing found in million books of philosophy, neither in religious ones.
i was recalling some very interesting stuff in my life, today. where to start from? i definitely was remembering how yesterday i was playing this very same tune of Kol Nidre on my piano, and how i was all in tears. my usual habit. how did i get to become so sensitive in the course of last few months? i even can not watch a movie in which someone is pointing a knife to some else. i can't stand an accident scene. what's wrong with me? is this a usual life? a life full of books, notably religious books and this life full of music, precisely full of all these sad, bleak, stuff? Mahlerian music, van Gogh life? where am i getting to, oh.
D. D, D, C#... C#. C#, C#, A... A. A, A, C#...these few notes are enough. and i have my eyes soaked. this is the precious Kol Nidre melody.
today, i was also remembering, how i got to know this iranian website, which was definitely an important event. i am not sure, but it was probably my sister whom this website was recommended to in her highschool, but it was me who discovered the whole thing, although probably being 10...11 years old. and wow. what an influence i got from there. definitely the music in the clips were mesmerizing. they are still my favorite tunes... yes they are. and oh! those texts... that lyricism... all my favorite poetry. and even the slogan... one of my favorite verses ever:

a mirror, in front of yours, i will hold

so that i'll make an eternity of you

this wonderful poem. and it is even more beautiful in Persian... i remember the latest clip put in the website, i guess a sad, a very sad story, narrating someone who was lost, or who had lost someone. and all those other clips. the one showing this Protests by Iranian students in July 1999, just rips my heart. all those shirts, totally washed with our youth's blood. welcome to dicatorship. welcome to an Islamic Republic. welcome to the evil possessed beloved land of ours.

i am too sad to write more now. i leave it for later.

somewhere to begin from - II

2011-03-18T22:40:00.001+01:00

i just came back home from my cozy synagogue. it is such a nice place to be, seeing the most wonderful and nicest people to imagine every week is one of the best ways to end your week and your boring Friday.
as far as i remember i must have started by writing about my exposition to classical music! why using this not much pleasant word? well, simply because it dramatically changed my life, my career, my emotions, my life style and even my love style. although sometimes i get disappointed with myself, but that is now off the topic.
well, honestly, i do not exactly remember how i got to know classical music, definitely it was something not regularly heard in our house. i was an early teen that i happened to find a few recordings of some well-known classical pieces in my hands. did i really love them and enjoyed them? the negative answer is obvious. it appeared to be too far from almost fully developed artistic and musical culture. however, no one never knows. i think i started by being in love with Beethoven and i actually liked operas, too. then it was Bach who became my hero. all while Mozart was never not only not appreciated, but also disliked and called childish by me. however, it is time to change people significantly and Beethoven and Bach have totally lost their being my musical heroes, but actually this is Mozart whom i eternally adore and his genius is scary and tremendous to me. Mozart... Mozart... Mozart... i do not know if i am thinking about his glorious opening of the 25th symphony, his 24th piano concerto or one of his delicate and life changing operas? Mozart is Mozart. Bach lost his status in my mind so soon, as i soon began to question his style, which was full of ornaments and unnecessary complications which just is in courts' interests and not mine. and as for Beethoven, i do not hate him for sure, but i can't easily tell whether i like his classical period more or his romantic. his classical period amatory resembles Mozart and that could not be something bad. even if it is an imitation, but come one, at least it is by this big name: Beethoven. on the other hand, so many of his romantic piano sonatas seem to be so touching for me. Appassionata is definitely something i really like, although i prefer it not be performed by my legend, Arthur Rubinstein, who has played it so fast and his own late romantic period. and the real thing i just ADORE about Beethoven, is, : HAMMERKLAVIER.
Hammerklavier, is a revolution. is the essence of the romantic period, is the essence of what Beethoven means, who Beethoven was and is the essence of all the greatest epically written pieces. Hammerklavier is genius. is written for the genius. Hammerklavier... even its name, make my body hair stand on its end. i like Beethoven to be played by Viennese pianists and not French or English or ... nor even the Russian legends, yes i mean not Horowitz, not Richter and definitely not Claudio Arrau whom i think his Hispanic culture and deeply Catholic feelings just do not go well with Beethoven. Mitsuko Uchida and Brendel are definitely whom I like to hear Beethovem from. must admit that Barenboim plays it perfectly, too, but i think too German, and still far from my beloved refined Viennese sound. but oh holy! let it be touched by Glenn Gould. all the angels, all the heavens will listen to it. everything just should be played by Glenn Gould, and i even sometimes question how the other great pianists have even dared to record something that Gould had already recorded? but well, tastes differ. i am listening to Hammerklavier, now. the feeling is described as one of the saddest moments in the whole romantic period and i feel so close to Beethoven by this. and i miss the presence of Glenn Gould's precious hands in our planet. what gifts we have lost...

interesting that today i did not touch the unspeakable!

to be continued

somewhere to begin from - I

2011-03-11T02:18:00.004+01:00

so much thoughts these days. so many different, different thoughts going through my head. sometimes they do give me headache, although that is quite rare. my capacities of a thinker, are much higher, even if the idea is just thinking about crap. i was thinking about my world. my little world. how was i grown up? as much as i remember, i have grown up definitely. but i do not know how, or exactly how. i just remember, being so much deeply associated with art since i have known myself. and of course, art and the aforesaid unspeakable, the very same, freaking unspeakable, which sometimes make me so proud of myself, and enjoying my chosen lifestyle. how was associated with the unspeakable is so further that being associated and an artificial and gained association. it is just inside me, was born with me, is grown up with me, it has developed itself with me and within me and has survived so many different lives, with me and again, yes, within me.

but how were i associated with art. that is the long story. although it is long, but it is so simple. much simpler than reading a Schopenhauer essay, reading a treatise on arts. i do not know if i should put literature as the first step in my life or painting. basically, due to various evident reasons, a child develops the ability to understand colors or even make a painting earlier than to begin to develop an ear for literature, as he does not yet possess the ability to read. and just as a reminder, the literature that was read for me, was literally literature. great works of great writers, different genres, different periods, which happily had Persian classics at its core, but also included unforgettable German and French romantics.

my old habit, changing subjects so rapidly. well, that is fostered by my enormous excitement, my eternal excitement for music, which even now does not let me to take care of other subjects i had in mind, but is just insisting inside me to get to itself, first!

where did music start with me and within me? i have no idea. being grown up with a strong Kurdish culture inside the family, although sometimes the aforementioned culture was even disliked in the environment and was intentionally or intentionally being avoided, it had its own influences on me. and that was a big love for music and an inner ear for rhythm. yes, that is very Kurdish and honestly you can hardly find a house without different types of percussions at least in the dominantly Kurdish regions of Iran. besides that, the typical music heard inside the house was ranging from Persian classical (could be named traditional as well) to rock and pop. I should recall the love both my parents had for British rock music and other European oldies. As a musician, I know and I know very well, how each person somehow is associated music, and how we have a special kind of favorite music for every single person no matter how different the tastes. But I confess that although my family did not consist of any musician, but music played an above average role. I am so glad about it!! it should not be forgotten that besides the deeply felt absence of a piano inside the house, my sister and i were taking piano lessons for years, the practice mostly being done on some electronic version of the instrument or was left often undone !

i clearly remember my encounter with rock and metal music, which i still as a so-called "classical musician" feel associated with. most probably it was, in our visit and stays in Europe which took place each year until i reach the age of 14, if my memory is functioning well enough. starting from the age of 7...8 i remember i started to like bands like Metallica or some lighter stuff like Linkin Park or etc, the latter going quite well with that age! As opposed to this case, I do not exactly remember how i fell madly in love with classical music. definitely, the source was not my taking piano lessons, as the method used was an old fashioned Russian school of piano pedagogy which quite helps the student to be disgusted by the instrument, or if done well, can make a genius, but without a marginal personal life, out of him.

however, i do remember a big change in my life, in our life, i mean my family's and of course, in this beloved world of mine, the world of my music...

(Salvador Dali)

part II will be out soon

again, just words

2011-03-07T02:20:00.001+01:00

after having written the other post, unspeakable, i was so much again influenced by the depth of that quote. it so unbelievably had touched me, inside out. how could she possibly have put all the meaning of so many lives, of so many histories and deepest emotions of so many people including me which we have difficulty expressing, only into a few sentences? isn't that just a miracle? i know the cause. i know the miracle behind that. it must be the same two blessings, the two huge benedictions. the oppressed ones.

i do not think i am feeling good. tonight we said farewell to one of my dear friends and who knows when we will meet again. that all happened while she was not really in a good mood, not really happy with her surrounding issues and i so deeply regret my worsening all by having said something i should not have.

i have recently read so much on my eternal favorite subject of Judaism. happily and luckily, i have come across so many books who are as valueless as diamonds. i am not gonna make poor attempts to say how much i have learned from them, as that is just not possible, but i can say, in the most recent book, how sweet and bitter at the same time, i have reviewed all my life and the life my parents have lived and are living in those pages. i am so much impressed. how eloquent "we" people know each other. we, people. only us. not all people. those people who are blessed, two different times, to different painful blessings, and me too, so coincidentally. my innocent parents. how they have fought the world for peace. how they have fought against evil, while sometimes despite my constantly pessimistic point of view about life, i just think there is no evil. it is just that, "mom, dad, you are too good." i wish i could make them realize this.

and turning back to the point. i have seen so many unspeakables and so many different ones in fact. life and its situations fostered me somehow that i could learn, see and experience much more what i have should by this age. and sometimes i am happy about it and so often, i regret that so badly. sometimes i just think maybe i should care less about everything. sometimes i think i should care much less about my friends. it is interesting that i do not have uncountable friends, on the contrary, i have quite a very few friends, all of whom i love dearly. but it so happens from time to time, that i think with myself i am destructing myself through being concerned and notably grieving for my friends. grieving for world. the world has always enough reasons to be sad for and i think i am one of those very few creatures who is always, honestly always ready for that. grieving for war, for peace, for my family, for my friends, for my future and for my past actions.

it is so hard to see that your unspeakable, is going to remain so. it is so hard to realize that you have just been so stupid to think for a few days that, that is it, the nightmare is over and you can speak about it. you can say your WORDS. but no. the nightmare is not over. there is just no nightmare, it is the way it is. probably the way it should be. most probably the way that our Creator has decided for us, so very long time ago. and i can not believe, that you see so many of your friends, share with you the same unspeakable but you still can not talk about your secret, your fucking freaking secret, because it is just the way it is, you have no choice but to accept it. yes, it is unspeakable, dear, don't you just get it?

and it also happens so, that you do not share that very certain unspeakable with someone who is important to you, but you just so understand him deeply, but still, you can not turn to him and say "hey buddy, i know, what does it mean to be the only foreigner in your class, you are not alone. buddy, i know what does it mean to be a religious minority, to be gay in some intolerant country, no, in all countries, you are not alone, there are millions of you jewels out there."

and it is so and so will it be. i am sad, that my friend is not happy. with what she has done, with what she believes, she is not happy. and i am so sad that my close friend, my life time friend, who was my classmate, is closeted for his being gay. and i suffer with him. and everything remains just unspeakable. in the case of so many of us, it also remains unspeakable within our hearts, even with ourselves.

i do not know what to say. i know what my friends need. i know they have words as many as several papyri, i know their words, i want to share their words with them, i want to share their pain with them. and i care. i care about every hour of their lives and all other human's, too. i am not changing the world, simply because i can not. but... it just breaks my heart, to see those valuable painful tears in the eyes of my friends, my beloved people and all those for whom i care, i care so deeply... i do not leave them alone.

all these last Sundays...

2011-03-07T01:34:00.000+01:00

sadly one Sunday,
i waited and waited,
with flowers in my arms,
over grief i'd created

i waited till dreams, like my heart were all broken
the flowers were all dead and
the words were unspoken

the grief that i knew was beyond all consoling
the beat of my heart
was a bell that was trolling
saddest of Sundays

then came the Sunday
when you came to find me
they brought me to church,
and i left you behind me...

my eyes could not see,
what i wanted to love me
the earth and the flowers
of my lover above me

the bell trolled for me and the whispered never
but you, i have loved
and i love you forever...

last of all Sundays...

unspeakable

2011-03-06T14:58:00.004+01:00

"whatever is unnamed, undepicted in images, whatever is omitted from biography, censored in collections of letters, whatever is misnamed as something else, made difficult-to-come-by, whatever is buried in the memory by the collapse of meaning under an inadequate or lying language - this will become not merely unspoken, but unspeakable."

Adrienne Rich

all these tears... two stories going alongside

2011-02-24T00:26:00.005+01:00

all these tears all over the place. a small light is glimmering and that is the only source of light in this bleak room...

a glass of blood orange juice... the color of my tears... the color of my heart...

not anymore in Paris... no the beloved one is not here anymore.

this is the cello... He has sent his music from His heaven. down here...

He had sent her beloved creature here... from His heaven. so soon she left us. so soon the beloved one left.

i can hear this sound... oh Father i am getting to know you... forgive me.. and forgive all my sins... all of them... i so much need that. Father i was in love... those eyes... they are not anymore in Paris... they left me so soon, too.

Jacqueline is playing the cello... how old was she when she recorded this Brahms? twenty? eighteen? thirty?

i probably am not the luckiest creature... fine, fair enough. the beloved one... and those green eyes... and those exceptionally beautiful hairs... left me... no... the beloved one is not in Paris anymore.

Jacqueline... she must have been sad. her beloved one was not with her. after all those romantic periods, after all those wonderful recordings, all those concertos, this Brahms, that Kol Nidre... after that heavenly marriage in Jerusalem, no... her beloved one was not with her... he had his own lovers... and his own offspring, too. Jacqueline, blessed be your wonderful name in the history of music, i know how you felt. I know I can, you probably had all your precious tears on your table and on your papers, when you were playing Kol Nidre... I do, too.

I watch the news. all the Middle East where I completely have always considered my home, is in blood. is in conflict. so is my city. my eternal one. this glass of blood orange juice... is it not all my tears?

this is Kol Nidre... my Father... my beloved Father... if I have committed sins, if I have broken hearts... I ask you for atonement, till the day, these tears, these red colored tears and I do not exist anymore. I leave Paris, too. like my beloved one. and like Jacqueline, who left Jerusalem, who left London and who left all of us... and her beloved one, too...

this is the reprise of the main Kol Nidre melody... Jacqueline is all emotions... her bow is in pain... the bow is crying on each single string... like a man crying out his lover's name... like a baby, who asks his Father for love... and for love... and love... I am all in tears... this is Max Bruch's transcription of the prayer Kol Nidre... this is Jacqueline du Pré playing this elegiac melody... this is London, this is Jerusalem without her... this is my beloved Paris without my beloved one... so gloomy... and so bleak, intolerable. this is my glass of blood orange juice... my soaked papers beside me... all in tears. this is me here. half-alive, breathing, writing, listening, thinking of my beloved one... in tears.

your green eyes

2011-02-19T02:33:00.002+01:00

مُدامم مست می‌دارد نسیم جَعد گیسویت خرابم می‌کند هر دم فریب چَشم جادویت

پس از چندین شکیبایی شبی یا رب توان دیدن که شمع دیده افروزیم در محراب ابرویت؟

سواد لوح بینش را عزیز از بهر آن دارم که جان را نسخه‌ای باشد ز لوح خال هندویت

تو گر خواهی که جاویدان جهان یک سر بیارایی صبا را گو که بردارد زمانی بُرقع از رویت

و گر رسم فنا خواهی که از عالم براندازی برافشان تا فروریزد هزاران جان ز هر مویت

من و باد صبا مسکین دو سرگردانِ بی‌حاصل من از افسون چشمت مست و او از بوی گیسویت

زهی همت که حافظ راست از دنیا و از عُقبیٰ نیاید هیچ در چشمش بجز خاک سر کویت

to them all!

2011-02-16T00:07:00.007+01:00

after the war, i returned to my village

my mother, my father, my sisters, my brothers,

my sweetheart

were all gone...

i went down to a river,

when i used to play as a child

i sat down on my knees

... and i wept!

where is the village? the place of my youth?

where is the boy who kissed me with a truth?

where are the young hearts that sang unafraid?

where are the visions and where have they strayed?

to all those wonderful people, who were murdered so innocently and who were made leaving their homes in grief.

to all those people who are living in exile, who have been made homeless.

to all those people who do not have some soil, some country to call home, NO PLACE TO CALL HOME.

and to all those people, who have missed their cities, their villages

and have left all their memories behind. all the memories they had lived for. YES, LIVED FOR.

to the day, that families rejoice in their reunion, mothers, fathers, their beloved ones and all the lovers, which war, fascism and dictatorship have made them separate.

and finally, to all those writers who have eyes full of tears when they finish writing.

on shahr !

2011-02-15T00:49:00.006+01:00

این واقعا حیرت انگیز است. من همیشه از تمامی آدم هایی که دوستشان داشتم و برایم به یک طوری مهم بودند یک چیز به عنوان یادگار به ذهن می پرسیدم، و از آنجا که حرفه ام موسیقی باشد، عموما یک موسیقی خاص یا یک سبک خاص را با یک انسان خاص به خاطر می سپردم

و اما، هیچ تفاوتی ندارند چه، بهتوون، موتزارت، موسیقی های فولکلور فرانسه، عبری و یا کولی ها، همه و همه، اسم زیبای یک انسان را به خاطر من می آورند. اسمی که شاید تا ابد، هرچند که زمانیست بسیار طولانی، هر لحظه با حقیقت وجود من در هر ثانیه تکرار شود. با من، و در من و احتمالا فقط در خاطرات من تکرار شوند. از این احتمال بیزارم

نمی دونم، چرا در یکی از داغون ترین و در عین حال سورئال ترین لحظات زندگیم، رفتم به دیدن کسی که شاید هیچ وقت فکر نمی کردم، تمام زندگیم از لحظه اول، با دیدن آن زیباترین چشم ها، که زیباترین زیباها بودند، و به آرامی از پشت آن عینک آفتابی گرانقیمت بیرون آمدند عوض شود. چشم های سبزی که، تمام سبزی و زندگی را به این زندگی خالی از عواطف من بازگرداندند، و آن صورت زیبایی که خداوند با صبر و شکیبائیی به زیبایی هرچه تمام تر تراشیده بود، از گرانقیمت ترین سنگ ها. صورت زیبایی که، دست های صاحبش، همیشه بوی سیگار می داد. بوئی که عموما عذاب آور بود، اما نه، الان گوئی یاد آور بهشت بود

نمی دونم چرا، نمی دونم چرا، اصلا آیا وقت مناسبی برای دیدن همچین شخصیتی بود؟ این موجود عزیزی، یا شاید عزیزترینی که خیلی زود از پاریس خواهد رفت. و من چه خوب می دانم، که اون لحظه خیلی زود فرا خواهد رسید، خیلی زودتر از آنچه که فکرش را بکنم. دیگر باید برای روزنامه تسلیتی بفرستیم... آه

خدایا، چرا من. اصلا قیافه من به این کار ها و به این افکار می خورد؟ تو که خود بهتر از هرکس مخلوقات خود را می شناسی. ای کاش مثل سابق بی خدا و بی دین بودم، اون موقع ها چه راحت بود، چه راحت بود به درک گفتن، و بی انگیزه شدن و بی خیال شدن. خدایا، آیا می شد یک معجزه ی دیگر، فقط یک معجزه دیگر ترتیب بدی، لندن را خراب کن، مرز های پاریس را ببند، جنگ راه بینداز، هولوکاستی دیگر، اما این موجود نازنین را از من نگیر. من حاضرم، من حاضرم ببینم که او مال من نیست، حاضرم ببینم که او مرا دوست ندارد، اما همین که در این شهر نه زیباتر از خودش ولی زیبا باشد، من شب ها را آرام به سر خواهم برد

لندن را خراب کن، لندن را خراب کن

لندن می خواهد عشق کوچک مرا، فرشته ی کوچک مرا از من بگیرد، خدایا یک کاری بکن، آن ثانیه ها چه نزدیکند

بوی مرگ می آید، بوی مرگ می دهد این شهر زیبا سراسر، بوی مرگ می دهد لباس های چروکیده ام

من و پاریس دلمان برایت تنگ خواهد شد، دلمان برای وجود عزیز و نازنینت، و آن دست هایت که بوی بهشت می دادند، آری

تنگ خواهد شد

پاریس بوی مرگ می دهد

من هم

بوی مرگ می دهم

Tell me

2011-02-06T17:04:00.004+01:00

Your way home will be filled with peace

You return from a nation of passions

When you left my residence that winter,

do you know how your voice had touched me?

Sign and confide, my dear bird

The wonder in that remote land

Tell me, in that beautiful country

are there such sorrows and pains?

The dew on the mountain,

are they pearls or teardrops?

How are you, the limpid streams of Jordan river?

How are you, mountains and valleys?

and the brothers who sow the field in tears

Are they happily harvesting?

In the country of dates and almonds.

Sung by a woman fleeing the Holocaust, on a ship taking her home, to Israel

since 1948 for EVER

2011-01-28T10:25:00.003+01:00

Israel is occupying land that they stole??
Let me share this real criminal states with you:

the United States: Stolen from Native Americans by the current european Americans.
Canada: Stolen from Native Americans by the French, Stolen from the French by the British.
Brazil: See the US
Argentina: See the US
Mexico: See the US
Bolivia: See the US
Peru: See the US
Chile: See the US
Belize: See the US
Venezuela: See the US
Spain: Conquered from Native people by the Romans and renamed “Hispania”. Spain is also occupying Basque land that should be granted independence.
France: The Franks were a Germanic tribe that defeated and stole traditional Celtic land in Gaul resulting in “Francia”.
England: Traditionally Celtic, was invaded after the fall of the Roman Empire by a Germanic tribe called the Angles who conquered and stole traditional Celtic land and renamed it “Angland” land of the Angles.
Czechoslovakia: In May to August of 1945 over a Million Germans are driven from traditional German land by the Czech government as a reprisal to World War 2.
Poland: Post 1945, Over 7 million Germans are driven from Traditional German lands by the Polish. It has never been returned. Poland still occupies this land.
Turkey: Turks first entered the Anatolian peninsula about a thousand years ago, stealing it from native peoples. Western Turkey was predominately Greek. This land was stolen from them. After World War I Turks Expel over a million Greeks from Traditional Greek land in Turkey and Genocide many more. The Turks also murdered over 1.5 million Armenians in 1915 and expelled many more from Turkey. This land has never been returned. They are still brutally occupying the Kurds and most of traditional Kurdistan.
Russia: Ever heard of a country called Adyghe? Good reason, it does not exist anymore. During the Caucus war in the 1860s, the Russian ethnically cleansed these people by genocide and expulsion which resulted in half a million refugees. Over 4 million of their descendants are alive and they have no hope of ever returning home. Also most land which modern Russia sits on is stolen by Slavic tribes.
Israel: Before the Arab conquest, Israel was a Greek speaking province of the Byzantine Empire. The Arabs stole it by force from them. On the contrary the First Zionist settlements were bought legally by Jews from Arabs. For instance how many Arabs lived in Tel Aviv in 1900? 0 It didn’t exist until 1909 when Jews bought the land legally and built Sky scrapers out of Sand Dunes. Did the Arabs buy the land legally from the Byzantines? Hmmmm NO. So who stole what? Think about it. Deal with it.

fekr konam

2011-01-21T04:42:00.002+01:00

فکر کنم همه چیز خوب باشه. شاید. شاید همه چیز خوب باشه. من که می دانم، من هیچ وقت واقعیت ها رو ندیدم. چرا من هیچ وقت واقعیت ها رو ندیدم؟ چرا اخیرا این حس کثیف، که در گوشم زمزمه می کنه "کسری باز فریب خوردی" دست از سرم بر نمی دارد؟ چرا؟

امروز روز عجیبی است. قرار مهمی امروز دارم. چرا مهم؟ از کدام اهمیت حرف می زنم؟

چرا امروز، چرا در همین روز عجیب، من به بتهوون گوش می دهم؟ به کسی که هیچ وقت آهنگساز مورد علاقه ام نبود. امروز، خیلی دلم هوای وطن کرده است. و خوب امروز این موسیقی آرام و سخن وار بتهوون با من حرف می زند. او نیز خود را تبعید کرده بود. بتهوون وین را دوست داشت، بتهوون عاشق وین بود. اما وین هیچ وقت، آلمان نمی شد. می شد؟

چرا؟ هیچ دلم نمی خواهد، هیچ، دوباره پایم را بر روی خاک عزیزی بگذارم که در آن هفده سال زندگی کردم، اما جائیست که دیگر مال من نیست، و جائیست که من، حقیقت دیگر نه چندان تاسف بار وجود من، و عقاید من، و اعتقادات من نه تنها از هیچ گونه احترامی بر خوردار نیستند، بلکه حتی حق خلوت کردن با اعتقادات و حتی شاید موسیقی مورد علاقه خود را نیز نداشته باشم

امروز خیلی زیاد، دلم تهران را می خواد. شاید دیگر هیچ وقت، شاید واقعا دیگر هیچ وقت، آن قسمت کوچک از این کره ی خاکی، این کره کثیف خاکی را نبینم، اما خوب می دانم که آن نقطه ی کوچک زمین، چه قسمت بزرگی از این قلب مجروح من است. آه ای صدای تاریکی

چقدر برخی چیز ها مانند یک نقطه عطف در زندگی عمل می کنند. چقدر بعضی دوستان، بعضی هدایا و برخی موسیقی ها زندگی را عوض می کنند. هیچ وقت دوستان عزیزم را در مالزی فراموش نخواهم کرد، چقدر چیزها یاد گرفتم. شاید تنها فقط از یک نفر در این دنیا واقعا افتادگی خالص دیدم، و شاید از همان شخص نیز، معرفت را. چقدر خوب فهمیدم که باید بگذرم، و باید ببخشم، عادتی که هرگز نداشتم، نه برای نوزده سال من بخشاینده نبودم. و الان، چقدر این موسیقی، با این کاراکتر تمام عیار خاورمیانه ای، با سازهایی که مشابهشان را در ایران، ترکیه و یونان می توان یافت، و با این زبان زیبای مقدس، با این زبانی که خدا برای نخستین بار با فرزندانش سخن گفت، به دل من می نشیند. و تمام این قلب را، لمس می کند. هنوز گرمای دلچسب دست هایش را به خاطر دارم. و آه

در کوچه باد می آید

این ابتدای ویرانیست

آن روز هم که دست های تو ویران شدند باد می آمد

آری، همه را به یاد دارم. تمام دروغ هایت را، که همگی گویی از ترس از دست دادن این عشق بودند را به یاد دارم. ای یار، ای یگانه ترین یار

من همه چیز را است دادم. من همه چیز را مظلومانه از دست داده ام. این خیلی زیباست، آیا خیر. من، شهر عزیزدردانه ام، را خانواده ام را، من نعمت ابراز عشق به زبان مادریم را در جستجوی چند ثانیه صلح جا گذاشتم و ... شاید نمی دانم. این موسیقی

این موسیقی، این گنجینه ی مقدس از سرزمین مقدس پیغمبران، چگونه سه روز است، این موجود خاکی وجود من و عواطف خاکی و زمینیش را به بازی می گیرد. و چقدر خوشحالم که تمام این میزان غیر قابل حمل، که همگی سخن از هزاران سال مورد تسخیر، تبعیض و تمسخر واقع شدن، مورد تجاوز واقع شدن، کودکان عزیز را از دست دادن، هنرمندان بزرگ را از دست دادن می گویند، در ضمن این به من منتقل می شوند که من کوچکترین لغتی از این زبان را نمی فهمم. خوشحالم

آن فیلم، خوب یادم می آید، مدت طولانی بود آن فیلم را داشتم، می دانستم، خوب می دانستم نباید ببینمش. فیلم یک ساعت و نیم بود، من دو ساعت اشک ریختم. موسیقی تیتراژ شروع و پایان را که سالهاست به خاطر دارم، لحظه به لحظه سالهای هولوکاست رو برای من زنده می کرد. و من اشک می ریختم.... خدایا، آیا آن روز خیلی دور است، که انسان ها خواهند فهمید، چقدر برخی از همنوعان ما، آری، هم نوعان و برادران و خواهران ما، انسان هایی هستند و بودند که بسیار بزرگ هستند. بسیار بسیار بزرگ؟ چرا اینقدر دیر؟ تا کی من، این موجود ناتوان به ظاهر توانای انسان، در مقابل سه دقیقه موسیقی به پای در می آید، باید در جستجوی عدالت، و آن وعده ی مسیحای موعودت باشم؟ ولی هنوز خیلی زود است، یا شاید دیر، اما من همچنان اون روز رو می بینم

چقدر سخت است، چقدر سخت است. من وطن ندارم. این جمله را هزار بار در روز، با چشم های پر از اشک با خودم تکرار می کنم، که کسری ببین، تو وطن نداری! کسری، تو وطن نداری

بس است

I am Israel

2011-01-13T11:42:00.002+01:00

I am Israel

I am Israel-- I was born millennia before I was renamed Palestine by the conquering Romans, before Muhammad took his first breath, and before the U.N. decided to split me in half and turn my Eastern lands into Jordan. My people, the Jews, maintained communities here for three thousand years— that is until the Arabs decided to massacre those Jews without reason in 1920 and 1929. Hundreds of civilians were murdered, most of them women and children. Meanwhile, their brother Arab states massacred and exiled 1 million Arabic Jews from their lands-- erasing their history.

I am Israel-- I have been attacked four times by Arab armies since I declared independence in 1948. I told the Arabs who lived on my land that they were welcome to stay, but they were told by the neighboring states to leave temporarily while the Jews were "taken care of". I have been offering a message of peace since the day I was born, but my enemies answered only in bullets. I am a survivor--I won every war. Realizing they could not defeat me with arms, my enemies have turned to lies.

I am Israel-- Time and time again my name is smeared. Though each of these lies is eventually disproven, my enemies continue to claim I am committing genocide. Is giving educational opportunities to Palestinian Arabs "genocide"? 20% of the students in Haifa University are Arabs. If I am an aggressor who exiled all the Arabs in 1948, why are 20% of my citizens Arabs with full rights? Where did they magically appear from? Why did I give up the entire Sinai and the Gaza strip, uprooting my own people from their homes, only for the hope of peace?

I am Israel-- In combat, I risk the lives of my teenage sons and daughters in order to minimize civilian Palestinian casualties. I make every attempt to target only fighters, often putting my own soldiers in harms way. In wartime, I drop leaflets on areas to be attacked, warning civilians to evacuate. Has any other army in the history of mankind done this for its enemy? I waited 8 years to stop Hamas from its daily rocket attacks on my kindergardens and my hospitals. I am patient, but my patience is not infinite.

I am Israel-- I have created Intel and cell phone technology, medicine for devastating diseases, and I lead the world in scientific publications per capita. I send humanitarian missions to developing countries, including Muslim countries. I have absorbed hundreds of Muslim refugees who faced genocide in Darfur-- refugees no Muslim state would take.

I am Israel-- I am one of the smallest countries in the world, and probably the most stubborn—I refuse to give up hope for peace. My friends support me not because of any lobby, but because they see the truth-- I am the heart of the Middle East, and the hope for its future. My prophet said, "Nation shall not lift up sword against nation," and I will try, and try, and TRY until those words are true.

Because I am Israel.

The Greatests

2010-11-21T11:40:00.005+01:00

Once, the legendary German virtuoso pianist, conductor and composer Hans von Bülow said :

"The three greatest composers are Bach, Beethoven and Brahms. All the others are cretins."

I know what he really meant, what kind of music meant great to him. The apparently deep, philosophical, Godly music of the German school: Bach, Beethoven and Brahms. Apparently deep, but empty of brilliance and "truth", and incapable of having long term effects.

The name of Brahms is too weird in front of Beethoven and Bach's name. Beethoven was a child prodigy, but Brahms, wrote his first symphony at the age of 40 ! How could his name come after the Beethoven's?

Now I tell you the truth. "The greatest composers are Mozart and Mahler."

The brilliant Austrian school, with its major differences from her German brother. Fresh, deep, brilliant and attractive.

I would love to add Schubert to my statement. But, I do not want to destroy the 3 Bs rule in the first statement by von Bülow, and the 2 Ms in mine.and placing Schubert's name after that of Mozart and Mahler... ?

"The greatest composers are Mozart and Mahler."

solitude

2010-11-02T22:29:00.002+01:00

should i be so happy, that now i know the nature of the world and its people?

should i be grateful, that now i know i can not trust anyone? no one? no single person?

it is so very interesting. i always thought that i am smart and clever, and at least i can differentiate the good and evil. but now i know how badly have i failed. i trusted every people, i thought are good. every one who i used to think that is a good person, is a gift in my life and is going to help me. that was a big mistake for sure.

now i am deceived. so easily. and it is enjoyable for them. they can see that how they have deceived an idiot boy. and they are probably very proud of themselves, they definitely feel victorious. i am deceived.

i feel i am the loneliest man on earth. i surely am. i can see that. i can feel it. why am i so easy to be lied to? why people like to do so? that is way far from justice. that is unjust. i will soon eradicate all. all the injustice in my life. i will victorious, too. that is how a person should live. that is how a believer should live. the price is already paid for me to have a fairly just life. i have no big expectation. i will make myself so easily happy. Amen

announciation

2010-10-06T00:06:00.001+02:00

Philippe de Champagne

les feuilles mortes

2010-08-23T01:49:00.002+02:00

today... and what does today means? i never knew its meaning, especially today. i don't remember when i woke up, considering it as the commencement, i know that i haven't slept since then, soon going to be forty hours, and this means a day? two days? or you have no idea?

i started my day, listening to Mahler, although i do it so many other days too, but it never becomes a typical thing to do, it is a good way to have all your forgotten deepest feelings expressed right in the beginning of your day, all the feelings your powerless sleep have had tried to bury in those hours of death. what am i writing? nonsense? yes, in this case, you are right, absolutely right. i hope it is well-clarified by now that there is no obligation to continue reading this stuff, dear. why at the beginning of the twentieth century, we had two different, very different movements of modern music? why one followed german-speaking countries school and the other the french school? and why the both had one idol, wagner, but they went to different ways and feelings? why even italians followed the german school, so that now we can have Busoni's name along with Wagner, Strauss and Mahler but not with Claude Debussy? why? why Debussy is different with other humans? why he is more gifted? is that fair? what kind of sound is that he takes out of the piano? or a large orchestra? yes, the two movements of expressionism and impressionism, no need to say german expressionism or french impressionism, it is a must to know expressionism comes from german speaking europe and impressionism comes from france, except for its painting which became scattered in east america too. oh god, do not make me to get back to impressionism, i have no words, utterly speechless, i can't ever describe my feelings about impressionism, about Debussy, that great man, and about Monet, that greater man. if i were as talented as expressionists, especially Mahler, maybe i would be able to describe, whether by notes or by a piece of painting that how i feel about impressionists. why Mahler always wanted to express all the dead, deepest, and saddest feelings of a human even in its unconscious mind? and why he was successful? terribly successful?

when i listen to his quartet, when right after the piano introduction, dark, bleak, suicidal piano prologue, comes the shy, seductive, half-alive melody of violin, i think yes as Wittgenstein would say, not only the words may express my feelings incompletely and even wrong, but also silence, now is a slave to Mahler's music. did even Wittgenstein know Mahler? they were both austrian, both were jewish, and Wittgenstein's brother was a well-known pianist, so most probably he knew Mahler, and good for him. and bad for anyway who doesn't. misses a lot. A LOT.

and i'm also missing a lot. it is years... millions of years... i'm living with grief. what have i learnt ever? what have i comprehended from life? any happiness? any sense of confidence? self-confidence? any piece of humour? any specimen of a true love and a self-less passion? no, i haven't. this is the truth, the sad, bitter truth. the only words i have to say, that is the violin introduction of Mahler...

i hadn't ever been this much heart broken. never. my heart, and its thousands of pieces, scattered through this dead, or to be more fair, half-dead body. what do i have left in this world? in this worldly world? who wants me? who wants me because of myself? and if nobody does, it is certainly conceivable, i'm of no worth, it is in vain, in pure absolute vanity, every second i spend in my life, so is every single penny. sad, but truth. sad, but truth. till when, will i be continuing writing? writing this blog? writing these pages of my life, which have a big, huge difference to other people's. other people's pages of life are blank, white. waiting for something to be written over. mine? it is black. black. like the sky of my heart. it never snows there. is there anything waiting to be written on there, on my notebook of fate? no! it is already coloured with black. till the end, till the bibliography and references part, a bibliography which contains the names of the grievous dolorous books and references to the most rueful, dismal, distressing events of this fucking planet, including its wars, its both major, and minor wars. peace is delusion, peace is illusion. peace is when you have laid deep in a grave. i'm yearning for a comfortable, warm place in a big, multicultural necropolis. would ever a prodigious artist, write or draw something wondrous finally in white over my fate book of darkness?

goriz

2010-08-16T15:48:00.003+02:00

ajibe... man hich vaght Ebi khanandeye mahboobam nabood, ya agar ham boode, kheili aghab tar az Googoosh va Dariush boode. emrooz kheili delam baraye chand ta az ahangash tang shode bood, kheili. va mano yadet, chandta az ashkhase az dast rafteam andakht...

be to az to minevisam

be to ey hamishe dar yad

ey hamishe az to zende

lahzehaye rafte bar baad

vaghti ke bonbaste ghorbat

saye sare ghafasam bood

zire ragbare mosibat

bi kasi tanha kasam bood

be to name minevisam

ey aziz rafte az dast

ey ke khoshbakhti pas az to

gom shod o be ghesse peyvast

ey to yaram, roozegaram

goftani ha, ba to daram

ey to yaram, az gozashte

yadegaram

dar gorize nagoziram

gerye shod ma'anaye labkhand

ma gozashtim o shekastim

poshte sar, polhaye peyvand

ey to yaram...

a return to Monet

2010-08-14T19:36:00.004+02:00

i could not relinquish the desire to share this beautiful works with you. i do not know how on earth, but these are high definition photos taken of various works by Claude Monet, or maybe not! as the original works which these pictures only a small part of, do not have high quality in close-up view. they are amazing. any better word suggestion is welcome.

i still have no idea! impressionism, the most complicated form of art, is truly the best face of human's perfection in anything, from art, culture and even to technology. a short period of time, which was generated in France, and in its artists' beloved Paris. i'm always speechless when it comes to impressionism. it's just too much for me to carry. i always prefer myself to belong to romanticists, especially late-romanticists. but, wow, impressionism always makes me at awe. the paintings of Monet, of Pissarro, couldn't be described with any words the humankind has in it's own repertory of vocabulary. the music of Claude Debussy, and Maurice Ravel, which only resembles water, as well. oh god, only if i had enough power, enough literacy and knowledge to understand this heavy burden of impressionism. it's a kind of responsibility for human. it's a divine gift as well. yes, late-romanticism fits much more easier into my soul. yes, i'm comfortable with reading Hesse, or Hugo, i'm fine with listening to Gustav Mahler, to Franz Liszt or reading some Goethe. but as for impressionism... the ingenuity, the calmness, the sound, the picture and the smell of water in all the works everywhere, is just scary. ultra-human, and extraterrestrial. yes, it's scary. impressionism is over, though, it was too much for humanity, it still is. that time never arrives. human would be never ready for understanding impressionism.

i don't want to get into not much known American Impressionism, which i utterly adore. how pitiful is that people always look down over american art. american impressionism is certainly another aspect of the whole impressionism movement, but with the diversions from its contemporary primitivism movement, the best agent of an american art form.

Winter

2010-08-14T19:31:00.002+02:00

(Genève, Suisse - 1905)

It’s night, a bitter winter.

You raise

the drapes a little and peer out.

Your hair

blows wildly; joy suddenly

opens wide your black eyes,

and what you saw—it was an image

of the world’s end—comforts

your inmost heart, warms and eases it.

A man ventures out on a lake

of ice, under a crooked streetlamp.

by Umberto Saba

pain

2010-08-01T18:17:00.005+02:00

day...

my feelings...

today...

today... one of the musicians i knew, one who so many of my compatriots have had memories with, the famous singer of the song Tehran, the guy who had given concerts in less than two weeks ago, has passed away, just today

tonight, my favourite iranian composer, who is beloved for his ingenuity, for his creativity, who despite his young age, has been nominated for Grammy a few times, who has taught in world-renown universities, who plays my favourite mesmerizing instrument, is giving a series of concerts, in a beautiful, music-loving town in Iran, in Kerman. i could easily give my life for you Mr. Kalhor, can you hear me? the rest of the world do not, no one likes to hear me.

today, i've been thinking a lot, about a great artist we have in this world, an avant-garde surrealist painter, who has been famous for her innovative style, another genius, another iranian, in this world, in this world of soil and sin. I still remember Iran Darroudi's exhibition held two years ago in the Museum of Contemporary Arts in Tehran. how much i've missed those paitings...

and today, again

oh dear

it's a typical day for me

the very, very, end of the world

it is

i have some feelings

between Shostakovich's 5th symphony (1st movement),

Mozart's 20th Piano concerto (both 1st and 3rd movement),

Bach's Chaconne for solo Violin,

Sibelius's Violin concerto in E minor (the whole thing!),

Elgar's Cello concerto in E minor (especially performed by maestro Yo-Yo Ma),

Mahler's first symphony in E minor (3rd movement),

and Rachmaninoff's Elegy, which is my everday, my every second's mood

yes, my whole life is an elegy, a mournful poem...

can't you see that? can't you read that?...

oh Deo! the book i'm reading, the most bitter, unpleasant event in this world... the world of sand, soil and sin... am i living in your 21st century? your unwelcome era? no, i strongly detest this idea... lanat bar in dorough, doroughe harasnak... ha ha

i'm going to listen to a...

yes, maybe to a jazz fusion,

with dirge guitar melody, converting into a sax, crying variations... which make my heart cry

cry... let all these tears... irrigate this jejune life... so be it... Amen...

time

2010-07-30T16:30:00.002+02:00

it's again the time, maybe?

today, what today? after listening to a lot of gay jazz music, and those lovely Jewish music, and my favourite French oldies, which goes like this

loin très loin du monde... far, very far away from this world

Où rien ne meurt jamais... the place which no one dies anymore

J´ai fait ce long,... I've done this long

Ce doux voyage,... this sweet voyage

Nos âmes se confondent... our souls confound themselves

Aux neiges éternelles... on that eternal snow

L´amour cachait... and love has hidden

Son vrai visage... its real face

i still feel an stranger... a real stranger... what have i acquired during all these years? nothing...

it's the time again, too early, isn't it? this time with no farewell...

adieu

so what?

2010-07-20T16:29:00.003+02:00

what were all these? can anybody tell me? please, please feel free to profess what you think, do not hesitate to share your thought, with this, yes, "dead guy" i shall say. how did i manage to lose all those emancipated feelings about my life and about the thing which is often referred to as love, how did i? all those fervent passionate feelings, beliefs i had just for a short, flowerlifetime that were truly inconceivable from me, even to me, myself, all those stupid, irrational things that had fortified my life for a period of more or less two months let's say. oh god. how much do i hate you...

is it another series of melancholic monologues i have commenced to write again? or just another bunch of shit being written to condemn the whole world, about everything, war, poverty, prostitution, injustice?! or just some invaluable indiscernible words to fade your lives out for some minutes you're spending on reading these...

i can't help it anyway, i've been much accustomed to writing, especially to writing in this virtual invaluable non-existent space, it's like a breath to me. why did i do all these? why all of a sudden, i felt like a child again? does exist any reason to this fact? nope!

anyway, i'm not going to put it succinct. it has to last, it has to last that long, that i've experienced pain. the pain of so many, so many different portentous events that either me and my flesh have experienced, or my friends... which friends are you talking about kasra?

i guess, there is no more, no more even a dimly-lit candle glimmering in the depths of my heart. no light we've got here folks! everyone should leave the place, in peace.

let me, just me alone, to fumble and go through all these myself, in this dark, yes, that's what i've chosen, i'll definitely continue with it. i'm addicted, captured. i'm so sick of this world, and most unfortunately it's getting worse and worse everyday. yes both, the world and my hatred for it. no, i'm no more the same young heedless boy who tried to do something, of course not to change the world, he has never had such intentions, but for the chance of changing his life, or at least the status of his life. how funny....

we shall not see such a marvel anymore... wow... was that from a person raised between "us"? oh lord, how is such thing possible to be thought even... he had written all these, he had composed it... yes, he is was a creator... so is god. all those magnificent passages, violin, cello, piano.... what do i have to say? i'm just astounded, i'm really at awe... that's what is called Mahler... Gustav Mahler...

is he loathed? never ever. by no one. it's quite rare actually to find such a figure in not only music history, but in the whole history, some one who is admired by EVERYONE. although the thing he has reached now is far different from the thing he intended to do. no time to remorse though.

i can't just take that fantastic, fabulous symphony out of this dead mind... maybe one... just maybe... his music could substantiate this dead mind... yes, with a new, alive body of course... do you believe in ghosts? if you do... good for me.

yes that's the only thing, that fetches me to the raptures, to that extraterrestrial world, which no one exists, no colors but white and nothing, but Mahler. oh poor family, could i only ask you for one last thing? I like to have Mahler played in my funeral... which is not anyway far now. i won't let to be so. i do not want it to be.

I can already see the coffin, moving above the turves, peacocking, people gaiting, and crying maybe?! and in the background, we have this, Mahler being played. and as the people are reaching the grave, venerated and covered with bouquets of flowers, of white ones. isn't it just fantastic? no, no, no more constraints, it's only me, i can listen to as much as Mahler i want, i can listen to as much as Busoni i want... would ever this thirst of listening to Mozart being played by Glenn Gould, and Busoni being played Artur Rubinstein be eradicated? NEVER ever. not even to be halved. never. they breach the sense of joy and pleasure in me, no one can even think. there is no instinct of listening to music in us, but, i'm always much more in need of it than the need of my instincts to be deflated. even my need of washroom. and i'm glad. how couldn't i be glad of being mesmerized by those notes... all written by... MAHLER.

i'm over... i'm just over now...

Elegy - Jules Massenet

2010-07-15T08:44:00.004+02:00

O sweet springtimes of the old verdant seasons

You have fled forever

I don't see the blue sky, anymore

I no longer hear the bird's joyful singing

And, taking my happiness with you

You have gone on your way my love!

In vain, Spring returns

Yes, never to return

The bright sun has gone with you

The days of happiness have fled

How gloomy and cold is my heart

All is withered

Forever

words by Louis Gallet

with Rachmaninoff

2010-07-10T18:27:00.005+02:00

especially dedicated to whom

who knows how bitter the life, the breath and love can be

and who knows it doesn't take you to be pessimist, to understand all those... things
and dedicated

to the very real connoisseurs of arts, of love ...

Serge Rachmaninoff's Élégie

an awesome interpretation by Andrei Gavrilov

une Ballade

2010-07-07T12:06:00.003+02:00

la ballade des jeux interdits - Forbidden Games soundtrack

Moonlight

2010-06-30T21:52:00.006+02:00

(Place de la République - Rome, Italie)

I don't know really this one, something's new here, there is something new, as the French say, something new exists, something unrecognisable...

I don't know, I don't know if I'm listening to this, to this Beethoven's incredibly famous melancholic sonata by this psycho pianist, who is really beloved, at least by me, or to the other words... to some words who have been the strangers..., the strangers which all my favorite books, my favourite colours, my favourite verses and rhymes had promised their dawn... a lovely stranger who crawls along the street... the streets of this beautiful, lovely city... maybe a day... ,

when moonlight crawls along the street,

chasing away the summer heat

footsteps outside somewhere below

the world revolves, I let it go

we build our church above this street,

we practice love between these sheets

And all I have to do is hold you

the moonlight plays upon your skin

a kiss that lingers takes me in

I fall sleep inside of you

there are no words

there's only truth

can't close my eyes when I'm with you

insatiable the way i'm loving you

based on some true stories, based on some true love words...

faghat

2010-06-14T13:33:00.003+02:00

فقط یک چیز می شنوم

فقط یک چیز، آن هم چیزی نیست

آه، خدایا چه می دیدم

نه، فقط من نبودم

همه چیز غیر عادی بود، هیچ چیز مثل معمول نبود

چه انرژی، چه عشقی و چه احساساتی

چطور همه چیز در یک لحظه عوض شد

چطور دنیا برای همه ما انسان های کم جمعیت رنگ دیگری گرفت

و من عاشق بودم

و من عاشق تر شدم، من عاشق، من عاشق آن معشوقه قدیمی

که آه، سال هاست مرده است

او را نیز یک روز، باد با خود برد

همان روزی که در کوچه باد می آمد

و امروز دیگر

دنیا یک جور دیگر می بینم! کاملا

کاملا تمام شده می بینم

و همه اش این را تکرار می کنم

در درون این روح سوخته

که برای چه؟ تو که تمام شده ای، تو که... و

پس سرانجام آفتاب... نه نتابید

بر هیچ قطبی نتابید

پس آن نیز مرثیه بود

پس همه چیز یک مرثیه بود

فقط ما می دانستیم

می توانم بشمارم تعدادمان را، ده، بیست، سی؟

نه کمتر، فقط به همین مقدار

فقط ما می دانستیم

همه چیز را، تمام حقیقت را

تمام فلسفه وجود بشریت و زندگی اش را

تلخ ترین حقایق، فاجعه انگیز ترین تجارب

مال ما بود

می شمارم

آه نسبتمان میلیون هاست به همین بیست، سی نفر

کمی اینور و آنور
پس از قبل همه چیز معلوم بود و حساب شده

البته باز هم فقط برای ما

ما، که همیشه مرثیه می شنیدیم و ما که همیشه

مرثیه ها از آن ما بود

hich chiz

2010-06-12T19:35:00.007+02:00

من از، من از

آری، من از نهایت شب

من از نهایت شب حرف می زنم

من از نهایت تاریکی

و از نهایت شب حرف می زنم

آه، پس آن نیز، پس آن

نیز

و آه، یک روز بد دیگر

و آه، یک روز، یک روز بد، روز بد دیگر

و من بار دیگر

و من بار دیگر چی؟

اه برو بابا، تو هم کشتی ما رو با این... هیچ گاه

هیچ گاه، این کلمات، را که اینگونه، با معنی پشت سر یکدیگر

ردیف شده بودند، با چه هنری، با چه ظرافتی

فراموش نخواهم کرد

و باز آه، پس آن نیز

پس آن نیز یک مرثیه بود

نه این صفحات تمام نخواهند شد، آنها بوی خون می دهند

آنها همیشه، و همه جا

بوی خون خود را حفظ می کنند

خون های غلیظ لخته شده، با

ذره های کوچک گوشت تن آنها، آری

کودکانم را می گویم

و من باز نیز

باز هم، باز هم

به آنها گوش خواهم سپرد

یادت می آید، گوئی همین چند ثانیه پیش بود، برو بابا

تو هم که ما را کشتی با... بله

همه اش صحیح است، من همه را

با این صفحات خونین

کشته ام

من هنوز، گل هایی که همچنان بوی گلاب می دهند

که از سر گور کودکانم، کودکان کوچکم

که بی گناه بودند، که بی گناه بودند و پاک بودند

و زندگی حق آن ها بود

بر داشته ام

من این گل های سفید رنگ پوسیده را، با این گلبرگ هایی

که بوی خون نه، بوی غم می دهند

بوی فساد و بوی حسرت می دهند

با زحمت و مشقت جمع کردم

حتی اینان را نیز، حتی این موجودات بی ارزشی را

که مثل من بودند

و مثل من بی ارزش بودند، مثل من بوی خون نه، بوی غم می داند

بوی فساد و حسرت می دادند

و مثل من که

با زحمت و مشقت بزرگ شده بودم

باد می خواست با خود ببرد

و من باز

باد مرا با خود خواهد برد

من هنوز، من هنوز، آه

من هنوز تار های نازک، زلف کودکانم را

که از لا به لای خار های شانه هاشان

به دقت جمع کرده بودم

نگاه داشتم، و من آن ها را نگاه خواهم داشت

و من آن ها را دوست خواهم داشت

ای کاش می دانستی، ای کاش

و من، این منی که از او متنفرم، این منی که از او هراس دارم، از بودنش هراس دارم

هنوز، لیوان های کودکانم را

با همان جای لب های کوچکشان، که با شیطنت

جرعه ای آب می نوشیدند و می رفتند، خیلی سریع می رفتند

همان جور که اکنون رفته اند

نگاه داشته ام، و هر روز، هر روز دیگر، هر روز بد دیگر

به آن ها می نگرم

و یک روز باد آن ها را با خود برد

آه، دیگر من چگونه می توانم

آن ها را فراموش کنم، خدایا بنگر

این فصل سبز رنگ، این فصل پر از میوه هایی که رنگ هیچ کدام سفید نیست

دارد فرا می رسد

من اما، به جز چند گلبرگ، چیز دیگری از غنچه هایم باقی ندارم

فقط منم، فقط منم و حسرت هایم

که با هم اینجا زندگی می کنیم

من و دوست وفاداری که این اواخر او را غم صدا می کنم

و او وفا دار است، او زود نمی رود

او با شیطنت، جرعه ی کوچکی آب نمی نوشد

و او، مو هایش را، مو های نازک روشنش را

شانه نمی کشد

می گوید، او می گوید

که برای همیشه

برای من

گل های سفید رنگ خواهد آورد، آری او نیز می داند

که نیز می داند، او این را خوب می داند

که من سفید را دوست دارم، که من سفیدی را، برف را دوست دارم

آه، چقدر برای برف دلم تنگ شده است، آه

شاید، عکسی از آن را نیز به آن جا افزودم

عجیب است، عجیب است که همچنان

با آن که، همه جا بوی آن ها را می دهد

همه جا بوی تن کوچک آن ها را می دهد

با آن که، به خوبی به یاد می آورم

که چطور تن لاغرشان در آغوش من گم می گشت

و آن که چطور، لبخند های معصوم و بی گناهشان نیز

زود گم می گشت

آن ها نیز فهمیده بودند، که در این خانه کس دیگری نیز وجود دارد

و آن را ما غم نامیده بودیم

و آن ها نیز خوب می دانستند، که اول نوبت آن ها خواهد بود، غم همیشه خواهد ماند

و آن ها نیز، مانند من، خسته بودند

چرا گذاشتم حسرت بخورند، چرا، چرا گذاشتم مورد تبعیض واقع بشوند

این موجودات دوست داشتنی، این کوچولو های بی آزار

و چرا آن ها را زجر کش کردید ای جماعت بشریت

چرا پوست آن ها را کندید، چرا از لحظه به لحظه خون ریختن آن ها لذت بردید

چرا شما می خندید، چرا شما اشک را نمی شناسید؟ چرا شما هم خانه ای به نام غم ندارید؟

چرا کودکان شما در کنارتان هستند؟ چرا آن ها افسرده نیستند؟ چرا آن ها ایمان دارند

که هنوز خیلی زود است تا نوبت آن ها، غم زود گذر است

نه، نه، لعنت بر تمام این حقایق

من آن ها را باور دارم، اما قبول نخواهم کرد

من آن ها را باورم، و به آن ها ایمان دارم

من همگی را می شناسم

اما خواهی دید که چطور، از یک لحظه ی کوتاه به بعد

تمامی این قوانین زندگی را نقض خواهم کرد

و چطور آن گاه، باز شما خواهید خندید

جوانک بیچاره، خوبه، همه را کشته بود با... بهتر

او مریض بود، او دیوانه بود

او هیچ نمی دانست، او

آری او

آسمان آبی را نمی دید

و او، صدای آواز خوش پرندگان را نمی شنید

در قلبش همه چیز، یخ زده بود، منجمد

و امشب

باد می آید

در اینجا، در کوچه باد می آید

این ابتدای ویرانیست

آن روز هم که دست های تو ویران شدند باد می آمد

چرا همیشه مرا در ته دریا نگه می داری؟

من سردم است، و از گوشواره های صدف بیزارم

من سردم است و می دانم

که از تمامی اوهام سرخ یک شقایق وحشی

جز چند قطره خون

چیزی به جا نخواهد ماند

آری خوب می دانم

هیچ چیز، جز چند قطره خون

album

2010-06-09T19:31:00.003+02:00

پس این یک مرثیه بود، پس این یک مرثیه بود

که اینچنین این جسم را، این روح مرده خط خطی را

فرسنگ ها، از این خطوط نفرت انگیز، از این سراب

از این امید کاذب، می کند و می برد

و من، من با همین بیست دقیقه

صداهای زیبای بسته بندی شده، فشرده شده در همین دقایق

زندگی خواهم کرد

و من

آن را خواهم پرستید

آه، ای روزگار، کار سرنوشت را ببین

پس آن نیز یک مرثیه بود

بماند

عجیب، عجیب... چقدر این روز ها عجیب است

چرا همه جا فقط یک چیز را می بینم، چرا فقط یک چیز است در این ذهن کودکانه

راستی، چقدر بیش از پیش عاشق کودکان شده ام، و چقدر بیشتر دوست دارم به اون روز ها برگردم، شاید هم هیچ گاه از آن جا نیامده باشم، ای کاش

این صدا ها، این موسیقی

عجیب، عجیب ... دلم می سوزد برای آن هایی که تنها هستند، ولی حتی خود را با موسیقی نیز غریبه می سازد

وای بر آن ها، چه محرومیت بزرگ و ظالمانه ای

من در آستانه فصلی سوزناک

و یاس ساده و غمناک آسمان

و ناتوانی این دست های سیمانی

این مدت، با چند تن از دوستانی دوباره، واقعا دوباره همراه شده ام

که آنها نیز خیلی عجیب بودند، خیلی عجیب، عجیب

شاید آنها نیز کودک بودند، می دیدم

متاسفانه خوب می دیدم، که چگونه ما همگی، زود

خوشحال می شویم، چگونه ما، برای فرار از سوگ فرزندان کوچکمان

خوشیهایمان فقط چند لحظه بیشتر طول نمی کشید، فقط برای چند لحظه

ما هم انسان می شدیم، ما هم بی تفاوت می شدیم، ما هم

وجود داشتیم، شاید، مطمئن نیستم

من به این موسیقی، به این مرثیه برای همسر باخ،

به این نت هایی که از اعماق دنیایی به نام غم، به نام حسرت و سایر کلماتی

که من، که من و شاید دوستانم خیلی خوب با آن ها آشنا هستیم، دوستی چندین ساله ای داریم

بر می خیزید، گوش می دهم، شاید این تنها حق کوچک من از این زندگی باشد

شاید، و من، به انعکاس دستان یک انسانی که باعث شد، حس غریزی خدا طلبانه ام را طور دیگری ارضا کنم

انسانی که مانند یک هدیه بود، و یک روز او نیز رفت، و مردمان زیادی نیز فهمیدند چقدر مرگ عزیزان می تواند سخت باشد

گوش می دهم

به دستانی که بر فراز هشتاد و هشت کلید سیاه و سفید رنگ می رقصند، انها نیز غم را خوب می شناسند

آن ها نیز جسد کودکان شکنجه شده شان را، جسد فرزندان مورد تجاورزشان را

در ذهن دارند، آنها هم عزا دارند

روبینشتاین را می گویم

چه بغضی را با خود به دوش می کشم این دوران

خیلی سنگین است خیلی سنگین

من همه این ها را می بینم، شاید یک روز من هم

مثل ویرجینیا ولف، کتی پوشیده بر تن، با جیب های پر از سنگ و کلوخ

خود را اعماق دریایی بندازم، و عجیب ایمان دارم

که این دریا، فرزند اشک های من خواهد بود، فرزند اشک دوستان من

که همگی نیز بی گناه هستند، و بودند

آنها هم می دیدند، خیلی تلخ بود، برای من حتی بیشتر

آری پس آفتاب سرانجام

در یک زمان واحد

بر هر دو قطب نا امید نتابید

آه ای مردان کوچک، این انسان هایی که خیلی زود خیلی چیز ها را فهمیدید

ای انسان های که میدید، ای انسان هایی که میدید و میدید

و مرگ خودتان را می دید

و عذاب خودتان را میدید

و حرف نمی زدید

ای مردانی که، مرگ تمام زحمتتان را می دید

مرگ تمام آرزوها تان را می دیدید و می دانم که می بینید

تا آن که پنجره ساعت

گشوده شد، و قناری غمگین چهار بار نواخت

چهار بار نواخت و من به آن زن کوچک بر خوردم

اهمیتی نداشت دیگر، من تصمیمم را گرفته ام، من و دوستانم

شاید من نوبتم زودتر است، امید وارم، و البته این را برای همه آرزو مندم

امیدوارم که این کوچکترین فرزند، مورد شکنجه، مورد تجاوز و در آخر مرگ قرار نگیرد

آمین، آمین

مرثیه در حال اتمامست، من هم، به زودی نوبت من است

خدا به همراه شما باشد ای دوستان کوچک

ببین! خداوندا! یک مرد، یک مرد را، اشک هایش را ببین

تو که هیچ، بهتر از تو نیز از شمارش آنها عاجز خواهند بود، خسته خواهند شد، خسته، خسته

درست مثل من، درست مثل ما

خداوندا بنگر، تو هم ببین، تو هم ببین، تو هم بفهم درد یعنی چه

مرثیه در حال اتمام است، و ما خوب فهمیدیم

ما درس خود را خوب، خوب فرا گرفتیم

زندگی تلخ است

آیا یک روز، هیچ یک از ما، دهانی خواهد گشود و جملاتی را فریاد خواهد کرد

ها، خوب الان می فهمم، چه دیر، قبلا می دیدم، قبلا زجر می کشیدم

ولی حالا می فهمم که علت همه اش چه بود

آری ما باید می رفتیم، ما باید

کسری، امروز

کسری تو امروز، آه ای خدا

عکس شعر قبل، عجیب در این ذهن دردمند موج می خورد

هر روز، اگر خوابی در میان باشد، بعد از اتمامش، آلبومی سیاه رنگ

از عکس تمامی فرزندانم را می نگرم

تاریخ تولد هریک فاصله چندانی با وفاتشان ندارد

باشد که تاریخ میلاد و فوت پدرشان نیز هیچگاه فراتر از دو دهه نگردد، این تصویر را نیز

می گذارم در آخرین صفحه، چند صفحه بیشتر ندارد این آلبوم

آه، شاید به سختی بیشتر از دو یا سه

اما این دیگر آخرین خواهد بود، آخرین

élégie

2010-06-09T06:55:00.003+02:00

(دنیایی زیبایست، مگر نه؟ زندگی کنیم، شاد باشیم، بخندیم، تلاش کنیم، مگر نه؟)

آه ای بهار لطیف

بار دیگر، شما ای فصول سبز

برای همیشه گریختید

من دیگر، نمی بینم

این آسمان آبی را

و من دیگر، نمی شنوم

این آواز سرخوش پرندگان را

ای عزیزترین

اندک خوشحالی مرا

تو با خود بردی و رفتی

و این بس عبث و خودخواهانه است

که بار دیگر، بهار بر می گردد

آری، بدون بازگشت تو، آفتاب سرمست

روزهای خندان اینجا را ترک گفته اند

همانند آن که در قلب من همه چیز اندوهگین است، و یخ زده،.... منجمد

همه چیز پژمرده است، آری

برای همیشه، برای همیشه

شعر از لوئی گله، ترجمه کسری