tee

you can find me here...

2012-01-05T09:57:00.001-05:00

www.taraaghdashloo.com

noted

2011-08-25T17:51:00.003-04:00

As I wait for the website to run, I write about the rain.

2011-08-09T15:17:00.002-04:00

Thunder, slowly settling its weight of authority.
Hovering atop our highest towers, devouring our afternoon view.

Birds signaling the threat, flashing through the branches prematurely.

Trees, spreading and stretching their arms, succumbing to the rain.

Worms digging deeper.

Ducks hiding in their wings.

And then it begins.

2011-06-20T23:08:00.004-04:00

Soon...very soon. Never thought it'd be so hard not to write here.

Meanwhile there is this: http://www.facebook.com/pages/Tara-Aghdashloo/194872100548393?ref=ts

And so much to remember.

2011-04-21T14:23:00.002-04:00

THIS BLOG WILL RETURN

IN THE FORM OF A WEBSITE . . .

cut

2011-04-20T18:48:00.000-04:00

when you become too much of something

let it go.

*and i'll have stories about my work, Luisa Marchesa Casati, art, love, and politics, coming soon. . .

details

2011-04-17T17:49:00.001-04:00

In a story called "Vermont" there was a description of several objects on a mantelpiece -- keys, a hat, a can of peaches, and roaches. And [William] Shawn wrote, on page five, "Roach appeared page two, has not moved in three pages?" And Roger had to say, "Mr. Shawn, a roach: a stub of marijuana cigarette."

- Anne Beattie interview with the Paris Review

the words

2011-04-16T00:07:00.002-04:00

[ ]

c'est possible

2011-04-12T15:14:00.001-04:00

Chapter IV

I arrive in Paris.

I see an old friend who I met in Iran in the summer of 2009. The guy (remember?) who drove his motorcycle from Paris all the way to India, and stopped in I don’t know how many different countries. Pierrot. He almost died from a bike accident and was saved by a Turkish family who nursed and took care of him. He learned that the glory of a lone traveler turns inward and starts to weigh you down after two months of being on the road…

Yes, him. We discussed our current love(r)s. The possibility of love and commitment had refreshingly intrigued us both.

Then the lover arrived. And it was, truly, intriguing to be with him again in a different city.

Days later, on my last 24hrs, I walked alone, the way I always do and love: popping into vintage shops and asking for prices in broken French and getting bargains on things I don’t need. The way I love, drinking and writing during the day and sobering up with a double espresso to continue walking and stabbing everything with my eyes, enough so that the images are etched in my head and that transient feeling is forever nested in my gut. The feeling of possibilities— like endless lucky pennies waiting to be picked up. Walking all over bright bronze pennies was what it was like.

I rushed into the Musée d'Art Moderne. Had just over an hour before it closed. So I blindly paid for the exhibition ticket and ran two flights of stairs to get there and then stopped, pen frozen in hand and eyes wide in sockets: “The Canadian art collective known as…”

Now this was strange. And not just because I had come all the way from Canada only to run into Canadian art, delightfully surprised. But also, days before my trip I had discussed with a dear friend and colleague the possibility of creating an art collective.

You see, this entire exhibition was devoted to the General Idea. Think Toronto, 1969, three guys and a loud Miss General Idea, toying around with art vs. entertainment and the media, “glamour, fame, and riches.” This was way before people started to blog about that stuff. And this was cool shit.

In any case, I studied every single piece and then quickly peaked at the modern collection, staring into Modigliani’s eyes that were not, and bowed down to the masters. The lover and I walked next to the Seine river for more than an hour and yelled and kissed the way away.

The collective is on its way. The possibilities.

word of the day

2011-04-12T14:17:00.002-04:00

Michael Wolf - From the Tokyo Compression series

castrate |ˈkasˌtrāt|verb remove the testicles of (a male animal or man).• figurative deprive of power, vitality, or vigor : [as adj. ] ( castrated) the nation is a castrated giant, afraid to really punish subversives.nouna man or male animal whose testicles have been remove

*what does it mean to be

Captain America

2011-04-07T16:21:00.000-04:00

It’s at least 1:30 a.m. and she’s distressed. So much that her breathing is out of her control and her pulse is making the entire room heat up.

She’s also aware that it’s no time to be heating up like that, but then again, she can’t help it, so minutes later she finds herself hugging her own body with nothing on but green pajamas and a lousy sweater, no socks but an old pair of flats.

She is walking and she can’t see straight ahead; not because she’s crying, but because she’s not wearing her glasses.

Someone is calling her but she refuses to hear. The strange neighbour is standing against his doorway again, German-Sheppard’s leash in hand. She can’t really distinguish his facial expression because her sight is getting worst. Might be the tears now.

She crosses the street. Aimless, phone clinched in hand as if it will protect her. She steps into the super market, “NOW OPEN 24 HOURS!”

She walks in. Warm enough, but too bright— safe, nevertheless.

There is the safety of the first aisle where she usually grabs seasonal fruits, the third row where she picks vegetables and mushrooms; mushrooms, always.

But she’s not comfortable. She doesn’t feel safe, even if she is. So she veers off toward the unknown: “Exotic Fruits.”

Passion fruit, Dragon fruit, something illegible fruit, all with some expensive price tag. She grabs and grabs and stacks them in a plastic bag.

She continues toward the unexplored red meat section. Better yet, frozen meat. Or even better, jerk sausage. That’s new: in the bag.

“You must be a nurse!” says the pale man re-stocking from a box.

“Pardon?”

“You must be a nurse…I said. Because of the, the late shifts and hours…”

“No,” she says with a frail, forced smile. “I just . . . need groceries.”

She reaches for a large chocolate replica of Captain America.

Maybe I need a nurse.

By the time she’s paying for the items, she knows that what she carries back home, and places in the fridge, will be different than all the other items that ever existed in her kitchen.

paint

2011-04-04T12:12:00.000-04:00

We had to have patience

the kind that the wall has with paint

waiting for it to stay

bodies

2011-04-03T20:48:00.002-04:00

“You seem very happy, dear. Happiest ever.”

He said, gently caressing her face. His smile could not restrain his devotion to that belief, one that allowed him to retire from the vocation of her happiness. She was already there-- tah. She was happy. Smile. Smile back.

She wondered how well he knew her. Vivid images of the matters inside her brain flashed before her.

How well did he know her? And did it matter?

Did she know him like how she thought she did? Did she ever try to make him happy? Not enough.

If believing that she is happy now, finally, makes him happy, then maybe she needs to let him believe it, and let him be.

And so, two somber bodies sit against each other, albeit warm, in the belief that the other is momentarily happy-- maybe that’s just what it is.

“Thank you. I am.”

101

2011-03-29T16:23:00.001-04:00

Alfred-Pierre Agache -- L'Épée 1896

because everything was political:

the politics of how many rings before i pick up

how many goodbye's before a hang up

the intricate act of interruption

of smiling back at strangers walking by

the politics, sometimes, of sexual intercourse:

easily evaded

everything was, until it wasn't and we were lost

easily deceptive

the politics of ink-pens and yellow-papers waltzing between meanings and intonations

the handling of a fork and choosing wine

of discreet discriminations between articles to discuss

it was all political all of it all and all

it was gratuitous and grandiose and then i thought

-i don't know how to change my Canadian tires-

the politics of ending a song

of ending a story

is the most delicate yet

and the politics of it is never political enough.

bones of trust

2011-03-27T17:28:00.000-04:00

i saw my own bones. they were so dedicated, so stubborn at first.

inflexible.

but the way they organized themselves on top of each other seemed temporary and deceptive.

and so i had to. someone had to break them.

2011-03-26T20:19:00.002-04:00

I don't know how else to say this.

But.

bon appetite

2011-03-26T11:03:00.002-04:00

have some (francis) bacon today

or roast beef

medium rare

2011-03-24T18:41:00.000-04:00

3 for $8

both her hands were so dry. so dry on my skin that i was reminded of why winter never laughs out loud.

my hands were soft, too soft i thought. and suddenly i was reminded - my hands are made of clay.

Kinky Doors

2011-03-24T18:31:00.000-04:00

Luis Jacob

A voice tangled to my robe,

shrieking nervously as the morning penetrates the room

stacks of lullabies hide and

oxidize into shark words.

Shark words that mother left behind

when she revealed that she’s a woman.

Sharp gazes exchange above the table,

as he butters the bread and bites

into the punitive feast.

A headline hanging above my head,

inviting kinky doors in the

room that is without

and within manuscripts saturating my cheeks

into prints of bruised bulletins.

Blood-cells revolt and gangs of wine

conspire an engagement between us.

Nov/2010

word of the day

2011-03-23T20:09:00.003-04:00

exodus |ek-suh-duh s
noun • a going out; a departure or emigration, usually of a large number of people• the Exodus, the departure of the Israelites from Egypt

* so, where are the swallows today?

if you read Persian

2011-03-23T18:14:00.005-04:00

then maybe read one of my poems:

برایم بمان

شعر شدی، توی سرم افتادی

چرخ زدی مستم شدی

داستان که شدی از سرم افتادی

جوش آمدی سوزاندیم

سرد که شدی خاکسترم دود شد هوا

چرا نمی‌‌ماند

چرا این حسّ مگسی

لعنتی چرا شعر نمی‌‌مانی

ابر شدی برایم تا سفرهاو بی‌ هوا بالا

باران شدی روی زمین شکستی‌

من می‌پرسم و نمی‌‌دانم و جوابم

دوباره با صدای خنده‌های ناخوانده آغاز شد

و با نگاهِ خواستنیت

توی دفترم خط شد

و خواستت تمامِ معنای یک منظرهٔ دور

که نمی‌‌بینمش و نمی‌‌دانم چرا این حسّ مگسی

لعنتی چرا نمی‌‌ماند

چرا شعر برایم نمی‌‌ماند

شَک شدی و چند آرزوی محال

محالِ هم شدیم و هیجان سکوت

فریادم فَصل شد و رفت

داستان شد و افتاد از سرم

این لعنتی باز هم نماند.

نیویورک / ژانویه/ ۲۰۱۱

* from my soon-to-be-published poetry collection: This is Not a Pomegranate

Liz

2011-03-23T17:48:00.003-04:00

From: Los Angeles Times

"Coincidence to be sure, but Elizabeth Taylor's death Wednesday morning at 79 coincides with Nowruz, sometimes called "Persian New Year." Beginning on the first day of spring and lasting for 13 days, Nowruz -- "New Day" -- celebrates the start of nature's annual cycle.

In the summer of 1976, photographer Firooz Zahedi was himself beginning something new when, as a relatively recent graduate from Washington's Corcoran School of Art, the aspiring young artist accompanied Taylor to Iran. Zahedi photographed the acclaimed 44-year-old actress -- and extraordinary beauty -- in the cities of Persepolis, the ceremonial capital of ancient Persia's Achaemenid Empire; the garden-city of Shiraz; and, finally, architecturally splendid Isfahan.

Kenneth Turan's appreciation of Elizabeth Taylor

Those pictures, never before shown together, are on view at the Los Angeles County Museum of Art. Zahedi, now a well-known commercial and Hollywood photographer, explains the unusual circumstances of the expedition in this short video, produced by the museum for "Elizabeth Taylor in Iran: Photographs by Firooz Zahedi." The show remains in the fourth floor galleries of LACMA's Ahmanson Building through June 12."

bienvenu

2011-03-23T15:56:00.005-04:00

Chapter III – Train to Paris

The words still echo in my head: “Ostokhoonhaat, sedaye pooki midan” [Your bones, sound hollow].

It’s a line from the lyrics I wrote to his song. The night before, I was front row at some East-London venue singing along to it with 400 other people pulsating behind me. It was feverish.

Surreal.

But now almost sober, I’m on a 9:00 a.m. train to Paris.

"It’s fucking happening, life, as we celebrate or lament or wait around, or stand there thinking, one croissant or two? Almond or plain? Do you have a lighter? I missed my train. Where is my cellphone? Denied application? Deterred. Delayed. Deferred . . ."

Trees flash by unpretentiously, as if waiting for a pair of eyes. I close my eyes; I can still hear them.

I recognize my love for him. I realize it because there is a mysterious part of my brain, of my body, that is absent and/or fleeting at all times. It must be his.

I write down “I love this city. I’ll move away if it kills me […] Comfort is the death of me.”

Bienvenu a Paris. I open my eyes.

things

2011-03-23T15:19:00.001-04:00

Chapter II - London

And suddenly I’m in it again. In the middle of it all, at the British Museum.

The exhibition: Afghanistan, Crossroads of the Ancient World.

I stand against a gold crown that shines shamelessly at me. It belonged to a nomadic 19-year-old girl who lived in first century A.D., around Tillya Tepeh (in today’s Afghanistan). The precious heirloom was designed so that it would fold, piece by piece – how practical.

It keeps on shining amongst other pieces of jewelry, with such prosperity that it’s hard not to wonder, what happened. The geometrical pattern looks so “modern” that I laugh at how unique we think “modernity” is.

Post modernism, formalism, structuralism; all these ‘isms’ to make us feel like we’re constantly progressing and developing— Oh yes, we are evolving, no?

I see a pattern: birth, progress, reaction, regress, and death. There is nothing linear about it.

I look at maps of long-gone polities and gated cities. I notice the luxurious landscapes that people had the pleasure of looking at, and how much space they each had to roam around.

Every pillar, every public garden, every wall, was beautifully hand carved with ornate designs, and with such purpose and care that I had to search for some air when I imagined them getting violently seized, looted and destroyed.

The victorious Empire, whether it was the Persians, Greeks, or Mongols, would then seep in and settle. Or abandon what was left of the city for us to dismantle and show case in museums centuries later.

And then foolishly I think, I wish our cities had gates. Nostalgia for things we never had, is the foolish part.

word of the day

2011-03-14T14:21:00.002-04:00

Fabien de Chavanes - currently exhibited at galerie binôme/Paris

limp(ly) adjectivelacking internal strength or structure; not stiff or firm • having or denoting a book cover that is not stiffened with board.• without energy or will
* because I saw the word twice within two hours in two completely different texts [New Yorker, Feb 28th; Nausea by Sartre] - I was having a bottle of wine by myself, in a London Cafe. Yes, an entire bottle.

2+2=4

2011-03-14T11:51:00.003-04:00

Here's why I haven't blogged lately:

" . . . make it clear that I need to write more, to enter spaces that are void of other human connections, and speak out to myself. No amount of 140 characters, witty-sentences, blog posts, or texts, or headlines, have such a cleansing, meditative impact on me. This sincere, solid excursion of thoughts, rationale, and expressions is necessary. It is vital for my sanity, creativity, and logic..."

Chapter I - The Airport

I’m born again on an airplane / in the airport. I wonder if my mom ever traveled on air while pregnant with me.

Can I ever go back to Iran again? I long to smell the gasoline-filled air, find the rugged men on the street, all sweaty and sleazy, sexy and beautiful…I want to get a taxi, see old friends who have either changed too much or not at all…I miss the landscapes of Tehran and the mountains in the North. I miss it all.

But here’s the thing. They may arrest reformist clerics and former presidents, and opposition leaders…They can jail directors, actors, artists, writers, and professors…They may torture and vanish activists, journalists, and students. And I mean, what’s left in a country like that? Construction workers and government employees?

Whatever it is that they’re trying to build now, is it even worth it?

But even so, you may kill the painter, but not art. You can get rid of writers and journalists, but not literature or truth. Jail students and teachers, but what about knowledge.

2 + 2 = 4. You can’t take that away.

sweet dreams

2011-02-25T13:39:00.005-05:00

photo by Shirin Fathi

I'm the only one who's allowed to use me

And so, I will use

and be used

grammer

2011-02-22T21:18:00.000-05:00

Willem de Kooning - Queen of Hearts

love is plural

hang in there

2011-02-22T21:12:00.001-05:00

Don't remember the artist. But at Saatchi Gallery.

and I could hear them all scream.

hopeless as they were, hopeful as I was.

how could I justify that visceral feeling,

I'd been there once before.

a decision was made: I will continue.

musical

2011-02-19T17:35:00.001-05:00

speaking of friends, this is what my best friend does on her spare time when she's not working full time and studying full time and just being fantastic, full time.

http://www.myspace.com/rochelt

wings

2011-02-19T17:14:00.002-05:00

So my friend Mina is in town from Peterborough, which for us means too much wine and funny shared anecdotes.
She also shared this pretty much perfect piece of poetry with me, which we had with tea and chocolate:

Matisse - Icarus

THIS HEAVY CRAFT

P.K. Page

The wax has melted
but the dream of flight
persists.
I, Icarus, though grounded
in my flesh
have one bright section in me
where a bird
night after starry night
while I'm asleep
unfolds its phantom wings
and practices.

left overs

2011-02-15T16:49:00.000-05:00

You know when someone leaves and the house still sounds like them, feels like them?
As if a part of him was still moving the curtain, running the water.
As if nothing else exists outside these walls. And yet, all that really matters, is on the other side.

brunch

2011-02-12T15:12:00.000-05:00

I had croissant crumbs in my bellybutton.

And I thought how stupid it is to believe in destiny.

who loves valentine?

2011-02-12T14:49:00.003-05:00

Falling in love again was simple.

It was the marked way that he’d cross his legs, ever so swiftly and controlled, in the middle of conversations that did not matter. The gesture was either a show of confidence or vulnerability rather than practicality. In my eyes it was divine, and I longed for the repetition. I longed for all sorts of repetitions that no one else noticed.

But with every in love there is an out love, and I was powerless to outlaw it.

whistle

2011-02-10T12:30:00.002-05:00

can you?

word of the day

2011-02-09T13:20:00.002-05:00

teetotal |ˈtēˌtōtl|adjectivechoosing or characterized by abstinence from alcohol teetotalism |-ˌizəm| |ˈtiˈˈtoʊdlˈɪzəm| nounORIGIN mid 19th cent.: emphatic extension of total , apparently first used by Richard Turner, a worker from Preston, England, in a speech (1833)urging total abstinence from all alcohol, rather than mere abstinence from spirits, advocated by some early temperance reformers.

feet

2011-02-09T11:48:00.001-05:00

The only thing that matters is imagination.
To be able to imagine yourself in other unseen locations, vocations, and sensibilities. This has to continue no matter how content you feel you are right now.
~~Content~~ is dangerous.

the look

2011-02-06T17:09:00.001-05:00

" You look so innocent."

I can never tell if that's a compliment or something else. Something terrible.

i figured it out

2011-02-06T13:58:00.005-05:00

art is

Arshile Gorky - Diary of a Seducer

Vik Muniz - Spaghetti Medusa

From a sketchbook of Louise Bourgeoise

an interpretation.

status

2011-02-06T12:33:00.002-05:00

Einstein was right.

Energy cannot be destroyed . . . it is simply transfered from one state to another.

Nothing ever ends.

scene

2011-02-03T13:51:00.002-05:00

girl at a café / by the window / legs crossed:

She is wearing a grass green sweater. Her unexciting blond locks are tied back, she has perfect size breasts and a beautiful pale complexion. Her un-manicured hands are lightly holding a Michael Ondaatje book. Every few minutes she repeats some line or another with a shy whisper. She is slim, but just finished a muffin and a pecan tart back-to-back with a voluptuous latte. She frowns, and lazily at first but then firmly picks up a pen and scribbles in the margins. What is she teaching herself?

la porte

2011-02-01T17:57:00.001-05:00

She shut the door, opened it again.

Shut. Open.

Swish. Bam. Swish. Bam.

"Look!"

Swish.

"Look how easy it is!"

Bam.

She was gone.

saving you saving me

2011-01-31T18:46:00.002-05:00

Philip Guston - Bad Habits (1970)

Saving people is so redundant. It is so naive. And yet it is one of the most defining characteristics of mine.

I was walking home just now, sneezing and compressing my limbs into their smallest proportions, when I saw a tiny old lady with hands full of groceries steadily walking toward me. I was compelled to go up to her and offer to carry her bags home. I made eye contact but she wouldn't have it. I stopped, but she didn't notice. So I kept walking, feeling a little bit colder than before.

This happens every week, and in different scenarios.

I have often broken up fights; from street fights to best friends fighting to parents to cats. I've saved ants from drowning and I have taken numerous birds to the vet (none of them made it out). When I was six years old I jumped in the deep end to rescue an older girl from drowning -- I didn't know how to swim.

Less than a year ago I found a girl passed out in the washroom of some bar and carried her to a stranger's house and left my card for her. She probably thought my card says "Super(wo)man" or something.

What's funny is that I'm beginning to understand that this is not heroism, but being stupid. Yet I can't help it. I especially find it stupid when my help is not needed ("Tara, we don't need you to mediate the situation").

People don't need to be saved, especially the ones that are waiting to be saved. I'm also against the idea of martyrdom and I guess that's the point of departure between aid and imposition: to be a martyr you are expecting a heavenly return and you are usually sacrificing something precious. I don't ever want any one to do that for me, and I won't do it either. Especially for the people I love, because I will only resent them in the long term.

Anyways. . . I guess I'm trying to say that I like making people happy. Sometimes too much.

Unless if you deserve to be sad, of course.

mooooch

2011-01-31T12:48:00.001-05:00

the most unattractive quality in a person is mooching. it makes me uncomfortable and unsafe.

which is sad because i love the word mooch.

it's cute.

and smooch is also a favorite. like here:

so is much, which in Persian means kiss.

2011-01-30T16:41:00.002-05:00

from London with pomabombs

2011-01-28T16:12:00.005-05:00

I've known her since we were nine, but she still surprises me all the time.

Elham Issari - Pomabombs (2011)

word of the day

2011-01-27T17:25:00.001-05:00

Lucy McKenzie

apparatus |ˌapəˈratəs; -ˈrātəs|noun1 the equipment needed for a particular activity or purpose • the organs used to perform a particular bodily function 2 a complex structure within an organization or system

addictions

2011-01-27T16:08:00.007-05:00

From the pages of my journal – January 26 2011

“Strangers are meant to divide

And tensions to rise like steam from the waterfalls

Tapping consciousness into the outline of an airport

Delayed.”

[There has been a coup d’état in my brain.]

I’m sitting at Newark airport for what feels like an entire childhood. My flight has been delayed, and let’s just say that I need to be in my own bed right now.

I have overtipped and overdrank incessantly for a week now in New York City. It’s grown on me but has yet to dazzle me to the point of Nirvana. I leave that to Buenos Aires, or an Eastern European city I haven’t discovered yet.

Despite the uncomfortable seats that insist on keeping my body vertical, airports calm me down. I usually scribble down something in my notebook right before my departure, desperate to find out what I’d be writing on the plane back…

I think about all the new feelings, all the new colours I’ll notice and all the stories I’ll spot hiding on the street corners and behind frozen windows, waiting to be told. Which is why traveling is so addictive. And I’m an addict, burning my money on wine and caffeine.

The galleries were as always most exciting. A good exhibition inspires me as much as a good novel does. But I’ll write about art later.

And of course, the company: Two of my best, two of my oldest, two of my funniest friends were with me for the most part. A trip isn’t worth it without tears, and we had that too…we had alone time and dance time and beers in bed and Halva on the road and disagreements about where to go. We answered a dozen questionnaires, the kind of questions that reveal your most naked thoughts without you even noticing it.

And then I was alone again. And loved. And I always wonder what is it about love that I love and hate so much.

Finally, we’re boarding. My mascara’s all over my face, but I’ll be nice.

. . .

2011-01-23T13:27:00.002-05:00

Gabriel Rossetti did

matter’d “a damn,”

privately pictured him

sweeping inconstant fingers

over “the heart-

strings of innumerable

hearts,”

. . .

It's a matter of

2011-01-22T18:31:00.002-05:00

la corazon

we are all made of stars

2011-01-17T19:12:00.003-05:00

I'm working on illustrations for a poetry collection. (Whose? Mine? I dunno. I won't tell)

Do you think the publisher will be mad if I show him this?

word of the day

2011-01-17T18:16:00.001-05:00

Frizzle |ˈfrɪzəl| |ˈfrɪz(ə)l|

1. form (hair) into tight curls. [verb]
2. a tight curl in hair. [noun]3. A type of chicken with feathers that curl outwards, rather than laying flat as in most chickens. While many consider the Frizzle to be an entirely separate breed, chickens from all breeds may have a frizzled appearance.

the art

2011-01-17T18:07:00.000-05:00

There is nothing worst than an artist with nothing to say. With nothing to show you other than a desperate unrealized observation. Sometimes if they're lucky, those observations are semi-refreshing but passive.

I mean, art has to have an anxiety within it - not necessarily a misery (you don't need to be starving, but it helps), and not essentially a rant. It has to be a certain spirit of life; sometimes critical, sometimes amusing, and at times purely aesthetic. It must be so that it could only be created by you and you only. And it mustn't be easy.

I have no idea what I'm talking about. I will probably change my mind when I see a breathtaking piece by someone who had no idea what they were doing. And I will be as equally revolted by a grandiose artist's statement that's worth wrapping glasses with when I move next.

#I break a lot of wine glasses.

coldfeet

2011-01-16T15:12:00.000-05:00

oh come on . . . just blog already

animals

2011-01-07T21:40:00.002-05:00

hopefully

2011-01-06T17:54:00.003-05:00

Rain, dear,

rain.

...

2011-01-05T16:59:00.001-05:00

and again.

in a pair of eyes.

some days you are born

2011-01-04T17:23:00.002-05:00

and they never knew how important it was to dream of flying, and not fly away

how all her favorite songs were meaningless now

and how he was calling

and he was deaf

and she was, after all, just a balloon.

not for xmas

2011-01-02T14:04:00.001-05:00

Sometimes love can be material. This is how three of my favorite people did it . . .

from Maryam: a sum of T.

from Rachel: a portable La Vie En Rose

from SNP: beauty is a bag

unboxed

2011-01-02T13:52:00.001-05:00

So we packed and unpacked and warmed the house and picked drawers and cooked and put flowers in the vase.

Panic

2011-01-01T18:40:00.000-05:00

I’m afraid of knives curling around my neck:

ready for silence,

and humming birds gossiping about stolen grapes.

A smirk as they line up and

the line matures into a circle.

Oracles permit my surrender yet

defiantly mistake the spices and

reveal secret recipes.

A tune laments and the last drops evaporate

we sit on rented chairs and contemplate.

I’m afraid of crowded corners,

waiting cowardly for their revenge.

And graffities erasing themselves out of shame.

A spear through vocabulary of friends,

the best ones cry and some move on.

Cloaked dictators shake hands and walk on rubbles,

crippled pens twist and turn,

and a culture is created: they name it complete.

I name it K.

I’m afraid of knives curling around my neck:

ready for silence,

and cats leaking memories from refused rooftops.

I long to fall and notice dirty windows in the plunge

atrocities curtained,

and I fall,

I fall

and K remains.

let december end

2010-12-29T10:51:00.001-05:00

Chris Schad

a poet less known

2010-12-25T16:43:00.003-05:00

"سپیده دم است

نشسته‌ام و مرگ را معماری می‌‌کنم"

- بهرام اردبیلی

It's dawn

And I'm sitting here, architecting death

Bahram Ardebili -

death line

2010-12-23T16:40:00.003-05:00

STATEMENT : sell your past, present, and future
PAYEE: institution
PRICE: too much
LENGTH: 800 words
DEADLINE: too soon

kissing walls

2010-12-22T14:17:00.004-05:00

We have to get boxes.
I'm subconsciously avoiding anything that has to do with moving to the new apartment. Not because I don't want to, but because it's difficult to remove myself from the attic that saved my sanity. It gave my thoughts a warm roof, and my body a solitary bath tub to inspect my toes under the angular light prying through the window. The attic, carefully organized inside its many corners, witnessed loves and lovers --
some of whom I've forgotten, and it never judged me.

I've always been a sucker for spaces. Before we moved out of our first house (a two-story gem with a pond in the garden and rooms filled with memories), I spent days secretly kissing each and every wall. My 8-year-old self thought that maybe those kisses would help ease the house's pain of getting demolished.

But hell, I have to move on. I'm getting better at it year after year. Sometimes it scares me. But the world was made to change, to evolve, destroy, merge, divorce. As Dexter said, maybe we survive better in pairs. And maybe my attic was over-rated.

[moving revelations: n˚ 1]

pizza lovers

2010-12-18T18:41:00.000-05:00

additional topping:

artichoke hearts

melancholic dips

sexy olives

a voluptuous crust

and oily texture

can you tell I'm hungry?

2010-12-17T15:47:00.000-05:00

Robert Jessup - Falling Couple

a little invention that really matters:

folding

things are queer

2010-12-17T15:15:00.008-05:00

Duane Michals (1973)

utensils

2010-12-13T16:10:00.006-05:00

Any poem I write that I'm remotely proud of, is first inscribed on paper with black inkpen or a pencil. After a number of scratches and arrows, I type the final draft for public exposure.
I outline my story ideas on A4 papers.
My planner is not digital.
I can only finish reading a newspaper from cover to cover if I'm holding it in my hands. (My major was newspaper reporting -- don't laugh).

Not that you should care, but I've come across this a lot: many writers (not to call myself one just yet, but you know, for the purpose of this rant) tend to like it hard...I mean, in hard copy.
I'm just wondering if the next generation will/is getting used to the screen copy, and if that's a good thing.

Are words more lively if they can linger under your pen? Are they more sacred if there's the possibility of them getting stained rather than deleted and vanished?

I don't know. I'm not a romantic in this sense but as Zoozoo says, nostalgia is one of our biggest weaknesses.
(Or strengths?)

today

2010-12-13T12:39:00.000-05:00

William Daniels - William Blake II (2006)a

how do you nail a decision down?

picasso's elegant betrayal

2010-12-13T12:26:00.005-05:00

word of the day

2010-12-12T13:52:00.005-05:00

Pablo Picasso: Portrait of Angel Fernandez de Soto

fideism |ˈfēdāˌizəm|noun-
1 the doctrine that knowledge depends on faith or revelation.
2 exclusive reliance in religious matters upon faith, with consequent rejection of appeals to science or philosophy.

*this word of the day is brought to you by Rachel Taylor, the wonderful.

do you eat meat?

2010-12-11T21:37:00.001-05:00

Mark Ryden

monologue

2010-12-11T15:49:00.002-05:00

She says it.

Pant,

she shuts her mouth,

bites her lips,

closes her eyes.

She said it.

note

2010-12-10T20:00:00.001-05:00

If I buy you flowers and a tree and then put them on the table and then leave,
will you forever want me back and forth and on going metaphors?

If I bite the apple and water the tree will you hang me upside down and betray my wish:
I wish
I wish
I wish
I wish
I wish.

self reflection

2010-12-08T13:23:00.000-05:00

curiosity is

2010-12-07T15:07:00.002-05:00

Berlin- July 2010

essential

monthly period

2010-12-05T21:47:00.003-05:00

Hey, December

I dare you

to beat

November.

bastard letters

2010-12-05T21:46:00.004-05:00

Sliding between doors,
removing an afternoon dress to slip on something new,
they forgive to bow
and bullets pass through.

Letters are falling down from the mantle,
who cares to catch
another sunset?

We require your discretion,
yes we do.
Just like mint leaves through your eyes
shut and wild and jailed underneath your
lashes.

Like a toy drifting into a video game,
they succumb to another play but,
we need your discretion,
yes we do,
yes
we do.

N@ЯC!$$US

2010-12-04T16:10:00.002-05:00

You were seen on our hidden camera! Click here to watch it:

The gamut of spam/virus like e-mails have evolved though out the life of the Internet, in accordance with our measure of de-sensitivity toward them. First, they were almost consistently about porn and penis-enhancement products. They gradually became more attractive by giving away amazing, unheard-of deals with astronomical "chances to win" trips, products, cars, and in-your-pocket cash. Then they became more specific: "Lose the Holiday Pounds NOW!!!" "Buy the New iPod Before Everyone El$e!!!!!!!"

To avoid the delete button, many of them start with your name and a few personal words and lead-ups to the sp[c]am. Curiously, they offer you (dream) jobs – think of 2008-2009, at the height of recession, how many viruses wanted to hire you. And of course, you have the humanitarian ones, asking for money to cure a little golden-lock girl's cancer because she can't afford it. (Those scare me the most. What if they're real! [!!!!!!!])

It would be interesting to know which actually do get clicked on the most. I delete about 100 spams from my junk-box every few days. My brother has a word-filtering options that systematically gets rid of most of the rubbish.
Rubbish is by definition unwanted material that is thrown out. Spam is unwanted because really, porn is almost everywhere at hand, there are enough diets and books and Jenny Craigs and gyms and magical-potions to handle, and there are more effective/trustworthy ways to get travel deals or win the lottery.

But there is still something we need that is not as easily acquired: ourself. Fame. Image. Narcissism. And the market evolves...

You were seen on our hidden camera! Click here to watch it:

Go ahead.

course of relations

2010-12-03T11:54:00.006-05:00

I was speaking to my father yesterday, standing outside a vintage store in the cold to avoid the noisy interiors.

We were, as we usually do, catching up on a bunch of technicalities (do you have enough money? he asks. How is your health? I ask), as well as confessing our love and respect for each other. He was also telling me about his new iguana pet (Zoozoo), and how they were watching The Godfather II together the night before.

(1965) Iran

He then talked about his dear friend, Bijan Elahi, who recently passed away; A prolific poet, painter, essayist, translator, and one of the pioneers of the Iranian New Wave in literature. An article in BBC Persian described him as the “poet of silence,” alluding to his quiet last years in a tacit retaliation toward the suffocating atmosphere that was crippling artist and intellectual life in Iran.

My dad told me how when I was five-years-old and had a blazing fever, Bijan who was hanging out at our place and was curiously into mysticism and Sufism, prayed for me above my sickbed. I was touched by this story, until my dad laughed and said, “Well of course that didn’t help. It was a common fever and took its course.”

“At least I didn’t die!” I said. Maybe I would. Who knows?

(1964) From right: Bijan Elahi, Ahmadreza Ahmadi, Noory Ala

But I couldn’t help but feel sad. Even though I don’t remember this unique individual (he handed in a blank exam paper in his last year of highschool, protesting against the conservative and patriarchal education system), I felt like he had something to do with me. He had translated Nabokov, Lorca, Joyce, and Kafka, which I read and drenched in. He studied Picasso and taught a generation of writers and poets to disregard the form, the platform, the rules.

He wrote: “Poetry is chasing the truth through back alleys – such is the creed of relations. But it is only through the course of relations, that you can recognize the back alleys.”

I thought of all the great poets, painters, artists, writers, thinkers, directors, actors, singers, and teachers that were left imprisoned, dead, killed, or muted in a country that is known for its poetry.

And then I thought the best gift, the only thing I can offer to overcome this sudden, onerous nostalgia and longing for novelty and appreciation, is to work. Work, learn my past, and create. Create, and support those who do, and do.

When I hung up with my dad I thought, I should rent Godfather II tonight. And watch it with my own Zoozoo.

word of the day

2010-11-29T11:35:00.003-05:00

Alinka Echeverria

daemon 1 |ˈdēmən| (also daimon)noun1 (in ancient Greek belief) a divinity or supernatural being of a nature between gods and humans.• an inner or attendant spirit or inspiring force.

Daemons are good or benevolent "supernatural beings between mortals and gods, such as inferior divinities and ghosts of dead heroes" (see Plato's Symposium), and differ from the Judeo-Christian usage of demon, a malignant spirit that can seduce, afflict, or possess humans.

temporary spots

2010-11-29T11:20:00.002-05:00

my friend, my enemy:

actions have consequences. actions do (do) have consequences. and one day when you show up at my door and i pretend like i'm not home, or i never get your messages, and you say i love you and i say i love you too and it sounds like any other word we enunciated that day (like pass me the salt please, or i'm going to be late), you wonder when exactly you lost your spot.

survival kit: opening day

2010-11-29T09:08:00.000-05:00

when a headache will not let go of your brain,
but the morning seems inviting and familiar, like every other Monday that you need to victoriously overcome,
you leave the house as fast as you can,
and wear your favorite colours.

no

2010-11-24T19:27:00.004-05:00

I look at the guitar, he looks at me.

There's a library of sounds to pick.

hey

2010-11-24T12:58:00.001-05:00

be serious about something.

Defintion

2010-11-22T17:13:00.003-05:00

After our damp skins slid apart
I nearly starved, pulling
on my mother's drained tit.
She used all her strength
to shove me out of her body,
the last link stretched, slashed,
tied in a knot I wear on the beach,
flaunting the twisted emblem
of first rejection, the eye of flesh
that saw love couldn't last.

- Lauren Shakely

secret names

2010-11-22T11:50:00.009-05:00

As a kid, I never wanted to become one of those grown-ups who is a "grown-up:" caught up in a superior adultness, and oblivious to the curious world that was waiting to be discovered. And of course, those grown-ups were also less kind and playful around kids, always trying hard to cover their cold exterior and impose our immaturity on us.

But my favorite grown-up was my parents' younger friend Maryam. She was different. She had access to the curious world. She was a writer and a translator, in her late 20's. Her cat's name was Pushkin.* She had short, sharp, black hair and big brown eyes (she would do a trick for me blinking 100 times per second; lashes moving like a butterfly's wings). Her boyfriend was a painter who had been schooled under my father. He used to wear Lenon glasses and had a loud, inviting laugh.

Maryam would dance with me in parties, let me take her hand and give her a tour of my newest hiding place, or tell her secrets about my secret friends.

That glorious couple broke up after a few years. I never asked why.

She got married and went to India for a few months. She got divorced soon after and I didn't ask why.

Maryam became my favorite name.

+++

Right around the time when my 20s began, I noticed that I'm being a "grown-up" grown-up. I just didn't know what to say to little kids, fearing I'd offend them. Or maybe I didn't want to taint their innocence with my adult experiments. But that slowly changed, remembering Maryam.

A few days ago a friend of a friend's dropped by for tea. A beautiful stranger, she walked into my attic holding a blond 3-year-old girl who was tired and sleepy. The mother was only 20. We had tea (and apple cider for the kid). The morning of, cleaning my room and making it more suitable for two, I'd found a doll I bought in a flea market two years ago. I hid it in my closet. And when the model-mother and the small girl were about to leave, I gave the doll to her.

"What's her name?" the girl shyly asked.

"It's a secret. If you're a good mommy, she will tell you what her name is."

+++

I hear Maryam's lives in New York. She has a baby now. She continues to write.

I miss telling her secrets.

word of the day

2010-11-21T16:27:00.003-05:00

kaleidoscope |kəˈlīdəˌskōp|nouna toy consisting of a tube containing mirrors and pieces of colored glass or paper, whose reflections produce changing patterns that are visible through an eyehole when the tube is rotated.• [in sing. ] a constantly changing pattern or sequence of objects or elements : the dancers moved in a kaleidoscope of color.

* image: Kandinsky - Movimiento 1

PR

2010-11-21T16:06:00.005-05:00

Public Relations

Pathetic Ramblings

Punctual Resonation

Pubic Reoccurrence

Punitive Regurgitation

Passive Rage

Proud Rant

Peculiar Resemblance

Press Release

Panting Roach

Preverbal Rivets

Pedagogical Reek

Prime Rationale

Profit Rack

demian

2010-11-20T13:36:00.004-05:00

Thou shalt certainly not kill -- nor rape and kill girls. But you haven't yet reached the stage where you can understand what 'permitted' and 'forbidden' really means. You have only tracked down part of the truth. The rest is still to come, you can be quite sure of that. You have now had an urge in you for about a year that is stronger than everything else and is considered 'forbidden'. . . What is forbidden is not permanently so; it can change. Even today any man can sleep with a woman once he has been to the priest with her and got married.

- Demian / Hermann Hesse

happiness

2010-11-19T14:57:00.004-05:00

happiness

may be the undercooked chicken, respectfully devoured

or wine spills that missed your pants.

happiness

rests within sacred chasms of dialogue, elevated to a beam

taking turns wearing a glove

and two pockets full of change, becoming one.

dear diary

2010-11-18T12:49:00.003-05:00

soap me.

2010-11-14T16:01:00.007-05:00

commonly and casually

it happens the love

smeared over two bodies in a bath

soaps slip on and marry the limbs

boiling pots moan in the kitchen

cold tiles shiver with anticipation

(hearing heavy heartbeats echo and repeat)

and he returns, bringing fog back from the sea

unruly fireflies hide in the corridors

lamps look for a shadow to hunt

(the window breathes, the clock continues)

and she returns with leaves to burn

commonly and casually

the story begins.

shared secrets

2010-11-10T11:55:00.005-05:00

INTERVIEWER
Do you feel you have any conspicuous or secret flaw as a writer?
NABOKOV
The absence of a natural vocabulary. An odd thing to confess, but true. Of the two instruments in my possession, one—my native tongue—I can no longer use, and this not only because I lack a Russian audience, but also because the excitement of verbal adventure in the Russian medium has faded away gradually after I turned to English in 1940. My English, this second instrument I have always had, is however a stiffish, artificial thing, which may be all right for describing a sunset or an insect, but which cannot conceal poverty of syntax and paucity of domestic diction when I need the shortest road between warehouse and shop. An old Rolls-Royce is not always preferable to a plain jeep.

From the Paris Review. "Vladimir Nabokov, The Art of Fiction No. 40" by Herbert Gold

chatter box

2010-11-02T14:40:00.004-04:00

"You know her right?"

"Mmmm . . . not exactly."

"What do you mean?"

"I know a different version of her than you do."

confidential

2010-11-01T16:28:00.012-04:00

when i went over my bank account last week, a few rather costly habits of mine shamelessly revealed themselves. (other than cab-rides and sushi meals and hard-cover books and uncomfortable shoes, of course)

being a writer, and a freelance reporter, has meant endless hours at all the (nice) coffee-shops in my vicinity. i mean, a girl's gotta have her double espresso, followed by a soy macchiato, followed by a biscuit and jasmine tea, no?

no.

a girl has to buy fair trade coffee beans and grind her own. so now i'm committed to lock myself in my apartment and pour over this vintage desk (that i stole from my mom's house when she was moving) on a daily basis.

this post is one result of this commitment. four interviews left to transcribe, must be the other.

* illustration by : kasia matyjaszek

the facebook event

2010-10-27T18:00:00.014-04:00

John Currin "The Bra Shop" 1997

"Because no one checks their facebook events anymore . . . ," is becoming a familiar subject line in my inbox. Such emails are usually a more "personal" version of what used be a facebook event, with a plea for a prompt RSVP and seductive party/event descriptions.

So what happened to the facebook event?

Nothing really. They're still there and are being sent by the dozen, hourly. But it's just too much. Like everything else on facebook; The "friends" list, the requests, the pages, the likes, the groups, the causes. And surprise surprise, the market is over-saturated: we don't care (that much) anymore. The newsfeed is overwhelming, status updates redundant, and the pictures just too pictureseque or too personal -- I mean, do I really need to watch you shave?

It's the curse of overinforming and oversharing. And there's really no one to blame. We're only human. How many ways can you say "I had a great night last night" or display your "pretty friends and lovers" before it becomes gauge-worthy?

In this case, what is more emblematic is our inevitable tendency to get
desensitized to images or news or pieces of information, no matter how trivial or critical they are. (to the sad face of the starving African child on t.v, or the Tsunami victims, or Britney Spears, or fitness commercials, or corrupt leaders).

And so we just glance over. Click away. Change the chanel.

We stop digging to discover because it all seems too much to handle, too fucking in-your-face.

So we (or you) elect someone like Rob Ford as Toronto's mayor. Or get enamourd by the Tea Party. We stop reading and stop researching. And what's almost as worst as voting for Rob Ford, is not voting at all [pauses. remembers all the blood she saw on streets of Tehran when people were protesting against fraudulent elections].

In any case, maybe evolutionist theorists got it wrong. Evolution, perhaps, is not a "betterment" of what already exists, but is (apparently) the triumph of comfort and docility.

Or maybe I'm just sick of facebook events.

full circle

2010-10-20T11:38:00.006-04:00

In the first year of university, in our "highly reputable" program of journalism at Ryerson University, we were told that we were going to be prepared for real life scenarios, and graduate with a set of hands-on experiences.

I was skeptical -- not because I wasn't excited or ambitious enough, and especially not since I thought my thirst and appreciation for "stories that matter" (given my tumultuous background) would somehow be rewarded. I was skeptical because the most important tool of a journalist, namely language, seemed to be my weakness. English remains to be my second language.

And my professors didn't lie: we were sent on "streeters" on our very first day of class. We reported, interviewed, and were viciously evaluated year after year. Some people dropped out, some people reluctantly stayed. I was constantly doubting my abilities, and was torn between my love for fiction and my hunger for politics.

One of the first stories I pitched to my prof came about after a conversation with the cab driver who was rushing me to my 8:00 a.m class after I almost slept in because of partying with my best friend the night before. It was the old story, but news to my ears: "I have a masters/PhD in . . . But I've been driving taxis since I moved here."

I was touched and repulsed. For that week's report I wanted to write about that issue. My prof said it's too big of a challenge for a first-year story, and that I should pick something more school-related, and focused.

I had my convocation ceremony yesterday. And for the first time in the past four years, I thought, good job.

Check.

I am currently working on a story that coincidentally (or not) is about professional immigrants (not) being employed in jobs worthy of their knowledge/experience.

Check.

Patience. You know?

last week

2010-10-12T23:31:00.005-04:00

I got a bit foto-crazed

First, I had wine and coconut water (not mixed) with the most talented bunch: Matin Zad (photography) and Maryam Keyhani (jewelry + art direction). Here's the result in three instances:

Next, a hungover Sunday was turned into a Walking Dream series, envisioned by Shirin Fathi's photography and styling, and my ipod: