you can find me here...

www.taraaghdashloo.com

noted

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

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.
            

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.

  THIS  BLOG  WILL  RETURN  

  IN  THE  FORM  OF  A  WEBSITE . . .  

cut

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

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

[                       ]

c'est possible

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

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

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

We had to have patience

the kind that the wall has with paint

waiting for it to stay

bodies

“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

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

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.

I don't know how else to say this. 

But.

bon appetite

have some (francis) bacon today

or roast beef

medium rare

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

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

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?