on the road

[a view: north of Iran]

they day before my retun, i met this boy (no, no, not like that, keep reading).

he came from paris to tehran, on a motorcycle, by himself.
he had passed through 16 countries, and thought he is going to die when after a brutal accident he was unconscious for a few days and was taken care of by a Turkish family that found him.
they even fixed his bike for free, since his credit card was stolen.
he was to continue his journey to india, and then all the way back to paris. (on a motorcycle, by himself).

i met him through a series of strange circumstances. we went to Lavasan and on the way talked about Proust, politics, and liberty. i found a very good friend.

"To pass through virgin lands in the contact of unknown populations and cultures; crossing wild lands where I could scream and only get the echo of my own voice in answer, that was the most beautiful thing nature could ever ofer to me," he wrote in an e-mail on his return to paris last week.

cool.
no?

delayed gratification, or such

what am i doing here?

my country's at war.

and i'm worried about a flu...

of grapes and women

There is a woman with a cane.

She walks home with a bag full of grapes in the afternoon

She looks like decay

She moves slowly but

She is very stern she is very adamant about her steps you know

She

has a Julia Roberts smile, squinted eyes, soft nose, pale skin, and curly hair

She hates run-on sentences because she can’t run

She hates little girls with pretty toes and the boys that follow them home

She doesn’t wait for the light to turn green

She wont stand in line when the bus arrives

but the woman smiles at me

hands me a grape

caresses my face

I look at my toes and they are fit

They work, ma’, I swear

Just give them time and they’ll be okay

There is a woman with a cane

There is a woman with a cane

oh so blue

When I was eleven I became obsessed with the color blue. I painted my walls light blue, got satin sapphire drapes, and navy bed-sheets. If it wasn’t for my mom, I would have dyed my hair blue, too.

I’d go around asking everyone what their favorite color was, and I was astounded every time I learned it was anything other than blue.

“But the ocean is blue. The sky is blue. And there are more shades to blue than in any other color,” I would plead, trying to convince the lost souls of un-blue.

Fast forward a few years, and my walls are light orange, the bed sheets are red, and I have a red heart-pillow that a boyfriend may or may not have given me.

Fast forward a few more years, and it’s all about white.

In these playful memories I suddenly became really uncomfortable, to think that my periodic absolutes change so much and so often.

How long until my current obsessions fade and get replaced by something other?

I’m not worried though. I love my red hair.