the facebook event

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

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

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:

survival kit: tools of engagement

Still from movie: Lives of Others (2006)

There is a moment once in a while when you see, crystal clear, your own becoming. It is transcendent but more temporal than you'd like it to be...yet it feels like things will never be the same again.

Like the moment right after you lose your virginity.

Or the first time you realize that just because you're saying the truth, other people won't necessarily believe you.

The first time you try drugs.

And of course, the first time you encounter death.

But all these occasions have something powerful in common: you become more detached, and a new set of practical foundations start to build and back you up. These foundations no longer fundamentally support your moral beliefs or expectations; they merely suggest that everything will constantly change and that you will never get it exactly right. Your only redemption would rely on a sharpened sense of adaptation, the power to migrate and leave behind, while simultanesouly savoring the sweet sensibility of history and romanticism. 

Now that (losing your virginity, telling the truth,  taking drugs, mourning death) is the easy part. 

open/close

when you get tall enough

when your hair is brisk enough

and your eyes, wet and dry enough times a day

call me.

rooted

Trees grow everywhere.

Even on coins.