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? 

if you read Persian

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 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

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

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

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

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

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

photo by Shirin Fathi

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

And so, I will use

and be used

grammer

Willem de Kooning - Queen of Hearts

love is plural 

hang in there

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

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

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.