N@ЯC!$$US

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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...

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Go ahead. 

course of relations

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. 

secret names

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.