Thursday, December 11, 2003


Today I sent an e-mail to my e-mail list saying:
"Wikipedia is my new discovery: a multilingual free on-line encyclopedia."
I got a response from a friend saying: "Ay, Manam, manam, Man,..."
He was right... this is funny that I can not notice how I emphasis on my own existence even in a very simple e-mail like that.
Why am I so obsessed with myself as a subject? There should be a reason...
Is it a good thing or a bad thing? Does it give me a personal voice -even in a simple e-mail- or does it skew my world and changes it to a self-centered prison where I can't see any "non-relevant" subjects?
"i" don't know!

Wednesday, December 10, 2003


"Nothing in this world is more dangerous than sincere ignorance and conscientious stupidity."
--Martin Luther King Jr.

Monday, December 08, 2003

El Kabong and Tennessee Tuxedo

Tennessee Tuxedo

The Eyranian has posted something about Tennessee Tuxedo and El Kabong.

As a child I loved both Tennessee Tuxedo and El Kabong.
I remember the first time I heard about "Thanksgiving" was in Tennessee Tuxedo. I remember watching Tarzan, and King Kong. I remember Superman, Batman, and Spiderman and the "Metropolis" they were living in. I remember watching High Chaparral, The Streets of San Francisco, Baretta, and Lieutenant Columbo. I remember watching Little House on the Prairie and The Waltons. I remember saying good night to my brother every night the same way The Waltons used to do at the end of every episode:
- Good Night John Boy.
- Good Night Mary Ellen.
By age ten I knew more about America than any average American knows about the whole world in his whole life. It is so funny when you hear the US government wants to fund some programs "to inform the people of the Middle East about the United States." Maybe that money should be spent here in the US to inform the American people about the world that exists outside this realm of gas stations and shopping centers. There should be other ways for learning how to pronounce the names of foreign countries other than hearing the news about bombarding them.

Comment on my own post:
Moral of the story: Tennessee Tuxedo unites people. Bombs don't.

Sunday, November 23, 2003

The Immigrant Nightmare


I still have a repetitive nightmare sometimes about myself being in Iran -a very scary Iran, the way it was in 1981-88. In the nightmare I can not understand how I got back to Iran and how I can leave it again. Sometimes I find myself in military service again, trying to convince people that I have finished the service years ago, ... telling them about my life in the US and trying to find out how I ended up being in Iran again.
Years ago, I read the book “Az Sabaa taa Nimaa,” a review of Iranian literature of the 19th and early 20th century. In the book there was a chapter about a Qajar prince (Farhad Mirza, I think) and his style of writing. As a sample of his work the book has printed some of his correspondence. It is ironic that in one of the letters you could see him talking about his nightmare about Iran when he was in Europe, a nightmare very similar to mine.
The letter was written more than 120 years ago. It shows that not only has the country not changed much but even the style of Iranian immigrants’ nightmares has remained untouched.

Illustration: La Reproduction Interdite by Rene Magritte. 1937.

Sunday, November 16, 2003


I just read my post at Friday November 14, ...
Wow! I was drunk!
I can smell alcohol just by reading it.

My Cultural Life in Iran

Today I sent an e-mail to a friend saying " cultural life has stopped from the time I left Iran." She thought that is a funny statement. "It is almost a statement that is in praise of life in Iran!"

That is a statement in praise of the cultural life in Iran: Intellectuals there were more genuine about what they were doing, everybody was so eager to know more about every thing, and thoughts were mostly coming from the hearts rather than magazines and fashions.

I don't know. My memory is fading out the reality of my life. So I might be right, or I might be just glorifying a past, because that past is gradually leaving my brain.

Friday, November 14, 2003

BWV 1027

It is 8:43 and I am drunk. I am listening to the third movement of Bach's Sonata in G major (BWV 1027) and I want to tell you all that you should be ashamed of yourself as human beings. Bach has said whatever you should hear 320 years ago and you still don't listen.
You stupid humans,... trees and walls can understand the world better than you.

Wednesday, October 29, 2003



The most enjoyable writing experience I have ever had was when I began writing short stories for a while, when I was in my early 20s. Those strange dream-like stories mostly came to me at nights when I was asleep. I used to visualize them first in my dreams. Then if I could remember them after waking up, I wrote them down before I forget them. This should happen in darkness for two reason: first I didn’t have time for turning on the light —since I could forget them in any moment, and secondly turning the light on could ruin the dream-like images I had in mind and consequently ruining the dream-like feeling for transforming those images into the right words.
The funny part was the next morning, when I had to decipher what I had written and remember what I have meant by those words.

The Dream, 1910. By Henri Rousseau.

Tuesday, October 28, 2003



Reality is the strangest concept invented by human beings.

Sunday, October 26, 2003

Angelus Novus


Mein Flügel ist zum Schwung bereit,
ich kehrte gern zurück,
denn blieb ich auch lebendige Zeit,
ich hätte wenig Glück.

[My wing is ready for flight,  
I would like to turn back. If I stayed timeless time, 
I would have little luck.]
-- Gerherd Scholem, ‘Gruss vom Angelus’

A Klee painting named ‘Angelus Novus’ shows an angel looking as though he is about to move away from something he is fixedly contemplating. His eyes are staring, his mouth is open, his wings are spread. This is how one pictures the angel of history. His face is turned toward the past. Where we perceive a chain of events, he sees one single catastrophe which keeps piling wreckage and hurls it in front of his feet. The angel would like to stay, awaken the dead, and make whole what has been smashed. But a storm is blowing in from Paradise; it has got caught in his wings with such a violence that the angel can no longer close them. The storm irresistibly propels him into the future to which his back is turned, while the pile of debris before him grows skyward. This storm is what we call progress.
-- Walter Benjamin, 'Theses on the Philosophy of History'

Thursday, October 09, 2003

Romantic Love

A few days ago I had a conversation with a Japanese friend about the Japanese culture and the way Japanese have adapted the Western culture. She said something that was very odd to me: according to her there hasn't been any concept of "romantic love" in Japan before knowing the Western culture.

Wow! This means even a simple thing like romantic love -that we think is so embedded in our soul- is a behavior that we learn. It means there is nothing instinctive about it. We just make ourselves "to beleive" in that kind of love.

Tuesday, October 07, 2003

The Recall

Total Recall

What do the results of the Recall say about the Democracy in America?
The results say a millionaire can spend a couple of million dollars for removing an elected governor, and with the help of a propaganda machine, mostly known as the "free" media, replace him with someone who doesn't know anything about anything (other than making his muscles bigger,) and puts him in charge of the fifth economy of the world.

De Tocqueville should wake up and write another book.

Sunday, August 31, 2003

Wings of Desire

Himmel Uber Berlin

Watching Wings of Desire> here in America is very different from watching it 18 years ago, when I saw it for the first time in Iran. I remember watching it at my friend’s house, enjoying every second of it, even though I couldn’t really understand that much of the dialogue and the voice-overs. It was the original German version, bad quality, without any English subtitles. But those things didn’t matter to me. I enjoyed the movie, and for years I carried the good memory of that amazing experience: seeing a dream-like masterpiece in that dark black-and-white world I used to live in.
I remember my mother always talking about “the good movies they used to make in those days.” Her example always was Bitter Rice starring Silvana Mangano, a forgotten Italian singer and actress from the ‘40s and ‘50s. My mother used to say that her voice was “the most beautiful voice ever.” I heard this for years until the time Cinema Paradiso was released and I got the video tape. In a nostalgic part of that movie, there is a scene when Silvana Mangano sings. To me she was not a bad singer but I didn’t find any thing that great about her voice. I showed that section of the movie to my mother and to my amazement she began denying that the person she was seeing was Silvana Mangano herself!... “I remember her voice. There was a kind of “zang” (meaning a pleasant sound of ‘chime’ in Persian) in Mangano’s voice that this singer’s voice lacks. This singer is someone imitating her.”
Last night, Wings of Desire was still beautiful; I still enjoyed seeing it. But it lacked that shocking and mesmerizing effect it had on me in those years.
Is it because my environment has changed or because I have changed? I really don’t know. But I know what has happened to the angels in the movie is the same thing that has happened to Silvana Mangano’s voice. The angels lost their “Zang.”

Thursday, August 28, 2003

Choob-e Do-sar-gohi

This morning I read something in by someone named "Choob-e Do-sar-gohi" (a stick, with shit on both ends meaning somebody who is rejected by both sides of a fight) ... What a beautiful nick-name, a beautiful metaphore.
Sometimes I hear Persian words in a way that it looks like it is my first time hearing them. A few days ago I was thinking about the expression "jaat-khaali." It is the ultimate poetry in everyday language. Just think about it: it means "I missed you;" but the exact translation is "I noticed your empty space there." Isn't it extremely abstract?
Rene Magrite would have loved it if he had heard it.

Wednesday, August 20, 2003

Gasparyan and Alizadeh

Image Image
This is the first time I wish to be in Iran for a concert: Hossein Alizadeh and Jivan Gasparyan are playing together in Tehran in the 4th, 5th ,and 6th of September. It is an open air concert in Niyavaran Palace; and it is going to be an improvisation by both of them.
I really wish I could be there.

Thursday, July 24, 2003

Athena Andreadis

This morning (or I should say yesterday morning) I discovered this song.
Right now it is 1:18 in the morning and I have been listening to this song the whole day, maybe more than 50 times... (besides the time I spend at Hollywood Bowl listening to João Gilberto!... He had his second concert in Hollywood Bowl, Los Angeles, after 39 years.)

Friday, July 18, 2003


Iranians think their country is one of the most important countries in the world. Ironically, that is what makes it one of the most important countries in the world.

Saturday, July 12, 2003

Organized Crime


Today I heard something from my cousin that made me laugh for hours. He said religion was a beautiful concept as the first attempt of a curious human being for inventing a system that makes sense of this meaningless world. But it became ugly when it transformed to "organized crime."

"Organized crime," What a beautiful name for all religions, including "Communism" and "Free Market Democracy," the new religions of our Modern era.

Sunday, July 06, 2003

The moon, the moon

Compare the translation of this poem by Fedrico Garcia Lorca with its Persian translation by Shamloo. I think if Borges was alive and knew Persian language he would have written an essay about Shamloo and Lorca; similar to the one he wrote about Khayam and Fitzgerald (El enigma de Edward Fitzgerald in "Otras Inquisiciones.")

* The moon, the moon

The moon comes to the forge
With a bustle of nard, in style:
The child stares at the moon
Fixedly all the while.
Across the moving air
The moon holds out her arms,
Her metal breasts are bare,
Shiny and pure and hard.

"Run away, run away, Moon!
For if the gypsies come
They'll stamp your silver heart
For bangle and ring and charm."
"Stop, child, let me dance.
When the gypsies come to-night,
They'll find you on the anvil
With your little eyes shut tight."
"Run away, run away, Moon!
I hear their horses near."
"Stop, child, do not crush
My starched and shiny dress."

Rider and horse appear
With a long roll of the drum,
The great drum of the plain,
And the child's little eyes
Shut tight against the scene.

From fields of olive come
The gypsies, dreamy and brown,
The head held very high,
The sleepy eyes half-down.

How the screech-owl sends
Her long-drawn wailing cry
While the moon with the child
Wends across the sky.

And in the smithy tears,
Tears, and gypsy crying
And the wail of the watching wind,
Watching, watching, and hiding.

Thursday, July 03, 2003

Bowling in Columbine


I just received an e-mail from a friend in Iran. He talks about the experience of seeing "Bowling in Columbine" in Tehran. What a bizarre world we live in. A movie like that can have a totally different meaning in a different context. Over there it is used by the regime to justify "Death to America." It is so sad.
Can a movie be made in a way to detach itself from different contexts? To convey the same meanings in different societies? I guess not. I remember reading somewhere about Spanish Civil War and the reaction of the writers and intellectuals of '30s about it. The only two writer who were not supporting the Spanish left wing and Republicans were Samuel Becket and Henry Miller. They were the only politically mature intellectuals of those days. Understanding how stupid is the whole thing they just rejected supporting any side... (actually Becket said some thing like "Morde shoore hardoshoon" meaning "God damn both sides".... hahaha, I am translating Becket from the Persian text I have read... it is really funny when you talk about a writer who have used English language in such a radical way.)
Any way,... God damn politics... long live cinema.

[I got this e-mail later in March 2004 from a reader:
On your weblog, you comment: " I remember reading somewhere about Spanish Civil War and the reaction of the writers and intellectuals of '30s about it. The only two writer who were not supporting the Spanish left wing and Republicans were Samuel Becket and Henry Miller". In fact, when asked to contribute his views to the collection "Authors Take Sides on Spain", Beckett famously replied "¡Up the Republic!". I don't know where you got the impression that his position was "God damn both sides", but I suspect that the Persian translation you read misinterpreted his views completely."
Ok, I might be wrong about that!]

Tuesday, July 01, 2003

The Comb

For a few days, I am working with a group of people from the British news channel on a report on some Iranian Monarchists active in Los Angeles, who are types of Cuban Exile activists. Seeing them being interviewed was disgusting and terrible. But worse than that was seeing the American right-wing politicians who support them. I met the worst one today: a congressman. The guy was sitting there making comments on Iraq and Liberia. He used the word “occupation” twice in his comments and corrected himself immediately every time by replacing the word with “liberation.” It was very difficult for me to remain silent and keep a smile on my face, but it was worth it seeing a real right-wing congressman talking in his office, a place surrounded with his photos taken with presidents, his degrees and framed documents, and American and Israeli flags everywhere.
At the end when we were leaving the place, the interviewer asked him (not as a part of the interview but as a personal question) if he thinks the US will attack Iran or any other country in the next months or the next year. He answered “not before the re-election of President Bush. After that we definitely have more wars for you” and he laughed.
He was saying this when he was giving us combs as souvenirs with his name printed on them. He was bald, and he was trying to be funny. I think I will fully appreciate his sense of humor when in 2005 Tehran is bombarded. I can watch CNN showing the burning buildings of Tehran, and comb my hair while watching it, with this piece of plastic, that has his name on it.

Wednesday, June 25, 2003


About a month ago a friend of mine sent me an e-mail from Tehran and asked me to publish it somewhere. Reading it reminded me of the way I used to live in Iran and all the sufferings that was a part of it. The e-mail brought me back a vivid image of the life there: the love for art, the backward religious government, and the hopelessness that rules the heart of every young Iranian.

His political views on many issues are not similar to mine but I don't think it matters at all. To me it does not matter if people suffer under Pinochet or Castro, Taliban or US puppet government of Karzai, they need to be heard.

The e-mail was published in Click here to go to Guardian and read a translation of the story. There are certain parts of the letter that need to be clarified for non-Iranian reader; like when he talks about "innocent Palestinians" or when he expresses his feelings about pro-peace Europeans. But these are the boundaries of "language" for explaining the social context of the piece. That letter needs a huge footnote to convey all the meanings of the words it has used.

Wednesday, June 18, 2003

Tehran, LA, New York


If there are two cities in the world that should be called “sister cities,” they are Los Angeles and Tehran. These two are so similar in their ugliness, in their freeways, in their beautiful purplish dry mountains, and in the lack of character in their faces.
Iranian immigrants intuitively have found the similarity between the two. Los Angeles viewed from the houses on the Hollywood hills, or mountains in the San Fernando Valley, is similar to Tehran seen from Shemiran, or Farahzad. Certain parts of downtown are exactly like “Joonoob Shahr.” East LA, with all the Mexican shops -with shirts hanging from the ceilings and mustaches walking- is so much like “Baab Homaayoun.” In every thing Tehran is a third world replica of Los Angeles, a replica in an uglier way.

But putting aside the ugliness, the dry mountains, and lack of character, Tehran is like New York: The grocery stores in Queens, jay walking, the presence of taxis everywhere you are, and the craziness in the air. Both cities are on the edge all the time. Both cities are like “Zire Pole Seyd Khandaan” -all the time.
There is something about “Vali-asr” square at 6p.m. that reminds me of “Times” Square. In Tehran, buildings are not as huge and tall, neither are there any big TV billboards on the buildings; but a craziness, a piercing scream is hidden behind the faces that makes these two cities both disgusting and attractive. Living in New York or Tehran makes you feel a mysterious energy which is constantly released into the air. An energy which is changing the world, in a hidden way.


Photo: Tehran, Mirdamad St.
courtesy of Tehran 24

Sunday, June 15, 2003

How many roads


How many roads must a man walk down
Before you call him a man?
Yes, 'n' how many seas must a white dove sail
Before she sleeps in the sand?
Yes, 'n' how many times must the cannon balls fly
Before they're forever banned?
The answer, my friend, is blowin' in the wind,
The answer is blowin' in the wind.

How many times must a man look up
Before he can see the sky?
Yes, 'n' how many ears must one man have
Before he can hear people cry?
Yes, 'n' how many deaths will it take till he knows
That too many people have died?
The answer, my friend, is blowin' in the wind,
The answer is blowin' in the wind.

How many years can a mountain exist
Before it's washed to the sea?
Yes, 'n' how many years can some people exist
Before they're allowed to be free?
Yes, 'n' how many times can a man turn his head,
Pretending he just doesn't see?
The answer, my friend, is blowin' in the wind,
The answer is blowin' in the wind.

--Bob Dylan
From the album The Freewheelin' Bob Dylan, 1963.

For listening the song click here.

Saturday, June 14, 2003

405 Freeway


Last night, looking at Los Angeles from Getty Museum on the top of the mountain, every thing was mesmerizing. "405 freeway" was passing through the city like a couple of artery and vein. Back red lights of the cars were moving towards the south and the front lights were coming toward me, making them look like a current of blood circulating in a body.
I was looking at the city, thinking if I would have felt more tranquility by looking at nature. I looked at the ocean behind the city and felt the city is like a formicary. One can look at it as a part of the nature. Still, there is a human dimension in the city that differentiates it from the rest of the nature. There is a certain kind of energy there, in the city, that makes it different from all other animal "nests."
Watching the city, for me, is like watching the sea. I can stare at its waves for hours. I can listen to the waves crushing on the shore for hours. There is a mystery that takes me to the sea, makes that gaze in my eyes; and still stays unsolved after watching it.
Last night on the top of the mountain I was thinking about the waves, and I had the same gaze and the same mysterious feeling about Los Angeles, and about 405.

Photo courtesy of Chris Gregerson, Phototour of Minneapolis

Wednesday, June 11, 2003

Demonstrations in Tehran


Demonstrations in Tehran and smell of violence, my friend's e-mail, my own life...
Everything remindes me of that beautiful scene in Los Olvilados, when the blind man wishes the children were dead before they come to this world.

Tuesday, June 10, 2003

Public Radios

There are many public radios playing classical music in Southern California. I know at least three of them. And there are many others which play world music, Jazz music, and alternative music.
Sometimes I thing if we had such radio stations in Iran political future of the country would have changed much faster and more effective than now. I am sure there are many "Ansaar" who will be moved and changed by hearing a piece of good music, and they can't be the same person again.
I remember the time I used to teach in Bahman Art Center in southern Tehran. There was a Piano teacher there -who had got her PhD in Music from a school in Austria- whose especiality was teaching music to children. She was there from 8a.m. to 8p.m. teaching piano to the poor children of "koshtaar-gaah," those who never had a chance to learn piano or even listen to a piece of music. I think that woman did more changes in Iranian political system than any opposition groups outside the country.

Monday, June 09, 2003

A Crossroads


"More than any other time in history, mankind faces a crossroads. One path leads to despair and utter hopelessness. The other, to total extinction. Let us pray we have the wisdom to choose correctly."
--Woody Allen, From "Without Feathers"

Saturday, June 07, 2003


There are nights that I feel extremely alone. Tonight is one of those.

The Wedding


My aunt once told me this story about her wedding day:
She was married at age 13 or 14. At that age she didn't know exactly what the marriage is about. The family had told her that she is going to marry someone whom she didn't know at all, and told her about the date of the wedding. That was all she knew about her own marriage.

At the wedding day the family "prepared" the product -her body and her appearance- with the dress, make-up and all of that stuff and asked her to sit there on a chair facing the guests, and not doing any thing else.
She sat there and after a while they brought her a new "decoration," a new "technology" for an Iranian wedding ceremony in 1930s. It was a series of small light bulbs connected together through a wire, with a button on it to turn the light on and off.
While the others wrapped the light bulbs around her the father asks her, the bride herself, to hold the button and continuously turns the lights on and off. She sits there staring at the gusts in silence the whole night, turning the stupid light on and off ,... on and off.
To me this can be a beautiful scene, sadly beautiful, from a surreal movie. Sometimes our experiences of "Iranian life" goes beyond reality. I think that is the reason Marquez is so popular in Iran. Latin America's Magic Realism is so familiar for Iranians. Their every day life is a mixture of naked reality with something disgustingly unbelievable.

The darkest part of my aunt's story was hearing a word from her, repeatedly, after every sentence: the word was "NEKBAT" (Adversity.)
I don't think any other word can explain our "Makondo" clearer than this one.
Photo: Wedding portrait of Iranian couple, Mahin Khavari and her husband. ca1948. Courtesy of Los Angeles Public Library.

Wednesday, June 04, 2003

From Diaries of a Steppenwolf

From Diaries of a Steppenwolf (Monday, June 02, 2003) who lives in Tehran:
"...Last year when I was in Switzerland, the weather was terribly hot. They said it was once in 30 years! From the hotel where I was residing to the office it was 10 minutes by walk everyday. One day, while going to the office in the morning, I noticed a crowd of 3, 4 people in front of me on the sidewalk looking at something on the ground and discussing. Then someone made a phone call and explained the situation. In less than 2 minutes, municipality car arrives with a siren (no sound, just the light), two people came out and cleaned the dog shit from the pavement.
It's not a joke! But if I had not seen it with my own two eyes, I wouldn't believe it.
Yesterday, I had a one day trip by car, 475 km to go and 475km to come back just to visit a client for 3 hours. Kind of boring. I'm not going to explain the roads condition and traffic security in Iran. Just want to mention that there had been an accident on my way, apparently hours ago, and there were two bodies on the ground, lying down for hours.
I'm not going to conclude a moral for this one. I'm too upset about it..."

- I am not going to comment on what Steppenwolf says. It is just sad.

Tuesday, June 03, 2003

A History of Everyday Things

Take a look at results of my search on for "history of everyday objects." Click here to open a chapter of the book A History of Everyday Things: The Birth of Consumption in France, 1600–1800. It is a PDF file.
The back cover says:
"Things which we regard as the everyday objects of consumption (and hence re-purchase), and essential to any decent, civilised lifestyle, have not always been so: in former times, everyday objects would have passed from one generation to another, without anyone dreaming of acquiring new ones. How, therefore, have people in the modern world become ‘prisoners of objects’, as Rousseau put it? The celebrated French cultural historian Daniel Roche answers this fundamental question using insights from economics, politics, demography and geography, as well as his own extensive historical knowledge. Professor Roche places familiar objects and commodities - houses, clothes, water - in their wider historical and anthropological contexts, and explores the origins of some of the daily furnishings of modern life. A History of Everyday Things is a pioneering essay that sheds light on the origins of the consumer society and its social and political repercussions, and thereby the birth of the modern world."
Who does shed light on the origins of the Iranian surreal society and its social and political repercussions? Somebody should do that.

Two Photographers


Go to the web pages of these two photographers at "":
* Shadafarin Ghadirian:
* Mohsen Rastani
and see how a change in culture can be visualized in photography. These photographs are beautiful, creative, and in the case of Rastani "very Avedon-ian" -which is not bad at all.


Monday, June 02, 2003

The Worthless Objects


How important were the "worthless objects" in the formation of our modern life?
I mean worthless things like "spices" which were the main reason for Europeans to try to find a way for reaching India. "Spices" were the reason for passing the Atlantic ocean and the "discovery" of the New World and all the disasters and beauties that followed it.
Or things like sewing machine and zipper which were invented in 19th century. They transformed the style of clothing in the next 100-150 years, but their role in this transformation is not mentioned that much. I go one step forward and ask myself what is their role in the transformation of human beings' lifestyle and behaviors? Without the invention of sewing machine and zipper the mass production of jeans -and informal clothing in general- could not be possible. Informal clothing have changed the way people stand and walk all over the world. So one can ask himself how much these kinds of inventions have been affected the way we talk and walk today?
What about pencils, fountain pens, and ball pens? How much the invention of these little writing machines has transformed our writing habits, our literature and our daily life? How important they have been in establishing a modern system of documentation and measurement for every thing?
What about watches and clocks? By beginning to use them human beings developed a feeling for "minutes" and "seconds." Watches and clocks completely changed our conception of time. The quantitative measurement of time -that used to be more of an unclear feeling- transformed a vague concept to an exact measurement of hours, minutes, and seconds. And quantitative measurement of time made many other concepts measurable as well. In this story of eggs and chickens one can ask if these inventions owe their existence to the modern science or it is the science that owes them its rebirth.
I think a history of worthless objects might tell us more than what we think about humans and the way our modern mind works.

Sunday, June 01, 2003

Translations in My Head

How can I get rid of these translations in my mind? When do I begin to think in English? It looks like it never happens. I am destined to do the painfull process of translating my thoughts from Persian to English, forever.
After living here in the US for about seven years I haven’t still found an English word for kaashki. A word that brings to life all that sorrow and longing hidden in the Persian word.


This is the first sentence of the labyrinth, a documentation of my daily trips into the strange process called life.