Choices we have

I was watching Matrix, Reloaded. It was quite a movie, definitely a good one in Sci-Fi genre, because it's one of few movies that could drag me to the theatre; I don't like most Sci-Fi movies. There were some lines about choice in the movie said by the architect of the Matrix, the guy with white beard and the look of a wizard on his face (I don't know why but he reminded me Sigmund Freud). I don't remember the exact words, I am just paraphrasing one of them: "The bad thing is that we have the choice." I don't know if it's true or not. I mean I don't know if we do have choice at all. We don't get to choose between life and the quick wrap up death in a tissue when we are in the form of a sperm. We don't get to choose our race, our gender, our nationality, our first language (which is the ground basis for our personality almost for our life time), we don't get to choose our family. We don't get to choose stay innocent like a child, we have to grow up, otherwise we will be called retarded. We don't get to choose our politicians while we are minors, we can't even choose not to be or to be a minor. We don't get to choose not to live even if we live in a hell because life is a must to do, no question on that base on all social norms and even abnorms, and finally we don't get to choose stay alive as long as we want. So do we have choice or not?

Virtual voices

I've been participating in a group project called Virtual narrators. It is a kind of polyphonic ensemble. We all virtual narrators write in Farsi and the goal is to write a novel without a linear direction of a story or any direction or story at all. There is no rule how to write or what to write; something between democracy and anarchy. I am Iranian, born in a country full of dictatorship in its past and present. I live in abroad, but most of the participants of this project live in Iran. They write whatever they desire or whatever they think they should, having the fact that they live under a permanent shadow of fear. Recently, the young weblogger and journalist Sina Motallebi has been arrested and been in custody ever since, just because he was writing his weblog freely and he might have crossed some lines. Lines that you can't find them in law books. These lines are invisible to people. That's why writers, artists and activists never know when they are crossing a line and when they are going to be punished. Despite this uncertainty of law, people, specially young ones take the risk and do what they want. They write weblogs freely, wear what they want, speak out, party, they make love; even though they know all of the above is forbidden or considered as sin. And I salute them.

Should we speak out or not?

I've been in situations that I speak out my mind and once the words are out there, I regret the hell out of my brain. Oh god! Why did I say that? Shit! Damn it! etcetra etcetra. In those moments I think to myself honesty is just too much for people. I am not going to speak out my brain like this again. The world doesn't deserve the truth. blah blah bloody blah. And I tried to be like that, not a truth teller - not that I am a liar or something, I just keep the truth to myself, I guess I am a hider as oppose to a liar - and I thought it's a rule in adulthood world therefore I should feel mature when I hide a truth, but I don't. It's a fake pseudo glibby disgusting maturity which suites just those who want to play life cool; but they are so NOT cool.

And then I've been in very unique situations that I don't speak out and I don't put myself out there and the situation goes on waste. I am talking about those unique moments that happen once in a lifetime and you have your chance to step up and toss the truth to the face of the moment. So, shall we?

Moore guts

It takes a lot Moore guts to criticize your own people using a broad range media such as cinema and it takes even Moore guts to go on to a victorious Oscar stage and instead of "yakking a bunch of names" and "thanking the whole world that made this happened" kinda crap, condemn your president and question the legitimacy of his position and his administration's decision. Even the 400 pounds gorilla like Dennis Miller deserted on that matter after 9/11. The fact is that, Mr. Moore's accomplishment is more than just a speech in Oscar ceremony. I've been following his works since 1999, a little while after I came to Canada. I remember his fabulous documentary Awful Truth then his book Stupid White Men and finally his documentary Bowling for Columbine. His success in that movie is more than just getting his voice heard by average Americans. He and two of the stars in his movie, made the giant chain store K-Mart to stop selling bullets in a its stores as well as the real image that he showed from that old jerk/dinosaur Charlton Heston. I remember the commercials of Heston's phony videos on Christianity, and the way he was acting in those videos as if he was a saint himself. When in a scene of Bowling... Heston turned his back to the camera and walked away from his guest at his own house, one could feel how awful is the bitterness of reality.

Great job, Michael! Keep up on it.

After all this long period of uncertainties in my personal life, I get a bit of peace of mind, but the world is on fire and how one could enjoy this personal moment. The war, S.A.R.S. and the economy. It's like chaos is finding its routine to happen on a regular basis. When was the last time that human beings had peace of mind in this planet, ever, at all? Is chaos and confusion nature of man kind or it's just some of us who are trouble makers?

Coulda, Shoulda, Woulda?
Past, Present, Phuture?

I wish I could reach to the pure detachment of time; detachment of places and people from past or present. How can we live each moment as brand new as it happens? It seems almost impossible. When I go back to a place that I've built up towers of memories in there, I miss the moment that I am in, the very present time, the very present moment that is passing me by and is supposed to be joyful like love making, I miss it because I'm replaying the past in my mind. Like I am stuck in a cage of memories. How could I reach the pureness of moment? a sort of wide awake consciousness of NOW. Is time just a theory in our minds or it actually exists? If it's just a theory why can't we over-write a piece of present on the past? And if it exists why can't I feel the absolute joy of present time? I wish I could tear apart the past and live life moment by moment.
Never mind about the future. That WILL never exist.

Is history a bastard or what?

It's been said recently that Iran's western borders will be the biggest refuge camp for Iraqis in case of any US military action against Iraq. It hasn't been a long time for all of us to forget the war between two neighbors, Iran and Iraq in 1980s. How weird is that a once enemy-land could turn to a safety zone? Is it history that lies to us or the reality while it's happening? How many more reasons do we need to convince ourselves about ugliness of the fabrication of war? It's gonna be torn off sooner or later but to what price? And the cost does not just overweight on shoulders of one or two nations. The rallies of Saturday showed that it is a global concern. The cost is too expensive for all of us. The temperature was -25 on Saturday in Toronto downtown, I was there and so were hundreds of different races. I was crying out loud with thousands of Iraqis hand in hand here in Toronto rally. Not that I have forgotten those days of panic back in 1980s, when Saddam's missiles were flying over my head and powdered down a 4 storey building full of 8 to 10 years old kid guests attending a birthday party in the centre of my town. I remember every single moment of then so vivid. I have just lost my faith to the truth. There is no such a thing. Truth is just a philosophical difference, nothing else.

Let us have a louder voice in next rally.

First Sex and the Second Cup

In a cold cold day of January in Toronto, I walked into one of those fancy looking branches of The Second Cup, the chain coffee shop. I was looking for a second shift job; thank Air Canada's Mr. Milton who ruined canadian airline industry and put thousands of skilled workers out of job. I asked for the manager immediately. She was so busy with running this money making machine and serving coffee. I asked if they have any opennings, she asked for a resume. "I don't have any coffee shop experience" I responded. "But I still need to see your resume." she said.
Next day I went there with a useless IT resume in hand, after almost half an hour the manager said I am busy, just leave the resume and we will contact you. I did that. Long story short, after two weeks going back and forth she called and said wants to see me. Then handed me a video and wanted me to watch it and come back next day for two hours work. I watched the video very carefully and took some notes, reviewed the notes several times and went there next day. By the way, I forgot to mention, all the other workers in that store were females except one guy who was from the same country as the manager was originally. Next day I went there and began the job. Then at the end of the shift she said that I have to work 20 hours voluntarily so that she could decide whether I am a "suitable person" for this job or not. Yes! You read it right: twenty freaking hours of free labor for a simple job of selling a crappy cup of coffee or wiping the tables. And you guessed it right, I needed the job so I agreed to commit to this shameful slavery. "You need to correct one thing." she added at the end. "Correct what?" I said. "You have to be louder when you are serving the customer". She said.
Next day, she wasn't there. I began my job with enthusiasm. My co-workers told me to relax, it's just a simple work and bluh bluh bluh. Then suddenly, the manager appeared as a customer and asked for a muffin and she grabbed her son and sat right in front of the counter to observe from a customer’s perspective I suppose. Next day I had to start at 12:00. I grabbed the key of the changing room to hang my jacket. The manager came close to me. "What time were you supposed to start your job?" She asked with a grumpy face. "12:00" I said and looked at the big Second Cup clock on the wall. It was 12:04. I didn't have my watch with me to compare my time and see if I was late or it was just a asynchronous time difference. "You are always late. I have to send you home." She said while she was wiping the counter. I was surprised. Because I never was late before, besides this was my third working day and she wasn't even there on the previous day. "But…" I couldn't finish my sentence. She said the same thing and left pretending busy.

On my way home I tried to flash back and see what I did was wrong. Abso-fucking-lutely nothing. Here is a thought. I am an ordinary boring looking guy and not attractive enough to attrack the shoppers in to the store as opposed to the other Second Sexers behind the counter who can attract the customers to stay for the second cup. It's the only explanation I could come up with. What do you think?

People and places

I wonder if there is a magic in the spirit of places, streets or cities, some grow deep roots in people's soles. What is this magic? Does it come from the solid constructed soil and sand, the metals and the shiny glassy walls? Or it comes from us; human beings and the events that take place there?
I am standing in a corner, in Washington square, NYC; watching the crowd, it moves like a giant wave. I spot Jeremy and Simon among the crowd. Jeremy is a tourist from San Francisco. He was rubbed last night by a group of youngsters, right there. He hates that spot, even Manhattan and the big apple. And Simon is walking there too. He is a New Yorker. He used to love Washington square, because he met Angela in the same spot five years ago. She was his greatest love ever. But they broke up three years later. He was in pain and sorrow for a long time. It took him more than two years to get over her. Since then this monument reminds him Angela and the grief he went through.

But we know that Washington square has been the same for decades, no matter who is passing by or how we feel about it.

My new homeland, my former enemy's friend.

It is ironic few weeks after I received my Canadian citizenship and I relocated to Montréal/Quebec I saw this documentary about Gerald Bull on CBC's Fifth estate. I found his finger prints all over my nightmares back in a big slice of my and many others' lives:

If and when arms inspectors return to Iraq, they will be on the lookout for all kinds of biological and chemical weapons of mass destruction (See "The Secret Killer"). But they will also be looking at Saddam Hussein's conventional arsenal. And experts predict they may just come upon blueprints - maybe even fingerprints - belonging to the late Gerald Bull. Once a darling of the North American defense establishment, Canadian Gerald Bull spent his last years in exile in Belgium, dreaming up powerful weapons and selling his designs to whomever he chose. And though his life ended in a hail of bullets a decade ago, his legacy lives on...CBC Newsworld - Fifth estate
During the Iran-Iraq war we were living hundreds miles away from the front line, but once in a while Saddam bombed Tehran or fired missiles toward the capital. Many civilians were killed. We were living in a state of fear for 8 years, though we were the lucky ones, never mind about those who got killed or paralyzed. Here is the ironic part, those missiles were crafted by a Canadian astrophysicist, Gerald Bull. He began researching and developing the predecessors of those missiles back in 1960s in McGill university here in Montréal.
I remember vividly on a weekend night, one of those missiles hit a 4 storey building in a busy residential area. That night there was a birthday party in that building and more than 40 kids were burnt to ashes instantly.

The truth is...

Now that Bush's party has taken over all the three power spots, god knows how far he's gonna go with his aggression. Now he has all the supports and he is gonna monkey around more and more. It's ironic that many Americans indicate that Bush is not that nation's actual choice (I remember watching a debate on BBC channel weeks ago, when Michael Moore was asked about Bush's foreign policy, he said first of all he is not a legitimate president; and he began ranting about the Florida ballots). With all due respect to Amircans like Michael Moore, I disagree about illegitimacy of Mr. Bush, they have shown over and over that rednecks like Bush or Reagan are their choice and, oops they did it again. Americans knew that if the Republicans win this week election, Bush will get more support for his yahooing in his foreign policies and they gave him this support, quite consciously and deliberately.

The Black Crow is gone!

He was a blogger, Iranian, 33. He was living in London, Britain. His real name was Kassra Movahhed. He was an interactive multimedia expert.I didn't know him before the news. I read about him here and there. He committed suicide in his apartment. This was his fourth attempt. I don't know what to say. I didn't know him but still feel quite shocked. Some say he was one of the victims of chemical bombs in the war between Iran and Iraq.
He wrote dark humor in his blog. A note was found on his monitor saying:

A crow wants to fly,
Leave the wings alone!

Meep up! How damn it?

This is the second time that I go to the bloggers meeting, arranged by Meetup.com and I can't find anyone. I hate it when it happens.

Too close in fact

A glass of Noir in your hand
On its dark rouge surface
Two green moons
Blazing out a secret.
How deep should I dive in,
To capture the secret?

I have a good friend who is a translator from English to Farsi. His name is Ahmad. He has quite a varied translations from Lorca and Neruda to Anton Chekhov, even very contemporaries like James Finn Garner. Mr. Garner has a very funny story about Ahmad's translation of his book Politically Correct Bedtime Stories. Check it out.

:: Iranians mostly are medium dark skin colour, with brown eyes and brown hair, but at the same time there is a variety of physical appreance, like green/blue eyes, blonde/red hair, very bright skin (moonlightish), tall, short, hairy, bald, bushy eyebrows, big noses, acceding small noses and et cetera. With this variety of looks, when you as an Iranian live in abroad it is not easy to recognize another Iranian specially when they are not speaking (no matter what language), but as soon as they catch each other eye to eye, that's it, voilà! An exchange of smile, or nod of heads shouts "Hi you fellow Iranian,...". And how they do that? I don't know exactly, It's all in that wireless eye to eye connection. The look at people's eyes all the time, friends' eyes , family's, even strangers'.

Meet up!

I was so excited about Blog meeting, a combo of bloggers and montrealers, the best thing that could happen at this deadly quiet slice of my life.
I went there, the Second cup @ 1551 St. Denis, I entered, most of the tables were taken by loners, reading or hiding their loneliness, there was one table occupied by three young deaf people, communicating with their own language, which was foreign to me, and then two beautiful girls sitting at another table, I wish they were bloggers, but they said no and they thought I was trying to make a conversation - and I was - and the only group left there was the party of three Second Cup makers behind the counter, I didn't think they were bloggers; so disappointed I grabbed a shitty coffee and took over a corner, I hid my loneliness behind my first Second Cup. I don't know how good I did. Were you there? Tell me.

Why? Why? Why American politicians don't learn from the history? Another war? Another invasion, regime change? Is this a vicious circle? The big nose of American foreign policy and in response more violence from barbaric fenaticism and again and again and again. I am sick of both sides. I just hate two things, religious and power of politicians, but never could ignor'em. They have been overshadowing the life since ever and obivousely for ever.

This is my first post of this blog. I mostly write in my Farsi blog. English is my second language. The bad news is things here occationally may not make sense, but the good news is we can blame it all on my english, even if it's me who doesn't make sense. (like this!!! I don't know what the hell I'm trying to say.)
I hope I can catch and cut good slices of life and write them down here everyday, but sometimes some slices of life just grab my throat so tight and they won't let go of me. That's when you'll see just a blank page and nothing more.