perston

The Journey

2011-12-23T12:34:00.000-05:00

"I gathered Love's adjectives

into a suitcase and

fled from all languages"

Nizar Qabbani

I pack a suitcase

as my life emerges

In journeys

The lightness of drifting

Is loaded with

such gravity

that I have never found

In any home

But what is a home after all,

Other than

A shapeless word.

When I journey,

Colours change,

Yellow is warmer in LA

Red in Boston

Green in Tehran

In each voyage,

Details take over

And general things become

Unimportant.

In each quest I find

A woman I didn't know before

In Westwood cafes,

I become shy,

And the weight of each curious gaze

makes me seventeen again.

[Sometimes in London,

I am forty

as if I have been walking a lifetime

Along the Thames]

When I travel,

I become.

I listen more.

I fear less

I walk endless strolls

Even in Los Angeles, where walking

Is a rare disease.

I feel the pilgrimage in my sore foot soles

And those blisters

Are bliss.

When I journey

Nothing can seem

Banal

And nothing can feel

dull,

Even the only four pieces of

Clothes that I wear

Everyday.

My odyssey

Comes to life on platforms

On trails, in gates, on the go

Breaching time

Lifting me up

Building me a home

Piece by piece,

In fragments.

LA, Feb 2009

Rituals

2011-05-11T12:45:00.000-05:00

I am scared
Of calling it a dream
For it may never
Come true

But there you were
Holding the lighter
The way no one else does
As if it were a pigeon, sitting
On the palm of your hand,
Facing you
Your tall fingers sheltering it
And then, as if you were
Stroking its feathers with your thumb
You rested your thumb on the trigger

Tilting your head
Tapping your cigarette upside down
On the packet
Before lighting it
Your way.

Rituals, bloody rituals,
Are what separate the thought of you
From the rest of

My world.

May 11th, 2011
Houston

One Step Out of this World

2011-04-11T20:28:00.004-05:00

It was,
Before anything else,
The world,
That we left behind
Stepping into Kettners;
Newcomers
standing out invisibly
among jolly crowds
of Soho

It was
Me, walking my way
Through the snowfall
On Bury Place
Heading to the little
Shop that was filled
With the smell of old books

It was you
Stranger than strangers
Who knew yet what it was
To sculpt sorrows
Into humour

And then I remember
And re-member
Picture after picture
Sound after sound;
Rushing black cabs,
Christmas crowds,
Vintage back and whites, and
Revolving bar windows
At The Lamb
The way you had with words
Echoes of jingle bells
Slushy pavements
Sofra's Turkish coffee,
Tiny boutiques, lining Barrett Street
St Christopher's Place
My charcoal winter hat
Hustle and bustle
The Independent's headlines on
Student protests
You asking me what
My green bracelet meant
Me leaving the world behind
for a moment or two

... The weight of my wellies
The colour of your checked shirt
My story
Your smile
All
Framed by the gateway leading
to the train station..

It was
A step
Outside this world
Where
You and I
Met,
last.

April 11, 2011

The Postcard from Berlin

2011-04-03T13:43:00.003-05:00

The postcard
From Berlin

It's corners
Are turning yellow
So is the image of the two ballerinas

And as I pin the card
Above my desk
The thought of you
Melts
First in my heart
Then in my eyes
And runs
Down my face

And yet
I am still
And forever
A struggling poet
For, the thought of you
Is the poem that
Escapes words
Always in the making
In my heart.

April 2, 2011
Houston

“Sitting cross-legged on my own and yet I am not alone… Trafalgar, Trafalgar, don’t let me down..”

2009-10-03T11:08:00.004-05:00

And autumn, the darling of my seasons arrived. She arrived at me when I was not looking; but isn’t that the story of unlived lives? And Autumn arrived; I know the exact time and place, where she threw herself on the night, and marked that very moment that separated the night from the sunrise. She marked London for good. She threw herself on the pedestal, right by admiral Nelson’s feet, in Trafalgar square. The winds were quiet. Black taxi cabs going around, red telephone booths standing still, London had the look of an ordinary night; except there is nothing ordinary about a flame under the ashes. And just like that, she confronted me. She bumped into my silence, ever so cruelly if I may, the way she never had. And the sun came out.

And there were footsteps that broke the silence of the lions that guard the solitude of the square. And there was the chilly morning of an Autumn that no one had expected, right there, right then.

There are moments, coloured by falling leaves, one after another, in a city where so much is to be lived. Or not. When the unexpected is too good to be true.

There are pieces that I have left behind in Trafalgar square, in that vast moment when autumn arrived. There are pieces to be collected one day perhaps, when these winds quiet down; when London stops haunting me.

And there is Russell square, and the fields. One can swallow the bitter of the hardest decisions in an espresso shot; and one can stand up again; and one can walk back. There is so much one can do, in autumn, in this city.

And there is Fleet street, where history rests. And there is Soho, where one can forget. And there is Holborn, where early birds have seen sleepless faces part. And there is the London House gates, where a story can end before it begins.

Autumn lies on my mind, on my chest, like a heavy burden. She doesn’t say a word; what’s there to say after all? She had never arrived at me with such conviction . And I am sorry I cannot be graceful. I am sorry I cannot say I understand; for I do not.

Autumn 2009, London.

Nizar Qabbani

2008-08-13T09:48:00.004-05:00

He is my favorite of all times, he is the Neruda of the Arab world, talking of love and justice at the same time...
Just a few poem here, from a rainy summer in Montreal...

Light Is More Important Than The Lantern

Light is more important than the lantern,
The poem more important than the notebook,
And the kiss more important than the lips.
My letters to you
Are greater and more important than both of us.
The are the only documents
Where people will discover
Your beauty,
and my madness.

Every Time I Kiss You

Every time I kiss you
After a long separation
I feel
I am putting a hurried love letter
In a red mailbox.

Jerusalem

I wept until my tears were dry
I prayed until the candles flickered
I knelt until the floor creaked
I asked about Mohammed and Christ

Jerusalem, beloved city of mine,
tomorrow your lemon trees will bloom,
your green stalks and branches rise up joyful,
and your eyes will laugh. Migrant pigeons
will return to your holy roofs
and children will go back to playing.
Parents and children will meet
on your shining streets,
my city, city of olives and peace.

Orchid

2008-04-11T23:41:00.003-05:00

I never found out whether
or not there was a reason
why they called me Orchid

never did I realize how rooted I was
in pain, until the day I found
the purple Orchid you gave me
lying between the pages
of my Hafez collection.

I never knew how many winters
an Orchid could survive. Hardly did I know
how many springs of joy
can be born
when all that matters, is
to have roots
deep in a life that stems from soil;
for death is always ephemeral

Transparent skin, waiting for a touch
Don't let the Orchid make you believe
she is fragile
Her roots are as deep as a lover's melancholy,
and as tough as a martyr's pride;

It is the cold wind running in her veins
telling all she has to do is
to brave the whipping of storms;
Another spring is always ahead...

Orkideh
summer, 2007 - Maamaani left us.
Boston

Smile

2006-10-06T17:30:00.001-05:00

It is cold outside. I am sitting on the stairs, holding a cup of tea in my hands, this is my break out of office. I look at the river. The sailing boats are still, all in a row. Sipping over my paper cup of tea, I whisper an old Iranian song to myself, for a change. It the first Friday evening of October. It is exactly one year an one month and eleven days that I am living in the US of confusion. My face must be telling it all; since a stranger, a wanderer approaches me. He must be in his mid-fifties, his clothes are worn out, his shoe laces are following him from a distance. He could be drunk, or else, he might come and ask if I have a cigarette. I look the other way, at the river again. He is close now, when he points to me and says: "How about a smile?". I look at him, and Smile comes and sits on my face, on my lips, without any effort. "Don't you feel better now?" He says. His witty way of looking at me makes me nod: Yes. "See? I had to come and tell you what to do to feel better!". He then walks away, and I am still smiling. He was right. He had to come and tell me what to do to feel better. I do feel better. I think to myself perhaps I should keep smiling when the cascade of thoughts invade my mind. He is gone, his smile though is still sitting on my face. I should go back to my office. It is cold, but it feels warmer when you have a wide smile on your face...

"Let not talk of chains or things we cannot untie..."*

2006-08-09T22:09:00.000-05:00

"...your hair upon the pillow like a sleepy golden storm,
yes, many loved before us, I know that we are not new,
in city and in forest they smiled like me and you,
but now it's come to distances and both of us must try,
your eyes are soft with sorrow,
Hey, that's no way to say goodbye..."

* Leonard Cohen

The wind, the wind again. I walk by the river and look at the sailing boats, lingering seductively in the hands of the wind. I envy their light-headedness. Cambridge is awaiting another season pretty soon. I should get prepared for the falling leaves. Sooner than you know, will come the indian summer. Though I am still stuck in these sticky nights of my first summer in Cambridge. I am stuck in a sticky dream, a vast moment, a vivid Déjà vu. The more I want to slip away, the more I get stuck. Too good a moment to let go, I said to the wind. Little did the wind care. I wish summer would never end. I should have known, should have known moments could become larger than life.
I shall write one day, stories of a life that I never lived. I shall look one day, at this river thinking to myself how many moments I let go by. I will listen one day, to all the songs that are playing in my head these days, and nostalgia will seep into my heart. I will think one day, of all the thoughts I ever fought, and will smile perhaps, thinking how young I have once been. I will try one day, to remember how exactly I felt once I knew I was living unlived moments that were not supposed to be the way they were. I will go one day, to every place I once loved, and will try to make sense of who I have been in those very moments of mingling with life, as if tomorrow would never arrive. I will smile one day, when I think of how broad a moment could be, when you lived it fully to the end. I will cry one day, when I think of how brief a moment could be, when it was too good to be true. I will come back one day, for sure, for "I will always have cambridge"...

Presence: Omnipresence?

2006-07-04T16:09:00.000-05:00

"...Tell me about about London, about what you feel these days, what you experience. But don't ask me about here. Things are nothing close to what I can put in words these days. I am still thinking about the lingual worlds we live in. Summer is here, and I am wandering about, trying to read and write a bit. I am to figure out a lot about myself, about where I stand, let a lone where I am standing right now. Something is telling me that these are starnge days, do you feel their weirdness too? what chapter of time is this? Or does time have any chapters at all? I so wish you could read my persian blog, I had a piece on how i wish I could have lived at the time of the previous generation. It was a lengthy poetic piece of prose which came out of the most hidden corners of my heart, my mind and my dreams. I figured I am living in many different times, and yet in none of them. What does it take for the virtual to become actual? And when I think about a place to belong to, I realize I cannot spot one. The entire world perhaps, is where I am to reside in. It goes though hand in hand with "time". There was a time when you could have belonged to one particular geography. Now, we are all extended into vast amounts of lands and spaces by wires, waves, and words. Words travel beyond boundries, and worlds are shaped around them. There will be a day in future, when nations will be land-less. However modern and giving it would be, Isn't it sort of scary though? I had also written about the modern man; about how lonely the modern man is. Having taken off, to fly in search of the ultimate dream, s/he feels more and more lost. Not being bound to a ground, and having questioned the forbidden territories of meanings, s/he finds herself in an "in between" mode of experience all the time, feeling the pressure of having to move on, and unable to put even one step backwards. Yeah, this path goes only forward. The more you go ahead, the more you have to go. Free, feeling the clouds beneath her wings, yet she feels alone. Of all prices, that homy sense of security and familiarity is the most expensive one for this flight.

I have lost track of "time" with its meaningless linear presence. These days, time seems just like a circle to me, like a globe, round and revolving. It has layers. From its cortex to its core, there are worlds that I have lived in, there are "me"s, there are moments. I feel them all at the same time. These days, my clock shows "all the times" , i can't tell the date, and these digital numbers make me laugh. I wish I could remain "time"less, so long as I live in this country. Tell me about the city where once upon a time, the thirteen year old "me" was sitting right across the river in Westminster, when an old wanderer -poorly dressed and holding unto a big back pack- sat next to her on the bank of the river, and told her "You deserve a lot, but you will suffer a lot...". The man vanished, and left me for all these years, with a moment that froze forever. I can't describe that moment, unless I manage to capture every detail of that day, the warmth of the sunshine that i felt on my skin, the smell of the cool breeze over the river, the voice of children playing behind me, the smell of summer, grass, ice cream vans, water.... Because that was how that moment was shaped. That moment was one of the very, that got immortalized, like a photograph, like snap shots of just "being". Some moments are so vast, that words can never capture them, particularly when I am humbly trying to borrow words from a language which can never ever be enough to talk for what I feel. But it does not matter. All that matters now, is the presence of all the moments, including that eternal moment, in "now". These days, time is flat, and of an all-the-same nature. What has become of me?
Tell me about a city where I left that thirteen year old in a hot summer. Tell me about places that I later shared my twenties with. I was in Notting Hill last night, sitting right here with closed eyes. I was waiting for the Oxford Tube, to go back to Oxford in a late evening. It was cold, and I had my famous black hat on. It was a summer night here, warm and sticky. But I could feel the cold of a January night, as it was then. All it took me was a blink of an eye, to come back to this other Cambridge, to MIT, to the US of A. Times and places blended in my mind, as I made a pass to our house in Tehran on my way, and I sat at the dinner table with my parents, and felt the warmth of my mother's hands. It is as if you have departed from this body, and have become a wandering soul, infinite and omnipresent.
I am here now, nowhere, somewhere between all the places I have ever been. Some time around all the times, some person like all the persons I have been; and yet, nothing like any of them. Tell me about London, and tell me about yourself. Has "time" become circular at your end too?"

From a letter to a friend in London, July 2006.

The Ugly Duckling...

2006-06-12T16:35:00.002-05:00

MIT's graduation ceremony was a blast. It was beautiful, my first time in a US commencement ceremony. Mira, Takis, Dimitri, Hazhir, Maryam, Rouzbeh and many other friends were marching in those long gowns (well, I need to switch my vocabulary: robes, as they are called here), and joy and pride was floating in the air. The class of 1956 were there too, for the 50th anniversary of their graduation, all in red jackets. It was moving to watch them, having made it to here, to Killian Court again. There were only few ladies among them.

yesterday, we lost the game to Mexico, there is more to the world cup tension though than just games. While watching the game, me and my fellow Iranians, were reminded on and on how political a world we live in. It was very unprofessional on the commentator's part, to constantly summarize Iran's political issues instead of reporting the game. It was distracting and humiliating. I don't understand this. Neither do I understand this crazy world anymore; how people kill people and no one does anything; how those written-on-stone- (and paper) rules of the international organizations are of no use or meaning in our world; how paranoia has taken over; and how we have become so numb, so de-sentisized to all this. We live in this paranoid schizophrenic world -or rather panoptican- of fear and terror, and nothing explains it. Games over games, and I cannot make sense of it anymore.

I belong there, and I don't know where that is...

2006-06-07T22:21:00.000-05:00

The sense of belonging to some sort of a group, community, or people, is what we are all looking for. This uprootedness, this displacement that we go through as a people, is what blinds us to this very lost sense of belonging. It hit me at the IAMA (Iranian American Medical Association) meeting in NJ last week -where I had the greatest time with old friends as well as newly met ones- that we are all but a part of this mystique of words and sounds and emotions, called Iranian-ness. No matter how far or how long away, no matter where raised, one would feel it when the US-raised youth dance passionately with Iranian music, get emotional by Rumi's poetry, and excuse their backs when they sit in the row in front of you. It feels safe, it feels familiar, it feels "us". I was almost giving up that it actually existed. But I felt it there, the same sense of family, the same grace and honour, the same catch phrases and famous sayings. It felt so right, and I was so grateful just to be there. I felt I belonged to somewhere, to some virtual/invisible homeland, one that lives in our hearts and minds and words, one that we try hard to preserve in our souls, one that may never exist anywhere.

There was a moment, when a young doctor showed me a poem he had written, in Pinglish (Persian, in English writing/letters). I shall never forget that moment, when it just hit me that something new is about to happen, something different, something unexpected, yet inevitable. What is this thing about this language, that you can write a poem in it even without knowing how to write it... The pinglish poem was so honest, so pure, that I realized a new chapter in my people's history is about to begin. To me, the persian language is the feel of those beautiful words, woven into each other in a beautiful work of calligraphy. That is what I was raised with, what I know as my language, the couplets of Rumi written in Nasta'ligh, Ghazals of Hafiz painted in words. Right. But I cannot help but see the coming of a new time, a new era, wherein my children's children may create their feeling of that language in a different way, a way that I might not understand after all. I am attached to that language, to those letters, to those words. I know them the way I lived them, they way I felt them. They will learn it their own way. It will not be the same, never. I might not even like it. But it will be pure, from the heart, and honest. It will be a choice nonetheless. I shall remember the moment when I read that poem: those Persian words were so unfamiliar, marching before my eyes in English letters. It was such a strange feeling, yet it was fuled by the honesty and purity of those words. That moment was like a close-up of what the Diaspora is about. It was so moving.

Rain

2006-06-07T21:00:00.001-05:00

" I remember flying from tehran to London, and then from London to Oxofrd, and thinking to myself: How is it possible that I was in Tajrish, on Pahlavi Ave in Tehran some 8 hours ago, and now i suddenly found myself on Queen Street in Oxford. I remember vividly that I could not make any sense of it. My feelings, my mind, even my body was stretched between continents, and I had to accept it. It was strange.

You will have a lot to ponder about this week, to find yourself back in London, and to make sense of what you feel now that you are back. You know, an iranian friend is going to London this weekend for 2 months for an internship, like many others. I had to show him last night, on the Tube map, the whereabouts of his office and his flat. After so long, i used that map, and felt I am getting in touch with a lost part of my mind. That map felt secure, safe and familiar. It was in my pocket for three years, I knew the order of the stations of each line, the red one in particular. Marble arch or Baker st was where i always got off from the oxford coach and invited myself to a long walk and coffee on oxford street, behind selfridges in those italian cafes, where many of my poems are signed and dated. The last time though, was when I left the american embassy on Grosvenor Street, and went to an old cafe -i don't remember the name- and wrote a poem called "the embassy". That was my last visit from London, followed by an evening in Zuma, and a trip back to Oxford. Now that I look at this map, I realized what a large portion of my childhood, my formative moments, as well as my twenties, is left there. I woul do anything for a short visit from that city this summer, but you know it is sort of not possible now. I don't know how long I can handle this anger, this frustration, for not being able to get out of this country without risking my studies, my visa and my return. Last time I was in london was 19th of June, the embassy day which turned out to be a beautiful day and eve, once I was over the long queuing for my visa interview. It will soon be a year, but i feel it is ten years already.

It is pouring here, the rain will not stop until the weekend. It is Mansoon season here I guess. A bit gloomy, and heavy, heavy rain... I envy the sky, I wish I could cry like this now. I can't, it is a while that I am carrying this unknown thing , clogged in my throat, and it wouldn't become tears. I need to fly."

From a letter to a friend who works in London - June 2006 - The other Cambridge, MA

No Words Is My Language...

2006-05-23T01:22:00.000-05:00

There is a time zone
Beyond moments
There is a language
Beyond words
It is not Persian
It is not Greek or Spanish
It is not even English
It is the language of "moments",
And of a presence,
Floating in the air
Its words are soft,
-Yet moving
Its grammar is eternal,
-Yet unreachable
It is not spoken
But felt
It is not heard
But lived
And here I am
Unspoken, unheard,
But present, but lived
Lived along a moment, that is elusive
Present along a time,
Who is not on my side
It has never been,
It may never be,
Yet at the end of the day,
Time is a fallacy
Blind to its illusions
And life? An epiphany
Wherein you can speak a language of
-Unspoken words.

There are very few people who speak
The language of no words
Yet when they do,
Reach for the moment,
Or the moment will pass you by…

Sad? Maybe,
Yet sad is beauty,
Sad is the truth,
Sad is the essence of pure presence,
-felt to marrow-

Lasting? Never,
But eternal in me,
For the language of no words,
Is the one to be shared - along eternity-
With he who knows the word for silence

Stripped of words I am
Look! Look that other way
Where quietly disappears
A dream of hundred colors dancing in the twilight…

Orkideh
1:10 am, May 23rd 2006
Cambridge

Becoming

2006-05-12T00:09:00.001-05:00

Displaced on and on, the Diaspora is granted a space to Become, through challenges and hardships. There is nothing easy to it, but I am thinking to myself what a unique opportunity it could be, should one live it consciously. My home is not defined by those torturous lines on the World Map; rather, my home is my culture, is every culture, or else, it is the culture that I will create along the way. My home lives in me, wherever I go. This way, I belong everywhere. My identity rejects borders, the same way it embraces an ever-lasting love and concern for my homeland. How can I ever exclude human beings who do not speak my language or who do not know why my new year starts in March? In every language, in every culture and in every land, lies a space for a new “me” to become. Why should I ignore such an enriching moment?

Where Is The Line Between Feeling and Knowing?

2006-01-31T01:13:00.001-05:00

Sometimes you just like to fool yourself,
Noone else would know how much joy can lie
in that very foolishness.

Sometimes insanity is all,
When you feel the touch of a moment,
When you catch the eyes -of a stranger-
With words in them
It lives but in your dreams,
You are but "sur la lune"
Although, all you do is smile

No one would know, but the mother earth
Alas, these are only moments,
And you keep wondering
Why they cannot last,

Then -much to your dismay-
You need to have the wisdom,
Not to let the foolishness take over,
And you need to know how to put yourself together,
And let the moment be just past

But what a pity it is
That, Only can you "sing with all the voices of the mountain"*
and "paint with all the colors of the moon"*,
Never, but In those very moments of insanity,
And this, you will realize very soon...

---------------------------------
* "Have you ever heard the wolf cry to the blue corn moon
Or asked the grinning bobcat why he grinned
Can you sing with all the voices of the mountain
Can you paint with all the colors of the wind
Can you paint with all the colors of the wind"

"Colors Of The Wind" -- Vanessa Williams

Exile from Exile

2006-01-23T02:13:00.000-05:00

Looking at the city -shining like a diamond- from the top of Prudential tower, I am thinking to myself how small we are in the big picture. It is good to go up there once in a while, to be reminded of this small-ness. And yet, each of us is a world of dilemmas and questions, sharing our uniqueness -as my intellectual friend, Umar puts it brilliantly- and there is nothing small to it. But now, sitting here at my desk - looking at this big photo of an annual ball in Oxford on the wall, and thinking about the concept of nostalgia- I cannot help but wonder where it all started, this concept of being exiled from exile. Is that so really, that the line of this flight -this kooch- is a never ending one? That is will keep going until the bird is worn out, or else, until she "becomes"? And yet, becoming is a never-ending process itself. I wonder, although something is telling me there must be a way to finally become out of all this, something unique, something worth waiting, something universal. There is a lot to struggle for, and there is a lot to challenge. But isn't it the whole point of living, to have something to keep looking for? I keep recalling Rumi's famous verse "Any failed effort is much better than doing nothing.. For my beloved likes my restlessness, and that is all that matters..."

Tonight, it just hit me that not only am I exiled from exile, but that I will keep being exiled from exile, being displaced over and over, and there will be nothing physical to this. It will keep happening in my mind, even if I never fly again.

New Year, New Resolutions?

2006-01-02T03:35:00.000-05:00

" Some people settle down.
Some people settle.
And some refuse to settle for less than butterflies.."

Words are becoming elusive, just as answers are. Questions though, hanging in there, are all over me. It is the first night of January 2006, and I cannot help but wonder who is really becoming through me. There is alway a blank word in every beautiful phrase that life grants you, one that you need to fill in. I wonder what I have to make of these tender moments of the first night of January 2006, when my entire life is out there, right in front of me, "Waiting for Godot" in silence and in awe...
At this very night of early 2006, I refuse to settle for anthing less than what feels right. I refuse to give in to fears. I refuse to mistake living with breathing. Instead, I pray for serenity and courage -always coming together. I pray for laughter and tears that mean something. I pray for peace -in me and in the world I live in. I pray for remaining grateful. I pray for open eyes and an open heart. I pray for love, friendship, creation and truth. Above all, I pray for honesty -with myself more than ever.

Happy 2006, May it -and all the years- be what I won't regret.

2005-12-31T03:27:00.001-05:00

Yanni -my greek friend from Oxford- left. Yanni, the Greek Robin Hood who shoots arrows and studies AIDS. We -my friends, Yanni and his Indian friends- had a good time at Caprice. It is funny that it was the first time I went there, the first time since I arrived. It reminded me of BarRisa and the last night I was in Oxford, of my Goodbye night. They played that stupid greek song "undercover" and I was about to cry. They also played some persian and turkish music. But I was miles away I guess. I was in oxford, dancing with the same songs in the MCR at St Peters' College. I am now streched between MIT and Oxford. I was just thinking about it, about when I will possibly get over Oxford. Never I suppose. It was not about the photos that Yanni showed me, it was not about those faces that I miss, it was not even about the songs. It was about the turning point of my life in St Peters'. It was about Me becoming. It was about me and my Kooch. I couldn't have gotten a better place for my first flight, my first kooch. Now, it has been almost four months that I am struggling with this nostalgia, trying -and actually managing- to fit into the American life, trying to become again. But it is not the same. It has been great, I have no complaints. On the contrary, I am loving it. But it is nothing like what I had back then. There was something unique about that city, about the history, the culture, even traditions. It was so me. I cannot be more grateful for Oxford having happened in my life. And now, Yanni left, and just like that, Oxford is gone from MIT. It is weird, I feel like going back to my photo albums tonight, I miss Shiva, I miss Naty, and I miss a cup of mint tea at Tarbouch. They even played some of the Arabic songs of Tarbouch tonight, the ones which Shiva and I loved. It all happened in two days. Just like that, my life has taken a different direction, a great one indeed. I wouldn't change it for anything. But I now know that wherever you go, you take memos with you. My memo from oxford however, is a beautiful life that I -quite miraculously- lived in such a short time...

It is weird I suppose, but it means a lot to be able to share stuff with people. I was just telling Yanni and Shiva how sad it is that no one at MIT knows how it feels to eat in the hall, to wear those long black gowns, to wear subfask at the time of exams, to eat at the High Table on Tuesday nights, to go to Rod Cam, and to live at St Margaret's House. No one at MIT know George the head Porter, or Paul, the kind fat porter with that big smile on his face. No one knows how stinky the TV room of the MCR is. This is why I felt so at home when Yanni visited us. I was just telling Shiva how I feel when I think about having all these friends all over the planet. I look at the world map, and feel safe and happy when I see I have amazing friends on each spot. Friends who know what a difference stepping in Gloucester Green Station can make in your life.

2005-12-30T18:33:00.000-05:00

My first semester is over, and I cannot believe it went by so quickly. My final projects and papers, and above all, my first months of Cambridge life are now gone. I look back and cannot help but wonder if my life could have taken a better direction. I now know how it feels to be where you want to be, in lifeI mean. I enjoy what I do, I love what I read, and I embrace what comes along. Over the course of few months, I have amazing friends from different continents, I have beautiful memories, I have found a new Me after all. Isn't that what I came all the way for? Dreams on the other hand, are what I am living for. I have plenty of them, and perhaps that is why I feel so alive.

I had the greatest time over the holidays, spending time with lovely freinds, singing and drinking with Mehdi and Mehrnoush and Babak, taking long walks on foggy roads, reciting poetry and talking about our beloeved homeland. I needed a break, to spend some time with myself. This is the thing about the States, about MIT. It leaves you no free time to have a chat with yourself every once in a while. That is why I had to take a break, and I couldn't have gotten a better one. Now back in Cambridge, I feel I have a lot to think about, to live for. This Xmas, this new year of 2006, this vacant MIT, this tender feeling of hope and life, this new circle of freinds and this huge pack of dreams, is what I call life. The time of new year is always a chance to look back and to re-evaluate your life, even if it is not my new year. It is a while I am living on two calenders, on two waves, in two seperate venues, and yet I am living both of them. This is what migration is all about, and the good thing is you always have a double chance of celebrating life, celebrating your being. I look back and remember last xmas at Chery joon's place in Oxford. We took a long walk in Iffley village, we knew it would be my last Xmas in Oxford, but what I didn not know was where I would be the following Xmas. This is life, this is when you realise life is not about knowing where you are heading, but mainly about how you live it right now...

Yannis, my best greek friend from Oxford, is visiting us for two days. He showed me last night all the photos he had on his laptop, and just like that brought Oxford to Cambridge, or else, took me to Oxford again. It was very nostalgic to look at those photos, those faces, those Bops and those Guest nights again. It was all too familiar, except I was not there anymore. He had put lots of Greek/Turkish/Persian music on my iPod when I was leaving in June, the same day when he saw me off in Gluster Green station. I had spent all my time in Montreal in August, listening to those songs. Tragically, I lost all of them due to an error on the bloody iPod. Last night, he put them on my Ipod again, and now listening to "Undercover" and a lot more, I cannot help but think of summer, of my many flights, of home, of Oxford, of BBQ s and goodbyes, and of Montreal. It is such a paradoxical feeling, you know how priceless it is to have friends all over the planet, yet you keep missing them and that hurts. I wonder if it is myself who I am missing, the Me who lived those days, or it is the entire exprience of Oxford. I wonder how I would feel about MIT in say five years time. Life is such a journey, and you are always left with memos.
So, just about twenty four hours to 2006, I am traditionally looking back, and this time quickly looking ahead, wondering where my life is taking me.. Grateful for whatever I have been granted so far, I keep hoping for a future full of friendships and dreams, of meaningful experiences and cherished moments. 2005 was a unique year for me, in which my life took a drastic turn, everything I started afresh, as if I was just born. In a way, this is my first birthday in terms of me being in charge of my own life. Shall I grow old doing what I am dreaming of? Who knows. All I know is that, so long as I have dreams, I am alive...

Snow, Time and I

2005-12-06T00:47:00.000-05:00

Memorial Drive...

Sitting in Haydan library, I try to look back and remember all the evenings I have spent in different libraries.. From Tehran University, to the library of Shariati hospital when I had to present my patient in the morning report of the following day, to Bodleian library in Oxford and those ancient staircases, to St Peters' library with those leather top desks, to now Haydan library at MIT. It looks like a lifetime I have spent in libraries, preparing for exams, working on projects; Or else, it rather seems to me like lifetimes of different people who I have been and have become. It has been snowing over the weekend and the campus is dressed in white. I look at Charles River through the window, and cannot help looking at my life. Maybe it is the white and serene beauty of snow which has made me feel like this. For some reason, I feel so grateful today, for happiness is about enjoying what you do even when you have to work hard, about feeling the love of your family even when you miss them most, and about knowing that every single moment of your life is as guaranteed as this beautiful snow, you never know until when it will be there.
The hot cup of Latte in my hands reminds me how warm one is able to feel in the midst of freezing cold days ...

2005-12-06T00:41:00.000-05:00

...

Every war a failure...

2005-11-06T16:40:00.001-05:00

This week's historiography class is discussing war, and for that we had to watch the 10 hour documentary on "Civil War". With it though, came to me all the memories of war, all the unsaid that my nation has been keeping in their diaries for a while now, a long while. Shock after shock, which is why I cannot stop thinking about our history. We have a tendency to repeat our many mistakes, and to get back to square zero every once in a while. War on the other hand, has merely scripted too many scars in our collective memories, and yet no one can escape the consequences of the war. It has been nearly two decades now since the war ceased, although the stories have not. The young generation of my country, sons of the warriors of old days, have now little faith in what their fathers fought for, nor do they conform to the ideologies of war. Watching "Civil War" over the past few days, I couldn't help thinking about the diminished agencies of people when wars are claimed, how soldiers turn into both labour and commodities. There is a lot more to that piece of land though, there is also gain of freedom, independence and dignity, each a daunting task on its own. It reminds me of Weber's "the Protestant Ethics", how martyrdom turned into an ethos ; how winning back the invaded land of Khoramshahr was not enough to put an end to the war; and how it went on for eight bloody years at the cost of thousands of lives and destinies... I am left in awe when I look at those days and see how brave the real believers and warriors of my country were. My country's men and women fought for different things, some for their country, some for their dignity and some for the sake of martyrdom. But no matter what they fought for, they were true believers in what they did.

I always thought there was never a winner to a war. I still believe that each party is the loser, and when I look at real lives of people who have given in to battles, I am moved by how big a loss any war is about...

2005-09-29T21:53:00.000-05:00

I must study politics and war that my sons may have liberty to study mathematics and philosophy ..
John Admas

We fight for freedom, that is what they say. We seem though to search for freedom everywhere but where it is. Freedom is in your heart, in your soul. Freedom is when you sing as though no one can hear you. Freedom is when you live moments to the end. Freedom is You.

2005-09-27T23:56:00.000-05:00

If the only tool you have is a hammer, you tend to see every problem as a nail.
Maslow, Abraham H.

The world expand before my eyes. Seems like each day is bringing with it the opportunity for living moments thoroughly. Yet, this is exactly when time flies, when you feel there is never enough time. Every single word that I read, is like a new window, to fresh air, to life. I cannot be more grateful for being at this very point in my life....

Jurys

2005-09-24T01:03:00.000-05:00

Here comes the cool breeze, wiping the dust off my soul... Here comes the Fall, I can smell it in the air...

Again, so to remember, that in every day and every night, there might be a window to beautiful moments, one that you have not yet opened. Some people are too wrapped up in fears to feel the cool breeze, fears of unknown, fears of anything which is different. Yet I believe now in the beautity of a world, in which all different languages and differet skins are speaking of one heart. I am glad I belong to that world, one of no borders and no fears.
I walk out of Jurys, good times always fly, and the chilly night of September is telling me summer is over. I am spectaculrly fine, awaiting tomorrow with open arms...

O xxx

Pearls...

2005-09-17T19:19:00.000-05:00

Two weeks of work in a row, finding new friends, feeling the classroom after so long, walking along Charles River on a chilly evening of September, reading non stop, missing home and the family, cycling after months and starting to live a whole lot of life...

Words -to me- are like pearls. In search of precious pearls, I have explored the depth of each moment, when moments are surrounding me like an ocean. Sometimes they are so close that I can reach them. At times I need to rescue them from the shell, and at times they just slip away from my fingers. There are times though that I get lucky, when pearls come across, slide and roll over my skin, and I can't help but write.

I have learnt so far, that everything in this world can be taken away from us. In a fraction of a second, we may lose any of those things which we had for long taken for granted. When that devastating earthquake happened in Bam, I was right there. It was then when I came to believe no shelter was ever-safe. When my patients succumbed to the very reality of death, I was right there by the bed, learning how death was walking hand in hand with life through every single moment. It was then when I learnt that every second could be the last one of my life, that I have to live each moment to the end, that I have to leave no room for regret. All it takes is a fraction of a second, to lose something. Not only life, freedom and belongings, but even one's own integrity can be taken away from them, and I have lived in an insane enough world to believe that. It took me a while to realise that nothing actually belongs to us, in real terms nothing actually is “our”. Sometimes we are to suffer from losing things that were not really ours in the first place, but are beloved to us, and that is why we cannot afford to lose them, that is why we fear the loss all time, without actually being able to claim anything. At this very moment, when I look at the big picture, I reckon the only thing which can be mine, is my freedom to dream, is the freedom of the soul, is what I think, what I create. This is why Words are my only asset, and I cannot afford losing them. I will never forget that very day when I watched Iris, a movie based on the life of Iris Murdoch, the writer, thinker and philosopher who had lived and studied in Oxford, in my very own college, some sixty years ago, and had died while suffering from Alzheimer's Disease for long. I could see her when words started to become elusive to her, when she had to suffer and search for them when writing, and her persistent efforts were of no avail. It shook me to the marrow, the movie and later the very last writings of hers. It was then when I realised what big a fear it was to me, loss of Words. For days to come, I thought about how my life had been woven into words, their consoling presence in my world and their magical power in my dreams. I realised how many children I had, that were my poems, my stories, the very creations of love and devotion over time, just like giving birth, with a similar experience of pain and timeliness, yet with the similar nature of responsibility. I also remember that rainy December evening in Oxford, when I tried to imagine myself as a future member of the this real world, in say twenty years time; And there sitting in the quad with closed eyes, did I recognise one image for sure, of a pen, and piles of paper. What I might be doing for a living, what profession will define my career, and where I will be working is of no importance, all I know is that, the real ecstasy of life is in creating a momentum, is in living those dreams that may sound insane, and for sure, in the very moment that all of a sudden, words conquer the territory of my mind in the middle of the night, in a bar or on a bike. They roll and roll vigorously until everywhere is covered with pearls; they urge me not only to express what I think, but also to think in the first place. The more I use them the more they come to me. At times, they look so simple, trying to hide their suffering souls. They are alive though, extremely alive.

Words -with the embedded emotions they carry in heart, with the glow of reality and the shine of enthusiasm to shake the world off the dust of injustice, and with their endless capacity for unimagined meanings- have always taken over my life, of my journey. That is why I am here now. I still believe in dreams, in having them and living them. Life can be such a beautiful dream at times, a dream not lived yet. Every single moment may bring about a miracle, a dream to come true. Life is too short to be left unlived, and that is why I have taken the Third Path, the unknown. This is where you have to thrw yourself into the ocean of Time, and embraced by each moment, will you find a pearl…

O xxx

Still ...

2005-09-02T23:34:00.000-05:00

It is officially one week that I am living here, and it has been amazing so far, thanks to great people I have met. I have made my very first friends here in the campus, and day by day, I have found it more and more exciting to just be where there is a lot to explore. It just hit me tonight that I have really taken this step, have actually started the journey and have already started to live a life here. As much as I had anticipated the experience, I have to say it is nothing like I had imagined. I keep comparing things to what I used to experience back in Oxford, but this is just a totally different path, with totally different moments and feelings. Thanks to the great timing of the events, I couldn't be luckier to have a great friend around for the very first week of my life here, and I have no words to say how priceless all this help and advice have been to me so far. I also got involved in the orientation events, through which I got to know amazing people who I am sure will be great friends of mine in future. Also, I met new Persian people, thanks to my dear visiting friend again, and I am most grateful for that. Even right now, back from dinner with lovely Touska , Alen and Cameron, I am thinking to myself how smoothly this new chapter started. I am positive it can be a great one, full of wonderful moments, challenges, joy, hard work and friendships. It also feels a bit strange to be among engineers and high tech specialists, and speaking to new people from different backgrounds, I cannot help but wonder whether I really needed a break from the medical world. Good news is No one is going to talk to me about the USMLEs, and actually it does make sense to these people when I talk about my interest in humanities:)

As much as I don't want to jump into conclusions, I am finding MIT an amazing place which could provide me with great opportunites for growth and self evaluation. I have been through one Kooch so far, and I cannot be more grateful for that. May this new journey be a better one, with more to learn and more to explore.. It feels weird when you know you will be staying somewhere for a good four or five years, but it also brings with it loads of responsibilities. This is my new chance to re-define a lot of things, including my own identity, my values and my dreams. As far as dreams are concerned, I am happy to have big ones, even if some of them never come true. It is through just having dreams that life happens to have a meaning. This is why at this very point of my journey, I am holding on to those dreams which dragged me all the way to this beautiful place with huge amount of life floating in the air...

I have no idea what life has to offer me in say five years time. I might end up in an academic career, or else I might keep my hands dirty in medicine in a way. Be it one way or the other, I am glad to be here, and something is telling me that this is probably the best place to make a bridge between medicine/sciense and humanities, to make sense of my dreams, to give dimentions to real life, and to live a life as if there will be no tomorrow.. Yes, it has been a week now, and it just hit me tonight that I have started the journey...

Another go...

2005-08-28T23:42:00.001-05:00

Right in the middle of all these hectic days of transition, I can't stop wondering if my life was ever meant to take a different direction than what it has taken now. Ironically, I am feeling most serene at the moment, although I have a million things to take care of. So, this is the start point of the second journey of mine. May it be what I have in mind, or better, may it be what the plan of life is for me. At this very moment, I cannot be more grateful for all life has ever granted me, for all I have lived, for all I have learnt, and for all I am going to learn. Above all, Kooch is still going on. Be it my last kooch or not, I am determined to make the best of it. So, my greetings to the beautiful city of cambridge, to Boston, to Charles River, to MIT, to NW30, to my very first friends and my very best moments...

O xxx