Tuesday, December 30

While the "old one" is limping...



While the old year is limping toward its end, the new one is lurking around the corner awaiting its own term, and the future, in spite of being absolutely predictable, does not seem bright at all! But, I am not going to whine about the grayish tone of the near future, rather, I would like to focus on the beaming surprises that will lighten up the subdued tone of the colour of that gloomy sky of the future. At last, I am coming along with it; the optimism, of course. And have plans to stick with it, for I have a peculiar feeling that it will work wonders!

Anyway, on behalf of the Twoshorties, I wish you a wonderful year filled with joy and rewards, but above all, I wish you a healthy 2009. Dare to dream and enjoy living life. And of course, happy 2009.

Thursday, December 25

The Last Poem of 2008

"The Lady of Shalott"
by
Dante Gabriel Rossetti




by

Lord Alfred Tennyson (1809-1892)


Part I

On either side the rive lie
Long fields of barley and rye,
That clothe the wold and meet the sky,
And through the field the road runs by
To many-towered Camelot;
And up and down the people go,
Gazing where the lilies blow
Round an island there below,
The island of Shalott.


Willows whiten, aspens quiver,
Little breeze dusk and shiver
Through the wave that runs forever
By the island in the river
Flowing down to Camelot.
Four gray walls, and four gray towers,
Overlook a space of flowers,
And the silent isle imbowers
The Lady of Shalott.

By the margin, willow-veiled,
Slide the heavy barges trailed
By slow horses; and unhailed
The shallop flitteth silken-sailed
Skimming down to Camelot:
But who hath seen her waver her hand?
Or at the casement seen her stand?
Or is she known in all the land,
The Lady of Shalott?
…”


katayoun



Monday, December 22

The season and its...



It is that time of the year, when the spirit of the season gets under your skin and makes you post the kind of post you are about to read. To be honest with you, there is a voice in my head that tells me to do one thing, “don’t write any thing gloomy,” and as I must listen to that voice, I warm up myself for a suitable short piece, something that goes well with this season. How about this: how to enjoy hunting gifts for family, friends and your potential future foes!!!

Gift-hunting can be an enjoyable sport, if you are prepared in advance. It is usually affordable, if you are patient, and curious enough to detect unusual places for hunting a usable gift. Just remember one thing: a good hunter is never unprepared, and never aims at a cheap hunt! A cheap-hunt, however, is a gift that is purchased in a hurry, usually something that is of no use to its receiver, and accordingly, it is prone to enter the vicious circle of recycling-gifts. Just one last thing: a cheap-hunt can be pricy too! So, be wise, and spend wisely. Don’t buy gifts because you have to. A gift should be a simple gesture of appreciation, a token of thoughtfulness. So select gifts with care and consideration, and never do it for the sake of minding the social etiquettes, because no self-respecting human being would like to receive an “obligatory gift”. And remember that you may be a giver but you are also a receiver too. And don’t forget about books as gifts; every one enjoys a good read. Be a happy hunter, and enjoy the season.
katayoun

Sunday, December 14

Desert Places


Desert Places

Snow falling and night falling fast, oh, fast
In a field I looked into going past,
And the ground almost covered smooth in snow,
But a few weeds and stubble showing last
.

The woods around it have it—it is theirs.
All animals are smothered in their lairs.
I am too absent-spirited to count;
The loneliness includes me unawares
.

And lonely as it is, that loneliness
Will be more lonely ere it will be less—
A blanker whiteness of benighted snow
With no expression, nothing to express
.

They cannot scare me with their empty spaces
Between stars—on stars where no human race is.
I have it in me so much nearer home
To scare myself with my own desert places
.

Robert Frost (1874-1963)

Friday, December 5

My gifts from Iran


Every time a traveler comes back from Iran, horrid stories of that hell-hole of religiosity and godliness are always beside the sweets I receive as my gifts.
If you expect me to tell you one of those stories, you will be highly disappointed, because I shall not. Those stories are not good for your spirit. They are sickening, and depressing. Horrible, disturbing stories, each so shocking, that you need a century to recover from their shock. The tale of the society governed by “a piety” beyond any human’s perception, and ruled by the “righteous crowd,” who will slain their mothers for raising any question against their authority, is not a tale you would want to hear, over and over and over again!
“Are you sad upon receiving the gifts,” you may wonder. To tell you the truth, I am not too sure if I am sad, or overwhelmed! I cannot say whether I am either, or both! As an appropriate word, sadness does not suffice, when expressing the agony of hearing the miserable tale of a nation’s decay, its progressive moral deterioration, and the ongoing horror of facing the Evil’s workings. I only know that my spirit is broken, and a maddening urge to destroy the Evil is on its rise.



Katayoun

Monday, December 1

The True Believers!



When I came across the following, I thought, why not! If it made sense to me, it shall, I hope, make sense to you too! Just to let you know, David Hume, a major figure of the Scottish Enlightenment, “died calmly and quietly without any belief in the comfort of religion”.


An excerpt from “Of the Standard of Taste” by David Hume (1711-1776)

The admirers and followers of the Alcoran (The Koran, Qoran) insist on the excellent moral precepts interspersed throughout that wild and absurd performance. But it is to be supposed, that the Arabic words, which correspond to the English, equity, justice, temperance, meekness, charity, were such as, from the constant use of that tongue, must always be taken in a good sense; and it would have argued that greatest ignorance, not of morals, but of language, to have mentioned them with any epithets, besides those of applause and approbation. But would we know, whether the pretended prophet had really attained a just sentiment of morals? Let us attend to his narration; and we shall soon find, that he bestows praise on such instances of treachery, inhumanity, cruelty, revenge bigotry, as are utterly incompatible with civilized society. No steady rule of right seems there to be attained to; and even action is blamed or praised, so far only as it is beneficial or hurtful to the true believers.


The merit of delivering true general precepts in ethics is indeed very small. Whoever recommends any moral virtues, really does no more than is implied in the terms themselves. That people, who invented the word charity, and used it in a good sense, inculcated more clearly and much more efficaciously, the precept, “be charitable,” than any pretended legislator or prophet, who should insert such a maxim in his writings. Of all expression, those, which, together with their other meaning, imply a degree either of blame or approbation, are the least liable to be perverted or mistaken”.



katayoun

Thursday, November 27

Simply enchanting!

A few years ago, a very dear professor of mine attended a conference in Cambridge, England. And there she visited the famous Fitzwilliam Museum, where she purchased a little reprint of a Flemish painting called “Courtship: Book of Hours” (C. 1500) as “special gift,” for her Persian student of Medieval Literature. (By the way, the reprint is scanned for your view and used here as an ornament to this post.) I shall never forget that winter day in her office, where she kindly offered me not only the special reprint of a medieval painting with a note inside, but with that a box of Harrods’ special cookies too!
The cookies are long gone, even their taste is forgotten, but the reprint is on the wall, right in front of my face. And every time I look at the reprint, inevitably, I see her explanation written all over it.
“Look at the image! A graceful damsel,” raved the wise medievalist, “at the window of her castle, receives a love-offering from her courtier, who is ascending on a ladder to proclaim his love! What is the offering? It is a green plant with yellow blooms, symbolizing love, companionship, prosperity and growth; indeed a meaningful offering”.

The image may be medieval, but the narrative is not of past! Simply enchanting, wouldn’t you say?!


katayoun

Wednesday, November 26

My Gratitude

As I was organizing my notes, it occurred to me that I, as one of the Twoshorties, have never expressed my gratitude for your constant support of this blog in providing us the encouraging feedbacks by which we shape the very form of Without the Slightest Hesitation. So, thank you for being here with us.

katayoun

Sunday, November 23

A Poem

Alexander Pope (1688-1744)

An excerpt from: An Essay on Criticism


‘Tis hard to say, if greater Want of Skill
Appear in Writing or in Judging ill:
But, of the two, less dang’rous is th’ Offence,
To tire our Patience, than mis-lead our Sense:
Some few in that, but Numbers err in this,
Ten Censure wrong for one who Writes amiss;
A Fool might once himself alone expose,
Now, One in Verse makes many more in Prose.

Read the rest of this Poem, if you are interested of course, here!


katayoun

Wednesday, November 19

Tehran, a city of certain charm and...


In the heart of the Middle East, in an ancient land of Iran, I was born and bred in Tehran; the city of dangerous charm and enviable spirit, a jewel in the palm of Damavand. Tehran of my time was the city of tall sycamore trees, narrow alleyways, old architecture, mysterious courtyards, historic gates and squares, a rarity in its own right. An old city with a young soul, ambitious in heart and quick in temper, but above all, Tehran was really honest about being what it was, what it could offer and what it would take away from you in return! A little unconventional, perhaps, a little daring and shocking at times, Tehran had its own charisma, and, with a generous heart accommodated the needs of a colourful crowd.

I loved Tehran because of its ease in revealing its true colours, its tolerance for everything that a thriving city had to endure, its dubious reputation, and its powerful influence on those who came to love or despise its guts. Despite its cruel nature of being the hub of the opportunists, self-seekers, and sons-of-bitches of all walks of life, Tehran was the city that I liked to live in, experience life, and leave a memory behind.

I loved and adored Tehran, because it was more than a generous city in tolerating scums and crooks. Tehran was, also, a progressive cosmopolitan quite serious in providing well for those who were doing their own things, without disturbing the spirit of generosity and hospitality. In one simple sentence, Tehran, with all its roughness and curtly of a thriving city, was a city of hope—even though, at times, it acted a little bit stingy in offering any at all!

But, after the establishment of the despotic power of “the Islamic Republic,” and during the “sacred-war,” Tehran, with its bruised face and ruined image, became the gloomy capital of the fascist state; the air filled with the stench of fear, sweat and blood, the streets crammed with those who were doomed to rot, later on. Tehran was no more Tehran. Many lamented the death of the spirit of Tehran, and many used the event as an occasion for taking advantage and make up for things they had never possessed, but those who witnessed the fall of that city, would never forget what they lost!

Nowadays, I don’t live in that city anymore, and all I hear about Tehran is so confusing, discouraging, and surreal that I’d rather remember Tehran just as it was in my own time! No melancholy, no regret, I had seen the best of Tehran, and will always keep the best of it in my heart. And in my heart I am still hopeful!

Katayoun

Friday, November 14

A Superscription

This week’s poem is by an exceptional poet, a renaissance man, a “Dante scholar,” Dante Gabriel Rossetti (1828-1882); he is a man of raw wisdom, healthy intellect and peculiar character.

Now, listen to what he has to say. Let the man speak to your soul. It’s good for you!


A Superscription

Look in my face; my name is Might-have-been;
I am also called No-more, Too-late, Farewell;
Unto thine ear I hold the dead-sea shell
Cast up thy Life’s foam-fretted feet between;
Unto thine eyes the glass where that is seen
Which had Life’s form and Love’s, but my spell
Is now a shaken shadow intolerable,
Of ultimate things unuttered the frail screen.

Make me, how still I am! But should there dart
One moment through thy soul the soft surprise
Of that winged Peace which lulls the breath of sighs,-
Then shalt thou see me smile, and turn apart
Thy visage to mine ambush at thy heart
Sleepless with cold commemorative eyes.


Monday, November 10

I do!

Among bloggers there is an ongoing debate about the “appropriate length” of a post, and its relation to the establishment of the readership of a blog. Some even “insist” that a “professional blog”—a space that is established as an intellectual/artistic place of expressions—“should” contain posts that are “short in length,” and precise in meaning. I have nothing against precision in the meaningfulness of a post. In fact, I am a loyal viewer of the blogs that are pro such profession. But as far as the appropriate “length” is concerned, I pay no attention to what one “should” or “should not” do, with respect to the operation of this blog. I simply think that running a blog is a matter of taste and style that has a direct relation to the content and the author(s) of that page.

Now, I’ve said my thing!
katayoun

Wednesday, November 5

At last the secret is out

This week’s poem is by one of my favourite “buggers” W. H. Auden, whose poetry bares a lot of his soul, his experience of life, and his mastery of English Language.



At last the secret is out

At last the secret is out, as it always must come in the end,
The delicious story is ripe to tell to the intimate friend;
Over the tea-cups and in the square the tongue has its desire;
Still waters run deep, my dear, there’s never smoke without fire.
Behind the corpse in the reservoir, behind the ghost on the links,
Behind the lady who dances and the mad who madly drinks,
Under the look of fatigue, the attack of migraine and the sigh
There is always another story, there is more than meets the eye.
For the clear voice suddenly singing, high up in the convent wall,
The scent of the elder bushes, the sporting prints in the hall,
The croquet matches in summer, the handshake, the cough, the kiss,
There is always a wicked secret, a private reason for this.

Sunday, November 2

Changing palate (1)


In my last posting I made the promise of “changing my palate,” and in this one, I would like to deliver that promise, and announce the commencement of a series of posts under the general title of “Changing palate”

Ask any “expatriate” this question: “how do you bare the pain of being away from your roots?” and be patient to receive these words, “well, since the pain will never go away, you may as well get used to it, if you want to save yourself from a premature death caused by extreme unhappiness”.

It was by pure chance—the beginning of my journey to self-knowledge and finding my own bliss—when I stumbled upon Joseph Campbell’s A Hero with a Thousand Faces, The Power of Myth, and, of course, Follow Your Bliss.
As an “exile” I had a question: “what was I to become now, that I am no longer in my own land, where my roots had spread themselves very deeply and strongly and supported my crown for a very long time?” I needed a guide, for I was absolutely unhappy, and withdrawn.
In learning about myself, I became involved in exploring medieval poetry, for I developed a great appreciation for that genre of poetry which has the make up of an Epic, or a long poem that has many layers of truth-telling in its structure, that is built masterly and poetically around myths, that conveys meanings and messages, that speak wise words to the heart.
Before I became an “expatriate,” I was already familiar with Iranian epic Shahnameh, “The Epic of Kings,” by Hakim Abdol-Ghasem Ferdowsi Toosi (940-1020), whose aim was to create a broad and historical source for Iranians to draw their inspiration from, (Alas, we have yet to look into our own past and learn from it. God forbid, we may learn to be a strong nation!), but it was through Joseph Campbell’s writings that I became aware of the true meaning(s) behind the mythology of my own land, and I was, now, able to interpret my own myth, and withdraw inspiration and seek guidance from it. My heart needed to hear a lot of those stories, for I was in a great need to find the connection to the inner world. From somewhere I had to draw my energy, and the source would have to be within my reach! I knew that I was on the right path, for I had found a man whose teaching guided me to find my own centre. That was the very first crack on the thick shell of my exilic existence. It was to be my salvation, and, indeed, it has become.

Suddenly, I found myself in the realm of the unknown, yet very familiar, and in a language of myth I began exploring my own psychological being. Thus, I began to enjoy reading Epics and medieval poetry. And amazingly the primitive in me, who always identified with the Middle Eastern ancient myths, was now learning to acknowledge the connection between the Indo-European and Indo-Iranic mythologies, and with that came a great sense of relief. I learnt to appreciate the language of Myth, because that language spoke wise words to my heart, and provided a tailored guidance to my need! All of a sudden, even being an “expatriate” made sense to me, even though I had to bare the pain of being “unhappy” at times!

And perhaps, and because of such an encounter, I came to this rather bold conclusion that understanding the mythology of an “exile” requires a certain understanding of that very mythical language which is in close connection with a far past that is part of your present, and appreciating it is like appreciating a splendid Ballet or a memorable Opera. You need to develop an artistic “sense” to understand the language of a Ballet or an Opera in order to enjoy the performance, or otherwise you will not be able to do so. In respect to the mythology of an exilic existence, you either understand your position in the scheme of the story, or you don’t! Sounds strange, doesn’t it?!
Being an “expatriate” taught me to accept the fact that I may be divorced from my roots—to rephrase William Robertson Davies’ expression of an expatriate—but I am no longer away from my “roots,” for they are part of me forever. And this discovery came a bit later, when I encountered Carl Gustav Jung’s words, which assist me, still, in staying on the road to my own bliss, in Canada.



Till next post!
katayoun






.


Monday, October 27


To the Ladies

Wife and servant are the same,
But only differ in the name:
For when that fatal know is tied,
Which nothing, nothing can divide,
And man by law supreme has made,
Then all that’s kind is laid aside,
And nothing left but state and pride.
Fierce as an eastern prince he grows,
And all his innate rigour shows:
Then but to look, to laugh, or speak,
Will the nuptial contract break.
Likes mutes, she signs alone must make,
And never any freedom take,
But still be governed by a nod,
And fear her husband as he god:
Him still must serve, him still obey,
And nothing act, and nothing say,
But what he haughty lord thinks fit,
Who, with the power, has all the wit.
Then shun, oh! shun that wretched state,
And all the fawning flatterers hate.
Value yourselves, and men despise:
You must be proud, if you’ll be wise
.

(Lady Mary Chudleigh, 1656-1710)

There is always a good reason, if not many, for selecting each week’s poem. This one’s audience is anyone who has a “certain point of view” of women. And believe me there are people, either male or female, or who still hold some strong position on the issue of “Womanhood”! Hope you enjoy it.
Katayoun

Friday, October 24

Changing my Palate!

There is something that I would like to share with you, the viewers of this blog, because I think that being honest and forward is the first step towards a long lasting relationship which exists between the authors of this blog and the general readership.

As you have noticed, since the opening of this page till recently, my sole focus, with an occasional diversion, has been on “political” engagements either in Iran, or elsewhere in relation to Iran. As an expatriate, I am sad, to a great degree, for being pushed away from the Home I love dearly. I am worried too; that I can do nothing but to witness the most heinous crimes committed by a group of traitors and evil-minded whose faith has come to destroy a nation’s hope for a decent future! For, what is a Nation without a Future? And how would a Nation survive without a hope?

But having said that; I must admit that as a dreamer, I dream of an Iran that is freed from Evil, by her own very children. I believe in Iranians’ strive against the works of Evil and evil-doers. For what I see happening in my Iran, under the Islamic regime that was established based on devil’s precise instructions, is the manifestation of Evil in full force.
For those who know the Alphabet to Zoroastrianism, it comes as no surprise to know that those who think Evil, will say nothing but Evil, and would do nothing but Evil. In fact, we cannot expect anything less than that from those who have been lulled by devilish temptations, and worship Evil! But, I am a realist as well, and as such person my disposition is that of a person who sees the ugliness of truth, and with that in mind, hopes for discovering the beautiful dimension of that ‘ugly truth’ as well.
Now, having established my point of view with respects to the current events in Iran, I would like to reflect on different things that are of great importance to an expatriate’s life in exile. Thus, from now on, every once a week there will a post with respect to that aspect of my life, as I would like to maintain a balance between being an “expatriate” and a Canadian Citizen, all at once!

By the way, that’s how I change my palate!

katayoun

Wednesday, October 22

Just a simple note!

It has been a while since last I had made any comments at all, on this blog, of course. So, the next post will be a little different. I am changing my palate. You should do it too.

katayoun

Wednesday, October 15

Away, Melancholy



Away, melancholy

Away, melancholy,
Away with it, let it go.

Are not the trees green,
The earth as green?
Does not the wind blow,
Fire leap and the rivers flow?
Away, melancholy.

The ant is busy
He carrieth his meat,
All things hurry
To be eaten or eat.
Away melancholy.

Man, too, hurries,
Eats, couples, buries,
He is an animal also
With a hey ho melancholy,
Away with it, let it go.

Man of all creatures
Is superlative
(Away melancholy)
He of all creatures alone
Raiseth a stone
(Away melancholy)
Into the stone, the god
Pours what he knows of good
Calling, good, God.
Away melancholy, let it go.

Speak not to me of tears,
Tyranny, pox, wars,
Saying, Can God
Stone of man’s thought, be good?

Say rather it is enough
That the stuffed
Stone of man’s good, growing,
By man’s called God.
Away, melancholy, let it go.

Man aspired
To good,
To love,
Sighs;

Beaten, corrupted, dying,
In his own blood lying
Yet heavens up and eye above
Cries, Love, love.
It is his virtue needs explaining,
Not his failing.

Away, melancholy,
Away with it, let it go.


(Stevie Smith, 1902-1971)

Sunday, October 12

Happy Thanksgiving, Canada



The occasion is of showing gratefulness for what we have received from Mother Nature, during the past year, in Canada. So, we shall celebrate it heartily, eat merrily and be just simply festive.

In the ancient World, people believed in the Mightiness of Mother-Nature, and they respected Her tremendously. They worshiped the Nature for Her Beauty, Grace, Love, and Generosity, and never underestimated Her Power, and, She in return opened Her arms generously, and provided them plenteous. And in showing their sincere gratitude, once a year in a Collective effort, which resonated itself in their festivities, the ancient people gave Offerings to the Bounteous Mother. They gave thanks with generous heart; celebrated and cheered the generosity of the Nature, with Festivities far more colourful than our contemporary Thanksgiving-dinner parties. She, the Bounteous Mother, was the Queen of the ancient eras.

Today, we celebrate Thanksgiving as we may, in the spirit of humility, grace and peace, and we offer our many thanks to our Forgiving Mother, and ask Her to save us from our own greed and timidity of mind.

katayoun

Monday, October 6

Spiritual Suicide

Two sentences from a wise man is far worth than thousand words from a confused man.

"To divorce yourself form your roots is spiritual suicide. The expatriate unless he is really a rather special kind of person, is very unhappy " (The Enthusiam of Robertson Davies, 311).

Theology


Theology

No, the serpent did not
Seduce Eve to the apple.
All that’s simply
Corruption of the facts.

Adam ate the apple.
Eve ate Adam.
The serpent ate Eve.
This is the dark intestine.

The serpent, meanwhile,
Sleeps his meal off in Paradise—
Smiling to hear
God’s querulous calling
. (1967)

(Ted Hughes, 1930-1998)

Thursday, October 2

...or, not!




He is a creature of his own kind, a gentle soul who, surely, knows that the greatness of Civilisation is a damn burden on his skinny shoulder, and that’s why he is carrying all the weight of it alone. But, he is centuries old; a true image of himself, ready to take it all, because he knows it all. Or, may be not!
katayoun

Monday, September 29

Intuition




It is a wise thing to “trust” one’s intuition. In fact, if we are ever wise, we should rely on our intuition and live our life to its fullest, because our intuition is our guiding light. But intuition without the force of a sharp mind cannot work its magical effect, which is the ceasing of the moments that are crucial in fulfilling one’s fate, whatever may be. For the Truthful Guidance that comes from the bottom of our soul, and helps each of us accordingly and clearly, is the working of our intuition, and nothing else, and it needs careful attention which requires a certain sharpness of mind. How many people have lived a miserable life, unfulfilled, unsatisfied, and left a legacy of bitterness and of hatred behind, only because they never found a way to learn how to sharpen their mind?!
And the sharpness of mind is a work of purpose and of a meaningful progress, not merely in its ‘academic sense,’ but in its tangible, divine-humanistic grasp of life. A sense that is distinct from fakery. Anyway, I should cut this entry short and bring you this week’s quotation by Aldous Huxley on “Experience”:
"Experience is not a matter of having actually swum the Hellespont, or danced with the dervishes, or slept in a doss-house. It is a matter of sensibility and intuition, of seeing and hearing the significant things, of paying attention at the right moments, of understanding and co-ordinating. Experience is not what happens to a man; it is what a man does with what happens to him."
katayoun

Wednesday, September 24

Be Inspired...





The beams of light in an absolute dark, the dazzling stars in the dark blue of the sky, these are the various sources of inspiration to many of us, these days. After all, one has to survive. And survival without inspiration is not a task that will produce any positive end. And I think we need to have a positive end, even though it may not seem to be attainable, but till there is Hope and Light, there is Will to prevail. And we all know what willingness can achieve.
So, be inspired by little things, by simple things, by things that are very ordinary, for those are the sources of your inspiration. And you need to be inspired to live and do what you can to create an opportunity for the betterment of the expected future.
katayoun

Sunday, September 21

The world is too much with us

The world is too much with us; late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers:
Little we see in Nature that is ours;
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!
This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon;
The winds that will be howling at all hours,
And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers;
For this, for every thing, we are out of tune;
It moves us not.—Great God! I’d rather be
A Pagan suckled in creed outworn;
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;
Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn. (1802-04)

Saturday, September 13

The Persian Gulf will remain a Persian Gulf, and that's a fact




A democratic magazine, as “unbiased” as they come, was on the news stand. And I had the feeling that I had to purchase it and further the profit of the “unbiased elite” of the democratic society of the truth-tellers. After all it is the “SPECIAL COLLECTOR”S EDITION; 25th ANNIVERSARY ISSUE!” and one ought to be utterly vain, not to purchase the Vanity Fair.
So, I browse through the pages of the profitable advertisings and then I reach the section called “The Vanity Fair 100”. Number One on every one’s list is that maniac Vladimir Putin, the godlike prime minister of Russia, still “at the height of his power”. What else is new? Turn the page, and see some other names: Rupert Murdoch, with his Chinese connection; Roman Abramovich, the man who after years of living in the capital of the Great Britain is still in need of taking some ESL courses, and shamelessly owns a “Boeing 767 with anti-missile system”. Oh, dear Molly what a dread! And then there it is the picture of that Sheikh who is declared by the Republican’s leader as a “sharp dresser”. I read the entry, and it occurs to me that the history books are scarce in the United States of America, for every fool on this planet knows that there is no such a thing as an “Arabian Gulf region”! What rubbish has been pressed onto those glossy-sheets of modern papyrus for which one has to pay a fortune to read the plausible facts?!
And there is this old news: that there is a Persian Gulf that will remain a Persian Gulf, even though the likes of that “sharp dresser” may wish to meddle with historical facts. A magazine as auspicious as Vanity Fair should consult facts--historical ones--or at least consult the famous American Historians who are residing in Harvard and Yale, before accepting bribes from the likes of that Sheikh or the others, in order to satisfy the feeble-minded sheikhs, the intimate friends of the well-bread-elite of the Americans and their allies.








katayoun








Sunday, September 7

The Lost Leader (1843-1845)

Just for a handful of silver he left us,
Just for a riband to stick in his coat—
Found the one gift of which fortune bereft us,
Lost al the others she lets us devote;
They, with the gold to give, doled him out silver,
So much was theirs who so little allowed:
How all our copper had gone for his service!
Rags—were they purple, his heart had been proud!
We that had loved him so, followed him, honored him,
Lived in his mild and magnificent eye,
Learned his great language, caught his clear accents,
Made him our pattern to live and to die!
Shakespeare was of us, Milton war for us,
Burns, Shelley, were with us—they watch from their greaves!
He alone breaks from the van and the freemen
--He alone sinks to the rear and the slaves!
We shall march prospering—not through his presence;
Songs may inspirit us—not form his lyre;
Deeds will be done—while he boasts his quiescence,
Still bidding crouch whom the rest bade aspire:
Blot out his name, then, record one lost soul more,
One task more declined, one more footpath untrod,
One more devils’-triumph and sorrow for angels,
Life’s night begins: let him never come back to us!
There would be doubt, hesitation and pain,
Forced praise on our part—the glimmer of twilight,
Never glad confident morning again!
Best fight on well, for we taught him—strike gallantly,
Menace our heart ere we master his own;
Then let him receive the new knowledge and wait us,
Pardoned in heaven, the first by the throne!
Robert Browning (1812-1889)

Tuesday, September 2

Bravo Multiculturalism, Bravo



At the busiest intersection of this multicultural city of Toronto, four young bearded fellows, in their traditional regalia, had set up a table, upon which from pocket-Quran to carefully designed pamphlets explaining the purpose of “the Final Revelation” and “Divine Guidance from the Creator,” was at display.
I drew near the table, stand there for a second or two, try to understand what is wrong with me?! One of them took the courage and moved toward me, he was trying to be a gentleman. His eyes didn’t meet mine, he was a real Muslim! I have seen many of them; I had lived in a country that had been revolutionized to meet the Barbaric Islamic Standards. I know how Muslim brothers treat their Muslim mothers, sisters, and wives.
I ask for a pamphlet; I read through it in a minute, and I ask myself, if Islam is that peaceful, and if Allah is that One, then why the hell Iran’s history is filled with atrocities committed by the Muslims. One-Thousand-Four-Hundred-Twenty-Nine years of spreading the message of the “Holy Qur’an,” and still there is blood; look at the Middle Eastern countries such as Iraq, Palestine, Lebanon, Pakistan, Afghanistan, and Iran, and look at other counties where the “Divine Revelation” has been at work, and then decide whether you want this “ Divine Guidance” to be part of your daily life.




Saturday, August 30

Reflections that matter

By now, the regular readers of this page should know that there are reasons behind the selected quotations that are posted on this weblog. First and foremost, I like to share what I think is important, worthy of attention, and of interest to an inquiring mind.
Secondly, I believe that by reading a quotation, the interested individual will be able to reflect upon the content and if what is understood is worthy of further discovery, then that individual will have found something for themselves. And thirdly, it is a good thing to circulate good words around.
The followings are two selections from Memories, Dreams, Reflections, C.G. Jung, recorded and edited by Aniela Jaffe; Translated from the German by Richard and Clara Winston.

“Today we need psychology for reasons that involve our very existence. We stand perplexed and stupefied before the phenomenon of Nazism and Bolshevism because we know nothing about man, or at any rate have only a lopsided and distorted picture of him. If we had self-knowledge, that would not be the case. We stand face to face with the terrible question of evil and do not even know what is before us, let alone what to pit against it…” (Memories, Dream, Reflections: Late Thought, 331).
The secret society is an intermediary stage on the way to individuation. The individual is still relying on a collective organization to effect his differentiation for him; that is, he has not yet recognized that it is really the individual’s task to differentiate himself from all the others and stand on his own feet. All collective identities, such as membership in organizations, support of “isms,” and so on, interfere with the fulfillment of this task. Such collective identities are crutches for the lame, shields for the timid, beds for the lazy, nurseries for the irresponsible; but they are equally shelters for the poor and weak, a home port for the shipwrecked, the bosom of a family for orphans, a land of promise for disillusioned vagrants and weary pilgrims, a herd and a safe fold for lost sheep, and a mother providing nourishment and growth…” (Late Thought, 343).

Friday, August 29

This week's poem: "They"

SIEGFRIED SASSOON (1886-1967)

“They”

The Bishop tells us: “When the boys come back
They will not be the same; for they’ll have fought
In a just cause: they lead the last attack
On Anti-Christ; their comrades’ blood has bought
New right to breed an honourable race,
They have challenged Death and dared him face to face.”

“We’re none of us the same!” the boys reply.
“For George lost both his legs; and Bill’s stone blind;
Poor Jim’s shot through the lungs and like to die;
And Bert’s gone syphilitic: you’ll not find
A chap who’s served that hasn’t found some change.”
And the Bishop said: “The ways of God are strange!”
(Oct. 31, 1916)

Tuesday, August 26

The new Image of Evil

I don’t know why, but I have this funny feeling that the former “law professor,” Mr. Dimitri Medvedev, the newly “elected” Russian President, looks a bit suspicious by being meticulously English.

Thursday, August 21

A Simple Note



Toronto is a fast-pace city; some call it “the New York City of Canada.” Mind you, as glorious as New York City may be, Toronto is far more decent, far more humble, far more dignified and humane than New York City ever can be. And there is no denying it. However, a big North American City is a city from which one must get away when the pressure starts to mount. For me, to be able to get away from the city with all its noise and rush, to be able to get away from the news, the current affairs, is a luxury, just as seeking refuge from the civilisation to the woods helps keep my emotional, physical and spiritual balance intact.
If you are a nature-lover, you know what I mean when I say that I really enjoy being in the woods. I like walking in the woods, inhaling the fresh air that is filled with different scents, being in an awe when looking at the trees, each deeply rooted underground over which one walks. I love discovering eight different shades of green in a single branch of a willow tree. I like being a part of something that is alive and breathing, something that is sublime and awe awakening, and when I walk in the woods, I feel as though I am one with the woods. These sorts of things thrills me, they restore my sanity. And these days, more than anything, I need to be sane!
katayoun

Wednesday, August 20

Our intellectual elite

I’d like to live in a World, where the “Intellectual Elite” could make suggestions, foresee the future and declare things “wrong and right,” with the aid of their collective “Sociological Imagination”. But, unfortunately, I am neither living in a “perfect” world, nor in an era, during which the elite could be “Intellectuals” in being the “Elite”.

So, since I am living in a “real” world where the intellectual elite have not developed a collective aptitude for “Intellectuality,” and have no short-comings in pomposity, I shall think “real,” be wise and satisfied with the “elite” we have! And since my living in a “real” world entails my “understanding” of the function of this bizarre entity, then I am allowed to express my deepest disappointment at having those beings as the intellectual elite of the present era!

katayoun

Friday, August 15

Untitled

It has gotten to the point that one does not know how to find any logic in the madness around: The Olympic and President Bush of the United States of America, in China; the former Reds of the former Soviet Union, presently known as the newly Whites of the “great Russia” occupying the Georgian territory; Monsieur Sarkozy, the French-Man of the Year in Europe; the Rise of the Islamofascism in the Middle East; Velayat-e Faqih in Iran; the creation of the Global Terrorism; the Taliban in Afghanistan, the female suicide bomber in Iraq, killing pilgrims, annihilating the “other” believers; the Sharia Law in Englistan; the likes of the Jihadists in Toronto’s streets…


katayoun

Wednesday, August 13

Islam is what you see

The Islamic Regime in Iran does not represent Iran; it represents what a true fakery can be.

katayoun

Henry Vaughan (1621-1695), a Welsh man in blood and to the bone, often referred to himself as a “son of Ben Johnson;” a man of “religious sensibility,” whose relationship with the divine was poetic, not chaotic. The following, Corruption, is one of his best, or at least that’s what I think!



Corruption


Sure it was so. Man in those early days
Was not all stone and earth;
He shined a little, and by those weak rays
Had some glimpse of his birth.
He saw heaven o’er his head, and knew from whence
He came, condemned, hither;
And, as first love draws strange unto him: sweat and till,
All was a thorn or weed:
Nor did those last, but (like himself) died still
As soon as they did seed.
They seemed to quarrel with him, for that act
That felled him foiled them all:
He drew the curse upon the world, and cracked
The whole frame with his fall.
This made him long for home, as loath to stay
With murmurers and foes;
He sighed for Ede, and would often say,
“Ah! What bright days were those!”
Nor was heaven cold unto him; for each day
The valley or the mountain
Afforded visits, and still Paradise lay
In some green shade or fountain.
Angels lay lieger here; each bush and cell,
Each oak and highway knew them;
Walk but the fields, or sit down at some well,
And he was sure to view them.
Almighty Love! where art thou now? Mad man
Sits down and freezeth on;
He raves, and swears to stir nor fire, nor fan,
But bids the thread be spun.
I see, thy curtains are close-drawn; thy bow
Looks dim, too, in the cloud;
Sin triumphs still, and man is sunk below
The center, and his shroud.
All’s in deep sleep and night: thick darkness lies
And hatcheth o’er thy people-
But hark! what trumpet’s that? what angel cries,
“Arise! thrust in thy sickle?”
(1650)


katayoun

Tuesday, August 12

A "pious" man's words

The following is a “great quotation” which has been selected from Khomeini’s The Answer to Problems (توضیح المسائل). And you, the audience of this page, should read it well and decide whether or not the author of such absurdity could be recognized as a “pious,” man, a “Guardian” of a nation, responsible for the well being of a society consisting of both men and women.


According to Khomeini: “A distinction is made between men and women by referring to men as human and women as otherwise".
katayoun

Sunday, August 10

simple note

Every once in a while, I try to post a quotation that somewhat explains the perplexity of life in different shades. The following conveys the meaning that is simple, profound, and by no means easily grasped.

“We are psychic process which we do not control, or only partly direct. Consequently, we cannot have any final judgment about ourselves or our lives. If we had, we would know everything –but at most that is only a pretense. At bottom we never know how it has all come about. The story of a life begins somewhere, at some particular point we happen to remember; and even then it was already highly complex. We do not know how life is going to turn out. Therefore the story has no beginning, and the end can only be vaguely hinted at” (Carl Gustav Jung: Memories, Dreams, Reflections).

Tuesday, July 29

Old and Wise words



“He that knows not and knows not that he knows not—avoid him; he that knows not and knows that he knows not—uh, wait a minute—uh, instruct him; he that knows and knows that he knows—cleave unto him” (Tempest-Tost, 28).



I am sure it rings a certain tune in your mind too!

katayoun

Sunday, July 27

Our Salutation to our Late King, Mohammad Reza Shah Pahlavi



This brief note is a homage to our late King, Mohammad Reza Shah Pahlavi; a King under whose great leadership Iran was flourishing as a Secular, Stable and Independent country in one of the most troubled areas on this planet, the Middle East.

Let us remember our late King as a man who believed in justice, peace, democracy and secularism without propagating against his own people, or the whole world. A King, who was not afraid of his own people, did not believe in entering any “political campaign,” and did not wish to defend himself against the cheap accusations of the Western Media, supplemented by the dollar-worshiping lobbyist in Washington.

Let us remember our late King, as a dignified man of great compassion, who trusted his friends and forgave his enemies, spent many sleepless nights in exile thinking about his country’s fate, while battling cancer. Let us remember the late King as a man who believed in the greatness of Iran, without threatening the “peace-process” in the Middle East.

TwoShorties

Thursday, July 24

"He that will avoid trouble must avoid the world"

“No, this is a Great Theatre of Life. Admission is free but the taxation is mortal. You come when you can, and leave when you must. The show is continuous.” (The Cunning Man, 514)


(Something for you, who looks, thinks and ...) katayoun

Sunday, July 13

The tale of the Fox and its Tail

There is a proverb in Farsi that goes like this:

They asked the Fox, “who is your witness?” The Fox answered, “my own tail”.


Andrew Young, the United States (the Fox) ambassador and President Carter’s special convoy to the UN (1977), asserted that, “Khomeini’s movement has been influenced by an American Educational System, and it’s inspired by it. What I can say is that this Revolution’s ideals are the same as the ideals of all human right advocates. When this Revolution settles (entering its fourth stage, which it never did!), then the whole world will realize that Khomeini (the Fox’s tail) is one of our Contemporary’s Saints”.

katayoun

Saturday, July 12

Dreams

Dreams

Here we are all, by day; by night, we’re hurled

By dreams, each one into a several world.

(Robert Herrick, 1591-1674)

Tuesday, July 8

What you read is what is there!

For those of you who believe that “Balcanization” of Iran is not possible, the New Yorker’s favourite contributor, Mr. Seymour Hersh has some “news”. Try to chew on it, if you can!

katayoun

Monday, July 7

The come-back begins with Henry James (1843-1916)


“Art lives upon discussion, upon experiment, upon curiosity, upon variety of attempt, upon the exchange of views and the comparison of standpoints; and there is a presumption that those times when no one has anything particular to say about it, and has no reason to give for practice or preference, though they may be times of honor, are not times of development—are times, possibly even, a little of dullness.” (Henry James, The Art of Fiction, 1884)

Wednesday, May 28

This week's poem by Allan Ginsberg

WILD ORPHAN (New York, April 13, 1952)

Blandly mother
takes him strolling
by railroad and by river
-he’s the son of the absconded
hot rod angel-
and he imagines cars
and rides them in his dreams,

so lonely growing up among
the imaginary automobiles
and dead souls of Tarrytown

to create
out of his own imagination
the beauty of his wild
forebears-a mythology
he cannot inherit.

Will he later hallucinate
his gods? Waking
among mysteries with
an insane gleam
of recollection?

The recognition-
something so rare,
in his soul,
met only in dreams
-nostalgias
of another life.

A question of the soul,
And the injured
losing their injury
in their innocence
-a cock, a cross,
an excellence of love.

And the father grieves
in flophouse
complexities of memory
a thousands miles
away, unknowing
of the unexpected
youthful stranger bumming toward his door
.

Allen Ginsberg

Monday, May 26

Without a Title!





In order to boost my optimism, I have been trying to see the events of the world, especially of my homeland Iran, through a pair of colourful spectacles. And to tell you the truth, I have a dual feeling towards the use of such a device, because I am not too sure about the long-term effects of the usage!

I read the news about the current affairs in Iran, but not without my magical glasses on. I zoom in. I see no idiot called Ahmadinejad, but a mad, delusional “president”, whose comprehension of the reality of the political games equals that of the wit of a five-year old preschooler. A goat that follows the rest of the herd has more wit than this “president” whose sole purpose is to create internal and external tensions in order to help the Fascist regime maintain power and control. Not a bright, pensive, stately man, but an ordinary fellow with too much faith dumped on his shoulders, while leading a hysteric crowd towards creating a state suitable for Allah’s trustee on earth. I should remove my spectacles every now and then, just to defy my sense of judgment.

Again I put my spectacles on, when I look at Khamenei’s picture, the so called “spiritual leader of the Islamic Republic”. I see a blood thirsty clergy- man in the field of guiding--mainly men--people toward Allah. No, I see devil in his most usual disguise. To be frank with you, with my magical spectacles on, I see Ali Khamenei as a man who had been prepared for his role even before the so called “triumph of people’s revolution, the Islamic revolution of 1978-79”. A “spiritual leader” under whose authority the most heinous crimes have been and are committed, with the hope to please Allah.

Even with my spectacles on, I cannot see why Allah should have waited all these eons to redeem humanity?

Sunday, May 18

"My pain"

My pain, still smothered in my grieved breast,
Seeks for some ease, yet cannot passage find
To be discharged of this unwelcome guest:
When most I strive, most fast his burdens bind,
Like to a ship on Goodwin’s cast by wind,
The more she strives, more deep in sand is pressed,
Till she be lost; so am I, in this kind,
Sunk, and devoured, and swallowed by unrest,
Lost, shipwracked, spoiled, debarred of smallest hope,
Nothing of pleasure left; save thoughts have scope,
Which wander may. Go then, my thoughts, and cry
Hope’s perished, Love tempest-beaten, Joy lost:
Killing Despair hath all these blessings crossed.
Yet Faith still cries, Love will not satisfy.

Lady Mary Wroth

Thursday, May 15

Good luck To you all!






Yes, let us be jubilant and gay, my dear Anglophiles, because our beloved Queen Elizabeth II, has adorned her majestic head with a scarf, instead of a crown decorated with precious gems--the generous “gifts” from the King of Saudi Arabia, or the Raja of Rajestan--in order to enter a holly place, an “Ottoman mosque”, in Turkey.
A friend said, “A British hound never spoils a good hunt! <<Good luck to you all>> is what they say before they commence the hunt. But, at this moment this is what I say: good bye my beloved home, Iran. Good bye peace and hello Hell”. He may be right, who knows!

The head of the Church of England, her majesty Queen Elizabeth II, the Queen of England, and the Common Wealth, loosely but adequately, covering her silver grey, enters the house of Allah, in Bursa, Turkey. And I ask myself, whatever happened to those good old days where Charlemagne and Rolland killed more than 20,000 pagans-a-day?
Perhaps, Christianity has bowed down only to offer an olive branch. I am trying to be an optimist! Then, if I let the optimism penetrate a little deeply, I will have to expect that in a near future, the children of the Old Patriarchs will follow their heathen brethrens, as well
.

Who knows, ey?

Saturday, May 10

This Week's poem

The latest Decalogue


Thou shalt have one God only; who
Would be at the expense of two?
No graven images may be
Worshiped, except the currency.
Swear not at all; for, for thy curse
Thine enemy is none the worse.
At church on Sunday to attend
Will serve to keep the world thy friend.
Honor thy parents; that is, all
From whom advancement may befall.
Thou shalt not kill; but need’st not strive
Officiously to keep alive.
Do not adultery commit;
Advantage rarely comes of it.
Thou shalt not steal; an empty feat,
When it’s so lucrative to cheat.
Bear not false witness; let the lie
Have time on its own wings to fly.
Thou shalt not covet, but tradition
Approves all forms of competition.

The sum of all is, thou shalt love,
If anybody, God above:
At any rate shall never labor
More than thyself not love thy neighbor. (1862)


ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH (1819-1861)

Sunday, May 4

As La Fontaine said:

Comme La Fontaine l'a dit: ((Rien ne sert de courir, il faut partir à point)).

Thursday, May 1

How long have they been waiting for each other?





A thousand and a few hundred years of enslavement has rubbed them off of their dignity, the poor creatures of gullible mind. Tortured souls, wounded spirits, shaken down to their bones, with fear of a vicious god, named Allah, in their hearts. History has it that they have been raped, pillaged, murdered, stoned, but they never ceased to give up their scattered fight.
So many words are exchanged in silence, even though the air is noisy to the point that one can hardly hear the sound of one’s own thoughts.
Congregated in a specific zone, shoulder-to-shoulder, but no one is looking up. Perhaps they are looking at what is happening under their feet, as if they are tired of sinking so low. Something must have gone terribly wrong. Wouldn’t you wonder?
And of course, something has gone wrong, and no one knows how, but they all know why! The miserable condition of life in that ancient land, Iran, where, once, people laughed, fell-in-love, and kept their head-up, has taken its toll on the nation. But, now, the words are prancing around, trying to attack those who have fallen behind the wheel. Denial is no longer an option. The truth is now naked, and exposed for you to take your luckiest pick at it, and declare yourself a Saint! Perhaps, in the darkest moments of a nations’ life, even silence is a sign.

katayoun

Saturday, April 26

"The History of Truth" as Auden recites it



In that age when being was believing,
Truth was the most many credibles,
More first, more always, than a bat-winged lion,
A fish-tailed dog or eagle-headed fish,
The least like morals, doubted by their deaths.

Truth was their model as they strove to build
A world of lasting objects to believe in,
Without believing earthenware and legend,
Archway and song, were truthful or untruthful:
The Truth was there already to be true.

This while when, practical like paper-dishes,
Truth is convertible to kilowatts,
Our last to do by is an anti-model
Some untruth anyone can give the lie to,
A nothing no one need believe is there.

Saturday, April 19

A note for You and I



Connected, not fully, not merely as a whole, but superficially we are satisfied that we have something in common with each other, as a people of a country, and therefore we know each other’s dream! So, we stand face to face with each other, in disguise, while pretending to have a secret amongst ourselves, of which most of us, surprisingly, know nothing at all.

In the background, the cruelty of the blood stained reality of our kind tries to penetrate itself into the darkest corner of our thoughts, but never shall it triumph over our resistant minds. And so we think that we are connected, and yet, we are a world away, apart from each other and us. And we wait for that great revelation, and with patience for a glorious reward from a generous enterprise, we parade around in disguise, yet fully unaware of the depth of our disconnection and the undercurrent sense of loss.

You and I, plus the others, will go on with persistence; a very peculiar sense of achievement that is not wholly shared. For how could it?! And we try very hard to make that connection under a shadow of a burdensome doubt, and miserably try to hide the truth, of which we haven’t heard much. And you wonder why we can’t seem to get on with our trial? And you think that you can keep yourself connected with the others, while I drift away in disguise, till we meet in the middle of the dreamy field, where the daffodils used to grow plenteous. Well, apparently, you and I were both wrong!

Connected we are, because we are trapped and confined in a narrow space, where reality is chained for the sake of our own good. And you believe that it is for your own good that you shall hide away from what seems to be the secret of our sacred connection.

Connected we are, though we have nothing to make us dream the same dream, work for the same cause, or live the same life. You and I are such similar creatures, we tolerate the same pain, with the same frequency, with the same sharpness, but that’s as far as our connection forces us to connect, and with certain joy we claim that we are connected!



katayoun

Sunday, April 13

Minding one's wheel!

Mother, I cannot mind my wheel

Mother, I cannot mind my wheel;
My fingers ache, my lips are dry:
Oh! If you felt the pain I feel!
But oh, who ever felt as I!
No longer could I doubt him true,
All other men may use deceit;
He always said my eyes were blue,
And often swore my lips were sweet
. (1806)

Walter Savage Landor (1775-1864)

Tuesday, April 8

To Our Viewers

The Prophet, 1911, oil on canvas, Wien






"Man is what he is not and is not what he is". Jean-Paul Sartre


Bita




Wednesday, April 2

A simple note!

In case you have not noticed, the rise of the “Islamofascism” has its roots in the kind of the world we are trying to save, today! What is happening around the world, with respect to the political aspects of many things, is beyond absurd.
You don’t need to have a “degree,” to realize that the whole-wide-world is in a mess that which seems more likely to have a potential for an unprecedented universal anarchy, a miserable destruction—a powerful drive towards Death and Disconnection-- than to have any capacity to search for an inevitable truth—the quest for Eternal Love and Connection.
No, you don’t need to be an “economists” to understand that “one of the most powerful countries on this planet” is going through a “gradual recession” of which we have heard murmurs, prior to the horrible, vicious act of Terrorism that was committed in the September 11th of the year 2001. You don’t have to be a “human right activist” to understand that in many countries around the world, human beings have no right to exist at all. In Iran, the population is ruled and mauled by the government, the Industrialists, the Capitalists and the Opportunists; the Mullahs are talking nonsense, the Democratic Candidates in the States review the situation carefully! becasue the most powerful men of politics and decision making do not want to have "it" other way.
It seems as if Vietnam has never ended. The cold war never ended. The World War II never ended. It is even obvious that the ambitious minds of the ancient Imperialists never ceased to stop thinking of creating a “Free World” and therefore the ambitious plan to create A Powerful Government is still under way.
It is a sad world in which we struggle for nothing, die for nothing and live for nothing. We even try to save the world for nothing. We are dealing with “nothingness,” so much so that “Nothingness” seems to be the unprecedented condition of not-being. And in the meantime, our scream is no longer audible. Moreover, we are ruined very miserably and stupidly
.

katayoun





Sunday, March 30

Believe in God

"It is not up to us to believe in God, but only to not grant our love to false gods"

(Simone Weil)

Saturday, March 29

How they Punished "Little adultress" in Heaney's words


The Punishment(1975)

I can feel the tug
Of the halter at the nape
Of her neck, the wind
On her naked front
.

In blows her nipples
To amber beads,
it shakes the frail rigging
of her ribs
.

I can see her drowned
body in the bog,
the weighing stone,
the floating rods and boughs
.

Under which at first
she was a barked sapling
that is dug up
oak-bone, brain-firkin
:

her shaved head
like a stubble of black corn,
her blindfold a soiled bandage,
her noose a ring

to store
the memories of love.
Little adulteress,
before they punish you

you were flaxen –haired,
undrernourished, and your
tar-black face was beautiful.
My poor scapegoat
,

I almost love you
but would have cast, I know,
the stones of silence.
I am the artful voyeur
of your brain’s exposed
and darkened combs,
your muscles webbing
and all your numbered bones
:

I who have stood dumb
when your betraying sisters,
cauled in tar,
wept by the railings
,

who would connive
in civilized outrage
yet understand the exact
and tribal, intimate revenge
.

Friday, March 28

a simple note

We’ve got a disease in Iran. That’s a simple truth. You can ignore what I say, and go about your own business. “Who cares,” eh? “Life must go on” and “there is only so much one can do” is the best attitude in times such as now, as you are immersing in an ignorance that seems to be a blessing! It works for you, I know. But what works for you now, may not be of great benefit to you in a near future. Have you thought of that?

katayoun

Wednesday, March 26

The Assassination of Manouchehr Farhangi


"It was an Iranian woman. And the National Police are looking for her in connection with the stabbings that killed her compatriot, the 82 year old Manouchehr Farhangi, at the gates of his residence in La Moraleja on Wednesday. This much was confirmed by a witness, who stated that the woman fled in a taxi after committing the aggression, and got rid of the coat she was wearing. Apparently, she had arrived in the same car".

With special thanks to http://www.sarbazekuchak.blogspot.com/ for reflecting this horrible news about the assassination of a man whose life was filled with greatness, kindness, generosity, and love for his country, Iran.

Saturday, March 22

Believe me, if all those endearing young charms (1808)



Believe me, if all those endearing young charms,
Which I gaze on so fondly today,
Were to change by tomorrow, and fleet in my arms,
Like fairy-gifts fading away,
Thou wouldst still be adored, as this moment thou art,
Let thy loveliness fade as it will,
And around the dear ruin each wish of my heart
Would entwine itself verdantly still.

It is not while beauty and youth are thine own,
And thy cheeks unprofaned by a tear
That the fervor and faith of a soul can be known,
To which time will but make thee more dear;
No, the heart that has truly loved never forgets,
But as truly loves on to the close,
As the sunflower turns on her god, when he sets,
The same look which she turned when he rose
.



Thomas Moore (1779-1852)

Thursday, March 20

Norooz has arrived



Once more, the ancient Norooz (New Day) is here to remind us of life that which has been and will be going on , of that glorious notion of life that can and must be experienced, till you and I exist.

Far away from the Home we love, scattered around the world, each trying very hard “to be”, we, the Iranians in exile, celebrate Norooz, with certain pain in our hearts. But, nevertheless, with the Home in our hearts, we celebrate the arrival of the marvelous Norooz; a plausible reminiscence of our childhood Norooz, and in silence and with broad smile on our faces, we greet each other courageously, giddily, and innocently we wish for a “Better Year than the old-one that is gone, now”.
Twoshorties

Thursday, March 13

A Coat



I made my song a coat
Covered with embroideries
Out of old mythologies
From heel to throat;
But the fools caught it,
Wore it in the world's eyes
As though they'd wrought it.
Song, let them take it,
For there's more enterprise
in walking naked.

Monday, March 10

A SPY IS BACK IN THE USA...

Again, another academically approved disaster by Columbia University, this time the podium is the place behind which a despicable creature, a traitor, Ibrahim Yazdi, will hide and profess what he has been given to preach!
The academic force behind such profession is worthy of close attention, for the simple fact that one can never be “too clever,” or “too sure” enough to avoid all that academically-motivated and proven-way of dealing with an under-study-case, especially when that study concerns the livelihood of a Nation.

“Academia” should be a place where the notion of “true learning” should come into existence by the way of “true scholarship,” which requires total isolation from all kinds of politically-motivated-researches that endanger the lives of innocent people. As an “elite” of a society, an “academician” has a responsibility to maintain his/her neutrality in political games, if for nothing at least for a spirit of “free and honest” pursuit of “truth”.

To welcome a traitor into a world, in which he should not have any seat, is to disregard the “true” spirit of learning, teaching, researching and inquiring about Life.
KATAYOUN

Sunday, March 2

Just a few simple questions!



Have you ever given heed to the devil’s tempting proposition that which changes in accordance to the need of the Inner-Man?
Have you ever tried to avoid listening to his tempest whispers, while being pushed over the edge of that solid rock upon which you have built the temple of Faith?
Have you ever wondered how he would ask you to think, to say and to do things on his behalf, meanwhile making you believe that you are the very incarnation of “goodness” and “grace” and “charity” and “forgiveness”?
katayoun

Monday, February 25

"Happy is he who sees the causes of things"



They say that Hope is happiness
Felix qui potuit rerum congnoscere causas. (VIRGIL)
I
They say that Hope is happiness-
But genuine Love must prize the past;
And Mem'ry wakes the thoughts that bless:
They rose the first-they set the last.
2
And all that mem'ry loves the most
Was once our only hope to be:
And all that hope adored and lost
Hath melted into memory.
3
Alas! it is delusion all--
The futre cheats us from afar:
Nor can we be what we recall,
Nor dare we think on what we are.

Thursday, February 14

"I aked a thief

I asked a thief to steal me a peach,
He turned up his eyes;
I ask'd a lithe lady to lie her down
Holy & meek she cries.

As soon as I went
An angel came.
He wink'd at the thief
And smiled at the dame-

And without one word said
Had a peach from the tree
And still as a maid
Enjoy'd the lady (William Blake)