Home alone, watching myself to grow… Last seconds slipping away from my fingers. Another year, another story to write, another poem to recite… passing away for good. A biting feeling of getting older but not wiser. Hindi melody playing in my ears making me feel more romantic and emotional. But no tears, no laugh, as if I’ve had enough, of all of them so far and no worries about some pitiful beings conspiring behind my back and ratting on me. The feeling of compassion is surpassing my egoism as if I want to help those poor creatures to rat on me even more fiercely than before. Maybe it is the best thing to do: leaving them with themselves to rot in their obscurity and negligence as far as they get some masochistic pleasure out of it.
But indeed, I must admit, music is my language! And even little Gareth is able to make me speak and think and shout and cry and laugh and stay still with my index finger attached to my lips:
Oh, my love, my darling
I've hungered for your touch
A long, lonely time
And time goes by so slowly
And time can do so much
Are you still mine?
I need your love,
I oh I need your love
God speed your love to me
Lonely rivers flow to the sea, to the sea
To the open arms of the sea
Lonely rivers sigh, wait for me, wait for me
I'll be coming home, wait for me
And Ramesh wakes me up to realities:
Lahze lahzeye jodaiye
Ruze marge ashenaiye!
But I’m still as a stone, while the tide is rising deep inside. Especially when James Blunt makes me feel guilty:
Did I disappoint you or let you down?
Should I be feeling guilty or let the judges frown?
'Cause I saw the end before we'd begun,
Yes I saw you were blinded and I knew I had won.
So I took what's mine by eternal right.
Took your soul out into the night.
It may be over but it won't stop there,
I am here for you if you'd only care.
You touched my heart you touched my soul.
You changed my life and all my goals.
And love is blind and that I knew when,
My heart was blinded by you.
I've kissed your lips and held your head.
Shared your dreams and shared your bed.
I know you well, I know your smell.
I've been addicted to you.
Goodbye my lover.
Goodbye my friend.
You have been the one.
You have been the one for me.
But I’m still behind my shell with the looks of a happiest person of the world. Another step up, another wing to clap, another tale to tell, another man to come… to come and change everything to find the paradise.
Prague
01.06.06
00:26
Wednesday, May 31, 2006
Thursday, May 25, 2006
Even Despair Inspires...
سرای غصه مرا سراب هست و آب نيست
دو چشم تيره مرا شهاب هست و خواب نيست
ندای جبرئيل ما همه دروغ بوده است
سروش مردمانه را کتاب هست و باب نيست
قناری های رستگی همه کباب می شوند
وجود عاصی مرا تناب هست و تاب نيست
:دو سه رقيب ناتوان به من پيام می دهند
زبان بی نزاکتم خراب هست و ناب نيست
به خنده ها سپرده ام من تباه گشته را
به گريه ها غنوده ام که
Lobby
هست و
Job
نيست.
:به من دبير مدرسه چنين پيام داده بود
نهاد ياغی مرا قواره هست و قاب نيست
Сарои гуссаи маро сароб хасту об нест
Ду чашми тираи маро шахоб хасту хоб нест
Нидои Чабраили мо хама дуруг будааст
Суруши мардумонаро китоб хасту боб нест
Канорихои растаги хама кабоб мешаванд
Вучуди осии маро таноб хасту тоб нест
Ду-се ракиби нотавон ба ман паём медиханд:
Забони беназокатам хароб хасту ноб нест
Ба хандахо супурдаам мани табохгаштаро
Ба гиряхо гунудаам, ки lobby хасту job нест
Ба ман дабири мадраса чунин паём дода буд:
Ниходи ёгии маро кавора хасту коб нест
"Dorudi" Memories
اگر کنار من بودی... ای کاش
:و می سرودی
Jak se mash?
مرا شايد شکيب بيشتر می بود
با يک کلام تو:
"درود!"
ولی هر چه هست از "بود" و "می بود" است
...و خاطره های "درود" است
Агар канори ман буди... эй кош!
Ва месуруди:
Jak se mash?
Маро шояд шикеби бештар мебуд
Бо як каломи ту:
«Дуруд!»
Вале хар чи хаст, аз «буд»-у «мебуд» аст
Ва хотирахои «дуруд»аст…
25.05.06 / 23:34
Prague
دو چشم تيره مرا شهاب هست و خواب نيست
ندای جبرئيل ما همه دروغ بوده است
سروش مردمانه را کتاب هست و باب نيست
قناری های رستگی همه کباب می شوند
وجود عاصی مرا تناب هست و تاب نيست
:دو سه رقيب ناتوان به من پيام می دهند
زبان بی نزاکتم خراب هست و ناب نيست
به خنده ها سپرده ام من تباه گشته را
به گريه ها غنوده ام که
Lobby
هست و
Job
نيست.
:به من دبير مدرسه چنين پيام داده بود
نهاد ياغی مرا قواره هست و قاب نيست
Сарои гуссаи маро сароб хасту об нест
Ду чашми тираи маро шахоб хасту хоб нест
Нидои Чабраили мо хама дуруг будааст
Суруши мардумонаро китоб хасту боб нест
Канорихои растаги хама кабоб мешаванд
Вучуди осии маро таноб хасту тоб нест
Ду-се ракиби нотавон ба ман паём медиханд:
Забони беназокатам хароб хасту ноб нест
Ба хандахо супурдаам мани табохгаштаро
Ба гиряхо гунудаам, ки lobby хасту job нест
Ба ман дабири мадраса чунин паём дода буд:
Ниходи ёгии маро кавора хасту коб нест
"Dorudi" Memories
اگر کنار من بودی... ای کاش
:و می سرودی
Jak se mash?
مرا شايد شکيب بيشتر می بود
با يک کلام تو:
"درود!"
ولی هر چه هست از "بود" و "می بود" است
...و خاطره های "درود" است
Агар канори ман буди... эй кош!
Ва месуруди:
Jak se mash?
Маро шояд шикеби бештар мебуд
Бо як каломи ту:
«Дуруд!»
Вале хар чи хаст, аз «буд»-у «мебуд» аст
Ва хотирахои «дуруд»аст…
25.05.06 / 23:34
Prague
The Great Pretender
by Freddie Mercury
Oh yes I'm the great pretender
Pretending I'm doing well
My need is such, I pretend too much
I'm lonely but no-one can tell
Oh yes I'm the great pretender
Adrift in a world of my own
I play the game, but to my real shame
You've left me to dream all alone
Too real is this feeling of make believe
Too real when I feel what my heart can't conceal
Ooh oh yes I'm the great pretender
Just laughing and gay like a clown
I seem to be what I'm not (you see)
I'm wearing my heart like a crown
Pretending that you're still around, yeah oooh hoo
Too real when I feel
What my heart can't conceal
Oh yes I'm the great pretender
Just laughing and gay like a clown
I seem to be what I'm not you see
I'm wearing my heart like a crown
Pretending that you're, pretending that you're still around
Tuesday, May 23, 2006
London Leftovers
Hola there.
Back to the tiny world of misery and disgrace in a beautiful part of the world. Shiny Sun and drenching rain highlighting and cleaning the features of a tired city. A broken heart left apart from sweet peaches of the garden. I had a Week. A Week of joy and happiness beyond the appalling stance of my present being in Prague. London was still welcoming its lover with a huge open embrace. But the last thing I saw there re-convinced me that we all are inhabitants of a savage wacky world. I was puffing a fag by an annoying oversensitive automatic door that was interrupting our sweet-and-sour talk with a dear being.
A guy, ostensibly an Eastern European, was deeply into a bitter verbal fight with a couple of short and fat policemen. “You are not a man!”, he was shouting at one of them, trying to give the impression that the very saying presumably gives in his native language. That could be translated as “To naamardi!” in Persian that devastates the addressee. But the policeman just wobbled at his place, looked down and up again, straight at the foreigners face and muttered something upon his nose. The foreigner was not satisfied by the impression he gave him. He wanted to see a much bitter face in front of him, I assume, and he went on chopping some more broken English humiliating expressions out of his mouth. A police car arrived discreetly and pulled in. As soon as some chubby figures crept down the car two previously quiet cops started spitting out a threateningly loud “Get down!!!” and beating the foreigner on his knees to make him kneel. The foreigner was trembling under the increasing violent force upon him, but didn’t kneel at all. He was trying to keep his shaky legs steady and looking straight into my eyes as if begging for help. His vibrant voice could tell you about his shock and disbelief: “I’m OK. I’m fine… Why are you fighting?..”
“Get down!!!”, was the only thing the policemen could shout out. But he didn’t. Shaky policemen took him up to the car, put him in arresting pose, one of them was trying to reach the handcuffs stuck in his belt, but couldn’t. The other extended his own handcuffs to him to tie up the foreigner’s hands. They took him away with his rucksack. A typical English couple was watching the scene as well. The old lady smirked and mocked the foreigner and showed her disgust that “a Bulgarian!” had dared to oppose the British police. The old man smirked back and spat on the floor. A policeman explained to this supportive couple that the Bulgarian had been barred from his flight and advised to leave the premises. But he had chosen to argue for his right to fly. After pushing the unfortunate Bulgarian into the car policemen exchanged wide smiles on their satisfied faces and left the scene of crime. The crime of breaching their own code of conduct.
Tonight I wanted to write about something else. Actually about loads of other stuff, like The Da Vinci Code movie that I watched on its first day of release in London and about Craig Murray’s astonishingly revealing book called “Murder in Samarqand” to be published on 1 June. Some fragments of the latter published in the Mail on Sunday made me gasp for some air. A breath-taking jaw-dropping writing. Perhaps I’ll get back to it later on. Now I have to get my beauty sleep to face my self-proclaimed “adversaries” in the office. Ciao for now.
Back to the tiny world of misery and disgrace in a beautiful part of the world. Shiny Sun and drenching rain highlighting and cleaning the features of a tired city. A broken heart left apart from sweet peaches of the garden. I had a Week. A Week of joy and happiness beyond the appalling stance of my present being in Prague. London was still welcoming its lover with a huge open embrace. But the last thing I saw there re-convinced me that we all are inhabitants of a savage wacky world. I was puffing a fag by an annoying oversensitive automatic door that was interrupting our sweet-and-sour talk with a dear being.
A guy, ostensibly an Eastern European, was deeply into a bitter verbal fight with a couple of short and fat policemen. “You are not a man!”, he was shouting at one of them, trying to give the impression that the very saying presumably gives in his native language. That could be translated as “To naamardi!” in Persian that devastates the addressee. But the policeman just wobbled at his place, looked down and up again, straight at the foreigners face and muttered something upon his nose. The foreigner was not satisfied by the impression he gave him. He wanted to see a much bitter face in front of him, I assume, and he went on chopping some more broken English humiliating expressions out of his mouth. A police car arrived discreetly and pulled in. As soon as some chubby figures crept down the car two previously quiet cops started spitting out a threateningly loud “Get down!!!” and beating the foreigner on his knees to make him kneel. The foreigner was trembling under the increasing violent force upon him, but didn’t kneel at all. He was trying to keep his shaky legs steady and looking straight into my eyes as if begging for help. His vibrant voice could tell you about his shock and disbelief: “I’m OK. I’m fine… Why are you fighting?..”
“Get down!!!”, was the only thing the policemen could shout out. But he didn’t. Shaky policemen took him up to the car, put him in arresting pose, one of them was trying to reach the handcuffs stuck in his belt, but couldn’t. The other extended his own handcuffs to him to tie up the foreigner’s hands. They took him away with his rucksack. A typical English couple was watching the scene as well. The old lady smirked and mocked the foreigner and showed her disgust that “a Bulgarian!” had dared to oppose the British police. The old man smirked back and spat on the floor. A policeman explained to this supportive couple that the Bulgarian had been barred from his flight and advised to leave the premises. But he had chosen to argue for his right to fly. After pushing the unfortunate Bulgarian into the car policemen exchanged wide smiles on their satisfied faces and left the scene of crime. The crime of breaching their own code of conduct.
Tonight I wanted to write about something else. Actually about loads of other stuff, like The Da Vinci Code movie that I watched on its first day of release in London and about Craig Murray’s astonishingly revealing book called “Murder in Samarqand” to be published on 1 June. Some fragments of the latter published in the Mail on Sunday made me gasp for some air. A breath-taking jaw-dropping writing. Perhaps I’ll get back to it later on. Now I have to get my beauty sleep to face my self-proclaimed “adversaries” in the office. Ciao for now.
Saturday, May 06, 2006
B-E-A-utiful!
I loved this poem sent by Her today:
There’s one sad truth in life I’ve found
While journeying east and west
The only folks we really wound
Are those we love the best.
We flatter those we scarcely know,
We please the fleeting guest,
And deal full many a thoughtless blow
To those who love us best.
Ella Wheeler Wilcox
There’s one sad truth in life I’ve found
While journeying east and west
The only folks we really wound
Are those we love the best.
We flatter those we scarcely know,
We please the fleeting guest,
And deal full many a thoughtless blow
To those who love us best.
Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Awakening
Today I replied to a dearest friend of mine and I told her how I feel indeed. I haven’t been here for ages and I thought you’d love to know about it too. I told her I was out of a purple bubble; that I had wider eye cuts, not sure if physically, but definitely I have them mentally. That means I’ve been chewing down loads of pleasant stuff for ages and not looking at some crap which could happen to appear among that too. I didn’t know how deeply our problems go, dearest. And please read it again, we have to fight it. We have to be even more decisive to crack it down and devastate it. I can hear you asking: what d’you mean by “it”. That “it” is too dangerous to name even here. It is something ugly like a creepy worm fed by our ignorance and stupidity called “regionalism”. I reckon I’m in touch with the roots of all Tajik problems at the moment. It must be bombed as America’s bombed Afghanistan and Iraq. Even more fiercely. We have to get rid of this bug to move on. Otherwise…. see you tomorrow dear.
Did you know that they call this radio station “ZBC” just because most of their Prague-based workers are from “Z” valley? I’m less lucky to have my roots in that valley as well. It reduces my chances to take my voice up to tell them off by saying: “F… off!” That is something that I had not reckoned with before moving to Prague. Because I was inside a purple bubble shielded by my eternal friends in Dushanbe. I’ve woken up to realities and I don’t like them at all. I wanna get back to that bubble, but apparently it’s blown up and there’s no way back to my comparatively comfortable bubble to deceive myself that we live in a modern world. No dear. We are far behind the schedule of the time. We had to be at least a hundred years farther than we are now. But the History is giving us a rare chance to correct our shameful blunder: LET’S FIGHT REGIONALISM IN TAJIKISTAN!
Did you know that they call this radio station “ZBC” just because most of their Prague-based workers are from “Z” valley? I’m less lucky to have my roots in that valley as well. It reduces my chances to take my voice up to tell them off by saying: “F… off!” That is something that I had not reckoned with before moving to Prague. Because I was inside a purple bubble shielded by my eternal friends in Dushanbe. I’ve woken up to realities and I don’t like them at all. I wanna get back to that bubble, but apparently it’s blown up and there’s no way back to my comparatively comfortable bubble to deceive myself that we live in a modern world. No dear. We are far behind the schedule of the time. We had to be at least a hundred years farther than we are now. But the History is giving us a rare chance to correct our shameful blunder: LET’S FIGHT REGIONALISM IN TAJIKISTAN!
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