It seems I have reached the ceiling and no use of me for the goal we have followed so far. I had realized that for quite a while, but was working under a self-applied coercion. Now I have to lay down my arm and stop losing myself in a project that has reached its edges and would not move even for an inch anymore with me in it. However, the yacht is done and is still moving with our collective enormous efforts. I am certain it would keep moving without me too. So, it’s time to move on for me, I suppose. Have you ever seen the boiling pot of patience overflowing?
My friends, my dearest friends, would be annoyed by this decision, I know. Nevertheless I believe in their comprehension and I will love them dearly as ever regardless to my whereabouts. I’ve experienced both the sweetest and the bitterest moments of my professional life with them. I have shared my dreams and reality with them. We have so many things in common now and it will not evaporate without a trace indeed.
What I’m not certain about is the direction I am going to move towards now. I need a good rest after this hurricane and I ought to restore my professional and private personality before doing anything else. In other words, I need to lick my wounds and heal them in solitude before heading to a new battle ground. Hopefully the gap of uncertainty would turn into a necessary period of recovery.
However, the triumphant voyage of the vessel I am leaving now is still my pink dream. For it is as dear to me as a child of my own. And I feel as torn apart as a father leaving his offspring or a lover leaving his beloved. But I am absolutely certain that other parents of the child, my dearest counterparts, will still look after it and there won’t be any need for my custody. Therefore, I will be looking forward to hearing about more successes of our brilliant child.
Ин «КАМ», ки лутфи кам зи Лутфи ба у расид,
Рудест, ки ба ин гох зи як хурда чу расид.
Дасти ситам шикаставу чашми хасуд кур,
Фардо бибин, ки коики мо чун ба ку расид.
Tuesday, October 11, 2005
Sunday, October 02, 2005
Something to Remember
Trying to catch up with ruthless days and nights that are rushing towards eternity irreversibly with a grey brush to paint our heads. Memories are piling up in my box and squeezing it so that you can see their traces. But since a while ago it seems that we are living the same year over and over again. Same names and same upheavals are filling up our being. Same pictures of cigarette-like twin towers and smoked tube stations with more details on the war of “good” and “evil”. But the loudest explosion in this lot to me was Robert Fisk’s “Finding Osama”. The Independent correspondent has happened to be the only Western journalist to penetrate al-Qa’ida’s inner sanctum and have several chats with the world’s most wanted man. He has survived some awesome moments like Bin Laden asking him: “Mr Robert, one of our brothers had a dream. He dreamed that you came to us one day on a horse, that you had a beard and that you were a spiritual person. You wore a robe like us. This means you are a true Muslim”. R. Fisk admits that it was terrifying. However, he dared to tell that he was not a Muslim. He was just a journalist and his job was to tell the truth. Osama’s withdrawal from his proposal sounded sickeningly diplomatic too: “If you tell the truth, that means you are a good Muslim”. You could imagine that this blood-thirsty creature had never lied throughout his life or any of his followers or big enemies. In reality their jihads and crusades are lie-coated entirely.
Another passage from Robert’s book: “I said to Bin Laden that Afghanistan was the only country left to him after his exile in Sudan. He agreed. “The safest place in the world for me is Afghanistan.” It was the only place, I repeated, in which he could campaign against the Saudi government. Bin Laden and several of his Arab fighters burst into laughter. “There are other places”, he replied. Did he mean Tajikistan? I asked. Or Uzbekistan? Kazakhstan? “There are several places where we have friends and close brothers – we can find refuge and safety in them”. I told Bin Laden he was already a hunted man. “Danger is a part of our life”, he snapped back”.
To me it was a bit surprising that Tajikistan was the first country to come into Robert’s mind as Osama’s second haven.
Osama in 1997 explains how much he detests Saddam Hussein, while “Saddam’s support for Bin Laden” was one of Bush’s justifications for attacking on Iraq.
That was something I added to my last days’ memorable moments.
There is something else to remember as well, of course. My baby has made a favour for me that turned up as a big surprise to me. My short story about Hushyar, the lovely dog of my Dad, has been published. I had completely forgotten that she had taken a copy of it with herself back to Dushanbe. That was a very pleasant moment indeed.
Another passage from Robert’s book: “I said to Bin Laden that Afghanistan was the only country left to him after his exile in Sudan. He agreed. “The safest place in the world for me is Afghanistan.” It was the only place, I repeated, in which he could campaign against the Saudi government. Bin Laden and several of his Arab fighters burst into laughter. “There are other places”, he replied. Did he mean Tajikistan? I asked. Or Uzbekistan? Kazakhstan? “There are several places where we have friends and close brothers – we can find refuge and safety in them”. I told Bin Laden he was already a hunted man. “Danger is a part of our life”, he snapped back”.
To me it was a bit surprising that Tajikistan was the first country to come into Robert’s mind as Osama’s second haven.
Osama in 1997 explains how much he detests Saddam Hussein, while “Saddam’s support for Bin Laden” was one of Bush’s justifications for attacking on Iraq.
That was something I added to my last days’ memorable moments.
There is something else to remember as well, of course. My baby has made a favour for me that turned up as a big surprise to me. My short story about Hushyar, the lovely dog of my Dad, has been published. I had completely forgotten that she had taken a copy of it with herself back to Dushanbe. That was a very pleasant moment indeed.
Bring My Family Back
Lyrics & song by Faithless
I'm on Lonely Street age nearly three,
Recently Mama's cryin all the time is it because of me?
Or my younger sister, even Dad was weeping when he kissed her,
Face all puffy like a blister, cryin' like he missed her,
Since we moved away from the house where we use ta play,
They say I'll understand one day, but I doubt it,
Mama never say nothin' about it,
How'd it get to be so crowded,
I found it a strain, everywhere I look I see pain,
And I can't escape the feelin', maybe I'm to blame,
So I strain to listen, prayin' for a decision, wishing' they were kissin'
This feels like extradition or exile, Mama finds it hard to smile,
So I make pretend cups of coffe in her favourite style,
She says child I'm working so there's nothing you lack,
Bus she know I want my Dad, I want my family back.
I'm on Lonely Street, age forty-three
Couldn't gauge when tot quit so my wife quit me
Took offence, took the kids, I wish that was the end
But before she took her leave she took care of my best friend
Workin' all the hours God send was not the tactic
Y'see cuz after ten years I'm left with jackshit
Wanted to make the cash Quik so I useta work real late
Bad sex, My woman's vex, even if I stay awake
And if I'm honest, I had a little cake at the office
I was eatin' We'd do our cheatin over coffees, makin' tea for the bosses
Makin free with me and I agree I got sleazy too easily
But I'm forty-three, this doesn't usually happen to me
Now I'm lonely, I wonder what my son's doing today
Suddenly I'm blinkin' like the screen on my computer display and I'm drinkin'
Concerned about what's down the track if I don't get my family back
I'm on Lonely Street, number fifty-three
Boarded up properly, I'll probably get pulled down
Litter all around inside there's no sound and no light
But yo it gets busy at night, people creppin'
Derelicts sneakin' to fix, speakin'
On the way my timbers creaking', roof leakin'
And bricks comin' loose, knee high in refuse
But even though I'm a slum I'm still of some use
There was a time when my walls were decorated
And under my roof children were educated
But now paint's faded, windows are all smashed
A crash in the economy robbed me of my family And no strategy
combats negative equitiy so that's it. Like violence it's drastic
I'm freaking', and seekin' to be more than just a house of crack
somebody bring my family back
I'm on Lonely Street age nearly three,
Recently Mama's cryin all the time is it because of me?
Or my younger sister, even Dad was weeping when he kissed her,
Face all puffy like a blister, cryin' like he missed her,
Since we moved away from the house where we use ta play,
They say I'll understand one day, but I doubt it,
Mama never say nothin' about it,
How'd it get to be so crowded,
I found it a strain, everywhere I look I see pain,
And I can't escape the feelin', maybe I'm to blame,
So I strain to listen, prayin' for a decision, wishing' they were kissin'
This feels like extradition or exile, Mama finds it hard to smile,
So I make pretend cups of coffe in her favourite style,
She says child I'm working so there's nothing you lack,
Bus she know I want my Dad, I want my family back.
I'm on Lonely Street, age forty-three
Couldn't gauge when tot quit so my wife quit me
Took offence, took the kids, I wish that was the end
But before she took her leave she took care of my best friend
Workin' all the hours God send was not the tactic
Y'see cuz after ten years I'm left with jackshit
Wanted to make the cash Quik so I useta work real late
Bad sex, My woman's vex, even if I stay awake
And if I'm honest, I had a little cake at the office
I was eatin' We'd do our cheatin over coffees, makin' tea for the bosses
Makin free with me and I agree I got sleazy too easily
But I'm forty-three, this doesn't usually happen to me
Now I'm lonely, I wonder what my son's doing today
Suddenly I'm blinkin' like the screen on my computer display and I'm drinkin'
Concerned about what's down the track if I don't get my family back
I'm on Lonely Street, number fifty-three
Boarded up properly, I'll probably get pulled down
Litter all around inside there's no sound and no light
But yo it gets busy at night, people creppin'
Derelicts sneakin' to fix, speakin'
On the way my timbers creaking', roof leakin'
And bricks comin' loose, knee high in refuse
But even though I'm a slum I'm still of some use
There was a time when my walls were decorated
And under my roof children were educated
But now paint's faded, windows are all smashed
A crash in the economy robbed me of my family And no strategy
combats negative equitiy so that's it. Like violence it's drastic
I'm freaking', and seekin' to be more than just a house of crack
somebody bring my family back
Monday, September 19, 2005
Another Pantomime
Dragging myself to the office in the morning again. I gotta shave my face before in order to give the most profound feeling of artificial sincerity to our bosses to assure them that the conciliation is still on and their asses are firmly attached to their chairs for a longer while. Of course, it IS a difficult task to even move them a bit in solitude.
No reason, but I feel as empty as possible. As if it is not me who’s living this life. On the contrary, the life is living me out... Perhaps, I’m cheating again. There must be some reason(s). Some reason(s) that I don’t wanna take out of the shadow. Let them be there until they want to crawl out themselves. And they definitely will.
But this shadowy being and uncertainty is definitely the last thing I wish. I suppose zamharir must feel the same.
No reason, but I feel as empty as possible. As if it is not me who’s living this life. On the contrary, the life is living me out... Perhaps, I’m cheating again. There must be some reason(s). Some reason(s) that I don’t wanna take out of the shadow. Let them be there until they want to crawl out themselves. And they definitely will.
But this shadowy being and uncertainty is definitely the last thing I wish. I suppose zamharir must feel the same.
No Bravery
by James Blunt
There are children standing here,
Arms outstretched into the sky,
Tears drying on their face.
He has been here.
Brothers lie in shallow graves.
Fathers lost without a trace.
A nation blind to their disgrace,
Since he's been here.
And I see no bravery,
No bravery in your eyes anymore.
Only sadness.
Houses burnt beyond repair.
The smell of death is in the air.
A woman weeping in despair says,
He has been here.
Tracer lighting up the sky.
It's another families' turn to die.
A child afraid to even cry out says,
He has been here.
And I see no bravery,
No bravery in your eyes anymore.
Only sadness.
There are children standing here,
Arms outstretched into the sky,
But no one asks the question why,
He has been here.
Old men kneel to accept their fate.
Wives and daughters cut and raped.
A generation drenched in hate.
Yes, he has been here.
And I see no bravery,
No bravery in your eyes anymore.
Only sadness.
There are children standing here,
Arms outstretched into the sky,
Tears drying on their face.
He has been here.
Brothers lie in shallow graves.
Fathers lost without a trace.
A nation blind to their disgrace,
Since he's been here.
And I see no bravery,
No bravery in your eyes anymore.
Only sadness.
Houses burnt beyond repair.
The smell of death is in the air.
A woman weeping in despair says,
He has been here.
Tracer lighting up the sky.
It's another families' turn to die.
A child afraid to even cry out says,
He has been here.
And I see no bravery,
No bravery in your eyes anymore.
Only sadness.
There are children standing here,
Arms outstretched into the sky,
But no one asks the question why,
He has been here.
Old men kneel to accept their fate.
Wives and daughters cut and raped.
A generation drenched in hate.
Yes, he has been here.
And I see no bravery,
No bravery in your eyes anymore.
Only sadness.
Friday, August 12, 2005
Whisper of The Night
The world is round
The life is plain
Bang-bang is a sound
But its essence is a pain
The knife is blunt
The cake is hard
The life is a cunt
A traitor of my heart
Till when I gotta drop
Bombs of sorrow and regret?
Do you think this facken soap
Is gonna wash the dirt I've shed?..
The life is plain
Bang-bang is a sound
But its essence is a pain
The knife is blunt
The cake is hard
The life is a cunt
A traitor of my heart
Till when I gotta drop
Bombs of sorrow and regret?
Do you think this facken soap
Is gonna wash the dirt I've shed?..
Bitter Honey
No, I'm not going to that house anymore. The dull and soulless house suffocates me.
The other day just the image of a fallen pot with a withered flower in the backyard darkened the entire world for me and squeezed my throat to produce a tear or two to roll down my distorted face. My birds were not around to fly over it and to look after it. My nightingales are looking after other flowers now in a dearest remote part of the world… I’m craving for that sweet headache caused by their giggling, swirling, shouting and laughter.
No, I do not enjoy my life anymore like this. Despite the fact that this sad being is still addicted to sorrow that stirs up his internal world to bring up something new. But the new is not always the wanted.
Have you seen a restless bee striving to taste something new in variety of flowers? Have you noticed how it leaves a flower indifferently for another one just because either the experience wasn’t that new or the new experience was not wanted?
But still, it does not reject to try a new experience. And still, it produces the same shit that we love so much…
Am I ranting now? Perhaps. But that’s the honey I produce.
…Loneliness is the mother of vice. I don’t know how other bees assess it. It might be the mother of creativity to a few; nothing distracts their attention from producing some sweeter honey. But certainly, I don’t belong to that category of bees. Loneliness is a ghost that leads me to the Sinland.
Can you feel the revoltingly sweet taste of the chilli pepper white wine in my mouth? That’s another flower in the garden I am visiting right now and lining up these nonsense sentences to find out the quaint-essence of this flower…
The customers of this Irish pub are lost: who’s this weirdo lost in his thoughts with a broken pen and a torn piece of paper?.. I am lost too indeed. Lost without you, my nightingales…
It’s not the whole yet.
A narrow neck keeps the bottle from being emptied in one swig.
The other day just the image of a fallen pot with a withered flower in the backyard darkened the entire world for me and squeezed my throat to produce a tear or two to roll down my distorted face. My birds were not around to fly over it and to look after it. My nightingales are looking after other flowers now in a dearest remote part of the world… I’m craving for that sweet headache caused by their giggling, swirling, shouting and laughter.
No, I do not enjoy my life anymore like this. Despite the fact that this sad being is still addicted to sorrow that stirs up his internal world to bring up something new. But the new is not always the wanted.
Have you seen a restless bee striving to taste something new in variety of flowers? Have you noticed how it leaves a flower indifferently for another one just because either the experience wasn’t that new or the new experience was not wanted?
But still, it does not reject to try a new experience. And still, it produces the same shit that we love so much…
Am I ranting now? Perhaps. But that’s the honey I produce.
…Loneliness is the mother of vice. I don’t know how other bees assess it. It might be the mother of creativity to a few; nothing distracts their attention from producing some sweeter honey. But certainly, I don’t belong to that category of bees. Loneliness is a ghost that leads me to the Sinland.
Can you feel the revoltingly sweet taste of the chilli pepper white wine in my mouth? That’s another flower in the garden I am visiting right now and lining up these nonsense sentences to find out the quaint-essence of this flower…
The customers of this Irish pub are lost: who’s this weirdo lost in his thoughts with a broken pen and a torn piece of paper?.. I am lost too indeed. Lost without you, my nightingales…
It’s not the whole yet.
A narrow neck keeps the bottle from being emptied in one swig.
Saturday, July 23, 2005
I Need You, My Blog!
Blogging is a strange stuff: you need it when you don’t feel needed by anyone else and it embraces you whole-heartedly and amicably with no sign of grievance.
Perhaps human being is the only creature of God to nurse a grievance. While I do try not to bear a grudge against anyone, but some people just die for being disliked by me and do whatever they can do just in order to see me down, because it is much easier to kick somebody when he is already down. Certainly, I am still trying to stick up for myself, but what makes it worse is that I’m getting indifferent towards whatever is going on in that bloody mad-house. A gang of losers is trying to punish and subdue loud voices. No doubt, they have to dream on and I still bear in my mind the axiom: everything and anything changes; because it has to…
Especially when you see a Pandora’s Box opened in the whole city and panic dictating your routine life, those little conspiracies in the mad-house look even more miserable and unimportant… I am just thinking loud now to convince myself in what I am saying. But I can feel a great sense of resentment inside while my hope for a change in the office has died… It died today actually. After my long and biting conversation with the person who was supposed to sort the problems out and to let the fresh air in. Disillusion is painful indeed.
On the other hand, London is getting mad too. It is almost broken without its main tube lines. Manhunt that started earlier today is still going on and as a reporter said today “by no means it is the end”, it’s rather just the beginning of a new era of terrorism and counter-terrorism in this beautiful land. A man was shot dead this morning within a train carriage in front of the passengers by policemen. They shoot at him five times. Because he ran away from them and they chased him into the Stockwell tube station. This is just a day after 4 explosions and blast attempts and 2 weeks after the bloody 7 July. The ghost of horror is hovering over the city and every Asian or black with a rucksack arouses suspicion. A good time for pathetic racists to let out their hatred on innocent ones.
Perhaps human being is the only creature of God to nurse a grievance. While I do try not to bear a grudge against anyone, but some people just die for being disliked by me and do whatever they can do just in order to see me down, because it is much easier to kick somebody when he is already down. Certainly, I am still trying to stick up for myself, but what makes it worse is that I’m getting indifferent towards whatever is going on in that bloody mad-house. A gang of losers is trying to punish and subdue loud voices. No doubt, they have to dream on and I still bear in my mind the axiom: everything and anything changes; because it has to…
Especially when you see a Pandora’s Box opened in the whole city and panic dictating your routine life, those little conspiracies in the mad-house look even more miserable and unimportant… I am just thinking loud now to convince myself in what I am saying. But I can feel a great sense of resentment inside while my hope for a change in the office has died… It died today actually. After my long and biting conversation with the person who was supposed to sort the problems out and to let the fresh air in. Disillusion is painful indeed.
On the other hand, London is getting mad too. It is almost broken without its main tube lines. Manhunt that started earlier today is still going on and as a reporter said today “by no means it is the end”, it’s rather just the beginning of a new era of terrorism and counter-terrorism in this beautiful land. A man was shot dead this morning within a train carriage in front of the passengers by policemen. They shoot at him five times. Because he ran away from them and they chased him into the Stockwell tube station. This is just a day after 4 explosions and blast attempts and 2 weeks after the bloody 7 July. The ghost of horror is hovering over the city and every Asian or black with a rucksack arouses suspicion. A good time for pathetic racists to let out their hatred on innocent ones.
Leftover From A Trip
24 June 2005, Dushanbe-Moscow
A skinny little woman that unnaturally looks older than her real age is sitting beside me with 3 of her toddlers. Out of a sudden all of them started a loud crying symphony and put their mother in an unpleasant situation. She is going to St-Petersburg to visit her husband – one of many thousands Tajik labour migrants in Russia. I was wondering how she would manage to get to Petersburg from Moscow by herself with 3 little crying kids, while she merely speaks a couple of Russian words and she wears national Tajik long sleeved clothes. No doubt, she would suffer from annoying Russian check points within and outside the airport with their humiliating behaviour and tone. Because she is a Tajik in Moscow and that’s written on her face and she is defenceless with three kids…
I am a Tajik too and it is written on my top. For the first time in my life I saw a T-shirt with that sort of patriotic writing in Tajikistan with a beautiful map of the country. My dearest friend found and bought it for me and I am terribly obliged to her for such a perfect gift. Just imagine: walking with a “Tajikistan” T-shirt in Moscow, Zurich and London! People would look at me first with confusion, and then at least they would memorize the sweet name of a beautiful piece of land behind one of the highest altitudes of the world: Tajikistan… Such a pleasant feeling!
Meanwhile, an ageing Tupolov-154 is increasing the geographical distance between me and my beloved piece of land whereas the hearty distance between us is diminishing so vividly. Four weeks I inhaled its perfect air and suffered under (rather enjoyed) its hot and burning Sun. I can feel how my love deep inside is growing to a bigger feeling towards the God-forgotten land whose continuous prosperity is my eternal pink dream.
A skinny little woman that unnaturally looks older than her real age is sitting beside me with 3 of her toddlers. Out of a sudden all of them started a loud crying symphony and put their mother in an unpleasant situation. She is going to St-Petersburg to visit her husband – one of many thousands Tajik labour migrants in Russia. I was wondering how she would manage to get to Petersburg from Moscow by herself with 3 little crying kids, while she merely speaks a couple of Russian words and she wears national Tajik long sleeved clothes. No doubt, she would suffer from annoying Russian check points within and outside the airport with their humiliating behaviour and tone. Because she is a Tajik in Moscow and that’s written on her face and she is defenceless with three kids…
I am a Tajik too and it is written on my top. For the first time in my life I saw a T-shirt with that sort of patriotic writing in Tajikistan with a beautiful map of the country. My dearest friend found and bought it for me and I am terribly obliged to her for such a perfect gift. Just imagine: walking with a “Tajikistan” T-shirt in Moscow, Zurich and London! People would look at me first with confusion, and then at least they would memorize the sweet name of a beautiful piece of land behind one of the highest altitudes of the world: Tajikistan… Such a pleasant feeling!
Meanwhile, an ageing Tupolov-154 is increasing the geographical distance between me and my beloved piece of land whereas the hearty distance between us is diminishing so vividly. Four weeks I inhaled its perfect air and suffered under (rather enjoyed) its hot and burning Sun. I can feel how my love deep inside is growing to a bigger feeling towards the God-forgotten land whose continuous prosperity is my eternal pink dream.
Tuesday, June 14, 2005
The Wind of Change
Life is going on in here and the wind of change is still blowing away the remainder of the past. However, you will not be terribly surprised, if you haven’t been here for the last ten years.
But I was pleasantly shocked by brand new cashpoints in Dushanbe streets! I saw 2 of them installed as openly as in London, not behind walls and windows as in Prague.
I rushed towards the first one as soon as Shamsi showed it to me and embraced the cold device firmly hammered in the wall; the device was innocently blinking and inviting confused passers-by in three languages (Persian, English and Russian) to insert their cards. Many cannot get the message yet: what sort of cards? What for and so on.
I remember how a guy was asking me if I'd won a lottery, while I was getting my own money from the Supermarket (CUM) cashpoint…
Gotta go now. Hope to get back to my Dushanbe travelogue one day…
But I was pleasantly shocked by brand new cashpoints in Dushanbe streets! I saw 2 of them installed as openly as in London, not behind walls and windows as in Prague.
I rushed towards the first one as soon as Shamsi showed it to me and embraced the cold device firmly hammered in the wall; the device was innocently blinking and inviting confused passers-by in three languages (Persian, English and Russian) to insert their cards. Many cannot get the message yet: what sort of cards? What for and so on.
I remember how a guy was asking me if I'd won a lottery, while I was getting my own money from the Supermarket (CUM) cashpoint…
Gotta go now. Hope to get back to my Dushanbe travelogue one day…
Sunday, May 29, 2005
A Sky Sketch... Jak se mat, pritel?
Our Czech Airlines Boing-737 pointed the sky with its sharp nose and flied over as a proud eagle. Green fields of the Prague outskirts were running backward as if depicting how fast the globe spins around in reality that we don’t happen to feel in our routine life.
But today isn’t too cloudy. It was even a bit too hot in Prague, so that I had to add some three more kilograms to my luggage by leaving my warm jacket in the bag. However, for the first time in my life (at least as far as I remember) I didn’t have to pay for excess luggage.
Yeah, it’s not cloudy even now when I’m typing these words on board. Just a few of white clouds swimming in the skies, that’s why our take off wasn’t too shaky. I can perfectly see the beautiful face of our Homeland – the Earth. I can see long and winding roads covered its body like arteries and veins. But I am too high to see the blood in the veins, I mean any moving objects on the roads that divide square-like settlements and pass across fields and no-man areas. And I am too far to distinguish the curving edge of the Earth that has merged and converged with horizon. Some pieces of white clouds resemble king size beds and make me feel like jumping on them and take good rest after 4 days of a busy trip. I can’t believe that I could penetrate them. They look very firm and dense and convincing. Thanks God, the windows are shut for good!
I am leaving Prague with marvellous memories of a town filled with beauty and politeness. ‘Dobry den’, ‘Dekuju’ & ‘Na shledanou’ would make a day for you in Prague. They are really magic words to be used everywhere and with anyone in Prague. A city defeated by many tribes, armies and empires. An easy prey for occupiers. They have never tried to fight against usurpers in order to keep their dazzling capital to prosper on. Nowadays one can see Hungarian, French, German, Austrian, Russian and Soviet cultural traces in Prague’s architecture and painting and that makes it even more mysterious and beautiful. Karluv most (Charles’ Bridge) over the dark Vltava resembled Moscow’s Arbat to me. And Russian could be heard all across the town with Russian-speaking shop-keepers, painters and tourists.
I was amazed by the quiet nature of the Czech people: how could the makers of the finest beer in the world be so easy going and noiseless. But last night I saw a herd of drunken desperados shouting, swearing, peeing and farting (anyway it sounded like someone was farting) as if the city was there bathroom. I approached them for a little research of rare species of the town. And would you believe me? They were swearing in London accent and no word in Czech. Desperate beer-thirsty English youth!
Prague is a mixture of Eastern and Western Europe. And Czech people are a mild polite but cold nation with a sort of embarrassment or complex of inferiority in front of a Western European, whereas unaware of their own assets and Western pitfalls. That was my short conclusion. But by and large I like Prague, I like Czechs and I like their language.
But today isn’t too cloudy. It was even a bit too hot in Prague, so that I had to add some three more kilograms to my luggage by leaving my warm jacket in the bag. However, for the first time in my life (at least as far as I remember) I didn’t have to pay for excess luggage.
Yeah, it’s not cloudy even now when I’m typing these words on board. Just a few of white clouds swimming in the skies, that’s why our take off wasn’t too shaky. I can perfectly see the beautiful face of our Homeland – the Earth. I can see long and winding roads covered its body like arteries and veins. But I am too high to see the blood in the veins, I mean any moving objects on the roads that divide square-like settlements and pass across fields and no-man areas. And I am too far to distinguish the curving edge of the Earth that has merged and converged with horizon. Some pieces of white clouds resemble king size beds and make me feel like jumping on them and take good rest after 4 days of a busy trip. I can’t believe that I could penetrate them. They look very firm and dense and convincing. Thanks God, the windows are shut for good!
I am leaving Prague with marvellous memories of a town filled with beauty and politeness. ‘Dobry den’, ‘Dekuju’ & ‘Na shledanou’ would make a day for you in Prague. They are really magic words to be used everywhere and with anyone in Prague. A city defeated by many tribes, armies and empires. An easy prey for occupiers. They have never tried to fight against usurpers in order to keep their dazzling capital to prosper on. Nowadays one can see Hungarian, French, German, Austrian, Russian and Soviet cultural traces in Prague’s architecture and painting and that makes it even more mysterious and beautiful. Karluv most (Charles’ Bridge) over the dark Vltava resembled Moscow’s Arbat to me. And Russian could be heard all across the town with Russian-speaking shop-keepers, painters and tourists.
I was amazed by the quiet nature of the Czech people: how could the makers of the finest beer in the world be so easy going and noiseless. But last night I saw a herd of drunken desperados shouting, swearing, peeing and farting (anyway it sounded like someone was farting) as if the city was there bathroom. I approached them for a little research of rare species of the town. And would you believe me? They were swearing in London accent and no word in Czech. Desperate beer-thirsty English youth!
Prague is a mixture of Eastern and Western Europe. And Czech people are a mild polite but cold nation with a sort of embarrassment or complex of inferiority in front of a Western European, whereas unaware of their own assets and Western pitfalls. That was my short conclusion. But by and large I like Prague, I like Czechs and I like their language.
Sunday, April 24, 2005
Poetic Night Challenges Despair
Ба М. Пагох, ки ба колбуди илхомам даме тоза дамид
Шабе, ки гусса гиребони ман гирифту фишурд
Маро чаковаки озоди шеър бони шуд
Хушо саъодати дидор бо аниси газал
Тилисми гусса бипошиду шеърхони шуд
به م. پگاه که به کالبد الهامم دمي تازه دميد
شبي که غصه گريببان من گرفت و فشرد
مرا چکاوک آزاد شعر باني شد
خوشا سعادت ديدار با انيس غزل
طلسم غصه بپاشيد و شعرخواني شد
London
24/04/05
03:00
Шабе, ки гусса гиребони ман гирифту фишурд
Маро чаковаки озоди шеър бони шуд
Хушо саъодати дидор бо аниси газал
Тилисми гусса бипошиду шеърхони шуд
به م. پگاه که به کالبد الهامم دمي تازه دميد
شبي که غصه گريببان من گرفت و فشرد
مرا چکاوک آزاد شعر باني شد
خوشا سعادت ديدار با انيس غزل
طلسم غصه بپاشيد و شعرخواني شد
London
24/04/05
03:00
Monday, April 18, 2005
The Final Feather For Today
Хоб дидам, хамнафас, имшаб
Коби андухи чашмхоятро
Ламс кардам бо диле ларзон
Хачми торики хашмхоятро
خواب ديدم، همنفس، امشب
قاب اندوه چشمهايت را
لمس کردم با دلي لرزان
حجم تاريک خشمهايت را
Дарди сангини дили хубат
Бо касоват хамлаам мекард...
Биркаи ашкат маро балъид
Гум шудам дар интихои дард
درد سنگين دل خوبت
با قساوت حمله ام مي کرد
برکه اشکت مرا بلعيد
گم شدم در انتهاي درد
Эй ки лабхандат бахори буд
Буи талхи хазон меори
Бо нигохи сарди поизи
Рихвати човидон меори
اي که لبخندت بهاري بود
بوي تلخ خزان مي آري
با نگاه سرد پاييزي
رخوت جاودان مي آري
Эй ки бе ту сарои ман холи!
Пургунохам пеши чашмонат
Боз хохи дид бо лабханд
Бар рухи марди пашимонат?
اي که بي تو سراي من خالي
پرگناهم پيش چشمانت
باز خواهي ديد با لبخند
بر رخ مرد پشيمانت؟
London
18/04/05
04:34am
Коби андухи чашмхоятро
Ламс кардам бо диле ларзон
Хачми торики хашмхоятро
خواب ديدم، همنفس، امشب
قاب اندوه چشمهايت را
لمس کردم با دلي لرزان
حجم تاريک خشمهايت را
Дарди сангини дили хубат
Бо касоват хамлаам мекард...
Биркаи ашкат маро балъид
Гум шудам дар интихои дард
درد سنگين دل خوبت
با قساوت حمله ام مي کرد
برکه اشکت مرا بلعيد
گم شدم در انتهاي درد
Эй ки лабхандат бахори буд
Буи талхи хазон меори
Бо нигохи сарди поизи
Рихвати човидон меори
اي که لبخندت بهاري بود
بوي تلخ خزان مي آري
با نگاه سرد پاييزي
رخوت جاودان مي آري
Эй ки бе ту сарои ман холи!
Пургунохам пеши чашмонат
Боз хохи дид бо лабханд
Бар рухи марди пашимонат?
اي که بي تو سراي من خالي
پرگناهم پيش چشمانت
باز خواهي ديد با لبخند
بر رخ مرد پشيمانت؟
London
18/04/05
04:34am
The Third Feather of Inspiration
Шахри ман пушти хамон кухи буланд аст
Хамон!
Модаре хаст он чо
Пур аз буи бихишт
Тобиши шуълаи хуршед аз уст
Мохро мехри мунираш ба фазо меорад
Гул бари дидани у меруяд
Осмон гуссаи у меборад
Лола бо шодии у механдад
Булбул аз киссаи у мегуяд
Модаре хаст ба покии Худо...
شهر من پشت همان کوه بلند است
همان!
مادری هست آنجا
پر از بوی بهشت
تابش شعله خورشيد از اوست
ماه را مهر منيرش به فضا می آرد
گل بر ديدن او می رويد
آسمان غصه او می بارد
لاله با شادی او می خندد
بلبل از قصه او می گويد
مادری هست به پاکی خدا...
Модаре
Пушти хамон кухи буланд
Чашмбарох
Куххо дасти дуъои уянд
Чашмахо замзамаи сураи девандозаш
مادری
پشت همان کوه بلند
چشم براه
کوهها دست دعای اويند
چشمه ها زمزمه سوره ديو اندازش
Модаре хаст, ки пахнои замин
Сурати калби чахонгири уст
Он бузургахтари рахшон ба фазо
Ки ба у менигарад
Чашми уммеди равони модари пири уст
Модаре хаст, ки номуси Худост
مادری هست که پهنای زمين
صورت قلب جهانگير اوست
آن بزرگ اختر رخشان به فضا
چشم اميد روان مادر پير اوست
مادری هست که ناموس خداست
Хадаф аз халки башар у буда
Боги пурбори Худоро
Бехтарин бору самар у буда
هدف از خلق بشر او بوده
باغ پربار خدا را
بهترين بار و ثمر او بوده
Модаре хаст, ки буд
Модаре хаст, ки хаст
Модаре хаст, ки то чархи замин мегардад
Хохад монд.
مادری هست که بود
مادری هست که هست
مادری هست که تا چرخ زمين می گردد
خواهد ماند
London
18/04/05
03:19am
Хамон!
Модаре хаст он чо
Пур аз буи бихишт
Тобиши шуълаи хуршед аз уст
Мохро мехри мунираш ба фазо меорад
Гул бари дидани у меруяд
Осмон гуссаи у меборад
Лола бо шодии у механдад
Булбул аз киссаи у мегуяд
Модаре хаст ба покии Худо...
شهر من پشت همان کوه بلند است
همان!
مادری هست آنجا
پر از بوی بهشت
تابش شعله خورشيد از اوست
ماه را مهر منيرش به فضا می آرد
گل بر ديدن او می رويد
آسمان غصه او می بارد
لاله با شادی او می خندد
بلبل از قصه او می گويد
مادری هست به پاکی خدا...
Модаре
Пушти хамон кухи буланд
Чашмбарох
Куххо дасти дуъои уянд
Чашмахо замзамаи сураи девандозаш
مادری
پشت همان کوه بلند
چشم براه
کوهها دست دعای اويند
چشمه ها زمزمه سوره ديو اندازش
Модаре хаст, ки пахнои замин
Сурати калби чахонгири уст
Он бузургахтари рахшон ба фазо
Ки ба у менигарад
Чашми уммеди равони модари пири уст
Модаре хаст, ки номуси Худост
مادری هست که پهنای زمين
صورت قلب جهانگير اوست
آن بزرگ اختر رخشان به فضا
چشم اميد روان مادر پير اوست
مادری هست که ناموس خداست
Хадаф аз халки башар у буда
Боги пурбори Худоро
Бехтарин бору самар у буда
هدف از خلق بشر او بوده
باغ پربار خدا را
بهترين بار و ثمر او بوده
Модаре хаст, ки буд
Модаре хаст, ки хаст
Модаре хаст, ки то чархи замин мегардад
Хохад монд.
مادری هست که بود
مادری هست که هست
مادری هست که تا چرخ زمين می گردد
خواهد ماند
London
18/04/05
03:19am
The Second Feather of Inspiration
Хумори дуди захрогин
мекашад бозам
Оташак медурахшид дуздида
Фикри хоме барои дилдори –
Бо ту захри замон даво созам
خمار دود زهرآگين
می کشد بازم
آتشک می درخشد دزديده
فکر خامی برای دلداری –
با تو زهر زمان دوا سازم
Тик-тики соъати девори хамуш
Мекашад бори сахти танхои
Бо гурур
Мебарад акнуни маро
Ману хона ва шахри хобида
Савори сонияхо
تيک تيک ساعت ديوار خموش
می کشد بار سخت تنهايی
با غرور
می برد اکنون مرا
من و خانه و شهر خوابيده
سوار ثانيه ها
Ёхтахо масти сигор мемиранд
Тозахо чои кухан мегиранд
Акраба метозад...
ياخته ها مست سيگار می ميرند
تازه ها جای کهن می گيرند
عقربه می تازد...
Чашми оина хамуш
Касеро хавасе нест канораш бошад
То ба у
Радди он акраба бар сурати худ бинмояд...
چشم آيينه خموش
کسی را هوسی نيست کنارش باشد
تا به او
رد آن عقربه بر صورت خود بنمايد...
London
18/04/05
02:21am
мекашад бозам
Оташак медурахшид дуздида
Фикри хоме барои дилдори –
Бо ту захри замон даво созам
خمار دود زهرآگين
می کشد بازم
آتشک می درخشد دزديده
فکر خامی برای دلداری –
با تو زهر زمان دوا سازم
Тик-тики соъати девори хамуш
Мекашад бори сахти танхои
Бо гурур
Мебарад акнуни маро
Ману хона ва шахри хобида
Савори сонияхо
تيک تيک ساعت ديوار خموش
می کشد بار سخت تنهايی
با غرور
می برد اکنون مرا
من و خانه و شهر خوابيده
سوار ثانيه ها
Ёхтахо масти сигор мемиранд
Тозахо чои кухан мегиранд
Акраба метозад...
ياخته ها مست سيگار می ميرند
تازه ها جای کهن می گيرند
عقربه می تازد...
Чашми оина хамуш
Касеро хавасе нест канораш бошад
То ба у
Радди он акраба бар сурати худ бинмояд...
چشم آيينه خموش
کسی را هوسی نيست کنارش باشد
تا به او
رد آن عقربه بر صورت خود بنمايد...
London
18/04/05
02:21am
Awakened Persian Inspiration
Рузгорест синаам пуч аст
Чашми афкори тираам луч аст
روزگاري است سينه ام پوچ است
چشم افکار تيره ام لوچ است
Лолахо дар сароб хушкида
Ахтарон бо шахоб галтида
لاله ها در سراب خشکيده
اختران با شهاب غلطيده
Ёхтахои танам пашимон аст
Ки даруни харими вайрон аст
ياخته هاي تنم پشيمان است
که درون حريم ويران است
Сарнишини осонсури торих
Кубида мисли баргае бо мех
سرنشين آسانسور تاريخ
کوبيده مثل برگه اي با ميخ
Бод аз ламси ман гурезон аст
Шуълаи ломпи ман чи сузон аст!
باد از لمس من گريزان است
شعله لامپ من چه سوزان است
На тавони ба ломп ёзидан
Ва на имкони чон бозидан
نه توان به لامپ يازيدن
و نه امکان جان بازيدن
Дугмаи «ист»-и он нопайдост,
На «олорм»-е ба сохибаш, ки Худост
دگمه "ايست" آن ناپيداست
نه "آلارم"-ي به صاحبش که خداست
На Суруше барад паёмамро
Мочарохои субху шомамро
نه سروشي برد پيامم را
ماجرا هاي صبح و شامم را
Хар чи овоз – касидаи бим аст
Хама “we got him” ва “killed him” аст
هر چه آواز - قصيده بيم است
همه
"we got him" و
"killed him"
است
Кахкароист сайри ин мошин
Аз буландо равонаи поин
قهقرايي است سير اين ماشين
از بلندا روانه پايين
Мушхо мекашанд танобашро
Пашшахо баста чашму бобашро
موشها مي کشند تنابش را
پشه بسته چشم بابش را...
London
18/04/05
Чашми афкори тираам луч аст
روزگاري است سينه ام پوچ است
چشم افکار تيره ام لوچ است
Лолахо дар сароб хушкида
Ахтарон бо шахоб галтида
لاله ها در سراب خشکيده
اختران با شهاب غلطيده
Ёхтахои танам пашимон аст
Ки даруни харими вайрон аст
ياخته هاي تنم پشيمان است
که درون حريم ويران است
Сарнишини осонсури торих
Кубида мисли баргае бо мех
سرنشين آسانسور تاريخ
کوبيده مثل برگه اي با ميخ
Бод аз ламси ман гурезон аст
Шуълаи ломпи ман чи сузон аст!
باد از لمس من گريزان است
شعله لامپ من چه سوزان است
На тавони ба ломп ёзидан
Ва на имкони чон бозидан
نه توان به لامپ يازيدن
و نه امکان جان بازيدن
Дугмаи «ист»-и он нопайдост,
На «олорм»-е ба сохибаш, ки Худост
دگمه "ايست" آن ناپيداست
نه "آلارم"-ي به صاحبش که خداست
На Суруше барад паёмамро
Мочарохои субху шомамро
نه سروشي برد پيامم را
ماجرا هاي صبح و شامم را
Хар чи овоз – касидаи бим аст
Хама “we got him” ва “killed him” аст
هر چه آواز - قصيده بيم است
همه
"we got him" و
"killed him"
است
Кахкароист сайри ин мошин
Аз буландо равонаи поин
قهقرايي است سير اين ماشين
از بلندا روانه پايين
Мушхо мекашанд танобашро
Пашшахо баста чашму бобашро
موشها مي کشند تنابش را
پشه بسته چشم بابش را...
London
18/04/05
Friday, April 15, 2005
Lost Hats and Stolen Thrones
It’s drizzling out there and I am happy to be indoors to enjoy my poetic mood rather than being under the rain and moaning about my absent-mindedness that I have lost the second black nylon hat during last couple of months on a train and both of them were from a dear friend of mine…
I have disappeared for a while, I know, and I do feel guilty for that. At least here, in my Thoughtland, I should have appeared more frequently just to let you and myself know that my head is still able to use its brain and there are some thoughts hidden indeed. But I couldn’t find them in my painfully obscure brain during these days…
I don’t know what happened, but strangely for myself I could see how the clouds of obscurity started getting dispersed and going away and the atmosphere resumed pushing my chest to breathe deeper and forced my eyes to see colours other than black.
I even decided to wipe the thick dust off my radio receiver (a gift from another friend of mine) and replace its rusted batteries to make it speak again.
Throughout those bleak days of obscurity I was silently watching dramatic events in my region. (By “silently” I mean my mental state, otherwise I was shouting and moving in the office.)
The most democratic leader in Central Asia fell down of his throne and ran away as soon as he fell. (By “the most democratic” I mean comparatively open society in the region. I don’t want to give you any illusions of real democracy in that part of the world. Because the real one does not exist in the contemporary world at all, let alone my remote region).
I talked to him, the overthrown monarch that apparently had an intention to root himself and his dynasty to the throne by promoting his siblings – son and daughter – to seize the seats in the parliament. I could feel the sound of remorse trembling in his academically thoughtful words. He was not the same Askar Akayev anymore. Otherwise I couldn’t get him just like that over the phone. He had no hope to regain his authority. It was gone for good and he could realize it. The only thing he was asking for was a certain respect to his historic personality and guaranteed return to his homeland. Respect was given afterwards, but his return is not guaranteed yet.
Firstly, all experts pointed at the US again: the evil empire is spreading its branches in Central Asia and another mushroom-like pro-American regime was born. Even Akayev was certain that “the tulip revolution” was planned by America, namely by its Ambassador to Bishkek, Stephen Young. He prompted me to find the plan in the Internet and I did. The document did really have Young’s signature underneath. Of course, the accusation was firmly denied by Mr Young in Bishkek.
However, nowadays I can hear more whispers about Russia’s role in the Kyrgyz “revolution”. As if Russia just didn’t want to seat and wait until another “pro-American” revolution will overthrow a pro-Moscow regime in the region. Putin has decided to do that himself just by replacing one amicable partner with another one. Surprisingly, current affairs in Kyrgyzstan and early statements of Bakiev (the new Kyrgyz leader) about Russia support this speculation convincingly.
If to believe to the plan purported to be the American plot against Akayev’s regime that coincides with the whole process of the events in Bishkek and its consequences, the incumbent regime in Tajikistan will be the next government to be washed away by the tide of “velvet revolutions” in ex-Soviet empire, followed by Kazakhstan and Uzbekistan.
According to another hypothesis, that plan could have been drafted by Moscow and fraudulently “has been signed” by Stephen Young. Otherwise how to explain unexpected release of the Tajik Democrats’ leader Mohammadruzi Iskandarov in Moscow, whereas he was detained by Russian special forces at Dushanbe’s request 4 months back to face extradition to Tajik authorities? And as soon as he gets freed, in a letter of gratitude to Putin he says: “Dear President! You gave me freedom and I will try to return it to my people!” and starts chanting revolutionary slogans in his interviews and frankly wishing about the repetition of the Kyrgyz scenario in Tajikistan.
Can you really imagine that anything would change in that static country? I know that the picture looks too hopeless, but who could predict what happened in Kyrgyzstan before it did? Even the main factors of the change of power in Kyrgyzstan, as it was put by the leaders of the revolution, are obvious in Tajikistan too: annoying poverty and wide-spread corruption.
I refrain myself from any sort of predictions, but I have some feelings indeed. Something is approaching and something, or even maybe everything, will change in my country too. Just because it has to. Everything changes and Tajikistan is not an exemption. It is a part of the process of evolution too.
Tajikistan is crying for a change, otherwise we will lose it for good. No, no! I am by no means exaggerating, dear!
I have disappeared for a while, I know, and I do feel guilty for that. At least here, in my Thoughtland, I should have appeared more frequently just to let you and myself know that my head is still able to use its brain and there are some thoughts hidden indeed. But I couldn’t find them in my painfully obscure brain during these days…
I don’t know what happened, but strangely for myself I could see how the clouds of obscurity started getting dispersed and going away and the atmosphere resumed pushing my chest to breathe deeper and forced my eyes to see colours other than black.
I even decided to wipe the thick dust off my radio receiver (a gift from another friend of mine) and replace its rusted batteries to make it speak again.
Throughout those bleak days of obscurity I was silently watching dramatic events in my region. (By “silently” I mean my mental state, otherwise I was shouting and moving in the office.)
The most democratic leader in Central Asia fell down of his throne and ran away as soon as he fell. (By “the most democratic” I mean comparatively open society in the region. I don’t want to give you any illusions of real democracy in that part of the world. Because the real one does not exist in the contemporary world at all, let alone my remote region).
I talked to him, the overthrown monarch that apparently had an intention to root himself and his dynasty to the throne by promoting his siblings – son and daughter – to seize the seats in the parliament. I could feel the sound of remorse trembling in his academically thoughtful words. He was not the same Askar Akayev anymore. Otherwise I couldn’t get him just like that over the phone. He had no hope to regain his authority. It was gone for good and he could realize it. The only thing he was asking for was a certain respect to his historic personality and guaranteed return to his homeland. Respect was given afterwards, but his return is not guaranteed yet.
Firstly, all experts pointed at the US again: the evil empire is spreading its branches in Central Asia and another mushroom-like pro-American regime was born. Even Akayev was certain that “the tulip revolution” was planned by America, namely by its Ambassador to Bishkek, Stephen Young. He prompted me to find the plan in the Internet and I did. The document did really have Young’s signature underneath. Of course, the accusation was firmly denied by Mr Young in Bishkek.
However, nowadays I can hear more whispers about Russia’s role in the Kyrgyz “revolution”. As if Russia just didn’t want to seat and wait until another “pro-American” revolution will overthrow a pro-Moscow regime in the region. Putin has decided to do that himself just by replacing one amicable partner with another one. Surprisingly, current affairs in Kyrgyzstan and early statements of Bakiev (the new Kyrgyz leader) about Russia support this speculation convincingly.
If to believe to the plan purported to be the American plot against Akayev’s regime that coincides with the whole process of the events in Bishkek and its consequences, the incumbent regime in Tajikistan will be the next government to be washed away by the tide of “velvet revolutions” in ex-Soviet empire, followed by Kazakhstan and Uzbekistan.
According to another hypothesis, that plan could have been drafted by Moscow and fraudulently “has been signed” by Stephen Young. Otherwise how to explain unexpected release of the Tajik Democrats’ leader Mohammadruzi Iskandarov in Moscow, whereas he was detained by Russian special forces at Dushanbe’s request 4 months back to face extradition to Tajik authorities? And as soon as he gets freed, in a letter of gratitude to Putin he says: “Dear President! You gave me freedom and I will try to return it to my people!” and starts chanting revolutionary slogans in his interviews and frankly wishing about the repetition of the Kyrgyz scenario in Tajikistan.
Can you really imagine that anything would change in that static country? I know that the picture looks too hopeless, but who could predict what happened in Kyrgyzstan before it did? Even the main factors of the change of power in Kyrgyzstan, as it was put by the leaders of the revolution, are obvious in Tajikistan too: annoying poverty and wide-spread corruption.
I refrain myself from any sort of predictions, but I have some feelings indeed. Something is approaching and something, or even maybe everything, will change in my country too. Just because it has to. Everything changes and Tajikistan is not an exemption. It is a part of the process of evolution too.
Tajikistan is crying for a change, otherwise we will lose it for good. No, no! I am by no means exaggerating, dear!
Friday, March 04, 2005
A Bedtime Story For Anoush
Tonight I overheard Anoush asking her Mum to read a bedtime story and they left the room together. I thought what I would have tolf her, if she would have asked me for a story tonight...
Once upon a time there was a dreamy boy full of life, with love to the life and a life twisted with love in a most remote corner of the forgotten part of the world, behind a highest mountain chain of the globe. To him anything was accessible, everything available and all existing knowledge achievable (Since he was far beyond realities, he really believed in his human power). He could see the hedges and fences around, but did never look at them indeed. He preferred to fly over them without giving them a minor honour to be seen by him. He was a tiny being, but too big to himself. Too ambitious with a huge store of pink dreams in his mind.
His continuous and spontaneous successes in different aspects of his life provided him with a stronger pair of wings to fly higher and higher over the mountains to eventually leave them behind in order to recollect them again with a bitter taste of nostalgia in his mind.
He grew up in a self-confident self-concentrated self-believer with sometimes destructively high self-esteem.
However, suddenly far away from the mountains on flat, noisy but cosy valleys the only thing he could see around was a successive chain of mountains and the spirit of Angra Mainyu started hovering over him turning him from a well-wisher into a fighter.
He had never anticipated seeing those tremendous obstacles in the valleys. He had been told about a flat piece of the Earth where one could walk as far as he could, see as much as he wanted and talk as much as his tongue was able to articulate. But now the invisible mountains were threateningly tightening around him, the clouds turning into heavy smog to obstruct his vision and bees were set up to sting his tongue whenever he dares to open his mouth.
Whereas deprived from seeing visually he managed to enhance his internal vision and realized how silly he was to believe the fairy-tales he used to enjoy listening to back behind the physical mountains. The fairy-tales about the valleys. He suddenly realized how much he needs those visible mountains that used to recharge him with fresh power of imagination. He decided to hide behind those mountains and again believe in the valley fairy-tales. Anyway, it was a more pleasant existence…
But he still had some remains of self-esteem to refrain him from acknowledging his defeat. The image of his native mountains started building up the lost part of his self-confidence and he decided to stop seeing the invisible mountains around and suddenly they started fading in his vision… Fading very slowly though…
Now go to bed, Anoush-jan. I’ll tell you the rest later on.
Once upon a time there was a dreamy boy full of life, with love to the life and a life twisted with love in a most remote corner of the forgotten part of the world, behind a highest mountain chain of the globe. To him anything was accessible, everything available and all existing knowledge achievable (Since he was far beyond realities, he really believed in his human power). He could see the hedges and fences around, but did never look at them indeed. He preferred to fly over them without giving them a minor honour to be seen by him. He was a tiny being, but too big to himself. Too ambitious with a huge store of pink dreams in his mind.
His continuous and spontaneous successes in different aspects of his life provided him with a stronger pair of wings to fly higher and higher over the mountains to eventually leave them behind in order to recollect them again with a bitter taste of nostalgia in his mind.
He grew up in a self-confident self-concentrated self-believer with sometimes destructively high self-esteem.
However, suddenly far away from the mountains on flat, noisy but cosy valleys the only thing he could see around was a successive chain of mountains and the spirit of Angra Mainyu started hovering over him turning him from a well-wisher into a fighter.
He had never anticipated seeing those tremendous obstacles in the valleys. He had been told about a flat piece of the Earth where one could walk as far as he could, see as much as he wanted and talk as much as his tongue was able to articulate. But now the invisible mountains were threateningly tightening around him, the clouds turning into heavy smog to obstruct his vision and bees were set up to sting his tongue whenever he dares to open his mouth.
Whereas deprived from seeing visually he managed to enhance his internal vision and realized how silly he was to believe the fairy-tales he used to enjoy listening to back behind the physical mountains. The fairy-tales about the valleys. He suddenly realized how much he needs those visible mountains that used to recharge him with fresh power of imagination. He decided to hide behind those mountains and again believe in the valley fairy-tales. Anyway, it was a more pleasant existence…
But he still had some remains of self-esteem to refrain him from acknowledging his defeat. The image of his native mountains started building up the lost part of his self-confidence and he decided to stop seeing the invisible mountains around and suddenly they started fading in his vision… Fading very slowly though…
Now go to bed, Anoush-jan. I’ll tell you the rest later on.
Tuesday, March 01, 2005
Snow, Planes and Sharks
I saw off another friend of mine to the airport today...
It is still snowing in the town,
A mesmerizing image of whiteness
Whirling flakes doodling the air
In a hectic dance of lightness
I envy them and close my eyes
And think how much I hate the planes
The ones that take away my friends
While I am rocking on a train
My ears loving music notes
My eyes still shut to see the dark
And people drawn in their thoughts
Those mean, abusive eating sharks
I’m giving up myself to them –
My sharky thoughts as well, and see
An oozing heart that dripping blood
To paint my velvet reverie
The gently rocking train again
Reminds me my enormous hate
Towards the iron-hearted planes
That don’t unite but separate.
Heathrow-Wood Green
13'00
010305
It is still snowing in the town,
A mesmerizing image of whiteness
Whirling flakes doodling the air
In a hectic dance of lightness
I envy them and close my eyes
And think how much I hate the planes
The ones that take away my friends
While I am rocking on a train
My ears loving music notes
My eyes still shut to see the dark
And people drawn in their thoughts
Those mean, abusive eating sharks
I’m giving up myself to them –
My sharky thoughts as well, and see
An oozing heart that dripping blood
To paint my velvet reverie
The gently rocking train again
Reminds me my enormous hate
Towards the iron-hearted planes
That don’t unite but separate.
Heathrow-Wood Green
13'00
010305
Saturday, February 26, 2005
A Wish
I need some changes
To bloom as a flower in March
Surrounding the cages
And turning them into gardens
Do you think it's too much
To bloom as a flower in March?..
I need some leaf whispers
To fuse with a nightingale's song
I want the yellow to get dispersed
And the green to penetrate my being
Do you think it is wrong
To fuse with a nightingale's song?..
I need to build up a chapel
To whisper my nonsense
And pray to an apple
Fallen into my palm
Is it making a sense
To whisper my nonsense?..
To bloom as a flower in March
Surrounding the cages
And turning them into gardens
Do you think it's too much
To bloom as a flower in March?..
I need some leaf whispers
To fuse with a nightingale's song
I want the yellow to get dispersed
And the green to penetrate my being
Do you think it is wrong
To fuse with a nightingale's song?..
I need to build up a chapel
To whisper my nonsense
And pray to an apple
Fallen into my palm
Is it making a sense
To whisper my nonsense?..
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