Perhaps They Never Will...

I love it when an artist pays tribute to another (especially when they come from different realms) or acknowledges another artist or waxes lyrical about his/her inspirations. In the same way, I hate it when an artist claims something like "I never watch/read/listen to anything lest it might influence my art" which is another way of saying "I was born genius".
Enough talk. Let's listen to Josh Groban's song dedicated to Vincent Van Gogh

Starry, Starry Night by Josh Groban

Starry, starry night
Paint your palette blue and grey
Look out on a summer's day
With eyes that know the darkness in my soul
Shadows on the hills
Sketch the trees and daffodils
Catch the breeze and the winter chills
In colours on the snowy linen land

Now I understand
What you tried to say to me
And how you suffered for your sanity
And how you tried to set them free
They would not listen
They did not know how
Perhaps they'll listen now

Starry, starry night
Flaming flowers that brightly blaze
Swirling clouds and violet haze
Reflect in Vincent's eyes of china blue
Colours changing hue
Morning fields of amber grain
Weathered faces lined in pain
Are soothed beneath the artists' loving hand

Now I understand
What you tried to say to me
And how you suffered for your sanity
And how you tried to set them free
They would not listen
They did not know how
Perhaps they'll listen now

For they could not love you
But still your love was true
And when no hope was left inside
On that starry, starry night
You took your life as lovers often do
But I could have told you Vincent
This world was never meant for one as beautiful as you

Like the strangers that you've met
The ragged men in ragged clothes
The silver thorn of bloody rose
Lie crushed and broken on the virgin snow

Now I think I know
What you tried to say to me
And how you suffered for your sanity
And how you tried to set them free
They would not listen
They're not listening still
Perhaps they never will...

Run Robot Run

Running after bus, scheduling meetings, sending Email to all over the globe and making sure they receive it in their working hours, meeting new people and keeping the old friends, re-evaluating my system of right and wrong once in a while, pursuing the romantic adventures with being least hurt, wondering what God is doing when the genocides happen around the world, leaving good impression, adjusting my impressions after nth visit, regretting the differences between Iran and Canada, Thinking about next five or ten years and ending up with an overburnt chicken in the oven, getting rid of loneliness and missing privacy, preaching and being preached, wondering if capitalism is better or communism and whether there is a utopia in between, running after troubles that an Iranian passport ensues, getting nostalgic once in a while, faking smile after a harsh criticism to prove being modest and understanding, thinking about existentialist riddles but to no avail, wondering why certain things happen in life, confusing (or pretending to confuse) coincidence and delibration, introspection and fighting the inner demons... that's my life, what about yours?

For Khatami

Before May 23, 1997, when I was at high school's second grade, I wasn't really into politics. It was Khatami's unexpected presidency that made me think a little about it. Actually Khatami brought about my precocious political awareness. Right before him, an overarching hatred and aversion loomed over the country. Hopes were dead and prospects gloomy. He brought such notions as tolerance, dialogue, respect, indulgence, freedom and so many other things that had been long forgotton. He wore white instead of black, he smiled instead of scowl, he encouraged long live instead of down with. I grew up with him as the president, my mindset was formed with the experiences of those eight years, either good or bad; with that bright period of colorful papers, candid speeches, blossoming art and that dark period of shutting-downs, imprisonments and reign of terror. In all those years, everything was in a constant state of change except one: Khatami himself. He was subject to the most unfair accusations and excoriating remarks but he never lost his composure, stayed calm and reassuring. He tried to bridge conflicting ideas, Islam and democracy, modernity and tradition, and hardest of them all: friends and enemies. Sometimes we labeled him leader of the reform movement, sometimes we wanted him to be a Che Guevara like revolutionary. He was neither of them. But certainly he has always been and will be one thing for me: my everlasting hero and the last remnant of my nationalist pride.

PS: watch his brief speech in English in condemning 9-11 at Harvard University.

Carried Away

When I was a kid, each year we went to my mom's friend's house. They had a big mulberry tree in their garden (they still have it, I guess). I would climb the tree and stretch my hand to reach the most ripe mulberries. At first, I'm cautious. I would painstakingly pluck the mulberry, in a way that it doesn't stain my hand with its bloody color. It tastes good, somewhere in the abyss of sour and sweet. However, it wouldn't take long when redness prevails. I would be all bloody red. I shouldn't have resisted in the first place.
The same goes for the beach. I'd dabble at water. I'd intend to have my trouser on. I'm confident it wouldn't get wet. But the waves are treacherous, they wouldn't announce their unexpected presence, they would claim their victim: soaked trouser.
That's it. There are certain things in life that you can't carry them out perfectly without giving yourself wholeheartedly in. You can't enjoy the juicy mulberries without risking your skin and clothes get filthy as much as you can't enjoy ocean without getting wet.

And the movie plays

Everybody's life is just like a movie, with him/her as the protagonist, a few main characters and full of extras. The scriptwriter introduces the characters, manipulates them, makes some of them important, some less important and some vital. Sometimes he wittingly concentrates on certain characters and makes them lovelier. The cinematographer usually uses long shots but sometimes makes close-ups, focusing on some, monitoring their slightest movements, giving the viewer a weird impression that they are going to play a major part in protagonist's life. The composer too, helps them to make the atmosphere work: The tempo changes, guitar and flute replace piano. When everybody is prepared, director abruptly decides to take that character out. Camera fades out and poignant music of violin replaces guitar. Camera goes up and takes an aerial shot from the situation. The editor slows down the pace of the film. The director gives the editor some flash back scenes and asks him to insert them into the movie. The protagonist should live in the past memories for a while. Scriptwriter feels that the rhythm is getting very slow and some new characters should be introduced. He finds some excuse to add the new people, observing them closely to see which one of them has the potential to be promoted as the main character. In the course of all these fateful deeds, the protagonist hopelessly struggles to make sense out of all the nonsense.