"And while you're jumpin' from one foot to the next, what is God doing? He's laughin' His sick, fuckin' ass off!"
Satan in Devil's Advocate
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It's funny when you strive to gain something and as soon as you succeed, it starts working against you...

On the virtues of persistence...

Whenever I go to the gym, running on the treadmill is a must. I usually run on the treadmill for 30 minutes, my average speed being over 6 miles/hour. The hardest time during these 30 minutes is around the halfway when I reach the minute 15, that's when I've just started sweating, my legs have just shown the signs of fatigue and I can feel the sense of being helplessly tired. That's the only time I'm tempted to give up running and walk down the treadmill. At the beginning I'm energetic and towards the end I'm hopeful that I'm about to finish. That abyss in the middle is the most awkward. That's also true in real life. I start something with lots of passion and energy, I reach the middle and give up. In those cases that I remained persistent, I noticed the success hadn't been far away. Somebody once said the problem with Iranians is that they give up when they've accomplished 99% of the job. Well, I try not to be like that anymore, especially for my self-assigned missions :p

When every part promises a perfect whole

My anticipations for a movie have seldom been such high. I'm talking about Milos Forman's new movie: Goya's Ghosts. Here are the reasons why I'm impatiently counting down to see this movie (it looks like a blasphemy, but my longing to see this film is as strong as my craving for Lynch's new movie):

1. The subject matter: Francisco Goya is one of my favorite painters (along with Munch and Bruegels). I can't wait to see his creative process on the screen.
2. The director: Milos Forman has always been strikingly perfect when dealing with the issues of freedom of speech and thought and any subversive subject mattes, as he has proved in One Flew over Cuckoo's Nest (Parvaz bar faraz-e ashianeye fakhteh), Amadeus and People vs Larry Flint.
3. The cast: It's a universal knowledge that Natalie Portman is my sweetheart. Besides, Javier Bardem is my favorite European actor (with Juliette Binoche being the favorite actress).
4. The scriptwriter: Jean-Claude Carriere, prolific writer (with 129 titles on his credit), is one of the best intellectual European writers with a colorful background (notably Unbearable Lightness of Being)
5. The cinematographer: Javier Aguirresarobe, the Spanish cinematographer was great in "The Others" and "The Sea Inside". The undeniable beauty of his images in those movies (and to some extent "Talk to Her") has been engraved on my brain.

I think that's enough. Check out the trailer.

Levity: Vice or Virtue?

We set the gravitational acceleration to 9.83, we fix the mysterious Pi number to 3.14 and we usually linearize the misshaped curves in order to get rid of the parameter abundance. Why not doing the same reductionist approach to life? Why not adopting a carefree attitude towards life?
Life is very sophisticated. You think of tomorrow while you are not sure how things turn out tonight. Let's just constrain the parameters of life to those directly related to our primal desires and fears. Let's linearize the n-dimensional twisting curve of life. Let's consider ourselves just tiny creatures in the infinite universe. Let's look at our lifespan as an insignificant interval in the timeless age of universe. In essence, let's outsmart this complicated life with not taking it seriously.

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.

The Gift of Capitalism

I wasn't like this back in Iran. My mom literally dragged me to buy some clothes for the forthcoming occasions. I thought it was a waste of time to wander in malls and trying on various things that had no apparent distinctions with eachother (My belief at the time).
However, since I came to Canada I found shopping an escape from the absurdities of life, a refuge from morbid obsessions and, last but not least, a good way to spend time and money. You don't have to think long term, it's just something to wear at a party next week and maybe if it fits well for a couple of times more. You don't have to think about your future, your ambitions and what you are gonna do in next ten or twenty years. All that is important is if they have the medium size of this shirt or the blue one of that trouser, the most complicated problem is whether they match together. Another good part is the artificial respect you get from those working there (what are they called by the way?). With their mannered smile they make suggestions. You know all they care is that you buy something and they know that you know and you know that they know that you know. But that doesn't matter. At these occasions, where we are cut off from the obscure reality waiting for us outside, we enjoy each other. We enjoy hypocrisy.

Censorship and double standards

I might not be the right person to comment on such things. After all, I'm coming from a country where sword of damocles hovers over artists' and journalists' head, where cutting scissors of censorship are sharper than Hattori Hanzo's sword. Despite these, let me just write this anecdote:
Recently, the poster of "The Road to Guantanamo" was rejected by MPAA on the ground that the sack over the man's head depicts torture, which wasn't appropriate for children to see. The film tells the true story of three inmates that are being held in Guantanamo Bay jail with no particular charges. After a mild dispute, the film was released with the new poster without the head and only with the handcuffed arms.


As is apparent, the picture is not violent (let alone shocking) compared to the certain merchandises in the market which are easily accessible to children. I can simply think of many movie posters clearly more provocative than this, rendering MPAA's decision a pure political one.
Let's remember publishing Mohammed's cartoons in Danish newspaper which was backed by other media under the gesture of freedom of speech. I'm neither an Arab lover nor a practicing muslim and I've always struggled to keep my distance and remain as an objective observer. But does distributing this poster make more irritation than those cartoons? Are today's children more susceptible to see a man's head in the sack (which is merely illustrating a true event) than 2 billion muslims see their prophet as a suicide bomber?

Ageing

The process of ageing is like losing virginity, you might be able to undo it. You can cover it up from outside but you helplessly feel it inside.

For L.

Eternity happened to me in a gloomy night some years ago. I was there, She was there, in a cozy party. Nothing was exchanged between us, other than usual small talk meant to break the barriers of solitude. I can't remember what she was wearing or to which music she danced or what scent her perfume was. Actually, there is nothing earthly capable of reminding me of her. Her name is all I have. I probably wouldn't recognize her if someday we come across by the vagaries of fate. It all keeps things less complicated and yet mysterious. It keeps her virgin; virgin from the penetration of truth. downgrading her to reality is the last thing I want to do. I came to know women through her. To me, she represents everything feminine. She is the reincarnation of my flame, my obscure object of desire, the orgy of my longings. Through the years, she's been stripped away of all the carnal attachments, I forgot her face, her figure, her curves and her voice. Not that I forgot her for every woman I meet reminds me of a perfection, of a being I always idolized and idealized, whose name I never cease to murmur: Leila.

Compromises

Sometimes I feel jealous towards animals. The privilege given to us, homo sapiens, is the power of reasoning which boils down to compromises. It looks good per se but denies us the chance of being absolute winner (or loser). I envy the animals when they happily hunt and don't care if there are other moving preys around while they are feasting on their conquest. I envy them when they are mating, not giving a shit if they have chosen the best mate. The sheer joy they experience is quite far removed from our utmost mirth. We are condemned to think and decide and then regret. Life is a fucking chain of fucking compromises. Something inside me is telling me don't get too philosophical. Ok, I give up...

Life is ...

Life is a succession of successes and failures. Fortunately, most people have an equal share of each. Unfortunately, they don't even each other out.

Myth and fact

One of the worst and unfortunately widely-accepted stereotypes:
the more taciturn and introverted you are, the more thinking person you are.

The glory of ancient Rome resurrected

Well, I was neither on Italy's nor on France's side. My favorite teams either didn't make it into final 32 (Denmark) or were kicked out of the tournament at an early stage (Czech, Croatia, Spain). My only hopes in the final 8 teams (Argentina and Portugal) couldn't make it to the final match. However, it was fun to watch the game among Italy's die-hard fans. The only thing that truely made me sad was Zidane's weird approach to catharsis. I can't really dig what was in his mind when he did that (I should admit that scene is a guilty pleasure to me). I bet he made a very good case for parody-makers.
I don't want to write more about world cup. As the final note, read the following dialogue happening today in the middle of the match. Who can beat them in relating sex and soccer?
After one of France's shots went past the right bar and very close to the target, my friend, Kaveh, said: "This is a game of inches."
And a Ukrainian girl responded: "Yeah, not much unlike sex!"

Deus ex Machina

I think it is a common experience for all of us when things don't work the way they should. Sometimes we find ourselves in such an awkward predicament (either self-imposed or not) that any kind of remedy only seems to deteriorate the situation. Deus ex Machina is a latin phrase referring to those situations in a work of art (either play or novel or film) that a divine intervention or mere luck or anything out of the logical sequence of unfolded events, saves the characters from their plight. Examples abound: you wake up and realize it was all just a nightmare, or despite the mortal wounds the loved one comes back to life or any other artificial gimmick leading to a (not very realistic) happy ending. Yeah, Deus ex Machina belongs to the world of tales but once in a while one might wish it would happen in the real life.

Life

"Don't take life seriously, because you can never get out of it alive."
I just saw this quotation attached on a wall somewhere in the university campus and kinda liked it. Ok, I promise not to take it seriously anymore (one of those promises I can't keep!).

Pushing the limits of absurdity

I've started reading Albert Camus's The Plague (La Peste in French). It's far less impressive than what I expected. Maybe that's because I compare it with Stranger, my all-time favorite. Stranger was the first serious book I read in my teenage years. I was fascinated by the objectivity and impassiveness of the very first line, "Mother died today or was it yesterday" and the rest of the book never diminished my infatuation. It was the first time I confronted a book dealing in such an explicit manner with absurdity of life and death. Actually, the reason I decided to learn French was to read Stranger in its own language (I had read it in Farsi), something I've never done yet and ended up with reading French lyrics (which I enjoy and feel indebted to Camus!). Even now, I'm shamelessly reading The Plague in English.