The weather is congenial. It is so easy to feel the warmth. All the uncanny troubles go away by a simple expedient. One of taking an inert time to admire the grafts of flowers. And that from a relaxed position. Sprouts of blue, green, red and some colour I can not quite figure. Mountains are far and the view is vivid. On my mind is the most wanton coterie of memories. I submissively attend. I have never felt any more easy on life. It is so easy to forget who started all this change in her world around because she was the most natural power to endow life with grace.
■
My death shall be, however trivial, only trivial to the scale the universe and history are vast. So I imagine that the most dramatic of situations would be the ideal finale. Where all good things come shining out. When all things most trivial in ordinary will define how fate's woven. A time when past and future sharply meet. And I'm there and, even as the smallest of creatures, change the course of all things. That death would be where all parallel lines meet; where my soul becomes, at the tiniest moment, the most important thing in the world. And then, the beautiful, I'm so weak for love. I will carry the love with me to that very momentum. My death, I dream, shall be at a moment where the world's about to end, at the centre of one kind of an apocalypse. Where all the voices of world are calling. And all things will get most intense; sorrow, joy and love. When time and space bend and, when I look beyond, it's an infinite horizon of a whole history. When everything's millions of times more intense. And with it, my forever love, is pushed with an unstoppable force unto the centre of everything, written unto the eternity.
■
همينطور درآمدم كه "آخي...همين چند سال پيش بود نيويوركر از مرگ سونتاگ نوشت.. نيويوركر خبرش رو خواندم اول؟" و الان لُخت نشسته ام و دارم Notes On "Camp" را مي خوانم. قدرم را بدانيد با اين همه تجربه ام. اما آرزو مي كنم براي هر خواننده يك پاپيون باشد كه او را با سوزان سونتاگ آشنا كند، يا لااقل با اسمش --و اين خواننده بايد جز"-خواني" را بپذيرد، و اگرنه به "لُخت"ش اكتفا كند. بگويم بهتان كه نه اين مقاله سونتاگ ربطي به سفرش به ويتنام دارد و نه راستش سفرش ربطي به اين مقاله. اما گاه و بي گاه دخالت در امور دولتي مي كرد و كتكي هم نمي خورد و در زندان هم به قتل نمي رسيد. خوب بود كه خدا آنوقت ها خودش يك فعال سياسي بود و اين چيزها را درك مي كرد. گولتان نزنم، از اول هم نمي خواستم درباره مقاله سونتاگ بنويسم. خواستم بگويم لُخت چيزي نخوانيد، نمي شود.
پس نوشت: مشكوك شده ام كه دريابندري چنين كنند بزرگانش را در حال برهنه بودن تهيه كرده باشد.
■
دوران صفحه گرام هاي حالا گم شده در خاك، شكسته شده، بيرون ريخته شده. دوران خاطره وار شيرين و در سايه زندگي نوجواني مادر. دوران عشق هايي بي سرانجام. دوران آفت هاي زمين و زمان و شهر. دوران سربازان امريكايي و شكلات هاي آمريكايي در خيابان هاي تهران. دوران خلباني آن پدربزرگ. دوران خوش گذراني هاي پدر بزرگ پولدار. دوران كاباره ها. دوران راديو. دوران كجاوه. دوران سفر به فرنگستان. دوران عشق هاي پاريسي. دوران بازار و لاله زار و عكاسخانه پدربزرگان. دوران لوده بازي دختران نوجوان بي خيال وقت سوار شدن به ماشين هاي حالا سياه و سفيد غريبه ها و عكس ها --دختران نوجواني كه حالا بعضي هايشان نيستند. دوران سال هاي وبايي و پدر و مادر هايي كه مردند و باقي ماندگان. دوران خانواده هايي كه مسيرشان تغيير كرد. دوران بي اختيار گذر زمان و شدن زندگي هايي كه، ناچيز يا غني، سنت و باقي مانده حالاي من اند. دوران عشق هاي يك طرفه، بي طرفه، خارج رفته، به خاك سپرده شده، پنهان شده. دوران ترس از بيان حقيقت. دوران گم شدن همه چيزهاي خوب چون فكر كرديم حقيقت چندتا است و من نبايد تو را دوست داشته باشم. دوران مودي بلوز. دوران ملانكولي من، نايتس اين وايت ساتن، جميناي دريم. دوران خودم هم.
■
Another post for one or two persons, instead of distorting broadcast to enjoy the confusion over the country. The gestures of friendship it is that takes my attention away. Those that tingle my heart. If they do not speak to me I just may well be enough confused to randomly have fits of helpless discomfiture, very very readily apt to launch my Enola Gay. But I am comme il faut, although I don't have to. Propriety is confined to wives of diplomats and gentlemen of socialite. When it's the circumstances' call for contradiction what's the use of some mini dose of self-indulgence? Let the feelings mix up? Damn drown "crossing a stream with an average depth of six inches?" No. I stay comme il faut. I stay put, orchestrate what's fit, and improvise, leaving hesitation for those who dwell in solitude. I want to win.
■
مقايسه بكنين من رو با كلاس اجتماعي مرفه تر و آدم وار تر من سرم رو نمي اندازم پايين، در عوض سريع در ميام كه "سوپراناسيوناليستم! و آرياييم!" و اينطوري لا اقل يه جايي جزو "برترها" محسوب مي شم! نه خودمونيم مردم، كلا سوپراناسيوناليستي كه حرف بزنيم، خل و چل بودن ها. يكسري زور مي زدن تا سنن و روش هاي بهتر جامعه رو پيدا كنن و مثلا تو يونان مي شستن قصه در مي كردن از خودشون كه فلان پادشاه با مامانش خوابيد ببينيد چي شد يا افلاطون آتلانتيس از خودش در مياورد كه شاگردانش رو متنبه كنه، بعد يكسري دم مثلا يه مقاله رو مي گرفتن كه بله آريايي از همه بهتره و بعد نامردي هم نمي كردن اقوام شمال اروپا رو مي كردن آريايي! بعد هم ميليون ها نفر رو به كشتن مي دادن و خودشون رو هم. يا مثلا يكسري مي افتادن دنبال آتلانتيس مي گشتن اونقدر كه افلاطون به غلط كردن بيافته....
تو اين هير و بيري ديدن اون رشته اي كه تمدن رو پيش برده براي آدم متوسط مشكل مي شه. اون بنچ مارك هايي در تاريخ كه يك كوچولو تمدن جلو رفته رو بويژه آدم هايي كه با اصول تمدن مانوس هستند بايد بشناسند و بتونند نقل كنند. بديش اينه كه پرت و پلا زياد نوشتم ديگه حوصله ندارم باز كنم موضوعي كه مي خوام بگم رو.
ماجراي تشكيل صليب سرخ رو مي دونيد؟ يه بابايي سوييسي رفته بود پاچه خواري ناپلئون سوم يه جايي تو دورغوزآباد ديد جنگه و چند ده هزار نفري آخر جنگ زخمي و مرده افتاده بودن اون وسط، بيچاره وحشتزده شد نشست نوشت كه چه دهشتي بود و گفت يه گروه بي طرف هميشه باشه براي نعش كشي (من چرا اينجوري حرف مي زنم الان!!!؟) همه گفتن آفرين و كلي كف و سوت كه پس صليب سرخ درست كنيم. اين بابا هم تا آخر زندگيش مشغول برو دنبال اين وزير، اون وكيل شد تا همه ملل پايه باشن. اونقدر مشغول بود كه به كار اصلي و درآمدش يعني تجارت نرسيد و مالش ضايع شد. بعد هم سر جدل همكاري از همه جا رونده و مونده شد و فقير، تا در گمنامي يه وقتي كشف شد دوباره و اولين جايزه صلح نوبل رو گرفت. حقش بود؛ مي تونست از اول بره به مال و منالش برسه، پس پول جايزه دستمزد به حقي بود. بگذريم...اسم اين بابا Jean Henri Dunant بود. بريد از همون لينك ويكيپديا بخونين كه مثل آدميزاد نوشته، نه مثل ...
■
Why is that living forms decay and finally die?
The living --bee, cell, plant, mammal, fish-- experience, rather involuntarily, but sure with desire, a peak, a boost of life. When each and every cells of theirs is in an unquestionable harmony of beautifulness, freshness and augmentation. But none --nor worms, nor butterflies, nor flowers, nor man-- survive. They get to this point , enjoying being at their full physical potential, but eventually begin to decay, to die out, with no exceptions --not yet.
Once I was looking at a fossil of old ages, and imagining the living forest of then, say, in 430 million years BP on the Earth, I couldn't help asking myself about the inevitability of my death, and everybody's. How many times to go over the family albums, trying to recognise the young face of those who passed? Whatever --it just takes a flower to understand everything of life will die.
If it sounds terrible, terrible is being regretful of deeds --and what time afflicts?-- All in all it is too complex a situation to include or exclude rules of when to be regretful, excited or content. But the inevitability of death, in no reasonable manner, follows coming up with stories of heavens and gods --or vampires for that matter.
Someone someday may present a gift, bringing technology to reverse the inclination of death towards next generations of man. Until then I have no other choice but to accept the way nature has laid for the single time fate doesn't bear exemptions. Later let's let our imagination go wild about when we could possibly live indefinitely. Till then I know I won't go further than eigthy, ninety or at most around a hundred. It is not that life is short. It is that my period of life is specific.
That physical peak passed is sad. Whatever --it just takes a flower to notice that.
■
I didn't write these in my notebook, for reasons unknown to me. And no longer my blog is at peace by my irregular, unconstrained writings.
+
A young boy, walking around a small area, is speaking into his mobile headset with animation. His hands and lips move with vigour. His looks is unobtrusively decisive. Later I do not take much notice of him during the meal. I hear him commenting, on a friend's speak on Shahname --that is conceived by a vulgar intelligence, backed by actually reading the text but delivered too poor to deserve a national epic. At twenty he has a job and speaks with knowledge and confidence --that may well be interring a fear of even the very immediate world around. He looks older than his years, yet I pause and doubt if this could be the exception to the stand of any young man of his age. --I wonder.. youngsters that younger than me used to be different, well, much younger.. am I getting old!!? I am his elder, then, when he leaves the table after the lunch, I have --and, in a light-hearted defensive act, use,-- the privilege of epigrammatising, epigrammatising his privilege to challenge a greater world, now, "ready to conquer the world". He would hope my attempt at humour proves feeble.
+
I always knew I only could say if one singing is not singing right. Yes, this vague, and strange it's never been this clear to me that how a male singer's voice could be beautiful, in addition to be technically correct. ("Male singer" makes me feel I'm talking about frogs and their lovelorn songs, how's that now?) I just found out after I tried to sing along with the tape*, and, why, it just happened to me that his voice is far more beautiful than mine --or mine and everybody's far more hideous. How come it came to me this late? I mean I karaoke and sing a lot along with records. I wish, if it is to be, it wouldn't take this long to realise my voice is indeed a catastrophe! "Oh no! Not again!" and thus it crossed my mind if the bowl of petunias was discovering new facts of life at exactly my pace, while falling that fast. --For you see, I never finished the radio series. I heard the story from the shortened screen version, and I don't know if this was answered by the late Adams in the series or the books.
*For entertainment and informational purposes only I cite the lyrics that revealed those historic facts I already mentioned, --do not try: Du heilge Nacht / bald ist's vollbracht / bald schlaf ich ihn, den langen Schlummer / der mich erlöst von allem Kummer.
■
|
|
Others
چند وبلاگ ديگر
به ياد...
|
