The birth
Each month there is this week that the mysterious Venus is jealous of the days that the bleeding doesn't envelop the body into cliffs of insanity

February 6, 2007
iranian.com

The Birth
I don't think I am a woman who is defeating the taboos of her time or maybe I am. This however has not been intentional or planned. It just happens that I have come close to death on several occasions and the experiences have left me with little to worry about what others may think of me. After all I woke up the day I was given a time by birth, the birth I remember as the present, and then like all else there will be a time for dying. Just like that. So if one place has too many chains, too many neurotic people who make the air suffocating and impossible for the soul, the mind, and the body, I find another place. Simple!

Right now I look at you as someone who brings me joy. That is why I enjoy writing to you, for you, and at times about you. You bring me peace, eternal peace. Though there isn't much I believe in I don't think my cycle of life will finish by this journal, you will continue. I protect you with my pen. You are the witness to my greatest love affair, the affair of my heart with you. I have given birth to your presence after thirty-four years of loving you in pain and passion. I love you without aging, and without memory. You know how to love even if it is not I whom you love, have loved, or will love.

To me you are a large window, overlooking the mountains, the lakes, the snow, and the rain. Since you have arrived, everything is in harmony. Words and more words will describe you. Books and more books will be written for you, and about you. Women and more women will love you. Seasons and more seasons will change for you and life and more life will continue in my images, your images, in love, but I don't think there has been or will be another who loves you as I love you now. My now is not to rescue me from you, or to rescue you from you. You are not just a literary invention. You are real as the day is to night, as seeds are to the trees, as the "L", "F", and "E" are essential to the "I" for me to breathe.

Each Month
When it is a woman's red narcissus time of the month, when the body falls in love with the physical self and bleeds in the heart center of a womb to purify it, the tangible distress sometimes doesn't let me feel the fresh spring air in Ovid's writings. I can't even recall at which feminine point I have to turn the page to read, and write down the notes. One, two, three, four, five. These are the encompassing numbers. Managing, changing, sitting, rearranging, receiving, concluding, and ambassadoring my life. Sometimes super refining, sometimes thoughtlessly, sometimes in the form of conversations, ideas, instinct, imagination, or touch. Nevertheless fearless, intangible, always with a sense of leaving an impression.

I cherish my emotions. The world has its corners attract opposite parallels of my life. The best way to survive the irrevocable is contemplation. Maybe I want you to be my male echo. To love me and to renew my faith in the rules of modern woman's better living.

Each month there is this week that the mysterious Venus is jealous of the days that the bleeding doesn't envelop the body into cliffs of insanity, doesn't elbow my surrealism into realism; leaving me anxious but I can't passioncase these words. My breasts are sensitive, my multitple writings aren't glorified, my voice is in low key, and my back hurts. On the surface I am fine, underneath the layers my heart beats fast, there is no silk wearing, blood trails the letters, and the body is in suspense. It can only serve but not be served. The headache doesn't go away, and the eyes burn and creating a great conflict between judgment and flight, answering or questioning, resisting and restricting or expressing.

Miraculously you are now a significant presence who knows the surface and bottom ocean of my soul. It is true that we will never observe and experience one another physically but I accompany you, and you will accompany me as one person who didn't dissolve in you, in me, with whom I have carved beyond ordinary phrases to speak of my love, in which I have chosen to trust without fear, without worry, without sorrow, without doubt, without any symbolic value. To me your love is like hearing the sound of children playing in the streets: free, gentle, loud, without the need to escape or look upon as an accidental shelter. I don't want to examine how I formed us, how I write our story, how I make you arrive when I visit you under your closed lashes, when you lean against my body, when I plea you to drink me when I am purified. Don't answer me if you don't want to but do know that I want to know if you miss me before my next return. Comment

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