I am truthful to you, to my pen, to my readers. You can call these pieces part of my autobiography, a fiction, horridly remembering the past for the future, or study of self. I don't think I am leaving a scent out of my memory. You are more than an invented literary character to me. You mysterious in your soft blue are leaving an impression hard to not notice. You know, I think I have daily rendezvous with you. One that you never arrive at, one where I find my reflection winging away in the wind, one that I try to let its aromatic fragrance flow through my body when I write to you. Maybe I write not to lose my memory or when I am older and losing the memories, to look at these writings and wonder who was this great presence whose name hasn't promised of love, and my pictures, frames, home-made videos, and journals don't show his face, don't reveal his name.
Who are you? What is the purpose to these writings when I can't educate myself in your ways of lovemaking? I wonder how it will be to run my tongue over your words, to take me to the height of a summer day. Summer days have their own essence. Some are honey caressed and some are the days when like every female I had to cover myself head to toe to go for a swim in the Caspian Sea, to be ashamed of my feminity in an Islamic republic, to perhaps not have a peak by the silver foams at four in the morning. I want you to narrow me into your letters like the waves that looked into my truth, and words, sentences, to embrace my dance like the night we came home late. You asked me to dance for you before naming me your reason to write. My body dominated yours, inseparable literature in joy before walking through the door and disappearing into the dawn.
An Evoking Time
Pans and pots, I am fine. I am working on my next book. In the morning, I reveal secrets to my readers, study politics of peace, and at night I read bedtime stories, kiss goodnight in one room and make love in another before solving mysteries in my dreams. My life is simply simple. The conventional role for me is to be quiet before the sand dunes of traditionalists and finery characters but I follow my mother's footsteps. Possessions throw me off balance, expressionless days break my heart. I nurse people until their flesh is no longer truthful to my writings and my undeniable call to satisfy my habit of fear, and abundance. I want to reinvent this instinctive confidence in hearts but I don't want to steer you. I need guidance. How little I know you, thus you manage to change me from one day to another. I have your constant companionship and don't know how to word it. It is not a spiritual quest, aching for a physical pairing, or a listless emotional generosity, yet there is persistence and inexplicability in this intimacy.
There is this you who I want, who doesn't question me, who doesn't doubt me, who isn't a dissenter, who kisses my flesh on and past the skin, who I want, physical and non physical, who I don't know how to understand beyond the senses I am proverbial.
You are a mixture of my own glance, an extension beyond my lips, the rediscovering of what is most important to me, and to my fertility without culturing the milk. I acknowledge traditions but don't necessarily find them a necessity to follow in order to survive. It doesn't suit me. It would be the wrong color for my hair, my complexion, and the erroneous couplets in my ghazals.
Now that I don't write poetry, how do you want me to write you? How do you want me to please you with my gender, and in joy? Now that I am deprived of you and my liking, how do you want me to awaken you into my world, for you to become a native of my land? Tell me how am I to love you in an evoking time.
When Night Was More than Spider Webs of Politics
The elevator door opens. I walk in and the smell of cigarettes and Zino Davidoff cologne awakens memories of the night that life was more than just spider webs of politics. It was a night of a real story, your story. It was your definite hands that had confidently made me behave selfish and selfless. I was so sure of my love that I felt fatigue. I held you and you told me of the time when your life was brought down to basic necessities. You were fleeing Iran. Minutes had passed and the condition had become more frustrating. Feelings of fear and anxiety had grown in you. Your guide was running up and down the rocky mountains in Baluchistan. The group was made of two Jewish families, a Baha'i man, his niece, and several young men. All had difficulty breathing the cold air filled with dust. You were not teleported but had climbed on foot. Your guide had cursed at one of the Jewish families for expecting him to carry their television set as well as their daughter's dowry to the hilltop. You told me there were not rest stops along the way. Thirsty, hungry and exhausted like a pilgrimage to freedom, you had made it up the mountains to the two waiting pickup trucks. The toughness and uncertainty of the journey and its outcome was beyond your wildest imaginations. You were seated in the back and the pickup trucks had driven away in the dark, unpredictable, and haunting road. Then two fast approaching cars suddenly made the dangerous driving scene into an outrageous one. Shots were fired and blood started pouring on the silver metal. The bullet pierced the Baha'i man sitting next to you. The head pendulous with blood and flesh made the man's niece to start shouting in horror and the children to cry with fear. It took thirty minutes before the driver could stop. You and the other men had dragged the body out and dug a hole. The burial place of the Baha'i man was in the middle of nowhere. No family member or friends but his sixteen-yea-old niece were present at his grave.
The elevator door opens again. I walk out wondering on which floor you were about to enter, to fill the air with your smell of cigarettes and your cologne. The cologne I had bought you and you had bought me my silky blue pajamas, the woolen sweater I like so much, the jewelry I never wear, and the desire to count to ten before I hear you call me to take a shower with you. Water has a special meaning to me. I am superstitious. I like water on a picnic table, in a bowl like the one from which we drank water in Jordan, the water to spill for both transparency and bon voyage like in Iranian custom, and the numbers one, two, sometimes three, nine, and eleven. One body, three men I passionately have loved, nine projects, eleven engaging memories, and piles of papers, and you and I to make the final two to wake up next to one another.
When will you break your fast? It is time for my face to caress yours, for my ears to brush against your chest, and for me to breath in your cologne.