Arts and Literature

اجاره ی نور از اداره ی فرصت های از دست رفته

تا ماهی ها از رودخانه به دریا خودشان را برسانند مارسیا زودتر با دوچرخه به در خانه آمد. هوا نسبتا ابری توام با نور ملس خورشید بود .جلبک های سبز رنگ در حاشیه ی مرداب هواسازی می کردند. قایق های کوچک بادبانی از آن سوی دریای مانش به طرف بندر می آمدند .تا مارسیا در خانه را بزند مرده های کف دریا خودشان را به ساحل رساندند .با چشم های بی نور به سمت آفتاب دراز کشیدند و پره های بینی شان نم ماسیده در هوا را مشتاقانه فرو کشیدند. زنگ در خراب بود. چکش در با دست مارسیا به صدا درآمد. زودتر از من گربه ی خانم میشیگان پشت در بود. با هم سلامی و بوسه ای رد کردیم. مارسیا دامن سفید - مشکی گلدارش را به تن کرده بود. باسن گردش به تمامی خودش را در دامن نشان داده بود. آقای گربه خودش را به پای مارسیا یله می داد و پوست نرمش مارسیا را به وجد می آورد. >>>

Rus

Am I the only one remembering Malinin?
concentrating to become a bird or a cat
in those thin paperbacks on cheap paper
that crumbled after just a few reading?

Or in the first alternative theater
that showed film festivals for children,
those sparse Russian shorts, in woods,
a few kids lost among leaves of maple? >>>

Stupid, and proud of it

Through centuries of living, learning, experimenting, experiencing, innovating and gaining vast knowledge, man has evolved to the next level. Today we are guided by our conscience and act with humanity; we no longer are bound by “one book”, rather we have many books to choose from for any aspect of our lives. Hitchens writes: “Literature, not scripture, sustains the mind … and the soul. … Religion spoke its last intelligible or noble or inspiring words a long time ago, … the devotions of today are the echoing repetitions of yesterday, sometimes ratcheted up to screaming point so as to ward off the terrible emptiness.” >>>

Uncovering a cover up

Iranian film director Khosrow Sinai has been awarded the prestigious “Knights Cross of the Order of Merit of the Polish Republic”. At a ceremony earlier this year in the Polish capital, the country’s president Lech Kaczynski bestowed the honour on the Iranian filmmaker in recognition of his services to the Polish Nation, and in particular for his documentary “The Lost Requiem”, made in 1982. Also honoured were five Iranian citizens of Polish descent, survivors of the “Polish Exodus” living in Iran>>>

Diaries & Jallad

It was past three when K. woke up from his long nap in fright. A harsh wind was blowing a branch against the window. He felt thirsty, went to the kitchenette and poured himself a glass of milk and, after finishing it, proceeded to wash the small pile of dishes and glasses in the sink, whispered in his head, "a perfect execution, yek koshtan-e kamel?! He was thinking of a poem, shaar, he had been working on in his dream, not a word of which he could remember, and also thinking of the skeptical reaction of his affable friend Ibrahim should he ever dare to boast of a perfect poem, yek shaar-e kamel>>>

Dizin and Other Memories

Skiing in Iran had a distinctly Persian feel to it. For one thing, the slopes were treeless, so there was no danger of colliding with any protruding stumps. More importantly, there were the people who were there: beautiful women parading around in the latest ski fashions from Europe with no intention of getting on the slopes; families laying out a picnic spread with lavash bread, feta cheese and herbs; and still others out to get their fill of skiing. I quickly took a couple of runs down the intermediate slopes to work out the kinks, then headed for the more advanced trails. The sun was blazing off the snow and I was working up a sweat each time I came down>>>

Don’t look at me left left

Any way, what follows is a number of some Farsi expressions that are not necessarily funny unless they are translated into English. You may have heard some of them before. This list, which is by no means exhaustive, is your punishment for warding off the good writers from this site. To tell you the truth, I was so bored during the last spring break and tired of persistent watching of the weather channel. Staying idle is so unbearable for energetic individuals like me. I thought doing this may not be that tragic, but it is less tragic that going to Florida and jumping into empty pool. That is what a couple of my drunken students did last year>>>

Character A

I have always been fascinated by human relations and the way they work, how people’s feelings and expectations towards each other are formed and how we interpret people’s actions based on our pre-assumptions that although might be clear to us may not be the case for other people at all. I am sure you have many of those people around you who are always complaining. Not complaining about life (that is what we all do and apparently enjoy it very much because otherwise we would have stopped doing it long time ago) I mean complaining about other people’s attitudes, reactions, things we expected them to do and they didn’t, or things they did that we never expected from them>>>

The Scream (4)

There was no escape for the Screaming Man and Mona Lisa. Ruthlessly pursued by hordes of paparazzi, they desperately fled from one place to the other until they eventually had to stop. Lisa was about to give birth. Holed up at the Princess Grace Hospital in Monaco, the expecting couple clasped their fingers together and began to wait. Outside, the media was waiting too. It was a siege worthy of Troy. Instead of weapons, their enemies had cameras, microphones, and wire connections. The enigmatic Italian beauty’s belly was getting fuller by the minute. Her pains had gradually begun. Speculations abounded>>>

Signs of life

The room went dark. She was still in there. It was the last incident. Unnoticeable and ordinary. Most of the similar incidents that had taken place before were as insignificant as this last one; the elevator didn’t move as she pressed the 26th floor button. The automatic doors didn’t open. The janitor, singing a song didn’t say hi to her as expected. And the night before, the driver of the black BMW didn’t see her crossing the road. The toddler at the grocery store threw a tantrum and bit her hand, but the mother never apologized. The vendor of the vacuum never tried to sell her the latest model. The phone didn’t ring in the morning. The colleagues didn’t tease her cheap sunglasses and fake Rolex. Her Boss ignored the note she sent him.>>>

Diaries & Jallad

I was bleeding, dying, living the nightmare of death stretching over me like a venomous, heavy fog, drawn deeper by every second into the dark, mercury well of nothingness. The soldier, the one who had just pulled the trigger, wanted to excel in the art of cruelty by not finishing me off immediately, just as he had Ali, whose wasted body lay next to me, both of us covered by a thin layer of snow. "Troublemaking little dogs, ha?" His words, before shooting us in cold blood, echoed in my head a thousand times. "Please, not him," I should have pleaded with my tormentor, if only my tongue had not frozen beneath my teetering teeth and a strange conviction of my immorality had not suddenly, out of nowhere, attacked my immense fears right then and there>>>

Arvand

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