June 2007 Archives

when i grow up i wanna be a pagan shaman. i will also be a professional afro-american teenager, a french connoisseur and of course a barista with artsy ambitions.

but till then i'm going to remain a slave of corporate america. life will be good though, because i have my evenings to myself and myself only. i'll read and listen and play tennis. what the hell, i'll dip into the jacuzzi every once in a while before getting completely drunk. life is good.

in the perfect world there are no books on religion, faith, god or lack thereof. there are also no schools of thought, no ethical codes, no virtues and no values. there are only stories. story books for math, for physics, for medicines, for music, for cooking and for sex. there will be absolutely no differentiation between fact and fiction. imagination is just another sense, merely the strongest. people truly live what they read, hear and watch, and integrate the experience into their wisdom. there are no lies, just different individual preferences in pursuing facts or fiction. good and bad are devolved into their true meanings: descriptive adjectives for personal tastes, never applicable to people, actions or events for that matter.

in the prefect world we're all in love and we create to impress the divine beloved, tangible or not. in the prefect world we're all high and drunk even when asleep. the perfect world is actually a broadyway musical with original score in the air and subtitles floating around people and animals and all other conscious creatures in various paradigms of life.

in the perfect world survival pays. we're all compensated fairly for the courageous act of waking up to the same routines everyday, for enduring misery, for being born, for anything that goes wrong. in fact infants receive a sign-up bonus which pays for their minimal needs for their duration of stay within the current life form. the youth are always struggling and the elderly have the highest rates for having gone through it all.

in the prefect world brains are useless, plans are decorative and deadlines are just for fun. feelings are everything, we feel like somethings, and don't feel like the rest, and we can always choose, and we only choose what feels the best, and we can always switch, and we often do as soon as we're bored.

in the prefect world it's all about me, and it's all about now.

everything is a hoax, everyone's miserable and it's all going down. i feel good right now, and it's a perfect life.

i went to bed at twelve thirty. i woke up and i was thirty. there.

thirty minutes to get ready. thirty steps down the stairway. thirty more soldiers died in iraq. thirty cents short in change for coffee. thirty songs on my ipod playlist. thirty men standing along the track. thirty seats on the second deck. thirty stocks plunging, thirty rising. last thirty pages of factotum. thirty crazy years behind. thirty dirty thoughts on my mind.

i've been with thirty women, some of them in my head. i've lived a day with less than thirty dollars in total assets, much more in debt. i've killed thirty spiders, crushed thirty snails and smashed thirty flies. i've drunk thirty bottles of whiskey. i have thirty shiny degrees piled up on my desk and thirty dusty pictures on my wall. i know thirty people and some more. i fell in love with thirty of them, and i cried for thirty months when the first one left me. I've told thirty million cheap lies and thirty really good ones. i felt really bad when I lost thirty cents to a slot machine, and spent thirty grands on fine dining that felt really good. i had thirty golden opportunities to make it big in life and wasted all of them, i had thirty perfect opportunities to commit suicide and failed on all of them too. i have thirty pieces of new york steak in my fridge and thirty bottles of wine on my rack, thirty more reasons to live.

the mexican girl who'd truned thirty sat next to me for the thirtieth time. she wasn't reading the bible like she used to, she had thirty ways to improve your relationship in her left hand. i spent thirty seconds trying to read thirty lines from her book, but her cleavage proved too distracting at the bottom of the page and i gave up: she had small breasts, thirty a, or b. i thought of thirty lines to start a conversation with her, and i found thirty reasons why we'd break up in thirty days or less. i counted to thirty and back, and i was outside walking on thirty celebrity stars on thirty pavement tiles.

i ordered thirty lattes and thirty croissants and only paid for one, and i realized what the world feels like at thirty. it feels like thirty thousand reasons to live and thirty thousand to die, and a most seductive indifference towards all of them, and the rest of the reasons in the whole thirty year old world for that matter. it feels like thirty venezuelan topless strippers on one side and thirty horny zombies on the other, and me walking in trance in the middle, oblivious, indifferent and expressionless, simply so careless that they can't tell, as if i'm too good for them, as if i'm too smart for them, as if i own more than thirty dollars in cash, as if i'm everything they are not, as if i'm thirty. there. i am.

and here's to another piece of paper with my name on it.
another short chapter.
another resolution of vanity.
another something i don't know what to do with.

and here's to corporate america.
to sam walton,
to samuel adams,
to wall street, and to the almighty greed.

and here's to myers-briggs,
to contingencies,
to net present value of a grandiose loan,
to china, and to insomnia.

and here's to the illusion of being some hot shit,
to an unprecedented level of arrogance and confusion,
to irrational exuberance,
to conjoint analysis of three years of fuck-you-i'm-busy-too,
to same old crap, with a brand new strategized roadmap.

and here's to you, mrs robinson.
jesus just left the house.
let the show begin.

i was watching this guy today, the one with the orange cap. he's about to be thirty and reading a children's novel, and he cried at the end of this chapter, when one of the characters died. intense. pathetic. and then he climbed up the stairs and stretched his arms wide open to the cool breeze of early mornings, and he smiled like there's no tomorrow, immensely content for a very short second, but long enough to whisper dazlious to himself before he stepped out of the bliss and back into his own office at the corner of this and that in his own world.

he then embarked on yet another imaginary letter in his head: dear buk, you're a pretty good read, but not all lose it around thirty, some keep it burning. regards, sh. he didn't need stamps, for in his mind letters are delivered instantly once they're authored. you see he thinks there's only one mind divided between individuals. the little voices are but only the sound of other random individuals thinking within our vicinity in the universal mind. the only problem is that people in our mental vicinity are almost never geographically close or even known to us. so there's no good way to tell their identity or intentions or even level of sanity.

he's of course nuts to think this, but he likes the idea of others hearing his thoughts in their heads, and maybe once in a while listening to his crazy ideas, and maybe even acting on it only to explain themselves to their friends: the little voices told me to do so. huh, beat that.

i know this guy who thinks he's a little voice inside little heads of little human beings out there. and he makes them do things and see things differently. he thinks it's a funny little world and we're all his funny little puppets. i think he's nuts. he thinks i'm him.

lyra to harry is as holmes to poirot.

that rowling would pick a male protagonist is well aligned with pullman's concept of daemons' opposite gender of their owners. everything in lyra's world is profoundly masculine, even the tribute to feminist witches' dominance over their male lovers' ignorance and ephemeral nature. events are often narrated short and harsh with drama kept at its minimum. harry on the other hand thrives on feelings, on minute details of wizardry inconspicuous to male's senses.

while both happen to be raised apart from their legitimate parents one can't possibly ignore the stark contrast between their feelings for their natural roots. james potter could easily pass for a metrosexual visionary of some health food corporation the shrewd and powerful lord asriel could merely be conceived of as a veteran dark stakesholder in a mutli-national board regulating oil, weapons and drugs traffic across the continents. the contrast between the mother figures is beyond the scope of this text, or any other one for that matter.

one corny idea is to have harry meet lyra, or lizzie for the rhymes sake. we'll assign them a few tasks too, and leave it to them to figure who does what and how. we'll throw in a few dementors, some specters and other minuscule obstacles like vicious death eaters and gobblers. the winner is one who kills everybody and returns with the holy grail first. use of alethiometers is not allowed, nor is burning a fawkes feather. iorek and hagrid could watch, but not intervene. again it will be pretty cheesy, but fun to watch. and i bet you anything, lyra will hate harry's guts for being so mellow, and harry could never ever come to terms with accepting her bluntness.

someone should write a persian one, a modern persian fiction for young adults, someone from my generation.

resentment towards public displays of anomaly. resentment towards wearing what others don't. resentment towards talking like others won't. resentment towards claims of discomfort, mismatch, exclusivity. resentment towards resenting mainstreams. all the same, all simple, silly and sad creatures of the same humorous gods, breathing the same free air.

resentment towards women. towards kids. towards the gym, floss and decaf diet coke. resentment towards education, towards careers, money, cars and organic soy beans. resentment towards houses, restaurants, malls and modern amphitheaters. resentment towards progress.

resentment towards you, writing, self and much more.

resent me.