Shahin: April 2007 Archives

ladies and gents,

two weeks after i heard my first mohsen namjoo track i'd like to award him my personal prestigious medal of honor in c.o.h, aka creativity, originality and harmony. i'd also like to add that peter gabriel has been heavily influenced by mohsen's music, and i don't give a rat's ass if chronological evidence suggests otherwise.

little does mohsen know that his unprecedented talent comes to me as a great musing in my current scientific studies of the creative process of the almighty human mind. at a sharp contrast with stale hbs case studies on creative management for new product development and my temporary indifference towards the happenstances in my personal life mohsen has proved his work worthy of my passionately crimson red ipod during my daily three hour commute to and from work.

speaking of work, happy friday, and have a nice rainy day. hollywood hills are even prettier in light gray.

ten thousand years from now there will be no borders anymore, no credit cards and most certainly no such thing as a leaking lid on my morning coffee cup. ten thousand years from now there will be women, and only women on my mind, and on every other member of the entire male species' for that matter.

ten thousand years from now i won't need to work anymore, there's good food and there's good instant coffee, finally. ten thousand years from now there's only one death row and that's voluntary. ten thousand years from now there's finally a pill for computer sciences, another one for liberal arts and a few others for law, medicine and even psychology. ten thousand years from now all of our problems are solved, especially sex, and women have real orgasms all the time, even during their periods. ten thousand years from now there's nothing for me to discuss, nothing to think about, except of course women.

ten thousand years from now there'll be only one quest left to pursue: to find the perfect woman, one that's neither too kind nor too bitchy. one with perfect feet and just imperfect body, say perfect waistline, perfect fingernails and some room for improvement in the chest area. one that's smart enough to fall for me and not too smart to stay. ten thousand years from now i'll finally find her, and she comes to me on a hot summer saturday afternoon.

ten thousand years from now i'll sit across the table from the perfect woman in this restaurant that she picked, because she's very well opinionated on where and what she eats. ten thousand years from now there's not much to talk about, education is worthless and skills are commodities, even playing tchaikovsky on a cello twice the size of the eiffel tower. ten thousand years from now the perfect woman across the table will ask me one question and one question only: so, what do you want from me?

ten thousand years from now there will be no lenses and no sunglasses, there will be sheer silence as i'll be staring right into the perfect naked eyes of the perfectly dressed woman across the table from me, and for the life of me i could not come up with an answer for her. ten thousand years from now the perfect woman will run out of patience, get up, pick up her perfectly red purse and walk away from me while i watch her perfect back linger in perfect harmony catwalking high heels into my past and joining the rest of them. i'll have nothing more to say, nothing more to do and nothing more to think about, except, of course, women.

my father has just checked his watch, he’s considering going home. sister is doing the same, and what to do tonight, when to meet p., where to eat, and of course she needs to make time for a shower and a trip to the hairdresser right up the alley only because now she can afford to pay her ten bucks every night to have her hair done right. mom has spent an hour talking to my uncle; recently she’s got to make such phone calls when my dad’s not around, but they’ll get over it soon and daily life prevails as usual. home has started firing up its energy-saving light bulbs, one by one, kitchen first, then the living room and eventually the bedrooms and the bathrooms, except the guest ones of course.

and as all that is happening back there i get on my 6:09 train with manu chao in my ears, bukowski in my hand and a good number of school books in my backpack. i have just finished my first coffee of my daily four, next one to be poured and drunk out of my office mug in exactly 87 minutes now. it’s gray outside, but i’d bet my life it’s going to be just another sunny day with highs in the eighties and lows in the sixties. it’s just another great day to be alive, to work, to breathe, to work, to listen to music, to work and finally to work a little bit more when all is done.

see this is why I can’t write anymore. i’m not sad enough, not drunk enough, not unproductive, not estranged enough. my family is not dysfunctional enough, i mean drama is on and all that, my mom cries all the time and my dad still mishears her worries after a lifetime, but it just doesn’t strike me as disastrous enough. i don’t even hate her anymore, not even that coward of her new boyfriend who used to beat me in basketball when we were still together. my life is not miserable enough, come on life, i know you, what are you waiting for? bring it on damn it. shit I don’t even say fuck as much as I used to. just read bukowski, see that’s why his poems are so powerful, that’s why his books are the first poetry books ever that I actually finish, it’s gotta be the f word, what else? maybe it’s all his women, maybe it’s his meticulous night job, maybe my job is not mundane enough. maybe he was just a bigger asshole than i am, maybe, maybe… maybe i’m simply trying too hard...

the problem is that it’s all been said and done and felt and lied and complained about before. it’s all been observed, most intensely described, most precisely depicted and most passionately denounced. or maybe that’s just me, i’ve lost it, comfortably numb. i don’t bother study the strangers around me anymore, i let the random headlines and silly billboards get away being ridiculously stupid and all that. i’m reading something instead, or maybe even playing sudoku. i don’t even bother write down my ideas, not even the morning shower ones, what’s the point?

gee I can’t even find any differences between myself and the old woman sitting across the aisle from me reading her people magazine. i’m positive her grandson could mistake us for each other from far enough; both have two legs, two hands hanging from our shoulders and a head on top of it all with a gazillion extremely pathetic thoughts inside. maybe i’ve finally become one of ‘them’. maybe i have truly gone ordinary, one in the millions, just another particle, negligible in my entirety, redundant to begin with, insignificant at my best. maybe i’ve always been like this, just too full of myself to admit it.

whatever it is, i’m not complaining. It’s a nice weather outside people, stop reading this, stand up, look around you, breathe, walk away and let it be.