I want you to know
one thing.

You know how this is:
if I look
at the crystal moon, at the red branch
of the slow autumn at my window,
if I touch
near the fire
the impalpable ash
or the wrinkled body of the log,
everything carries me to you,
as if everything that exists,
aromas, light, metals,
were little boats
that sail
toward those isles of yours that wait for me.

Well, now,
if little by little you stop loving me
I shall stop loving you little by little.

If suddenly
you forget me
do not look for me,
for I shall already have forgotten you.

If you think it long and mad,
the wind of banners
that passes through my life,
and you decide
to leave me at the shore
of the heart where I have roots,
remember
that on that day,
at that hour,
I shall lift my arms
and my roots will set off
to seek another land.

But
if each day,
each hour,
you feel that you are destined for me
with implacable sweetness,
if each day a flower
climbs up to your lips to seek me,
ah my love, ah my own,
in me all that fire is repeated,
in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten,
my love feeds on your love, beloved,
and as long as you live it will be in your arms
without leaving mine.

- Pablo Neruda

Life was impossible there. After a while, I could not bear it anymore. You might blame the society, this country, or fate – whatever you call it. Labels are among the least important things at the moment.

Anyway, what could I do except leaving the beloved house, forever perhaps, in search of somewhere else? So, I became homeless. Now I would live anywhere, ugly, cheap, cramped, or old; I may rent somewhere for no one knows how long; I might buy a place, I cannot say.

For sure, I know that there is nowhere in this world like the house I had all those years. For one thing, I spend all my life, my taste, my expectations on that; for another, I am so different that I may never fit into anything else, not even into the most beautiful ones. I left, and I am homeless now. But there was no other choice. But I had no other choice.

Scarecrows are weird.

- Nowrooz 1390

http://i48.vbox7.com/player/ext.swf?vid=9ccad931

Today was dark, empty. I am sure you can find it in a picture dictionary under ‘zilch’ and/or ‘absurdity’. It is not my choice. It has been cloudy since last week or month, and I have no power to change it. It is winter in Iran. Winter is waste of time. It is bullshit, it is a lie. Winter is supernatural. Winter is life.

plus

If you can’t solve it, it is not a problem, it’s a fact.

But now isn’t simply now. Now is also a cold reminder; one whole day later than yesterday, one year later than last year. Every now is labelled with its date, rendering all past nows obsolete, until – later or sooner – perhaps – no, not perhaps – quite certainly: It will come.

A Single Man: by Christopher Isherwood.

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.
.
.
.

: None of it really worked out the way I’d planned.
: Most things don’t work out the way people plan.
: You’re just living in the past. You need to start thinking about your future.
: Living in the past is my future. It doesn’t have to be yours.

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.
.
.
.
.

A few times in my life I’ve had moments of absolute clarity. When for a few brief seconds. the silence drowns out the noise and I can feel rather than think. And things seem so sharp. And the world seems so fresh as though it had all just come into existence. I can never make these moments last. I cling to them…but like everything they fade. I’ve lived my live on these moments. They pull me back to the present….and I realize that everything is exactly the way it was meant to be.

A Single Man: by Tom Ford.

You may watch TV or DVDs all day long, go out for a walk, eat in a restaurant or sit in a bar, cook, read papers and follow the nonsense news, but at night, there is no redemption. 1 am, 3 am, 5 am, you have to go to bed. You have to face nada; the hostile empty loneliness. Pills are not for insomnia, they just help you pass another night, without committing suicide.

II
Once he told me the story of Boo, the mighty king of Pontiuge. He was a wise educated man who spent his first 17 years of life in a farm. As a tradition, he was raised in a middle-class family, unknown. On his 17th Birthday, he was told the truth and he started his special education.

III
It was the 22nd of March. I married his words. We consented to be called husband and wife, and spend a week together. I never asked about his other life. He liked me, and I was enough for him. We booked a hotel and went on honeymoon for a week. We settled among warm lubricious waves, and he continued his stories.

After a week, we knew each other well. I knew his past, he knew mine. He was a retired General of the Air Force.

IV
I am a painter. I am a painter. There is nothing much here, just colors and frames. Pictures are to draw, aren’t they? What can one do after drawing a picture? I would say; nothing. Mission is accomplished. Paints cannot come back home, but painters can.

I sit on the sun, or in the shadow, paint and sell some pictures. I have never been to a museum. I have no picture on my walls.

V
Thinking about the old general, I can conclude that I was his lover, his life. He might have had a wife, two sons (as he once had), but to me, he was always there, all too present, single, waiting for me. Once he told me that he is alive only because of me, my beauty. He had the money, he had a car. It was me that he always sought. I got used to his voice, his hands, and his shameless generous behaviors. I even used to dream of him. I remember painting his face, his hands, his body in my sketch book. I imagined many times, that how life could be different, if he was younger, or I, older. I was proud of him. He was a brave man; he had fought for his country. He was a General. And he was alive. He hated war. He had lost two sons in a war. We knew all about war.

VI
I can remember well. It was a year after, and, oh, all those TV News. He was arrested, accused of murderer, his wife. We were frequently in touch. His last story was of the rich king of Pontiuge, who has escaped from death twice, but was forced to kill his wife in the third time. She was a scapegoat.

VII
Since then, we talked only once. He talked all the time; asked me to write his story. I can remember his last words. He said don’t ask me why. Just write. You may know that there has been no news about me for the last 20 years. After war, I once tried to write and share what I know, my perception, my knowledge, my feelings, but then I found that language is not adequate, I missed the tool. Language was something personal, private. I started to paint, it was a great challenge for me, starting it from the first step, but I found it worth attempting. Then, at the exact moment when I could paint what I had in my mind, my feelings, my words, I doubted. Should I share it at all? I never understood whether great painters had aimed to share theirs or it just happened, but I decided not to do so. Now you know why I asked you to write it as soon as possible, do not wait; do not waste a second, ’cause you will change. Soon, very soon.