I just discovered this film, A World Between, which is a must-see for Iranian-Americans or those Americans interested in finding out more about Iran -- not through the typical American mass media, but through a genuine documentary. Here you can read about it and here you can watch samples. You can buy the DVD from the official website or from Amazon.com.
Monday, July 14, 2008
Sunday, March 23, 2008
As Delayed as It Is...
HAPPY PERSIAN NEW YEAR!!!
*سال نو مبارك*
This is the first "Persian New Year" for me out of Iran. To get nostalgic is the least I can do! I am planning to travel back to Iran next year this time, inshallah. It's always the best time to take a trip to Tehran, to mingle with the shoppers and excited people and the smell of the new year and the laughter of kids.
PS. I discovered a tea here, Twinings "Jasmine Green Tea" ... it smells like my grandmother's hair, when she was alive and I was a 12-year-old kid, and the sparrows were chirping on the persimmon tree in the middle of the yard when spring was around the corner. I would pick up the lilacs and put them in granny's hair as she was singing to me, "be kas kasoonesh nemidam, be hame kasoonesh nemidam ... " [I will not let her get married just to anybody...] All grandmothers think that their granddaughters are waiting for a prince to come. Nobody thinks of me like that now, and nobody sings a song to me like that, to make me feel I am the only desirable woman in the world.
Well... My prince finally came anyway.
*سال نو مبارك*
This is the first "Persian New Year" for me out of Iran. To get nostalgic is the least I can do! I am planning to travel back to Iran next year this time, inshallah. It's always the best time to take a trip to Tehran, to mingle with the shoppers and excited people and the smell of the new year and the laughter of kids.
PS. I discovered a tea here, Twinings "Jasmine Green Tea" ... it smells like my grandmother's hair, when she was alive and I was a 12-year-old kid, and the sparrows were chirping on the persimmon tree in the middle of the yard when spring was around the corner. I would pick up the lilacs and put them in granny's hair as she was singing to me, "be kas kasoonesh nemidam, be hame kasoonesh nemidam ... " [I will not let her get married just to anybody...] All grandmothers think that their granddaughters are waiting for a prince to come. Nobody thinks of me like that now, and nobody sings a song to me like that, to make me feel I am the only desirable woman in the world.
Well... My prince finally came anyway.
Wednesday, February 20, 2008
Tuesday, February 12, 2008
A Note on "Brokeback Mountain"
"A gay cowboy movie" has been the most unfair label ever attached to a movie as beautiful and deep as Brokeback Mountain . I finally watched this movie (now after Heath Ledger's sad death) and I have to say I was deeply impressed and pleased to see a different beautifully-made movie about love as it is, not as we might expect it to be. There is plenty of information about this movie, its screenplay and the Annie Proulx short story it is based on all over the internet, so I would not repeat them here.
Just as a short note, I think instead of that oversimplifying (and utterly stupid) tag which is attached to this beautiful movie, one can think of Brokeback Mountain as "a movie about love that happens between two souls that [concerning the social/cultural context, unfortunately] happen to be of the same sex -- in a conventionally heterosexual world". This might be a bit more complex than that tag I first quoted, but at least, I think it is more fair.
Friday, January 25, 2008
Indian movies you should (not) watch!
I will keep it short and sweet:
1. Watch Water
2. Do not watch Fanaa
1. Watch Water
2. Do not watch Fanaa
The first gives you an insight into life from a different perspective, the second gives you headache and (ironic) laughter.
You will find out why the first one is a good movie after watching it, also you will find out why the second one is a waste of time to watch after NOT watching it and reading this brief description instead:
A blind girl goes to a city to find her Prince Charming (I know, but it's ok so far), then a womanizer falls in love with her and after singing couple of songs (as expected) suddenly changes into a loyal personality (reminds me of the Frog turning into Prince, but that was ok and this is not!) Nothing too bad so far, then the guy figures out an eye surgery would cure his beloved (now fiancee)'s blindness, so they go for it. RIGHT AFTER the girl opens her eyes to see this Prince Charming, she is told that he has been exploded in some (political) bombings. If this movie ended here, I still could say it was an average Indian melodrama, but the director feels too creative to stop, and actually adds a so-called twist to the story (this should be illegal): the guy has not died, he has changed into a political organization's secret agent. After a James-Bond-run-and-follow scene, the guy gets shot (and of course manages to survive) and ends up in the girl's house. The girl is a mother now and her son's name is exactly the same as the guy's name (romantic, ha?) After talking to the girl's father and a lot of unnecessary details, the guy finally asks for the girl's hand. They get married (again, I guess) and after doing some Prince-&-Cinderella poses for the camera start their (apparently) peaceful life, until, the father discovers the true identity of his son-in-law, his job as betraying their country, and the organization he is related to. The guy ends up killing the father, and in a supposedly-tragic-yet-really-comic scene the girl finds her father's corpse comfortably laying down in the river, with his face upward (of course for her daughter to identify) grinning under the thick layer of ice. This is the point John said he wouldn't be able to sit to watch the rest of the movie, but actually after couple of minutes, he said, "I'm just gonna see how it's gonna end, just so I can call Ozzie [his Indian friend] and say I'd be down there to kill him, just because he is Indian and this is an Indian movie!" Well, obviously he was joking (we love our Indian friends) but the movie ended up with everybody killing everybody else, so everybody died but the girl (and of course because she was a nice girl, you know?)
Well, I just felt responsible to let you know, the decision is yours. Watch Water's trailer here (don't forget to pause the background music on right margine):
Friday, January 11, 2008
Story of the Month: The Streets
The Streets
"Hold fast to dreams,
For if dreams die,
Life would be a broken-winged bird,
Which cannot fly."
Langston Hughes
Darkness has fallen. I'm alone on the street corner. Shabby houses are grinning at me like ghosts in a haunted world. Fog is lurking over their chimneys, rain is teeming down their pipes. My homeless heart leaps in my chest. Would they find me here, rigid and frozen, torn and raped, at this vulnerable corner of the street? I must keep my ass safe. I must live a long life to let my soul ripen, to get prepared. Then Death will come in and pick me up for the after life. There I shall rest in the arms of my heavenly Father. A young lover will wait for me there, to caress my hair, to kiss my feet, to pull the bloody nails out of my wrists. An apparition, dark-faced, tall and lame is approaching. Lord! Help me out! He just passes by, however, thank You! I can hear pulsing in my ears. What had I read before about it all? The lurking cat "on the window-panes"? The insidious "tedious argument"? I should get going, no matter where, anywhere but not here…on this exposed, helpless, stripped corner of the street.
Streets with lamp posts! Streets with the scent of sweet cookies, banana flavor, laughter of lovers, and warmth of a soft bed in a four-star hotel. I can always love the streets. Two little creatures, wrapped up in shawls, are inspecting the toys in the window: the little one is a girl of four or five, the other, as far as I can see, is a boy of eight or nine. I wish they were mine, to keep me laughing in this cold rain. There is nobody around, except for a swarm of onlookers outside the shop windows. Neither a caring mother nor a watching father is around. I can afford taking them with me. I ask them if they want to watch more toys in the next street. They will be back soon. The little girl's eyes glitter. The boy's protruding nose nods in approval. I take them to the next street.
I'm not afraid anymore. Nobody will hurt a mom with two little children at her skirt. My tattered clothes seem to amuse them! They don't "whine and bicker", though, neither do they "tug" my skirt. I have taken them by the hand, so tenderly, with the true affection of a genuine mother. No masks, no masquerades. So why can't they be mine? I will not be alone any longer. Loneliness. "Words I had no one left but God." Should I announce it to the world? They keep twittering melodically. The rain is flowing down that eternal river up there, baptizing all of us -- homeless tramps. The people inside will be dry for ever. Dry and full, like stale dead mice in the sewage.
I feel somebody is after us, in some gruesome haste, scuttling right behind us, with heavy steps of a strong man. I feel dizzy, my hands are cold, my head numb, my eyes getting fixated. The two little angels are squeezing my hands rather painfully. I don't know what they want. I just keep walking, maybe staggering down the street. But I can't walk anymore. I can't keep pace with those tiny cherubs. The footsteps behind are getting louder. I can never stop to see the face. I'm so afraid. So so afraid of getting hurt. I just keep squeezing the angels' hands in return. Maybe they don't know what I want. I never have known. the man is just a foot away from me now. There's an opening there, "a hell of a good universe next door!" Maybe I can slip inside, true! The door is wide open and the man has grabbed my waist yet I rush into the house. Two little angels are gone. I'm alone.
It is shining. The door behind is ajar. I guess the man has gone. Warmth has rushed into my mouth, a thousand flavors into my nose. Where am I? Whose house is it? The floor is soft as marble, yet not cold. There is a fire burning in the hearth, its flames radiating heat. It seemed like a church, then, with no benches, of course. The ceiling is high and painted in bright colors, the walls are adorned with flowers. Candles shed light, there is a smell of wine everywhere. Yet, this is not all. There is a staircase before my feet. It goes to somewhere unknown because I can't see what is beyond that curve up there. I guess there must be one hundred stairs to walk. I don't even know how to start. Maybe I can find the residents up there. Why was the door open, then? Who was that man? Was that a man, after all? I don't know.
The stairs go nowhere. They are just ascending for some fifty or sixty steps, then descending for another fifty steps, then ascending again, then descending again. I've been walking for hours; I've reached no destination. I guess this maze has been built for fun. Yes! Think, just for fun. It is funny, isn't it, by the way? But how shall I return?
There is a door just amid the stairs. There are always doors, always clues, always paths to trace down. I go through it. I feel as if I'm falling softly, very softly on some grass, wet and fragrant. There is a blinding light everywhere. I can't see what's happening. I can't see where my feet are. I can't hear anything, or maybe it has been too loud, too deafening for me to hear. I can just smell it, I feel dizzy. But, I don't know why I'm not afraid anymore.
I am in his arms. He is caressing my hair. His breath smells like fresh velvet violets in the spring. He says my hair is silky, one would love to feel it. He says I shouldn't be afraid of anything, nobody can ever hurt me from now on. I look at his face, I can hardly see his features, it will take time for me to get used to the light. But I can hear him. His voice sounds protective. I can see his Adam's apple trembling under that marble skin covered with innocent golden down. It fills me with wobbling pleasure to listen to his smooth masculine words. I can also smell his shoulders, they smell like my childhood pillow, reassuring and pacifying. I am enveloped by his arms, they look as if guarding me against all doors, all stairs, all streets. They smell like juicy apples, red and luscious, newly picked from an ancient tree. He feels for my neck, he leaves his nose on my breasts like a half-asleep baby who wants more milk; His lips taste wine sweet. I feel his hair, it was just as if I had dipped my fingers in some cool calm water. Beati, quorum tecta sunt peccata. He is happy, I can hear his tender laughter, I can touch his little humid mouth to keep my hands warm forever. I feel fertile as he kisses my cheeks, whispering in my ears: "I have picked you, little tramp."
"Hold fast to dreams,
For if dreams die,
Life would be a broken-winged bird,
Which cannot fly."
Langston Hughes
Darkness has fallen. I'm alone on the street corner. Shabby houses are grinning at me like ghosts in a haunted world. Fog is lurking over their chimneys, rain is teeming down their pipes. My homeless heart leaps in my chest. Would they find me here, rigid and frozen, torn and raped, at this vulnerable corner of the street? I must keep my ass safe. I must live a long life to let my soul ripen, to get prepared. Then Death will come in and pick me up for the after life. There I shall rest in the arms of my heavenly Father. A young lover will wait for me there, to caress my hair, to kiss my feet, to pull the bloody nails out of my wrists. An apparition, dark-faced, tall and lame is approaching. Lord! Help me out! He just passes by, however, thank You! I can hear pulsing in my ears. What had I read before about it all? The lurking cat "on the window-panes"? The insidious "tedious argument"? I should get going, no matter where, anywhere but not here…on this exposed, helpless, stripped corner of the street.
Streets with lamp posts! Streets with the scent of sweet cookies, banana flavor, laughter of lovers, and warmth of a soft bed in a four-star hotel. I can always love the streets. Two little creatures, wrapped up in shawls, are inspecting the toys in the window: the little one is a girl of four or five, the other, as far as I can see, is a boy of eight or nine. I wish they were mine, to keep me laughing in this cold rain. There is nobody around, except for a swarm of onlookers outside the shop windows. Neither a caring mother nor a watching father is around. I can afford taking them with me. I ask them if they want to watch more toys in the next street. They will be back soon. The little girl's eyes glitter. The boy's protruding nose nods in approval. I take them to the next street.
I'm not afraid anymore. Nobody will hurt a mom with two little children at her skirt. My tattered clothes seem to amuse them! They don't "whine and bicker", though, neither do they "tug" my skirt. I have taken them by the hand, so tenderly, with the true affection of a genuine mother. No masks, no masquerades. So why can't they be mine? I will not be alone any longer. Loneliness. "Words I had no one left but God." Should I announce it to the world? They keep twittering melodically. The rain is flowing down that eternal river up there, baptizing all of us -- homeless tramps. The people inside will be dry for ever. Dry and full, like stale dead mice in the sewage.
I feel somebody is after us, in some gruesome haste, scuttling right behind us, with heavy steps of a strong man. I feel dizzy, my hands are cold, my head numb, my eyes getting fixated. The two little angels are squeezing my hands rather painfully. I don't know what they want. I just keep walking, maybe staggering down the street. But I can't walk anymore. I can't keep pace with those tiny cherubs. The footsteps behind are getting louder. I can never stop to see the face. I'm so afraid. So so afraid of getting hurt. I just keep squeezing the angels' hands in return. Maybe they don't know what I want. I never have known. the man is just a foot away from me now. There's an opening there, "a hell of a good universe next door!" Maybe I can slip inside, true! The door is wide open and the man has grabbed my waist yet I rush into the house. Two little angels are gone. I'm alone.
It is shining. The door behind is ajar. I guess the man has gone. Warmth has rushed into my mouth, a thousand flavors into my nose. Where am I? Whose house is it? The floor is soft as marble, yet not cold. There is a fire burning in the hearth, its flames radiating heat. It seemed like a church, then, with no benches, of course. The ceiling is high and painted in bright colors, the walls are adorned with flowers. Candles shed light, there is a smell of wine everywhere. Yet, this is not all. There is a staircase before my feet. It goes to somewhere unknown because I can't see what is beyond that curve up there. I guess there must be one hundred stairs to walk. I don't even know how to start. Maybe I can find the residents up there. Why was the door open, then? Who was that man? Was that a man, after all? I don't know.
The stairs go nowhere. They are just ascending for some fifty or sixty steps, then descending for another fifty steps, then ascending again, then descending again. I've been walking for hours; I've reached no destination. I guess this maze has been built for fun. Yes! Think, just for fun. It is funny, isn't it, by the way? But how shall I return?
There is a door just amid the stairs. There are always doors, always clues, always paths to trace down. I go through it. I feel as if I'm falling softly, very softly on some grass, wet and fragrant. There is a blinding light everywhere. I can't see what's happening. I can't see where my feet are. I can't hear anything, or maybe it has been too loud, too deafening for me to hear. I can just smell it, I feel dizzy. But, I don't know why I'm not afraid anymore.
I am in his arms. He is caressing my hair. His breath smells like fresh velvet violets in the spring. He says my hair is silky, one would love to feel it. He says I shouldn't be afraid of anything, nobody can ever hurt me from now on. I look at his face, I can hardly see his features, it will take time for me to get used to the light. But I can hear him. His voice sounds protective. I can see his Adam's apple trembling under that marble skin covered with innocent golden down. It fills me with wobbling pleasure to listen to his smooth masculine words. I can also smell his shoulders, they smell like my childhood pillow, reassuring and pacifying. I am enveloped by his arms, they look as if guarding me against all doors, all stairs, all streets. They smell like juicy apples, red and luscious, newly picked from an ancient tree. He feels for my neck, he leaves his nose on my breasts like a half-asleep baby who wants more milk; His lips taste wine sweet. I feel his hair, it was just as if I had dipped my fingers in some cool calm water. Beati, quorum tecta sunt peccata. He is happy, I can hear his tender laughter, I can touch his little humid mouth to keep my hands warm forever. I feel fertile as he kisses my cheeks, whispering in my ears: "I have picked you, little tramp."
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