Everyone needs a blog to bawl their momentary fears of insanity in. 

PS: The advantage of writing fiction is the deniability! The opposite is true w/ blogging; everyone thinks all of that shit has really happened!

PPS: For example I'm not going insane. I'm merely tired and bored of sanity. 

During lunch I was thinking about grace in reaction to other people's behavior, when it is necessary to apply and when necessary to avoid. My conclusion was that unless betrayed by one who had given you reason to trust them, it is necessary to be graceful and consider their feelings and such. After this meditative lunch I did the natural thing, that was to go to Nordstrom and buy shoes. 

Given the limitedness of time and attention for every interest, a rational agent needs to have an equivalent uninterestednesses in something else. I'm not a jerk for saying I'm strongly uninterested. I'm just much more interested in that other oh look what's that shiny thing!

oh look, you're diving as if you've never drowned, let me take care of that for you, baby. 

fish locally? Fuck you, I want the sea! 

From "Around the world- Without a plane", the story of the first man to travel every country without a plane.

"My main lesson from all of this: You can’t judge a people by the actions of their government. The friendliest country I went to, by a mile, was Iran. I just wasn’t expecting that. I was on this overnight bus, and this little old Persian grandmother was sitting in front of me, nattering away on a mobile phone. She turned around and waved at me and gave me her phone. I didn’t know what she wanted me to do with it. I said “Hello,” and there was a guy on the other end, perfect English. He said that his grandmother was concerned about me—the bus gets in very early in the morning, and she’s worried that you won’t have anywhere to go or anything to eat, so she wants to know if she can take you home with her so she can cook you breakfast. Faith in humanity, restored. That’s the lesson: People are good. The spirit of common decency is everywhere you go. Maybe I’m just the luckiest motherfucker in the world, but I went to every country, and I didn’t get robbed, I didn’t get beaten up—I didn’t even get ill."

My take on this -- being an Iranian living in the west, is that people are good, and kind and in fact crave empathy everywhere. What they are missing is not kindness, it's the courage to be kind, and the courage to be on the receiving end of kindness, as these two could only go hand in hand. 

Or maybe it's only the pacific northwest. 

The "feeling of being rained upon" as E. L. Doctorow says, not "the fact that it is raining", "Good writing is supposed to evoke sensation in the reader". And Virginia Wolf, makes it rain, just like this: 

“One’s grandmother ought to have told one,” said Fanny, looking in at the window of Bacon, the mapseller, in the Strand—told one that it was no use making a fuss; this is life, they should have said, as Fanny said it now, looking at the large yellow globe marked with steamship lines.

“This is life. This is life,” said Fanny.

"A very hard face," though Miss Barrett, on the other side of the glass, buying maps of the Syrian desert and waiting impatiently to be served. "Girls look old so soon nowadays."

The equator swam behind tears.

"Piccadilly?" Fanny asked the conductor of the omnibus, and climbed to the top. After all, he would, he must, come back to her.

But Jacob might have been thinking of Rome; of architecture; of jurisprudence; as he sat under the plane tree in Hyde Park.

This is by far the most fascinating and mysterious religious ritual I've ever seen.

public service announcement

Be gentle with gooey balls of emotion wrapped carefully with thick layers of analysis. Some people _have_ emotions, these creatures are made of them.

There's nothing more frustrating One of the most frustrating things to do is getting over the fuss your mind is making over speaking and writing accurately when your audience is not paying attention and/or is incapable of telling the difference. 

"this is the end"

"i  still don't think one could stab oneself in the heart, I could shoot myself in the head but I don't think people have the ability to actually stab themselves in the heart and die of it. That last twist needs an external force. the action that kills you cannot happen at the same time as the death itself." 

"one could stab oneself in the heart, sometimes contemplating departure is staring at the knife, sometimes the last twist of the knife is i never loved you, it could be i'm leaving your father.  i cheated on you. it could be this is the end of loving you, goodbye. 

yes, you could stab yourself in the heart. and be guaranteed to not be able to return. and it's even harder this way, you live to grieve your own death. many times over."

PS: a few times this week the controversy around Elliot Smith's death came up in our conversations at work! this is what happens when you play to punk music on speakers at work! 

the moment
that moment
when you realized no-one is looking at you
when you realized that as long as no-one is looking at you
you're alone.
and you will feel alone as long as no-one witnesses you, your existence,
you wrote for the witness that would be.
might be.

you continue, the moment shall not pass in vein,
but this could be something other than an illusion only and only if you witness one who is not your only witness.
not yours but someone else's.

don't break the chain, for fuck sake, don't break the chain.
there will be no confirmation, confirmation is the loose loop.
fear confirmation, just keep writing.

"I was here".

And by not sharing you punish the world for not caring. -- save as draft

اون حقی که میگن گرفتنیه،‌ ذره ذره ازت میچاپنش نه یکهو، و گذشتن ازش ذره ذره شیک و مجلسی به نظر میاد،‌ انگار که من از این یه ذره و دو ذره بی نیازم، اما یکهو به خودت میای میبینی هیچ کس به تخمشم نیست که تو هم یه نیازهایی داری! بالاخره یه حقی داری، بالاخره آخرش لیاقتت اگه خیلی هم زیاد نیست اما بیشتر از هیچی ه. حرف حسابم اینه که من به خودم اومده م باز. پامو دارم میزنم زمین میگم همینیه که هست، مال من مال منه،‌ حق من حق منه، نمیدم دیگه،‌ یه چس مثقال زندگی ه بگذارید هر جوری دوست دارم بکنیمش!‌

بسیار خشن و سهمگین م این روزها و خیلی هم بی عاطفه و لجباز گویا به نظر میام. بار اول نیست و میدونم بعدها چه سرزنشها خودم رو خواهم کرد. روزهای این چنینی جا داره که چند خطی نوشته بشه تا در آینده یادم بمونه که ماه ها فرصت دادم و قضاوت نکردم،‌ که هفته ها انگیزه هام رو سنجیدم تا به اینجا رسیدم. این بار حتی حرفم رو در تمام مسیر زدم،‌ حقم رو خواستم، با صراحت و قاطعیت. یادم باشه امروز حال مادری رو داشته م که در گوش بچه ش زده. 

Oh my camera!

"And if somebody hurts you, I wanna fight But my hands been broken, one too many times So I'll use my voice, I'll be so f*cking rude Words they always win, but I know I'll lose" For the record I would have edited the beginning and the end out!

We.
Agenbite of inwit.
Inwit's agenbite.
Misery! Misery!

"No I'm not bisexual, I have dual sexuality disorder!"

Me, to a dude who after complementing me on my attire apologized to me, saying that he knew it was not my _market_, and in response to my surprise - "What do you exactly mean?" - concluded that I must be bi-sexual! Oh Capitol Hill. 

PS: Does the fact that I find incidents such as this fascinating and greatly enjoyable, mean my response was  factual and not sarcastic? 

به سلامتی اونایی که مرامشون کشته مارا، بقیه هم حال کنن با زندگیشون، نوش جونشون، ما که بخیل نیستیم!‌

یعنی آیا بنده خودم را به سخره گرفته م؟ زندگی با کسی که به زبان سلیس فارسی نمیتونه بگه:‌ «عزیزم»، «دوستت دارم!»،‌ «عاشقتم!» 

بی انصافی هم هست، طرف باید بیاد مقاله بنویسه برای ایجاد همون احساسی که یه «عزیز دلم» گفتن میزنه به هدف. کسی که، فرهنگی که اصلا اون اصل «دل» در قاموس کلماتش نیست. 

اونو بهش نمیگن معشوق میگن همخونه با مخلفات.

پ.ن. مزیت ش اینه که حداقل فارسی نمیفهمه که اگه نظرم عوض شد مجبور باشم حرفم رو پس بگیرم!  

پ.پ.ن. این عشق و عاشقی به سبک شرقی هم دردسریه، نمک گیرش میشن همه، اما بلد نیستن بیچاره ها ادای دین کنند!‌ توجیه شاید میکنم که سبک شرقی ه. آخه کی نمیدونه که باید به بدن زن دست کشید با سرعت دو تا حداکثر پنج سانتیمتر در ثانیه؟ 

حافظ شراب مینوشید و شعر میسرایید ما دری وری در میکنیم!‌ البته گفته باشم که لذتی در پیانو زدن در مستی و به یاد آوردن قطعاتی که در هوشیاری عمرا اسمش هم به خاطرت نمیامد هست که در هوشیاری نیست، فقط کاش ناخنهایم کوتاه تر بود قدری و کاش حس تنهایی این طور همه لذت ها رو مثل سیاه چاله در خودش فرو نبرده بود. 

تنهایی انواع داره، این نوعش خیلی تخمیه، از نوع بادنجان تخم دار. اصل بادنجان موجوده، اما همراه با تخم فراوان که اصلا میخواستم کل هیکلش نباشه!