Motionless sky...

  

 

I don�t know if we live to die or die to live. When they ask of my religion, I wonder about their incest-influenced minds that promote them to ask such personal questions. What Religion Do You Practice? I sit uprooted, ready to open my mouth for the fire to come out. I feel the dragon-woman trailing inside my body, burning to burn the lies of the word: Religion. I sit quiet as a mouse. I answer polite words before beheading my head on their plates. They, forking my eyes out. I become a residence of my own captured body. The mind, the body, the soul, the past pages of silence. I breathe my privet thoughts in to their shadows. I confess to them my religions. I am a slave to their norms. What remain are my direct inner struggles. The shrines of Muses, Jesus, Mohammad, Buda and the rest... suffer from the tyranny of the word, Religion! The answer rejoices their victory. They are happy I am not their neighbor. The incident of my birth to their comfortable practices is a shame. A shame! I devoice my thoughts. I submerge into my exile. I am possessed by the infant inside me. The pleasing activist. I shelter in my childish innocence. A commodity!

But you convert me to your religion. It may help my soul, maybe. I am graceful to your consuming of my body. My soul has long been engraved with denial.

Today I am your believer.

  

 

Having the elements of madness means you are a genius.
Having the elements of madness means you are a genius!
Having the elements of madness means you are a genius?

  

 

I can spread my hands and legs free and uncensored. I am enjoying looking at my traces... poetic, delicate, instinct driven. I can play with my craft... clever! I can influence my own climax without hiding in a rabbit hole. I can spit at my own writing without having to bear the pain of humiliation. I can hate these words murderously without fear of others' judgment. I am without love and all rationality or am full of innocence-rated kindness, making love to the prose I write. There is no listener but my own eyes to read and I may ultimately discover a new Sheema without the guilt of infidelity.

Morality challenges my childhood.

  

 

he asked: what is it she wants.

I said:

What is it she wants?
Pig noses,
Confidence!
His shoes!

The pieces she discovers
When closing her legs
Amusing incident
Behind that prose
Wishes that do not exist
Or can never exit
The existing excitement

The resistance
Secret rendezvous
A staged love?
Pig noses,
Confidence!
His shoes!

What is it she wants?
From the man who bites
Her lips
Opening and closing.

Nightmare?
Obsession?
A Jazzy night?

She ceases his love
At least two feet away...

She does not succeed.

She wants.

Sheema Kalbasi

  

 

It is 5: something in the morning and I woke up to check on the little girl. I am sleepless now. I start reading my e-mails. I have some good ones and then Partow Naderi's . He informs me of Laila Sarahat's death. She was one of the great modernist poets of Afghanistan.
She died in Exile.

  

 

A kiss.

  

 

A letter to him... who once was:

Sometimes the creation takes over and the creator loses herself in the imagery creation. Sometimes someone arrives and becomes the creation and then takes over without knowing or desiring to. Sometimes someone like me who writes with her blood and soul cries and loves and laughs with her writing. She jazzes her sentences with episodes of her visions. Some are true and some... not so absolute. Then the time comes to say goodbye to the creation and the creator wants to continue the writing. To burst forth the emotions, tampering with the thoughts, with the lust with the song. Then she discovers the girl in her is constantly struggling with the woman, the woman trying to absorb the girl. One representing the other, the other refusing the other.

She opens her eyes to a different world and �the empty� inhales her existence. She opens her eyes to a new world and �the near� accepts her.

She resembles no one and every one and it is hard to simultaneously be both the girl and the woman.

To the woman, he (the creation) represents nothing and the creator exhausted from continues struggle of the girl and the woman wants to stop. The girl continuously tries to convince the woman that he once did represent something.



She wants to put her face in his hands and cry and she doesn�t know why she cries as I write her story for �the no one� to read. Nothing has happened. Nothing is going to happen. Nothing was ever going to happen and it makes the creator even more sad to know that not even this is true. This existence of his nonexistence.


What a brutal aspect of poetry I am struggling with!

  

 

On my feet, reassuring of the presence.

  

 

Say it... say something mean. The worst thing you can say to me. I need to know how bad I am and then tell me something kind... the best thing you can warm me with.

  

 

A few days ago an electric power switches off and the after shock is heavy. I could avoid writing about it like sleeping on a hard bed but I have to express these existing emotions. It is good I am also rational or I would dig a hole and hide for a while.

I am not pointing my finger at you... I am exhausted with my own emotional struggles. My own loss, my own... To me you are a child but I am not your mother. I was a giver. Rejoiced? Don�t humble yourself. The ocean is too deep. My spirit is hungry and your words satisfy the hunger. I am never to march to you. I am not here to be taken for granted.

I am already gone.

  

 

Something is making me nestles. I want to drink pleasure, stimulation, something cherishable, the color of wild burry. My mother, perhaps.

I want a new courage approaching my magic house. Wrap me in cure. Bear me red cherries of heat and admiration. On my feet, reassuring of the presence and the elegant flight of the pigeons. No hallucinations or imaginations only security, confidence, challenge, nothing destructive. My mother, perhaps.

Nothing to crash, nothing to offer, nothing to cry or laugh about just purity, just arriving to wholeness. My mother, perhaps.


Something is melting inside my fingers. It is her memory.

  

 

Life is less complex. I have come to terms with my own sensuality. Nothing is half-measured now.

We (people) are connected but this connection is not necessary a love or sexual connection. Sometimes body dominates the mind and the heart exaggerates the desire. And then suddenly you no longer feel the empty-fullness that you may have had felt few minutes before the impulses. A few words and the hour unveils the fascination. You realize how wonderful it is to know you care for someone and some one for you without explanation. A chain life of respect to be protected for a sincere karma to continue.

  

 

And the story ends.

  

 

Uncertainty is growing inside me. I wonder about those who have complimented you before and now at my nonexistence. I no longer can analyze. I am too weak. I am struggling to not write to you again.

I await you for so long that I want to stop this madness at once.


I am terrified of losing you, you are not.

  

 

It is almost as if you have never existed. One day you are full of being and the other as if only my imagination had discovered you. One day you are the force of life and the next day darkness falls upon. Where this estrangement comes from? These portions of destructive accounts?

Be direct.

  

 

The world of dreams and the world of reality. They collide and separate but never disconnect. They now embrace one another in sensuality. The warmth and profound feelings in admiration of each for the other. They no longer need to approach. They do not fear abundance or flammability. They are dance partners seeking possession.

  

 

I paint my lips red. I make them even more desirable. For a woman who is not fond of
make up and is almost always naked from paints, this is a new way of pretext.

You bring me the expectations?

  

 

She never arrives at my dreams. There was only one time... when I was digging mother's grave with hands. Taking her out. Dragging along... I was taking her body to the surface. Kneeling next to her, her skin aged under my fingers' touch. I had to take her back to the grave and then the story repeated itself. I, dragging her out, her body in my arms... aging cold. Finally her Sufi Master stood next to me. She stood facing him naked with her usually serious face. The Master said nine days, nine months or nine years from The Day; she would had died, as we all are one day. She looked at the Master and said The Truth exists and walked back to her peaceful place.

We learn nothing new. We have the source of knowledge in our spirit, as I know now I have always loved you. I speak truthfully of my thoughts my beloved, of my desires, my sensuality and heart. The voice of life, I call it. My voice free at last. Nothing to hold me back. In simple words, I love your smile, your eyes, your hands, your mind, your words, and your thoughts. Simple words absorbing my inexperienced dependency on your attention.

However vivid!

  

 

My beloved,

I am dipped into believing that there is a greater pain within. Yes, I am soon to be a therapist but I am not psychoanalyzing this relationship! I have not asked you to give me the earth and I don�t want understanding and appreciation. I have already slowed up to see where do you want to take us. The power you have over me with the illusions of truth. The sensuality that has aroused in me again is not madness. I have always been a sensual woman, always. I still like to walk with you under the rain. I love to make love to you in reality of the day but your frustration is hanging like curtains, offering nothing but grim images of drift.
Although we don't live together...you know I am here... and will be. My body and mind desire too much to escape you. Embrace me with all I am offering, my innocence.

I am here to heal?

  

 

Matina, my Greek artist friend gave me one of Athena�s symbols as a gift. It is an Owl necklace presenting wisdom and I have it on every day. Today however I don�t think there is any wisdom left in me. I don�t know what I am today. We had visitors for brunch in our garden, it supposedly is a good day but all I want is to pull my hair. You drive me crazy. I am supposed to know what is going on without really knowing what is going on. I am a Scorpio with some telepathic power, true... but this doesn�t mean I am a fortuneteller or know what goes on in your mind and heart. I am here and will be here because you want me to be, as I want to but for god�s sake let me in!

  

 

My Beloved,

I wonder about the captivation of my heart. I wonder about the temptations. How the puzzle of my being is put together without your desirable hands. The content, the influence, the performance. A genuine love? And where are the morals to present their attentively to the heart! What matters more? The body or the spirit? I want to be inhaled. I need to pass the gates of spirituality and lust. I desire the struggle of mind and the wrestling of rationality with passion. It is a sweet and painful submission but my love and the disobedience to return I to me has led me to this suffering.

Yours.

  

 

Italian friends:
The wife: We have to buy it for our boys.
Sheema: It�s a difficult toy. It was a gift. I wouldn�t have had bought it for the little girl.. I don�t think it is designed for toddlers.
The wife: yes. But I want my boys to learn.
The husband: Ah, Il Difficile. My sister and I used to call it �The Difficult�. It was difficult to push the shapes in to the box. This is a modern version of that.
Danish friend puts her hand in to the plastic box and says: it is empty, like men!

On the second floor where I sit to write... is a window to the back yard. On the hills deers... two baby deers next to their mother are enjoying their morning walk. My vegetable garden is on the lower part of the land. A light yellowish lamp is hanging from the hand made fence, winking in the air. Before leaving, Dad asked me to light a candle for Maman every time I can. It helps. The Candles. The vegetable garden has to be kept safe from the intruders. So far I have handcuffed 3 prairie dogs.

If you ever decide to walk near a mall close to a forest... you may see the three prairie dogs joggling around.


Sometimes I want her to stand next to me... like she used to when I was visiting her and Dad and sometimes... while I was writing on a computer... she would walk in to the room, bring her face next to mine, her cheek on mine...with a teasing bell in her voice and ask: what are you writing?

I miss her.

Il Difficile.

You Are.

  

 

A funny god you are, God! I ask for the seasons to change. I ask for the Summer to arrive and the Spring dies!

  

 

Strange! I read your words and my heart loses its sanity. I don't read your words and my soul loses its patience and peaceful pause. What possession have you on me that misery is triggered by your inattentiveness. The minutes that pass my youth without the magnetic power of your words. Your appearance and disappearance. You once said you are the wind! I believe you now.

I don't want devotion. I don't want to inherit your love. I don't even want you to see my pale face after all. The spirit is dieing, as does the wealth of your dawn. How one word from you can guide me to reach my destination, you.

You should know, I would not sacrifice for you. I respect your silence but cannot stop bowing to the words that hover over my fingers and thoughts. I can�t even pleasure myself with the lasting memories of you, pouring the dew on me... for it has not happened but in my writings. Your untouched touch.

You are cruel my love. You are heartless. I was wrong. I am not cruel. I desire to be but it is too salty. The wisdom I have does not respond to my heart. They each are intoxicated by you separately. I believe not that you are ignorant but I know not how to restore my devotion to the celebration of peace.

  

 

My beloved,

I am "too much" for your days, I will let you be. I don�t know you to know where to begin or not. I don�t know who you are or have been except for a few things that I have read. It is your words that have driven me to the unknown of your existence and knowing your existence is what I had sought all my life. These rich clouds of your absence is hovering me from the presence of my beloved�s silk-tender hands.

I hear the sounds of rattling snakes at your absence and the darkness falls on my soul. The cry of my heart behind the doors of expressions that I write and my lips that cannot lose their secret.

Allow me to have greater heaven.

  

 

Friday, July 23, 2004

It is meaningless to write to you my beloved. I feel as if the day takes you from me and never returns. The pillar of smoke when I don�t read you, hear you. Are you silently bading me goodbye? You, the spreading glory of existence that has become the strength in my bones. Sitting in the heart is the tireless child of my love that I was impregnated by your gentle presence.

Withhold me not.


__________________________________________________________________________________________

I have been working on the translation of a Danish poet. I had two months of correspondence before the agent sent me the poems I wanted. The translation will be from Danish to English and it's not finished yet.

Roya Hakkakian has a reading somewhere near by and am thinking about going - I usually don't go unless I am invited.

There will be a reading of my poetry on one of the Iranian LA TV stations. I can't remember the name! Once I know I will update this part. My last TV interview was with Irandokht. It's kind of nice I guess to know my poetry can reach others.

Ms.Sharnoush Parsipour has written the introduction to Roger and my poetry. I still haven't translated it. I just want to thank her publicly (I should have had done it in April).
__________________________________________________________________________________________
It is a busy day. I have too much to do. Work and then work. We have guests. An Italian and a Danish couple. Our friends. P has been complaining about me not cooking Iranian food since I am back from Denmark but then I never did. What I cook is never the same. The food tastes different every time! Sheema surprise, p calls it. (P doesn�t cook. P cleans. In fact we have a new addition to our many mechanical, electronically and chemical cleaning items -the one before... was this one. We soon have to add a room for these family members that P so dearly cares for!)

__________________________________________________________________________________________
...yesterday:

Sheema: P? I have a new poem. I want to read it for you. Will you hear it?
P: ok.
Sheema: ... and... and... how is it?
P: Sheema? I know nothing about poetry. You know that.
Sheema: Ok. but how is it?
P: I don�t know Sheema. I am not a poet.
Sheema:

P was one the top five students at Tehran's Sharif University of Technology. He continued his studies and earned his M.S. in Electronics and M.B.A and a PhD in Math. One of the top two students from the School of engineering in Denmark. He says he should have been an artist. My guess is as good as yours!
__________________________________________________________________________________________

My lovely writer friend, Mahasti�s latest article can be found on Literature section on Shahrvand 905, Friday 16 July 2004

For no other reason but my own liking of his blog, I add another link to Deltangestan.
Mehdi Navid is a translator and writer living in Iran. He has some interesting works.

And my lovely blogger friend Halle, I hope you will get well soon.

...sourena mohammadi's page

and Youssef Alikhani's page.

  

 

Elham writes: I love your prose poems.
Roger says: You should lay off the Coffee.
I think to myself: Only if they knew.

Elham writes: You remind me of Jo(Josephine) in Little Women (by Louisa May Alcott). Remember you gave it to me to read? I say yes. I remember. I think to myself�I remember the day Maman came home and gave me the new books she had bought me. The Little Women with a black cover. I read it and loved it and gave it to Elham to read.

All these years we have been those little women growing in to a world of unexpected lives. My friends of 20 something years are all little �iranian-women grown in to hardworking professionals. Only if the lives of these little women from a country overruled by a cruel and corrupt government were anything like the peaceful days of Ms. Alcott�s Little Women, then we all were not living in exile, inside the homeland or outside.

And I think to myself: Only if I could tell them about my beloved!

  

 

loving you is no sin. it is what it is. we are alike�you are only wiser in the years and purified in words. we both wake up. we eat, we work, we live... only separate. there is no sin in loving you. Strange word: sin. used by the weak... like religion, to fear the true seekers. Sin!

  

 

This seditious existence, this voluptuous consistence and fascination, these hindrance thoughts that keep... I from me... I want to dismiss.

I know not how this unknown took place, this persistence of lust sprinkling my soul...

I am torn to pieces from seeking of sweet-blind desire of your love. Distance lands of your unknown.

This awakening.

  

 

Do you hear the whisperings? The sound of my exiled heart? The sinful beats of my longing?

Tonight, I want the seasons to change.

  

 

Mehrpouya

...one of my favorites.

  

 

That I promise you my love. I Will sensualize with my voice as you kiss down between my breasts...


I know I am an adulteress. I don't desire solitude but you. You are my place of worship. Cursed by the gods I am but I fear them not. I wish to pour my soul into your hands for the morning to appear.

and... promises are meant to be broken when tomorrow awakens the night...

unless.

  

 

Sweet dreams and dream of me, he said.

I think to my self... dreams never come true
I never got the red shoes... I was 5.
The bombing didn't stop... I was 8.
Mother doesn't return from her grave... I am 31.

I want him not in writings, not in dreams. I want him as the day aches night.

  

 

A lightless dawn, if it never happens and he...never knowing me leaves me without a word.

doubt.

  

 

then this moment shall last forever, he said.

  

 

I will not fight it. I cannot fight it. I embrace my faith. You say it is Karma.

You are right. Relationships do change. As ours perhaps will over time. We may become friends or lovers.

Life goes on and we live and we die and perhaps no one will know this desire and longing that I so passionately feel for you, ever existed. The mystery of you happening to me, you not knowing I was.



Nothing is eternal except for what I feel for you at this moment in time.

  

 

what a scandal if he loved me as I, him!

  

 

I said: goodbye? goodbye.
He said: NO

My thoughts: His love is my story.

Confusion exists. I don't love him any less. I want to smell his hair under the rain.

  

 

he said: Sheema.....


I said: words cut me hard.

Understanding: a cold word.

  

 

I write what you can't write, my name: Sheema.

  

 

July 21th. 2004

for whatever reason that I can't make any sense of it...I love you...want you...when i think of you something warm and soothing rushes in my arms and chest
and at this moment that i write to you i want
to put my head on your lap and you caress my hair with your long fingers...
making love passionately... having sex later... even if not in reality...

resting shamefree.

i live two lives... now. one with you and one is the one i live.
both real
one is more real than the other
the other more than the other!


your scorpio woman

Sheema Kalbasi

  

 

Exile

My grandma'
once, a beautiful Persian girl
-with long hair and small feet-
sat in a taxi,
and on the way
she died.

She never saw her son, my father.

Sheema Kalbasi

  

 

surrender

dim light


your eyes open to mine
-black against the white-

blood through the main

stream of love.


Sheema Kalbasi

  

 

and they read with their bag packed on their back...

  

 

I

I faint from the pain


Not having you

You,
caressing me

in the morning

if.


II

The smell of your hair under the rain... I said.


i like to walk in quiet rain... He said.


III


I touch your lips



writing



hope.


Sheema Kalbasi

  

 

The smell of your hair under the rain... I said.


i like to walk in quiet rain... He said.

  

 

Your love is my story.

  

 

Confusion exists. I don't love you any less. I want to smell your hair under the rain, just.

  

 

The first books Dad gave me were OLD MAN AND THE SEA and For Whom the Bell Tolls and from the age of eight, I started reading literature. Today while cleaning my drawers I found the notebook dad had given me to write the numbers and the names of the books.
I look at the first number and the name. It said, The Ten Commandments.

Later today:


I went to the Vegetable garden. Thinking the little girl perhaps one day will remember me in a garden.

The house smells of flowers, p says. I am washing the vegetables and tell him it�s the smell of these basils. They smell of Home, don�t they? He walks towards me and kisses me. They smell of you, he says.

The little girl is all dirty again. She has to go to bed soon. I need to finish a translation. I need to work. Earlier today I listened to the song you used to sing Maman. I danced your Sufi dance today. How painful Maman, I miss you. How exhausting, Maman, I want to forget you.

  

 

3:03 p.m.

the little girl is sleep. I have time to brush my hair. In the mirror I look. The woman I do not know.
Maryam writes: you work hard my dear.
Roger writes: your starting to drink Coffee, is part of getting old.
Sepideh calls to see how am I doing after she has read my e-mail.
Elham sends a message: isn�t it late to be up so late (she is 2 hours behind.)
The new groom (my brother) says: I love you sis. I will send you more photos soon.
P: I love the little girl so much. We are good parents, aren't we?
The little girl is sleep.
I brush my hair. In the mirror I look. The woman I do not know.


you never ask... how was my day. you only say... goodnight.

you don't know me.



Not all parts are based on real events (but they are.)

  

 

I want to not have hands but my beloved's hands in hand.

Sheema Kalbasi

  

 

I breathe you so hard that my hair is on fire.

sheema

  

 

No! Friendships are not eternal. Nothing is eternal. Not family, not friendships, not love, not lust. Nothing... not even the wandering eyes that will read these lines in wonder.

  

 

I don't care if you are you and I am I. I am not some exotic flower. Whatever coat you have on, I will put it on to warm me... and the shoes however small... I will walk in them to balance our height difference. You don�t need to convert for me; I have already converted to you. You see I never had a religion to begin with. I was born naked from all religions but your love.

I know that was not the point. I know there is no conversion. There is no coat, no balance, no shoes but the naked truth of me finding you first, not you finding me. You, whom will never know who I was when I was sitting on the white sheets.

Y o u, not b e s i d e m e.

And the words that are already written. The words that are already said, are already felt, and are already gone.

And I try to take them back into my empty bowl of hands. To put my hands on the chest. The chest into rest. The rest in to the heart. The beat back to the soul. The soul, back to what it was before you.

Alas! I am 5.7


Sheema Kalbasi

  

 

For you:

For you, I dropped the heavy gown covering my soul and now... naked I am standing here freezing cold.

Life is too long to live heartless... and cruelty is what we all have. Even earth is cruel to pull us by its gravity and not allow us to fly.

Sinful bursts of colored fire... from this heart... are shattering the escape to the scarlet kisses.

Handicapped world.

Sheema Kalbasi

  

 

Some things are not meant to be
my guess is
life is 99% made of painted faces
and just a flat piece of glass.

sheema Kalbasi

  

 

The other day:
I had a sharp pain in my heart and couldn't move for ten minutes. Both P and the little girl were looking at me with wide-worried eyes. I couldn't talk or move. The pain was unbearable and my tears started rolling down. At the doctor's office I was told the pain was caused by the loss I had experienced (my mother.) Then the doctor told me there has never been a case of a 30-year-old female having heart attack!!! Anyway now you know how it's been... I am going back to my studies in a month. I look forward to it. It will give both my girl and P some time off me. Off this half time mother, wife, lover, cook, poet...

And I have your poetry to read. I have you. No. Not really... I will never know you. What I know is just one of your dimensions. The one I know from your words. The one I love to keep under my eyelashes but you will not care... you will never know.

unwritten words...

  

 

Just got Justin Barrett for the OV. I like his poems. It�s different in a way. He will be up by next week or so... He is worth your time.

Yes it's midnight and I am still working. I work and work. I translate and work. On and Off I work. I just got a job offer to translate a book. I also am starting a new project with Roger. I will let you know once I have it online. I have started going to gym too...just not this past week. I was not feeling well. I need to not think about her...

  

 

What is it you say my dear poet?
That I am the god and you are the poet?
Cocoons are broken and have come forth,
What does it matter if you write or don't!

I will continue reading you...

________________________________________________________________________________________
What I write here are my -recent- thoughts...they may not make sense to the reader...
and then maybe they do... I have received positive feedback from my readers... so dear one you see... I am sharing your poetry with the world.

nothing will be edited...I will correct them eventually... ________________________________________________________________________________________
for you:

What is a straw in the heart?
Where there comes this sudden blow of light?
Silently a thousand ruby petals of words,
Lift the blood...sipped from the poet* to the mouth of god**.

Sheema Kalbasi
________________________________________________________________________________________

Dear one:

Your poetry sits under my eyelashes and the heart is drunken poor.

sheema
________________________________________________________________________________________

  

 

He said... he is the poem, he said... you are the poem, I said...

One day I will be standing in the crowd... hearing your voice, looking at your hands, your lips, your moves... performing for me, for us the lovers of your poetry. One day I will be standing tall at the back of that room where your words will fall into my heart from close... and I will be debating with the burning bush of my soul to come and shake your hand, or walk from you without a word so that you will never know I was standing in the crowd hearing your voice, seeing your hands, your lips... where your moves were performing for me.

______________________________________________________________________________________

Love,

Today... I am not there to kiss you and your bride on your wedding. I told you I couldn't come when Maman isn't there to see... you are getting married. I love you and with my heart and soul I wish you a fulfilling life.

Your sister,
Sheema

______________________________________________________________________________________
These past two days I have been busy translating Larry Jaffe�s poetry. If you are a poetry lover you may want to check his cyber home of poetry.

  

 

not edited yet

Anticipating Light

All my life I dreamed of dancing
All my life I dreamed of falling
In love with the words not written
In white or black or sighs...

Now I know you have been there
Now I know you always existed
It was I... not knowing you were there
Under the same air breathing me in to your lungs,
I breathing you in to mine.

All my life I wanted to jump
Head over hills for you to come
In to my world, under the same umbrella
That I had on my head
For thirsty and one year so far oh so far
From your world, your words...

Today is a good day to know your words
You were tired yesterday and perhaps the day before
Now I know you are here
Now I know how it feels to fall in love
With the words not written
In white or black or sighs...


Sheema Kalbasi

  

 

c)I guess some one adores you!

b)I will not let you go unless you want me to. If something is this important to you...I will embrace it as it is.

a)If someone betrays my friendship I don't see why I should keep him/her in my heart.


Maman last night I was thinking of you:

The non-existence eyes
Of this mussel-heart cries when cutting Celery

And blood drops on the finger-knife.

-sheema

  

 

Ironic...how fame corrupts the volumes of friendships!

-sheema

  

 

Orkut Orkut Orkut

Two days ago my friend Pedram Moallemian asked me to join his friends on Orkut. Now I have my very own Orkut but the funny thing about Orkut (beside being slow) is it�s a place where you will find people that you haven�t seen in ages. You will find journalists to (not so official journalists) bloggers... to people that you love or love to hate... from ex-lovers to your school�s book salesman and old friends to old foes... have their own page and circle of friends. So I guess we all are becoming a big happy Orkutious/Orkuti/Orkutian cyber society!

(none of the words I create can be used unless I�ve given you the permission).

  

 

When some one asks you if you are/were a Refugee, what will be your answer? Will you say yes? No? Are? Were? Is such a question appropriate to ask? Is it asked because somewhere on your face the lines show the tales of exile and misplacement? Or is it asked because they wonder how many of your family members have been executed or politically or religiously were persecuted.
What will be your answer? Will you be willing to discuss your personal and privet life or will you just come up with some ready-made answers in order to not relive the memories of the tortures life in the Middle East or the psychological and social abuse of living as a Refugee/Immigrant in the European countries? Why is it that some of us have to explain ourselves for leaving our homeland where as others do not have to! Is there such a thing as the perfect world? Perfect country? Perfect life? Perfect people? Perfect status? Perfect Race or perfect Religion and Nationality? Once your status changes from citizen X to misplaced Y, does it really matter if there was a camel or a B.M.W. in your parking or in order to eat food you used your hands, feet or mouth? Leaving the birth country may not be the easiest experience for most of us but it even gets more difficult by being dehumanized in the host countries especially in the Western Europe. Not only the refugee/immigrant is not treated as an equal but rather becomes an easy target for the representing governments to trigger hate and anger in the society.

If I haven't blogged lately it's because I couldn't ... The loss of my mom is too heavy...