Higher and farther. I see a bird, you and I are its wings. It takes us to a place beyond vision, on a journey with no end and no beginning, no intention or objective. I do not speak to you, nor do you speak to me. We only hear the music of silence.
Silence is a friend reassured by a friend, and imagination's confidence in itself, between rain and a rainbow.
Mahmoud Darwish, In the Presence of Absence, translated by Sinan Antoon, p.161-162
Thursday, February 23, 2012
Wednesday, February 22, 2012
A bit of sunshine
On this rainy windy day in Boise, a bit of sunshine poked through my garden -- the first yellow crocus of spring. Soon I will grow spring grass to set on my table of Haft Seen.
Monday, February 20, 2012
Sparrows
The sparrows followed me in migration. "Jik, jik, jik, jik," they sing in the language of my home.
I hadn't always noticed them in the dense evergreen trees in front of my Boise house. Nothing ever set them apart from robins or quails, or the occasional woodpecker that I love to see visiting my trees. I had perhaps been even more fascinated with the tiny hummingbirds hovering around my blossoming foxgloves each spring. But then in 2003, I went home and the sparrows came back with me.
I had gone home to Iran after a long absence. Before leaving, I had daydreams of checking my old room, as if I could see it again undisturbed after all these years -- floor covered in a beautiful emerald green carpet, patterned with clusters of pink roses scattered around the center -- perhaps I could once again jump from one cluster of pink roses in the carpet to the next as I had done as a child, day after day, year after year. I had dreams of sitting on my turquoise metal-framed bed where I used to sit and listen to hours of Cat Stevens on an ancient Grundig that had been part of that room for years before it was mine. I hadn't always slept on that bed; I used to love to sleep on the floor on a bed of green and roses. To this day, I find it meditative to sleep on the floor. I had wanted to see my room once more and once again look through windows into a world I saw every day as a child: the courtyard, the fountain, and the garden -- and to see just beyond the garden, the tall date palms and our giant konar tree, the home of a thousand sparrows. I was not to see any of this again.
Shortly after I arrived in Iran, I went to my home in Dezful, only to find that it was no longer there. Some years ago my family had given the house to be turned into a school for children with special needs. I knew there had been plans to renovate the house to accommodate the needs of the children. But I had hoped to catch a glimpse of my childhood home before it was torn down. I was not that lucky. The house was gone, and with it, I felt my entire childhood was ripped away from me. I shed a lot of tears in self-pity for the lost years as I tried to find some happiness in the new building; perhaps new children could build happy memories in a place that had once brought me so much joy.
But life is pregnant with unexpected surprises. A few days after my visit to the house, I went to see my aunt. Her home, like most homes in Dezful, has a courtyard, a fountain, flower gardens, citrus trees, date palms, and a konar tree with thousands of sparrows. I stepped into her house and something instantly took my breath away. It wasn't what I saw that took me back; it was what I heard. I was greeted by the welcoming song of a thousand sparrows and all at once I was home, a child in my room looking through windows into timelessness. I realized then that I had spent my childhood on the wings of sparrows. A heaviness that had been in my heart for days melted away and choking through a rain of tears, all I could say to my aunt was, "Sparrows!" My aunt made light of it, " Oh, those sparrows. They are such a nuisance, enough chattering noise to drive everyone insane. Take them with you," she said, laughing.
When I came back to my home in Boise, the sparrows were waiting for me. They greeted me noisily in the trees in my front yard. They have been chattering ever-since. The sparrows followed me home, from one home to another. Home? I carry home in my heart. Sometimes it gets too heavy. And when it is too heavy to carry, the sparrows help lift it up in my heart.
I hadn't always noticed them in the dense evergreen trees in front of my Boise house. Nothing ever set them apart from robins or quails, or the occasional woodpecker that I love to see visiting my trees. I had perhaps been even more fascinated with the tiny hummingbirds hovering around my blossoming foxgloves each spring. But then in 2003, I went home and the sparrows came back with me.
I had gone home to Iran after a long absence. Before leaving, I had daydreams of checking my old room, as if I could see it again undisturbed after all these years -- floor covered in a beautiful emerald green carpet, patterned with clusters of pink roses scattered around the center -- perhaps I could once again jump from one cluster of pink roses in the carpet to the next as I had done as a child, day after day, year after year. I had dreams of sitting on my turquoise metal-framed bed where I used to sit and listen to hours of Cat Stevens on an ancient Grundig that had been part of that room for years before it was mine. I hadn't always slept on that bed; I used to love to sleep on the floor on a bed of green and roses. To this day, I find it meditative to sleep on the floor. I had wanted to see my room once more and once again look through windows into a world I saw every day as a child: the courtyard, the fountain, and the garden -- and to see just beyond the garden, the tall date palms and our giant konar tree, the home of a thousand sparrows. I was not to see any of this again.
Shortly after I arrived in Iran, I went to my home in Dezful, only to find that it was no longer there. Some years ago my family had given the house to be turned into a school for children with special needs. I knew there had been plans to renovate the house to accommodate the needs of the children. But I had hoped to catch a glimpse of my childhood home before it was torn down. I was not that lucky. The house was gone, and with it, I felt my entire childhood was ripped away from me. I shed a lot of tears in self-pity for the lost years as I tried to find some happiness in the new building; perhaps new children could build happy memories in a place that had once brought me so much joy.
But life is pregnant with unexpected surprises. A few days after my visit to the house, I went to see my aunt. Her home, like most homes in Dezful, has a courtyard, a fountain, flower gardens, citrus trees, date palms, and a konar tree with thousands of sparrows. I stepped into her house and something instantly took my breath away. It wasn't what I saw that took me back; it was what I heard. I was greeted by the welcoming song of a thousand sparrows and all at once I was home, a child in my room looking through windows into timelessness. I realized then that I had spent my childhood on the wings of sparrows. A heaviness that had been in my heart for days melted away and choking through a rain of tears, all I could say to my aunt was, "Sparrows!" My aunt made light of it, " Oh, those sparrows. They are such a nuisance, enough chattering noise to drive everyone insane. Take them with you," she said, laughing.
When I came back to my home in Boise, the sparrows were waiting for me. They greeted me noisily in the trees in my front yard. They have been chattering ever-since. The sparrows followed me home, from one home to another. Home? I carry home in my heart. Sometimes it gets too heavy. And when it is too heavy to carry, the sparrows help lift it up in my heart.
Wednesday, February 15, 2012
U.S. media takes the lead on Iran
Glenn Greenwald:
Many have compared the coordinated propaganda campaign now being disseminated about The Iranian Threat to that which preceded the Iraq War, but there is one notable difference. Whereas the American media in 2002 followed the lead of the U.S. government in beating the war drums against Saddam, they now seem even more eager for war against Iran than the U.S. government itself, which actually appears somewhat reluctant.
...time and time again, Americans support whatever new war of aggression their government proposes, then come regret that support and decide the war was a "mistake," only to demonstrate that they learned no lessons from their "mistake" by eagerly supporting whatever the next proposed war is.
...When continuously bombarded with authoritative voices uncritically warning them of the Grave Threat posed by the New Hitlers, and with powerful images of menacing missiles and unhinged leaders accompanying those warnings, even rational populations will become sufficiently scared into succumbing to the next act of aggression. The only thing unusual here is that, with Iran, the American media actually seems out in front of the U.S. Government in the propaganda effort rather than in their normal position of submissively marching behind.
Many have compared the coordinated propaganda campaign now being disseminated about The Iranian Threat to that which preceded the Iraq War, but there is one notable difference. Whereas the American media in 2002 followed the lead of the U.S. government in beating the war drums against Saddam, they now seem even more eager for war against Iran than the U.S. government itself, which actually appears somewhat reluctant.
...time and time again, Americans support whatever new war of aggression their government proposes, then come regret that support and decide the war was a "mistake," only to demonstrate that they learned no lessons from their "mistake" by eagerly supporting whatever the next proposed war is.
...When continuously bombarded with authoritative voices uncritically warning them of the Grave Threat posed by the New Hitlers, and with powerful images of menacing missiles and unhinged leaders accompanying those warnings, even rational populations will become sufficiently scared into succumbing to the next act of aggression. The only thing unusual here is that, with Iran, the American media actually seems out in front of the U.S. Government in the propaganda effort rather than in their normal position of submissively marching behind.
Ode to the orange
Nations
are united
within your rind
like segments of a single fruit.
Chile, lying the length of your side,
electric
and inflamed
above
the Pacific's
blue foliage,
is a long haven for orange trees.
Give us
this day
orange daylight,
and every day,
and may mankind's heart,
and its clusters of fruit,
be both bitter and sweet:
irrepressible source of freshness,
may it hold and protect
the earth's
mysterious
simplicity,
and the perfect oneness
of an orange.
From Ode to the orange
Pablo Neruda, Odes to Common Things
are united
within your rind
like segments of a single fruit.
Chile, lying the length of your side,
electric
and inflamed
above
the Pacific's
blue foliage,
is a long haven for orange trees.
Give us
this day
orange daylight,
and every day,
and may mankind's heart,
and its clusters of fruit,
be both bitter and sweet:
irrepressible source of freshness,
may it hold and protect
the earth's
mysterious
simplicity,
and the perfect oneness
of an orange.
From Ode to the orange
Pablo Neruda, Odes to Common Things
Apolitical Intellectuals
One day
the apolitical
intellectuals
of my country
will be interrogated
by the simplest
of our people.
They will be asked
what they did
when their nation died out
slowly,
like a sweet fire
small and alone.
No one will ask them
about their dress,
their long siestas
after lunch,
no one will want to know
about their sterile combats
with "the idea
of the nothing"
no one will care about
their higher financial learning.
They won't be questioned
on Greek mythology,
or regarding their self-disgust
when someone within them
begins to die
the coward's death.
They'll be asked nothing
about their absurd
justifications,
born in the shadow
of the total lie.
On that day
the simple men will come.
Those who had no place
in the books and poems
of their apolitical intellectuals,
but daily delivered their bread and milk,
their tortillas and eggs,
those who drove their cars,
who cared for their dogs and gardens
and worked for them,
and they'll ask:
"What did you do when the poor
suffered, when tenderness
and life
burned out of them?"
Apolitical intellectuals
of my sweet country,
you will not be able to answer.
A vulture of silence
will eat your insides.
Your own misery
will pick at your soul.
And you will be mute in your shame.
Otto Rene Castillo
the apolitical
intellectuals
of my country
will be interrogated
by the simplest
of our people.
They will be asked
what they did
when their nation died out
slowly,
like a sweet fire
small and alone.
No one will ask them
about their dress,
their long siestas
after lunch,
no one will want to know
about their sterile combats
with "the idea
of the nothing"
no one will care about
their higher financial learning.
They won't be questioned
on Greek mythology,
or regarding their self-disgust
when someone within them
begins to die
the coward's death.
They'll be asked nothing
about their absurd
justifications,
born in the shadow
of the total lie.
On that day
the simple men will come.
Those who had no place
in the books and poems
of their apolitical intellectuals,
but daily delivered their bread and milk,
their tortillas and eggs,
those who drove their cars,
who cared for their dogs and gardens
and worked for them,
and they'll ask:
"What did you do when the poor
suffered, when tenderness
and life
burned out of them?"
Apolitical intellectuals
of my sweet country,
you will not be able to answer.
A vulture of silence
will eat your insides.
Your own misery
will pick at your soul.
And you will be mute in your shame.
Otto Rene Castillo
Tuesday, February 14, 2012
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