The Value of Gossip

Last night I went to a concert of Shajarian- a most famous and unanimously well-respected classical singer from Iran. He is a living legend, so much so that when my father called on the way there, and I told him I where was going, his voice rose about 5 octaves in excitement. Its rare that past Iran and current Iran can agree or connect on something in the way everyone can respect and love Shajarian's music. In fact it might be near to impossible. But Shajarian does it because his musical form of classic Persian never lost its magic and was given an insulated place among everything else of pleasure that was politicized. He is one of few artists that perform in and out of Iran.

Shajarian's music is a great example of the strong thread of history and culture that runs through Iranian society. Though the question of what it means to be Iranian still hasn't been completely answered for me, if it is as I guess, a mix of secular and religious history, culture, language and the resulting heart ache then Shajarian represents being Iranian in every way. His lyrics are of poets from 800 years ago, they are of a love and of god, often at the same time. His vocals transmit and evoke aching and passion, in a way that is both completely raw and technical. He and his group sit humbly amongst beautiful rugs, making remarkable sounds with such little equipment. During the solos each of the men looks at the other as if he is a story teller.

Shajarian is a small man and during the performance he sits with his legs crossed at the ankles. When he sings, and his voice wails in waves like a Muslim call to prayer, he moves the skin of every single person in the room. This can be in stark contrast to many well-know performers today. I grew up obsessing about Madonna, but I always left wanting something from her performances. When I saw Googoosh, an Iranian singer from the pre-Revolutionary days who my mother always called "Iran's Madonna", I realized what was missing in many other performers. These people feel. They feel for you, in front of you, their passions are their art, their show is their emotion.

In the eighties at the mehmunis (Iranian parties) in Nashville, there was always the part of the night where the dancing stopped, the music turned off, everyone sat around, and one of the men would start to sing in the same way as Shajarian. This singing, and those vocals must have been incorporated into me. Because instead of sounding like foreign howling, Shajarian's singing sounds close and comfortable.

I would close my eyes during the concert hoping to get the rolling beat of the songs, the gentle sway of the Daf into my subconscious so that my mind would roll with the rythym in my sleep later that night. Two of my favorite performances were the tasnif(s) "sokhan eshgh" and "Saghia". Although I am neither native, nor fluent in the arts of Iran, these songs move me in their sounds, especially as the daf bounces up and down.

The last highlight was hearing son and father take turns and then sing together. The father's voice was more deeply passionate, I suppose one can only sing like that after truly living a full life of pain suffering and ecstacy. It takes year to make a life like that.

Throughout the concert my friends and I kept on moving around trying to find a spot where people weren't whispering to each other. The gossip culture of Iranians is something I hated for so long, it was against my American principles of straight forward and honest interactions. But as I listened to all of the chatter I realized that perhaps my "enlightened generation" has traded gossip for self-obsession. Instead of talking about others, all we do is talk about ourselves...maybe a little gossip would be good for us-

Sun my lover

The sensitive breeze
hovered a tiny hemisphere of cotton
over the concrete sidewalk

As it hit my toe
I shuddered
the cool zephyr
Caressed my arms and legs

The sun watched me
Listened to me
With such intent
And unconditional care
That I felt shy
And childlike
In its gaze

I dared it to keep its promise
Like I dare them all

The world became still despite the evening traffic
The flowing water of the fountain
The movement of the trees
I was paralyzed
And overstimulated

And suddenly the world came to me
Destiny was my friend
Pleasure my companion
And like the winter
Fear was but a historical event

Caregivers

There are people that are often older and often Iranian that move a fertile heart with their peace. Their wish is for others to flourish. They want the world to compete for greatness rather than cower into the mundane.

They understand the tumult of the past 30 years, they have resolved so much of their own self-hatred and in their age and wisdom they can only be honest with themselves about their weaknesses, they have stopped waging battles, they have little resentment or fear. It is like the score has been settled for them. They judge others by only one criterion- the amount of light one shines.

But their aims are not selfless. They seek joy; they have no concerns except the exaltation of life, and towards this aim, they seek energy sources that are earnest and dynamic. They have no limit for how much they give to those things.

Second Lily

Inside the vase on the mosaic table
The second lily stretched open today
The smell filled the apartment
The gentle spring summer light came in
Once in the morning
And again longer throughout the afternoon

In the Morning Light of Saturday

A gentle female vocal
flirted with my sleepy heart
just enough to soothe me into
morning

From the couch
I saw
The bed from which I arose
The ball of sheets and duvet
Like tumbling hills
Evidence of rest

The silence of the early streets
Carried my eyes
To the bathroom

Yellow light shined onto
The soap pump
Standing sternly in its place

I smelled the
morning kitchen
My feet embraced the solid hard wood
below them

my Saturday empire

Back to Burma

Friends of mine will be going to Burma soon and I was a bit envious. I am curious to come closer to that place to understand what has happened over the last 30-40 years...once a beautiful Buddhist country now self-destructive. So much of the world seems to have fallen apart over the last 30-40 years. My conclusion is that the leftist modernization of 50s,60s, and 70s seems to have left too many people without power and so they pushed to come to power (otherwise known as backlash) and now we have lots of countries run by lots of angry people (our own notwithstanding).

This is a link to a blog I really liked about Burma and China.
http://icga.blogspot.com/2008/05/china-lights-path-for-burma.html

Ayasofya

We walked in
Distracted

Mom was on the phone
we left her outside

my sister and me
walked in
still walking the streets of Istanbul

Then I realized
Where I was

The church
Turned into a mosque

a miracle
type of place

It was like I was riding a bus or a train
And only looking at the person next to me
Or reading a book
Never actually looking outside
to know
the ride

when I finally did
I was silent

The cusp between
the absurdity
of human ignorance
And the elevation
of divine inspiration

Portraits of Mary
And calligraphy of Ali

Stained glass Christianity
And the minarets of Islam

How easily they could be

Melted into one

How simply they were the same

The building was defined by light
And circular space
Its design
As inclusive as its
moody indoctrination

The challenges and possibility on the road to inevitability exalt me.

Some mornings...

Some days I wake up and I am grumpy at the same solitude that I normally cherish like really salty slightly bubbly spring water. This morning I woke up at 5 AM and drove through the quiet streets of Nashville. I pumped $45 worth of gas to fill the gas pump of the rental car before I got on the interstate. I listened to Hayideh do what she does on the stereo. The sky was dark. I was driving alone in the dark on the interstate. Half asleep I felt like I could drive off the side of the earth, into the sky just waking up. Half awake I felt like an adult version of me that was both liberating and lonely.

I dropped the car in the rental spot, walked with my bags across into the terminal. It was quiet around the airport. It felt cold. I fast forwarded the security line with my silver airline card not unaware of the confused gazes of the navy and black suited businessmen who also held privileged airline cards. I think it was my blue socks and red shoes. But I am not sure. When I arrived in the office at 10 AM my colleague told me I looked about 12 years old. I found some comfort in that.

Dancing like they do There

I love tradition as much as I hate it. Last night at my cousin’s wedding, a very Iranian-Azeri song came on, and the whole Iranian-Azeri part of the family bounced to their feet and rushed to the dance floor. This songs are energetic and fun so even the Americans started to jump up and down on the dance floor. But I had my eye on one couple, a couple I saw at my aunt's house the night before. They told the DJ they would pay him a $100 for a good ‘Tork’ song. The DJ had Iranian music but he didn’t have any Tork music (tork is how they refer to themselves) and everyone was disappointed.

But now the song was on. The couple got up and began. Her face was dramatic, stern and seductive at the same time. All of this was part of the dance. He had his hands and arms in the air and bent them in strict angles, they sort of sashayed across the dance floor to the beat, which seemed to be in 1-2-3, 1-2-3 kind of like a very fast cha-cha-cha. What was remarkable was they cool deamonor given the intensity of the drums and music. Her arms went back and forth on the beat in angles in front of her face. Their attitude and coordination together was a delight to watch.

They never touched, because as the dancing goes in my part of world, the seduction is in the moves and the facial language, not in the touch. The moth comes close but never touches the flame.

At some points they would be side to side and start to move backwards, and then forwards, and then the break up with her turn away from him.

These two people were not trained or special, they were regular people who knew the dance from their part of the world. It’s a bit like country dancing in the south or tango in Argentina. There are subtle rules not to be broken, the enjoyment was in those rules and respecting and enjoying the beat with the body.

You Feel like This May 16.08

You feel like this
Like the bursting green trees
Spaced so perfectly next to each other
On the vast incline of the hill
You feel like their
Trunks,
Strong, rooted sustaining
There
Natural, integral
stunning none the less

You feel like this
Quiet room
The bright light of the rain
Glows through the long windows
I sit on the quilted bed
Alone
and Smiling still

You feel like this
Subtle heat
Sensation
That I feel
When I slow down enough
And my chest descends
from an unconscious breath out
And there I am
Me
You feel like that
Moment


You feel like this
When a sound
comes through
speakers
touching
my skin
A smile on my face
The drums, the sitar
The voice

You feel like this.

Natural Disaster May 13.08

What I wonder is how the Burmese government was both exposed and protected by natural disasters… The cyclone exposed how scary they are. They were front page news for five days. Then the earthquake in China saved them from all the attention.
Burma seems like the kind of place you could go and get killed very quickly and not really know why.

Shines Finally May 13.08

Today was so bright
I thought I was in an American Hollywood movie
The sun was of that kind
That only happens after long rains
Where the sky is so clean
The pollution pushed far off in another city
Everything sparkled
like there were polished mirrors
Everywhere
Reflecting clear blue sky
And radiant light

Feb 2.08

Yellow sky
Ten floors down
Traffic moves
As slow as my heart

Early February
Intermission
Before Winter carries the city
Into its
third Act

museum colors April 1.08

today
colors surprised me
at the museum
in the middle of the day
i walked the halls
gazing at colorful
degas
and van gogh
me and twenty old bureacrat's wives

then i sat
in japanese garden
and stared with closed eyelids
into
the sudden sun

a friend
and i shared a table
with the declining sun
in the early evening
in georgetown

we strolled to the park
and the changing sky
with baby blue clouds
moved rapidly
above our heads

while gigantic
white cherry blossom
trees
contrasted
the vast darkness of trees

amongst those
large trees
and open field
i felt
my childhood

jan 3.08

the tree grows
inside of me

love jan 3.08

love comesand comesand goesand goes like a butterflyi chase it on the islandfull of lavender bushes i see the yellow butterfliesfluttering aroundthe fuzzy purple sticks i smile so bigi am expanding wonderingif I can love mewithout youhereto remind me

April 13.08

As I watched them
Step into the battle
Of their 30 year war
I closed my eyes

Two balls of
Resentment
And
Anger
Danced and wrestled
With each other
Across the table
over the eggs potatoes and bread

until one ball
was near explosion
and to sustain itself
it stormed away

breakfast time
was over

as I stood
before the sink
a song played on the radio
my hips began to swing
and soon I was bouncing
on the wooden kitchen floor

thoreau type of day April 14.08

Today I walked
On grass twigs and wood chips
Up hills and through
A tunnel of tall trees
A robin met me
At each turn
While ducks waited for each other in pairs
And five turtles gathered on a branch
emerging out of the lake

Water moved in slow motion
While the ripples moved quickly

Then I stopped
And sat
In a valley of purple flowers
Until I laid my back
And saw the sun
beam through the dainty lime
painted leaves
fastened to the lanky branches of the trees

like an x-ray, the sun revealed the bones of each leaf

my soul fluttered
with the movement of
hundreds of purple petals
shaking in the breeze

as I left
the red haired
woodpecker
bid me good bye

rain again May 11.08

Rain stepped in
Before the summer
Was allowed
To begin
In full

It washed away my thinking

Colors poured out of me
Onto my fingers
Drenching the paper

rain

The water came down
For the fourth day
In a row

Trees were shockingly green
Against the incandescent
White light of the
Emotional sky

My arms
Stretched under the rain
My neck turned slowly
In a circle
Like a turtle
I opened my eyes into the sky

I began to pour
Onto the concrete
Of the city
I flowed down the sidewalk
All the way down to the grocery store

My chest expanded
My fingers became extensions
Of the tree branches
I was outside
And outside was inside
me