tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11943137228945103922024-03-04T21:28:44.234-08:00From BerkeleyI am a citizen of this planet, who believes there is a purpose and mission to our existence. I pursue that mission and try to enjoy every lesson, every day, and every last drop of the pain and joy we drink when we live. I live a mostly regret-free life, with each failure quickly becoming a valuable experience and something to laugh about, and every success something about which to be thankful and celebrative. I do all of this in and around my beloved Berkeley, California.Nazyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12077066782490668686noreply@blogger.comBlogger769125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1194313722894510392.post-55414679426065311752015-06-18T21:04:00.002-07:002015-06-18T21:12:03.732-07:00تابستانمن وقتی بچه بودم اسم میوه ها رو خوب بلد نبودم. فقط میدانستم که بجز یک میوه که پوستش پشمالو بود و از دست زدن به آن موهای تنم سیخ میشد، همه میوه های دیگر را دوست داشتم. یک روز کتاب "یک هلو هزار هلو"ی صمد بهرنگی را خواندم. آنقدر این هلوهای توی کتاب بهرنگی به نظرم خوشمزه و شیرین بودند، در ذهنم فکر میکردم که "هلو" همان شلیل است که من خیلی دوستش داشتم. روزی که فهمیدم هلو شلیل نیست و آن میوه های توی کتاب صمدبهرنگی همان میوه های پشمالو بودند و شلیل نبودند، روز خیلی بدی در زندگیم شد و دیگر هیچوقت نتوانستم آن کتاب را با همان شوق قبلی بخوانم. اینهارا گفتم که بگویم یک جعبه پر از شلیل تازه روی میزه و تمام خانه رو پر از بوی تابستان کرده و من خیلی خیلی مسرورم که اینها که روی میز هستند شلیل هستند و هلو نیستند. زندگی شیرین است. تابستان است و شاید هم چندروز رفتم سفر. Nazyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12077066782490668686noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1194313722894510392.post-21411046157728823102015-05-10T01:37:00.000-07:002015-05-12T00:18:20.984-07:00برف آمددر بهمن 1375، در یک روز جمعه برفی خودم را به خانه پدر و مادرم رساندم تا آداب جمعه های آن روزها را به جا بیاورم، مادرم را به حمام ببرم، برایشان غذا درست کنم، با پدرم شطرنج بازی کنم و با هم از این در و آن در حرف بزنیم. برف آمد، برف آمد، برف آمد. شب ماندم. فردا هم برف آمد، برف آمد و برف آمد. و ما حرف زدیم و نشستیم، مثل اینکه هیچ کار دیگری نداشتیم، مثل اینکه فقط ما سه نفر توی دنیا بودیم. وقتی بالاخره بعد از سه روز که تمام مملکت تعطیل شده بود، برف بند آمد و من رفتم، چندسال گیجی و گنگی من تمام شده بود. مادرم آخرین درسها و راهنمایی های باقیمانده را به من داده بود. زندگی من عوض شد و تا یک سال دیگر همان موقع، زندگی او تمام. به یاد بهترین دوست و راهنمای زندگیم که همیشه در قلبم جاری و زنده است، روز مادر مبارک.Nazyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12077066782490668686noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1194313722894510392.post-91441028749889368582014-10-22T20:49:00.001-07:002014-10-22T20:54:24.202-07:00Isfahan<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Isfahan,<br />
I ache with the pain of your women<br />
I dread with the fear of your girls<br />
I cry with the burning sensation in my eyes<br />
--only tears of devastation, not the acid<br />
<br />
Isfahan,<br />
The dreamland of my childhood<br />
The envy of the other half of the world<br />
The utopia of clean and simple life<br />
The city of blue mosaics and endless light in its waters<br />
<br />
Isfahan, My Isfahan,<br />
Don't despair<br />
Don’t fear<br />
Don't waiver<br />
Don't give up<br />
<br />
Isfahan,<br />
Stay<br />
Grow older<br />
Keep our treasures<br />
Keep your children safe<br />
<br />
Isfahan,<br />
Live long<br />
Tell the tales<br />
Keep the history<br />
Remain the treasure chest of Iran<br />
And the priceless heritage of humanity<br />
<br />
Live Isfahan,<br />
Live.<br />
<br />
<b><i>San Francisco, </i></b><br />
<b><i>October 22, 2014</i></b><br />
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<![endif]-->Nazyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12077066782490668686noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1194313722894510392.post-50244118108587755112014-10-10T22:51:00.000-07:002014-10-22T21:07:06.756-07:00The Friday Afternoon DiscoveryHe was sitting next to me at the dining table. I was working, completely focused on what I was doing, and making sure that I didn't take my eyes off the monitor, no matter what I could see in my peripheral vision, and no matter who called on me. I had a deadline to meet, and I was not going to let this slip.<br />
<br />
He was working on his letter of application. Every so often he would look up, ask a question, or mutter something, and sometimes I answered absent-mindely, but I mostly kept completely quiet. He knew better than to demand my attention when I was working on a deadline.<br />
<br />
I came to a point where I could pause just long enough to ask for an instruction on Skype, and wait to receive the answer before moving on. I looked over at him, sitting in front of his laptop, typing. He had his head bent and his long torso was a little slouched. The 1:00 p.m. sun was pouring in through the window behind him, and he was engulfed in light. That's when I saw them. Three short gray hairs on the right side of his head. I looked again. Yep. There they were, three gray hairs on a full head of short black hair.<br />
<br />
I am overwhelmed with indescribable feelings of joy, reflection, and anticipation. My child has gray hair. Nazyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12077066782490668686noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1194313722894510392.post-75463610575001592542014-10-06T18:28:00.001-07:002014-10-10T22:52:57.642-07:0011:45 on Monday<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUj298EqDkPFvYhzxKlOZIJ_7Xiv9jA9DQJc3dxHzqdvnxcxb019fo1lBMHvrj52E8lMPOE33By6wxcOXBTfcvouol-HtLY62YtxrO4HKbuFESo-p71-R3sgRmLliumORd0S75yKVsF7Q/s1600/IMG_2370.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUj298EqDkPFvYhzxKlOZIJ_7Xiv9jA9DQJc3dxHzqdvnxcxb019fo1lBMHvrj52E8lMPOE33By6wxcOXBTfcvouol-HtLY62YtxrO4HKbuFESo-p71-R3sgRmLliumORd0S75yKVsF7Q/s1600/IMG_2370.JPG" height="239" width="320" /></a></div>
It was 11:45<br />
Dozens came<br />
Offices abandoned<br />
Appointments postponed<br />
Deadlines missed<br />
<br />
It was 11:45<br />
The trees were high<br />
The sky blue<br />
The grass green<br />
The rose petals ready<br />
<br />
It was 11:45<br />
The singers came<br />
The actors came<br />
The musicians came<br />
The authors came<br />
The laymen came<br />
The kids<br />
The elders<br />
Men<br />
Women<br />
They wept<br />
<br />
It was 11:45<br />
The ocean looked on<br />
There was no cloud<br />
The sun shone brilliant<br />
And you were missed<br />
<br />
It was 11:45<br />
The woman of laughters and joy<br />
The lady of compassion and peace<br />
Mother<br />
Sister<br />
Daughter<br />
Wife<br />
Friend<br />
Now lives forever<br />
In our hearts.<br />
<br />
<i>In loving memory of Mitra Pejman.</i>Nazyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12077066782490668686noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1194313722894510392.post-68747466998888759432014-09-30T23:49:00.000-07:002014-09-30T23:49:12.733-07:00خوش قدم<div style="text-align: right;">
از روزی که یادم میاد، همیشه پدر و مادرم بهم میگفتن "تو خوش قدم بودی." خوش قدم بودن خیلی جایگاه ارزنده ای در خانواده بود! اولا که همیشه یه قصۀ خوب مثبتی دوروبر این "خوش قدم" بودن گفته میشد که خیلی خوشمزه بود، چون تو در واقع برای این نقش خوب و مثبت هیچ زحمتی نکشیده بودی، الا این که "قدم" که چه عرض کنم، با کله وارد یک معرکهای شده بودی! دوم اینکه این جایگاه شامخ مفهومش این بود که هر ماه وقتی ماه نو درمیامد، پدر و مادرم تو حیاط چشماشونو میبستند و منو صدا میزدند تا من خودمو بهشون برسونم و چشماشونو روبه من باز کنن! فکر کن! هیشکی دیگه رو نمیخواستن اول ببینن! فقط منو! بعدش هم این که روز اول نوروز این من بودم که اول از همه بعد از تحویل سال باید از در میامدم تو! خوب دیگه، من "خوش قدمه" بودم دیگه! البته باید بگم که من نه "بچۀ اول" بودم و نه "بچۀ آخر"، نه یکی از اون "نابغهها" بودم و نه یک از اون "پرپشتکارها"، نه زیبایی خیره کننده ای داشتم و نه هنر خاصی الا انشاء نویسی! بنابراین "خوش قدم" بودن برای خودش کلی پرستیژ داشت، به خصوص که اینجا هم هیچ کاری مجبور نبودم برای این جایگاه بکنم، چون همۀ کارها تا قبل از "قدم" گذاشتن من به جهان انجام شده بود و بعد از اون هم که به یمن قصه هایی که راجع به من و "خوش قدمیام" گفته میشد، دیگه کار زیادی لازم نبود بکنم!</div>
<div style="text-align: right;">
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خودمونیم، حالا که بهش فکر میکنم، میبینم که به عنوان یک مادر من هرگز حاضرنمیشم بگم یکی از بچه هام از اون یکی "خوش قدم تر" بوده یا اینجور چیزها! چون عادلانه نیست! مخصوصا چون اصلا هرگز اینطوری به این موضوع فکر نکردم. چون هردوبچه هایم یک نوع معجزه بودند که در زندگی من اتفاق افتادند و از این نظر هردو خودشون یه پا "خوش قدم فرد اصل" محسوب میشن!</div>
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البته این قصۀ "خوش قدم" بودن به اینجا ختم نشد. تو تهران هر وقت میرفتم داخل یک مغازه، این مغازه که تا من وارد شدم توش پرنده پر نمیزد، یکهو میشد پر از مشتری و دیگه نمیتونستم توش جم بخورم! خداییش یکی دوبار هم وقتی رسیدم جلوی صندوق که پول چیزی را که برداشته بودم بدم، صاحب مغازه گفت "مهمان باشید، چون قدمتون خیلی خوب بود!" یکی دوبار هم شنیدم تو آژانس محلهمون سر این که صبحها کی بیاد در خونۀ من دعوا میشده، چون چندتا از این رانندههای آژانس فکر میکردند که "دست من خوبه" و اگه من اولین مشتری صبحشون باشم تا شب وضعشون توپ میشه! و این خودش خستگی همۀ هشت ها گروی نهها بودنهای زندگی را از تن آدم به در میکند که برای دیگران "دستت خوب باشد!"</div>
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خلاصه، من که زیاد خرافاتی نیستم، اما این خرافه را همۀ زندگیم خیلی دوست داشتم. این خرافه همیشه منو به فکرهای مثبت و خوشحال کشونده. همیشه، حتی در سختترین روزهای زندگیم، به من امید داده که احتمال قریب به یقین، بالاخره یه جوری "کارا بهتر میشه." </div>
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خوب، این بود بلاگ امشب. خیلی دلم میخواد بازم بنویسم. </div>
Nazyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12077066782490668686noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1194313722894510392.post-26716841640988692992014-09-25T15:26:00.001-07:002014-09-25T15:26:56.544-07:00NostalgicI wonder whether I will ever feel the comfort I once felt when I wrote in this blog just for myself and a few friends. I miss writing. I miss this space. I miss that feeling. I miss myself when I felt so free to say anything I wanted to say! Sigh!<br />
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Here's Shirley Bassey in 1971, singing a song written by George Harrison of the Beatles, called "Something." I have so many good memories of this song.<br />
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Nazyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12077066782490668686noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1194313722894510392.post-58230444126930620292012-02-21T22:46:00.004-08:002012-02-21T23:03:14.536-08:00We were singing, "bye-bye, Miss American Pie."I was 14 when I first heard "American Pie" by Don McLean in Tehran. I went by Ahang-e-Rooz/Beethoven, where Mohsen Agha Chamanara would generously play any song for us after school and would cheerfully help us choose which LP to buy with our allowance that month. In my heart, where my treasures of childhood, first loves, lost loves, complicated loves, and finished loves, along with all kinds of nostalgia are kept, this is one of the pieces of music that sits prominently and is never forgotten.<blockquote></blockquote>Tonight I was struggling with a piece of unpleasant work, something that just wouldn't end no matter how hard I tried to finish it! Then I heard the playful beginning notes, and then the whole song started strolling out of the side room, where my older son was listening to music behind a closed door. I don't know which one made those tears escape my eyes, the joy of an important piece of memorabilia of my childhood jumping out at me again, or the joy of knowing that my son might find that music appealing enough to play all by himself.<blockquote></blockquote>Life is good tonight. I am a fortunate woman with great memories in my past and absolutely precious treasures in the side room, behind the closed door.
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A long, long time ago...<blockquote></blockquote>I can still remember<blockquote></blockquote>How that music used to make me smile.<blockquote></blockquote>And I knew if I had my chance<blockquote></blockquote>That I could make those people dance<blockquote></blockquote>And, maybe, they'd be happy for a while....Nazyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12077066782490668686noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1194313722894510392.post-63042180386659876462011-05-27T01:35:00.000-07:002011-05-27T01:43:47.355-07:00Joy on a hilltop<p> I was 12 when my mother was diagnosed with rheumatoid arthritis. I remember the confusion that reigned in our household, which my mother used to manage with utmost precision. The perfectly maintained yard, the beautifully decorated and maintained house, the well-stocked pantry and kitchen, the pristine guest bedding, and all that went into the affairs of a family with eight children, all of it fell by the wayside and took a second seat to the health of my mother who, at only 40, was alternatively in excruciating pain or under heavy medication. For several months, all of us, along with the household staff, who were with the family for years, looked confused and dazed, in need of instructions, which used to be issued by my mother in frequent orders but which all of a sudden had stopped. My father was the first one to realize that my mother was not going to "get better" soon.</p><blockquote></blockquote>I remember the day he called me and four of my sisters into a room and closed the door. He said that while he was going to be looking for the best possible medical attention for our mother, he was looking to us to make sure that the household would remain in good shape, so that my mother would not be saddened by the chaos, which had become an everyday occurrence in our home. So, I learned how to cook when I was 12. I learned to set the table, cut fresh roses from the yard and put them in vases, and I learned to do the mundane things, to even tell my younger sisters to make sure they brushed their teeth every night.<p></p> <p> As the degenerative disease claimed more and more of my mother's abilities and health, I, along with my father and my sisters, learned to throw parties on my mother's behalf, cook huge meals, and entertain, all so that my mother would not miss her happy and bustling household in which frequent parties were held. I think we did quite well.</p><blockquote></blockquote>We also learned to take care of my mother. We tried to do everything we could do for her, everything from massaging her aching body to handing her medication. We gradually learned to bathe her, change her clothes, feed her, and care for her. I don't know why taking care of her never felt like a chore to me. I mean, I was doing the physical work, but somehow, she never felt like a sick or disabled person, an invalid, to me. Taking care of her became an extension of our love for her, to the point where in our comings and goings into a room, for example, we also did my mother's maintenance without thinking about it. It must have been her sharp mind and the bigger-than-life presence of her soul in the middle of our lives that kept us from noticing or remembering her growing physical limitations. When I look back, all I can remember is light and lightness, laughter and immense fun in her presence. I am aware now that somewhere in between the words and the laughter, I must have brushed her hair and changed her clothes, but I can't really remember the details, they were unimportant.<blockquote></blockquote>Some of the best memories I have of my mother are from the mid-1980's when my father and she used to come to stay with us in the US six months of the year, spending the other six months in Iran near my other siblings. I remember one time I made an optometrist appointment for her at UC Berkeley's Optometry School. On a gorgeous spring day, she and I set out for the doctor's visit. We left my tiny cottage near downtown Berkeley to "walk" up to UC Berkeley's Optometry Clinic. To be more precise, she was in her wheelchair and I was pushing her up a steep sidewalk in Berkely. It was a serious effort, which grew harder and harder as we entered the campus and then had to navigate more and more hills, but we were talking and laughing and having a good time despite my huffing and puffing.<blockquote></blockquote>When we finally made it to the clinic they gave my mother a thorough eye examination, including the part where they dropped something into her eyes to make them dilate for a thorough check up, and then gave her one of those disposable paper sunglasses that are supposed to help protect the dilated eyes against bright light. The two of us then started our trip back home, this time mainly going downhill. At first I was enjoying the ease of it, remembering how hard it was to push the wheelchair up the hill. But then the hills started getting steeper, and it was a chore to control the wheelchair from taking off! Moment by moment, the wheelchair picked up speed and I had to push the emergency break a few times to slow down its momentum. My sweet mother was sitting in the wheelchair, saying nothing, but laughing to my jokes as I was struggling with the task at hand. She had her paper sunglasses on and our speed had already blown her headscarf back to her shoulders and her gorgeous curly hair, which I had dyed myself, was now in motion in the wind.<blockquote></blockquote>So, we went down one hill and up another and then climbed it up to the top, till finally we came to the top of the steepest one. Looking all the way to the bottom of the hill, I knew it was going to be near impossible to control the wheelchair. I looked at my mother and I couldn't see her eyes behind the paper sunglasses, but the rest of her face seemed peaceful and a smile remained dancing in the corner of her lips. I said: "Mom, are you ready for this ride?" And she simply said: "Yes." I took one more look at the open space ahead, all the way to the bottom of the hill, jumped on the back of her wheelchair to make it heavier and hopefully weigh it down some, and let it go. The moving apparatus glided down the hill and the two of us were screaming our heads off with exhilaration and joy, the wind blowing our hair and energizing our smiles. I remember laughing and I remember my mom making noises people would make on a roller coaster! We finally made it to the bottom of the hill in one piece, totally euphoric.<blockquote></blockquote>My mother passed away in 1996, due to complications caused by taking cortisone for years. If I must remember her illness and caring for her, this is the memory I most profoundly remember--my mother and her wheelchair, which became a toy, an extension of the two of us in celebrating how beautiful our lives were together. She never was a burden, my partner in joy, my mother.<span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><blockquote></blockquote>First published </span><a style="font-style: italic;" href="http://www.iranian.com/main/blog/nazy-kaviani/joy-hilltop">here</a><span style="font-style: italic;">, in response to an <a href="http://www.iranian.com/main/blog/esfand-aashena/elderly-care-invitation-write">invitation to write</a> about caring for elderly parents.</span></span>
<p></p><blockquote></blockquote><p></p>Nazyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12077066782490668686noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1194313722894510392.post-83503649310016983792010-11-08T22:39:00.000-08:002010-11-08T22:57:35.429-08:00<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPUBKqbE9ShEdgHWXtI-ZG4srNH6TG5ZSOlH532rL5RmEJ_-UYL0CuhvQ5ZzrM8fKbCCP3CoiP4UNlAhwNl_QHvMROlwpLYNH3Mv1ReDvC1vqrjFEKawx6i4RmpxLJrzWg8mEvhmKh2qc/s1600/Mendocino+County%252C+November+2010+062.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPUBKqbE9ShEdgHWXtI-ZG4srNH6TG5ZSOlH532rL5RmEJ_-UYL0CuhvQ5ZzrM8fKbCCP3CoiP4UNlAhwNl_QHvMROlwpLYNH3Mv1ReDvC1vqrjFEKawx6i4RmpxLJrzWg8mEvhmKh2qc/s400/Mendocino+County%252C+November+2010+062.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5537436109474126226" border="0" /></a></span><span style="font-size:85%;">Mendocino County, California, a vineyard after harvest, November 2010</span>
<div style="text-align: left;">One Rubai from Omar Khayyam for you:
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<p><span style=";font-family:Book Antiqua,Times New Roman,Times;font-size:100%;" ><i><b><span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);">Literal Translation:</span></b></i></span></p> <p><span style=";font-family:Book Antiqua,Times New Roman,Times;font-size:100%;" >Khayam, if you are intoxicated with wine, enjoy!</span></p><p><span style=";font-family:Book Antiqua,Times New Roman,Times;font-size:100%;" >If you are seated with a lover of thine, enjoy!</span></p><p><span style=";font-family:Book Antiqua,Times New Roman,Times;font-size:100%;" >In the end, the Void the whole world employ</span></p><p><span style=";font-family:Book Antiqua,Times New Roman,Times;font-size:100%;" >Imagine thou art not, while waiting in line, enjoy!<img src="http://www.okonlife.com/poems/img1/rok03.gif" align="right" width="200" height="217" hspace="10" /></span></p> <p><span style=";font-family:Book Antiqua,Times New Roman,Times;font-size:100%;" > </span></p> <span style=";font-family:Book Antiqua,Times New Roman,Times;font-size:100%;" ><i><b> </b></i></span><p><span style=";font-family:Book Antiqua,Times New Roman,Times;font-size:100%;" ><i><b><span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);">Meaning:</span></b></i></span></p> <p><span style=";font-family:Book Antiqua,Times New Roman,Times;font-size:100%;" >In life devote yourself to joy and love</span></p><p><span style=";font-family:Book Antiqua,Times New Roman,Times;font-size:100%;" >Behold the beauty of the peaceful dove</span></p><p><span style=";font-family:Book Antiqua,Times New Roman,Times;font-size:100%;" >Those who live, in the end must all perish</span></p><p><span style=";font-family:Book Antiqua,Times New Roman,Times;font-size:100%;" >Live as if you are already in heavens above.</span></p> <p><span style=";font-family:Book Antiqua,Times New Roman,Times;font-size:100%;" > </span></p> <p><span style=";font-family:Book Antiqua,Times New Roman,Times;font-size:100%;" ><span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);"><i><strong>Fitzgerald:</strong></i></span></span></p> <span style=";font-family:Book Antiqua,Times New Roman,Times;font-size:100%;" ><b><i><span style="font-family:Courier New;"> </span></i></b></span><p><span style=";font-family:Book Antiqua,Times New Roman,Times;font-size:100%;" >And if the Wine you drink, the Lip you press,</span></p><p><span style=";font-family:Book Antiqua,Times New Roman,Times;font-size:100%;" >End in the Nothing all Things end in--Yes-</span></p><p><span style=";font-family:Book Antiqua,Times New Roman,Times;font-size:100%;" >Then fancy while Thou art, Thou art but what</span></p><p><span style=";font-family:Book Antiqua,Times New Roman,Times;font-size:100%;" >Thou shalt be--Nothing--Thou shalt not be less.</span></p><p><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://www.okonlife.com/poems/page1.htm">Source: Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam</a></span><span style="font-family:Book Antiqua,Times New Roman,Times;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-size:130%;">
</span></span></span></p>Nazyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12077066782490668686noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1194313722894510392.post-48572536786641477262010-11-07T16:44:00.000-08:002010-11-07T16:47:12.624-08:00Farewell Hannibal Alkhas<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh14kdReezmjIxnAxNHaPnPB4kXr7HhM83eHq3xkfAlGCAV0HNpGYNEk75H7U2Y6egeEeTRIPpTcZvEUerTYhKkvkK1-YSaPa1_0-HuZ4l3MkH_uaQtiAM8bBDLiTlV_ak_p1tRrnWJP0U/s1600/Assymetrical+Woman.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 309px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh14kdReezmjIxnAxNHaPnPB4kXr7HhM83eHq3xkfAlGCAV0HNpGYNEk75H7U2Y6egeEeTRIPpTcZvEUerTYhKkvkK1-YSaPa1_0-HuZ4l3MkH_uaQtiAM8bBDLiTlV_ak_p1tRrnWJP0U/s320/Assymetrical+Woman.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5536973437763436130" border="0" /></a>For Buna Alkhas:
<p>I went to a memorial service for Iranian (Assyrian) artist, <a target="_blank" href="http://www.hannibal-alkhas.org/" rel="nofollow">Hannibal Alkhas</a> last evening. I listened to his son, <a href="http://www.iranian.com/main/member/buna" rel="nofollow">Buna</a>, and his daughter talk about their father, among a dozen other students, friends, and admirers of Hannibal Alkhas. Buna's speech particularly moved me. He spoke about his father in the same style as he does his writing and drawing--simply, honestly, and poetically. I really wanted to spend more time with Buna and his handsome son, but time was short as he will be returning home tomorrow.</p> <p> Since I heard of the great painter's passing, I have had a certain sadness, a sense of personal loss, which has been hard to fathom and convey. I mean I never met him, even though several months ago I had asked Bella how to go about finding him and talking to him. I am so sad I didn't do it. My sense of loss may also have something to do with the painting above. This is a small painting he did in Berkeley in 2001. This sketch and another have been two of my most prized possessions for the past several years. This one has been particularly dear to me, because I believe it to portray me, "The Asymmetrical Woman." He has written at the bottom of the sketch, "Who said only symmetry is beautiful?" </p> <p> After last night, I feel closer to the artist who drew me without having ever met me, The Asymmetrical Woman! People just couldn't stop talking about how kind and loving and fun he was. My sense of loss at Mr. Alkhas' passing grew last night. But I felt privileged to have listened to his son and daughter talk so lovingly about him. Those of you who have read <a href="http://www.iranian.com/main/albums/buna-nameh" rel="nofollow">Buna Nameh</a> have already seen Buna's love for his father, while the great artist was still alive. Those of you who have not read Buna Nameh must absolutely read it. It is probably one of the most original and fantastic things that was ever published on Iranian.com. In a part of his poignant eulogy for his father, Buna read <a href="http://www.iranian.com/main/image/39657" rel="nofollow">this poem (page 189)</a>. </p> <p> Rest in peace Master Alkhas. </p>Nazyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12077066782490668686noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1194313722894510392.post-34044752146779585862010-07-09T14:32:00.000-07:002010-07-09T14:35:13.287-07:00In the company of friends--a reading of “Copenhagen”<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiw0j1fOy1n2Ypd-35Jabw6E6464WFwPmUFNLytAOKOJulQSf084H0Uq-V18SK9mxL81v0n5CA4RTxT_k-Vs8Yt5blegZzWjOyJElMZQEdGJnM4rLBFk0ShbyhyICUUP86-VES01-PbBiA/s1600/copenhagen.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 160px; height: 229px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiw0j1fOy1n2Ypd-35Jabw6E6464WFwPmUFNLytAOKOJulQSf084H0Uq-V18SK9mxL81v0n5CA4RTxT_k-Vs8Yt5blegZzWjOyJElMZQEdGJnM4rLBFk0ShbyhyICUUP86-VES01-PbBiA/s320/copenhagen.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5492022867355787954" border="0" /></a>
<p>I’ll have to warn you--this may look like I am showing off! I promise I can’t help it this time! This Saturday, July 10, 2010, I am going to a very special event. Three of my friends are reading <a target="_blank" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Copenhagen_%28play%29" rel="nofollow"><i><b>Copenhagen</b></i></a>, a play by Michael Frayn, translated into Farsi by another friend of mine! What’s more, the venue for the event is Central Stage, which is managed by another one of my friends! And guess what?! In all likelihood, the cozy and warm theater will be filled with many of my other friends!</p> <p> Showing off aside, for those who live in this area and have a chance to come join me (and my friends!), there is something really special in store. Director <a target="_blank" href="http://hamidehya.blogspot.com/" rel="nofollow">Hamid Ehya</a>’s translation of <i>Copenhagen</i> won the award for “Best Translated Play” from Iranian Playwrights’ Association in 2009. The readers will be Ari Siletz, Bella Warda, and Behzad Golmohammadi. Actor and director Mansour Taeed will be hosting the reading at Central Stage at 5221 Central Avenue in Richmond, CA 94804 at 8:00 p.m. </p> <p> I hope you can join us if you live in this area. It will be a night to remember! </p> <p> <i><b>Copenhagen</b></i> is a highly acclaimed two-act play by Michael Frayn, about a discussion among the Danish physicist Niels Bohr (1885-1962), his wife, Margrethe Bohr, and the German physicist Werner Heisenberg. </p> <p> Niels Bohr received a Nobel Prize in Physics in 1922 for his contribution to understanding atomic structure and quantum mechanics. Werner Heisenberg was awarded the 1932 Nobel Prize in Physics for the creation of quantum mechanics and its application. Niels Bohr was a prominent scientist in Denmark whose life was in danger because he was half Jewish. Heisenberg was a high-ranking physicist in Nazi Germany. Both men had the theoretical knowledge of how to create a nuclear bomb. They were once on the same side of the scientific pursuit, but now stood on opposite sides of the war. During the course of the play, the two scientists go through what went on in a meeting at Bohr’s home. </p> <a target="_blank" href="http://www.facebook.com/event.php?eid=130367113667296#%21/event.php?eid=114339115280273&ref=mf" rel="nofollow">Please see the reading's Facebook page.</a>Nazyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12077066782490668686noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1194313722894510392.post-18993911228922856512010-03-09T18:22:00.000-08:002010-03-09T18:51:09.509-08:00Music of Hope<object width="480" height="385">This is my friend Parisa Vaaleh. On very short notice, she performed at an International Women's Day rally in San Jose this past Sunday. She has many beautiful songs in her two albums, but chose to sing Ostaad Shajarian's <span style="font-style: italic;">Iran, Ey Saraay-e Omid</span> for the occasion. She has a lovely voice and an absolutely beautiful soul. She is one of my best friends in the world, full of compassion, kindness, and generosity. This clip is an amateur video and she will probably get mad at me for posting it here! Heeh! I'm sure she will forgive me, though! I'll be back with a story for you. <param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/u17JkOPIDAk&hl=en_US&fs=1&"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/u17JkOPIDAk&hl=en_US&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object>Nazyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12077066782490668686noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1194313722894510392.post-18963748596080632372010-02-15T02:02:00.000-08:002010-02-15T02:04:58.002-08:00Finding Mir Hossein<p>On the eve of Iranian presidential elections in June, a black cat showed up to our household. He sat on our front porch and refused to leave. More than once he followed the incoming crowd into the house whereupon I screamed "Get that cat out of my house!" I was not interested in having a new pet and I knew that the cat which seemed loving and comfortable next to perfect strangers was a house cat which must have gone AWOL on a loving family who must now be frantically looking for him. I told my son to let him stay outside, so that his family can locate him if they went by our house. My younger son kept feeding the cat and naturally, he would not leave. I made "Cat Found" signs and posted them in the neighborhood and the neighbor next door posted a "Cat Found" announcement on <i>Craig's List</i>. Nothing doing. No one came looking for the cat. I made my son take him to the local animal shelter to see if anybody was looking for him. Nobody was, according to my son, who had decided to return the cat upon receiving the news.</p><blockquote></blockquote>During this time, the elections had happened in Iran, people had shown up to street protests, and Neda and some other protesters had died before my very eyes on YouTube. I can barely remember a sadder time in my life. Sitting at my dining table, working and writing, crying tears of loss, confusion, and anger, suddenly I did not mind seeing the black cat come in and sitting on the floor next to my feet. I reached for him and he immediately hopped on my lap, where he sat and made me fall in love with him through my tears.<blockquote></blockquote>I named him Mir Hossein.<blockquote></blockquote>The cat became a member of our family. Loving, peaceful, and low maintenance, he quickly surpassed my last cat, Asghar, in popularity and familial love. He followed me everywhere and always sat where he could keep an eye on me. In many ways he was like a dog, attentive, kind, and loving. My friend Maryam said later that he is a <a target="_blank" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Maine_Coon" rel="nofollow">Maine Coon</a>, a particularly loving species of cats.<blockquote></blockquote>In January, I went on a three-week business trip to Washington DC. Staying away from home, I was missing my family, friends, and Mir Hossein so much. I couldn't wait to get back. I returned looking forward to having my cat by my side to remind me about the simple joys of life and all that I love and hold dear in the Bay Area.<blockquote></blockquote>Alas, things were not that simple. My son informed me upon my return that Mir Hossein had gone missing for 48 hours and that he had been actively looking for him in the neighborhood, without any positive results. After a couple of days went by without spotting our black cat, he posted "Missing Cat" signs in the neighborhood and told all the neighbors to be on the lookout for him. By the week's end, he had visited all the animal shelters in our neighborhood and the next ones over, to see if anybody had turned him in. Nothing doing.<blockquote></blockquote>I refused to put his food bowl and bed away, waiting for him to return. "He will come back," I kept saying, but feeling less and less hopeful.<blockquote></blockquote>Yesterday, the next door neighbor called to say that she could hear a cat in the vacant house next door. We went to the door and could see Mir Hossein's black face with the one tiny round white spot right under his nose through the side glass window. Oh My! He was alive and well! We located and contacted the real estate agency which had listed the home. The firm's office manager showed up with a key and let Mir Hossein out. She said he must have quietly walked in behind the realtor the last time he had shown the house some sixteen days ago.<blockquote></blockquote>The cat had lost considerable weight and was anxious. For the first time since I had met him I found out that he had very sharp claws which he used on anyone who came close to him. He must have been able to drink water from the toilet bowls in the house, but naturally, he had not eaten in sixteen days. He ate and ate and ate and I was standing by, waiting to take him to the vet if he started getting sick, which he never did. Later in the day he finally calmed down and went to sleep.<blockquote></blockquote>As I write, my sweet cat is sleeping in his bed next to me. When I finish posting this blog and turn off the lights to go to bed, he will follow me and curling up in my bed, he will put his right paw on my face and go back to sleep, as he is used to doing.<blockquote></blockquote>I am one lucky woman today. I have found Mir Hossein.<p></p>Nazyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12077066782490668686noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1194313722894510392.post-44149895393285775822010-02-11T20:41:00.000-08:002010-02-11T21:18:20.572-08:00Music in the kitchenI live with two men. They are tall and handsome. They are wise and kind. Nobody in this world would probably ever love these men as much as I do, for I am their mother.<blockquote></blockquote>They come and go, eat, sleep, watch TV, study, fight, make up, laugh, and on increasing occasions, feel in love with or heartbroken by a woman. We are a normal family or not. I don't know, and I don't care. I care that I live with two good men. They are good to me, to each other, and to their friends.<blockquote></blockquote>More than once, I have asked myself whether I have done a good job in raising my children so that they are sure and grounded with their identities, their roots, their heritage, and the world that could benefit so much from people like them who know more than one language, have traveled extensively since they were infants, and who have compassion for mankind world over. Time will tell what kind of human beings they will be. To be sure, for now they are both understated and humble adults, just as I like to see adults.<blockquote></blockquote>I was sitting at my usual spot, working on my computer as usual this evening. My younger son and his friend Farhad arrived and went directly to the refrigerator, looking for food. I guess my son was really happy to find decent food in the house! As he pulled out the tub of chicken salad and started making himself and his friend a sandwich, I heard him whisper a tune. How sweet! He is singing, I thought momentarily and forgot all about it. A few seconds later, though, the notes from his song made it into my consciousness and heart and gave me a jolt. What is he singing? Is that a Hayedeh song he is whispering?!!! Hayedeh?!!! Hayedeh died in the same year my son was born, you know? My son likes Hayedeh?!! How come?!! Where did this come from? When did this happen?! <blockquote></blockquote>I sat here till he finished making his sandwich and whispering his song and go to join Farhad in the other room. I found the Haydeh song and listened to it. The experience moved me enough to come back to writing in my blogs tonight. It has been too long. I miss writing and I miss my friends. Here, listen to the song with me. I feel so good tonight. To be sure, for well over a year, I have not been as happy as I am these days. Things are going my way again. I will write again soon.
<object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/G9P0HiQ210w&hl=en_US&fs=1&"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/G9P0HiQ210w&hl=en_US&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object>
<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:85%;">Legendary Iranian singer, Hayedeh sings <span style="font-style: italic;">"vay be halesh. (too bad for him)" </span>Music is by Farid Zoland, arrangement by Andranik, Lyrics are by Leila Kasra (Hedieh). </span></div>Nazyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12077066782490668686noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1194313722894510392.post-39024309229988915302009-11-28T20:55:00.000-08:002009-11-28T21:04:26.314-08:00Till He Comes<div style="text-align: center;"><object width="425" height="344"><span style="font-size:85%;">Iranian music ensemble, Dang Show, play an interesting and different rendition of an old Iranian song, <span style="font-style: italic;">"Migoreezad,"</span> which is based on an old Azerbaijan folk song, <span style="font-style: italic;">Sari Galin</span>. Very refreshing and different. I loved their new music. I hope they go far.</span><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/sJ8Mu1epZts&hl=en_US&fs=1&"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/sJ8Mu1epZts&hl=en_US&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object></div>Nazyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12077066782490668686noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1194313722894510392.post-625975155695946692009-11-28T20:44:00.000-08:002009-11-28T20:54:16.757-08:00Crater<span style="font-style: italic;">"There's a small hole in my heart<blockquote></blockquote></span><span style="font-style: italic;">Around which sadness sits these days."</span><blockquote></blockquote><span style="font-style: italic;">"I hope the hole in your heart would heal soon."
<blockquote></blockquote></span>Crackles and static<blockquote></blockquote>
"Aha's," and silences<blockquote></blockquote>
Sobs muffled<blockquote></blockquote>
Worried eyes hidden<blockquote></blockquote>
Shaking hands concealed<blockquote></blockquote>
Aching arms<blockquote></blockquote>
Without a chance for an embrace<blockquote></blockquote>
Botched goodbyes<blockquote></blockquote>A crater sits<blockquote></blockquote>Where there once was a hole.<blockquote></blockquote>
<span style="font-style: italic;">November 2009</span><blockquote></blockquote>
<span style="font-style: italic;">San Francisco, California</span>Nazyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12077066782490668686noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1194313722894510392.post-60222708049600147002009-11-13T15:37:00.000-08:002009-11-13T15:39:52.128-08:00I Am Your Man<object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/tKjSr1zOTq0&hl=en_US&fs=1&"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/tKjSr1zOTq0&hl=en_US&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object>Nazyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12077066782490668686noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1194313722894510392.post-5500768802808638672009-11-12T12:33:00.000-08:002009-11-12T15:34:32.843-08:00Going to see Leonard Cohen!<object width="425" height="344">I am soooo excited! I have an invitation to go see Leonard Cohen tomorrow night! I'm soooo excited!<param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/Ki9xcDs9jRk&hl=en_US&fs=1&"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/Ki9xcDs9jRk&hl=en_US&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object>Nazyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12077066782490668686noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1194313722894510392.post-41718834774662187342009-10-17T23:48:00.000-07:002009-10-18T00:28:27.591-07:00Sholeh Zard and Philosophy<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyyUHwNdtFqzV6F5BY5GQCp4-775B81UYE16ijNbAS9i5Mu8Bvubykgwc41YVz1HFebtUB6D7P5G88FyHzCXklT4pbvDblMrqFiS6qHrjTt4qu_YtuTsCgRHOqYyNyV0FzTt9MesCtzms/s1600-h/Picture+087.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5393828695165459234" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyyUHwNdtFqzV6F5BY5GQCp4-775B81UYE16ijNbAS9i5Mu8Bvubykgwc41YVz1HFebtUB6D7P5G88FyHzCXklT4pbvDblMrqFiS6qHrjTt4qu_YtuTsCgRHOqYyNyV0FzTt9MesCtzms/s320/Picture+087.jpg" border="0" /></a> So, I am turning a year older this weekend. I don't particularly wish to be reminded of it, not so much because I care that I am older, but because the extra attention usually embarrasses me! All day today I had to stay home and prepare an important project for a deadline. My kids went to celebrate their youth and Mir Hossein (our cat) and I spent the evening together, where I worked and he took a nap! Just to take advantage of the time, and also to prepare a dessert to take to my friends' house tomorrow night, I started making Sholeh Zard.* Here's a picture of my work in progress as of 30 minutes ago. <blockquote></blockquote>My cousin, Azar, had called and left me a message yesterday. She said she had dreamt of my mother. She said my mother had been in a lavish party in my house, where everyone was very happy, celebrating something. All day today I remembered my mother and missed her, but was happy to know that she is with me. I'm not sure what my mother was celebrating, but I am sure of what I celebrate in my home tonight. I celebrate a life full of wonderful experiences, good friends, loving family, and hope. Yeah, I have noticed the double chin and the small wrinkles around my eyes, too! But hey, those are my medallions which remind me just how long I have been around with all the different chances I have had at a good life. For the new year in my life, as in the year past, I don't wish for things and money. I wish for health and peace on earth. I wish for freedom for Iran and for hope for America. Things which are priceless and which can make for more hopeful nations. Hopeful nations can achieve anything. That's my wish. <blockquote></blockquote>
<em><span style="font-size:85%;">*I looked for Sholeh Zard recipes in English. There were tens of options available, but none of them seemed to quite prepare it like I do. </span></em><a href="http://www.astray.com/recipes/?show=Sholeh%20zard%20(saffron%20flavored%20rice%20pudding)"><em><span style="font-size:85%;">This one </span></em></a><em><span style="font-size:85%;">is the least different from how I prepare it.
</span></em>Nazyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12077066782490668686noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1194313722894510392.post-50277545112729500052009-10-15T17:40:00.000-07:002009-10-15T18:15:19.005-07:00Nostalgic Today<p><object height="344" width="425"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/vSyzo-HKACA&hl=en&fs=1&"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/vSyzo-HKACA&hl=en&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object></p><p>I found this sweet video clip and I would like to share it with you. A Canada-based band named HamAva has performed Simin Ghanem's 1975 song, <em>Parandeh</em>, The Bird. It is a really beautiful song, full of personal nostalgia for me. The singer does a very good job of singing a song originally performed by what must be one of the most powerful female voices in the history of Iranian music. She doesn't take chances with an imitation, but stays true to the music, sounding sweet and vulnerable. I searched for this HamAva band, but couldn't find anything on them. If any of my friends in Canada know about them, please do share</p><blockquote></blockquote><p>If you want, you can listen to the original rendition of this song by Simin Ghanem <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=s513xGlH3r8">here</a>. Believe it or not, this song was written by Hassan Shamaizadeh. What has happened to that great music man?! How come we never hear songs like this from him any more? <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iWDnY0cDGWM">This</a> is all we hear from him these days! Nothing wrong with it, but he is capable of so much more. I mean there are thousands of composers who can write <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=u2uZfAg6P3o">this</a>, but not nearly enough who can write <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wY8rQWSROCE">this</a>. Just wondering!</p>Nazyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12077066782490668686noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1194313722894510392.post-70536266461213884112009-10-14T23:47:00.000-07:002009-10-15T00:07:35.410-07:00History Written on Clay<p><object height="344" width="425"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/QPYT4JmK8NI&hl=en&fs=1&"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/QPYT4JmK8NI&hl=en&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object></p><p>I went to listen to <a href="http://humanities.uchicago.edu/depts/nelc/facultypages/stolper/">Professor Matthew Stolper's </a>very engaging lecture about the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Persepolis_Fortification_Tablets">Persepolis tablets</a> at UC Berkeley this afternoon. What a nice and funny man this very distinguished scholar is! </p><blockquote></blockquote><p>Since I posted my earlier blog about the lecture, I have heard from a very interesting man by the name of Mr. Charles Ellwood Jones. It is an honor to find out about people who have so much interest in Iranian heritage which is now really world heritage. In his profile, Mr. Jones says: <em>"I am the Librarian at the Institute for the Study of the Ancient World at NYU. From July 2005 to February 2008 I was the Head Librarian at the Blegen Library of the American School of Classical Studies at Athens. Before moving to Athens I spent twenty-two years as the Librarian at the Oriental Institute, The University of Chicago."</em></p><blockquote></blockquote>You can follow news about the Persepolis tablets and developments in the case through Persepolis Fortification Archive Project's blogs <a href="http://persepolistablets.blogspot.com/">here</a>. Before I left I told Professor Stolper how proud I was of his life's work, dedicated to research about Iran, thanking him for all his hard work.Nazyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12077066782490668686noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1194313722894510392.post-88039161986728849732009-10-13T23:06:00.000-07:002009-10-13T23:33:46.104-07:00UC Berkeley Lecture: Embattled Tablets<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbQ71KgjFPn3hMkspcLUu9s3aez6zfo8Pl7iDGTnG7XbtzCQoJzc8B8qsKTGKeyLbA4ITnhqhRggtQzhHloK1vfVs0ThMXc7rVHoHzml3njgjdCW6cgcY6NmO5PY-F4qJPZESvdPaLOMQ/s1600-h/Stolper_flier_web.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5392337845967988386" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 247px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbQ71KgjFPn3hMkspcLUu9s3aez6zfo8Pl7iDGTnG7XbtzCQoJzc8B8qsKTGKeyLbA4ITnhqhRggtQzhHloK1vfVs0ThMXc7rVHoHzml3njgjdCW6cgcY6NmO5PY-F4qJPZESvdPaLOMQ/s320/Stolper_flier_web.jpg" border="0" /></a>You can't love Iran and not care about what has been happening over the past few years with respect to the priceless Persepolis tablets in custoday of University of Chicago's Oriental Institute. A lawsuit threatens to claim the priceless collection which has been kept on loan from the Iranian government since 1933. Those tablets belong to Iran and to humanity. They should never be considered the appropriate medium of severance pay to anyone. If the Iranian government is found guilty of any crime in a court of law, they should be responsible for monetary payment of damages. These tablets or any Iranian heritage artifacts are not suitable choices for settling such liabilities. <blockquote></blockquote>Tomorrow, Wednesday, October 14, 2009 at 4:00 p.m. Professor Matthew Stolper from University of Chicago's Oriental Institute will give a lecture entitled <em>"Embattled Tablets: News from the Persepolis Fortification Archive Front"</em> at UC Berkeley's Department of Near Eastern Studies, 254 Barrows Hall. I am going to attend this lecture. If you live in these parts and you can, please come and join me.
<div></div>
<div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg25E8Qu5OXuh-DDnhNV-HhW6eMFDKSpyl2CERrwM0hEQaSUnePAdENP96lJjokQuj54J2238mB7P_x381FdXBfu4a1vJT1_aUTXYQITLSABGVvrlJT6QS9X74YZe22VqQqVWJ2JDCcstc/s1600-h/Stolper.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5392334517646712818" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 284px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg25E8Qu5OXuh-DDnhNV-HhW6eMFDKSpyl2CERrwM0hEQaSUnePAdENP96lJjokQuj54J2238mB7P_x381FdXBfu4a1vJT1_aUTXYQITLSABGVvrlJT6QS9X74YZe22VqQqVWJ2JDCcstc/s320/Stolper.jpg" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;">Photo shows Professor Matthew Stolper examining one of the Persepolis tablets.</span></div><blockquote></blockquote><div align="left">Here's an excerpt from a 2006 article about the collection and the impending case. You can read the full article <a href="http://magazine.uchicago.edu/0610/chicagojournal/worth.shtml">here</a>. <blockquote></blockquote>"In a small, dark room on the Oriental Institute’s third floor, Matthew Stolper puts thousands of ancient Iranian tablets under the microscope. Studying the unbaked clay artifacts over the course of 25 years, Stolper, the John A. Wilson professor of Near Eastern languages & civilizations, has translated many of the tablets—their slanted lines are mostly Elamite cuneiform. Taken together, the circa-500 bc documents from the ancient capital Persepolis—excavated by OI archaeologist Ernest Herzfeld in 1933—form the “records of one office palace bureaucracy handing out basic foodstuffs,” Stolper says. “Food, wine, grain.” The records follow “people traveling through the region on business from the Mediterranean coast to India: ‘So-and-so gets so much barley and so much beer.’ When you connect them all, you get a complicated network.” </div><blockquote></blockquote><div align="left">"If a group of litigants gets its way, the tablets may be split up and sold at auction, the proceeds compensating survivors of a 1997 Hamas suicide bombing in Jerusalem. Five American survivors and four family members won a 2001 U.S. court case against Iran, which trained and supported the terrorists, and were awarded more than $400 million in damages. Because Iran doesn’t accept U.S. court jurisdiction, the plaintiffs’ lawyer looked elsewhere for assets: American museums holding Iranian artifacts." (Read the rest <a href="http://magazine.uchicago.edu/0610/chicagojournal/worth.shtml">here</a>.)</div>Nazyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12077066782490668686noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1194313722894510392.post-12911274309767811442009-10-13T13:39:00.000-07:002009-10-13T14:10:49.326-07:00Autumn Around MeThis is my season. Something about the Fall makes me happy, energetic, and very very romantic! These days I am spending a lot of time in my home. I am glad to report that my surroundings are better organized than they have been in a long time and my kids are fed generally better food! Northern California autumns aren't quite like they are on the East Coast or where there are the four seasons. We only get specks and small splashes of color and folliage in our area. Just the same, it is evident if you look for it. Here's a picture I took of the trees just outside my house yesterday. You can see the specks and splashes of color changes.
<div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFBnYEuWHDnXlCxq_sWk500BHLh8gF5-0lZcv-jv8DTcwrSHNy4h8royaJjPmHc7BZeDUGWAv99a2XBylC9iQdnhTrRw3jlS0JSTQq5VLo6zYbp8NcZRKGEQBmeq1S1rGKjLd3aNwvMZA/s1600-h/Picture+023.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5392188856377239826" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFBnYEuWHDnXlCxq_sWk500BHLh8gF5-0lZcv-jv8DTcwrSHNy4h8royaJjPmHc7BZeDUGWAv99a2XBylC9iQdnhTrRw3jlS0JSTQq5VLo6zYbp8NcZRKGEQBmeq1S1rGKjLd3aNwvMZA/s320/Picture+023.jpg" border="0" /></a> And of course it won't be a proper autumn without a pumpkin. More decorations will be coming soon!
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvssamrQEGpZegOzC5MMgyScUmRPzGSDofYhUaH5patlwY_6GzgjJqMkaECV324NGEoKy_a3Q1liFVRGFJPw4EeLe6-Fm08pd80WkTuFcdG2T32nDtIzOOtht1NlYlq7MQECVt_m8-JOs/s1600-h/Picture+026.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5392188848897004802" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvssamrQEGpZegOzC5MMgyScUmRPzGSDofYhUaH5patlwY_6GzgjJqMkaECV324NGEoKy_a3Q1liFVRGFJPw4EeLe6-Fm08pd80WkTuFcdG2T32nDtIzOOtht1NlYlq7MQECVt_m8-JOs/s320/Picture+026.jpg" border="0" /></a> See? We do have color changes on the leaves! Beautiful!
<div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNM43sRjQIewc0BThqPCxeWEPCZ0Gqm7YUHN_vd0tVzIxYjGrprt0sywcGSTW3jdGBalAp34NlzhnEtUmDoKALOft197zJzq1ppgHPQU1z-FK4m1hwqHjh6zPjPlgEEGsaptlCssuEpTM/s1600-h/Picture+027.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5392188841212485410" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNM43sRjQIewc0BThqPCxeWEPCZ0Gqm7YUHN_vd0tVzIxYjGrprt0sywcGSTW3jdGBalAp34NlzhnEtUmDoKALOft197zJzq1ppgHPQU1z-FK4m1hwqHjh6zPjPlgEEGsaptlCssuEpTM/s320/Picture+027.jpg" border="0" /></a> This is how autumn happens in a pot! I love those heart-shaped leaves!
<div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAzscuKe3RZvPTzU5UjjUxt8Izdys_5YZtx2QU909XlZi11eV1BTqnsQNx3UZrgLIPRf3pK1XLcPaAWZbTQWkvFN41XMl-N635t0CtUe8ibFgO4pJmkBvjxyg1mOZ_4rKy6DbQWghBHt4/s1600-h/Picture+029.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5392188838157255554" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAzscuKe3RZvPTzU5UjjUxt8Izdys_5YZtx2QU909XlZi11eV1BTqnsQNx3UZrgLIPRf3pK1XLcPaAWZbTQWkvFN41XMl-N635t0CtUe8ibFgO4pJmkBvjxyg1mOZ_4rKy6DbQWghBHt4/s320/Picture+029.jpg" border="0" /></a> And last but not least, blessed is a home on a rainy autumn day which has a sweet cat asleep nearby, delicious tea brewed, and love of family surrounding its every corner.
<div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYuPIJ4mMmHtBdeWWR-ZCIRnkGJKHkf_hOpqEPN7CXcsMB6h1k5zYgC7IEtSTLyQ_EKcflLPJY5rDLlLRUxEZAt_rE3r02EWQTWon1tH17m2Sza4wWz5sG2VpcYGdKDYAOyPqk4woneuk/s1600-h/Picture+030.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5392188827607779410" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYuPIJ4mMmHtBdeWWR-ZCIRnkGJKHkf_hOpqEPN7CXcsMB6h1k5zYgC7IEtSTLyQ_EKcflLPJY5rDLlLRUxEZAt_rE3r02EWQTWon1tH17m2Sza4wWz5sG2VpcYGdKDYAOyPqk4woneuk/s320/Picture+030.jpg" border="0" /></a> I have such a home. As I take stock of my "harvest" for this year, despite some losses and setbacks, I have to admit that I continue to have it really good in life! I am grateful for my gifts in life. Looking back at my life, I see it was a great idea to plant those seeds of love wherever I could. My harvest again this year is plentiful, complete, and continuous. Happy Autumn y'all!</div></div></div>
</div>Nazyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12077066782490668686noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1194313722894510392.post-54233289845740443952009-10-11T18:55:00.000-07:002009-10-11T19:14:22.686-07:00Aah Mother...<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizq3bQJyYYquDOhGgpe_K1uZDSYEPO0sd6VChJdzr2uRLSYxaeSdKoNHbdIUI3TsM5lDInyKMQ34pJNIWaUZS0EfnHPfe47k8XDPsVE-Gvej42I8GmPQARhBnTS38W9q4aAZUvGOm5Nqc/s1600-h/stop+child+executions.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5391529086857216626" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 89px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 110px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizq3bQJyYYquDOhGgpe_K1uZDSYEPO0sd6VChJdzr2uRLSYxaeSdKoNHbdIUI3TsM5lDInyKMQ34pJNIWaUZS0EfnHPfe47k8XDPsVE-Gvej42I8GmPQARhBnTS38W9q4aAZUvGOm5Nqc/s200/stop+child+executions.jpg" border="0" /></a>Can’t begin to imagine
<blockquote></blockquote>Can’t begin to feel
<blockquote></blockquote>Mother’s loss
<blockquote></blockquote>Mother’s rage <blockquote></blockquote>... <blockquote></blockquote>Boy smiles <blockquote></blockquote><p>Boy walks </p><blockquote></blockquote><p>Boy tells of school and marbles </p><blockquote></blockquote><p>Mother’s delight </p><blockquote></blockquote><p>Mother’s love </p><blockquote></blockquote><p>...</p><blockquote></blockquote><p>Boy loves </p><blockquote></blockquote><p>Boy hurts </p><blockquote></blockquote><p>Boy laughs </p><blockquote></blockquote><p>Mother’s pride </p><blockquote></blockquote><p>Mother’s love </p><blockquote></blockquote><p></p><p>...</p><blockquote></blockquote><p>Boy goes </p><blockquote></blockquote><p>Returns never </p><blockquote></blockquote><p>Boy is dead </p><blockquote></blockquote><p>Mother’s loss </p><blockquote></blockquote><p>Mother’s loss </p><blockquote></blockquote><p></p><p>...</p><blockquote></blockquote><p>Boy repents </p><blockquote></blockquote><p>Boy cries </p><blockquote></blockquote><p>Boy implores </p><blockquote></blockquote><p>Mother’s rage </p><blockquote></blockquote><p>Mother’s rage </p><blockquote></blockquote><p></p><p>...</p><blockquote></blockquote><p>Boy and noose </p><blockquote></blockquote><p>Boy and noose </p><blockquote></blockquote><p>Boy and noose </p><blockquote></blockquote><p>Mother’s doubts </p><blockquote></blockquote><p>Mother’s doubts </p><blockquote></blockquote><p></p><p>...</p><blockquote></blockquote><p>Boy and prison </p><blockquote></blockquote><p>Boy and pain </p><blockquote></blockquote><p>Boy and shame </p><blockquote></blockquote><p>Mother’s choice </p><blockquote></blockquote><p>Mother’s choice </p><blockquote></blockquote><p></p><p>...</p><blockquote></blockquote><p>Boy and noose </p><blockquote></blockquote><p>Mother and bench </p><blockquote></blockquote><p>Boy and life </p><blockquote></blockquote><p>Boy and death </p><blockquote></blockquote><p>Mother and memories </p><blockquote></blockquote><p>Mother and rage </p><blockquote></blockquote><p></p><p>...</p><blockquote></blockquote><p>Boy and airborne bench </p><blockquote></blockquote><p>Mother and revenge </p><blockquote></blockquote><p>Boy suspended </p><blockquote></blockquote><p>Boy ended </p><blockquote></blockquote><p>Mother’s moment </p><blockquote></blockquote><p>Mother’s remorse </p><blockquote></blockquote><p></p><p>...</p><blockquote></blockquote><p>Two boys dead </p><blockquote></blockquote><p>Two boys gone </p><blockquote></blockquote><p>All mothers’ loss </p><blockquote></blockquote><p>All mothers’ shame </p><blockquote></blockquote><p></p><p><em></em> </p><p><em>Read </em><a href="http://www.stopchildexecutions.com/"><em>here</em></a><em> for Behnoud Shojaie's story.</em></p>Nazyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12077066782490668686noreply@blogger.com5