he gave me two notebooks
before he left when i turned eighteen:
one blue. one yellow.
both three subject, mead, spiral bound
150 sheets/college ruled
9 1/2 x 6/24.1 x 15.2 cm
price tag from thrifty’s drugs $2.55.
they smell of mildew, dead letters
and faded recollections.
spirals warped and hinting
with the grit of rust.
teal lines in various stages of
pale decline. the words dark black
english. farsi. spiritual.
quotes from jesus to rumi in neat script.
intermittent drawings begging to be tattoos.
psychedelic lines wanting to carve skin and
embed themselves like topographical
transcendental lines on a map.
pages exposing this seeker on a hunt
for escape or meaning
something other, beyond:
the edge of the edge.
he read carlos castaneda books on the toilet
training in shamanism that he received
under the tutelage of a yaqui.
those trips imprinted in the drawings.
care of the soul is more than hunger for bread.
there is a pumpkin bread recipe in there
and a daily schedule that has him rising
at four am and in bed at nine:
mediating, painting, working, gardening.
fatherhood for him was leaving clues.
maybe somewhere beyond this world
we will finally meet and i can stitch them
back together for him and share a few of my own.
Showing posts with label Mehran. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Mehran. Show all posts
November 17, 2021
321/365
June 6, 2021
157/365
he was a bit
of a shepherd
to the weird
and lonely—
my dad was,
such is the way
of the elders
in a diaspora,
but he was only
thirty seven
and a bit too distracted
to tend to his own flock,
but they gravitated
to our house
like errant space debris
pulled into his orbit,
on friday nights,
they emptied
bottles of vodka
with mast-o khiar,
red wine,
maybe a few tightly
rolled joints,
maybe more
after i slept.
they stayed up late
these young lost persians,
debating the virtues
of communism,
or the role of the cia
in sabotaging iran
and dispelling us all
into this heartless
capitalist pit.
on any given night
pink floyd might be
the soundtrack of choice,
or revolutionary john lennon,
but the night inevitably
became mired in
dariush eghbali:
i am of the plagued eastern tribe
you are of the glass clear city in the west
my skin is the material of night,
your skin is red velvet.
my body is full of blisters,
your skin is of tiger skin.
how many years
could they avoid
their self-pity?
to what solution(s)
might they be headed?
one year, one
of them
disappeared
for awhile
and returned
hairless.
i was told
the stress
was too much
for him to cope with
and all of his hair
had fallen out:
scalp, arms, eyebrows, lashes,
beard, whiskers, all of it.
i dared not ask
what kind of stress
would do that to a man,
but from that day
forward i knew
that i would
not be a sheep
in need of a shepherd.
i would never be the
kind of immigrant
that would
let america
do that to me.
in farsi
zendan means prison
and zende means alive,
zendegi means life
and zendooni means prisoner.
what chance do any of us have?
of a shepherd
to the weird
and lonely—
my dad was,
such is the way
of the elders
in a diaspora,
but he was only
thirty seven
and a bit too distracted
to tend to his own flock,
but they gravitated
to our house
like errant space debris
pulled into his orbit,
on friday nights,
they emptied
bottles of vodka
with mast-o khiar,
red wine,
maybe a few tightly
rolled joints,
maybe more
after i slept.
they stayed up late
these young lost persians,
debating the virtues
of communism,
or the role of the cia
in sabotaging iran
and dispelling us all
into this heartless
capitalist pit.
on any given night
pink floyd might be
the soundtrack of choice,
or revolutionary john lennon,
but the night inevitably
became mired in
dariush eghbali:
i am of the plagued eastern tribe
you are of the glass clear city in the west
my skin is the material of night,
your skin is red velvet.
my body is full of blisters,
your skin is of tiger skin.
how many years
could they avoid
their self-pity?
to what solution(s)
might they be headed?
one year, one
of them
disappeared
for awhile
and returned
hairless.
i was told
the stress
was too much
for him to cope with
and all of his hair
had fallen out:
scalp, arms, eyebrows, lashes,
beard, whiskers, all of it.
i dared not ask
what kind of stress
would do that to a man,
but from that day
forward i knew
that i would
not be a sheep
in need of a shepherd.
i would never be the
kind of immigrant
that would
let america
do that to me.
in farsi
zendan means prison
and zende means alive,
zendegi means life
and zendooni means prisoner.
what chance do any of us have?
May 26, 2021
146/365
there must have always
been art books in the house
growing up
seeing that my dad
was an artist
in that he looked for
and pointed out
beauty to me,
as a child,
wherever he saw it.
photographs of
colored ink in jars,
the thick weight of
tracers in pastels,
the dining room table painted
and re-painted tangerine
beneath the stained glass
window, he had
meticulously created.
there must have always
been art books in the house
growing up,
because where else
could i have first seen
the painting of the turbulent sea
with blood in the water
and the sharks menacing
in the foreground waves.
are those flying fish
headed toward a hurricane?
a small rudderless
dingy- dismasted,
acting as an indecent refuge
from the pending storm.
the man
enslaved?
escaped?
free, but to what end?
even as a child
i remember feeling
the horror of flipping
through that book
and landing on the gulf stream.
i knew nothing of symbols
or history
or mortality
or wars
or vulnerability
or american imperialism.
or the fragility of human life.
or the dominance of nature.
but, i’d run my fingers
over the smooth glossy page
yearning to feel
the texture of the oils
smelling the piney turpantine.
what was he looking at?
how could he be so serene
in such disorder?
my dad
was an artist
in the way that he
looked for and pointed
out beauty to me,
as a child,
by leaving art books
scattered in our house
for me to explore
in the extended
pools of solitude.
not all lessons are explicity taught:
beauty is a making one of opposites,
and the making one of opposites
is what we are going after in ourselves.
October 29, 2016
When The Man Gets Home
We parented the hell out of today.
Started off with a birthday party at Build-A Bear for Skye- cupcakes, bears, and pizza and Pastamania. Quick lunch at Jamie’s for the adults and preparation for progressive East Coast Halloween. Kids had a blast. Adults too. We have great friends with great kids and we are truly blessed.
It’s now eleven thirty and I am listing to How You Gonna See Me Now, an Alice Copper ballad from 1978 that I used to listen to as a kid from my dad’s records. It still sounds magical Mehran. It came up for some reason in conversation and suddenly it is 1985. I am 11 and listening to this song on our turntable.
"How you gonna see me now
Please don't see me ugly babe
'Cause I know I let you down
In oh so many ways
How you gonna see me now
Since we've been on our own
Are you gonna love the man
When the man gets home.."
Tomorrow is an early morning with basketball and an afternoon movie. Dr. Strange? Maybe.
Early evening will include a haircut. A shave. A drink. A dinner. It is Sunday and this is life.
Started off with a birthday party at Build-A Bear for Skye- cupcakes, bears, and pizza and Pastamania. Quick lunch at Jamie’s for the adults and preparation for progressive East Coast Halloween. Kids had a blast. Adults too. We have great friends with great kids and we are truly blessed.
It’s now eleven thirty and I am listing to How You Gonna See Me Now, an Alice Copper ballad from 1978 that I used to listen to as a kid from my dad’s records. It still sounds magical Mehran. It came up for some reason in conversation and suddenly it is 1985. I am 11 and listening to this song on our turntable.
"How you gonna see me now
Please don't see me ugly babe
'Cause I know I let you down
In oh so many ways
How you gonna see me now
Since we've been on our own
Are you gonna love the man
When the man gets home.."
Tomorrow is an early morning with basketball and an afternoon movie. Dr. Strange? Maybe.
Early evening will include a haircut. A shave. A drink. A dinner. It is Sunday and this is life.
February 4, 2016
Wolfie Of The Sea
We named him Wolfie after Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart. My dad had become a bit obsessed with the man and his music. A few years earlier, at the age of ten, I was forced kicking-and-screaming to watch the film with him at the Corte Madera theatre. Afterwards, he played the I-told-you, you-would-love-it card, to which I refused to give in. But oh man, was he right! From that opening scene in the snow when Salieri is rushed to the sanitarium while Symphony No. 25 in G minor is playing, to the end when the requiem buries him in his own madness, even at ten, I knew that the world was built on the dreams of madmen.
But how did I get to talking about the film? I was talking about the cat we had when we lived on North San Pedro Road. Our tiny house was across the street from San Rafael High School and right on the water. We had a beautiful bay window that looked on a small pier which housed a few boats. I used to spend weekend days, fishing for mudsuckers, that Gonzalo and I would sell to the bait shop for a quarter a piece until we had a ten dollar roll, which we would blow on a few hours of Gauntlet at Pinky's Pizza down the road.
But how did I get to talking about pizza joints? I was talking about the cat we named Wolfie. We had argued and debated the name for a few days, but my dad finally won out because he had let me name our previous cat a few years earlier- Rocky. Yes, I named my first pet after Rocky Balboa. Don’t ask. I guess I got caught up in the emotional come from behind victory, although even as an eight year old I was secretly hoping that Mr. T would win. It would have been strange for me to name the cat Clubbler Lang. Rocky just made more sense.
But how did I get to talking about Mr. T? I was talking about Wolfie. Wolfie was a strange cat, more like a dog really. He would fetch. He would run up to me when I came home. He slept in my bed, on my pillow every night and followed me around the house from the second I got home. They say a dog is a boy’s best friend, well I had Wolfie. On a few occasions, yes more than once, when he had crawled through the window at night, and was playing down at the pier when he had fallen into the water He must have somehow managed to get himself on dry land and back into my bed soaking wet. I remember a few nights, wrapping him in a towel and blow drying him as my parents slept soundly in their room.
Wolfe was a bit batty. He really was like his namesake. I am sure that if he could laugh, it would have sounded like Mozart’s hysterical cackle. He was curious, brave and playful. He didn’t walk, he pranced.
Until the one night when I came home and he didn’t run up to me at the door. We called his name, but he didn’t come. We searched the house, but couldn’t find him.
North San Pedro Road is a two-lane street where people tend to pick up speed right after the school zone, which was right where our house was placed.
After searching the entire house, I went down to the water and searched the pier. Wolfie was gone. After searching every possible place he could be, I headed up stairs and on a whim thought I would look at the front of the house and the sidewalk that ran passed our house. That’s when I saw him.
Across the street near the curb.
I screamed for my mom and dad to come out. The cars were moving so fast, I didn’t know how we could stop their flow to retrieve him. My dad waited for a lull in the traffic and ran out and grabbed him. I remember being so proud of him at that moment. There was an emergency and he was brave enough to bring Wolfie back to us.
Wolfe was not dead, but he was far from alive. He had been hit, but not run over. His eyes were rolled back into his head, and I could only see the whites of his eyes. A small trickle of blood dripped from his mouth and his body was tight and rigid. I grabbed him from my dad, once we were safely at our doorstep. I could tell he was breathing, but just barely.
I started to cry. Nothing hysterical, but a gentle low moaning. I could feel the muscles from my toes to my neck tighten and release with every breath. Tears were welling up and a soft sob was building in me like a flickering flame.
My parents stood by and tried to comfort me, but I am pretty sure that they were crying too. A few minutes later, as we all stood on the front door step holding our dying cat, he let out his last breath, and I swear I could feel his body tightened. The white’s of his eyes shone like an eerie mirror, but I couldn’t see anymore as the flood gates were final opened, and I was weeping uncontrollably.
I don’t remember how old I was exactly, but I know I was passed the age where young boys cry openly. I couldn’t remember the last time I had cried like the night Wolfie died.
It was late and I had no idea what to do next. I’m pretty sure my dad didn’t either, and now years later his solution feels bizarre, but necessary. He went into the house and grabbed a garbage bag and one of the cinder blocks that held up our homemade shelf- the one that stored his records.
“Come on. Get in the car.” He seemed determined in his single-minded pursuit, but he gently pried Wolfie from my arms and placed him on the garbage bag in the trunk of the car. I am not sure why my mom was not invited to come, and at the time I had no idea where we were headed.
We drove in silence toward China Camp, which is a small state park about fifteen minutes down the road from our house.
We arrived in the darkness and parked near a jetty. From out of nowhere, my dad pulled out a rope and tied the cat to the cinder block. I wasn’t sure what was happening, but my dad had earned my trust and I watched him in silence. There were no comforting words or explanation, just a man tying a dead cat to a cinder block in front of his crying son, placing it in the garage bag and walking down the pier toward the blackness and the sea.
We stood there waiting for a few minutes, a lazy crescent moon the only witness. I thought about how Amadeus had died poor and alone. Then we tossed him in.
Cat. Bag. Rope. Block.
It took a while for the bag to fill with water and sink. Once it did, we stared at the gentle ripples transform into waves and disappear into the darkness.
We drove home in silence and never spoke of that night again. I remember staying awake for most of the night, wondering how I would fall asleep without Wolfie next to me on the pillow.
But how did I get to talking about the film? I was talking about the cat we had when we lived on North San Pedro Road. Our tiny house was across the street from San Rafael High School and right on the water. We had a beautiful bay window that looked on a small pier which housed a few boats. I used to spend weekend days, fishing for mudsuckers, that Gonzalo and I would sell to the bait shop for a quarter a piece until we had a ten dollar roll, which we would blow on a few hours of Gauntlet at Pinky's Pizza down the road.
But how did I get to talking about pizza joints? I was talking about the cat we named Wolfie. We had argued and debated the name for a few days, but my dad finally won out because he had let me name our previous cat a few years earlier- Rocky. Yes, I named my first pet after Rocky Balboa. Don’t ask. I guess I got caught up in the emotional come from behind victory, although even as an eight year old I was secretly hoping that Mr. T would win. It would have been strange for me to name the cat Clubbler Lang. Rocky just made more sense.
But how did I get to talking about Mr. T? I was talking about Wolfie. Wolfie was a strange cat, more like a dog really. He would fetch. He would run up to me when I came home. He slept in my bed, on my pillow every night and followed me around the house from the second I got home. They say a dog is a boy’s best friend, well I had Wolfie. On a few occasions, yes more than once, when he had crawled through the window at night, and was playing down at the pier when he had fallen into the water He must have somehow managed to get himself on dry land and back into my bed soaking wet. I remember a few nights, wrapping him in a towel and blow drying him as my parents slept soundly in their room.
Wolfe was a bit batty. He really was like his namesake. I am sure that if he could laugh, it would have sounded like Mozart’s hysterical cackle. He was curious, brave and playful. He didn’t walk, he pranced.
Until the one night when I came home and he didn’t run up to me at the door. We called his name, but he didn’t come. We searched the house, but couldn’t find him.
North San Pedro Road is a two-lane street where people tend to pick up speed right after the school zone, which was right where our house was placed.
After searching the entire house, I went down to the water and searched the pier. Wolfie was gone. After searching every possible place he could be, I headed up stairs and on a whim thought I would look at the front of the house and the sidewalk that ran passed our house. That’s when I saw him.
Across the street near the curb.
I screamed for my mom and dad to come out. The cars were moving so fast, I didn’t know how we could stop their flow to retrieve him. My dad waited for a lull in the traffic and ran out and grabbed him. I remember being so proud of him at that moment. There was an emergency and he was brave enough to bring Wolfie back to us.
Wolfe was not dead, but he was far from alive. He had been hit, but not run over. His eyes were rolled back into his head, and I could only see the whites of his eyes. A small trickle of blood dripped from his mouth and his body was tight and rigid. I grabbed him from my dad, once we were safely at our doorstep. I could tell he was breathing, but just barely.
I started to cry. Nothing hysterical, but a gentle low moaning. I could feel the muscles from my toes to my neck tighten and release with every breath. Tears were welling up and a soft sob was building in me like a flickering flame.
My parents stood by and tried to comfort me, but I am pretty sure that they were crying too. A few minutes later, as we all stood on the front door step holding our dying cat, he let out his last breath, and I swear I could feel his body tightened. The white’s of his eyes shone like an eerie mirror, but I couldn’t see anymore as the flood gates were final opened, and I was weeping uncontrollably.
I don’t remember how old I was exactly, but I know I was passed the age where young boys cry openly. I couldn’t remember the last time I had cried like the night Wolfie died.
It was late and I had no idea what to do next. I’m pretty sure my dad didn’t either, and now years later his solution feels bizarre, but necessary. He went into the house and grabbed a garbage bag and one of the cinder blocks that held up our homemade shelf- the one that stored his records.
“Come on. Get in the car.” He seemed determined in his single-minded pursuit, but he gently pried Wolfie from my arms and placed him on the garbage bag in the trunk of the car. I am not sure why my mom was not invited to come, and at the time I had no idea where we were headed.
We drove in silence toward China Camp, which is a small state park about fifteen minutes down the road from our house.
We arrived in the darkness and parked near a jetty. From out of nowhere, my dad pulled out a rope and tied the cat to the cinder block. I wasn’t sure what was happening, but my dad had earned my trust and I watched him in silence. There were no comforting words or explanation, just a man tying a dead cat to a cinder block in front of his crying son, placing it in the garage bag and walking down the pier toward the blackness and the sea.
We stood there waiting for a few minutes, a lazy crescent moon the only witness. I thought about how Amadeus had died poor and alone. Then we tossed him in.
Cat. Bag. Rope. Block.
It took a while for the bag to fill with water and sink. Once it did, we stared at the gentle ripples transform into waves and disappear into the darkness.
We drove home in silence and never spoke of that night again. I remember staying awake for most of the night, wondering how I would fall asleep without Wolfie next to me on the pillow.
June 16, 2013
Things I Learned From My Dad:
Give people the benefit of the doubt.
Competition causes conflict.
Music will be the best friend I will ever have.
The masses will never tell me anything I don't already know in my heart.
We all owe the world art at whatever scale we see fit.
I can draw, I can sing, I can write.
The is more to the world than what we see: other realities, dimensions, consciousnesses.
Smiling feels better than not smiling.
Nothing matters enough to wallow in it.
Having fun is the most important thing one can do with a life.
There is beauty in everything and it is our job to expose it.
How to see the world in photographs.
How to notice the light and the curves and the shapes and colors.
Distrust of authority.
Independence.
How to enjoy and learn from brooding solitude and indolence.
How to keep a journal and value my thoughts and emotions and dreams.
How to drive a car.
Hard work.
Art trumps politics.
No one can see the world like me.
Thank you Mehran. I miss you, and when I look in the mirror you are all I see.
Competition causes conflict.
Music will be the best friend I will ever have.
The masses will never tell me anything I don't already know in my heart.
We all owe the world art at whatever scale we see fit.
I can draw, I can sing, I can write.
The is more to the world than what we see: other realities, dimensions, consciousnesses.
Smiling feels better than not smiling.
Nothing matters enough to wallow in it.
Having fun is the most important thing one can do with a life.
There is beauty in everything and it is our job to expose it.
How to see the world in photographs.
How to notice the light and the curves and the shapes and colors.
Distrust of authority.
Independence.
How to enjoy and learn from brooding solitude and indolence.
How to keep a journal and value my thoughts and emotions and dreams.
How to drive a car.
Hard work.
Art trumps politics.
No one can see the world like me.
Thank you Mehran. I miss you, and when I look in the mirror you are all I see.
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