The hands, they are always there.

You never think how you will remember someone’s hand so well; when they are there. There, beside you, or there, somewhere in the world. I never thought I would remember my mom’s hands so well. I never thought one day, when I finally feel that I can go to sleep, half-sleep, I would scratch my palm and I would see more clearly than anything I saw that day, blurred by tears, my mom’s hands. As she scratches her palm with the nails so perfectly shaped that looked like powdered manicured ones, Even after years of chemo. Seeing her slim small fingers and her little palm that led to a swollen arm because of damaged lymph nodes. See the light of her living room that, I always hated how dimmed it was, on her hands. And I never thought I would hear her so perfectly in my head, saying something so painfully mundane. hearing she say, half hopeful and half feeling guilty for believing or even joking about believing such things, that:” my hand itches, guess a lot of money is waiting for us.” *
I should have known that. I should have known. When, in fact I always could remember the angle which her hair curled when she braided it. Even though it was twenty years since she had been shaving her head every two months in the hope of her hair becoming strong enough between medicines to grow back. As long, and black and curled.
but I never thought I had to decide half-sleep, if I believe that her hand is six feet underground lying motionless or that she is somewhere in this world, or any other, scratching her palm saying with laughter in her eyes: “my hand itches, guess a lot of money is waiting for us.”

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• in Iranian culture, itchy palms means that a significant amount of money awaits you.

Father

In the ally, it is darkening.

Windows are getting brighter,

Brighter than the lonely splash of pink and tangerine,

at the end of the sky.

In the ally, it smells like hot dogs and cigarettes,

It smells like a home that has a father.

And I feel a lump in my throat.

Istanbul and bukowski

On a steep and narrow street in Istanbul, there is an antique store. One of many in that street.
This one is large, with many rooms all connecting by narrow hallways, all full. The store smells like old memories, belonging to other people. People you don’t know. And things you don’t know if they wanted to keep or not.
Touching them is like reading someone’s diary; not daring to do so, but you can’t resist. In the middle of the store, two men with gray hair, and a woman that you can guess has gray hair under her hijab, are sitting around a small table, with their finished coffee cups, cold; and their ashtray full, staring into the space around the cellphone on the table. Bukowski’s voice is saying:
Style is the answer to everything.
A fresh way to approach a dull or dangerous thing.
To do a dull thing with style is preferable to doing a dangerous thing without it.
To do a dangerous thing with style is what I call art.

Bullfighting can be an art.
Boxing can be an art.
Loving can be an art.
Opening a can of sardines can be an art.

Not many have style.
Not many can keep style.
I have seen dogs with more style than men.
although not many dogs have style.
Cats have it with abundance…

On a warm July noon, words are flowing in there. With their cigarette smoke touching every old
Watch
Frame
Record
Coat
Hat
Book
Photo

… When Hemingway put his brains to the wall with a shotgun,
that was style.
Or sometimes people give you style.
Joan of Arc had style.
John the Baptist.
Christ.
Socrates.
Caesar.
Garcia Lorca.

I have met men in jail with style.
I have met more men in jail with style than men out of jail.
Style is the difference, a way of doing, a way of being done.
Six herons standing quietly in a pool of water.
or you, naked, walking out of the bathroom without seeing me.

of spring ,friends,and sorrows.

We were all 25. More or less. It was Eid*.we were going to the countryside. Aimless. to walk, maybe. Or to sit in a small cafe. We didn’t know. We didn’t need to know. Life was hard. We had a lot in our minds. Saba’s visa for Austria had gotten rejected, Maryam had had anxiety attacks the night before. And me too.my girlfriend Shima was constantly worried about money, for the immigration lawyer in Canada that we were going to have a contract with. One of my far relatives had passed away, and I was waiting to get somewhere and call the family for condolences, and I knew it was going to be awkward. I was thinking about the lawyer in Canada, too.

Maryam was driving, and her boyfriend was sitting next to her. We were in the back seat. I was leaning on Saba, her arm around me and her wrist resting on my shoulder. Easy, calm, happy. I was holding Shima’s hand on her own lap. She was smiling at me, holding her head straight because of the neck spasm she had. There was wind in my hair and the scarf around my neck. No one there to tell us otherwise; because we were driving so fast that the other cars couldn’t really see us.

The sun was in our eyes, but we wouldn’t wear our sunglasses. There was “wish you were here” playing, and I didn’t wish anyone one else to be there. I felt so safe. Nothing could harm me. I was happy. There were sorrows. but we were happy.  

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Eid: Iranian new year holidays in spring.

in another life

maybe in my past life I was a stray kitten killed by a car, in the middle of an alley on a Friday afternoon.

Maybe I was lying there, my by body getting cold. Maybe two girls saw me as they were coming back from a walk. After a gasp and a few seconds of squinting one of them said:” we can’t leave it here.”

Maybe one of them had picked my body up. Her hand shivering, she wrapped me in a cloth. A jacket perhaps. And then they walked to the end of the ally, taking me with them. Maybe she had placed my body carefully in the garbage bag. In the dumpster. Then, maybe as they turn back, she put her arm around the other one who had tears in her eyes and told her” I bet she didn’t feel much baby. I bet it happened in just a flash. “

Murder

God I was furious with him back then. it’s been two months now. I haven’t told anyone yet. I didn’t dare. I haven’t said that I told him “I don’t care”.it was before he hit the road. he came here. He said:” would you come down for a minute? I want to see you. please? What if I crashed a bus on the road?” and I told him: I don’t care”.

Of music and alcohol

There are some music tracks that after a certain age you just wont listen to ,too early in the day , or you’re wrecked .

just like alcohol . when you are a teenager its kind f a cool dark mood . but when you are a grown up and still doing it ,you’re just fucked up.

Maybe just a piece of writing

Sometimes she wonders. about everything. You couldn’t figure out what specifically makes her wonder or when it may happen. at these times she notices everything. all the little noises at four in the morning on an empty parking lot after a spring rain. drops here and there. single ones. the rattle sound thin roofs make in the wind .and the wind, colder than usual. But less irritating, bringing the smells. uh the smells were her first favorite thing in the world.  Like The smell of wet streets that never became dull to her, even after centuries being written about and being described in stories and poems and memoirs. every smell was a specific time and place to her. smells could bring all the parallel lives she had, to her sight .and then she would wonder, how can anyone ignore that .and then she wouldn’t wait for the answer in her head. she would just inhale that moment.

If you haven’t notice up to here, I’m not gonna describe her. I’m not gonna say what she does for a living or how old she is. not even her name. its redeculesly obvious that you don’t need that to know a person. and if you did, why do you need to know someone when you’re gonna read about them. I’m not even gonna tell you that knowing someone is actually knowing what they think about .no,im not gonna say these clichés  .you just keep on reading if you will

Light was her second favorite thing in the world. And not just sunshine. any light. like winter sun behind its flat cloudy sky that makes it easy to look at for several minutes, when she is hiding behind a useless big board next to the window at some university class on fifth floor. knowing that no one in the yard is going to see her because people don’t look up from where they are usually. And Even unnatural lights, coming from hundreds of windows at early night hours in the crowded city. it would make her wonder more than any other thing. wondering about them. people behind the windows. what are they talking about? what are they thinking about? What do they have for dinner? What are they watching on TV?are they happy ? are they crying ? are they having sex? Are they having a baby? are they thinking about killing themselves? Does any of them looks at the city and wonder about people? Wondering if they are happy, if they are crying, if…. sometimes she wasn’t one of the people, living her life in that city. She didn’t feel like she was one of them when she was walking in the streets, her ear catching a phrase or two from busy passers, talking to someone next to them or on the phone.” …and then I told him you cannot talk to me like that because…”.” …im gonna call my lawyer and ask if I can …”.” …im really worried about that exam, I know I should’ve …”.” …my mom is driving me crazy. the other day she said…”.and sometimes they mention a name; strange to her yet it would make her wonder a little bit more.

The reason I’m talking about these things are not important. Did you even once read something and knew why exactly the writer chose to write about them? don’t every writer just say what they feel they wanna say? I know that I’m disturbing you by only giving you long shots and then some extreme close-ups and not describing any specific situation or following a visible path. but why should you be disturbed? can’t you just wonder? like her?

Then sometimes when she’s going home, she knows it’s about to end. but it doesn’t bother her. she feels like finishing a good book. You would rather read it forever but you knew it had to end sometime.  when she is walking in her street she would wonder if something suddenly happens. what if she sees someone and after they smile at each other _or maybe just looking at each other_ they began to talk. what if they have so much to tell each other. and not in a lover way but like friends or a stranger that suddenly became someone you want to invite to your home and have coffee with while blood rushing to your cheek from that spontaneous talk that makes you lose the time .and then she would reach her door forgetting to buy something for dinner even though she decided to on the way home. she would smile, standing there on the street at her door. with the keys in her hand.

Im not gonna tell you whether she would turn back and go shopping or is she just gonna go home. because it doesn’t matter.