humansofnewyork - Tumblr blog

[humansofnewyork]

“Just the other day a video popped up on Facebook. It was only five years ago. We were in the park. I was pushing her on the bike, letting go. We used to have so much fun together. We’d always get ice cream. She’s a strawberry girl. I’m a vanilla guy. Chipwich, actually. I’m a Chipwich guy. She’d give me a hug afterward, tell me I was the best dad ever. We were such good friends. But now it feels like we’re so far apart. She doesn’t want to talk to me anymore. Even when she’s upset, she’ll ignore me and go to her room. It’s like: C’mon. I was fifteen too. I know what it’s like. But she’ll come back, I know that. They always come back. But it does feels like you’re getting your heart ripped out a little bit. But look, I get it. She’s figuring out life. You have to back off. You have to give them space. Cause if you charge after them and get all aggressive about it, you might push them away forever. But they always come back, right? One day she’s gonna realize that I’m not the enemy and I’m really her dad, her friend. I still get a flicker of it, every once in awhile. We had a really surreal moment last year. Her birthday is March 17th. She’s a St. Paddy’s Day birthday. We always take her to a Spanish restaurant on Long Island, but this time we did something special. Her uncle used to be a bodyguard for Taylor Swift, and we still know some people at the company. So they got us tickets to her concert. Fifth row seats. I mean, don’t get me wrong. We paid for them, but fifth row center. She was crying. I got a big hug. A big kiss. A ‘Thank you, Dad.’ It wasn’t ‘You’re the best dad ever.’ But it was a really big: ‘Thank you, Dad.’”

[humansofnewyork]

“I’m taking a break from school until I figure things out. I guess I have rebel traits. There were just so many things that felt out of my control, and it bothered me. You have to wake up at this time. You have to go do this. You have to go do that. It’s like I didn’t have any originality. There was a certain point when I realized that everything, this whole routine that I had, had been given to me by other people. And the weird thing is, whenever you try to remove yourself from that equation, and stop doing what other people want, you kind of get ostracized and outcast. That’s kinda what happened to me. I have a great family, but it’s full of strong personalities. I had so many people telling me: do this, do that. They said it was a ‘respect’ thing. You know: ‘I’m the adult, so you should respect me.’ But I never understood that. Because at what age do I get this thing called respect? Nobody in my family could ever answer that question. Is it when I have a kid? Is that it? Or is it when I'm paying a certain amount of bills? At what point do I step up on the pedestal?”

[humansofnewyork]

“The question everybody wants to know is: why don’t the aliens contact us if they're really here? The answer is simple: because it would melt your psyche to contact beings from another dimension. Whether it's ghosts or spirits or deceased relatives or past lives or future lives or aliens or Bigfoot or fairies, all of it will melt your psyche. Because you’ve been programmed by The Empire to believe those things don’t exist. Unless of course you’re an indigenous person raised on traditional shamanic ceremonies. I learned all this by talking to other humans on other earths in other universes, so I'm trying to not blow your mind right now. When you’re talking about other dimensions you have to use a lot of metaphors, so just imagine earth as North Korea. You’ve probably seen enough documentaries to know what's going on in North Korea. The North Korean people are completely mind locked and brainwashed, and they have a completely inaccurate understanding of the rest of the planet. Well, that’s the same thing that’s happening here. Earth is the North Korea of the multiverse.”

[humansofnewyork]

“It took me a long time to figure out that not being able to get my homework done doesn’t mean I’m a bad person.”

[humansofnewyork]

“I’m turning forty in August. Three kids, full time job. All my kids are under the age of seven. The amount of mental energy it takes, you know, juggling all of them and the constant questions about nothing. I mean, mom is busy, please, just give me a second. My husband tells me that it’s just the season we’re in. We’ll get back to it. But I just want it to slow down so I can pause and breathe. Everything just changes so fast, you know? When you’re a little kid, and you turn into a teenager, it’s like: ‘Oh, I’m changing now.’ But you’ve been coached. You’re prepared for it. Then you go from teenager to college. That’s a big change. Then from college into your twenties, still changing. But at some point you kinda feel like I’m an adult, and I’m done. But you just keep going. It’s like oh shit, no, no, I’m going to keep changing. And these aren’t like the earlier changes. These aren’t the ones you get to plan for. Well some of them are, like: ‘We’re moving to a new place.’ Or ‘I’m going to get a new job.’ Those you can be ready for. But as you get older shit starts getting thrown at you that you're not planning for. Dodgeballs. And you’ve just got to pivot. And all of the sudden you realize, that moment in time, right before the dodgeball, that was the last time you saw the old you. And you didn’t even get to say goodbye.”

[humansofnewyork]

“You’re a slut and a whore for the algorithm. I couldn’t do it anymore. You can never feed it enough. You start out making art, and hoping that the door will open. You’re looking for that viral moment so it opens up the door and you can do the thing full time. But you start to compromise just to get the door to open: guessing what it wants, debasing yourself, alienating yourself. Until you’re not even in service to your art anymore. You’re in service to the algorithm. Deep down every artist just wants to be seen. Everyone does. And that’s how it controls you. The algorithm makes you behave in a certain way, create in a certain way, in exchange for being seen. And if something can change what you do, it can change who you are. And I didn’t sign up for that. I didn’t sign up to become a content creator. Art was supposed to be a way for me to be in search of, in service to, in community with. It was my ministry. Art was supposed to be my ministry.”

[humansofnewyork]

“Stop signs? I don’t care about any of that shit. Don’t have a license. Don’t have a license plate on my bike. I’m an outlaw through and through. I take it very seriously. The way I look at it, there’s a law of government and a law of man. And I follow the law of man. Right and wrong, that’s it. And the government don’t do right. I’m not trying to make myself a martyr. They already won. Darkness won. I’m just taking care of me and my own and doing what I can to keep their claws out of my back. I’ve got a half mile dirt drive that goes way back up in the woods, and that’s not far enough. They tried to pin me with some multimillion-dollar drug ring, and this is what I told them. In the courtroom, while my lawyer is elbowing me in the ribs to shut up. I said: ‘Listen man. You're fucking with a bunch of hillbillies trying to get high. All we do is fucking work on cars and bikes and snowmobiles and four wheelers and then go riding, and afterward we try to get naked with our old ladies. I’m just giving people that I care about something that they’re going to get elsewhere, that I can get them for a way lesser price and make sure the shit ain’t fucked with. What’s the problem with that?”

[humansofnewyork]

“They told me they loved me constantly, chronically, every day. They gave me a good home. They cared for me. They did all the basics, and above all that: they worked hard to put me in a great school district. But no matter how much they provide, your parents can’t give a shit for you. I made every bad choice a high schooler could make: tv, video games, pornography. All the stuff that you use to not think about stuff. It’s immediately gratifying, maybe the first 50 or 100 times. But after the 200th time, that stuff becomes who you are. I guess the whole time I was just hoping that someone would come along and tell me exactly what to do with my life, or else it would just come to me. Maybe that happens for some people. But for the other ninety percent of us, we have to make the conscious decision to just go. At first I told my dad I was joining The Marines. He’s an attorney. It certainly wasn’t what he would have chosen for me. But he said: ‘If this is what you want to do, you’re going to visit every branch. You’re going to make an educated decision.’ On the day I signed with the Coast Guard, I remember telling him: ‘I just want to be a good man.’ That’s as far as I’d gotten. That’s the only thing that I knew for sure. I didn’t know where the path was going to lead, but I was just tired of not trying. I figured it was better to just start walking and see what the hell happens. Because I know what happens if I don’t do anything.”

[humansofnewyork]

“It’s been a tough morning for me. I used to be a children’s librarian. But this morning I had to call publishers and tell them not to send me any more books. I just can’t read them anymore, not like I used to. And that was hard. It felt like I was cutting off a lifeline. It’s disappointing, the sense of not being in control of my own life anymore. Everything depends on my medical schedule, and the chemotherapy, and what my limits are. The doctor has told me to expect a couple more years, but my caretaker says she’s seen a lot of sick people. And she thinks I could be one of the ones who can beat it. For most of my life happiness was automatic. I might have had the only career where you get told ‘I love you’ three or four times a week. Maybe it happens with teachers too, but so many little kids said those words to me over the years. And I miss that. I was damned lucky to have that experience. Happiness isn’t automatic anymore, these days I have to work a little bit more for it. In addition to all the pain and the fear and having to pee all the time, I choose to do a lot of things that will make me aware of the beauty and loveliness of life. It's not magic. I don’t stop thinking about the scary stuff, I just find moments to push them aside with the ridiculous. There’s so much in life that’s ridiculous. Every Saturday morning I watch Popeye on Turner Classic Movies. It’s so ridiculous. Olive Oil is so obnoxious. And you know, she has all these men after her. It’s just really funny. And Popeye is so full of himself and somehow manages to come out of everything, eat his spinach, and win. Then there’s my laughing yoga classes, which I can’t do in person anymore. But I do them online. There’s this thing we do where people will get in lines of three or four, and we’ll pretend to have a boat race. Everyone rows as hard as they can. Someone chooses a winner, and if you lose you get to create a big scene and make an ass of yourself. It’s ridiculous. And then there’s you. You’re ridiculous. You’re stopping random people, presumably to entertain yourself. You’re sitting in the middle of the street. I mean, think about it. It’s pretty dumb.”

[humansofnewyork]

“Picture it, okay? Mardi Gras. New Orleans. Bourbon Street. I’m on college break with my three best childhood friends. Zak is there with his parents. He’s got his mom and dad with him. So it’s two different vibes, but somehow we all end up on the balcony of the same bar. Everyone’s got beads in their hands. We’re all yelling to see boobs. Well, I’m yelling to see boobs. That was just me. But Zak had a perfect mustache. He used to grow it much longer and curl it with wax. And I normally don’t approach people, I’m not that person. But his whole family seemed cute. They didn’t seem like normal New Orleans vacation people. So I was like: ‘Can I take a picture with you?’ Then we ended up adding each other on Snapchat, because that was the thing back then. And we agreed to meet up the next day after his family was done with their gator cruise and I was finished visiting the strip club. That night we walked along the river until the sun came up. I remember doing handstands on the levees. Then at the end we kissed. It was just a kiss because I was leaving early the next morning, and honestly I thought that would be the end of it. I thought for sure I was never going to see this kid again. But we kept talking, and two weeks later I’m taking his virginity in a Las Vegas hotel room. There was something going on with his stomach that day. Right when we finished he went to the bathroom and started throwing up. I called my girlfriend and said: ‘I don’t think he likes me.’ But it’s been love ever since.”

[humansofnewyork]

“They’re oblivious right now. They just think they’re at the park. I’m the one who’s got to figure stuff out. I’ve got enough money for us to get home. Then I’ve got to find a way to get something to eat. I’ve got to pay bills. We’re starting to get foreclosure letters in the mail. It’s just impossible to make ends meet right now, unless you’ve got school. I’m educated, but I just don’t have any degrees. I have no way of showing to a job that’s never met me: ‘Hey, I can do this.’ Plus I never know how it’s going to turn out, and that alone scares me. Maybe I’m just a pussy, I don’t know. I’m not proud of the stuff I’m selling. I’ve seen what it’s done to my mom, which is why I don’t use it. I don’t want that for my kids. I don’t want it to fuck up their life like it fucked up my life and my mom’s. That’s how I actually learned about it. Seeing how she’d fight to get that shit, no matter what. I know I could be selling to someone else’s mom. I hear that little voice in my head, like everyone else. But I block that out. I’m on autopilot. Quick exchange: I get my money, I give them their stuff. I block everything else out and I’m only looking at what I need, you feel me? And yeah it sounds evil, or whatever. But I weigh what I need more, and I need stability. I just need money. Money for my kids. Money for me. Money for like, all of us. Money so I don’t have to feel that stress of where am I going to get this next. And it’s the most accessible thing. It’s the easiest thing to get. You know, it’s Fentanyl.”

[humansofnewyork]

“The person who hurt us, hurt both of us. But it affected us differently. I isolated myself. I started taking drugs when I was twelve, maybe thirteen. But she just moved on with her life. I could never understand: how can she be so happy, while I’m stuck in my head and constantly thinking about it? It was exhausting to me. She was exhausting to me, especially when we were teenagers. I couldn’t stand to be around her because she was so light and positive and funny. Everything was always so cool, and so good. It felt to me that she didn’t want to face it. She just wanted to accept that it happened, and move on. But I couldn’t move on. I didn’t have that choice. I couldn’t just choose to not think about it. I remember the bad things, and how they made me feel. And I never want to feel that way again. I couldn’t just go back out into the world like it never even happened. I know that there are a lot more good people than bad, I do believe that. But there are bad people too. And they can really hurt you deeply if you give them your trust. So I never trusted anyone. Three years ago it reached a point where I felt completely hopeless. It was all so exhausting. I was exhausted. Exhausted from carrying these heavy feelings. Exhausted from making bad decisions. Exhausted from the drugs. It felt like nothing was ever going to change for me. Around that time we went out to dinner with my mother, and we finally had a deep talk about everything. We’d talked about it before, but maybe this time I really meant it. I decided that I have to let it go. I just have to let it go. I still have dark times when I don’t want to study or work. But when I’m in a bad mood, I’ll turn to her. Her happiness doesn’t make me feel worse anymore. It motivates me. It inspires me. Now she’s the person who can most easily put me in a good mood. I let her be a part of my bad days. And because of that, she’s also become a huge part of my good days. Both of us have gotten a lot more mature, and a lot wiser. But it was mainly me, I think. I had to change. If I hadn’t found a way to let go, we’d still be too different to be this close.”

[humansofnewyork]

“I grew up with strangers. I wasn’t even with my parents from first to fifth grade. All the people that were supposed to care for me, and teach me, and guide me, they all failed me. It caused a lot of anger and honestly, a lot of heartbreak. I even wondered if my family was cursed. Like all we do is come into this world and we struggle. From the age of twelve I had to go straight home from school and take care of my baby sister. I was the one making sure she was OK: feeding her, changing her, bathing her. It’s like my life was in shackles. I didn’t even start playing basketball for real until I was sixteen. That was the summer I was like: ‘I’m done. I’m not y’all’s babysitter.’ I started waking up early and going to the park for hours, doing drills. Basketball gave me a sense of control. The more I worked, the better I got, and it was like: ‘Wow. I can really do this.’ It’s like I was finally the one writing my story. I ended up trying out for the school team my senior year: no skills, no talent, just starting to understand the game. But the things I could do, I did better than everyone else: diving for loose balls, grabbing rebounds, and hustling. It was mainly hustle. And I think the coach saw that, or maybe he just felt sorry for me. Because he created an extra spot on the roster just for me. There weren’t even enough uniforms, I had a different uniform than everybody else, and during the away games the crowd would let me know. They let me hear it, but I didn’t care. I was just so happy to be there. I couldn’t shoot, but I’d go one hundred percent on defense. The coach would put me on the other team’s best player. I’d stay right up under his jersey. I’d chase him all over the court. And by the end of the year I was in the rotation. We won the city championship that year. During the final game our starters got off to a slow start, and the coach wanted some energy. So he looked down to the end of the bench and said: ‘Rey, go in.’ Right away I got a steal. The crowd was going wild. Proudest moment of my life. I took it all the way back down the court, and unfortunately, I missed the lay-up. Would have been a perfect ending, but man. I was just way too excited.”

[humansofnewyork]

“Growing up I was very much in my own head, my own world. Instead of getting a babysitter my mom would just go to work and leave me at the house. We didn’t have a TV or anything. And when there’s no one to talk to, you just become your own friend. I’d look out the window and try to imagine myself doing things. Like: ‘What would it be like if I was standing on that roof? What sort of things would I see?’ But when you do that too much, at some point you get lost. I didn’t even feel alone. It’s hard to explain, because I haven’t experienced nothing else. But it's like: you don’t feel lonely if there’s never nobody else there. And there was never nobody else there. Alone was my normal. It was my comfortable. So when we first started dating, I didn’t know what to do. Every time we were alone I would speak non-stop. Then I’d stop myself mid-sentence and be like, ‘Damn. I’m speaking a lot. I need to shut up.’ And she’d be like: ‘No, just keep telling me what you were telling me.’ I was just so excited. I felt like l a kid with a new toy. I’m not calling her a toy, that’s not what I mean. But that’s how I felt. Like I don’t know how this works, but I can’t believe I have it. I’m in love now. For so long I’d told myself: ‘This is never going to happen.’ But then it actually happened. It was like: ‘What do I do? Where do I go now?’ Every day has been something new. Monday feels like Saturday, because every day has meaning. I’m figuring out about her, and about myself, and about the world. Like, I didn’t know you could have fun in winter. There’s so many indoor activities you can do, just simple things. Like wearing matching pajamas on New Years. I never knew about that stuff. It can be so fulfilling. Sometimes you don’t even have to do anything. Just having somebody sitting next to you makes you feel nice inside. And that’s how it is now. That’s how my life is. She’s my comfortable. When she’s not with me, I wish that she was. I feel what it feels to be alone.”

[humansofnewyork]

(54/54) “I wish I could see it again. Just one more time. I wouldn’t need long. I’d spend a day in Tehran. I’d visit Persepolis, to see the ruins. I’d go to Nahavand, to see my people. To meet their children. And the children of their children. And then I’d go to his tomb. He was buried in his garden. And to stand there one more time, where he tended his trees. Where he sowed his seeds. Seven verses a day. I’d say them quietly in my head, I wouldn’t want to disturb the peace. But something happens, I can’t help it. I feel the heat. I feel the pressure. It’s like a sword pierces my body and I have to let it out: 𝑹𝒂𝒌𝒉𝒔𝒉 𝒓𝒐𝒂𝒓𝒆𝒅 𝒃𝒆𝒏𝒆𝒂𝒕𝒉 𝑹𝒐𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒎! The thunder of hooves, the spark of swords, the clash of axes, the single arrow spinning through the air. Who are these Persians? Rumi, Saadi, Hafez, Khayyam, Ferdowsi. Not even a lion! Not even a lion could stand against them! Our kings. Our queens. Our castles. Our battles. Our banquets. Our songs and celebrations. Our culture. Our wisdom. Our choices. Our story. And our words. All of our words. Words of mothers, words of fathers, words that teach, words that fly, words that cut, words that heal, words laughed, words sung, words wept, words prayed, words whispered in a moonlit garden, words of sin, words kissed, words sighed, words spoken from one knee. 𝘔𝘦𝘩𝘳. Words forgotten. Words remembered again. Words written on a page. Words etched on the face of a tomb. 𝘑𝘢𝘢𝘯. 𝘒𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘢𝘥. A castle of words! That no wind or rain will destroy! Who we were. Who we were! But also, who we wanted to be. We begin in darkness. A siren screams. A knight appears. A knight with the heart of a lion. A knight with a voice to make, the hardened hearts of warriors quake. A knight who rode out to face the enemy alone, and she roared. She roared! She roared at the enemy lines! Here! Here is your champion! Her wisdom, her soul, her voice, her faith, her power, her heart, her passion, her sin, her choice, her life, her fight, her fire, her fury, her justice! And her hair. Hair like a waterfall. Hair like silk. Hair like night. Hair worthy of a crown. 𝘈𝘻𝘢𝘥𝘪. All of Iran, in a single poem.”

 آرزو دارم بار دیگر آن را ببینم. برای یکبار هم که شده. کوته زمانی شاید. یک روز هم در تهران بمانم. سپس به تخت‌جمشید بروم، ویرانه‌های پرشُکوهش را دیدار کنم. آنگاه سری به نهاوند بروم، با سر بروم، برای دیدن زادگاهم. دیدن مردمانش. دیدن فرزندان‌ و فرزندانِ فرزندان‌شان. سپس به آرامگاه‌اش خواهم رفت. در باغ‌اش که خاک پاک اوست. یک بار دیگر آنجا بایستم که او درختان‌اش را می‌پروراند. زمینی که دانه‌هایش را در آن می‌کاشت. هفت بیت شعر میانگین هر روزش را می‌سرود. سروده‌هایش را به آرامی در دل و جانم زمزمه کنم. آرامش آنجا را به هم نخواهم زد. بی‌گمان از درونم احساسی می‌جوشد، جلویش را نتوانم گرفت. گرمایش را، فشارش را احساس می‌کنم. شمشیری تنم را می‌شکافد، فریادم را فرو می‌خورم: از این سو خُروشی بر آورد رَخش / وزآن سوی اسب یل تاجبخش! پژواک سُم اسب‌ها، درخشش شمشیرها، چکاچاک تبرها، و چرخش تک‌تیری در آسمان بلند. ‌کیانند اینان، ایرانیان؟ مولانا، سعدی، حافظ، خیام، فردوسی. دل شیر در جنگ‌شان اندکی‌ست! شاهان‌مان. شهبانوان‌مان. کاخ‌هامان. نبردهامان. بزم‌هامان. سرودها و جشن‌هامان. پهلوانان‌مان. فرهنگ‌مان. خردمان. گُزینه‌هامان. داستان‌مان. و واژگان‌مان. همه‌ی واژگان‌مان. واژگان مادران، واژگان پدران، واژگانی که می‌آموزند، واژگانی که پرواز می‌کنند، واژگانی که می‌بُرند، واژگانی که بهبودی می‌بخشند، واژگان خندان، واژگان سروده شده، واژگان زاری، واژگان نیایش، واژگان نجوا شده در باغ مهتابی، واژگان گناه، واژگان بوسیده شده، واژگان آوخ، واژگان گفته شده بر یک زانو. مهر. واژگان فراموش شده. واژگان یادآوری شده. واژگان نوشته شده بر برگ. واژگان حک شده بر آرامگاه. جان. خرد. کاخی از واژگان! که از باد و باران نیابد گزند! که بوده‌ایم. که بوده‌ایم! و چه می‌خواستیم باشیم. در تاریکی آغاز می‌کنیم. بانگ آژیری برمی‌خیزد. سواری پدیدار می‌شود. پهلوانی با دل شیر. با خُروشی که دل‌های استوار جنگیان را می‌لرزاند. پهلوانی که به تنها تن خویش به نبرد دشمن می‌رود. و می‌خُروشد. می‌خُروشد! می‌خُروشد بر صف دشمنان! اینجاست، اینجاست پهلوان شما! خِرد او، جان او، آوای او، ایمان او، نیروی او، دل او، شور او، گُناه او، گُزینه‌ی او، زندگی او، زمان او، نبرد او، آتش او، خشم او. داد او! و گیسوان او. گیسوانی چون آبشار. گیسوانی ابریشمین، گیسوانی چون شب. گیسوانی سزاوار تاج. آزادی. همه‌ی ایران در شعری یگانه

[humansofnewyork]

(53/54) “It’s a beautiful word in itself, Mitra. Someone who has no idea of its meaning can appreciate its beauty. Mitra always had a genius for beauty. She knew it completely. She wanted it around her at all times. Even now she keeps a book of Hafez by our bedside. It’s always in reach, and whenever she finds a verse that she loves, she will bring it to me. She still trusts me to find the melody. Poetry is one of the things that she still remembers best. Because poetry is music. It sinks into the memory. Even if you can’t remember a word, the rhythm will guide you. The rhyme will give you a hint. Recently we were reciting a poem from an old book, and one of the words had completely faded. It was a poem that we both used to love. And I was so mad at myself. I kept trying to remember the word, but it would not come to me. Then suddenly she said it. It made me so happy. It doesn’t hurt when she forgets anymore, but it makes me so happy when she remembers. To know that the memory is still inside of her. That she is still holding on. Our lives are just a fistful of memories, ice melting in our hands. And Mitra’s ice is melting faster than mine. But she still has more memories of me than anyone else. And I have a lifetime of memories every time I look at her. And until the last moment, until the last ice has melted, we will still be us. Our entire lives we’ve been on two different roads. But the horizon was always the same. It was an unwritten promise: that no matter what happens, I will keep you. Even when we disagree, I will keep you. From a distance, I will keep you. In the dark, I will keep you. In the deepest pit, I will keep you. Even if you lose your country, even if you lose your eye, even if you lose your memory, I will keep you. We will still be us. It’s the only thing we ever agreed on. We always agreed on us. It’s one of the earliest principles of Iran. It’s where she gets her name. Mitra, the God of Promises.” 

میترا واژه‌ای بس زیباست. حتا اگر درونمایه‌اش را هم ندانیم، زیبایی واژه را درمی‌یابیم. او نبوغ ویژه‌ای در زیباشناسی دارد. به درستی با آن آشناست. دوست داشت پیرامونش همیشه زیبا باشد. هنوز دیوان حافظ را کنار تختش می‌گذارد. هنوز هرگاه شعری دلپسند از حافظ ‌بیابد، به من می‌دهد تا برایش بخوانم. هنوز باور دارد که من آهنگ درست شعر را زود پیدا می‌کنم. اگر نتوانم، یاری‌ام می‌کند. شعر، یکی از چیزهایی‌ست که هنوز به یاد می‌آورد. شعر موسیقی‌ست، پر از آهنگ و نواست، در گوشه‌های مغز جایی دارد. اگر واژه را فراموش کنید، آهنگ‌اش شما را به آن می‌رساند، راهنماست. چند روز پیش شعری از کتابی کهن را می‌خواندیم. یکی از واژگان خواندنی نبود. شعری بود که هر دو دوست داشتیم، دلم گرفت، به یادش نمی‌آوردم، ناگهان او واژه را در جایش نشاند! چه مایه شادمان شدم. فراموشی‌های او دیگر مرا نمی‌آزارند، اما هرگاه چیزی را به یاد می‌آورد بسیار خُرسند و خُشنود می‌شوم. می‌دانم که برخی خاطره‌ها هنوز در او زنده‌اند. هنوز آنها را نگه‌داشته است. زندگی مُشتی خاطره است که مانند یخ در دست‌هایمان آب می‌شود. یخ‌های میترا به آب شدن شتاب بیشتری دارند. او بیش از هر کس دیگری از من خاطره دارد. و من خاطره‌ی یک عمر زندگی را مُرور می‌کنم هرگاه به او چشم می‌دوزم. تا واپسین لحظه، تا واپسین تکه‌ی یخ، با هم خواهیم ماند. همه‌ی زندگی‌مان، دو تا همراه بوده‌ایم. اما افق و کرانه‌‌هامان همواره همسو بوده است. کاخی بود پیرامون ما. سوگندی نانوشته: هر آنچه هم که پیش آید، تو را نگه خواهم داشت. هم‌اندیش نباشیم، تو را نگه خواهم داشت. بر بالاترین فراز‌ها، تو را نگه خواهم داشت. در ژرف‌ترین گودال‌ها، تو را نگه خواهم داشت. اگر میهن‌ات را از دست بدهی، اگر چشم‌ات را هم از دست بدهی، حتا اگر حافظه‌ات را از دست بدهی، همچنان تو را نگه خواهم داشت. ما همچنان ما خواهیم بود. این یگانه چیزی‌ست که ما همواره بر سر آن هم‌رای بودیم. این یکی از نخستین آرمان‌های ایران بوده است. سرچشمه‌ی نامش. میترا، ایزدبانوی پیمان‌ها

[humansofnewyork]

(52/54) “It always sits out on the shelf. It’s given structure to my life. I’ve wanted to be a knight. I’ve wanted to be a king. I’ve wanted to be Ferdowsi, living for higher ideals. But there’s old men in Shahnameh too. And that’s my idea of a king now, a grandfather. A 𝘉𝘶𝘣𝘫𝘢𝘯. He’s more of a cultural figure. He advises his grandchildren. He keeps them together. But he doesn’t participate in their issues, regardless of how they behave. He’s like a book. He’s full of wisdom. He's there if you need him, but he doesn’t exert power over you. I’m reading it through one last time, with all eight of my grandchildren. It’s a deeper understanding now. To dive deep requires a philosopher’s tenacity, but the pearls are in the depths of the seas. These days I skim over the battle scenes. I read more diligently the parts that tell of universal values like love and kindness. The parts that are true for everyone. One of my favorite stories never made it into Shahnameh. It was passed down through our oral traditions. Iran is in the midst of the longest war it has ever fought. The fighting has gone on for more than a century. Many kings have died, both sides are exhausted, and a truce is proposed. A single champion from the Iranian side is selected. His name is Arash, ‘The Archer.’ He’s told to climb one of the highest mountains in Iran, and to shoot his arrow as far as he’s able. And wherever it lands, that will be the border of the new Iran. He climbs to the mountain’s peak. He pulls back his bow as far as he can, and he lets the arrow fly. It sails across the entire country. And sticks into a walnut tree, exactly where the previous border was before. Before the fighting, before the bloodshed. And that’s the new Iran. But Arash never gets to see it. He put his entire soul into the arrow. All of his 𝘑𝘢𝘢𝘯. And the moment it’s released, he falls over and dies.”

 همواره بالای گنجه نمایان است. به زندگی‌ام سامان داده است. می‌خواستم پهلوان باشم. می‌خواستم شاه باشم. می‌خواستم فردوسی باشم، که تنها به آرمان‌هایش می‌اندیشد. اما کهنسالان هم در شاهنامه هستند. اکنون برداشتم از شهریار، پدربزرگ است، باب‌جان است، یک باشنده‌ی فرهنگی. او برای هم‌اندیشی با فرزندان و نوادگانش همواره هست. آنها را همبسته نگه‌می‌دارد. به زندگی روزانه‌ی آنان کاری ندارد، گزینش رفتار و راهکارهایشان با آنهاست. او مانند یک کتاب است. اگر نیاز داشته باشند در دسترس است. اما فشاری بر آنها نیست. برای واپسین بار شاهنامه را با هر یک از هشت نوادگانم می‌خوانم. اکنون برداشتی ژرف‌تر دارم. داستان‌ها همیشه برایم دلپذیر بوده‌اند. همیشه درونمایه‌ی واژگان را به جان گرفته‌ام. اما غوطه‌ور شدن در ژرفای داستان‌ها نیازمند پیشینه و پشتکار فرزانگان است. مرواریدها در ژرفای دریا نهفته‌اند. این روزها از پهنه‌ی نبرد‌های خونین زودتر می‌گذرم. بخش‌هایی را که از ارزش‌های جاودانی مردمان در سراسر جهانند، چون عشق و مهربانی، ژرف‌تر می‌خوانم، به کار همه می آیند، راستین‌اند. داستان پرمایه و دلانگیزی در اوستا هست. داستانی که در شاهنامه نیامده است. ایرانیان درگیر جنگی درازدامن با تورانیانند. جنگی که بیش از یک سده به درازا کشیده است. بسیاری از پادشاهان جان باخته‌اند، هر دو سو خسته و درمانده‌اند. پیمان می‌بندند که مرز ایران و توران تیر پرتاب کمانگیری از فراز کوه رویان باشد. از ایران سپاه، آرش است که در این کار سترگ بالا برمی‌افرازد، جان خود در تیر می‌کند. تیر بر شاخ گردویی فرود می‌آید که بر مرز راستین ایرانزمین روییده است! از آرش مگر کمانی باز نمی‌ماند. سیاوش کسرایی چه زیبا سروده است: جان خود در تیر کرد آرش / کار سدها سدهزاران تیغه‌ی شمشیر کرد آرش