#farsi poetry maybe??

[thomaslightwoodenthusiast]

WHY IS THE FACT THAT THOMAS IS CANONICALLY A GREAT SINGER AND WRITES HIS OWN POETRY ALWAYS FORGOTTEN. WHY DOES NOBODY TALK ABOUT IT. WE SHOULD DEFINITELY BE TALKING ABOUT IT.

[mollyhale]

15 questions / 15 mutuals

tagged by @glasstown-resident - thanks for tagging me!!!

1. Are you named after anyone?

nope! my parents picked my name out of a name book but coincidentally, it translates well to farsi despite not being a traditional persian name, so that’s nice

2. When was the last time you cried?

i was writing a poem the other day about this guy ive been in love with since we were kids lol and it brought back a lot of unsaid feelings and memories so i was just laying in bed crying about him but that’s not uncommon for me lmfao

3. Do you have kids?

nope :) would like to one day, but like maybe one or two at most

4. Do you use sarcasm a lot?

fluent, actually 

5. What’s the first thing you notice about people?

eyes probably bc im looking for eyes i feel safe in but then again i dont make a lot of eye contact anymore so maybe that’s contradictory lol so hair as a close second

6. What’s your eye color?

hazel but i was recently told they lean more on the green end than brown, but most definitely hazel

7. Scary movies or happy endings?

happy endings 100% (bonus points for my happy ending by avril lavigne)

8. Any special talents?

uhhh like im classically trained in the harp? but i dont play anymore lol 

idk if it’s a talent but im kinda ambidextrous when drawing/painting but i cannot write with both hands 

9. Where were you born?

im a midwest girl :) 

10. What are your hobbies?

video games, painting/drawing/all the art things with any medium really, painting my nails (fridays are my once a week nail days), writing (poetry specifically)

11. Have any pets?

not anymore :/ had a cat when i was a kid and two fish after he passed, and occasionally for norooz i’ll get a fish for the haft seen but i havent done that in years 

12. What sports do you play/have played?

i’ve practiced taekwondo basically my whole life! went to the us open for it and everything, that was super fucking sick

13. How tall are you?

in one year i was told three different heights, 4′11″, 5′, and 5′2″ so if you’re asking, i’ll say 5′2″ (but it’s probably actually just 5′)

14. Favorite subject in school?

art and english when i was in high school, but art consistently my whole life. fave college class tho was my poetry class, that was the best class i’ve ever taken just like for fun as an elective

15. Dream job?

perfect world? art director in the fashion industry for like vogue or some other fashion magazine. i wanna develop the photoshoots you see on the cover of fashion magazines or just work in fashion advertising or something to that effect

tagging: @mickeysjones @borntobewondering @caw4brandon @flippinfins @seancamerons @bl33ditout​ @mxlinoe @slickmascara and whomever else wants to!! also no pressure to do this :)

[kashilascorner]

I'm actually quite excited about the prospect of studying anthropology next year

[poems-of-madness]

Dear grandfather,  your features are falling  on our faces like velvet  curtains; elegant eyes of an Afghan representing a  tribe of a proud nation.  We inherited that.  And in my dreams  you know me better than anyone.  You call on me in Pashto,  or maybe Dari,  or even Farsi,  you could speak all of the languages.  There was so little of you  but so much of you in us.  Some tragedies leave  so much love behind, and  I know  my father loves you more  than  you could imagine.  And he made  all of his success with the lessons you left behind.  Grandfather,  your family calls me ‘jan'  and it is bittersweet,  like the seeds of a pomegranate,  cause I wish I had all of my uncles  and aunts, and all of their children here with us.  You taught my father how to migrate,  how to build a home in a country  where  it wants to send you back where  you came from.  But you were a cartographer,  you knew that borders  are just drawing lines,  it means nothing if you have the charm of an immigrant.  My grandfather,  we are educated,  with bachelor degrees,  masters even,  talents and passion.  Like you.  We never learnt our father’s language,  but lately,  your language is yearning  to be pronounced.  Every word is a poem.  Every sentence is a proverb.  And all the lyrical  letters are crying in silence.  You would still be proud,  your son re-learn it all  like an old childhood song.  We still call Afghanistan on the phone,  we still send photographs,  and my father’s old siblings   are scolding him that he should be speaking Persian better.  After all, he is not a European.  Dear grandfather,  would you read my poetry when  I meet you in heaven?  Would you pronounce my  name the right way?  Would you know I have searched  for you?  Would you know my father never stopped mentioning you? Would you know we never forgot you?  Generations later,  we were still lion kings.

The Lion King from The Immigration Series by Royla Asghar 

[golfam-missaghian]

Flower Genetics from Grandmother to Granddaughter

Grandmama was on a hospital bed

A Persian doctor translated English to Farsi for her

I told grandma about a man I was making love to at the time

A man I loved who loved me too but was too afraid of showing it

I told grandma I’m not his type because I’m brunette and bronze and he prefers pale blondes

Grandma said screw his type

I told grandma if I’m so beautiful then why won’t he make me his

Grandma said, “A flower doesn’t lose sight of its value after someone can’t see its beauty.

For a flower remains beautiful regardless of if others see it or not.”

My name means “similar to a flower”

It took me 24 years to finally see that I too am beautiful and radiant like a flower

My Grandmama had artificial flowers, dresses, jewelry she wore on occasion like her pearl necklaces and her diamond earrings, cardigans, sweaters, comfortable shoes, a bible she read occasionally, lotion to moisturize her already soft hands and face.

She loved getting flowers for her birthday and Mother’s Day every year

Every Mother’s Day I would surprise her with a flower bouquet for her special day

I too, like Grandma, adore getting flowers on my birthdays

My grandma was a love psychic and read my crushes’ selfies

To gauge their personality, vibe, and energy

I must’ve inherited love mysticism from her too

Because when I look at strangers’ pictures on Instagram I can read their true hidden emotions

Maybe I’m a love witch and maybe that’s why broken men and taken men were drawn to me

Like how married Gods were drawn to Aphrodite, to get a taste of what it’s like to be loved by a woman.

Grandma loved to be loved, she loved to be romanced

When I was a little bit younger, grandma told me to marry a man who has a beautiful personality

She said, “Marry a man you can raise a family with”

She had the most radiant stories to tell and sometimes I took that for granted

Sometimes on our phone calls I didn’t pay attention to the details grandma told me, I regret that.

But isn’t it true don’t we all feel the most regret for those we loved who passed away?

I love telling stories of the men I loved, in my screenplays and my poetry

I wonder, has grandma reincarnated yet or is she still in angel form picking daisies and other flowers in heaven.

Or is she laughing with other angels who were once grandmas, by heaven’s fountain, while waiting on grandpa’s arrival to reincarnate together?

After she passed away, I made love to him again a couple more times before I realized she’s right and I can’t waste my youth giving all my love to broken men who aint loving me right.

On that hospital bed grandma told me, “Honor yourself. Love yourself,” that was the best advice anyone ever gave me.

She said that in 2018, in an old school Farsi slang, at that time I couldn’t grasp what she meant by that until 2 years later during one of my many epiphanies.

Grandma bought me my first guitar

Grandma was a badass

She was a hairstylist, nail artist, makeup artist, fashion designer, and the owner of a bridal shop all while raising 5 kids.

She threw radiant parties, she loved parties

She was an icon

In terms of feminism, she was ahead of the times

Me and grandma used to watch old music and classic movies together on her television, those spring summer days.

She saw Lindsay Lohan for the first time on Ugly Betty on her T.V.

On the first day grandma moved in with grandpa those many years ago, she felt the stressful pressures of having all her shit together and cried.. I relate to that.

When I look at vintage black-and-white pictures of her when she was young in her 20’s, I see how happy she was

Is grandma looking for a new lover in heaven?

Or is she waiting on grandpa?

Waiting to give each other love again

[arcticdoctor]

BASIC INFORMATION:

FULL NAME : jonathan ( vinay ) bhavsar.  MEANING:

name: jonathan, meaning yahweh has given from hebrew origin.

surname: bhavsar, traditional occupation of dyeing and calico printing from hindu origin.

MONIKERS / NICKNAMES : the doctor / jon.

GENDER & PRONOUNS : cis-male, he / him. ETHNICITY : indian.  DATE OF BIRTH & AGE: august 24, 1815. ( 30 years old )  ZODIAC SIGN : virgo — the sign that seeks goodness in humankind. ORIENTATION : bi, bi, bi !  MARITAL STATUS : single, as his parents remind him as often as humanly possible.  OCCUPATION : doctor. ( the highest role out of the doctor / physician / surgeon / apothecary options. he fought to be called doctor. )  CURRENT LOCATION : the hms promethean. 

BACKGROUND:

PLACE OF BIRTH : calcutta, the capital of british-held territories in india. RESIDENCES : london --- he lived in a ( fairly small ) home with his parents and youngest sister. he was rarely at home, however, spending most of his day traveling by horseback to patients.   RELIGIOUS VIEWS : agnostic, although he doesn’t really recognize that about himself. his mother especially tried to instill in him a connection to christianity, but it just led to him asking a lot of questions she couldn’t answer. it would not be until he was an adult himself that he learned she still practiced hinduism.  EDUCATION : very much scattered in his youth, but his parents were very determined that he have a good education so it eventually picked up. they spent a good deal of their resources to see it happen. medical school in his early twenties. partnership with an older doctor for a few years until they parted on bad terms, but by then, he had made enough of a name for himself to continue his own practice.  LANGUAGES SPOKEN : english, latin, greek, french, german. learning urdu and persian ( farsi ).  FAMILY : 

parents: mother ( aditi bhavsar ) + father ( sahil bhavsar )

siblings: thomas bhavsar ( brother, 2 years younger --- a rascal! all play and no work! bums off jonathan constantly! he’s always off on some con but truly means well. ), sophia bhavsar ( sister, 3 years younger --- oldest sister syndrome, very hardworking, absolutely musically gifted, just started her own family. ), rosanna bhavsar ( deceased, was almost 5 years old at time of death ), dinah bhavsar ( sister, 10 years younger --- the surprise and absolute jewel of the family, a bit lost in what she wants, lives at home. )

OTHER FAMILIAL RELATIONS : the rest of his family still resides in india, and he has yet to meet them. he has written to a cousin a few times, but that’s the extent of his contact.  

APPEARANCE:

FACECLAIM : dev patel. HAIR COLOUR / STYLE : black, curly when he doesn’t cut it for too long. he tries to keep clean-shaven, but he prefers trimmed facial hair.  EYE COLOUR / SHAPE : black-brown, round eyes. HEIGHT : 6 ft. 2 in. BUILD : lean but athletic. SPEECH STYLE : he tends to get over-excited when he speaks, and his speech becomes rapid, often littered with interjections and questions. he’ll cut himself off and let his train of thought go where it will, which can make it difficult to have a conversation with him on occasion. in his profession, he is soft-spoken and kindly in his speech. gentle. comforting.  RECOGNIZABLE MARKINGS : calloused hands, a scar on his thigh ( horseback riding incident ), misc. scars from just... not looking after himself as closely as he should and pushing himself too far.  BEAUTY HABITS : grooming ( trimming hair and beard ), cleaning his glasses, regularly bathes, obsessively washes his hands. 

PERSONALITY:

TROPES : the relentless optimist, the idealist, friend to all living things, from zero to hero, good is not dumb, hope bringer, curiosity killed the cat.  INSPIRATIONS : okay this is not going to make any sense to anyone else because it’s less these whole characters and more... moments of them. also only in retrospect? but: leo ( the great ), fox mulder ( the x-files ), chidi anagonye ( the good place ), kim hui seong ( mr. sunshine ), samwise gamgee ( lord of the rings ), patroclus ( mythology ), mary oliver poetry. i took inspiration from the concept of a good character, a character who is bright-eyed and childlike, a character who loves and laughs and is maybe a bit too excited to uncover the secrets of the world, even if those secrets are horrible and monstrous. curious to a fault and has never apologized for that curiosity, even if it gets him in trouble.  MBTI : enfj ( extraverted, intuitive, feeling, judging, assertive ). ENNEAGRAM : type two --- the giver. ALIGNMENT : neutral good — a neutral good character does the best that a good person can do. HOGWARTS HOUSE : ravenclaw. POSITIVE TRAITS : optimistic, steadfast, curious.  NEGATIVE TRAITS : tactless, overly determined, naive.  HABITS : he is constantly moving, constantly talking, constantly in motion. he takes on / off his glasses a shocking amount of times. he people watches.  HOBBIES : reading, sketching, exploring, astronomy, gardening, philosophical debates.  USUAL DEMEANOR : this gif really feels right. he tends to be a bit bouncy, speaks with his hands a lot, tries to make himself smaller than he is so as not to intimidate anyone. i feel like you see him, and you know he’s not a threat. he also smiles at most people! 

HEALTH

PHYSICAL AILMENTS : he was seasick for a while, but he’s finally used to ship. beyond that, he’s pretty healthy.  NEUROLOGICAL CONDITION : adhd, obviously undiagnosed.  PHOBIAS : fear of being buried alive, if only because he has heard some horror stories. :-/ ALLERGIES : none. SLEEPING HABITS : this boy definitely has insomnia! it takes him a long, long time to fall asleep. you can catch him wandering, reading, or laying on the floor groaning to himself when it’s particularly bad. sometimes, he’ll just... forget to sleep? he’ll get wrapped up in something that excites him, and suddenly, it’s been 48 hours.  SOCIABILITY : fairly social! he loves, loves, loves talking to people, but he can be a bit annoying. he also doesn’t realize when he’s being annoying, which can make the situation worse. he’ll spend three hours talking to someone about deeply personal things and realize he doesn’t know their name. and then he’ll run off mid-conversation to go be by himself.  ADDICTIONS : none. on the occasion that he drinks, he’s such a light weight that it reminds him not to drink for the next year. 

[carmen-berzattos]

How many languages do you think klaus speaks?

Hmm let’s see: 

He definitely knows Old Norse, because place of birth. 

English. 

In TVD, they had him speak Aramaic. 

Italian, probably. 

French, for sure, cause classic. 

Also Spanish would make a lot of sense. 

Arabic, because Klaus 100000% had a time period lounging around al-Andalus courts and drowning in wine and love poetry don’t @ me. 

German, of course. 

Latin without a doubt. 

He knows Greek maybe????

Russian, possibly? 

Danish?????

Mandarin??

Hindi????

Hebrew??

Farsi??????????????

[a-monthly-rumbelling]

A Jug of Wine, A Loaf of Bread

For the January non-smut prompt:  “I’m not dressed for this.”

—————————————————————————- 

 "‘A jug of wine, a loaf of bread and thou beside me,’“ Belle quoted as they settled down in twin wingback chairs across from one another, the game table between them. And indeed they’d taken Literary Night (i. g., Friday) quite literally: it had been Belle’s turn to choose the night’s reading and Gold’s turn to do the reading-related cooking. After his choice last week of Rick Riordan’s Big Red Tequila (Gold had a taste for mysteries) and the subsequent case of heartburn they’d had to solve (really, what drove a 350-year-old man to think he had to prove himself by consuming an entire bowl of jalapeño-topped firehouse chili and wash it down with a tumbler of Texas Sunrise—a shocking mixture of tequila and Big Red soda pop?), they’d agreed a light repast would be preferable tonight.

Besides, Belle adored romantic poetry, especially when she could persuade Gold to read it aloud against the backdrop of a snowy evening and a crackling fire in his antique fireplace, and so "The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam” it was, and they’d cuddled on the settee as he read to her, in Farsi, with his Gaelic accent. On the coffee table he’d strewn red rose pedals; for their supper he provided a repast of sangak, barley soup, spreadable goat cheese, grapes, and, indeed, mulled Shiraz in a ceramic jug warming beside the fire. She praised him for his cuisine, but he’d shrugged and given credit to the Internet. Between the wine, the fire and quiet, leisurely conversation, she’d nearly drifted to sleep, her head in his lap, until he nudged her: “Game time?” She nodded, prying herself from the arms of Morpheus and her beloved. After all, with his win last week, she had a score to settle.

So they’d relocated to the game table in the center of the spacious but somehow cozy (maybe, she thought, cozy because he was in it) living room. Wide awake now, they settled into their opposing chairs, drew a tile each to decide who’d take the first turn (she won the draw), then filled their trays and studied their options.

He may have been the most powerful sorcerer in the world, but as Scrabble players, they were evenly matched. When they had chosen Scrabble for their weekly game night, they’d assumed she would have an advantage: after all, she read encyclopedias and dictionaries for entertainment. But he had a command of scientific terms, especially chemistry and botany, that he called upon to catch up.

Tonight, though, he seemed a little off his game. For his first turn, he traded in four tiles. On his second, he lay “ring” off her “quince,” but he traded in tiles on his third turn. And so it went, with him falling farther and farther behind. By mid-game, she was worried. “Rumple, are you feeling all right?” At his assurance, she pressed, “A headache? Shall I get you some aspirin?”

“No, no, I’m fine. Why?” He lay down “wed” off of her “oozed.”

“Just wondering.”

His next offering, “babe,” built off his earlier “clergy,” elicited a frown from her. “You had two 'b’s.’ Why didn’t you use one to make 'booze’ and benefit from my 'z’?”

“Guess I didn’t think of it.” But as he raised his eyes from his tray, she caught a sparkle in them.

They played in silence a little while longer, but she couldn’t help huffing at some of his boneheaded moves. It appeared he was intentionally throwing away opportunities for bigger points, instead laying simple words. Her hackles rose: even back in the Dark Castle days, they’d always had an unspoken agreement to give their best efforts. Tonight he seemed determined to lose.

She sat back, sipping her wine and studying the board, not to plan her next move but to scrutinize all of his. Allowing him to hear the irritation in her voice, she read them aloud: “'Ring,’ 'babe,’ 'wed,’ 'will,’ 'vow'—Rumple, the best word you’ve made all night was 'bouquet.’ Look at this: 'gown,’ 'clergy,’ 'you,’ 'tonight,’ 'wife.’” Her voice dragged as her mind detected a pattern. As she read his most recent offering, she stared at him: “'Wife.’”

A grin took over his face as he spun his tray around so she could see his tiles and the word he’d arranged there. His voice lifted into a question as he read it to her: “'Marry?’”

Her mouth fell open.

He reached under the game table for a small velvet box, then stood, pushed aside his chair, and knelt before her. He opened the box and presented it to her. His voice thickened. “Will you marry me, Belle?”

She dove at him with open arms, knocking them both backwards onto the Persian rug. “Yes! Of course, yes!”

When he finally pried his lips away from hers, he had another question: “Tonight? Please, after all the interruptions we’ve had to our personal time, let’s not wait another day. Who knows what villain tomorrow may bring to our door. Marry me now. If you want a big wedding, we can arrange that with a snap.”

“No, I don’t want a big wedding. All I want is you.”

“Then let’s marry tonight. I have the justice of the peace on speed dial. We can call a few friends, move this furniture aside, set up some folding chairs right here, your father has a bouquet prepared—”

“You’ve spoken to him?”

Rumple ducked his head. “I apologized and made restitution. He accepted my apology. After thirty years, he said, it was probably time for him to admit we were a couple. He’ll walk you down the aisle.”

“Thank you, Rumple.” To Belle, this news was as precious as the diamond ring he was slipping onto her finger.

“Tonight, then?”

“Yes. There’s no other place I’d rather be married than right here in this room. Ariel can be my maid of honor and Dove can stand up with you, as he always has.” She clambered to her feet. “We’ll set it for ten o'clock.”

He pulled himself up. “We’d better start making some phone calls. Thank you, sweetheart. It’ll be perfect.”

But as they both reached for their phones, she glanced down at the slacks and pullover sweater she was wearing. “Oh, Rumple, I’m not dressed for this.”

He examined his own inadequate attire: soft cotton trousers and a plain white shirt open at the neck. “Easily fixed.” With a snap of his fingers she was clad in a familiar gold ballgown and he, in a tux. “Now, let’s make those calls.” A wave of his hand and the furniture was replaced with white folding chairs entwined with ivy and baby’s breath. The remains of their repast vanished and the red pedals reconstituted themselves into long stemmed roses artfully arranged in vases.

“Perfect,” Belle sighed.

He cocked his head, admiring her. “Yes. Perfect, Mrs. Gold.”

She linked her arm in his. “Let’s have a wedding, Mr. Gold.”

[findteenpenpals]

passionate about learning

 Hello, my name is Kirstin, and I am 18 years old. I just graduated high school, and now I am starting college and taking English, psychology and western civilizations to begin to get my degree in psychology, international studies or maybe something different. 

   I would say I am pretty passionate, about a wide range of topics. I love history particularly genocide studies with a specialization in the Holocaust, and  I try to stay well versed in genocides from the past like the genocide of the Chechen population by the Soviet government or current day genocides like the genocide of the Rohingya by the Myanmar military. It probably sounds like a pretty messed up topic, but to me, it shows the complexity of humanity, and as a society, we easily sweep humanitarian issues under the rug if the perpetrators have more materialistic things to offer than the victims. So it essential we talk about genocide, famine and other war crimes and humanize humanity to remind people of the importance of solidarity between humans. 

  I love learning about different cultures, religions, and languages. I took Spanish for three years in high school, but I would like to learn Arabic, or Farsi, Bosnian, Albanian or so many others. I will probably start with Arabic just because of my deep interest of Islam, I have been on and off studying about  Islam for about five years, and now that I am starting college and have more resources  I feel more committed to learning and going to a mosque. I am also opening to learning about other regions too.  

I also do slam poetry, and  I have two poems that I have performed in front of people. I hope to do a class or join a club that will help me to become a better writer and hone my skills and get feedback from my peers.  

I also love tv, books, movies, and music  

top  tv shows 

1.Skam 

2.Anne with an E  

3.The Naked Truth 

Top  Books

1.The Book Thief 

2.salt To The Sea 

3. Picture Us In The Light 

Top Movies 

1. Moonlight 

2.The Edge of 17

3.The Great Dictator 

top musicians

1.Angel Haze 

2.Max Richter 

3. Khaled Siddique  

What I want in a penpal is someone who can put up with me. Someone who can jump from topic to topic, and honestly just someone who is compassionate and passionate. I love when people talk about things they are excited about I will say preferably someone who is also passionate about human rights and activism and world events and reading and someone between the ages of 17 -20. 

thanks so much, Kirstin

contact information 

Email: marinkirstin @ yahoo.com

snapchat:lovebooks1

twitter :@BookandLove18

[lettersandgifts]

Hello, my name is Kirstin, and I am 18 years old. I just graduated high school, and I plan to get my degree in psychology, international studies or maybe something different.    I would say I am pretty passionate, about a wide range of topics. I love history particularly genocide studies with a specialization in the Holocaust, and  I try to stay well versed in genocides from the past like the genocide of the Chechen population by the Soviet government or current day genocides like the genocide of the Rohingya by the Myanmar military. It probably sounds like a pretty messed up topic, but to me, it shows the complexity of humanity, and as a society, we easily sweep humanitarian issues under the rug if the perpetrators have more materialistic things to offer than the victims. So it essential we talk about genocide, famine and other war crimes and humanize humanity to remind people of the importance of solidarity between humans.    I love learning about different cultures, religions, and languages. I took Spanish for three years in high school, but I would like to learn Arabic, or Farsi, Bosnian, Albanian or so many others. I will probably start with Arabic just because of my deep interest of Islam, I have been on and off studying about  Islam for about five years, and now that I am starting college and have more resources  I feel more committed to learning and going to a mosque. I am also opening to learning about other regions too.   I also do slam poetry, and  I have two poems that I have performed in front of people. I hope to do a class or join a club that will help me to become a better writer and hone my skills and get feedback from my peers.   I also love tv, books, movies, and music   top  tv shows  1.Skam  2.Anne with an E   3.The Naked Truth  Top  Books 1.The Book Thief  2.Salt To The Sea  3. Picture Us In The Light  4.more happier than not Top Movies  1. Moonlight  2.The Edge of 17 3.The Great Dictator  top musicians 1.Angel Haze  2.Max Richter  3. Khaled Siddique   What I want in a penpal is someone who can put up with me. Someone who can jump from topic to topic, and honestly just someone who is compassionate and passionate. I love when people talk about things they are excited about I will say preferably someone who is also passionate about human rights and activism and world events and reading and someone between the ages of 17 -23 But honestly I just want someone I can vibe with thanks so much, Kirstin contact information  Email: marinkirstin @ yahoo.com snapchat:lovebooks1 twitter :@BookandLove18  

[persianatpenn]

Adventures in Abgoosht

If there is one thing that gets me excited about a culture, it’s food. Don’t get me wrong, I other traditions are equally fascinating and complex, but food appeals to me in a much simpler sense. Art, music, film, poetry, and dance all require refined taste and background knowledge to truly appreciate, whereas I know good food when I taste it. That is why for my first culture blog, I endeavored to cook a traditional Persian meal. All this would have required was a simple google search, but I wanted something a little more authentic.

I needed the perfect dish, something traditional and culturally significant, but not so involved that an amateur chef such as myself could not prepare it. Fortunately, I knew just who to ask: Maman Naheed.

Maman Naheed was born and raised in Iran where she currently resides; however, she recently decided to visit her family in the USA. She has been visiting since July, and having raised a family in Iran during the 20th century, knows the ins-and-outs of Persian gastronomy.  If anyone could teach me how to cook traditional Iranian cuisine, it would be her.

I should clarify. Maman Naheed is not some random Persian grandmother that I happen to know. My girlfriend is actually an Iranian citizen studying in the USA and Maman Naheed is her grandmother.

With that clear, it should be less of a surprise that I decided to give Maman Naheed a call. I originally asked Maman Naheed to give me a recipe for a dessert or something simple (I am a very inexperienced cook), but she was quick to tell me “Nah”.

“As a growing boy”—Maman Naheed insisted—I needed to be eating a hardy meal with protein. She informed me that rather than making a simple dessert, I would be making traditional Persian “Âbgušt” (آبگوشت‎, literally “meat water” or “broth”). She opened up her cookbook and sent along the recipe.

The recipe was entirely in Farsi, and, at my reading level, indecipherable. I had my girlfriend’s mom help me decipher the recipe and she happily chimed in with additional recommendations as well as an English recipe to make my Âbgušt even tastier. She also informed me that the dish was traditionally slow-cooked to allow the families preparing the meal to tend to livestock, errands, or any other distractions.

With the recipe in hand, I departed for Makkah market (the only market nearby me where I knew I could buy dried lemons, leg of lamb, and quality bread). Returning home with the ingredients, I was ready to get cooking.

I have included the exact recipe at the end of this blog, however, to give a brief summary of the cooking process: I added the lamb, onion, and cinnamon stick into a pot before bringing it slowly to a boil and then gradually down in temperature; when the lamb was about halfway cooked, I added the potatoes, white beans, chickpeas, tomatoes, tomato paste, turmeric, black pepper ground, and dried lemons(لیمو امانی) ; I let the whole mixture cook before mashing the solids into the “Gusht Kubideh” (گوشت کوبیده‎, “Mashed meat”).

Once the Âbgušt was finished cooking, I plated it with some parsley and served it for some friends with bread to help scoop up the dish. We were all pleasantly surprised by with complex sour and savory flavors of the dish as well as the tenderness of the lamb. After finishing the meal, we shared some soft figs and Sadaf special blend tea for dessert.

The whole experience was quite enjoyable, and I am excited to explore what else Iranian Cuisine has to offer. Maybe I will make Kabob next!

-ZS

Recipe: 

[insideanairport]

Nietzsche’s “Thus Spake Zarathustra” (part I/II)

❍❍❍

This is the best and most profound work of Nietzsche, yet the hardest to grasp. For beginners, I don’t recommend starting with this book. All of Nietzsche’s philosophical universe is condensed and packed in this work. I picked up this book first when I was still in Highschool. I didn’t understand a lot in the first reading of it. I also took some notes and moved on to reading other works by Nietzsche. Soon, I found myself reading all of his major works. Before writing this review, I looked back on my first notes from Thus Spake Zarathustra. I had to delete every single note I took at that time. My view has been changed completely towards Nietzsche’s work since the first time I read this book.

Where did Zarathustra come from?

If you have never heard of Zarathustra (Zoroaster or زرتشت‎) and have only heard it through this book, it means that you have spent too much time reading European writers. Zarathustra was an ancient Persian figure and the founder of Zoroastrianism religion. His most famous book is Avesta (اوستا) and along with it is the communal household prayer book called the Khordeh Avesta (خرده اوستا). Zoroastrianism is still practiced in many countries around the world, especially in Iran, Pakistan, and India. It is one of the world's oldest monotheistic religions that remains active. 

Nietzsche found out that before Manichaean and Abrahamic religions, Zarathustra was the first person who came up with the idea of Good and Evil. A philosophy that states human action fall in these two binary categories. Therefore, Nietzsche considers Zarathustra the first “moralist”. In the book, Nietzsche personifies himself as Zarathustra in order to present a critique of the moralist philosophy of Good and Evil, an idea that he continued in his next book “Beyond Good and Evil”. Nietzsche believed that since Zarathustra created the first notion of morality, he must have also realized his mistake. In his autobiography Ecce Homo, Nietzsche explains: 

“I have not been asked, as I should have been asked, what the name Zarathustra means in precisely my mouth, in the mouth of the first immoralist: for what constitutes the tremendous uniqueness of that Persian in history is precisely the opposite of this. Zarathustra was the first to see in the struggle between good and evil the actual wheel in the working of things: the translation of morality into the realm of metaphysics, as force, cause, end-in-itself, is his work. But this question is itself at bottom its own answer. Zarathustra created this most fateful of errors, morality: consequently he must also be the first to recognize it. Not only has he had longer and greater experience here than any other thinker – the whole of history is indeed the experimental refutation of the proposition of a so-called ‘moral world-order’ –: what is more important is that Zarathustra is more truthful than any other thinker. His teaching, and his alone, upholds truthfulness as the supreme virtue – that is to say, the opposite of the cowardice of the ‘idealist’, who takes flight in the face of reality; Zarathustra has more courage in him than all other thinkers put together. To tell the truth and to shoot well with arrows: that is Persian virtue. Have I been understood? The self-overcoming of morality through truthfulness, the self-overcoming of the moralist into his opposite – into me – that is what the name Zarathustra means in my mouth.” (1)

Walter Kaufmann argued that Nietzsche might have more in common with Zarathustra than we think. “The two figures also share a range of similar properties or powers, such as the ability to annihilate and create in the light of a re-evaluation of past thought, the disposition to be inspired through visions manifested in poetry, dance, and song, and the courage to act in accordance with all of these. Moreover, the ‘Three Stages of History’ that Zoroaster took to be embodied in the individual (as ‘birth’, ‘death’, and ‘beyond’) are mirrored in [Nietzschean] Zarathustra’s ‘Three Metamorphoses of the Spirit’ as Camel, Lion, and Child.” (2)

In this book, Nietzsche is literally preaching but also making fun of preaching and preaching mentality. The book is about a philosopher guy who is trying to “show” humans the right way of living, through Superman (Übermensch). The philosophy is a direct-antagonism to Christianity (not all religions) yet using its lingo. Nietzsche's philosophy starts with the harsh critique of Christian morality. Yet, at times it can be seen as a critique of all morality, or a universal morality (if such a thing exists). We know that not all Abrahamic religions share the same view regarding good and evil. For example, in Bahá'í Faith the concept of evil (devil) does not exist. Evil is interpreted simply as a “lack” of good/goodness. Just as cold is the state of no heat, darkness is the state of no light, forgetfulness the lacking of memory, ignorance the lacking of knowledge.  

Nietzsche’s love of the Greek tragedy, Presocratic Philosophy and art is a reaction to monotheism, rationality, and idealism (especially in Plato). He calls life an “activity”: A continuous adjustment of internal relations to external relations. He believes that life is something essentially immoral. In multiple occasions, he joins “God/philosophy” and “dance” to elevate the art and demote God. Quotes such as; “I would only believe in a god who could dance.” or “there is nothing to which the spirit of a philosopher more aspires than to be a good dancer.”    

Nietzsche and the East

The book is speaking of love, affirmation, and also about populism. Nietzsche might have read some Eastern metaphysics, Islamic and Buddhist texts, but definitely has read the bible a dozen times more. While the entire book is preoccupied with references and allusions to the Bible, there is only one reference to the Persians in “One thousand and one goals” where he says: “’To speak truth, and be skillful with bow and arrow’—so seemed it alike pleasing and hard to the people from whom cometh my name—the name which is alike pleasing and hard to me.” 

Dariush Ashuri the translator of Nietzsche’s work into Farsi believes that Nietzsche’s Zarathustra can only be understood in relation to his other works. Zarathustra is not simply a replica of proto-historical Prophet yet a complex iconic figure that bears the voice of Nietzsche and his entire philosophical works, which aims to change the entire vision of humanity about the meaning of being and life through “Transvaluation of all values.” (3)

The book as a whole is written at the end of Nietzsche’s philosophical career and the concept of maturity and prudent is also fitted into the thesis. The reversal of the wisdom is folly, Nietzsche is also interested to play with the two, similar to strategies that Hafez used, although less sophisticated. He is intending to elevate Dionysian philosophy and lower Christianity’s moral dogma. For that reason, I see the influences of Hafez on Nietzsche's work better in this book than others.

The notion of Journey and travel (distance and time) is persistence throughout the whole book next to the idea of repetition and Eternal return. Man is something that needs to be surpassed. Starting from the rosy dawn, following into the noon-tide in the town of Pied Cow, and finally the supper. Similar to the three stages of life: the camel, the lion, and the child. It seems like after reading a lot of Eastern metaphysics Nietzsche is intending to construct a cyclical time perception on top of the very Eurocentric and colonial Kantian perception of time and space. In regard to Europe, Nietzsche is not shy to admit his positionality. His work is from and about European culture, rather than a universal concept. At the end of Joyous Science he mentions that the goal is to emancipate from everything European: 

“If ‘thoughts on moral prejudices’ are not to be merely prejudices about prejudices, they must presuppose a position outside morality, somewhere beyond good and evil, a position to which we must ascend, climb or fly – and in any case, a position beyond our good and evil, an emancipation from everything ‘European’, understood as a sum of the authoritative value judgements which have become transmuted into flesh and blood.” (4)

Sa‘di and Hafez are the only Persian names of the Islamic era mentioned in Nietzsche’s writings. But, going back to the idea of journey and distance, I see Nietzsche’s philosophy closer to Rumi’s poetry than Hafez. Rumi (جلال‌ الدین محمد بلخى) wandered around middle Asia in his life, traveled from modern-day Tajikistan (or as some say Afghanistan) to present-day Turkey where he died. He lived everywhere in between and spoke multiple languages. Hafez on the contrary, similar to Sa‘di, Omar Khayyam and Attar of Nishapur, died in the same city he was born. Hafez’s poetry still has those transcendental elements which influenced Nietzsche yet missing those transformative parts beyond a hegemonic cultural domain. Maybe that’s why both Hafez and Goethe influenced their native speakers yet didn’t manage to connect in a deeper level with the non-natives as much as Rumi did. 

From a Middle Eastern perspective, finding Nietzsche in between the lines of Ali Shariati and Muhammad Iqbal can also be equivalent to reading Rumi and Hafez in between the burning lines of Nietzsche.   

بشنو از نی چون حکایت میکند وز جداییها شکایت میکند

کز نیستان تا مرا ببریدهاند از نفیرم مرد و زن نالیدهاند

سینه خواهم شرحه شرحه از فراق تا بگویم شرح درد اشتیاق

Pay heed to the grievances of the reed  Of what divisive separations breed

From the reedbed cut away just like a weed  My music people curse, warn and heed

Sliced to pieces my bosom and heart bleed  While I tell this tale of desire and need.

(Rumi, Masnavi, Translation by Shahriari, 1998)

"We have left dry land and put out to sea! We have burned the bridge behind us –what is more, we have burned the land behind us! Well, little ship, look out! Beside you is the ocean. True, it does not always roar, and sometimes it is spread out like silk and gold and a gentle reverie, but there will be hours when you realize that it is infinite, and that there is nothing more terrible than infinity. Oh, poor bird that felt free, and now beats against the bars of this cage! Alas, if homesickness should befall you, as if there had been more freedom there –when there is no longer any ‘land’!”  (The Joyous Science - Book III, 124 In the Horizon of the Infinite)

(Part I/II)

______________________

[sallysetonshoot]

Mirror and stone

Sameen’s voice in Farsi is liquid and gentle. At least, it seems that way to you now, hearing her speak for the first time, your head in her lap and your eyes closed. One hand weaves through your hair; the other holds her father’s battered copy of Rumi’s love poetry.

It’s late, but neither of you can sleep. The spring night is unseasonably warm, so you’ve folded back the sheets and are currently sweating in a tank top and a pair of boxers from Sameen’s drawer. Seemed fair to steal, since you’re the one who dropped off and picked up her laundry at the wash-and-fold around the corner. The shirt you’re wearing is old enough that, even freshly laundered, it smells like her.

You don’t know what the words mean; you simply let them wash over you and through you. Sameen reads limpidly, fluently, in musical phrases. She smooths hair over your temple, cards through the strands, winds a curl around her finger.

The heat is making your shoulder ache; the painkillers you reluctantly took have only just started to work through your body and soften your thoughts. None of that matters much now, with your cheek resting on Sameen’s inner thigh and her voice pouring over and into every part of you.

*** When I am with you, we stay up all night. When you’re not here, I can’t go to sleep.

Praise God for these two insomnias! And the difference between them.

This one he never read aloud at bedtime, but it was clearly a favorite of his: where the book fell open of its own accord, the paper thinner and darker where the divots of his thumbs held the pages apart. Dad always held his books with both hands, even small paperbacks like this. Being careful about how you opened your books, he said, kept the spines intact.

Root’s head is heavy; her body is curled into a question mark over the sheets. It doesn’t feel like she’s asleep—her breathing is alert—but she doesn’t make a sound. Her hair is still a little damp from the shower she took earlier to cool off. The city is muggy and sticky and slow tonight, like time is trudging through quicksand, and normal rules don’t seem to apply. Rules like Root not stealing clean shirts, or curling up like a little lap animal and asking to be read to. She asked for something for her pain earlier—for the first time—and she seems so lonely tonight with the voice in her ear gone silent that it doesn’t seem so bad to indulge her a little.

“What does it mean?” she asks, at the end of the stanza. “The poem?”

“This part? It’s—about not being able to sleep.”

She hums and stirs. “Sounds familiar.”

It would be hard to sleep now, without her. Didn’t used to matter that she charged into every stupid kind of danger; that was her business. But now, when she doesn’t come home, it’s worrying. The idea that she could be anywhere isn’t neutral anymore. A reason to pace and ponder dark scenarios until her key sings in the door and she’s here and safe.

When she’s here and the night is warm and her pain seems to rise from her, sleep won’t come.

Without her, these days, sleep is impossible.

*** Sameen has told you about how her father used to read to her when she was young. In English and in Farsi. He taught her about his favorite poets: Rumi, Fereydoon Moshiri, Walt Whitman.

The last you too can quote by heart. Whitman was the closest your bleak high school years provided to an affirmation of your secret feelings. Of the possibility of joy, when all you knew was the loneliness of inchoate longing. Some are baffled, but that one is not—that one knows me. Ah lover and perfect equal, I meant that you should discover me so by faint indirections, And I when I meet you mean to discover you by the like in you.

But in all of your disaffected youth, you never dreamed it was possible to feel like this. To fall in love with a woman and know in your bones that what you’re feeling is right and good. To love her mind and her purpose and the way she's discovered the like in you. To tell her the song of yourself that no one ever cared to listen to before. To get lost in her, her voice and the smell of her skin; to undress her and touch her and kiss her mouth and wake up with her hand over your heart. To wear her shirts and think of her when she’s away. Ah lover and perfect equal.

“Still awake?” asks Sameen, pausing to smooth your hair gently back over your ear. “Pills helping?”

“Kicking in. I feel… soft.”

“Want me to keep reading?”

“Yes, please.”

*** The minute I heard my first love story I started looking for you, not knowing how blind that was.

Lovers don’t finally meet somewhere. They’re in each other all along.

Root is getting heavier as the pills soften her around the edges. She’s awake, but her chest is rising and falling more slowly. She looks so young, so helpless, curled up into herself like this. Her hair still sticking, clammy, in locks that look like an illustration of a mermaid.

This poem is familiar almost to the point of rote memory. Not in his voice, but from years of reading it silently in the years since his voice disappeared forever. The book opened itself to this page by the time he died, but the spine only broke in the same place a few years ago. Holding books one-handed will do that.

It’s probably good that Root doesn’t understand the poem. It would be hard for her to hear the words if she understood what they meant. Seems unfair, the way she wants so much, gives so much, and expects so little. And anyway, the subtle parts, the music, would get lost in translation. These things always do. Rumi aside, there’s a gulf that can’t be crossed from language to language, from person to person.

Root nudges herself as close as she can to that precipice—the way she does in everything—and takes the danger with the thrill. She presses up against the knife edge of pain, takes stupid risks, because all her life she’s had nothing to lose. Her body, her whole being, is nothing to her.

But her body isn’t nothing. She isn’t nothing. She must know that by now, that she isn’t just an interface or a vessel. Root is her own, brilliant and beautiful. It doesn’t take the Machine to put light and life inside of her. The light must always have been there, just waiting to be seen.

*** Your body is melting into her, into the bed. Her voice has taken on a dreamy underwater quality. The warmth of the air and the warmth of her body wrap around you in a seamless blanket.

Is it just the haze that's settled over you, or has Sameen's voice slowed down, lingering with pleasure over the lines?  She's twisting locks of your hair absently as she reads, draping each curl over her lap. Writing lines of cursive on herself with you as her stylus.

She has written herself into you, spliced her code into yours, so that in the darkness you can no longer tell where you end and she begins.

*** We are the mirror as well as the face in it. We are tasting the taste this minute of eternity. We are pain and what cures pain, both. We are the sweet cold water and the jar that pours.

It's hard to pinpoint exactly when it began, this constant hum of Root everywhere. There's a patch of mindspace set aside for her, a nest of thoughts and wondering and worry that can't seem to reset or clear away.

It's been growing for months, in spite of every effort to break it apart or make it smaller. Root planted herself in there, staunch and stubborn, and now these thoughts are as thick as spring wildflowers, spreading their pollen and scent all over.

In the abstract, love always sounded like a liability. People do stupid things when they fall in love. They throw themselves and things they care about into chaos. Like a drunk, a person in love sees double—the reasonable thing on one side, the thing they do for love on the other—and can’t tell which is which.

But maybe that’s not what love is, always. Maybe it’s not jumping into bad choices, just choosing in a different way. Maybe, sometimes, love is a too-hot night with the windows open, sweating underneath Root’s cheek and her blanket of sticky wet hair because right now she needs comfort and kindness. Maybe love isn’t a blurring of reality, but a shift in priorities. Comforting her over comfort. Keeping her safe over keeping safe.

And maybe that’s not so bad.

*** There’s still pain, but the pain feels faraway, like it’s across the water from the place where you are now, safe and damp and warm in Sameen’s lap, feeling her fingers sift through your hair as you listen to her read.

You want to ask again what the words mean, but she’s reading in a voice so soft and low that it feels like she’s telling you her deepest secret. She was the one who chose what to read to you, who told you that this was her father’s copy and that he had read Rumi’s poetry to her at her bedside. She didn’t have to tell you these things, but she did. Sometimes she gives you these gifts you don’t fully understand; you wonder if she understands them herself.

Sameen’s voice trails off—maybe the end of a stanza—and she pauses. A soft flap of air near your shoulders where she puts the book down. You feel the heat of her hand hovering gently over your face before she begins to trace the topography of your cheekbone, your temple, your lips, your jaw, with tentative fingertips. She must think you’re asleep—you almost are by now; you’ve lost all sense of time, so that she might have been touching your face for a few seconds or for minutes on end.

“Did you finish the poem?” you murmur. Her fingers stop their lines over the curve of your ear.

“Not quite,” she says. “I thought maybe you’d gone to sleep.”

“Not yet. Will you read the rest to me?”

Sameen picks the book back up and riffles to the right place. The pages whisper in your ear until she finds the spot she’s looking for.

“Here we go,” she says, and nests her free hand in your hair. “It’s almost finished.”

*** I want to hold you close like a lute, so we can cry out with loving.

You would rather throw stones at a mirror? I am your mirror, and here are the stones.

Root’s definitely asleep now. Her breath is deep and steady and slow, and her head feels impossibly heavy.

Cold swept over the night suddenly. In just a few minutes, the places slicked with sweat and damp have started to chill. Time to pull the sheets over Root, who’s shivering now in those skimpy clothes.

The final stanza of that poem would make sense to Root, if she could understand it. She’s the mirror, and the stones are everywhere. 

It’s weird, how familiar it’s gotten, how good it feels, to tuck her—carefully—into the crook of arm and chest. She’s warm and smells good: a little like sweat, a little like soap, and mostly like Root.

The soft sounds of the street float through the open window and into the room like a lullaby.

[dawittiest]

Initial thoughts after watching The Punisher:

(major spoilers under the cut)

first things first: Dinah Madani is the love of my life and probably most likely the best character in the enitre Marvel Cinematic Universe. i think we should take a moment to appreciate how blessed we were. i could wax poetics about her for paragraphs on but let me just say, the show is worth watching for her alone

okay, now for a general opinion on the show: the pacing was weird at times, and i was bored a little at the beginning but otherwise i liked it. it wasn’t like, a masterpiece, or my next favorite show, but the characters were great and the soundtrack. it was Very frank

that being said, i’m not the biggest fan of the major plot. i mean it was well executed and engaging and all, it’s just. i didn’t really like the executive choice to make frank’s family’s death not random. it takes away from that sensless tragedy, of how unfair it was, and that doesn’t quite sit with me. and honestly i wanted us to move past frank’s quest for answers about his family’s death and branch out beyond that

on that note: frank barely did any punishing?? i mean, he tied up some loose ends at the beginning and then just hung his vest?? and then, at the end of the show, seemingly hung his vest again??? come on, guys, you know we’re not here for that. give us the punisher we deserve

now, what’s probably my biggest issue with the show: they really dropped the ball on Maria Castle and the kids. i was really hoping they would do them justice and, well, i just feel like we learned more about them in Daredevil than we did in the actual Punisher show which honestly sucks, especially considering the amount of dramatic flashbacks of Maria smiling and not really saying much that we got. which tell us absolutely shit about her as a character, btw. i want to care about her, and the kids, but we just didn’t get anything and its frustrating. i was more invested in frank’s relationship with sarah lieberman, which. (btw, it was great. they had amazing chemistry, she was basically everything i hoped maria would be. i kindof cheered when they kissed)

KAREN!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! there was not nearly enough of karen, lbr. but what little there was, was GREAT. just, Karen, my beautiful fierce daughter, doing her thing there. i loved her so much. i was kind of dissapointed that they never touched on the fact that the last time they saw each other, karen shouted at frank he’s dead to her, and then just? forgave him without saying anything? which made no sense. but their relationship was amazing, and that last elevator scene they had, it was everything i ever wanted (although i wouldn’t mind if they kissed. js). and karen’s FRANK’S FAMILY. god, i have a lot of kastle feelings rn

(this is sort of self-indulgent but i was hoping they would at least allude to Matt’s death. i would’ve really loved seeing frank’s reaction, also maybe a hint how karen’s dealing with it)

frank spray-painting a skull on his vest still cracks me up. dude makes fun of matt’s costume but his own is literally arts and crafts project. i love it

i still thoroughly enjoy watching frank murder people. still unapologetic about it. the way he murders people is poetry, bite me.

i sort of hate micro, which is a damn shame because his relationship with frank was flawless. their dynamic was amazing and i enjoyed their banter, and under different circumstances i’d be all over that shit but honestly, micro was annoying and i didn’t really care whether he lived or died, so that kind of put a damper on that

BILLY RUSSO WAS GREAT. i loved loved how they did him in the show. i have a secret soft spot for jigsaw so it was a treat watching him so lovingly translated into the screen and given so much emotional weight. his relationship with frank was beautiful and heartbreaking and i expect to see many amazing fics exploring that *wink wink*. i gotta admit though, i kept screaming at frank “PUT HIS PRETTY FACE THROUGH GLASS ALREADY” every time they were on a screen together. i am a woman of simple pleasures

CURTIS !!!!!! MY MAN !!!!!!!! he was the best and god i was so scared they’d kill him off but they didn’t, and instead they sort of gave frank as-happy-as-can-be-considering ending with him??? im emotion

frank is still the saddest man and i wanna wrap him in a bundle of blankets (probably before i set him loose to murder some bad guys and watch him do it because damn). but god, jon bernthal’s acting never ceases to amaze me. he’s so expressive and so damn complex, like here’s this guy, blood-curdling, gravelly voice and all, covered in blood only some of which is his, and he’s genuinely terrifying, and at the same time his eyes are  welling with tears, and he wears his hurt on a sleeve and he’s vulnerable, and he just feels so fucking human, you know? i really can see how deeply he feels everything and how much he cares, against all odds (there was a good line about this in the show but im too lazy to google it). i just. it’s really easy to emphatize with this frank castle, just saying. (im so grateful they let him actually cry on screen. it twisted my heart in the best way.)

special mention for the gnucci family easter egg and WELCOME BACK, FRANK. i’m so easy, i swear

i can’t believe i almost forgot that but hipster frank. it was amazing. ‘been flirting with the idea of going full man-bun’ hOW DARE THEY TEASE US LIKE THAT (fan artists, i’m begging you. please deliver on it)

oh and couldn’t give less shit about that lewis wilson kid. he’s boring, his self-justifications are boring and im over that

ALSO: i really enjoyed all the women that appeared in the show. all of them were complex, and different, and felt human, and they all felt like characters in their own right, not just props or plot devices (well, maybe with exception of maria - still salty abt that, btw - but i already talked about that) and i really fucking appreciated that. and there were older women!!!! morally complicated women!!!!! women of color whose narrative didn’t evolve around frank!!!!! they spoke farsi on screen!!!!! it was pretty amazing. i mean, it’s babies steps, but steps in the right direction nonetheless.

conclusion: watch the punisher and come scream at me about it!!!!!

[aqlyrics-blog]

Marcy Me

New Post has been published on http://purelyrics.net/lyrics/jay-z-marcy-me/

Marcy Me

–Intro– Live from Bedford-Stuyvesant the livest one representing BK to the fullest Bastards ducking when Hov be buckin’ chicken heads be cluckin’

–Verse 1– Back when ratchet was a ratchet and the vixen was a vixen and Jam Master Jay was alive I was mixing Cooking coke in the kitchen back when Rodman was a Piston Mike was losing to Isiah but he soon would get his sixth one Gave birth to my verbal imagination assume a virtue if you have not Or better yet here’s a verse from Hamlet “Lord, we know who we are Yeah, we know not what we may be” So maybe I’m the one or maybe I’m crazy I’m from Marcy houses where the boys die by the thousand Back when Pam was on Martin yeah that’s where it all started When Denzel was blottin’ carpet, I’ll pack a nine millimeter when Slick Rick made Mona Lisa When Lisa Bonet was Beyoncé of her day, I had divas ya’ll Think I just popped up in this bitch like a fetus? Nah Pregnant pause, give you some second thoughts There’s room on the bandwagon, don’t abort Marcy me

–Verse 2– Marcy me Streets is my artery, the vein of my existence I’m the Gotham City heartbeat I started in lobbies now, probably with Saudis Sufi to the goofies I could probably speak Farsi That’s poetry read a coca leaf from my past Came through the bushes smelling like roses I need a trophy just for that Old Brooklyn not this new shit, shift feel like a spoof Fat laces in your shoe I’m talking busting off the roof Hold a uzi vertical, let the thing smoke Y’all flirting with death I be winking through the scope Shout out to all the murderers turned murals, plural fuck the Federal Bureau Shout out to Nostrand Ave. flushing that Myrtle All the county of kings may your ground stay fertile Shout out to Big Poppa Daddy Kane heroes Thus concluding my concerto, Marcy me

–Outro: The-Dream– Must be in the air, oh can’t walk away I know I know Just the way I was raised I know I know I know Oh Marcy, Marcy me just the way I am always gonna be I ain’t gonna change, no Marcy, Marcy me just the way I am (Como as minhas [mãos?] tocando aqui Eu não canto do mundo, o meu tempo…)