Fringe theatre Festival

Granville Island. September. 2016.
War and Peace. Trump the musical. Peter vs Chris. God is a Scottish Drag Queen IV. One woman sex and the city. The new conformity. Everything is fine. Hi Bang!'s history of romance. Generation Hot. 2 ruby knockers and 1 jaded dick. Piaf and Brel, the impossible concert. Space hippo. Bad match. Sea wall. The Jupiter Rebellion: a Zack Zultana adventure. Manipulation. The old woman. I forgot to fly today. Nerdfucker. The after after party. John Bennett's my dad's deaths. Wild society. Charlatan. V.R. Dunne. Curious contagious. Sink or swim. The lion, the bitch, and the wardrobe. Bella culpa. Tragedy + time served = comedy. Peach.

England

Bath's Roman Baths and Jane Austen
Salisbury's Stonehenge
Oxford
Birmingham's new architecture
London

Scotland

Edinburgh castle
Royal Botanical Garden
Heritage city
Greyfriars Bobby
Old town
Royal mile
St. Giles Cathedral
Arthur's seat
Calton hill
Museum of childhood
Princess Street
And a dram of scotch

Ireland

Soups
Oysters
Guinness
Cliffs
Writers
Soups
Oysters
Guinness
Churches
Courtyards
Soups
Oysters
Guinness
Green land
Sheep
Soups
Oysters
Guinness
Lonely no more
Soups
Oysters
Guinness
Dublin bars
Soups
Oysters
Guinness

Scotland-Ireland-England

May. 
2016.
Trip to the English Islands.
Getting my English right.
The English Islands.

Home

It always has me hooked. Writing. This sentence. The very next word that appears on this blank canvas. The next concatenation of words to make the sentence. The next sentence that you get to read. I sometimes wish I had a paintbrush to write with. That would make words bolder, thicker, roaring, like a lions last sigh after a big deer dinner. I would use black acrylic, wait, red, to write the words. Wouldn't a red line be more enticing for the eyes to look at? But apart from the aesthetics of writing, and by that I mean a paintbrush, a fine ballpoint, or a papermate ink pen, there needs to be substance. That is what has me hooked. What could I possibly write about that William Shakespeare, John Metcalf, Fred Wah, or Yann Martel haven't already considered. All the unique thoughts are already thought about and written. In this mass of regurgitated literature, what would an intimidated black papermate pen like mine do? The terrifying silence of a page is always my motivation to write. But then something happens when my pen starts scribbling down words, shapes, strikes, dots. A doubt sets in. What do I write about? Who will read this? Can I trust you, who is reading this, my audience, as much as my empty sheet of paper or are you more intimidating? Judging the very existence of these lines. I can see it in your minds eye that you want more justification of this existence, and me wishing I could provide more than just this search for meaning. Eye to eye, together.  You see, I am searching for a place to call home. A perpetual quest since I was five. I first discovered the fleeting nature of this world then, right after my grandmother passed away. We were living in Tehran at the time, same neighbourhood as she was. The Iraqi bomb hit her home and not ours. We did hear and feel the aftershocks but survived. I remember my little brother crying non-stop for hours after the incidence. I was more used to it as I thought it's another earthquake but really realized the impact when I saw her favourite  glass menagerie and all the showcased little creatures broken. My grandmother tended to this monument more than anything else. The special colourful lights she chose to show the different objects always had me in awe and peaked my curiosity so much that I would spend hours watching and thinking diffuse thoughts about the figurines. What was that elephant doing there with a red light  shining on it, or the marble Buddha statue?   Everything was broken onto the ground on our next visit to grandma's and my mom was crying. I can still hear her panting for air.  We came to Canada not too long after, but the search for home never stopped. I studied science, biology, cell and molecular biology to understand why the glass objects of my grandmothers house were broken. Why did we move to Canada? Why does my mother cry?  This very white page is an ode to the fleeting answers I have discovers. Every word betraying the discovery. Perhaps, home is the silence we came from or the silence we go to, and words, well, these very daring words, are light packages, sparkling stars, or broken glass pieces leading me in the dark towards the safe and silence of home. This white blank silent canvas is testimony to home. Welcome to mine. 

A trip to the French Riviera

I was in traveling in France in May. Went through an experimental expedition starting from down south east of France in the lovely city of Nice on Cote de Azur, the blue coasts the mediterranean coastline. I could have probably sailed to Iran from there. I could definitely smell the middle east from that distance. Nice is beautiful, and justifiably expensive. Home of Claude Monet, Picasso, Renoir, and Chagall for some time. The city centre has some Roman attributes, and some Greek gods gathering around an old pool with fountains from the 5th century. I took a bus to Monaco, Monte Carlo, a 15-minute ride. Very luxurious little country whose occupation of many of its citizens is banking. They have no University, they go to France for that. I met this girl, Monique from there. She had beautiful blue eyes, just like the blue coast. I then took the train along the beautiful coast to the film festival city of Cannes. It was exactly that time of the year. Misty morning on the red carpet welcoming Jim Jarmusch's Paterson and Woddy Allen's Cafe Society. I think we are X-Japan crew was also there. Hopped on the same train down to the once-prospering melting pot harbour of Marseilles. It wasn't as glorious as Bonaparte's time, I tell you that. Same train took me up to Lyon, once the capital city of France, and still very nicely and cleanly maintained. The Jewel of the trip, one would think, would be Paris. Paris, yes, definitely the cultural capital of the world, but Montmartre was just as fascinating to me this time, and Versailles too. I kept Paris's hidden secrets to when it calls me again to go. This was my second time, but hopefully not the last. The crown of the trip went to Blois country, the castles and chateaus in the Loire Valley: Chateau de chenoceau, Chambord, Cheverny, Amboise, Azay le Rideau, and Usse. Not just because of their magnificent condescending architecture, or home of some of the best authors like Victor Hugo, but because of the local people I had the privilege to meet and connect to and the blue cheese and wine I got to try. France, I am coming back for you. Call me.

Cute Animations

- Inside Out
- Sausage Party
They remain in my head, as if they have become integrated into the nucleotide bases of my DNA. Okay, not that deeply, but maybe get crystallized into the peptides that make my poo? They are cute, watch them.

Rain

It's been raining for the past 28 days here in Vancouver
I have not seen one ray of sunshine during the past 28 days
I have not left my house in the past 7 days
I will leave my house tomorrow
But I will not forget to take my umbrella with me
Boots and umbrellas are what I pay for my trespasses
Amen

Painting

I have been painting recently,
Have 20 new frames, all hanging in my bathroom,
I will post the pictures here soon,
Anyone wants a frame for their bathroom? It's guaranteed to make your experience worthwhile!
Message me if you do.

Ja..Pa...n

Reading Murakami is not enough, I want to really feel Japan in my own kimonos while eating salmon nigiri and drinking hot Sake. The music of X-Japan isn't enough either, I want to see it so I went and watched 'We are X-Japan', the movie. It's cool, watch it.

Films...film...fil...

What a terrible movie about Iran. Please don't watch it.
Window horses? Yes, you can watch that one.

2016 USA presidential election

Election?
You mean someone has to chose?
Can't there just be a USAxit?
I, for one, am amused to death.

Puppets

Sock puppets 
Glove puppets
Shadow puppets
Marionettes
Ventriloquist figures

Animate objects giving rise to inanimate human movements and voices, yes, you read that right. Try it.

- Lilian and Harold -

These two cute people were behind the making of many an influential and beautifully made movies in Hollywood. Watch the documentary of their life, how they came about, and how many of the movies did too. Awesome.

This is an empty post

To beat 2015's number of posts.

Elle

I think the French shouldn't make scary movies, just like hollywood that should not attempt to get too philosophical. Elle, is a French scary movie. The French should not make scary movies. Do I get my money back? No, sorry.
Chocolat, on the other hand, not the one with Binoche, but the one made in 2016, by the French? That is definitely good, you can keep my money.

Writer's fest-ee-val

Vancouver's writer's festival and meeting the now John Metcalf gave me a new sense of literary revival. He reminds me of the Russian formalists, or Barahani. Their attitude to not only language, but life, is very similar. You can hear their common life themes, allegories, stories, views of the world, philosophy, arrogance, humorous, with sense of authority and voice. Also met Fred Wah, The Poet, from Kootenays. Andre Alexis made a huge mark on my impression of Toronto writers corners, and Iain Reid of Ontario. Anosh Irani's reading was more of a sudden joke, in a good way, I guess. Alexander Chee and Garnette Cadogan were amazing. Sharon Olds was ok. Madelein Thien, awesome. Guy Gavriel Kay, even better. Eimear McBride, hilarious. Yann Martel, fun. Please read them! 

Falling short

Falling short of writing
Falling not tall or fat or thin or busty or normal but short
Very very short

Bee's

Beer 
Bear
Beard
Bread
Brow
Brew
Beer

Ode to Leonard Cohen

Religiously loving Leonard Cohen's latest album coming out of LA with the help of his son, Adam. However, can't help not to think of Bowie's last Blackstar album, released as a eulogy to his death. Please don't let this be your last album Lenny!