

For "K"; A Revolution Against Words

By Belal Taheri

Translated By Milad Farjadian

(From Persian 2nd publish in Iran)

Published by Belal Taheri at Smashwords

©Copyright 2016 Belal Taheri

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For "K"

Belal TAheri

Translated By: Milad Farjadian

For "K"; A Revolution against Words
Chapter One – Dieugodi

# **0**

I like a simple life. I recently came to understand that – recently, I have come to this conclusion that I like things which I didn't have any knowledge of liking, and my past has been against their existence. Yesterday, our intellectual dieugodi movement succeeded, finally. No one rallied on streets and no tree was decorated for that. This is a secret kept by me and the dieugodi inner circle members. These five-six people will hit the city tomorrow. This success, like whole these years of failure, must first linger in our minds and bit by bit grow in society, show its symptoms like a contagious disease and infect everyone.

Everything has been fleeting during my life. Most happenings around me have always been like a hasty rat's movement in house. Our house. Group's house. Life's house. We came quickly and we went swiftly. Movement could not be sensed or defined, either. It is simple. A verb.

For years, this coffee cup has become my pencil cup. I pour coffee in my pencil cup, sometimes. I like my pencil to drink some so it is relaxed for a while. I think it is hard for it to write all author's confused thoughts on the paper, curtly. It can't even talk to nag. I know the pencil well, though. When I linger for thoughts to be formed in my mind to be written, my coffee freezes. Coffee smell fills the house. When I don't feel the smell anymore, I approach the cup. Its steam fogs my glasses and I see my own eyes' reflection in the cup.

It seems like I have been in East Germany; waiting in a queue for food while my soul is still hungry. I still have the fear of shortcomings in me and the need to hoard feelings is still with me. A deep habit has rooted there and that is due to the situation of scarcity in everything. We form the habit to pick up anything for ourselves, anytime we can. A part of us must be hidden in our houses, so we can consume a part of that allotment, bit by bit.

I have rested a mirror on the wall of the house. A stone mirror which never stops reflecting the existences, faces the streets, towards the yard. Yet, whenever I look into it, a memory of my past comes alive, as it is recorded in my mind. A full-length mirror echoes the existence signs to my ears. Cosmetics, empty and half-full bottles of my perfumes and colognes, face powders, little sticky notes which I have attached on the mirror edges so the mirror reads them. I want the mirror to embellish me, to draw its face near mine. Mirror has a warm breath. It always breaks my tears' ice.

Like the reflection of the lone tree in the yard pool which is broken.

The house yard is empty. It is only decorated with one tree, a yard pool and a bathroom. When you enter the yard, you have to march in front of them. Every day, you must arrange your life and start checking out. You must pass the bathroom and approach the yard pool and watch yourself in the mirror under the tree shadow. The recurrence breaks only by the presence of that mirror. You sit and see their reflections in the mirror or stare at the broken reflection of the tree in the yard pool. A repetitive scene which you use to break the repetition!

The books in the bookshelf are exceptions. The books could not be broken. No reflection could be reached for what is written. They could be read in one way or another, but their truth could not be hidden. The best place for the bookshelf is out of sight, behind the kitchen wall and in front of the TV. No one notices the books anymore. You should know the order of a place so you can reach the secrets of home. Physicists believe that the more your focus on a problem, the more hidden the solution gets. However, if your mind is at ease, the solution is right there. You should be calm. A calm look could reveal the secrets. So you could reach the bookshelf. That was why we used to write. All group members. We would build a bookshelf. Full of our secrets.

We would sit next to each other and read. We were the primary audiences for our own first manuscripts. This, also, was an excuse to gather together. We needed the group to thrive and every need is met by an excuse. A self-made excuse. A self-made.

When you try to thrive and stay alive, reproduction turns to your first unconscious tactic in your last moments of existence. If you are an author, you want to write anything you have not written so far, in these last moments. Your mind begins to erupt. Explodes from within. All around you will be filled with your mental sullage. You have things to write for almost anything.

It is time to die. Rats reproduce insanely during this time of dying. It is not even important for them to choose the best mate. Even females don't try to play hard to get and don't think to get the best mating rat. They know they won't exist anymore, but they still bear. They put so much effort in reproducing tiny vulnerable creatures which might die after the death of the author.

## 1

I hide my truth behind my daily routine. People always like my extroversion. The fact that I write whatever comes to my mind in the best possible way. I am an author. An artist. Artist. We, as artists, are always displayed behind our art lines. We always offer ourselves behind these masks we have made by our own hands. And then we nag why no one understands what is within us!

I put my pencil and paper on my lap. I sit in front of the mirror and I begin writing. I call this work "Revolution" so readers of social issues get attracted, and as the alternate title I will choose "Against Fake Words" so scholars think "how informed she is on figures of speech" and then I ask the publisher to publish the book "Revolution against Fake Words" for me so he thinks that "it will be the best-selling book of the year" and I will lead him to print the eyes of the actress from the movie "Casablanca" for the book cover, so emotional audiences get absorbed.

There was a publisher I used to work with. A guy with a white stubble and short hair. I never wanted to see his face, the tiny hairs on his nose were the first turn off. He always would take care of herself in the best possible way, but I don't know why he wouldn't shave those tiny hairs on his nose. He, too, would see himself not only as a publisher but as an artist, as well, and would spend hours staring at himself in front of the mirror.

Artists, by their random and intentional gestures, are among the biggest liars humanity has ever experienced and when they sink in lies because of wealth and fame, they form a bipolar characteristic. They put a cigarette between their lips and drink whatever cheap drink they can reach to so they can talk about their clumsy solutions for improving the society. To stand behind the lectern and tell sweet nothings. While writing, you have to be unconscious. Opiates turn into primary ingredients for creating art.

This Mr. "Batebi", the publisher, with his dropped stomach and big forehead, with his usually worn striped grey coat. He never stops his gestures. Even when he meets me for the forty-second time, it seems he has forgotten we have met before and now he is facing me for the first time and for the initial confrontation. That is why I have entrusted Radin to sign my contracts so he sees Batebi, instead. But when Radin talks about the happenings when meeting Batebi, I trust the decision I have made. Batebi's cheap drinks turn my throat red and make my bronchus make sound.

I have stuck some papers to the mirror edges. Most of them are what have come to my mind and wanted to use them later. Authors are like this, they have to feed lies to themselves, first. They have to write a sentence somewhere and complete it the next day so it turns to a virtue and then they can make a book, an article or a lecture to pour it in bookstores or readers' minds. And then have a gesture compatible with their untruthful manuscripts so their peers' empathy and identification are not lost and their audiences' feelings and attention flow continues towards artists who used to be penurious, alone and frivolous. Now they are popular and their fans provide their financial resources.

Maybe this is a revenge taken from our plain past, which doesn't deserve to be a medal on our chests. Shiny golden medals for our tame eyes. For our ordinary lives.

I stand in front of myself in this mirror. I clearly see my own eyes when writing this play which was ordered today and I have to prepare it for tomorrow in the afternoon. Eyes are restless when lying. Like migraine hits them in the orbit. It is like hangman's noose is in front of them. It is like the light has been taken away from them while they were open or the sun is pushed towards them.

There are a lot of plans and ideas out there, too. You don't even need to change location. People love their own exaggerated stories. Heroism grows inside them. It could even get better if your hero is a miserable and unfortunate person like "Jean Valjean". It could get super better if the hero is pauper and homeless like "Majnun". Exiled and wretch like "Nelson Mandela" would make a masterpiece. Readers owe their grey heroes. People. Themselves, are the creators of climaxes and take pride in their imaginary heroes.

Among the stages of writing is polishing the story but I remember when I took the order, I don't need too much polishing. Many people have left their mouths, their minds open to read my new writing. To applause me as expected and following my previous writings and to praise my hero and curse my antagonist. It is not my first time to write, anymore. My writing sense is not virgin anymore. Authors, turn into women bandaged to the bed of structure who get raped formally, while they enjoy. And when their blood is spilled, against the fundamental form, against their baseless texts base structure, they object so they get more attention towards their raping texts.

Now Radin enters and closes the yard door and while he thinks I don't see him in the mirror, he comes and surprises me by a kiss and whispers in my ears "Love you, honey" and puts the grocery bags and supplies in the kitchen which is next to the entry on the left and takes off his coats and puts his socks in its pockets and hangs them on the rack on the right of corridor and washes her feet in the bathroom and turns up the air conditioner and brings two chairs from the living room and puts them in front of the mirror and puts one for me and one right in front me and back to the mirror and sits in front of me and holds my face in his hands and kisses my forehead. Kisses my right eye. Kisses my left eye. Kisses my lips. Kisses my hands.

-How was your day, honey?

-Hooman called. He ordered a script for radio. A twenty minute play.

-Good. What should it be about? Why in such a hurry?

-They are always like this. The job has to be done when the idea is hot, before anything changes. Or else, you have to add them to the list of undone jobs and unwritten scripts!

-Yes baby, but you have to polish the script anyway. The audience should experience a good job. This could be our present for our victory.

-Everyone seems to be happy... I am frustrated with the congratulation messages.

-That's why you didn't congratulate me? ... Everyone was happy at the newspaper office. Good things are going to happen, Rahil.

-Yeah. That hope being back is a big news. For a while, I thought we would not feel hope again.

-The rush of bright future, to the dark history of the past

-Is this today's newspaper title?

-Yeah. I always knew what I have to write for today. I had prepared this for years. Maybe it was the only script that I had prepared in my mind from before, long long ago. When the newspaper editor read my article, he came and sat in front of me. He picked up my cup of tea. Crossed his right leg over his left and with a mild smile which had influenced his whole face said: Perfect, Radin.

-The editor didn't know the article was written years ago? He didn't suspect the article?

-It is not an issue. It is important that he liked it.

-It is really important... You understand? You should have written that by your words. You should have omitted every single "K" from the article.

-"K" is dead. No one has read his works for a long time. No one remembers who he was and what he had written. Someone who used to write in friendly hand-written magazine doesn't have a way out of colony. You don't have to worry about that. You should not talk about him all the time. You don't...

-If what you claim is true, you don't have to be afraid of his name and be this frightened.

Radin picks me up. He takes me to the milky sofas which match the walls and their edge could be seen in the mirror. Sits me on the sofas. Now the mood of writing is out of my head. I open the fridge. Two drinks for Radin and myself. Radin needs to talk so he reaches his four thousand words for today. Then, like all journalists, sleep till the next workday. He has spread the bad and good news among people. Journalist is done today. News is sold in the newsstands and tomorrow again is time for new titles. Maybe a girl is ran over by a bus. Objections begins. Suppressed. The girl dies. Objections happen. Suppressed. Girl turns to news.

We have talked about the role of journalists in news on milky sofas with Radin and in weekly friendly gatherings. We have asked what the role of journalist in this reality is. When he writes them, the reality has already happened. So, the journalist does not have any effect in reality. But Mehran, with his same strong-minded face when he sits behind editorial desk, says spreading the news, could change the reality for the audiences. We have to suspect all history and realities. We all change the reality. Without the audience noticing that.

Mehran used to edit stuff. He used to watch the films he was given to, frame by frame, so he could choose the best pictures. Selective pictures, those which Mehran had chosen to be seen, should reach the audiences. Like saying what it was, was not good enough. Facts inevitably turn into reality. Mehran had taken one of Hooman's documentaries for editing. After several weeks, in one of our weekly friendly gatherings, on the sofas facing the TV, he surprised everyone. We all knew about the story of documentary Hooman had directed. He had even asked me to write a part of his story development and expansion for him. Mehran had used some parts of the raw films and turned them into three independent films.

At first, we thought it was a failure and Mehran will lose the bet. Hooman also had bet on his piano and he was sure he will win the bet. But Mehran won the bet. These three films had three narrations, three beginnings, three middles and three ends and three different conclusions.

Like this story you are reading now. Now, in your mind, a beginning has formed for which I have not been the narrator, and you have an end for my life and Radin's in your mind, from beginning. We all manipulate the reality. We are all authors.

As I was picked my drink from the table and cigarette was penetrating me after sipping on my drink, I said:

-We lost all. We lost the facts.

Mehran put his glass on the table along with everyone's silence, and he touched his short goatee:

-Our job is to show the facts from our own different viewpoints. Why is your tone so harsh, bitter and scolding, darling?

-He is right, honey! When you write, you reflect the Moon in the lake the way you want it to look and the audiences are so mesmerized with your Moon than even Armstrong comes back from the Moon to see your Moon!

Laughter and sound of glasses toast. A world full of reflections, full of mirrors form in front of my eyes. The reflection of glasses in table glass, the reflection of the house in the stone mirror, the reflection of the bookshelf in TV's display, reflection of people in Hooman's glasses who is sitting in front of all of us.

Hooman whispers something in Nazila's ear. Nazila, with her feet music – as Hooman puts it – goes to take a photo. This was our usual custom. After the end of each meeting, small or large, we would take a photo of cups, glasses and plate with a small Sony camera. During the era of oppression and fear, it was the only way keep down and in the same way, feel that we exist, at least in Nazila's virtual and real exhibitions.

Nazila would set up exhibitions in which she could sell paintings and photographs. Youngsters would care about these artworks and this way, our ideas would be pinned to people's houses and rooms walls and group would gain some of its budget.

We were not sure about setting up exhibitions. How would those forces find us while we would observe all security issues? The only place we were exposed in was these exhibitions. They would attach and detach something to the organization. They would say immorality rages among our group. Sex scandal is the first allegation which could be attributed to the group. Being around each other at night, being worried about each other during the day, pointless sacrifices of a group members for each other. All these could prove the allegations to be true.

It was simple. Characters, would show their properties in their belongings. Lili's milky Zippo lighter. Nazila's DuPont lipstick. Babak's Black and White Whisky glass... Nothing will be hidden. Everything has a sign of its owner. That was why it was decided all organization member's belongings should be alike.

But everyone had their own scent.

Nazila would dance over Mehran's head and take photos of Hooman and Radin. After a funny struggle, Mehran took the camera from Nazila. He was preparing his words while checking the photos. He was preparing his words for me. I knew that from his sneaky looks.

-Do you remember how many cups there were?

He put the camera on the table. Where I was in the scene and in front of the lens. Without any change to the glasses and plates.

-Gather up, flash. Time to get together for the photos. Hurry up, we have only ten seconds. We must get in the scene.

Click... Looked like it was ten year ago, again. Risk of explosion would put shock in our eyes. We put arms around each other's necks. We all had hugged each other. Our warmth would suggest maybe our next photo-shoot, the circle would be even smaller. It was a good circle. This was not a photograph, only. It was a victory. All of us, next to each other, exposed in a photograph... Click... Floom.

-Do you remember how many cups there were? Where did our comrades go? How many of these cups have changed color because of the fear of undue reasons?

Hooman takes my hand:

-We were not in photos for existence. Our comrades are not among us because of the existence of our ideas. For reaching dieugodi.

-Rahil! What's wrong with you, honey? You are overwhelmed just after the victory? This is not the time to hesitate. We have reached what we wanted. Because of these ideals we all believed in and knew one day they would come true.

-You mean we created a fact?

Nazila was busy taking photos. Close-up. Two shot. Medium shot. Long shot. She would change our positions in golden points. But all photos were the same. Our distances, group photos don't make a difference. We are all alike.

-This time I have to hold an exhibition of photos from group members' portraits. Audiences are tired of seeing cups, plates, food, and cigarette and ashtray.

Nazila would talk. Would conquer and laugh. They would laugh. It was a good day. A good night. Good times had begun. This was a reality which had come true. Dieugodi could come and show off. Now was the time to put self forward.

People need to put themselves forward. Their photo albums are organized and available. Guests must see them. If they don't have time, they have to see the pictures which are organized and hung on the wall. Stones build the houses and pictures turn into houses' spirit. To prove that humans were around before this.

One other way to express themselves is their clownish ideas. Clownish since they know they are playing roles. They seduce and have a problem of evil. Like following a special diet and adding a philosophy about peace or philanthropy to it.

Mehran was always about his ideas. He even would mix some ideas together. But he would always smoke. It is interesting, he was stubborn about things he didn't believe in, but this hobby was really his belief. He would always say so, but he wouldn't get that: you should know people from their hobbies and not their words. Words might happen just once, but hobbies are impossible not to happen again and again. You run a game and you think you are distracting your mind, your body, from what you are in. Alone, you smoke, when happy, you smoke, they cheat on you, you smoke, you break, you smoke... this hobby, is an unwise game to amplify the depth of what happen to you and the determinism that has taken away your freewill.

Babak would fill up his surroundings with cigarette butts and books and papers, and wouldn't do anything for hours until he would begin organizing his desk as if he had come up with an idea. We would mock him, he would smile and say: you have not tasted creativity, neither have I! But you could feel the joy of recreation this way. Chaos would be the start.

## 2

Victory and failure always happen together. Not that they have an order. Together. Simultaneously. We win and we lose all at the same time. Or, as we won, they lost. As we were celebrating our victory and Nazila broke her leg. She went back to hit the wall and fell. Fears control our lives. Fear of someone else's victory. Fear of breaking. As time passes, our fear grow, too.

Nazila keeps taking photos.

Now that she is playing hard to get, Hooman has the camera. As we record the happy moments, we review that failures. We are doomed to review or memories. Doomed to vaguely preserve the fog halos at the dawn of the next morning. In the back of its mind, sun sees the night and that is why it throws light at the brown and cream face of the loveless garden flowers. So it colors them. Color, is the reality of our extermination.

This was this resisting failure moment. I had not. Nothing was published from me in our internal friendly gathering weekly publications. We were newly repeating labor and communist and Marxist and socialist and capitalist system among ourselves, with understanding them. The organization was being formed. Relatively recent, comparing to the present time. According to 'K', as each happening in the past gets older comparing to the present time, it is new comparing to the past! They were newly taking our lives. We were newly grownups. Whenever we wanted to grow up in our own eyes, they kicked us/kicked ourselves – in the foot/in the back and fell.

The name of the publication was chosen the same way. When we wanted to print the publication. We had to choose a name for that. Initially we would call it 'The Internal Publication'. And it was something between us. It was a proper name for it, to be honest. A publication which was limited to a limited number of readers. But 'K' would say we have to write our ideas and goals, it is at least good for later that we want to evaluate ourselves. We were not creators. We would steal anything. Our talent was to gather an ample amount of information at once and use other's ideas.

We would sit around each other and on Wednesday evening, we would pick up one of the plays from the bookshelf, and everyone would read a role scripts. I remember we chose a play 'The Visit of the Lady' for reading. Before reading, Babak began by some introduction so we can grasp and play the roles better. He would say to grasp what happens on the scene, we needed something more than our common beliefs. Dürrenmatt, opens a viewpoint for inducing facts in viewer so that everything becomes perceptible for them, a part of viewer's nature. A dangerous and harsh belief which probably has penetrative capacities for demolishing social justice for each of us in another way and each of us sees ourselves involved with this unforgivable sin, in a way or another. Of course humor also helps with the play so it could decrease the bitterness of streams and evens. A victim who was once a slaughter and victimizer and today in this play, has to be slaughtered. A failed and mutual love which has turned to a great hatred after failure and today this hatred affects many fates. All Güllen citizens are held responsible for an uncontemplated action. Once upon a time, Alfred Ill deceives Claire Zachanassian and after jilting her, he wins the case in the court with false witnesses. Claire moves to Hamburg and becomes a prostitute and there, she marries a wealthy man and improves her wealth and power in the next 35 years so she can bring justice back by humiliating Güllen citizens who once accepted injustice, through an avenged act. Claire Zachanassian returns to Güllen and wants to buy justice in return for helping the town with extraordinary monetary gift. She wants to revitalize the town by donating this amount under one condition. A Güllen citizen has to take Alfred Ill's life.

Babak read this from a newspaper and assigned the roles. I was supposed to read Claire's part. He would look at me to change my tone after reading each dialogue. I would laugh. I was not able to feel Claire's feelings. He would explain the reasons for me, again. I would laugh. Babak would humorously say:

-You must become such a person so you can play the role well.

-I am not this person. I can't even begin to understand why she does that. Taking revenge. From the one you love.

-She loved him once.

'K' asked me to bring my brother, Sa'id, to gather a theater group. The memory of Sa'id's entering the group has always been hard and distressful. 'K' would say teenagers should be in the group, too. He would explain the reason to lean towards plays by a quote from 'Eugenio Barba' that: "In theater, you can and despite the art, social and political conditions which get harder and harder, make your own island. This is what keeps us moving forward. Making a play, is like living in a cold long Scandinavian winter night which never ends. You will never see the sunrise. The structure, doesn't work well and the story, is plain. But if you continue on the same trend, you will suddenly begin to see very odd things. A darkness which gradually seem pinkish. Then you would say: Yes, sun will show up... Spring will come".

Like Nazila who fell and twisted her foot. Or broke. But didn't die. But Sa'id... left, when Babak was not there. So he can do Babak's job. Memories when reviewed. They lay parallel to each other. Disordered, chaotic, without length and width. Timelessness is this. Time is the spare screw of existence, we lose it, and existence, screws our lives.

Like this story which loses its time order. Its narrator changes. This "self" that writes is different from this "self" that you read. This self even, transforms and reshapes continuously. Its ideas change.

Street plays was the first idea of the group. They could be set without spending a dime and quite sudden. You could even disappear into the crowd. Sa'id and Nazila would go on streets as a photographer and a photo object and without people noticing, they would play for them. For instance, Sa'id would curse Nazila loudly and then Nazila would admonish him. Sometimes, some men would go to beat Sa'id up, I had warned Nazila no one has the right to harm him.

Nazila would hug Sa'id, kiss him and laugh so they can evade the danger. They would even do it when it was rainy. Sa'id was not OK with the rain. He would remember how lonely he was. The lonesome of single umbrellas in a weather which needed a company. Maybe Nazila's femininity would make him calm.

Sa'id would stay with me at nights, for he doubted Radin's looks. Especially when shit would hit the fan and Radin, like a helpless bear cub, needed his mom's arms. The fact that my motherly love would grow about a wounded bear cub was not odd and not against my sensory logic. Since the time the group became a mess due to the work prohibitions and security reasons, and it was decided that cup photos were going to be taken only, this feeling of Radin and my incitement had grown. This however is my current interpretation.

We always interpret the past, the way we feel comfortable with in present, otherwise we could not move on. Any activity needs a justification, even writing. Writing like any other activity has an innate movement, now we have to find a justification for its start so I, as an author, can sync with this writing innate movement. All these justifications were created by 'K'. Unconsciously.

'K' brings a watermelon. Shows its stripes to us. Cuts it on the lines with a knife. He emphasizes that the contrast between the black and red colors do not contradict. They coexist. He says he has brought this from street. Now he wanted to give back his watermelon-ish philosophy to the streets. He was an expert in mixing unrelated ideas.

Like the entrance of that watermelon in absence of philosophy, Nazila entered our group in absence of a photographer. Same for Sa'id due to the absence of Babak. They would all call him 'Ba' or 'Bab'. The circle had gathered around him. I never noticed from where he began being independent. He was three years younger than his brother, 'Kamran'. But, whoever had seen Babak, would guess Babak's age ten or fifteen years older than what it really was. Many were wrong about him. No one had an accurate information about Babak's past. Everyone who comes first is like Adam of the Adam and Eve story. Like they have no history. And no one asks them about their past. But that person knows the background of everyone who later joins the group. They make a history with them. History gives a person a color which a person is introduced with.

I know Adam's skin color was purple.

I am always confident that Adam knows Eve very well. He sews a dress before her arrival. Makes a bed. Warms his arms. Adam knows me, even. Standing tall next to my stone mirror. Prepares my papers for writing. Because of these small things, Adam accepts the followings as humans! And Adam was the whole humanity. Babak became our father.

My father was a lawyer. He chose to administrate registrations, recently. The income was lower than being an attorney, but dad would say being an attorney was not worth the risk. There were always arguments on house expenses. Sa'id and I used to look at these arguments as some biodiversity. Back then, when we were riding dad's brand new car to his lawyer friends across the city, we would argue who gets to stick their head out of the sunroof.

I didn't like both of us to stand there. I didn't like it when his body would touch mine. It was not a good feeling. No one should be allowed to enter your privacy, otherwise they will break into you, too. Even your brother!

Kamran wanted to enter the group, several times. Babak was glad to have him in group, as well. It was odd that Kamran would run away each time, with even more regret. Sometimes I would taunt that my brother is in the group, but not your brother? It was after these taunts that Kamran would show up again and... would run, again.

When we grew up, we asked dad to tint the car windows. Sa'id would not understand. Whatever I would do, he would imitate. He would repeat what I wanted. Like mom, who would see the opposite whatever dad would do better. This is a repetition, too. Dad was basically concerned about future and the fact that his fellow coworkers' guilt would suddenly end his life by a man who had done his time in jail. That simple. My father's world would break down that simple. Mom however would say, kids should be satisfied...

I turned into an author, from backseats tinted windows. I am sitting in that darkness and I am amazed by the images which are far from real. Artists' world happen in Plato's cave. Audiences look at the images which we tint on paper's whiteness. These tints are caves in which we confine the readers so they can see. Images which are a delusional copy of an external fact. They are out of me. The accumulation of author's mental contradictions is the result of overwhelming works of authors.

Sa'id would complain about his loneliness. He had told his friends about the circle, yesterday. He had repeated 'K''s words on his way back, on those streets infested by high sycamore and cypress trees. They had bantered him, right there. Since yesterday. This sense of not being understood by his friends, had intensified for him. He would think he is living among lunatics who are out of the circle and organization and they don't understand what he says and what noble ideals he would foster in his head.

In an underground exhibition of my mom's artist friend, Mehran read a script from a collage picture which was from Babak.

Mehran was a good assistant for Babak. He would set up art exhibitions in underground galleries and display their works. They would set the prices in a way that selling one or two works would be enough for them. The money from selling collage pictures and photographs would be enough for their nightly gatherings. A major part of the money, according to Mehran, would be spent on plants. They meant paper and tobacco. Mehran had grown a belly after quitting being a vegetarian. He had grown a double chin and big cheeks. Unlike those exhibition day:

-Hey young lady! Why do you jeopardize your health with unhealthy foods?

-Me? What have I eaten? I am looking at the pictures and photos, only. I didn't eat anything.

-I mean those soulless realistic pictures. They show you your own daily life with a variety of colors. They have sprayed purple on the sky so they can justify us looking at the clouds. They have sprayed red on the sea waves to show human instinct and lust. Till when you look at the sunset and not get a different perception? You don't think about a new world.

-What should I do, then? These pictures wouldn't be here if they were not valuable. You suggested mom to buy some of them. I noticed your signature under one or two of those pictures.

-Become a vegetarian.

Mom and Mehran, look at each other and laugh.

-Vegetarianism creates a different understanding?

-At least it led you to ask this question. At least it led you to think if there are other ways of understanding. Right? Same way you can think you won't eat a fried living embryo.

-Eggs?

-Eggs are not creatures?

Mom and Mehran laugh. Mom laughs louder.

-Rahil! Let's check out other pictures with Mehran's help. It's got to be fun. Companionship with a mature person like...

-Like me.

Both laughed, again.

I never understood the reason for Mehran and mom's endless laughs. There were special metonymy in his words and at the same time, according to mom, he was right to the point. The reason for his clear tone and at the same time the complexity in his sentences could be due to his sick soul. His paintings were full of hot red color. Without mixing it with any other color. I never told him the question I had was "how come he turned to a vegetarian in that situation?" Maybe, if I knew, I would not scold him for his big belly which was big because of marinated lamb kebab.

When I would ask mom the reason she buys those pictures she would look at me and imply for having some joys, you have to sacrifice, too. It was good that mom's entertainment would be taken care of with some money. This was very good. I always thought mom is the happiest person in the world, because she had the money for all her happiness, in her pocket.

And sometimes I miss my father. True that I never received anything from his presence, but it seems I am missing a dad. A dad who was described by my primary school friends. A person who would come by his hands fool of grocery, with an unkind face, harsh voice, rough hands, and a rag, a wide shoulder, with his deep sleep and nightly snores, his unreasonable criticizes. I miss this type of father.

We miss things which we have experienced at least once in our lifetime. This missing leads us to look at negative points with a positive kind look and consider them lovely. Sometimes we are so fool that we miss these negative things and cry for them.

I have experience this father not once, but every day in my life and now my share of missing is immense and grief is endless. Maybe Babak was a father.

The most appropriate time that I scolded Mehran and never regretted that even for a second was when Hooman would gladly do an experiment for us. Hooman had studied biology. He would often miss his theoretical discussions and pure biology mnemonics and our ears would be a field for his verbal leakages from his years of education. I wonder how those invalid and unproven theories, in his own words, had stuck in his mind.

I never cared about him. I never cared about biology or even experiments which, in my opinion, were more like scientists internal jokes or for showing human's power on other creatures. I know human follows biology to substitute gods. To reach controlling and understanding life details. Definitely, all fields of study have originated from this biology. Hooman had proved that for me. He would explain the philosophy of life by explaining the mating method in peacocks. He would say not all peacocks are pretty, their male and females are different and whole these colors on their feathers are for attracting attention. Their need to get attention from the opposite sex has led their bodies to be this colorful, pretty and eye-catching.

He brought a pot. In a night which we had put pots and plates under house ceiling cracks to collect the raindrops and it was like clock ticking was echoing to remind us of the lost time. Time was tight and our battle was facing lack of tick-tack opportunities in its critical moments. Hooman entered, wet. Brought a pot. Turned up the kitchen stove flame. He put the water from those waters to boil for tea. Tea feels great in this weather. He invited us to join him in warming that. Group works, group houses.

He brought out a plastic bag from his pocket.

I was there, Mehran, Babak – in that room with windows opening in the street – Radin – behind shades and smokes – and Hooman. Hooman went behind the kitchen counter. Same place Babak or Mehran would stand and read the news from the day before and the day after. There was always a speech there.

-In their studies on behavior conditioning, scientists have recorded an odd fact about amphibians, especially frogs. I think if I tell you this theory, you would imagine a solution for our movement and this would motivate you. See the kettle and the pot.

Hooman put the kettle and pot on the counter with his hands frizzling and then he put his hand in his pocket. He had a struggle with his pocket.

-See this green frog. I will throw him in this boiling water kettle and we will see what happens... Look (he said with excitement) Look he can't bear it. He doesn't want to accept. He is jumping up and down. But this other frog was in the pot since I came...

I look at Mehran. Why isn't he doing anything? I can't. I can't bear it. I run. I go in front of the counter. I don't know what I am doing. My hand doesn't burn. This animal is alive. All his body is alive. He is burning alive. I can't bear it. My hand doesn't burn. I throw him out of the kettle. As I am beating Hooman in the face and head, I shout: "What the fuck are you doing, asshole?" Mehran holds my hand under water. My hand doesn't burn. My body is inflated. I hate Mehran. I will never laugh at his jokes. I hate people who don't follow their own principles. Mehran applies toothpaste on my hand. I look him in the eyes. My hand doesn't burn. I don't laugh at his idiot philosophic jokes. I take my hand. I apply toothpaste on frog's body. It looks like his eyes are empty. He doesn't want to see us anymore. He hates Hooman because he turned his rain pleasure into boiled water suffering and dying alive.

-Why do you make a scene, girl? Don't you understand when someone is behind the counter it means an official session is ongoing?

-Come look into this pot. I put this frog in the pot since the water was cold. Look he doesn't move. It seems he has digested the temperature change in himself. We should do like that. We should cook people like that.

## 3

I wish tonight would end sooner. Nights that the moon is full, a feeling makes my heart look at the sky and with all its screams, it howls. Even I don't understand what it calls. What force. Whom... It only faces the sky and stares at the sky's one white eye. Sometimes we encounter feelings which are delusions only. They are related to mistakes in receiving and not an inner sense. This vague and unclear sense, which according to Lili are like hollows in human stomach, happens in appropriate times. Fear fills you up. And then it goes away.

Even if someone understands this sense and holds your hand, you run away from that person. You fear that hand. This time, their hand's place becomes empty too. Then even your cells uproar. Your neurons become insomniac and your cries turn into pretend laughs. Hatred becomes a part of you (hatred becomes a part of your throat). It becomes an apple which is next to you and you don't dare to bite it.

The name of the organization too, was decided here. When we wanted to write a statute, we had to choose a name for it. At first, we would call it 'the group'. And it was only between us. But since we had grown, the need was felt more. Babak would say there must be a statute so if something happens to the leaders or if a follower is found far away, they could follow the manifesto. Sometimes he would be funny even and would ask what if they wanted to refer to us in security organization reports? They don't have a name to call us.

Sometimes we look for a certain event for a long time. Looking for a name. A person with all the characteristics you have imagined. Details which you always had in mind. A choice which its desire has never gone away in your heart. But all at once, you choose a path which is far away from those thoughts. As if delusions have come to you. Words march on your face and you run from the rocks, the rocks which are directly thrown at your face.

From this thrilling night on, Babak goes away. We call him 'K' in these nights which we are squatting in this insecurity corner. I don't know whether choosing 'K' was glorifying or diminution. But everyone would see him. They expected him to settle this situation. Members were driven out of their positions. Organization was crumbling down. People were not tagging along.

Hooman was chased by civil security forces while distributing night letters. He had knocked many doors, but there had been no answer. He had run to the cemetery and been arrested there. They had rubbed his head on grave stones and told him: This is the end of your journey...

To satisfy ourselves we would say only we have received the condition as "elites" and "nobles" and we are in the battle alone. But the same "populace" which we have spent our lives for, have become our tormentors.

'K' had stuck the photos of the cup which were not used anymore on the picture. Nazila's cup, Hooman's ashtray, Lili's lighter. I was there, K, Sa'id and Radin. Radin has held the yellow flag and as if his mom is lullabying him, he is squatting in the corner and sings "Home is red and lane is red and street is red" song.

He would sing that for me, sometimes. He would always complain why my name was not cited in any poem. You couldn't even smile at him due to the fear of his sensory happenings. And also K and Sa'id's looks. I would ignore him. I liked 'K' to come hold my hands and we go on streets. Maybe we could make a memory this way.

No one would suspect a seventeen, eighteen year old boy roaming around on streets. Hence, Sa'id had become the organization's kernel link. However, I had noticed that 'K' was training him, in fact. However, I didn't know why he had been chosen – however we sometimes ignore the reasons to justify ourselves – however, I didn't even know why 'K' insists on me writing! The pain was double. He would tell me what to write. He would propose the plot. I would write. Then he had to edit it. As Sa'id's works.

It was a weird night. 'K' had cheated. It had turned to a weird night. Feeling tonight's smell doesn't need you to have dog's nose, the smell of wet pig was all around the night. Again the circle was able/was forced to hold a meeting. Everybody would look and address me. 'K' didn't show up:

-I had told Nazila that Babak was getting suspicious. What do you think? That they have arrested him and let us be free?

-Dear Hooman, what freedom? Exile. To a place we have never heard of. Check these paper the court has given me...

-That's insane, Mehran. Insane. You are exiled, I am fired, some of our friends are missing...

-Sa'id had said he had been seen going to civil security forces building and staying there for hours. I told Sa'id to be more careful, then. I didn't want my brother get involved in such issues. Not to go down a path not being able to return.

-Sa'id... Rahil! I wish Sa'id would never enter this game. But we have all paid prices.

We had to judge Babak. Judging people is done through our understandings about them. From what we know from their past. For instance we tell ourselves it is highly impossible for Sa'id to do drugs and become a drug addict, since his past deeds and behaviors don't imply them. People's personalities could be judged from their past performances. People who have the most memories together, have the best decrees and perceptions from each other. But no one knew anything from Babak's past. He wanted to be judged by his future.

I continue my play. I stop looking at the mirror. The mirror keeps memories in itself. As if they are fixed in paraffin wax. And you are like the experimenter with a white clean gown who is forced by the fate to open the paraffin bottle door every day and see it by your green eyes, smell its odor. The stone mirror is built for this.

I am built for writing plays. Usually I write without scratching out. Except points where my mind gets busy with the mirror. The proper word breaks in my mental dialectic fuss. I write a sentence and a heterogeneous word is put in between it. According to the psychologists – I guess Freud – when someone lies, sometimes words which have a sign of truth are displayed in their train of lying words. I lie to my memories.

The difference between writing and lecturing is in innovation and the chance of correcting the mistakes. For the same reason, authors are better liars. They light a cigarette and make the mirror reflection disappear.

Sa'id was sitting under a tree. He was explaining. I know he had been smoking after he had done his job in that strange city. Long beard on his young face would give him a ridiculous look. Like Che Guevara who had let his thin beard to grow. When your manhood can trap girls, it is not important if your face is ugly and have a military uniform on. Sa'id would think the same. A boy, running, in that darkness in allies with a yellow shirt, had come to him and sat next to him without asking and lit a cigarette. I know they were Sa'id's cigarettes.

Sa'id had said nothing. Not that this story made me believe how respectful he is and if he understands the meaning of social freedom. He just wanted to make himself look good. Some things could be learned. These things could be imitated. Like lighting candles on the beach, which means only one thing that you have neither understood candle nor the beach. Boy, he had confessed that he had been running from civil security forces. He had been chased since he had kissed a girl on streets and suddenly civil security forces have showed up.

He has said that and Sa'id has said nothing. I know he has thought the girl will come now and he can kiss her, too. Kisses this simple, are born in mind, satisfy him and go. They have neither understood the meaning of the kiss, nor staying. Kissing, is not a physical act which happens and gets a reaction and be done and get a reaction. A kiss happens every time and one time only and based on the conservation of energy principle, it is transferred into the body of the girl, so it lasts forever. This kiss will go anywhere with her. Will accompany her. Will make a bed for her. Will wiggle in her hair and tinkle her.

You have to give a girl an everlasting kiss.

.

## 4

I have to deliver a play by tomorrow in the afternoon. I must use my time. Sometimes writing is in fact looking for the wasted time. Times that the author has wasted and is regretting it, only. This is another empty space. Another hollow. Many things that I have lost. When you lose something, a shadow, a spoor, a footprint is left. I have received the shadows.

Mehrdad was making a documentary about snakes, snakes don't see. I mean they don't see by their eyes. They don't see like we do. They mostly rely on their other odd senses in receiving their environments.

-I can't imagine how they would see the world. If we could give eyes to snakes, maybe their world could become better:

-Come on Rahil!! How did this come to your mind?

These words of Hooman, make other laugh. Paradoxes always lead to laughter.

-What's wrong with it? Suppose that you donate eyes to a blind guy. It could change his whole world. Things he had received by hardship, now he can see and receive easily.

-Like what?

-Like beauty. He could even understand concept better. I think for a person who doesn't have the sense of sight, the limits of freedom and economy are not different.

-You want him to come and see you to understand what beauty is?

-Don't be silly. I am serious

-OK... Suppose that you donate eyes to a blind-born after forty years. You think it would be the case as you say?

-Hmm... I have to be in the snakes place so I can answer you.

These words of mine makes Babak laugh, too. I go to pour tea. Cups could be filled now. They are discussing things. Their minds are busy with a question which is childish according to Mehrdad. The kid who flew an elephant to the sky.

-Let's do something else. You can't be in snakes' shoes. But we can suppose we grant you one of the snake senses.

-What do you mean?

-I mean close your eyes and try receiving things by their heat. You have written a lot about objects' heat. The heat of hands, the heat of arms, the heat of his lips

He winks and I blush.

-Come on.

I close my eyes. I come to guess whom those hand belong to. Hooman's hands. Mehrdad's hands. Babak's hands. Radin's hands. Sa'id's hands. All life was in these people's hands. But why I can't distinguish.

Rahil I have lost the arms...

I am sitting in front of stillness of this yard pool. Another mirror. It is not flowing, but it has waves. You don't know if it is dead or alive. When was it alive? When did it become dead water? It has understood it is dead after falling the first dead leaf on its face while not being able to throw the leaf away? Body hollows are formed when we enter the existence of time into the face and consider objects out of time.

I go towards the bathroom. This place was like a resort to Babak. He had put a table in front of the sink, a lighter, a pen and a crossword puzzle magazine. He would spend times in here. Sometimes he would sing. When he would get out he was happy. I would humorously say he has peed the happy pee.

The change the Snow Queen faces in 'Snow White' story and turns into the rainbow at the end. With spacklings. As if it has all elements of kindness in it. Colors. Lights. Starts sparks. And it turns into a path for the return of 'The Snow White and Dwarfs' and the delusion which 'Snow White' repeats for them. She says: "Now I understand we have to reach our dreams ourselves. Everyone is responsible for their own dreams." And she tells these lies to herself while she is set free by the dwarfs and going to the destination by the help of her beautiful enemy. Sometimes we harshly ignore the good reasons of our companions and forget them. That is why we die.

Babak had already ignored all of us. There was no need for his sudden disappearance. The fact that he had faded away meant he was gone. A person must either completely be or not. Staying between going and remaining, is to expand the dilemma only. It is creating a dilemma. A path which is full of expanded dilemmas will never lead to anywhere. It will be full of complexities. Like Radin who doesn't know what bottle to pick up when in front of the refrigerator. Among these white refrigerator three stories, among whole these different tastes, a few minutes which expand like several hours, he dies, he doesn't choose. Time expands. He loses his flexibility. He gives up:

-You didn't say anything about your plot, Rahil? This play is a bit different, you are writing for victory. You know that already, don't you?

-Yes...

-Well? You didn't read anything for me. You have not written anything? Weren't you suppose to deliver it by noon?

-I know all its stories. Its writing doesn't take long. Maybe writing its dialogues takes a while.

-What is it about? Its opening? Its ending? It is weird that you say you know its story. You knew you would get the order for the job?

-Well, I was waiting for this day to come, whole this time and an opportunity to write this.

-When? You mean after victory?

-After 'K''s leaving

Radin closes the refrigerator's door. Colors mix on the rough surface of the refrigerator. They spin together. An impressionistic reflection. He can't find me in that spin and expose. The only way out of present complexity is to look behind. He turns to see me. Our eyes collide in the mirror.

-About... is it about Babak?... You still think about Babak?

-I think about his absence every day.

-Am I not here? When I am here, what does it mean to think about past people?...

-That are not done...

-Babak is omitted from our friend circle. You voted in favor of this decision. You occupied his place, yourself. You even promised to stop the relation and love with him... Maybe...

-Don't be a fool, Radin... I don't even know if he is dead or alive. Seems you have forgotten we even broke his cup. Especially after Sa'id...

-Well, yeah... He definitely gave us away that led Sa'id...

-OK, then...

-Then I don't understand why you are writing about him in this situation.

Undoubtedly, whoever who commits an action has a motivation or a goal for their action. Everyone is planning and reacting to real dramatic actions. We are all authors. The main role of our play is ourselves. We follow the six principles of Aristotle's Poetics for polishing our dramas, without noticing it. We do the settings. We all suffer from one common pain. Polishing is noticeable in people's deeds. Suffering is when we want to pretend we are someone else. When we wear a mask which doesn't fit our face and a train of mottos become our entire lives.

Hooman was on the intercity train. Novel images scenery would pass in front of his eyes in the seven o'clock light Ahvaz late August. He didn't know what paths he would pass. This spraying light would refresh anything for him. So that he could not distinguish the path. But the destination was clear. Three passengers had to accompany him. If he could make choices, he would choose a scented girl over that old man who couldn't control his farts, so maybe like the other two newly married couple, he could spend pleasurable time before reaching the destination. Maybe Nazila was in his mind. But he knew he is going to meet Lili.

In this journey, behind new scents and new sights, Hooman was always metamorphosing. It was his own interpretation. In search for that girl's feelings he was going to that city in which he had last seen her. Once he had written this about himself: I was like that person who would get hundred times more lost in things he would find. Like a horseman in crusades, he had ride his horse and to gain a victory he had fought an army and he had lost all beats of his body in that war. Like his voice is lost in his mouth in blood and soil. Like his mouth is full of interwoven words.

Presence of 'Bab' would lead to the support of Hooman's travels. One of his management methods would require mental calm for individuals and not get engaged with small home issues so they can be influential in social activities. These journeys were because of Lili's absence. Everyone has a Lili around them which misses its absence. Maybe names are substituted, only.

Result of journeys, is writing. Sometimes you travel from one place to another place. Sometimes you travel from one time to another time. Sometimes you travel from one place to another time. Now we have travelled to the 'Bab''s returning time. I have an image of his lethal anger in my mind. When Radin, had flirted with Nazila to give her money. He had waved money in front of her so she dances for him and his gaff, had attracted Bab's attention.

Radin was deeply regretting what he had done and he disappeared for a while. We needed his economic intuition. But Babak would not accept it. My mediations and Hooman's missing him, made Babak let Radin come back again. Radin would wheedle me. Like a bear which looks for a place for hibernation, he was preparing the situation all spring and summer and he would reach what he wanted in winter.

You can't present eyesight to a person who has not seen anything for forty years. If receiving was as simple as having one sense, all animals would claim their own animal rights. You can't transfer concepts to a community which have not seen in a pre-death hurried sex. Even if they know it exists, they can't use it. Existence is something and having is another.

We go to a restaurant with my mom. They charge well and they serve well, too. Dad always suggest we go to a park or in our yard to have our dinner. It would happen once every two-three months, anyway. Dad was not satisfied with those restaurants and mom didn't like open environments. There were always things in our dinner which didn't exist. Their joy was eaten fast and several minutes later, they were dumped in the bathroom.

We have to gather everything in garbage bags after dinner. Sa'id didn't like this. I would accompany dad. Plastic bags in one place, recyclable trash in one place and food remaining would be put under the trees for the birds, out of mom's sight. Dad would always say we have to take care of other creatures. We have to help them. This garbage gathering was a help and putting food was another help. Helping with improving their lives.

## 5

I want to tell you something. About a man whose sanctum we entered, he went. But he never got lost. I have decided to finish him in this play. Maybe this way his presence finishes. I have told Radin that I am writing the play for the same reason. He didn't say anything, like always. He would only remind me of how little my time is.

I had to finish that play on that specific day. Since its main role was me and other roles were my life with its all details and people, its writing didn't take long. I knew everything. Everything had happened. I was reporting that. This was the first time I was a journalist. I was Radin. There was no need for physical presence of Radin, even. Recording events after occurrence, after seeing, drawing and tasting is easy for an author.

I didn't know why Radin insists on reading the play finale. Sometimes you don't have to understand everything. Sometimes knowing helps you, and sometimes not knowing. Was it because of Radin's jealousy towards Babak or the misconception which was formed for him since in the morning – sometimes the emergence time of some things is not important – he knew Babak's fate. He was a part of the game. Babak had died years ago.

Like this yard pool. Yard pools think by reflecting the sky, the whole world is concentrated in them. They don't know the skies of people are different from each other. Their games with clouds are different. Its look towards rainfall is different. Yard pools are the dead which pretend to be the sea. Their blue color is fake.

Before noon which the sunrays among the house bitter orange tree leaves have a good smell. Radin didn't go out. He stayed to take the play. The good thing about working in the newspaper, was its carefreeness. They were informing and not informing the whole day long. They called it, producing news. They meant changing the reality.

He knew I would not take the script to Batebi. On the other side of the yard pool towards the door, he stood still. I could see him in the mirror. He was struggling with himself and a smile would be formed on his face. He called me. He gave me the papers, this side of the yard pool and went back to where he first was.

-Read the end for me. I want to know how you have finished it.

-Radin, you know I never have or will do that.

-Right. I have never been the first reader of your works.

I stared at him. Maybe it was the first time, his hair had grown gray. On his blue eyes, long eyelashes were resting. There were wrinkles under his eyes. As if I would find new details with this first look. In that white face, a redness was showing off. Shame, excitement, anger... I don't know what it was. He had a bad breath.

-But you have read them, finally. You have seen you have not lost anything.

-Except being the first person to read them.

-Why is that so important? Do I expect to be the first person to read your newspaper?

I have come to this conclusion that whole these events have an author who is behind everything. They know what they are doing. Unrelated events, happen back to back and you don't know why. You only accept being in their happening. Like a river which accepts falling. Turns to a waterfall. Slaps the stones with sludge on them. Turns to a river again. A happening happens to it so it can create a happening.

Radin becomes quiet. As if he has hit the wall.

-I didn't say read all the play. I asked you to read the finale. You used to read a part of the script.

-Or you read that in the mirror

-So it is important to me.

I had reported an event. I insisting on not reading that was in vain. Everyone knew the finale. An event that everyone knows about is void. You know that too, without me saying. I have not created something so I have to expect its concealment until the public launch.

-Of course. Babak goes away. He gets killed everywhere. You become my husband. You don't share victory. You don't share anything. In this sweetness.

\- Just that?

-Did you expect anything else?

-Because you have written them in the play metaphorically. I also am sure that you have not included yourself in the story completely and you have changed your characteristics. So maybe you would end it differently. And your tone has changed...

-Another me... no.

The narration is from two women. One in war and conflict. One in poetry and tea drinking. They don't give up on the battle until the poem is cold and the tea is old. They don't clip their nails so they can scratch the face of the wall ahead of them when needed. They have braided their hair. Their long soft beautiful dark brown hair. Hands can't go through them. They have left their innate femininity behind dusty windows so the savior comes in from that half open door. But the savior has died, with all that both fall on the ground. Their bodies before their heads. The story finishes. It doesn't matter. The goblet rattles and the face of butler rattles.

Mehrdad was putting the painting on the milky sofas. It was his place of creation. He would create his figures. He would stare at the bookshelf stories. He was always short of paint colors and he had to use limited colors. He would laugh and tell the persistent critics, you have to innovate in color integration, new color doesn't necessarily innovate a new design. He was bullshitting people and this shortage will limit him until he wants to pour the colors on the canvas.

He would stare at one of the books. You could tell Hemingway was reading him a story. Chekhov had held his hand in Soviet bazaars and showed him how Camus deceives audiences. The white wall which was in front of Mehrdad, would narrate these. He would steal from written stories. From Mabert Khikz and even others.

He would wear a bandana on his head. He would say it helped him to concentrate. His face would change when he would paint. The bandana would cause his face not to be seen well. It was his shell. He would be lost in it. A place where he would stand in front of you and he would be lost. You couldn't read anything from his eyes. You couldn't see his sadness from his eyebrows. I thought you can't find anybody in this world who can read your heart from the sparks in your eyes or even if there is such a person, it is not important for them whether you are happy within or sad.

He would paint an alone soldier on the canvas who was facing a battle with a division. A soldier with almond-shaped eyes whose laughter and crying is indistinguishable. With a heavy armor. A shiny and sharp sword, a helmet, an arrow and a bow. Next to a gate with freedom on the other side and fifty thousand infantrymen on the inside. All alike. One shape. One color.

The soldier on the corner of the canvas, in the night darkness, is squatting on his left side. He has laid his military apparatus on the other side of canvas and a fire between them. The darkness is lit by the flicker of the moon, silvery and calm. One hand is under his head and the other has embraced his knees inside his stomach. There is dust on his eyelashes which hides his eyes. He has embraced himself. Has embraced his loneliness. His ears hear the parade of the horses in the narrow lanes and tall walls. Facing an army, he is alone.

Babak would say Mehrdad's sadness increases by his words. I would look at him and ask what words? Mehrdad had not said anything. He would turn his head towards Mehrdad and point at his two eyes. Then he would whisper in my ears:

-Tea

Sometimes I think in that other better world, tea is always ready and always the smell of freshly brewed tea next to the window towards the streets as wind go through my hair, elates me. I look at Mehrdad who has painted his warrior on his canvas. He is staring at the design and adds color to a corner.

He doesn't add color to the face of this alone man. As if he knows him. Something is between them, maybe this soldier has been the only person who would brew the tea for him in the best desirable way around midnight, around three.

The battle is not for victory. Is not for freedom. Is not for reaching. Battle is the entertainment for the young ambitious soldiers which has become their idea. Victory is a simple and calm session, at the time of the dawn, with a cup of tea which never gets cold.

## 6

I asked Radin to leave the play. To stay. Radin had suspected. I had suspected. An event had happened and written. Why suspicion was formed behind this script. No one has ever suspected my scripts. The tamed horse, had lost way.

A script is a live entity. Some people love it, some people express their hatred after reading it and some people ignore it even before reading it. But suspecting the existence, questions the philosophy of existence. Questioning, leads to philosophizing.

Among us, it was only Babak who liked philosophy. Whatness and whyness. He would read packs of philosophy. He would smoke Bahman [A cigarette brand in Iran] so much the whole room atmosphere would be filled by philosophic smoke. Even one time Sa'id fainted due to the smoke intensity. I was really worried and I shouted at Babak for the first time that "Why do you do that?" Babak smiled and opened the windows and wetted a towel and spun it in the air. The first fan was invented this way, definitely.

The atmosphere of home could be changed by a shout, a loss. Same for human's feelings.

I sat on the yard pool edge. The floating leaves on water were good excuses to play and touch the dead sea. The bitter orange tree would grant this excuse to the yard pool. It was full of excuses, but no one would touch it. The green color of the yard pool was due to the same leaves. A green which was mixed with a borrowed blue and would create a paralyzed color. Radin sat on the other side. The waves which we would create would crash into each other and lap... lap... The sound would be produced by delay. The time unit, instead of the sound of lock hands, had become these lap sounds. I looked at Radin's reflection in the water and then his own face:

-I want to read the finale for Babak.

-What? Who? Babak?

-Yeah... He has to face the finale he wanted to happen to us, at least once.

-Why? What is the use of that Rahil?

-He will understand how we all feel about him, this way. He will understand that judgment is inevitable.

-We once informed him of our judgment and we executed the verdict. The verdict you yourself issued. The fact that he is not in our group and everyone considers him as a traitor, is enough for him.

-If it was enough, he would fall into sorrow. He would change himself for the better.

-You want to retaliate?

-I want to try him myself. I have to look him in the eyes and prosecute him.

-You did that in the play?

-I killed the traitor hero in the play. Revolutionary execution. I gave him the eternal hatred so people curse his name.

-That's good darling... Do you want me to pretend I am Babak... Tell me

-I am tired of living in impossible assumptions, Radin. Find him.

-Where can I find him from after these whole years? I can't even remember his face.

-You are a journalist. Use your connections.

-Connections?

-How do you find your interviewees? There should be some intelligence about him in civil security organization. Maybe he has a position there.

-OK darling... But what should I tell him

-Arrange a meeting with him

-What about the play?

-Didn't you ask to improve it? This helps me write the finale more accurate.

-Do you have your weapon still?

-Don't you see it in front of the mirror?

-I take this play as it is. They want to read it on the radio in the evening.

You have to be normal. If you judge yourself, you will stay normal. When you across dualism. You have to kill one of them. Throw in acid. You have to not let them grow in you again. Any happening, wants a different you. You have to be normal, your old you must be killed so the new you could come and begin work. It is born for this need. Don't worry. It is an author too, after all. Like you. Mesmerized by its mirror and lighter, it will be tinted.

These glasses in front of the mirror, these papers stuck in the mirror edges, these always milky sofas, this again and again kitchen counter, this fishless yard pool, yard pool with nightly moon, these shapeless mosaics, this memorable leafy tree, this bookshelf hidden behind thousands of thousands of thousands of white spaces between black lines, these monochrome colorful cups left from the group, these half-empty glasses, these survivor cigarettes, this weather, this me, this you, this other me... all are natural and normal.

Even these ants which would pass through my hands and feet were natural to me. These are all a part of the nature in which we are formed. We have to understand their behaviors. Each behavior, even this coming and going, is not simple and meaningless, otherwise from some other place, some other number, with some other color would pass. I put my hand in the ants' line. A simple chaos, leads to another order. Ants form their line some other way. I like this diversity. We get used to this new order of them and mine and we continue. And I won't worry if this could lead to a change in the universe order and the Siberian glaciers melt. When Radin is not here, what happens is that the door of the white refrigerator of my kitchen is opened and closed lesser. Many little changes have to happen so the general order changes. Ants won't suddenly grow wings, won't sting humanity in the womb and fire won't be thrown from their mouth so the pole stop being cold anymore. Many things have to happen back to back so a general change happens.

For instance, Babak has to go. I stay alone with the mirror. Sa'id passes away. Mehran gets exiled. Radin, under torture, loses his mind. Mehrdad loses sleep. Lili doesn't see her beauty in excited eyes of people in the city. Nazila, from inactivity, is diagnosed with varicose veins and the small Sony camera can't find a picture to record. All these anomalies, on by one, have to happen back to back.

Chaos began to happen when unpredictable happenings began to happen to the group members. Attitudes changed. They would see each other by suspicion, by envy. Chaos began when without prediction, my attitude towards Babak changed. As if I would look at him and see him as a feeling. A warm hug. A sanctuary.

It is hard to see your sanctuary and not be able to rest head on his shoulders. It is hard to see some people want your sanctuary ruined. It is hard to see your sanctuary doesn't know now he is your only sanctuary and doesn't support you. You have to go. You have to go stretch your arms, take his hands, and bring him close to you, receive his breaths.

It is hard that this image forms in your mind only. To have a fact abstracted in your mind that you know it is not real. Then to be in conflict with this belief and slowly reach an image, to a fact which will never happen.

You know trying to reach this happening is so far, as in trying to save the frog from the boiled water pot. You know you can struggle, cry, shout hard, shed tears and your crying sound fill the world, but you won't get rid of this endless repeated torment. You have to stay and no one saves you from the boiled water pot that is melting you. No one puts salve on your eyes.

## 7

Now you see your phone is ringing. You look at the screen. An unknown number is trying to talk to you. More unknown than your friends in security organization. Like your usual habit, if it is usual at all, this is the hour you have eaten your lunch and lounged somewhere till your sweet tea gets colder, you have lit a cigarette. Even if your spouse calls you, you don't hear and all your world stops until you tea is colder. The phone trying is in vein. Especially when the caller is unknown.

-Rahil, honey, he doesn't pick up. I don't think we can do anything today.

-Let it ring till it disconnects

-You know he doesn't answer now

-You remember too!? But also remember that, this is not the old Babak. He must answer.

I go to the yard so you talk to Radin like always when I am not around. Maybe you talk. The corrosion of the mosaic has always been exciting to me. When it rains, it corrodes a part of the yard. Hooman would say the rains are acidic and react with the mosaics' limes and the reason for small holes on the yard face was this.

Mosaics which have holes on their faces are parallel mosaics. They have a different shape each time. You can't find the shape you have found before in them. Unless you want to see that shape. Like people whose faces are full of acne and holes. You can't understand their faces. They can make any shape for you so you look at them for a while. You have to be careful not to stare at them. The hole doesn't fall in your eyes. Not to get deceived by them.

Whatever they were, I would make shapes with them. The shape of a man's face, his eyes. The shape of a shotgun while shooting, the shape of some wooly sheep at which you look from above and each of them is busy with grazing. And I am busy with my own grazing. That I want to ask you my whys.

Radin breaks the silence and comes in a hurry:

-He said he comes... under one condition that no one else is here but three of us.

-He said he comes? He picked up the phone? When does he come?

-Yeah... He was not surprised. As if he was expecting us to invite him.

-He must be expecting to be prosecuted by us... What time does he come?

-He said in the evening... He will come here at 5

Now you are preparing yourself. To make an excuse for these unpassed years. You might want your share from victory. You want to be the father of the group again and guide the dieugodi movement. You have missed the six o'clock suppers.

Weakness has overcome you. You don't know what will happen. You don't know what is expecting you. This hurts you. A part of vengeance has begun. There is no great look, on that tall guy. You have to review the past. All past happenings are incarnated in front of you. You look at your friends who were not there in your past. They don't know your memories. You have not told them anything from what you were. From your small group. From our friendly gathering internal publication. From Eve's eyes.

You can't talk about old pains with your new friends. No one consults you. Some problems won't be solved by going out. They are like the acid container in front of my mirror that you have to fall into them so you get dissolved. Everything is prepared for you here. The mirror has paused for you. It has to make the image I want for you.

You have to know how a sister gets old in the absence of her brother. Gets tired of life. Gets old. Dies. A caravan stops in the hope of water, but it sees mirage is all around. You have to know some people are sacrificing all they have for the victory. They have come in the hope of the existence of people. They have counted on each and every single words and plans.

It is hard not to even have time for mourning.

Radin checks the house in a hurry. You have to prepare the house for the trial. He comes to the yard and goes back in. He has never walked in front of the arrangement so he knows what. He wants to move things. He fails. He goes to the refrigerator. He can't choose. He closes the refrigerator door. He doesn't even know where his shadow is. His situation makes me laugh. I don't tell him anything for the same reason. I have never told him anything during these years of his shadowlessness.

But I know that at that corner of the bookshelf. Back to the TV. Towards a part of my stone mirror, I have put that small stool for today. Without a light. A light from outside has turned the atmosphere semi-dark. The light, helps with the darkness in here. With not seeing. He sits and I stand above his head. Sees the books and not to be able to write. Answers the questions offhand. Not to be able to walk.

When a group member is hit with a bad feeling, everyone wants to do something for them. Hooman brings his musical instrument. Then begins playing the background. Like a bowman in the meadow and throws arrows at the crickets. Tells them not to get crippled. Jump. He doesn't kill them. They make them accompany the clouds.

This background sound would make you lose control and embrace the first arms on your way. It wouldn't make any difference. As if you were all soul. You had to remedy this mental coldness by the warmth of arms.

He wouldn't sing any song. Just like a panther in love which howls while missing the moon. He would fly you into the clouds with him so you would think you can catch the moon. Everything becomes well and you reach that selfishness.

I wish you would come and take all those daily plays which I have written for Radin. Do as it is written and go ahead. Everything must be in favor of the play. Everything that I write, everything that you do. Come in through the door, pick up today's papers from the yard pool edge, under the tree and read them and memorize them and play for me. Radin would do it so good until it would turn into what I wanted.

Your enter now and close the yard door and assuming I don't see you in the mirror you come to surprise me and you shout loudly from the yard "Hello dear Rahil, may I enter?" and you put the set of your writings and records and properties which is located on the left of the entry and take off your coat and put your socks in the coat pocket and hang them on the rack on the right and wash your feet and turn up the air conditioner and bring three chairs from the living room and put them in front of the mirror and put one for me and one right in front me and back to the mirror for Radin and sit on one of them next to me and hold my face in your hands and kiss my forehead. Kiss my right hand. Kiss my left hand.

All these years, Radin would repeat dialogues which I had written for him. Every day, his four thousand word share would be finished. He would memorize them at work so he can read them for me at home. Like the titles he would write for his newspaper and the editor in chief would dictate him what to write. He was excited about reaching a sex which would reach a still body.

So that the group could thrive, we needed to do some socializing. Nanak knew people very well. He would predict their behaviors. That was why a part of his speeches behind the kitchen counter was the potential news from tomorrow and their commentary. Bab would say being in society needs prediction, as stock exchange does. It is not stock exchange only which is impacted by all social and political and natural issues, but people are sensitive to these changes, too. If we want some people to share their ideas with us so we fill them with whatever we think is right, we have to do according to their desires. We have to let them allow us to be their fellow traveler in the path they want. A path without the roads they want.
8

Harmless smokes could sometimes trigger the smoke alarms. You can't blame them. You can't blame the smoke alarms. It happens. Smoke, is smoke. Maybe a fire is lit. Smoke alarms don't go off for fog. The fog is not formed by fire. It is ambiguous. Clouds have come down. Droplets in the air are sad. No one knows. Fog is formed.

Like foggy days of early winter in Ahvaz. You don't know whether it is the air pollution, or intensity of the rain or your eyes are foggy. You are sad, you get sad. When you don't know what has surrounded you, you get sad. To what extent you don't know. When you don't know. Everything is vague. You don't even know the fog has you. No one alerts its danger. You burn from within, and the weather is beautiful outside. You don't know how long it takes. The mirror doesn't see either. Reflections are exposed. Shadows swell. Like hurry, an unknown halo, is following you above your head. Or it is still. As if it has become the mirror. The mirror has swollen and in this fog, it has gotten wet. Has shrunk.

In the meanwhile, in this situation, you knock the door.

-Radin, what time did you ask him to come?

-Hmm... I didn't say anything.

-Did you give him the accurate address?

-... He didn't ask for the address

-What?

-I think he didn't ask me for the address... I mean I don't remember I gave him the address

-Then we are now waiting for someone who doesn't know the address and he doesn't even know when to come?

-He will call, probably.

In this atmosphere, you ring the doorbell. You have come. You don't know what is expecting you behind this door. You have come to see all these past years, at once. Maybe you want to fix it. The fog has come following you.

You have come to skate on the ices. You have chosen the Victorian skate on frozen rivers. A feeling mixed by grace and humiliation. To hold the hands of your dreams' stupid pretty girl and ice skate. Give a white color to the minds' romance music. You expect us to stay there like spectators and sit on a corner and barbeque and laugh at the ices' crowning. To praise your elegance. To get surprised by the ice. And the ice does impossible actions. The ice bulk, devour objects. To disappear. You devour the past. Disappear it among your words. With your coming.

-Did he call you?

-No

-Open the door

Your right hand fingers hang each other. As if you want someone to save them. To open your hand and shake it kindly. I haven't written this description of you in my play. You have come. Crooked. Mashed. As if they have cuffed you whole these years and pinned your hands on your coat. Your neck is bowed like a dirty swan. As if your wide beak has not been able to open your hand knots. It is crooked and helpless.

Hands are human's sanctum. If your hands touched someone else's, you have to protect their privacy. You have to seat next to them, hand in hand, heart to heart, side by side and go with them. You have to go to their world with them. Hands are bridges between our worlds. The rain entry gate for the dreams of long-haired girls in the wind.

Whatever we get used to, becomes a part of our instincts. We pour tea for the guests instinctively, we ask questions instinctively, and you listen answers instinctively. If these habits are departed, we don't receive convenient answers. For instance, we stretch arms based on our habits and on the other side there is a person whose instinct doesn't understand the meaning of this action and doesn't answer your arms. Even if we share the feelings from inside, same thing happens. We call it love. The habit to love. When these habits don't get the correct answer in your opponent, they change form and instead of being suppressed, they get contagious. You begin loving the world.

Now you shake hands with Radin. You try to understand his feelings. Like two pigs in a swamp which have to be eyes in eyes over their restless lust. They wiggle their little tails. Shit comes out of their mouths and noses. Stinking has become ordinary for them. It has become inner.

\- Could you find the address easily, Babak? How nice that you showed up. 

-Did you give him the address?

You throw your head down. And enter the house. You don't look at anything. The yard pool, the tree, mosaics, the entry, the mirror, the kitchen. You go to the bookshelf directly. The TV is over there and sofas are in front of it. Look at them. You go to the bookshelf. You sit on the chair. You know the secrets of the house. Without anyone telling them to you. Without you saying anything.

I continue the story like this so the image gets indelible and others who hear the happening come to this conclusion that what has happened is what I have written. The fact that you have something in your shaking hand. You have picked up the gun in front of the mirror. You put that on your head and you shoot yourself in the head.

You are dead.

Once again, you are murdered by your own hands. Without any mourner. Without any comforter of your heart. Without any ointment for the deep wound on your forehead. You are sprayed on the shelves. You have made walls red. This is only your new act. A simple death only. You have left a body in my library. Where your life was flowing between white lines.

Babak is nervous. He didn't expect I empty Radin in front of him like that. He doesn't have any escape from this. He has to stay. He can't go and show up again thousand years from now:

-Now the dieugodi movement has won. Are you proud of that?

Babak faints. I pick him up and put him in front of the mirror. I bring a sofa and put Babak on it in front of the mirror. I put the gun in Babak's hands. I attribute this murder to Babak in the news.

They came and arrested me. I was not afraid. I got on the security forces car slowly. I would smile. They didn't know what I have done. They would just say that I am a threat to the public order. They haven't read my writings since it was dangerous for them. I would laugh at their mental innocence. Those who have made a mistake are frightened. We were stored in a cell with some other young people. They wanted to store us. No one knew what they are accused of. We were sharing the crime of disturbing the society peace.

A woman who seemed to be mad at her home's mirror came to us with her small Canon camera. They wanted to photograph us. The woman didn't know how to turn it on. They have always given the camera to her turned on and she didn't know she could take photos of cups at night. Without flash. I went towards her and I took the camera from her gently, turned it on and told her Smile so I can make you indelible. She stole the camera from my hands. Pushed me towards the wall. A lamp turned on above my head. They put a number plate around my neck. They accused me of all the crimes in the world. I was smiling. She told me not to smile. I would smile. There was a paradox between what was happening and what was supposed to happen. She wouldn't notice. Paradoxes lead to laughter. This woman must walk on the idealistic dieugodi city streets which are full of mirrors and see her own smile reflections, not that she gets annoyed with a smile and gets upset with my smile.

Her camera would shoot at me. A plate was hung on my neck. She slapped me. My dreams were drawn into the damp and dark room. I had only smiled at her. She turned my neck. Another photo. Side view. Left side. Right side. The camera flash burns. Your eyes get shocked. Smiles are not clear from sides. The corner of my heart hurts. Now the photographed girl had to sign a paper. She had to insure she won't disturb the human peace anymore.

They let me go to stay committed. 'K' brought me a drink. I opened the cacao sweet. I littered the pack without even looking at it. I wanted to litter. I poured the drink on the ground. I spitted on the trash can. I spitted on K's shoes. I spitted on my sunglasses.

I have cuffed you to the chair. You have said all these words. I have heard them many times. Ears get tired of repetitive stories. This gun which is pointed at your head can make new words to be said. Blow your head up so it pours out whatever you don't say. A good smell is not expecting the walls of the house. It is inevitable. I wish at least you would take the script and play your role like Radin who had played for years. Like me that I have written for years.
9

When Rahil would say that she liked chemistry, I would laugh. I knew she wanted to be educated as Hooman. None of the men in the group were educated. Rahil was the only girl is the group. When you are alone in front of the opposite sex, then you alone is compared to the whole group. The fact that Hooman had a degree was like all men in the group had a degree and the fact that Rahil was a dropout, would mean no woman can study and accordingly she should not study. Pointless works should not start, let alone continuing them.

I'm depressed. This mirror with the fog around it smother me. I wish I could break it. I wish I could pour it in these acid containers. So it dissolves. Nothing remains of it. And it goes among numerous small molecules so it can't be distinguished. When two materials dissolve in each other, they are not separable. They don't have the properties of the first two materials. You can't say it is the same mirror or that acid. It is another thing. An acidic mirror. But neither that have lost its properties nor this. As if the whole chemistry is undermined.

That was why she wanted to prove all women to all men. It was time to abolish whole these pointless talks which were only good for flirting. I had to go behind the counter and have a lecture for them. I had to talk about human philosophy of existence and human biologic diversities. The fact that males and females are alike and the acquisitive condition differentiates them in behavior otherwise, in the same environment, they have equal performance.

What could one do, when before the existence of Adam, lust had become innate. Before the emergence of that magazine, there were dreams of network relations and formation of an autonomous society in which freedom of kissing was among the primary conditions. Kissing the script was kissing the writer. Sometimes you have to guess the verbs from previous sentences and actions. Verbs which are now subconscious and hidden, are the lapels of omitted verbs in the past. We have loved something, a love that is permanent and has turned into motivation for all we do. It turns into a theme. We have done something, now we repeat an interpretation of that in another action. Plain people lives is classical music, a repeatable theme till the end of their existence.

That was why it didn't make a difference whether Hooman would walk on this street or on the world's most famous and classy street. The hidden theme of the lust towards his lover would be repeated in his head. He would go, the same theme. He would cry, the same theme. He would buy flowers, the same. He would play harmonica, theme. The name didn't make a difference for him, neither did the body, theme. Living among these confusing themes was not suitable for a person with unique overt backgrounds. Heaven is a theme. Everyone comes there happy, they stay and they remain. Adam comes to the Earth so he is not repetitive.

I put autumn in my overcoat pocket. I have to go from present. I have to go to four thousand four hundred sixty eight years ago. There is something expecting us at the end of this street. Nothing happens there, however and Adam has not thrown out the future by his sperms. He has not been considered as a company and calmness has slept and silence and ground are awake. I have to go ejaculate the nearest eternity in virgin valleys. Maybe future finishes right there.

Rahil, daughter of one of the most influential lawyers who had dumped his career, was seeking escape from heaven and wanted to come to the Earth. She would make a pretty and appealing accompany for Adam. They could learn how to play various themes and omit lust before their heavenly children come to the Earth. They could go to four thousand four hundred years ago. They could stay there and not let god a new creation in dieugodi island. Discovery, is the durability and novelty factor in life. An island of god and instinctless people. Discovering a light which is born in a human solitude between endless oceans. Discovering arms which are every night's new fruit. Discovering musical themes and playing sweet heavenly songs.

Hooman and Mehran and Radin came. Seeing a scene which is refreshed every time is stimulant and motivation for human. Human's dream is to reach the reality of Adam. They don't know they have to become Adam and the first barrier confronting them is his humanity. I went so human can continue their wishful efforts. This effort was valuable.

Hooman didn't know whether he was in love with Nazila or her delicate legs and narrow waist. When he would pour tea, the tea glass, was Nazila's body. He wouldn't understand Nietzsche. He wouldn't understand feelings' values are not measured by their intensity, but by their duration. In intensity, there is decline you have to ride slowly. You have to sail a tame boat, and calm the time and among small and big waves, receive the continuity. Drawn in going.

In order not to get identified by the security forces, we had to hide everything. Being hidden needs losing identity. You have to take the color from the house. You have to remove signs from yourself. Sense is a sign. Its smell travels for miles. It is enough to know the sensing eyes. Hand gestures of human mind are crystalized in their eyes. This was a barrier for our small goal-oriented organization. Freedom gets limited.

You have to read books. You have to review various books. We have to know what they have written. What has happened. What thoughts have been there. Without a doubt, whatever they have written and has lasted, in a period, even short, has been a conciliation on human wounds. But the common problem with the elite is that they either refute the past or they go behind them. I have always drawn the intellectuals as a one-horned bull. One who is full of knowledge, but relies on the only horn stuck on their forehead. During setting up exhibitions, I would tell Mehrdad that collage is the only solution now.

-You don't want to draw this plastic bull again, do you?

-Get lost, clown

-Seriously. It doesn't make sense. You are right that the picture is beautiful, but creativity should not be repeated in all works.

\- You mean you don't know they represent intellectuals for me, ha?

-It was a symbol for the first time

-What do you mean?

-You are now a one-horned bull

-Nonsense. I am repeating this so everyone notices.

-Everyone? You have drawn one picture... OK... Hundred pictures. How many people do you think would see them that you claim you want to affect everyone?

My hands are crossed behind my back. That means I, subconsciously, don't want what has plotted in my mind, gets explicit and clear. I stare at the mosaics on the exhibition floor and walk away. From the power which can see my hands. White walls in absence of light, have turned to shadows and point lights, have aimed at the pictures. This kind of lighting limits the sight of the audiences so they see what we want them to see. Pictures which are colored by the mind of a person who wants colorlessness. How human lives with all these conflicts and they are happy with these contradictions.

Don't they ever dispute with their other selves?

It was the second time they had arrested Sa'id for stealing. In a horseracing match, he had picked one of the spectator's pocket. They had been suspicious of him. Horseracing matches spectators watch the matches with pockets full of money. Their stressful looks are at the hooves of the horse they have bet on, they are not careful with themselves. Sa'id would say nothing, he would not answer anything they asked him. 'K' didn't know what to do. This had nothing to do with the group but everyone would see it related to the group. Now our group had a criminal record. Sa'id wouldn't say anything.

He had put one hand in his pocket and he was picking his teeth with the other hand's nails. There was something stuck between his teeth. He would take it out and show it to me. He would look at it carefully. He would swallow it. He was waiting for dad to come.

## 10

Azura or Awan? Which daughter of Adam is going to be mine? Everyone knows Abel and Cain, but Azura and Awan don't matter to anyone. We have heard the story of the murderer, we have heard the story of the murdered, but we don't know the story of love. If you take Awan's hand, if you look at her eyes, they say she wants to say something.

It is the problem of reproduction of me or beauty. War on Adam's order or against his order? Hooman, Mehran and Radin, are the Cains of my tribe? I wish Eve doesn't bear five hundred children so I can reach my answer. I wish problems would go in a line as they rise and human goes to Michelangelo's hand-made statue and solves them on Picasso's pictures. Then, the next problem comes closer, and goes away, one by one.

There were many ways proposed. I would tell myself that I have to have a gathering so I can exercise my ideas, Ants would pass by my feet. Reading ants' mind is hard. It gets even harder when their language is silence. Maybe they make sounds whose frequency is not audible to my ears. If you listen closely, you can hear their footsteps. I don't know what they tell each other when they go and come in a queue. They are not as orderly as they show them in images and they don't walk a straight line, I don't know how biologists' images show them in lines. Any group needs a photographer and a biologist.

Hooman was a biologist.

Nazila, a photographer.

I tried to listen to what they say. Not that I wanted them to talk in our language, no. I had to discover their language. These turtles are completely experienced. They have lived from the depth of the sea to the beaches. They have been amphibians from the beginning. You have to cherish these old communities. I know they have the hardest covers. When humans reach a level of advancement in any part of the nature, they call civilization. Socio-environmental civilization. Civilization of regulating social laws. Civilization of architecture. Humans' civilization is consolidated by its constructions and instruments. Beauties are called civilization.

Rahil was pretty.

There should be a circle between marine and terrestrial so it can feel both of them and interpret them. Even if it doesn't feel it, it is not important. It must interpret. The relationship between two communities, needs an understanding of a person who is in the other group.

Mehran was a translator.

I remember humans have always been thinking about their extinction. A natural force which could not be dominated by humans could destroy them. The best way was to reproduce identical copies. But no creation looks like its parents. It doesn't stay the same. It learns to change. Abel learnt his historical goodness and Cain learnt his badness. Who knows. They have always been interpreted this way for us.

We interpret the past the way we like it. So we don't lose our past justifications for continuation. After the rain, with whole those ruins and bother, we talk about nostalgia. We have sprayed the good perfume on our noses and we say someone else has done that. This is how sad flowers spend their sentence in the hand of the rain, sentenced to the cage.

We get strangers with our surroundings, we make stories of ourselves which are easy to believe for crying eyes and hard to believe for sincere people. We salute angels to be exceptions among the myths.

We have ants in our gardens. They come to our houses at night. Clouds get bored of our repetitive games with their shapes. We have to change this dominance so a proper change happens to them. Our dominance on our dreams, ends our sentence.

-Well, suppose that we uprooted this dominance. We ruined it. They are ruined. Then what? Then you want to dominate these people. What difference does it make? Your dominance with this government?

-Social structures ideological bases are different, Nazi

-Don't talk philosophical nonsense. Tell me what you exactly mean. Where does this mental torture, you have made for me as a photographer, end? Maybe you want to say photography is a parenthetic verb?

We have to have answers for people like Nazila (for Nazilas). One dimensional humans who are following their own or other's pasts. Those who don't understand combining. That is how they become one-horned. They find a school and they follow it. Since Nazila had first faced photography in her life, she considers herself, and her art, as photography. Maybe she would try other types of art, one cannot follow one single trend, but she would see herself limited to this, not that she would be limited to this.

Mehran who would bring films, would sit at a corner and would change the whole world the way it had to be. This was combining. I would always say among philosophers and thinkers, we miss editors. Someone who sees those one-horned bulls from outside, cut them and offer them. Since they have seen democracy first, those one dimensional entities, move towards dictatorship. Since the lack of freedom has been bad for them, they approach independence. Society is a mixture of whole these people. That's good that Mehran edits.

Everything was prepared in dad's place. When I began smoking, Sa'id's looks were a little bit off, only. Mom brought me an ashtray and dad only said: this cigarette is not good and will annoy your lungs. This would satisfy me. But independence was something else. Maybe if I would look more precise, I had more freedom and independence comparing to my generations, other girls. But I didn't have the feelings that I should. There was a feeling in Nazila's look when smoking, which would not emerge in my look.

There are times that we call them girly nagging. You don't know what to say, but you have to say something. Like you sit next to the window and you look far away and talk for someone, calmly and silently. There is not always someone there. But if you can find a listener, you should not let go of them. When I would go near the window, Babak would listen to me from behind his desk. At first, I would think he can't hear my chatter. One day he asked:

The group expenses would be paid by these little things. Setting up photography and collage exhibitions, editing and writing newspaper columns. In society, transactions were happening and we had to be a part of them, as well. We couldn't fight in all directions, all at once. At the end of each share split, there is someone who believes their share is not equal to the share of others. They have either gotten lesser or more.

It is people who have to wait in the lines of rationing, at the end of world wars. People who have shared a part of their body with others in this war. A small proportion of their small family gathering. Now they have to face sharing with others. But shares must be clear, this way justice is observed. Before fighting over justice meaning, shares must be determined. A principle over which it could be decided who gets or doesn't get how much based on what.

As we were making collage for the exhibition, Mehrdad would nag about the system ruling the society. We were divided into two groups of naggers and theorists! This is me who knows a combination could be formed for the government. Separate from and dependent on common theories. There has always been dictatorship or democracy. To be free, they have to be combined. A herd which grazes on its own and they reproduce but a wolf is watching them.

I was back to the group. I was expecting Rahil and Radin. Nothing would go as I predicted them to. When I got in from the door, I knew that yard pool and tree and bathroom are forever, but if they were not there, then it could be concluded that something has happened. Rahil's stone mirror was there, too. The mirror whose reflection would never be distorted due to its special material. It was the eternal reflection machine. Scattered notes of Rahil stuck on the mirror and her cosmetics in front of the mirror table. These feminine supplies were the only pigments in this acellular house.

Whole these years, Batebi would publish her works and I would come to this house doors, every week. Everything was familiar for me. I had to see Rahil somewhere outside of my mind. After what happened to Sa'id, after my forced leave, fog had covered her life. Her mind was full of unforgivable questions. After me, she was the chief of the group. It would decrease her craziness. Being in society, decreases out lonesome craziness.

Rahil had killed Radin. With a gun. She had mutilated him. With a saw. The kitchen saw knife. She had put the parts in glass jars. Each part in one jar. In front of the mirror. A glass full of acid. Acid would dissolve it.

Hell is not far. It is shaped right here in our minds. My inner women, hang from my throat from their hair and flame would spread to all my body from my neural network corridors. Here fire takes peeks from behind my eyes and pain has no other explanation. They have fasten hangman's noose all around my brain and sharp thorns have targeted words. I am a frog which is used to its hell heat.

They have set up a fire here.

## 11

-Won't you let go of manifests? Where and how and by whom these should be exercised?

-Don't start again, Rahil.

-Then you finish this argument once. Finish it. Is it not true that there is an end to everything?

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From a point on, you can't be the narrator of yourself. You become silent and it is enough for losing. The scenes you have set for your past changes by the entrance of a second person who knows everything and begins narrating from another point of view. Our self-made old must never be changed. All our efforts will be gone at once. You should sit in silent corner and let the third person narrate it.

No one knows who the omniscient is that knows the causes behind your and others' behaviors so they can narrate the story correctly so the audiences don't lose the ability to understand and conclude. Maybe they narrate a dream in awakening.

From here on, the omniscient narrates how events happen and puts the past in a chorological order. It is in this narration that even journalistic reporters' arrangements to change the nature of the reality and expressing another fact nullifies. The efforts of the author to express themselves experience a forced deficit and it is read according to the omniscient.

When Babak went to Rahil's place and faced her after years, none of them had a true prediction of what would happen and what happened. Rahil's hatred of lonely years had sought revenge in the form of a hidden anger and a vengeance spirit was flowing in her place and that was why her soul was cold and breathless.

After her marriage to Radin, Rahil had killed him in her madness with a firearm. She had put his mutilated body in acid jars so there would be no sign of the man who had conquered her soulless body. This is the fate of one who lays with another beloved. He has to spend his life with the other love and spend life in a lasting limbo. She had told others about the separation from Radin and the fact that Radin has cowardly fled so he could save his life.

To visit Rahil, Babak would always go to her alley. He knew the house's surroundings but the inner design of the house is different from its outside. Maybe rain would fall from the sky of the alley, but house, regardless of the rainfall, puts its head in a pile of snow which is left from the winter of hardships.

A winter which began by the disappearance of Babak from the group and continued by that unfortunate happening for Sa'id. Dejection embraced the group. Babak got accused of treason. He got accused of selling the group for personal interests and had sought asylum from civil security organization in fear of his life. This was the past that Rahil and Mehrdad and Hooman and Nazila and Radin would assume. It was right until Babak showed up.

Babak couldn't take Rahil's madness. Her absence. He had lost anything. He didn't want to lose Rahil, too. He had come to stay with Rahil and find her. To take her out of past and bring her to the present.

Second Chapter – Olga
Imagine an evening, you are walking on the handpicked pea gravel of a handmade beach. Smoking your short cigarettes back to back. The sound of waves break between the rocks and fill your ears. A caressing breeze while flowing past, take you by the neck and throw you into old memories. Memories which are not of time relevance nor of place resemblance. Their sole commonality is your look, the details that have made their way into your mind and are now brought to the surface by the gravity of the full moon.

Walking was my best hobby. You go on streets without feeling you are running away, as you enter the crowd of noses and hats, you disappear in streets breath. You lose yourself between the wrinkles of the faces of old men with canes. You stand in front of each alley and you get sad for stressful children, you wish you had a bit of ignorance in your pockets to give them to these children.

When you see something and you accept it without any reason, when there is no question you like to ask, when you don't doubt anything, you have believed. Lili's eyes were like this, I had seen her, since the time Adam had come on the Earth. The Earth and heaven were preparations so I can see her eyes. You have to pass the appearance. From various shapes.

It was not important that one side of her face had port-wine stains and the other side was white. Whatever it was it was related to flowers. Spring purple flowers are mourning for the bygone winter. Purple flowers know they have a better look on white snow and spring brings green. That's why they mourn for winter.

The evening loses its color little by little. Like memories which pass your mind in different colors. Evening is a rich which takes your hands and takes you alley by alley with itself. You go. With the thought that it would give you something. With the thought that it would leave a key in your hands, but it reaches the night. It goes away. Your savior disappears and dies in darkness. You faint. You lay your head on the night wall. You understand the meaning of desperation cell by cell.

She would walk in the exhibition corridors with her mom and Mehran. They had come out of hand-made caves. From the layers of wall paintings scattered colors. Rahil would whistle about anything she was careless about. As if she had received everything. I knew receiving the environment leads to creation of music. Music turns to the most complete language.

Rahil was music.

You have to walk in a city which is filled with art. You have to stare at the walls. The carvings which have been carved thousand years ago on the walls, in the caves. I would wear light weight clothes, clothes in which my cigarette pack and lighter would easily fit and I would get going. I have passed all sidewalks in the city. And I have always dreamt about a day which someone would come to me to share my cigarettes with or I would see someone accidentally for whom all my steps have meaning, so they know the meaning of steps and I fall asleep with their footstep sound.

As we pass the alleys, soloists are sitting around every corner and the sound of their music is loud. The alley is the throat of the instrument of the lone and city is in love with the songs of its lovers. It is alive by this music. By this harmony. Since street soloists have to play for long hours, they prefer playing parts they have played for many times. Although they have the gut to experience more, they prefer to listen to their hearts. They prefer to let any note that forms in their minds and narrate what they feel inside, in the city. They prefer to shout their souls' distress and peace without any fear with their loudest yells. They prefer to match their world with the vague lines of their minds.

Music doesn't let you go. With the sound of music in you open the silver plated iron door of the house. You enter with that. You go up the stairs. You sit towards the other houses walls on the terrace. You crave tea. You call the tea from the kitchen. You pick up the cigarette. You go back to the terrace all prepared, again. You sit again. Here that you have sat thousand times and waited until the music fades away. If one time, even one time the music fades away, dissolves in your mind and the silence of the night captures you, you feel the joy. The joy that you will always look for.

But always something happens that changes the situation. Bad news come from everywhere. They could not be predicted. You won't know in addition to the music, security forces are in the alley. People are loyal to the security forces. They are friends who have turned to enemy.

I could see Sa'id and Nazila from distance while they were performing street theater, behind the leafless tree in the alley. A little farther, a boy was sitting on the park bench and he was playing the violin. He had chosen a good spot. The color behind them was yellow and gray of the sycamore wood and the violin was playing for them for free. When the play was over, I held Sa'id and Nazila's hands to pass the music by. We began humming its sound. The sky was trying to snow. When we passed the alleys, we were humming still.

Huuuum huu huuuuu huuuuuummmmm. Huuuum huu huuuuu huuuuuummmmm. Huuu huuuu mmmmmm. Laaaaay laa laaaaa la. Laaaaay laa laaaaa la. Laa laaaaa aaaaa.

This was enough to prevent our nostalgia from becoming tears. It would come out of our throats. It would be piled on our own heads and take out our hearts.

Laaaaay laa laaaaa la. Laa laaaaa aaaaa. Laaaaay laa laaaaa la. Laa laaaaa aaaaa.

You have to see the light. You have to approach it. Without any cover. Without any curtain. Without any protection. You must go alone. You must go alone. You have to take off shoes. You have to take off cloths. There is a sacred nature there. What you believe in. What your eyes come to believe in. You have to know what is behind those eyes. You have to understand the layers behind that glaze, that color. This is how it gets sacred.

As I walk, I have to pay attention to the pedestrians. To girls who have done their hair up and evoke the picture of a long black and silk type mane of a white horse. With eyes looking straight forward which seeks other zombies. Their semi-sexy legs which is more appealing than any other curve in their bodies. To men who have stuck their penis to their forehead and travel through the Devil bazaar. Their lustful laughter, has taken away the calmness from the face muscles.

I am looking for these boys and girls on streets. A rally takes place every day on the streets of this city. No one knows for establishing and survival of what idea they are walking. Even those who are the opposition and criticize and challenge the movement, in fact they are helping with the movement. It should be understood that quietness means death, when we criticize and challenge, we are unconsciously moving the movement forward. We have to let the quietness pause the movement. Kill it.

You stay silent that much that words coagulate in your throat, they sediment. You feel they have applied cement on your trachea and bronchi. It is dry and exhausted. Your eyes stare at one place like maniacs who stare on the moon and expect white news from the dark sky. Your heart freezes.

Your unsaid words, make you cold.

You sync with nature. With past events. With coming events. You listen to the music of fate. You find the keys. You hold the lanterns. This is when you become responsible for things. You understand all the sciences in universe. You become the slave of your eyes. You can't doubt your eyes.

I can't hold the silence with these people. These people who are always moving. They don't think. They stop the music easily and never wait for it to fade away. I have to go somewhere, put my hand under my head and hug myself. I should smell my childhood blanket and hold my eyes open under the blanket.

Silence continues, a silence which is louder than any yell and scream

Silence

Silence

Black is the color of silence.

Having anything is directly related to your capabilities and power. Having them depends on power and also the reason of the power. In society, leadership means to have the absolute power and the responsibility for leadership is a part of this leadership. Maybe I have to form a society and teach all these true concepts to them. The best way to take power, is to form a group from scratch. This was the initial spark of dieugodi.

I gathered some people in whom I saw talents and formed a group. A group which will do great jobs for future. Humans who want to reveal their talents and create a calm world.

You know future will happen. The thing in which everything will be in its order will come. You will look at it eye to eye. Your eyes come closer to the happening. This intercourse happens only one time for anyone. The child of this relation is either a doubt by the length of life or a certainty with the depth of the sparks of its eyes. If your eyes look in vein, if they see an insignificant body, if they ignore the origin, they have chosen the hell. Choosing the hell entails falling. Choosing the good path entails going. Adam came for going. For going to the heart. He knew his place was neither in long caves nor tall towers. His place was in the depth of a heart which bears for him. His mission was to hear the beating and going along with it.

Sometimes I dream of you, too. I close my eyes so my dream doesn't turn into awakening. Maybe I can save you in my dreams.

I am thrown to three thousand seven hundred five years later, on the civil security organization stairs. Stairs with a proper steep, exquisite black marble with white and milky veins. These lead to the organization's entry. They have designed a part of these seventy stairs so that handicapped could enter and exit easily. It is never empty. As if it is a formicary and they enter to their only destination to put down their supplies in order and again get back to the queue in order without any reward.

Now the entrance of a formicary was in front of me. The place I have come to being my silence to save the group. When I entered this organization, all my friends who had turned to my enemies, considered me a traitor. They said anything they could behind my back. But I became the shield to save them. I can imagine in the next group session after my disappearance, under that window opening to the alley, right at eleven o'clock in the morning, Mehrdad had told Rahil that: You have closed your eyes to the truth and you didn't see how 'K' used us as the stairs for his progress. He ruined our lives to build his owns, he left us and joined the civil security organization.

It was the board of prisoners session, and I was also invited as the chairman of Olga prison. The oldest prison available – that is Olga Prison – was a place for convicts who were considered as worthless people. They didn't have any family, no media was looking for them and they weren't even able to work on the farm. Maybe watching The Shawshank Redemption could be a little help to them so they can understand they could request for a library maybe they could go back to the society one day.

We sat around a big table, around which eighteen people could easily sit and have their meal, to eat lunch with six more people. I was with Mr. Albo, Chairman of the Board, Ms. Khikz, the lawyer, and other board members. As if they had planned them with stop-motion technique. Moments would pass slowly and an exciting topic would not come up so they can all laugh and the session is over. We had a warm appetizer as an English tradition and now it was time for the main course. I tasted my drink and began eating my ice-cream. It tastes well. It refreshes your body to the stable condition.

As we were making a toast to the success of Olga after the meal, it was decided to let the prisoners go back to the society, as I had proposed. It was easy. We could tell the surgeons to part a small section of the convicts' brains. This way they wouldn't be able to remember who they were and what they had done. Their memory would be erased, they would become innocent with a lean background.

When you get drunk, others make decisions for you, you say words which you later doubt them. But those decisions you have accepted, have their roots in your past. This was the decision I had made for the group members in the past and it had led the group members to go back to the society and their dark past would get clear. They couldn't remember their memories and you tell them vague parts of their past so they acquire a new character.

You walk the front lines. The place once you have lost and now you want to take back again. You go to assess your past. You see your roving. The enemy has come and stationed in your city. They are armed to the teeth and you are toothless, and coward who have not even been trained for military. This is how your creativity erupts and this situation makes decisions for you. This was another reason for forming dieugodi and the other reason for my proposition for the board.

I proposed the board to let the convicts return to the society. To let them have a new life. I told them about Jean Valjean and how he migrated to a small city and how he changed the whole city. He, as the mayor of the city, thought every human has a talent which must be flourished one day. You can execute people to protect the security, but you must not block talents. They were the reasons which would make the board accept my proposition.

Ms. Khikz asked me how a bunch of criminals could be let between ordinary people and expect the security to be saved, let alone the advancement and improvement of these criminals!

I knew the answer, a surgery was needed only. A layer of the convicts' brain could be cut so they are not like their past, anymore. So they won't remember their memories. So they don't know what they have done. The old person is killed and can't commit crimes. They find a new identity with new feelings and ideas.

They would say this is playing god, we can't interfere with people's past, and we can't interfere with their creation. And I would scatter things on the table and explain to them that you can't create again, but you can recreate. From this chaos of these alienated people, a new order could be created. To recreate new humans.

These margins are omitted from human's life...

The End

