داستانی از مرتضائیان آبکنار

نمي داند سو-تین ببندد يا نه . شلوار جين به پا همانطور جلوي آينة نيم قد ايستاده و به خودش نگاه مي کند . طوري ايستاده که فقط نيمي از سينه هاي کوچکش پيداست . آرام کمرش را صاف مي کند ، کمي ، و نوکِ صورتي رنگ پستا-ن هايش پيدا مي شوند . نفسش بند مي آيد . تکان نمي خورد . بي حرکت دست دراز مي کند ، آرام ، و نوک انگشت هايش را مي گذارد روي آينه . سرد است . اينجا ؟ دستش داغ است . نه . اينجا چي ؟ درد داره ؟ نه . بله . يه کمي . با سر انگشت ها فشار مي دهد : اينجا چي ؟ نفسش مي گيرد . نمي تواند حرف بزند . دستش را از روي آينه پس مي کشد . آرام مي چرخد و از روي تخت ، سو-تین سفيدِ توري اش را برمي دارد و پشت و رو دورِ کمرش حلقه مي کند . قلابش را از جلو مي بندد و يک دور مي چرخاندش تا قلاب ، تنگ بيفتد روي مهره هاي پشتش . بعد آرنج ها را يکي يکي از حلقه هاي باريکش رد مي کند و بندينک ها را با شستش روي شانه ها صاف مي کند . دوباره خودش را توي آينه نگاه مي کند . با کفِ هر دو دستش ، سينه ها را بالا مي آورد ، کمي ، و همانطور نگه مي دارد . کدوم سينه تون بيشتر درد مي کنه ؟ اين . چپ . نه ، راست . چه موقع هايي درد مي گيره ؟ گاهي . شايد سو-تینتون تنگه ! نفسش مي گيرد . تنش داغ مي شود . پليور زرشکي اش را مي پوشد و دستة موهاي بلندش را از پشتِ يقه اش بيرون مي کشد . رژ صورتي اش را روي لب ها مي مالد و آنقدر خم مي شود که لب ها توي آينه درشت مي شوند . تو ديوونه اي سميرا ! نمياي ؟ نه . نيا ، به جهنم . واقعاً مي ري ؟! مگه چيه ؟ کِيف داره . مانتوي سفيدِ تنگش را مي پوشد و با مداد روي کاغذي براي مادرش يادداشت مي نويسد و مي چسباند روي درِ يخچال : « مامان من رفتم کلاس . نگران نباشيد لطفن . » نم نم باران مي بارد . توي خيابان براي تاکسي اي دست بلند مي کند : مستقيم . _ تا کجا خانم ؟ نمي داند . و باز مي گويد مستقيم .از پنجرة تاکسي تمام تابلوها را نگاه مي کند : پيتزا تک . مانتو صدف . گل فروشي نسترن . لوازم يدکي پيکان ، رنو ، پرايد . بانک صادرات . داروخانه . ساختمان پزشکان ... _ آقا همين جا نگه داريد ! پياده مي شود . از شيشة تاکسي بقية پولش را که مي گيرد دستش مي لرزد . جلوي تابلوها مي ايستد : دکتر رازقي متخصص اطفال . دکتر برومند زنان و زايمان . متخصص چشم ، دکتر احمدي ... چشم چشم مي کند تا سر آخر مي بيند : دکتر آشفته جراح عمومی ، گوارش ، تيروييد ، پستا-ن . روسري اش خيس مي شود . خيس مي شود از باران . از پله ها بالا مي رود . اول تند ، بعد آرام . دست مو ول کن ! بيا . من مي ترسم ! ترس نداره که . چند نفري در سالن نشسته اند . منتظرند . هيچکس را نمي بيند . همانجا مي ايستد ، تکيه به ديوار . زني اشاره مي کند : اينجا جا هست خانم ! کنارش مي نشيند . حس مي کند همه دارند به او که تازه آمده نگاه مي کنند . به کفش ها نگاه مي کند و شلوارهاي گِلي . پاهايش را جمع مي کند .مي خواهد برگردد و از پله ها برود پايين اما همانطور مي نشيند . مي خواهد برگردد و به پله ها فکر مي کند ... اما همانطور مي نشيند . نوبتش که مي شود منشي صدايش مي کند . بلند مي شود ، آهسته ، به سمت منشي مي رود و برگه اي را از دستش مي گيرد . _ بفرماييد تو ! مي خواهد چيزي بگويد اما منصرف مي شود . در را که باز مي کند ، روپوشِ سفيدي را مي بيند که روي صندلي راحتي نشسته . مي گويد سلام . _ بفرماييد . وقتي مي نشيند موهاي يکدست سفيدِ دکتر را مي بيند و عينکِ ضخيمش را . دست هايش داغ است . سرش نزديکِ پستا-ن هاي اوست . به موهاي سياهش نگاه مي کند . با سر انگشت ها فشار مي آورد . نفسش مي گيرد ... چشم هايش را مي بندد . _ پرسيدم ناراحتي تون چيه خانم ؟ _ من ... ( مي لرزد ) درد دارم ... ( مي لرزد ) سينه هام گاهي درد مي گيره . _ چه جور دردي ؟ _ فکر کنم ... نمی دونم . فقط درد داره . _ بريد روي تخت معاينه تون کنم . دست هايش مي لرزد . پليورش را بالا مي زند ، کمي ، و منتظر مي ماند . تنش گـُر مي گيرد . حس مي کند نفسش بند آمده ... دکتر مي آيد . _ لخت شيد لطفاً . دوباره مي رود . هر کاري مي کند قلابش باز نمي شود . باز نمي شود . باز مي شود . نفسش را رها مي کند . دکتر دوباره مي آيد ._ درد کدوم قسمته ؟ چپ يا راست ؟ _ راست . نه ، چپ . _ اينجا ؟ _ نه . _ اينجا چي ؟ _ نه . بله . دست هاي دکتر مي گردند : اينها غده هاي چربيه . طبيعيه . دست هايش مي گردند . گرم است . سرانگشت ها فشار مي دهند . چشم هايش را مي بندد . دهانش نيمه باز مي ماند ... دکتر پرده را مي کشد. چشم هايش را باز مي کند. دکتر مي نشيند پشت ميزش . _ چيزي نيست خانم . سينه ها کاملاً طبيعيه . با اين حال براي اطمينان بيشترِ خودتون ، مي تونيد ماموگرافی کنيد . روي کاغذي چيزهايي مي نويسد . حتماً بد خط است . سر بلند مي کند: سو-تینتون تنگ نيست ؟ نفسش بند مي آيد . بلند مي شود . برگه را مي گيرد و از اتاق ، از سالن ، از پله ها پايين مي رود . توي خيابان نفسش را بيرون مي دهد . گرمش است . باران مي بارد . برگه را از کيفش در مي آورد . تماشايش مي کند . پاره اش مي کند . باران مي بارد هنوز . خيس مي شود . خنک مي شود . سردش مي شود . براي تاکسي اي دست بلند مي کند : مستقيم . _ تا کجا خانم ؟ نمي داند . و باز مي گويد مستقيم ...

****

اینجا این روزها خیلی ساکت است. کسی می تواند روی این داستان کوتاه نقد بنویسد؟

درباره نویسنده در آینده توضیح خواهم داد.

"Germinal" by Emile Zola (Part 2 of 3)

Classic Serial (1 hr)
Broadcast on BBC Radio 4 - Sun 21 Jan - 15:00

Germinal: Emile Zola's masterpiece brought vividly to life, set in 1860s France. Dramatised by Diana Griffiths.
Part 2 of 3. Etienne has to live without the girl he loves.

"Germinal" by Emile Zola

Classic Serial (1 hr)
Broadcast on BBC Radio 4 - Sun 14 Jan - 15:00

Germinal: Emile Zola's masterpiece brought vividly to life, set in 1860s France. Dramatised by Diana Griffiths.

"Agreement" by Kitaro

Listen

Watching the world
From our window of life
Can we see all there is
That is real
That is right
To the distance so far
From our true understanding
Making us want more
Making us see less

The fire
Making me clean
Making me fly
Spinning me 'round
Spinning me 'round

The fire within your eyes
This mystic time
I've known before
Once before
The flame within my heart
Agreements made
Are now realized
Like before
Agreements of Trust
Agreements of Faith
Agreements of Truth
Agreements of Liberty

Speaking of worlds
Driven far far apart
How the innocence
Crushes the nature of things
To the point that we lose
All we're trying to gain
Making us want more
Making us see less

The fire
Making us clean
Making us fly
Spinning us 'round
Spinning us 'round

The fire within your eyes
This mystic time
I've known before
Once before
The flame within my heart
Agreements made
Are now realized
Like before
Agreements of Trust
Agreements of Faith
Agreements of Truth
Agreements of Liberty

The fire
Making us clean
Making us fly
Spinning us 'round
Spinning us 'round

The flame
Making us clean
Making me fly
Spinning me 'round
Spinning me 'round


Agreements of Trust
"Under the Power of Love We See"
Agreements of Faith
"Under the Power of Love We Know"
Agreements of Truth
"Under the Power of Love We Feel"
Agreements of Love
"Under the Power of Love We See"
Agreements of Liberty
"Under the Power of Love We Know"
Agreements set you free
"Under the Power of Love We Feel"

Words that changed a nation.

I have a dream ...

I too have a dream today.
I have a dream that one day justice is no longer a luxury but a must.
And I am going to do anything within my power to see that dream come true.

Two love sonnets from Pablo Neruda

I.
It's today: all of yesterday dropped away
among the fingers of the light and the sleeping eyes.
Tomorrow will come on its green footsteps;
no one can stop the river of the dawn.

No one can stop the river of your hands,
your eyes and their sleepiness, my dearest.
You are the trembling of time, which passes
between the vertical light and the darkening sky.

The sky folds its wings over you,
lifting you, carrying you to my arms
with its punctual, mysterious courtesy.

That's why I sing to the day and to the moon,
to the sea, to time, to all planets,
to your daily voice, to your nocturnal skin.

II.
You must know that I do not love and I love you,
because everything alive has its two sides;
a word is one wing of the silence,
fire has its cold half.

I love you in order to begin to love you,
to start infinity again
and never to stop loving you:
that's why I do not love you yet.

I love you, and I do not love you, as if I held
keys in my hand: to a future of joy-
a wretched, muddled fate-

My love has two lives, in order to love you:
that's why I love you when I do not love you,
and also why I love you when I do.

Translated by Stephen Tapscott.

"Nevermore" by BBC Radio7

Nevermore -- Paul Gaugin

Gaugin paints his masterpieces in Tahiti, and shares his tragedy with the local inhabitants.
Broadcast on BBC7 - Wed 15 Nov - 13:00

The Raven -- Edgar Allan Poe

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
`'Tis some visitor,' I muttered, `tapping at my chamber door -
Only this, and nothing more.'

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow; - vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow - sorrow for the lost Lenore -
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels named Lenore -
Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me - filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
`'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door -
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door; -
This it is, and nothing more,'

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
`Sir,' said I, `or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you' - here I opened wide the door; -
Darkness there, and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before
But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, `Lenore!'
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, `Lenore!'
Merely this and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
`Surely,' said I, `surely that is something at my window lattice;
Let me see then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore -
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore; -
'Tis the wind and nothing more!'

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore.
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door -
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door -
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
`Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,' I said, `art sure no craven.
Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the nightly shore -
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning - little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door -
Bird or beast above the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as `Nevermore.'

But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only,
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered - not a feather then he fluttered -
Till I scarcely more than muttered `Other friends have flown before -
On the morrow will he leave me, as my hopes have flown before.'
Then the bird said, `Nevermore.'

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
`Doubtless,' said I, `what it utters is its only stock and store,
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore -
Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore
Of "Never-nevermore."'

But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door;
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore -
What this grim, ungainly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking `Nevermore.'

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er,
She shall press, ah, nevermore!

Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
`Wretch,' I cried, `thy God hath lent thee - by these angels he has sent thee
Respite - respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore!
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

`Prophet!' said I, `thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil! -
Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted -
On this home by horror haunted - tell me truly, I implore -
Is there - is there balm in Gilead? - tell me - tell me, I implore!'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

`Prophet!' said I, `thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us - by that God we both adore -
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels named Lenore -
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels named Lenore?'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

`Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!' I shrieked upstarting -
`Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken! - quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted - Nevermore!

‘Cat in the Rain’ by Ernest Hemingway

There were only two Americans stopping at the hotel. They did not know any of the people they passed on the stairs on their way to and from their room. Their room was on the second floor facing the sea. It also faced the public garden and the war monument. There
were big palms and green benches in the public garden. In the good weather there was always an artist with his easel. Artists liked the way the palms grew and the bright colors of the hotels facing the gardens and the sea. Italians came from a long way off to look up at the war
monument. It was made of bronze and glistened in the rain. It was raining. The rain dripped from the palm trees. Water stood in pools on the gravel paths. The sea broke in a long line in the rain and slipped back down the beach to come up and break again in a long line in the rain. The motor cars were gone from the square by the war monument. Across the square in the
doorway of the café a waiter stood looking out at the empty square. The American wife stood at the window looking out. Outside right under their window a cat was crouched under one of the dripping green tables. The cat was trying to make herself so compact that she would not be dripped on. ‘I’m going down and get that kitty,’ the American wife said. ‘I’ll do it,’ her husband ffered from the bed. ‘No, I’ll get it. The poor kitty out trying to keep dry under a table.’
The husband went on reading, lying propped up with the two pillows at the foot of the bed. ‘Don’t get wet,’ he said. The wife went downstairs and the hotel owner stood up and bowed to her as she passed the office. His desk was at the far end of the office. He was an old man and
very tall. ‘Il piove,1’the wife said. She liked the hotel-keeper. ‘Si, Si, Signora, brutto tempo2 . It s very bad weather.’ He stood behind his desk in the far end of the dim room. The wife liked him. She liked the deadly serious way he received any complaints. She liked his dignity. She liked the way he wanted to serve her. She liked the way he felt about being a hotel-keeper. She iked his old, heavy face and big hands. Liking him she opened the door and looked out. It was raining harder. A man in a rubber cape was crossing the empty square to the café. The cat would be around to the right. Perhaps she could go along under the eaves. As she stood in the doorway an umbrella opened behind her. It was the maid who looked after their room.
‘You must not get wet,’ she smiled, speaking Italian. Of course, the hotel-keeper had sent her.
With the maid holding the umbrella over her, she walked along the gravel path until she was under their window. The table was there, washed bright green in the rain, but the cat was gone. She was suddenly disappointed. The maid looked up at her. ‘Ha perduto qualque cosa, Signora?'‘There was a cat,’ said the American girl. ‘A cat?’
‘Si, il gatto.’ ‘A cat?’ the maid laughed. ‘A cat in the rain?’ ‘Yes, –’ she said, ‘under the table.’ hen, ‘Oh, I wanted it so much. I wanted a kitty.’ When she talked English the maid’s face tightened. ‘Come, Signora,’ she said. ‘We must get back inside. You will be wet.’
‘I suppose so,’ said the American girl. They went back along the gravel path and passed in the door. The maid stayed outside to close the umbrella. As the American girl passed the office, the padrone bowed from his desk. Something felt very small and tight inside the girl. The padrone made her feel very small and at the same time really important. She had a momentary feeling of being of supreme importance. She went on up the stairs. She opened the door of the room. George was on the bed, reading.‘Did you get the cat?’ he asked, putting the book down.
‘It was gone.’
‘Wonder where it went to,’ he said, resting his eyes from reading. She sat down on the bed.

‘I wanted it so much,’ she said. ‘I don’t know why I wanted it so much. I wanted that poor kitty. It isn’t any fun to be a poor kitty out in the rain.’ George was reading again. She went over and sat in front of the mirror of the dressing table looking at herself with the hand glass.
She studied her profile, first one side and then the other. Then she studied the back of her head and her neck. ‘Don’t you think it would be a good idea if I let my hair grow out?’ she asked, looking at her profile again. George looked up and saw the back of her neck,clipped close like a boy’s. ‘I like it the way it is.’ ‘I get so tired of it,’ she said. ‘I get so tired of looking like a boy.’
George shifted his position in the bed. He hadn’t looked away from her since she started to speak. ‘You look pretty darn nice,’ he said. She laid the mirror down on the dresser and went
over to the window and looked out. It was getting dark. ‘I want to pull my hair back tight and smooth and make a big knot at the back that I can feel,’ she said. ‘I want to have a kitty to sit on my lap and purr when I stroke her.’ ‘Yeah?’ George said from the bed.
‘And I want to eat at a table with my own silver and I want candles. And I want it to be spring and I want to brush my hair out in front of a mirror and I want a kitty and I want some new clothes.’ ‘Oh, shut up and get something to read,’ George said. He was reading again.
His wife was looking out of the window. It was quite dark now and still raining in the palm trees.
‘Anyway, I want a cat,’ she said, ‘I want a cat. I want a cat now. If I can’t have long hair or any fun, I can have a cat.’ George was not listening. He was reading his book.
His wife looked out of the window where the light had come on in the square.Someone knocked at the door.‘Avanti,’ George said. He looked up from his book. In the doorway stood the maid. She held a big tortoiseshell cat pressed tight against her and swung down against her body.
‘Excuse me,’ she said, ‘the padrone asked me to bring this for the Signora.’

P.S By Niloofar:

This is a classic and very nice short story by the father of short story Ernest Hemingway. I will write about it later. Please discuss what you think of it. it will improve our writting skils.

"HIGH hopes" by Leili

Beyond the horizon of the place we lived when we were young
In a world of magnets and miracles
Our troughts strayed constandly and without boundary
The ringing of the division bell had begin

Along the long road and on down the causeway
Do they still meet there by the cut

There was a ragged band that followed in our footsteps
Running before time took our dreams away
Leaving the myriad small creatures trying to tie us to the ground
To a life consumed by slow decay

The grass was greener
The light was brighter
With friends surrounded
The night of wonder

Looking beyond the embers of bridges glowing behind us
To a glimpse of how green it was on the other side
Steps taken forwards but sleepwalking back again
Dragged by the force of some inner tide

At a higher altitude with flag unfuried
We reached the dizzy heights of that dreamed of world

Eneumbered forever by desire and ambition
Theres a hunger still unsatisfied
Our weary eyes still stray to the horizon
Though down this road weve been so many time

The grass was greener
The light was brighter
The taste was sweeter
The nights of wonder
With friends surrounded
The dawn mist glowing
The water flowing
The endless river

Forever and ever

What's in a day?

"Christopher Columbus is a symbol, not of a man, but of imperialism... Imperialism and colonialism are not something that happened decades ago or generations ago, but they are still happening now with the exploitation of people. ... The kind of thing that took place long ago in which people were dispossessed from their land and forced out of subsistence economies and into market economies -- those processes are still happening today."
John Mohawk, Seneca, 1992

GOODBYE COLUMBUS!

[The following appeared on a full page of the Rocky Mountain News on Saturday, October 8, 1994.]

An Open Letter From the AMERICAN INDIAN MOVEMENT of Colorado and Our Allies

When the Taino Indians saved Christopher Columbus from certain death on the fateful morning of October 12, 1492, a glorious opportunity presented itself for the cultures of both Europe and the Americas to flourish.

What occurred was neither glorious nor heroic. Just as Columbus could not, and did not, "discover" a hemisphere already inhabited by nearly 100 million people, his arrival cannot, and will not, be recognized by indigenous peoples as a heroic and festive event.

>From a Native perspective, Columbus' arrival was a disaster from the beginning. Although his own diaries reveal that he was greeted by the Tainos with the most generous hospitality he had ever known, he immediately began the enslavement and slaughter of the Indian peoples of the Caribbean.

Defenders of Columbus and his holiday argue that critics unfairly judge Columbus, a 15th Century product, by the moral and legal standards of the late 20th century. Such a defense implies that there were no legal or moral constraints on actions such as Columbus' in 1492. In reality, European legal and moral principles acknowledged the natural rights of Indians and prohibited their slaughter or unjust wars against them.

The issue of Columbus and Columbus Day is not easily resolvable by dismissing Columbus, the man. Columbus Day is a perpetuation of racist assumptions that the Americas were a wasteland cluttered with dark skin savages awaiting the blessings of European "civilization." Throughout this hemisphere, educational systems and the popular media perpetuate the myth that indigenous peoples have contributed nothing to the world, and, consequently, we should be grateful for our colonization, our dispossession, and our microwave ovens.

The racist Columbus legacy enables every country in this hemisphere, including the United States, to continue its destruction of Indian peoples, from the jungles of Brazil to the highlands of Guatemala, from the Chaco of Paraguay to the Western Shoshone Nation in Nevada. Indian people remain in a perpetual state of danger from the system begun by Columbus in 1492. The Columbus legacy throughout the Americas keeps Indian people at the bottom of every socio-economic indicator. We are under continuing physical, legal and political attack, and are afforded the least access to political and legal remedies. Nevertheless we continue to resist and we refuse to surrender our spirituality, to assimilate, or to disappear into Hollywood's romantic sunset.

To dignify Columbus and his legacy with parades, holidays and other celebrations is repugnant. As the original peoples of this land, we cannot, and we will not, tolerate social and political festivities that celebrate our genocide. We are committed to the active, open, and public rejection of disrespect and racism in its various forms--including Columbus Day and Columbus Day parades.

For the past five years the American Indian Movement of Colorado and our allies have been compelled to confront and resist the continuing Columbus legacy in the streets of Denver. For every hour spent organizing non-violent opposition to the Columbus parade, we have lost an hour that we were not able to use in assisting indigenous treaty rights struggles, land recovery strategies, and the advancement of indigenous self-determination.

However, one positive benefit of our efforts was the public debate over Columbus Day that has spread into the public schools as an educational tool for students and their teachers. Overall, we view the demise of the Columbus Day Parade in Denver as a welcome opportunity to move beyond the divisive symbolism of the past.

We therefore suggest the replacement of Columbus Day with a celebration that is more inclusive and that more accurately reflects the cultural and racial richness of the Americas. We also suggest that the community support a more honest portrayal of social evolution in this hemisphere and a greater respect for all people on the margins of the dominating society. There is no more appropriate place for this transformation to occur than in Colorado, the birthplace of the Columbus Day holiday.

Song Lyrics: Pocahontas

Steady As The Beating Drum

Lyrics: Stephen Schwartz

As the river cuts his path
Though the river's proud and strong
He will choose the smoothest course
That's why rivers live so long
They're steady
As the steady beating drum

Just Around The Riverbend

Lyrics: Stephen Schwartz

What I love most about rivers is:
You can't step in the same river twice
The water's always changing, always flowing
But people, I guess, can't live like that
We all must pay a price
To be safe, we lose our chance of ever knowing
What's around the riverbend
Waiting just around the riverbend...

"روزهای هفته" by گلی ترقی

پنجشنبه ها ، مدرسه سر ساعت دوازده تعطیل می شود و رفت تا شنبه صبح ،شنبه گه، بعد الظهر های پنجشنبه با تمام بعدالظهر های دیگر فرق دارد، روشن و نقره ای است و بوی اتفاقهای خوب و دقیقه های خوشبخت را می دهد، نرم و گرم و خواب آور است، مثل نشستن زیر کرسی مادربزرگ یا لم دادن به سینه های مهربان مادر

روزهای هفته هر کدام شکل و رنگ و بوی خودشان را دارند، شنبه بدترکیب و تلخ و موذی است و شبیه به دختر ترشیده توبا خانم :دراز ،لاغر ، با چشمهای ربز بدجنس .یکشنبه ساده و خراست و برای خودش،الکی،آن وسط می چرخد. دوشنبه شکل آقای حشمت الممالک است: متین ، موقر، با کت و شلورا خاکستری و عصا.سه شنبه خجالتی و آرام است و رنگش سبز روشن یا زرد لیمویی است.چهارشنبه خل است. چاق و چله و بگو بخند است.بوی عدس پلوی خوش مزه حسن آقا را می دهد. پنجشنبه بهشت است و جمعه دو قسمت دارد: صبح تا ظهرش زنده و پرجنب و جوش است ، مثل پدر پر از کار و ورزش و پول و سلامتی. روبه غروب ، سنگین و دلگیر می شود، پر از دلهره های پراکنده و غصه های بی دلیل و یک جور احساس گناه و دل درد از پرخوری ظهر (چلو کباب تا خرخره) و نوشتن مشقهای لعنتی و گوش دادن به دلی دلی غم انگیز آوازی که از رادیو پخش می شود، و دقیقه شماری برای برگشتن مادر از مهمانی و همه جا قهوه ای تیره، حتی آسمان و درختهای هوا

قسمتی از مقدمه داستان خانه مادربزرگ نوشته گلی ترقی
تهیه کننده مطلب: نیلوفر

"Lady Chatterley's Lover" by D.H. Lawrence

...'Don't! Don't go! Don't leave me! Don't be cross with me! Hold me! Hold me fast!' she whispered in blind frenzy, not even knowing what she said, and clinging to him with uncanny force. It was from herself she wanted to be saved, from her own inward anger and resistance. Yet how powerful was that inward resistance that possessed her!

He took her in his arms again and drew her to him, and suddenly she became small in his arms, small and nestling. It was gone, the resistance was gone, and she began to melt in a marvelous peace. And as she melted small and wonderful in his arms, she became infinitely desirable to him, all his blood-vessels seemed to scald with intense yet tender desire, for her, for her softness, for the penetrating beauty of her in his arms, passing into his blood. And softly, with that marvelous swoon-like caress of his hand in pure soft desire, softly he stroked the silky slope of her loins, down, down between her soft warm buttocks, coming nearer and nearer to the very quick of her. And she felt him like a flame of desire, yet tender, and she felt herself melting in the flame. She let herself go. She felt his penis risen against her with silent amazing force and assertion and she let herself go to him She yielded with a quiver that was like death, she went all open to him. And oh, if he were not tender to her now, how cruel, for she was all open to him and helpless!

She quivered again at the potent inexorable entry inside her, so strange and terrible. It might come with the thrust of a sword in her softly-opened body, and that would be death. She clung in a sudden anguish of terror. But it came with a strange slow thrust of peace, the dark thrust of peace and a ponderous, primordial tenderness, such as made the world in the beginning. And her terror subsided in her breast, her breast dared to be gone in peace, she held nothing. She dared to let go everything, all herself and be gone in the flood.

And it seemed she was like the sea, nothing but dark waves rising and heaving, heaving with a great swell, so that slowly her whole darkness was in motion, and she was Ocean rolling its dark, dumb mass. Oh, and far down inside her the deeps parted and rolled asunder, in long, fair-travelling billows, and ever, at the quick of her, the depths parted and rolled asunder, from the centre of soft plunging, as the plunger went deeper and deeper, touching lower, and she was deeper and deeper and deeper disclosed, the heavier the billows of her rolled away to some shore, uncovering her, and closer and closer plunged the palpable unknown, and further and further rolled the waves of herself away from herself leaving her, till suddenly, in a soft, shuddering convulsion, the quick of all her plasm was touched, she knew herself touched, the consummation was upon her, and she was gone. She was gone, she was not, and she was born: a woman ...

"آن رویداد" by Christian Bobin

رویدادهایی که در زندگی به وقوع می پیوندند بسی اندک تر از آنند که می گوئیم .رویداد آنگاه به وقوع می پیوندد که زندگی به زندگی ما باز می آید،به سان رودخانه ای که به یکباره طغیان می کند و به دهکده ای سرازیر می شود تا با ابهت ترین بناها را به مانند پر کاهی از زمین بر کند

رویدادی که در زندگی به وقوع می پیوندد، به سان خانه ای ست با سه در مجزا -مردن و دل دادن و زادن.تنها آنگاه می توانیم به این خانه در آییم که همزمان و درآن واحد از هر سه در بگذریم. این کار محال است و با این همه انجام می پذیرد

داستانی حقیقی را در روزنامه و سپس در کتاب فریبنده یک روانکاو خواندم.داستان مردی و کودکی و دوچرخه ای. مرد شغلی دارد.زنی نیز دارد که در انتظار به دنیا آمدن فرزندی از اوست. آنگاه که کودک زاده می شود، مرد را بر سر کارش می خوانند.او دوچرخه خود را بر می دارد، به زایشگاه می رود، بی آنکه از سرعت خود بکاهد، از برابر زایشگاه می گذرد و ساعتها و ساعتها راهش را ادامه می دهد.به خانه خود باز نمی گردد و فردا و روزهای بعد بر سرکارش نمی رود.چند ماه بعد او را در کشوری دیگر باز می یابند، در حالی که قادر نیست بگوید چه کرده است و دلیل کارش چه بوده است. از دیدگاه روانکاو،رویدادی که به وقوع پیوسته فرار دوچرخه سوار است . از دیدگاه من، رویدادی که به وقوع پیوسته این نیست که مردکی بی مایه خانواده خویش را ترک کرده،رویداد، تولد کودک است .فرار از بر ابر رویداد، گریز سوار بر چرخهای آجدار ، خش خش سریع فرار در تاریکی، خصلت انسانی است.در اینجا این خصلت دیده می شود .فقط همین

این دوچرخه سوار را که قلب او به سان قلب اسبی دیوانه ساعتها و ساعتها در جاده تاریکی می تپد ، می شناسم . او را از وسوسه گریختن از برابر آنچه فرا می رسد می شناسم، از این وسوسه که چنان کند تا آنچه فرا می رسد، دیگر محلی برای فرا رسیدن نداشته باشد.

آنچه فرا می رسد همواره نام واحدی دارد.آنچه فرا می رسد عشق است.تولد، مرگ،بهار،زخم،سخن

راست،جمله اینها عشق است .عشق یگانه رویداد شایسته این نام است.

کریستین بوبن

از مقدمه کتاب فرسودگی

ترجمه پیروز سیار

تهیه کننده مطلب نیلوفر

“ALONE” by Edgar Allan Poe (1809 – 1849)

From childhood's hour I have not been
As others were; I have not seen
As others saw; I could not bring
My passions from a common spring.
From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow; I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone;
And all I loved, I loved alone.
Then- in my childhood, in the dawn
Of a most stormy life- was drawn
From every depth of good and ill
The mystery which binds me still:
From the torrent, or the fountain,
From the red cliff of the mountain,
From the sun that round me rolled
In its autumn tint of gold,
From the lightning in the sky
As it passed me flying by,
From the thunder and the storm,
And the cloud that took the form
(When the rest of Heaven was blue)
Of a demon in my view.

--------------
Analysis?

Let’s discuss it. After you leave all your comments, I’ll sum up everything and put the analysis here.

لیلی

خدا گفت: ليلي يك ماجراست، ماجرائي آكنده از من، ماجرائي كه بايد بسازيش
شيطان گفت: يك اتفاق است بنشين تا بيفتد
آنها كه حرف شيطان را باور كردند نشستند، و ليلي هيچ گاه اتفاق نيفتاد.مجنون اما بلند شد رفت تا ليلي را بسازد
خدا گفت: ليلي درد است، درد زادني نو
شيطان گفت: آسودگي است، خيالي است خوش
خدا گفت: ليلي رفتن است، عبور است و رد شدن
شيطان گفت: ماندن است و فرو رفتن در خود
خدا گفت: ليلي جستجوست، ليلي نرسيدن است، نداشتن و بخشيدن است
شيطان گفت: خواستن است، گرفتن و تملك
خدا گفت: ليلي سخت است، دير است و دور از دست
شيطان گفت: ساده است، همين جائي دم دست
و دنيا پر شد از ليلي ها زود، ليلي هاي ساده ي اين جائي، ليلي هاي نزديك ولحظه اي
خدا گفت: ليلي زندگي است، زيستني از نوع ديگر
ليلي جاوداني شد و شيطان ديگر نبود.مجنون زيستن را از نوعي ديگر برگزيد و مي دانست ليلي تا ابد طول مي كشد

از يك وبلاگ

I'll have a new post soon!

"One thing that I will never do is to repeat myself on anything so the new ones are rarely as popular- People always want a story like the last one."

To Maxwell Perkins, 1932
Selected Letters, p. 377
"Ernest Hemingway on Writing"

Interview with Bahar (Radio Farda)

Listen here
I think what you are doing is great Bahar!Good luck!

Bahar's interview brought back some uncomfortable thoughts I was trying to avoid for a long time:

Am I really a citizen of this country? I’m using its resources, paying taxes and obeying its laws. Yet, I refuse to put any energy or thought into improving my environment. And even the smallest notion of that kind makes me feel that I am being unloyal to my home country. I wonder if I’m denying my own existence this way. Maybe that’s the curse of immigrants…

Summer of Love

This link is suggested by Mohammad:

Summer of Love
After the Intro click on the Start Galery.

I've looked at Iran so far and it is very nice.

Getting to know Bahar.

An interview with our very own Bahar was published in Shahrvand newspaper. You can find it here.