To be born in Iran about thirty years ago is not something to write about which a realistic autobiographical description may ever suffice.
A little child draws shapes on the wall as he enjoys the happiness of having learned about things to do with a color pencil; a youngster may fill up his drawers with a jumble of aimless poetries, so that he may identify his concerns to himself; yet it’s fun to know a little about a man of thirty in the age of world-wide great achievements, who is killing his toes to prove his pen still writing!
On this basis, I can say right after childhood I turned out to be an ambitious pen-user, meaning that I had hardly stopped drawing on the walls when I began to try to express my inner self. For many official and cultural reasons, however, this halfway maturity was treated the same as those stupid shapes on the wall, as it kept growing through seasons.
As Iranian writers (artists), we have always been facing strict religious and cultural customs and regulations, and the less one discovers overlaps between his hearty concerns and these customs, the much harder he will find it to manage his soul (here, diversions!) and get the right thing to produce. As for me, it proved to be such a dramatic case; I was not patient enough to long for someday I would finally be able to reconcile two misunderstanding characters by hot kisses on the last page of a novel; even then I preferred to start with some kisses and conclude with an absolutely misunderstanding couple instead. I saw things differently, right, but the tragedy hurt on a deeper wound: Kisses were forbidden on paper (or in a song or a movie, etc.), either at the beginning or the end!
I just walked back… abandoned my environmental reality… left the society on its own… and… settled in heavens!
Once in an illustrated short writing, for example, I designed an imaginary literal-anatomical structure for human’s mind and with the use of extraordinary complex sentences tried to get across that ‘every days’ life will prevent human from acquiring a profound knowledge of himself’.
Who would spend some change for reading such stuff? You? (Of course not!)
Here will I tell what I have done as a writes so far, but before that please pay attention to this simple fact that though contemporary to you, I was born in an era in my country through which self-devotion to professional modern art was (and partly is) as ridiculous as swimming on the sand, and for many years, listening to music, owning a video set or walking arm in arm with a girl was subject to serious punishments. Anyway, my wholly unpublished works are: A two-hours-long audio script, two novels, more than seventy poetries and about thirty short stories (all in Persian), in addition to one awkward film script and some other casual short stories and poetries (in English) – One may say I could alternatively have chosen another tool of expression; then I will put forward a rock music album (me contributing as the bassist and vocalist) and two short movies (written and directed by me) to reiterate my desire and confusion.
And finally, an overall view of my past in brief:
• Childhood: Frightened to death of the Police / Crazy for driving my imaginary car for long hours (as a long-last love affair) / Midnight cries for dad in hell’s burning fire, whenever he drank in our middle-class family parties (in accordance to the instructions we received at school).
• Youth: Teen age was my ‘mute suffering’ season. Correct or not, that was the period I learned how to keep gradually away of people and reality. I set out for the dark maze of my inner self and there in, once, slipped over a rolling ‘Gray Pen’ under my feet. It is called a ‘Grey Pen’ because the first poem it produced was about a man dying in prison (N.B. here, death means ‘to get rid of suffering and despair’).
As my pen-play with death continued, suddenly, at the end of my teens did I learn that the cigarette I smoked smelled differently! I felt dizzy, but I was quite satisfied with the illusion. This would isolate me from all those common features in society, which my brain had never managed to digest. I thought I was discovering the truth; my damn trip to the world of nonsense had commenced.
• 21: Engineers are mothers; they give birth to new cars and tall buildings. We should be thankful of their sleeplessness. That is from them when our hearts explode, as we envy a girl of 19 driving in a BMW.
The Death Angel is at the door. I am ashamed, because I don’t have a university degree to prove that I was feeling, thinking and living as a human on the earth. I quit studying Physics when I was twenty one.
My writings in this period (everything I have written until 3 years ago) are pretty useful in encouraging a secluded person who wants to cut out of this life! (If someone publishes them one day before the day of dooms, he will be the last rich publisher of the history!)
• Present: What I am now dealing with in my life is not in continuance of any above. Since four years ago I have been able to treat every passenger (let it be a Policeman!) with a cigarette of my own box, and exactly from then I have decided not to write in my mother tongue (Persian) any more.
Now, every day, from 9 to 5, I am working as a translator/typist for an industrial company, in the alien world of engineers, yet I don’t mind it: Someday I will prove that the pen in my hand has not been for fun.
Interests: Thoughtfulness, Music, Smoking.
Published writer: No