Revolution & Superman
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Been watching this unedited and unfinished video on youtube for the past half hour or so. At 11, I was too young to attend all those demonstrations but along with my young uncle, we managed to escape the watchful eyes of my grandfather or mother enough times to still see plenty of similar scenes. I more particularly remember the smells, feel of winter clothes in close proximity of large crowds, the rush of people backwards and down as the sound of bullets picked up in unison to warn of an incoming barrage.
My most vivid memories prior to the final days involve inadvertently stepping in a pool of human blood, where an injured protester had just been removed. I am not sure if he survived, but he had lost plenty of blood in a rather short time.
I also remember another day when we had a third partner. Shahram was really a friend of my uncles’ with a great gift. He could draw really well. His talent, along with my own interest in drawing and calligraphy had made us friends also. But his art was very different than mine. He was great at drawing detailed cars, but I liked flowing animals. He drew exact copies of superheros in action, particularly Aquaman and Superman, while I experimented with abstract cubes penetrating spheres.
On this particular day, I had brought Shahram a surprise; a genuine American Superman magazine I can not recall where I had gotten from. He was beyond excited, of course, watching page after page of action shots and explaining how he could do it better or more likely; how it was already done so perfectly. All three of us where doing this right in the middle of a walking group of demonstrators that were chanting and carrying signs, going north from what was Fooziyeh square.
There was the occasional sound of shooting, not unusual for 1978 in Tehran, but for most part the demonstration had moved along uneventful with little interruption from soldiers based at the square who just watched as we passed them.
As the three of us were getting really into the Superman action, I suddenly looked up and it looked as if the three of us were standing in the middle of the street by ourselves. I then looked up and can still clearly remember the reflection of the sun off the helmet of a soldier on top of a personnel carrier with a mounted heavy machine gun pointed towards our general direction. There was also a caravan of other personnel carriers, jeeps, and tanks following them.
It turns out that everyone else had seen them coming and also noticed the soldiers at the square (now behind us) closing the road to trap everyone within a two or three blocked area. Many had sought shelter in stores on either side and a large number were trying to get inside a large hospital when the shooting began and the three of us were still frozen in the middle.
I don’t know which one of us started running and pulled the other two but it sure wasn’t me. We must have ran at full speed for about half an hour until we reached Shahram’s home on Gorgan avenue, way out of the danger zone.
We then sat on their front door step, watching the cars, people busying themselves on the small sidewalks and finishing our discussion on Superman.
Just another day during the last great revolution.
Zoltar Speaks!
My grandmother had a sort of her own spiritual advisor. It was a nomadic woman in her mid twenties that would stop by once a months or so to remove spells, get rid of a Jinn (Genie) or two that permanently lived in their basement it seemed, and finally write some prayers that my aunt in particular needed to wear around her neck until her next visit.
I never liked her and could copy a couple of her acts even better than she performed them but confronting her with all her tools was hard, particularly after she made a Jinn speak one day and even put imprints of her hoofs on a plate of soft flour as a form of a signature to promise to leave the family alone.
After her, my exposure with people of “celestial” powers has been limited to the Bahama Mama (her words) who tried to lift my wallet while performing her magic, the Toronto “Gypsy” (her word again) who made me leave upon seeing my palms and declaring my “evil” and “probably anti-Christ” and finally one last example that I will leave out as it involves the pubic area and not that fun to read.
But last week I’m in San Fernando Valley (I know, I got to stop going there) for an appointment and as soon as I get out of my car, somebody calls me from behind. I turn and this Sikh man about my own age in a light blue turban is rushing towards me. I am not sure if he was speaking to me in Hindi or his English accent was so thick I really didn’t understand what he was saying. When he got to me, he started with “you are a very lucky man”, pointing to a small mole on my forehead that presumably acts as a third-eye.
I thanked him and asked what I could do for him, thinking his car has broken down or needs to use a cell phone or any of other thousands of reasons we could need one another as human beings.
That’s when he crumbles a tiny piece of paper and puts it in my palm and while writing on another small yellow square piece of paper, starts to dissect my life, or at least my future:
• I am one lucky man (general.)
• 8/26/2008 will be a lucky day for me.
• Two garlic every morning (not clear as to cloves or whole pieces) good for my health.
• I have two children. You have none? Then you WILL have two.
• His prediction; my favorite color is blue and my favorite number between 6,7 or 8 is 7! I picked blue and 8 but he quickly scratched 8 and made my second choice 7!
No wishes granted, unlike Zoltar, the wish granting fortuneteller of Big.
Finally and after about 7-10 minutes of this, the main pitch comes. He opens the brown hand-made but inexpensive small folder he has been using all this time to write on to show me two of his pictures while sitting in a temple. “My name is Baba ___” (I can’t remember it) “and people help me with 100, 150” (never mentioning ‘dollars’) and closing with “what can you help me with today?”
With that, the back and forth volley of demands and excuses between us starts. I start with “got no cash on me” but he points to my hand “you have your checkbook”, ouch, a good shot but I’m not done. “I’m going to an appointment and that’s for them” forces him to back down and go back to a cash position: “what can you help me with right NOW?” I need to go for broke, besides I’m being late: “Right now? Nothing. If you’re still here after I get back in 20 minutes, I’ll help you with $5” He is disarmed but tries one last time “Okay, help me with $5 right now!” and I question his honesty next: “Why? Are you taking off and will not be here in 20 minutes?” He’s defeated. All he can do is threaten now: “I’ll see you in 20 minutes then!”
As I turn and within 20 feet, I see an older partner of my “Zoltar” with a similar handbag offering advice and seeking “help”. Seems like helping is a group sport.
Meanwhile, all I am thinking is that I wish they indeed had the ability to foresee the future. They would then know that my appointment is for two hours and I’m planning to get some food afterward.
In my head I say goodbye to them; “See you in 4 hours Zoltars!”
Curves, Grooves & More…
I am going to try to include more items that will fill the two new categories on this blog, one being “Arts & Architecture” and the second on “Technology & Design”. This first one may fit somewhere in between as it is my dream sink in terms of design, crossing the boundaries of beautiful art and functional architecture.
Follo sinks’ grooves are designed to channel the standing water quicker and curves will prevent those untimely splashes that happen when you least can afford them and always decorate the front of your trousers.
But one can not deny the eye-candy part as this is just one gorgeous piece of functional art, missing from my future dream home, so far!