During the boring Orange County years, I was looking for anything to add a little excitement to my life. One of the things I did there for few months was taking flying lessons. Like many others, flying has always been a dream for me. Back in Iran, I tried paragliding for few months, but after one of our classmates crashed into the mountain in front of us, broke his neck, and died few days later, all of us stopped jumping. A few years later, when the image of that accident lost its power, I wanted to try paragliding again. But Orange Country is as flat as the life there; there’s no hill to jump off of it! My second option was flying an airplane, and I did it for a while. It was not as exciting as paragliding, but it was interesting. My instructor had a small single-engine Piper, but he kept talking about another aircraft that he wanted to buy. One of the features that he was looking to have in his new airplane was “autopilot”. I asked him a couple of times that if he flies for fun, why would he want to have autopilot, and his answer was to be able to concentrate on the other stuff. I never got what that “other stuff” was.
Most of the time I think our life is on autopilot mode. First I thought it’s only daily routines; waking up, taking shower, going to work, eating, coming home, going out, having fun, sleeping, all the routines that we have in our life without really thinking about them, it all seemed “autopilot” to me. But then, I realized it’s not only the things I do, but also the things I say. I, on autopilot, talk about films, music, books, computer, work, travel; I, on autopilot, react to other people, answer their questions, pay attention to them, like them, and dislike them. With new people, I autopilot-ly talk about my hobbies and interests to find some similarities, and I already have all the answers to their autopilot-questions. With old friends, we usually have reached a mutual autopilot situation, and that needs even less thinking. Every now and then, a new thing pops up that makes me think, but as soon as I figure it out, it becomes part of my autopilot-ed life.
But then, as soon as I try to do something that is not defined in the autopilot-handbook, things go strange. Do something that people don’t expect, or don’t play along with their games, and they will become either scared of you, or they will hate you, or both! This can get very frustrating and draining; it makes me tired of me, of fighting, and of life.
For a while I wanted to fight with this autopilot life. I’ve found my own group of people that I feel comfortable with, people that I think are not on autopilot mode. I’ve formed very deep friendships and have connected to many people in a very precious way. But there’s a bigger problem here: I’ve learned my own “style,” and I’m autopilot-ly fighting with being on autopilot mode.
I realized it’s even more complicated; it’s not just limited to my actions and thoughts, it also includes my feelings and tastes. Why does everyone think the sunset is pretty and romantic? When it comes to music or movies we have different tastes, but why do we all (or most of us) love the sunset? Why do we all (or most of us) think committing suicide is a bad thing? Isn’t it just deeply programmed in our minds by our culture, our history, our parents, our teachers, our communications with the others, by the books we read, by the stories we hear?
The main question is how can we separate ourselves from all these values that we have learned in our life? For example, everybody knows “success” is a good thing. You may not be able to handle it, and that’s another problem. But success is a good thing, and a successful person is much more attractive than a failure. No one likes you when you’re down, weak, and broken. They may feel sympathy, empathy, compassion, or pity, but they won’t admire you for that. Our autopilot mind says we should admire and envy successful people. A couple of nights ago a friend, Malijak, was telling me: “I see you and I read your notes, and the only thing I feel is pity. Look at you, you’re tall, you’re handsome, you’re intelligent, you’re smart, you’re good at what you do, you’re at the best age, you live in the best place in the world, and instead of enjoying your life you waste your time thinking and writing this gibberish… I really feel sorry for you, man!”. I don’t want to say he’s wrong, but I can’t accept that he’s right either! What does “enjoying life” mean anyway? Driving a Porsche? Being a CEO? Being a Darvish? Having young and pretty women? Being a monk? Not questioning life? Smiling all day long? All of them? None of them?
We spend our life learning things to have an easier life, to be able to put our life on autopilot mode, rest, and concentrate on the other stuff. But I don’t want that. I want to unlearn things that I’ve learned. I want to reevaluate everything again. I want to find out what MY joy is, not what Malijak or others say. I may get to the same conclusion as the others, or I may not, I don’t know. But I don’t want to have an autopilot-ed life. Even if I’m going to the same destination, I want to control my plane; I have no “other stuff” to do.
Tao Te Ching says:
In the pursuit of knowledge
every day something is added
In the practice of the Tao
every day something is dropped.
I’m trying to drop things that I’ve learned (or I think I’ve learned) in 35 years (including Tao Te Ching!), look at them again, evaluate them, and then pick the ones that “I” want, that “I” like, that “I” think are good for me, and I don’t even care if I’m wrong! As a friend says, “My own wrong way”! I know, as Zahed told me the other night, there’s no compassion for the others in this (or my other notes), but that’s fine; I want to reevaluate compassion as well.
Maybe this is just another dream, dream of dropping everything, dream of becoming like a child, dream of weightlessness, but as they say, dreams are true as long as they last.
——————————
Originally written on May 17, 2006 - San Francisco
Like many young teenage boys, I took Karate class for a while. At the beginning of each session, our instructor would say: “You boys are here to learn Karate, but not to beat up anyone. You should have the strength to beat your enemy, but also the power to not do it. If you happen to get in a fight, know that you can beat him, but then accept to be beaten up. This is the ultimate power”.
You see this thought in many different forms. The whole idea of Karma in Buddhism is the same thing: it doesn’t matter why, it doesn’t matter if you’re right or wrong; if you beat someone up you’re just adding to your karmic debt. Gandhi says “an eye for an eye makes the whole world blind”. Taoism tells you not to fight back: just keep your balance and accept things. In Christianity, they say: “But I say unto you, that ye resist not evil: but whosoever shall smite thee on thy right cheek, turn to him the other also.” (Matthew 5:39). Earlier in the same chapter, we have “Blessed [are] the meek: for they shall inherit the earth.” (Matthew 5:5). Ahmad Shamlou uses this phrase (خوشا به حال فروتنان، چرا که اینان کاشفان زمیناند) to name his work (strange enough, about the revolution, revolutionaries, and fighting) “کاشفان فروتن شوکران” (The meek discoverers of hemlock).
It took me years to master the technique of fighting (back), not just fighting people, but fighting life. It didn’t matter what life would bring to me, I could and I would fight it back; from declaring my financial independency at the age of 15, to living on my own at 18, to starting and selling my own business at 24. I remember having a conversation with The Guru, when I was in my early 20s. He asked me “where do you want to be in a couple of years?”, and I answered “having my own business, and showing to people, especially to my father, that I am capable… capable of doing whatever I want”. And I did that. But now when I think about it, I can see that more than a statement, it was a declaration of war; a war against life, against the Gods. And I was foolish enough to think that I was the winner, just because I did whatever I said I wanted to do. I was just working on my “strength”.
Tired of all the fighting, little by little I started to think about the Ultimate Power, the power of acceptance, getting beaten up and not fighting back, the ultimate fight, a real Fight Club. This new power made me happy (not really having it, just practicing it). Now I could join the club. I could look at some people in the eyes, people that I admired and had looked up to for a long time. Now I could see others, smiling and thinking “I hope you too grow up someday”! But remember the rules of Fight Club? Rule number 1: “You don’t talk about Fight!” Tao Te Ching says the same thing: “The more you use it, the more it produces; the more you talk of it, the less you understand” (Sutra #5). You just have to stay quiet, take the pain inside, and hope to be enlightened one day: “Blessed [are] they that mourn: for they shall be comforted.” (Matthew 5:4); or as Hafez says:
با دل خونین لب خندان بیاور همچو جام
نی گرت زخمی رسد آيی چو چنگ اندر خروش
(can anyone translate this for me, please? I can’t!)
But recently, I’ve started to question this Ultimate Power. Not that I want to fight back again, I’ve already passed that stage of my life. But I can’t really figure out why one should stay quiet, take all the pain, and smile? I remember even though everybody loved the “Fight Club” movie, I was disgusted by it, and by the idea of it. What makes life different? Recently I have the same feeling about this “ultimate power”; the whole “shall be comforted”, or “inheriting the earth”. The idea of heaven (the religious version) or enlightenment (the philosophical version) seems to be an overly simplified way to comfort us and to justify the suffering. I don’t want to make anyone suffer, including me! Why should I suffer? To pay my karmic debt?! Which debt? To learn and to grow? Learn what, and grow where? Hafez says:
طبیب عشق مسیحا دم است و مشفق لیک
چو درد در تو نبیند که را دوا بکند
So, the idea is having pain, hoping that at some point Jesus as love comes to you to cure your pains by his breath, so you could enjoy your life without pain? What a theory!
The Guru was telling me a couple of days ago that this is a turning point, choosing between the Buddhist approach (Enlightenment with eyes closed: All is an illusion, let it go) and the Taoist approach (Enlightenment with eyes open: All is in order, let it come). But at this point one can make another turn too:
I hesitate,
standing at a fork in the road,
the only way I know is the way of return
- Abbas Kiarostami, Wolf Lying
Why not just turning back, and quitting the road? Enlightenment seems to be yet another story to justify suffering. Yes, I agree that it takes a lot of power, the ultimate power, to stay in the fight club. But after all, why would one want to be powerful and strong? Maybe there is a smarter ways to deal with it: just quitting the club, stopping the power game, and escaping from it all together. Recently I feel like the Ultimate power is to know the game, but not to participate in it. People can think you’re scared, people can think you’re not capable, you’re weak, you’re timid. Maybe you are, maybe you’re not; in the end, who really cares?
What difference between yes and no?
What difference between success and failure?
Must you value what others value,
avoid what others avoid?
How ridiculous!
Other people are excited,
as though they were at a parade.
I alone don’t care,
I alone am expressionless,
like an infant before it can smile.
Other people have what they need;
I alone possess nothing.
I alone drift about,
like someone without a home.
I am like an idiot, my mind is so empty.
Other people are bright;
I alone am dark.
Other people are sharp;
I alone am dull.
Other people have a purpose;
I alone don’t know.
I drift like a wave on the ocean,
I blow as aimless as the wind.
I am different from ordinary people.
- Tao Te Ching, Sutra #20.
The Guru says let it come, and I’m thinking maybe he’s just too bright to understand the art of escape, the ultimate art.
——————————
Originally written on April 10, 2006 - San Francisco
My computer is sitting on my coffee table. I just have two dim lights in my small apartment, and the monitor looks much brighter in this dark room. I got home about half an hour ago, put the new CD that I got last night into my stereo, lit one of my good Japanese incenses (I only use my Japanese incenses for especial occasions), poured a glass of wine for myself, and cut the Lavash bread that I got from the Whole Food and put it in the fridge. I also got a spicy tomato soup for dinner, but I’m going to eat it later. I eat this tomato soup 3 to 4 times a week, and I’m not very excited about it; I prefer to finish my wine first.
My apartment is small, and wherever I go I see the light of the monitor of my laptop. Two days ago I promised (to myself) that I won’t write again, and I don’t want to write. I have a movie to see tonight. It’s not one of the San Francisco Film Festival movies; it’s an old movie that I saw many years ago. Like all the movies that we used to see back then in Iran, I saw it with a bad quality. Tonight they are showing it on a big screen, with a good quality! I want to go and see it, but my mind is way too busy, and I can’t stop the temptation. I sit and put my laptop on my lap. I have a strange relationship with my laptop. During the day, when I have to work on the boring technical stuff, I can’t stand seeing it. But at night, she is my lover. I’ve spent many nights with her, much more than many of the lovers that I had in the past. I promised that I won’t spend another night with her, but I can’t resist; sounds familiar, doesn’t it? They say if you can resist a temptation, it doesn’t mean that you’re strong; it’s the temptation that is weak. Am I strong person? Many people think I am, but frankly, I don’t think so. I really don’t think so. I’ve just been practicing to lose things for a long time. Tonight, I’m going to lose the only opportunity that I have to see this old movie on big screen. I love to see this film, I love films in general, but it’s OK. Seeing the movie doesn’t make me excited enough to leave my lover now, I’m going to stay.
I’m thinking about this word “excitement”. I thought about this word a few hours ago at the Whole Food, when I saw a girl looking at the strawberries and trying to choose one of the baskets. I could easily see the excitement in her eyes. I also thought about this word two days ago, when a friend asked me “What the hell do you like then?!”. What do I like? It’s a tough question, and I can’t really answer that. I’ve been thinking about this question since she asked me; and I realized that my list is not longer than very few things. I’m thinking about the things that I’m attached to, and I can’t think of more than two things. The only two things that make me happy, two things that take me to another world, the only things I thought about after leaving them behind in Iran , the only two things that I really care about are my books and my CDs. I’m thinking about the list that I had few years ago, it was much longer that this. What happened to my list then? Once I had a long list, many things could make me happy, many things could make me excited. I had many hobbies, I liked to learn about everything. Just throw out a subject, and I most probably have something to say about it; and I’ve spend some time learning about it. Once someone said there are two types of people, people who care about learning, and people who don’t care. People who care to learn are two types as well, some are like a deep well, they know a couple of things very well and very deep. The other group loves everything, and is like an ocean, but two inches deep! They know about a lot of things, but not deep, they just can’t limit themselves to one or two things. Once I belonged to the last group. I loved everything, and wanted to learn about everything. What happened to my passion? What happed to my long list? This is the question that I’ve been asking myself for the last couple of days. Now I think that I have an answer.
*****
Tao Te Ching says:
Fill your bowl to the brim
and it will spill.
Keep sharpening your knife
and it will blunt.
Chase after money and security
and your heart will never unclench.
Care about people’s approval
and you will be their prisoner.
Do your work, then step back.
The only path to serenity.
This has been told many times in many different forms and words, but they are all the same: want it, and you’ll never get it. But turn your back to it, and it will be there for you. This is especially true in human relationships. But there’s a paradox there: if you turn your back to something just in order to get it, then you’re not really turning your back– you’re just playing a game. And if you really turn your back, then who cares about getting it anymore?
I learned about this in my childhood, I learned that I should let it go. I learned that I shouldn’t get attached to anything, or I could be sure that it would cause me a lot of pain. Like any other child, I was attached to my family, but I learned in the very early years that I can’t really rely on them. I was attached to my friends, but after loosing two of them in the war, and many more who left the country, I learned to let them go as well. I thought if I build something, if I create something, that’s going to be mine forever. But I was wrong. Since I was a child I thought no matter what, I’m not going to let anything destroy my own family, but for no reason, absolutely no reason, it happened and I couldn’t stop it. And I learned more and more to detach myself; I learned to reduce the importance of things that I cared for, just to protect myself from being in pain. My list got smaller and smaller, but loosing those few things got more and more difficult and painful. In order to protect myself and prevent the pain, I learned to reduce the importance of the items on my list, but with that, I lost the excitement. Excitement to me is equal to loss, to pain, and to suffering. I’m practicing detachment, I’m practicing not wanting, but every step towards that detachment is painful, and I just can’t get used to the pain.
They say Shebelli, the old Sufi, once said: “I want not to want anything“.
Sheikh Abolhasan Kharaghani said: “But you want that as well!“
I just want not to want anything, but I don’t know how not to want that.
——————————
Originally written on April 21, 2006 - San Francisco
There is an old custom in our culture called “khooneh-takooni”, or “house-shaking”. Before Nowrooz, the Iranian new year, we have to clean every little thing in our house. I remember asking my grandmother about the name “khooneh-takooni”. I asked her why don’t we call it “house-cleaning”, and what does it have to do with “shaking”? She said khooneh-takooni is much more than just cleaning, you have to move everything and clean underneath. It takes a lot of time and energy, but it’s the only way to really have a clean house. She also taught me to do something else during khooneh-takooni. She said while you move your stuff, try to look for things that you don’t need. For everything that you don’t use anymore, there is someone who needs it. She said, you’ll feel good when you give your extra stuff to someone, and you’ll also learn not to carry things with you that you don’t need anymore.
During the last 17 years I’ve moved for 15 times, so I never had to do a real khooneh-takooni. But every year I go through my cloths, pick things that I haven’t used for a year, and I give them to The Salvation Army. Sometimes some of the items are still new, and it’s always hard to give away your new things. The rest are old and it’s difficult to say goodbye to your things that contain memories. But I always remember the last part of my grandmother’s advice: if I want to live lightly, if I don’t want to carry a lot of things with me, then I have to give them away.
During the last couple of months, I went through a complete personal Khooneh-takooni. It was (is) a painful process, I had to let go of many things; things that I was attached to: my beliefs, my expectations from life, my attachments, my joys, even my moral values. I knew it was time to let go; I could feel the weight of the last 10-15 years of my life on my shoulders. But it was time to grow, time to see the reality, time to redefine my life. But I wasn’t able to accept it; I wasn’t able to detach myself from my old values. Like a little child I got angry, I cried, I prayed, I cursed, I made up stories, but I was just trying not to grow; I was trying to stay a child.
Growing up is not a pleasant process, but when the time comes you can’t escape it. You can’t live in fairytale stories anymore. You need something more real, something tangible. Fairytales, like lollipops, might be sweet, but they won’t satisfy you forever. Keith, my beloved philosophy teacher, once said “When you tell your son about Papa Noel, you want him to believe it, you want to make a sweet world for him, you want him to wish for something and get it in the morning of Christmas, but who wants to marry someone like that?! You may play that game with her too, but if she really believes in Papa Noel, you definitely want to take her to see a shrink”. At some point you realize that Papa Noel is not real, but you still want to fake it for a while, just to continue getting your gifts. But deep down, you know that it’s just a story, and you start looking for something more real. Reality is not that bad after all. Reality is like beer, or olives; it tastes bitter at the beginning, but when you get used to its taste, you really enjoy it; much more than the fake sweetness of your childhood lollipops.
*****
Last weekend, I had two very long conversations with two friends. One of them didn’t know anything about my recent thoughts - she doesn’t read my “notes” - but these days my thoughts seem to be too much to hide. That night, she told me stories about her life that she had never told me before. She told me about all the pain and suffering that she was going through. She even cried a little. Like a wise friend, I tried to comfort her first, and then I started giving her some good advice - I tried to tell her how to see things differently. I read Sutra’s from Tao Te Ching for her. I told her to see life the way it is, instead of holding onto her expectations of life. I said the only way to stop the pain is either to stop living or to accept life the way it is. I said she has to see the beauty in it by changing her taste. I said she should know those fake lollipops won’t make her happy anymore. I talked about the joy of the bitter taste of olives. I told her she needs a khooneh-takooni. I’m a wise man after all, and I know a lot of good things to say to people! But then, she suddenly looked at me, smiled, and told me that all those stories was her way of trying to give me some advice. She had made me put all that advice into words for myself. She said all of her stories were real, the feelings were real, even those tears were real. But she also knows that they are important only when she takes them seriously. First I felt angry, even a little betrayed, and then I was confused. It took me a couple of days to really get what she wanted to tell me.
These feeling are serious and real, but not important. They are serious because they can take a lot of energy, they can change one’s life, and they can seriously hurt. But when I detach myself from them, when I look at them from a distance, or after a couple of years, I only laugh at them, and that’s why they are not important. I know after few years, I even feel nostalgic about the most serious problem that may be in my life right now!
All this time, I knew my thoughts were not important, yet I was still taking them seriously. Whatever I said before was absolutely real, about the emptiness of this world, about the unbearable lightness of being, the lack of excitement, everything. These feelings are very real, and very serious. But there are moments that I forget about the seriousness of these problems. Like yesterday, when saw a good flamenco movie; last week when I touched beautiful Japanese papers; when I put a picture of a little baby sleeping on my chest on my fridge; when I went to a great concert; when I was with a good friend and I saw love and support in my friends’ eyes and touch; when I listened to my great new CD; when the last minute, instead of going to the boring opening party of the film festival I took my friend to have sushi and sake, and then walked for hours in the beautiful streets of San Francisco; when I shared the joy of a good haiku with a friend; when I saw “Roads” for the 10th times; all these times I forgot about the emptiness. I could remember those “serious” and “real” problems, but they were not important.
It’s strange, but sometime I think what makes me hold on to those thoughts is that I feel that letting the feelings of emptiness go would make me feel empty!
Now I lie down in my bed and I look at the view of the city: the bay, the sky and the passing clouds; Arvo-Part is playing in my stereo, and I know that in neez bogzarad - and this too shall pass. I know in few years when I look back at these days I’ll feel nostalgic about them.
——————————
Originally written on April 24, 2006 - San Francisco
A few years ago, I went to a documentary film festival. The festival’s promotional clip was a two minute short film about a guy talking about his dog, about the first time he saw her, when he bought her, how he trained her, and his relationship with her. In the middle of the film, you realized that his passionate story was not about a “real” dog, but instead about a Sony robot. My first reaction to the film was laughing. But when I saw it for the second time, I realized it was not a joke. This guy was really in love with his robo-dog! I realized that his love is as “real” as someone else’s love for their “real” dog. All these years, I tried to find a difference, a real difference, between that dog and a real dog; a reason that justifies the love for a real dog, but not for a robo-dog, but I haven’t been able to find any. The slogan of the festival was: “How much reality can you handle?”
Recently I’ve been thinking about this question: how much reality can I handle? The answer seems to be very different from what I thought few years ago. Recently, I don’t have much tolerance for reality. I’m not talking about real as opposed to fake; I’m talking about reality versus dreaming. Real life disappoints me, real people (except for very few) disappoint me, and I have to admit that the biggest disappointment is me– myself. Dreaming seems to be the most effective way to take a break from this disappointments.
I’m too old to really believe my dreams may come true; I know this will never happen. But I refuse to grow up. Now, at the age of 35, I’m back to my Tintin world– I make imaginary friends and I spend time with them. The love that I get and give in my dreams is the only cure for this loveless life. I fantasize about the future, about how I want my life to be when I grow up. I know they will never happen, but I like this imaginary world more than the real world. Sometimes I think I’m going out of my mind and becoming crazy, but that’s only when I come back to the real world. In my dream world, no one is crazy, nothing is wrong, and nothing is bad. Just like a diver who tries to stay under water longer and go deeper, I also try to push my dreaming to the limits and stay there longer and longer.
If I ever start a festival, I know what the slogan will be: “How much dreaming can you handle?”
——————————
Originally written on May 15, 2006 - San Francisco
I don’t exactly remember the first time I talked to God, but I remember exactly the first time he talked to me. I was about 4 years old, lying down on the floor watching TV. My mom was downstairs in her office. I suddenly heard a warm assuring voice calling my name very slowly: “A H M A D…”. It was so real that I turned around to see who’s calling me. “A H M A D… A H M A D…” the voice called me again. It was very tender and kind, and did not scare me at all. I didn’t answer, just listened, and felt the rush of blood in my face. The voice made me feel warm and relaxed.
I was afraid to tell this to my parents as I knew they would make fun of it, and the voice had such a good feeling that I didn’t want to see anyone joking about it. I just told my grandmother about it, and she’s the one who told me it was the voice of God; that God has spoken to me, and I’m a chosen one. She said I should wait and expect God to talk to me again, and that I should thank God for calling to me. Of course, she didn’t just tell this to me. She also told the story to my parents, to my aunts, and my uncles. I waited for God to talk to me again for a long time, but instead of God, my cousins and aunts started to call me like that; “A H M A D…”.
After waiting for a while, I decided to communicate with God myself. I knew that I was special, and I knew God would answer me back. I just thought maybe he doesn’t want to talk to me in front of the others; he didn’t want them to hear his voice. Or maybe he was angry that I told the story to the others. But I knew he would forgive me. I started to think about little ways of asking him my questions and getting my answers back. I knew that he had the power to do absolutely anything, but I had to keep it as a secret, and that I shouldn’t ask him to do things that others could see or understand. I’d tell him, “Dear God, if they’re going to show Pink Panther today, please ask the wind to move the leaves on that tree”. Or, “Dear God, if Saied and Hamid are going to be free to play this afternoon when I get home, send a red car in front of us on the road”. And he always answered me, and his answers were always right. I never told this to my grandma.
I had this Q&A with God for many years. I even started asking him to do things for me. I asked him to make my pretty classmate love me, and he did. She was in love with me for the whole first grade, and half of the second grade. But then the revolution happened and they separated the boys from the girls in the school. We were not even able to see each other anymore. I asked God to stop the fight between my parents, and he did. They divorced, and I stayed with my mom. I was only supposed to see my father on weekends, but some weekdays he would come to the school to give me a ride back home on his bicycle. The whole situation was so sad that I asked God to do something about it. And he did. My parents got back together. But their fights got worse. So I asked God again to finish it, and he did. They divorced again. I was already confused.
I was about 13 years old when I read the book “The Twenty-fifth Hour” by Virgil Gheorghiu. The story starts with a boy, telling his friend why he stopped talking to God. He says when he was a little kid, a series of events made his family, especially his father, very angry with him. Once he came home from the school, and found the house empty, and the door locked. He sat in front of the locked door, tired, cold, and with lots of homework to do. He found a nail on the street, and tried to unlock the door with it, but couldn’t. He asked God to help him to open the door, and as soon as he said that, the lock clicked and the door opened. He went in and started doing his homework. His parents came, and his father got very upset and beat him very badly. Later that night, he had a conversation with God:
“God, don’t you know everything?” the boy says.
“Yes, I know everything”, God replies.
“Did you know that opening the locked door with a nail would make my father upset?”
“Yes, I knew that.”
“Did you know he would beat me?”
“Yes, I knew that.”
“Why did you open the door for me then?”
“Because you asked me to open it for you.”
“But you knew my dad would beat me!”
“Yes, I knew that.”
“Why did you help me then?”
“Because you asked me to.”
I clearly remember the night I read that part of the book. I was sitting on my bed for hours, trying hard to convince myself that it’s just a story, but I couldn’t. Something was already changed; I had lost my trust. I was scared to ask God for anything after that. For many years I told this boy’s story to my friends, but no one seemed to get feeling I got from it. I wasn’t able to share this feeling with anyone.
Later in different situations, I heard people saying different things; that you should leave it to God to decide what’s good for you, or you should ask God but should leave it to him to decide if it’s good for you or not, or you should ask for whatever you want in order to get it from God, but ask God to bless it. But none of these made sense anymore.
As I grew up, I got angry with God, then I doubted his existence, and then I totally denied God by its common definition. I can’t deny the loneliness that comes with the feeling of not even having a God to pray to, but I can’t fake it either. You can’t fake belief, and you can’t fake faith.
Tonight, I was reading something that made this feeling even worse. Roman Gary in “Promise at Dawn” says: “The real tragedy behind Faust’s story is not selling the soul to Satan. The real disaster is when you realize there’s no Satan to buy your soul; there’s no buyer at all. Even selling your soul can’t get you what you want.”
Tonight I’m willing to sell my soul for a real cheap price; any taker?
——————————
Originally written on April 18, 2006 - San Francisco
The first time I read the book “The Unbearable Lightness of Being” I was surprised by translator’s decision about changing the Persian title to “The Weight of Being”. I think “The Unbearable Lightness” is the best way to describe the world. What makes this world unbearable is more than the problems we have, more than difficulties, injustices, or unfairness. It’s the emptiness behind it all that makes it unbearable.
When you’re a child, you don’t really feel this emptiness, and that’s the only time you can just be. Then little by little you start to see it and question it, and this is when you start to grow up. At the beginning, usually when you’re a teenager, you can’t believe what you just begin to learn about life, and it makes you angry. Then you grow up a little more, and you start realizing that it’s real, but you still don’t want to accept it. You make yourself busy with something. If you’re “strong” (and lucky) you find something “meaningful”: school, study, art, work. And if you’re “weak” (or unlucky) that’s probably alcohol, drugs, etc. But it doesn’t stop there, you grow up more, and you still search for a bigger distraction, hopefully a “meaningful” one. This is when you start feeling the need of having a family, children, helping others and charity, connecting to people that you care for, and people that care for you. After all, people are the only real thing you can find… but are they? They are exactly in the same path, but maybe in a different stage. After this, you have two choices. You’re either still hopeful enough to find some meaning, or you’re not. Since the problem is the meaninglessness of this world, you have to look for that meaning out of it. The hopeful people usually find something spiritual, a religion, a spiritual group, or a philosophical way to see the world. The second group experiences the emptiness in a way that they can never escape from it.
Now, this doesn’t mean that everyone’s journey is the same. Some people stay like a child, some stay at the stage of the anger, or pleasure, or connection. But if you still feel the need, if you don’t want to stop, if you try to find a deeper meaning and a meaningful answer, then your only options are the last two choices, or maybe escaping from it all and committing suicide.
The most painful part of it is when you think about it, and you know all your sadness, your pain, and your sorrow, doesn’t really mean anything. No matter what you feel, no matter what you do, no matter what you think, it’s been felt and done and thought before. What’s the result? Nothing, absolutely nothing. And it gets even worse when you realize that getting to this nothingness doesn’t really mean anything either; vicious circle. You feel the urge to talk about it, but you know no one understands. Or maybe someone understands, but won’t feel it; maybe even feel, but… so what?! Even if you decide to say something, what do you have to say about it? Khayyam hundreds of years ago has said it all in the most beautiful way, what do you have to add to that?
A while ago, I was reading an interesting article about Rumi and Omar Khayyam, their similarities and their differences. At the end Rumi became a Sufi, but Khayyam couldn’t escape from the emptiness. I’ve always been fascinated by Khayyam, but for the last month and a half, since I read that article, I’ve been just listening to Khayyam in my car, and thinking about it. The fascination became obsession, Khayyam and his poetry - those simple quatrains - became all I could think of during the day. What amazes me the most about him is how he could be depressed (or whatever you want to call it!) and still productive. If he really believed in that emptiness, what was the motivation behind all of his works? How could one believe there’s no difference between being and not being, and still choose to live, and even pretend to enjoy it?
Khayyam and his poetry just made my life and the lightness of it more unbearable. I tried to escape from it and exactly at the right time, life showed me an escape path, a distraction, but then I realized that it was just a way to feel the emptiness of it even harder. Sometimes you think life, with all its emptiness and meaninglessness has some intelligence behind it that directs you to where you supposed to go (whatever that means), and there’s no escape from it.
They say “if you want to make Gods laugh, tell them about your plans”, but recently I think it doesn’t matter if you plan something or not, “Gods” will have their share of laughter anyway. I just can’t find any better purpose for this life, it’s all about being Gods’ clowns.
I wonder if they’re ever going to get tired of this laughter and this show; how many reruns do they need to see?
——————————
Originally written on April 6, 2006 - San Francisco
