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Dialogues with destiny

Two full bottles of milk swinging in my hand

I walked up leisurely towards the elevator to ascend

To my 13-floor view of life across the north eastern

Mountains of Tehran.

The sensation drew me back to six weeks ago

When that 30-degree slope made me short of breath,

Let alone carrying the two full bottles of milk in my

Hand. I had to ask the boys at the super market to

Bring them over for me. The embarrassment of my

Weakness let my subconscious to hide away from the

Spirit of death that had been following me since I had

Managed to make the great flight away from Tehran

Hoping to return to New York to gamble with destiny

Once again.

I hope these lines would decrease the anguish that others might have encountered.

To leave them behind, like I appear to enjoy my break.

My failures to assess my capabilities for the

Struggles I had challenged going to New York when

I was 22 –23, 29-31, 39-40 blinked at me across the

Twisted path of life ignoring the threats of death and

Addressing the peripheries of not being or becoming.

My feminine selfhood preferred to walk the

Path of warriors rather than the Power struggles of

Materialistic achievements. To compete with myself, and never bother to include others in my own competitions. That was an oath I took from the inheritance

I had owned as a child with my mother’s death.

Altruism veiled my scopes.

 The queen of Desire ruling my ambitious heart. I could

Not believe that God has other purposes set across the

Plans Of my destiny.

Reincarnation, karma, dharma and the little

Knowledge I had gained about such philosophies

Helped the tracing back of my recent disillusionment’s

During a course of 6 weeks, and the course of the past

Two summers that swindled me down, to fall very close

To death by surprise.

While I was challenging my documentary

Film making aims in this Islamic republic where

The ruling system alienates women like me.

 The mere existence of our mentality was opportune

To give the chance to the rest to make our

Type a prey to their petty ego trips, or a victim to their

Insecurities of their personalities Etc.

 

Six weeks ago my heart pacemaker generator

Was replaced. 15 months ago my erotic pig valve

Replaced with a metallic one. Both operations clarified

How my sensations do mislead myself for the benefit

Of living up to a normal state. And how the doctors can

Make even greater mistakes at my expense.

They can get puzzled or confused with my physical ratings

At the expense of false expectations about my life.

As such the chapters in this collection are selected.

 

As a psychologist, my curiosities have developed deeply. I cannot help it but to

Become ever so intrigued by these patterns that have

Pursued my life since I was 7 years old.

 

But as a literary artist the experiences are worthy of weaving

A new net for weighing the ongoing Life experiences

In my stream of consciousness.

 

Philosophy satisfied me more than Psychology.

Existential Psychology that tainted my 1975-85 textbooks.

Surrendered me with the give up sign of Death wish.

I am happy to realize that it cannot wrestle with me as closely

As it did until six weeks ago.

. Once again I did not drop dead.

 It has left vacuums and spaces of

Nothingness for me to challenge and overcome, like the previous times indeed.

 

As a journalist by training and translation for the international press

Nowadays, the war threats of the American president

George Bush challenging our Russian neighbor

President Putin over the destiny of Iran after the

Afghanistan’s bombardments and the September 11th