Reading Lolita in Tehran

I just finished this book. It is mind and soul-altering. It is a work of art – a tapestry created before your eyes. It is fine and detailed, created with love and thoughtfulness about a time and place that was so brutal, one needed to try to block it out of ones’ soul. Outside reality was as harsh as a small cement cell with only a small hole up high to let in light, the hole being too high to look out of. The story is the wild rose bush growing up and over the outside of the cell. It is the bird singing on its roof, the rainbow’s light piercing the small hole. These two layers; the harsh brutality on the bottom and the roses, birds and rainbows on top, are woven together into this beautiful story of survival, passion, resilient spirit, and hope. It is a book about books – many that I shamefully have not read, but will now spend the rest of my life catching up on, so that I can know this inner literary world that Azar Nafasi, the author, opens up to us. It is the story of a teacher and a small group of her students who get together informally, in her apartment, where they can take off their veils and discuss fiction, freely.

Here are some of my favorite quotes, although the book is full of beautiful and provoking thoughts and prose.

“It had become a habit with us, a permanent aspect of our relationship, to exchange stories. I told them that listening to their stories, and through living some of my own, I had a feeling that we were living a series of fairy tales in which all the good fairies had gone on strike, leaving us stranded in the middle of a forest not far from the wicked witch’s candy house.”

“Life had acquired the texture of fiction written by a bad writer who cannot impose order and logic on his characters as they run amok.”

“Remember all that talk of yours about how the first lesson in fighting tyranny is to do your own thing and satisfy your own conscience?”

This is just the first half of the story, however. The other half involves reading this book as a layer over our own bizarre fairy tale reality and our need to create The Enemy.

I highly recommend this book.

From My Bedroom Window

This is the view from my bedroom window. The tree in my front yard bloomed overnight. I love this view. Even in the middle of winter it is wonderful. The Victorian houses across the street are always happy. The bushes provide shelter to a hundred of birds with a hundred songs. I'm trying to learn them so that I can recognize which bird goes with which song, but then the Mockingbirds throw me for a loop because they know a hundred songs, too. They are song stealers and their imitations are in ways better than the originals because they project their thievery loudly and clearly.

For now, the dead of night is dead quiet. Not a peep, nor engine, nor distant drone, nor car alarm. Dead, still, quiet except for the occasional cat scream. It will only stay like this for a short while though, because once summer arrives the night will be full of the loudest crickets and frogs. I can barely hear myself dream.

Easter

Mr. Bunny

I took my friend Deborah to Auntie Mia's house for Easter, on the eastern end of Long Island (north fork). It's always quiet, still, and peaceful there. We were all women except for Cade (Debbie, Deborah, Mia, Mia's mom, Christina, Rose, and Ellen). Only Ellen, the one true visitor for the day, wore make-up. We had roast lamb, asparagus & scallions, and salad. We ate and drank until we could no longer move or hold intelligent conversation. The only remnant left of the holiday is the crumpled gold foil on my bedside table where a chocolate bunny once stood.

View of Goose Creek from the Porch

Asparagus & Scallions

Cade, The Only Man at the Party

Eggs in Baskets & Birds Nests

Spring Has Sprung

This post is for those who have never been to New York and think that it must be a dirty, ugly city. I have news for you. It’s not. New York is beautiful in all its seasons, and Spring is exceptional.



This is a wonderful time in the city because the weather is perfect, perhaps in the way that only a Pisces could appreciate it because it’s the season of our birth– wind, rain, sun, clouds, warmth (snow, even). To me, it is much like a Monet painting - extremely colorful, but nothing exacting. The flowers and trees are at their prime, looking very sexy to the birds and the bees, no doubt. I’ve spent the last few days photographing it just so I can prove you wrong – and this is only what I’ve managed to capture in my small world; walking to work, music lessons, and a rainy day in Central Park on my day off. You should know that I ruined a perfectly good pair of white pants to get these photos for you.



These pots of color are in front of the building where I work on Third Avenue. Such pots exist everywhere in the city. Amid noise and people they stick up like flags saying, Don’t Forget To Keep It All In Perspective!!!

Meridian of Park Avenue

West Nineteenth Street

Central Park South

Central Park has a magic all its own. It’s so large that you can get lost in your thoughts, forget where you are, lose track of time. The sounds of traffic disappear. This time of year, blossoms fall like snowflakes and it makes me mad that that I’m not able to capture them with my camera. Maybe falling blossoms is one of those magic things that are so sacred, they defy capture of any kind.

A Blossom Mess

The park is full of fairies that come out to play when no one is looking. This time of year they are sleeping in the folds of tulips, playing hide-and-seek in daffodils, learning new songs from the small birds. I did see one floating on a pink pedal but didn’t want to disturb.












Spring
Again, the violet bows to the lily.
Again, the rose is tearing off her gown!

The green ones have come from the other world,
tipsy like the breeze up to some new foolishness.

Again, near the top of the mountain
the anemone’s sweet features appear.

The hyacinth speaks formally to the jasmine,
“Peace be with you.” “And peace to you, lad!
Come walk with me in this meadow.”

Again, there are Sufis everywhere!

The bud is shy, but the wind removes
her veil suddenly, “My friend!”

The Friend is here like water in the stream,
like a lotus on the water.

The narcissus winks at the wisteria,
“Whenever you say.”

And the clove to the willow, “You are the one
I hope for.” The willow replies, “Consider
these chambers of mine yours. Welcome!”

The apple, “Orange, why the frown?”
“So that those who mean harm
will not see my beauty.”

The ringdove comes asking “Where,
where is the Friend?”

With one note the nightingale
indicates the rose.

Again, the season of Spring has come
and a spring-source rises under everything,
a moon sliding from the shadows.

Many things must be left unsaid, because it’s late,
but whatever conversation we haven’t had
tonight, we’ll have tomorrow.

- Rumi

Toto, We're Not in Switzerland Anymore

This is the clock outside of the Port Washington train station. The time is actually 11:59. It has been stuck in this position all week.




This is the clock ON the Port Washington train station. It's still 11:59. It was wrong all week but somebody fixed it to be only one hour off. Daylight savings time was two weeks ago.

Prague Parting Thoughts

Birthday Journal: I slept in. I went to Vysehrad. I had cake and ice cream. I saw the astrology clock ring at six o’clock. I took a nap. I ate fish tacos while viewing a magnificent indoor coral reef. I saw a fabulous concert inside the Municipal House. I got lost. I bought a bottle of Becherovka. I read Amy Tan. Not in that order of course, but who cares?



I thought of all of you at least once – while watching the magnificent astrology clock and its parade of Apostles – or when sipping tea in a French café, or when listening to a Dvorak cello concerto, or when adventuring through unknown streets, or when walking through Josefov. I imagined what we would have been doing and how much fun it would have been to share it with you. So you see, you were there, at least in spirit. We rendezvoused someplace fabuloso and had a great time.



Prague is esoteric and metaphysical; otherworldly and mysterious - the birthplace of wonderful things like alchemy and art nouveau. It’s beautiful and musical. Every building looks like a wedding cake and comes in one of several flavors; French Vanilla, Apricot, Pistachio or Banana Cream.




In the few days that I was there I both lost myself and found myself. I lost the part of me that was buried in the business of creating a life in New York, which can easily become a full-time job. I lost the desire to watch TV. I found my authentic self. I now get up and write every morning. I keep asking; “What am I expressing and who am I expressing it to?” I believe that it all gets summed up in our final hour of breath - when we’re in that place between two worlds - We have a conversation with God and all he really wants to know is; 1) How did you express yourself? 2) How did you help others? and 3) Are you pleased with the outcome? It’s important for us to be around people who open us up and inspire us to express ourselves and to be in places that give us the same feeling. New York and Prague both give me that, but in different ways. Prague gives me an ethereal open feeling and New York gives me righteous approval to do anything I damn want. Everything is there for the taking…but that’s another subject.



Since I returned from my little trip, I’ve given up on trying to force outcomes in all areas of my life. I now constantly have this sensation that I’m floating on my back in a beautiful pool after the sun has set, surrounded by lotus flowers and candles. Things that I thought were so important before are now completely forgotten. The only thing I really care about now is sharing it all with you. Being hidden doesn't feed anyone. I feel a really strong need to live life to the fullest in honor of all the women in this world who cannot due to cultural restrictions. If they can't live their dream, I'll live it for them. I really have nothing better to do.

Josefov

The most memorable part of visiting Josefov was viewing the belongings of detainees at Terezin, a holding camp that was marketed by the Nazis as a kind of Jewish resort. In particular, a suitcase owned by the children's art teacher was found to contain 4000 of their drawings. She gave the children art assignments meant to help them process everything they were experiencing, although great strides were taken to try to shelter them from reality. There is a wonderful display of the artwork and in some cases photos of the young artists. It was poignant and heartbreaking.

It was an extremely cold day when I was there, so I didn't take many photos. I have included historical information from this site: Josefov History. There are also wonderful photos at the link (but look at mine first). If you Google "Prague Jews" there is a ton of information available but here is a small bit of background for you:

Josefov is the old Jewish quarter of Prague, situated near the river, northwest of the Astrology Clock. It is named in honor of Emperor Joseph II of the Austrian Empire who ruled the Czech Republic in the 18th century, the time when the Jewish quarter was incorporated into the city.

"Jews had first settled in Prague in the 10th century near the Prague castle which is just across the Vltava river from Josefov. At the time of the First Crusade in 1096, the first recorded pogrom took place in Prague when Jews were systematically killed by the Crusaders. This violence may have been what prompted the Jews to move to the present Josefov quarter of Prague, near the Old Town, in the 12th century. In the 13th century, the Pope decreed that the Jews should be segregated from the Christians and a wall was built around the Jewish quarter.

The Jews participated in the revolutionary activity throughout Europe in 1848 which finally brought equal rights for the Jews and the walls of the ghetto were torn down, allowing the Jews to live anywhere in the city of Prague. This caused a number of violent anti-Semitic protests by the Czechs in Prague. With the granting of equal rights to the Jews, there was also pressure put on them to assimilate, instead of maintaining their separate culture. To assimilate or not to assimilate: that was The Jewish Question. In the 19th century, The Jewish Question was widely discussed; even Karl Marx wrote a dissertation on the subject.

When the wealthy Jews moved out of the former ghetto, it soon became a slum as other poor people moved in. By 1890 the former Jewish quarter had a population of 186,000 people, but only 20% of them were Jewish. In 1893 the city decided to completely demolish the whole Josefstadt quarter, leaving only 6 synagogues, the old Jewish cemetery, the Ceremonial Hall and the Old Jewish Town Hall, which are collectively known as the Jewish Museum."




One of the most impressive sights in Prague is the Old Jewish cemetery which was used from 1439 to 1787, and is the oldest existing Jewish cemetery in Europe. The Nazis made it a policy to destroy Jewish cemeteries, sometimes using the tombstones for target practice, but Hitler ordered that this cemetery be left intact, since he was apparently planning to build a Jewish museum in Prague after all the Jews in Europe had been exterminated.

Vysehrad

On my birthday I slept in late then took the subway to Vysehrad (High Castle), which is south of Novo Mesto (New Town). It is the mythical birthplace of Prague, high up on a hill overlooking the Vltava River, on the opposite side from the castle. The story goes that the wise chieftain Krok built a castle here in the 7th century.



His cleverest daughter ran things until the subjects complained that they wanted a male ruler. So she took a husband, founded the Premyslid line of Czech rulers, war broke out, and on her deathbed she predicted the rise of the great city, Praha. Actually, Vysehrad may have been settled as early as the 9th century. There was definitely a fortified town by the 11th century.

The area was nearly wiped out during the Hussite Wars, and the Czech National Revival generated new interest in it. Smetana set his opera Libuse there. The local graveyard was converted into a national cemetery. Since the 1920s Vysehrad is known as a quite park with wonderful views of the river valley.




National Cemetery
The Vysehrad National Cemetery defies description. Many of Prague’s artists are buried here. I wish that we could all have such beautiful resting places for eternity. I took lots of photos and there is more information at this wonderful site which I just found here.

Daniel and the Million Russians

The photos don't match the text, but I needed something to show you while I tell you these stories.

Daniel
Regarding my music store quest, the only shop I couldn’t visit on day One was Daniel’s so I was determined to re-visit. It was a tiny unsavory storefront. I peered through a dark dusty window pane, barely able to see the outlines of instruments hanging from everywhere. There was a little sign taped to the dirty window;

DANIEL BERDYCH
HOUSLARSKA DILNA 20/5

and an arrow pointing to the right. I followed the arrow and found a directory of names with buttons. I looked and looked but didn’t see anything resembling Daniel or Berdych or Houslarska or Dilna (or 20/5 for that matter). I was just about to give up, thinking that he must really not want to be bothered and had written it as a joke. But I decided to take one more extremely diligent look and found it, just like it was written on the note.



I pressed the button, expecting that he would either come down and open the dingy door, or yell at me through the intercom. Instead, a door opened to the right of the directory and this big guy with big mousy curly brown hair and a matching big mousy brown beard, and blue-grey eyes, came out. He looked like a lumber jack. I looked up at him, gave him my best flirty smile and batted my eyes, thinking; “Great, I pressed the wrong button and this guy’s going kill me.” As it turns out, it was Daniel Berdych, violin maker extraordinaire.



He took me upstairs into his workshop (yes, I was scared). It was small and cramped with bits of musical instruments everywhere. Every time I turned around I knocked something over, so I squeaked off my big down coat and my big furry hat and my long scarf , and laid them down gingerly on the only empty surface I could find and tried to make myself as small as possible. I tried not to breath too much or laugh too loud for fear of hurting something expensive. I learned that he is one of the few traditional Czech violin makers who actually stayed in the Czech Republic. Most, he explained, left the country to pursue prestigious careers elsewhere.



We had a really nice talk and he brought out all of his violas for me to try. Some were very old, some new, but it was a little like comparing apples and mangos because the quality of strings on each one was as different as the instruments themselves. Still not knowing whether I was serious or not about buying an instrument, I settled on two, picked out the oldest, funkiest case I could use to get through customs, and told him I would be back the next day. If he had taken American Express, I probably would have bought one.



The Million Russians
One night I walked into a crowded café for dinner, wearing my black CUBA t-shirt and a young Russian waitress asked me if I was Cuban (?). It turned out that she was dating a Cuban guy located elsewhere in Czech Republic and the two times he had attempted to see her he had gotten into a car accident (or so he said) and could not make the trip. So we talked for a little while and she spoke about how she disliked the Russians living in Prague because they were not particularly friendly. I told her that she should come to New York because we have over one million Russians (fact courtesy of my friend Yuri) and they all seem very friendly. She was intrigued so I told her my (now) infamous Million Russian story, which I tell everyone who asks me about New York. It goes something like this:

They: How do you like New York?

Me: I love it. It’s the most wonderful place on earth. You should
come and visit someday. You would love it too.

They: Why?

Me: Because nobody speaks English. We have people from every country and every religion, and everyone gets along. You can be anybody you want to be and you will fit in just fine.

They: Wow, I didn’t know that.

Me: For example, we have A MILLION RUSSIANS!
(statistic courtesy of Yuri)

They: No! A million Russians??!!

Me: Yes!

They: How did they get there?

Me: I have no idea, but they are EVERYWHERE. Even where I live on Long Island, everyone is speaking Russian.

They: Hmmm…a million Russians…I had no idea (their eyes focus to the distant horizon as they try to imagine it)

So my young friend was comforted by my story and I don’t know if she will ever hook up with the Cuban again, but at least she knows she would be welcome in New York.