Today was the day of retrospect, looking back in my cinematic version  which was charming and alluring. I was astonished as i started reading my articles and film reviews. They were entirely fascinating and diligent not all of them but some. I could realize why that sticky lover couldn't leave me,lol :) Reading them after several years was strange. They were some sophisticated parts of me trying to be prove my critic type. There are many alternative ways of discovering and regaining yourself, reading what you have read is one of the most essential and exotic elements. Iv'e completely forgotten that I've been a big fan of slow films such as Tree of life, Cries and whispers, wild strawberries... They were and still is self- making aspects of me. I should delve into them more. I'm in a need of exploring them from scratch. 

Another hilarious thing was the first year of moving to the U.s and plenty of abortive attempts of English writing. I guess because of my ignorance i was totally brave and fearless to write my ideas- creative, innovative, mind blowing ideas:)- about film and its angles, for instance the screenplay, the cinematography, complex relationships among actors and actress ...
Ignorance is one the joyful things that you should try to increase and spread around your listless life.
I'd like to join to the international writers group to talk about our stories and sharing unique experiences. I should search and find the match one with mine.

Happy day of English. It's ridiculous and nonsense but the new decision is dividing days into these 2 alternative homelands which means mother-tongue and the second masking, odd, bizarre and strange language that you can easily hide yourself behind it. I'm not certain this sentence is now coming or iv'e already written it, perhaps here. Anyway, today I completely hooked on this language by reading those effective, useful book i stole them from  H, owing them to myself by highlighting them and eventually, having done some lines yellow, H totally forgot those books.

The next phase, to devoting  intensely myself into this monotonous plan was reading Newyorker short story was always cheer me up but being as a part of the first day of something special turned it out to an obligatory task. The story was about alone son whose recently lost his father and his mother has an affair of a collage professor to make a long relationship. The family's economic situation became weak near to the impoverished so that they moved to a new area where is run-down, filthy, crowd, full of  the low- class people whose they should deal with them.
one of them is the kind, polite, old handy me drinking beer all the time in front of his porch where is the scene of the boy's house. After a while, the man started talking with the boy by memorizing the old days of his youth years in Irland when they were overjoyed and delighted. After potato famine, they like many other Irlandian family migrated to the U.S with a lot of hopes seeking for unique chances but there's nothing for them except driving caps.
Their friendship lasts by talking and listening such this- those were the days- conversation.But the boy feels grate and absolutely blessed because he thinks that he finally has a friend without any sorrow and mournful glance the he should admit from his classmate. To him, being friend of someone is the most invaluable treasure, no matter he's as old as his father.
A night everything suddenly changed. they go to the camp teenage party, the man gave him ride, the first wine and the first kiss. 
the man is sort of fall in love with the boy. when the man ask him about the kiss, he couldn't talk. he's confused and shocked. on the other hand, he needs to be friend with this old guy. there's nothing in the universe to fill the huge hole out.
he tried to play cool, not offended, hardly tried to make a smile on the face.
I'd like this part of deep feeling exploring in the rare awkward moment. these commemorative scenes make the difference between an ordinary story or a masterpiece. so many elaborated details to delve into.
Today i got another annoy msg from another obnoxious person who called himself writer. I really can bear this title and self- confidence. Having answered the mediocre, weird writer, i felt relieved  but i still baffled how much self esteem they have, how cheep they are. I don't want to be a judgmental one but they are really rude with always demanding question that you must answer.
to be calm myself down and not jumping to the conclusion, I searched them on the internet to discover their hidden sunbeams. the searching procedure made me more irritated. How is it possible to think and accept or even boast you with this kind of resume?     
Another step of sticking to this new program was reading plenty of new yorkr's flash fictions. To be honest, i cant bring myself to like them. they are boring and tedious.
The last but not least was reading "my year of rest and relaxation that make positive impacts on me however the book doesn't have much hopeful,light spots to affect. 
I'm looking forward to waking up tomorrow, starting a vernacular day of writing, typing and reading in farsi. wish me luck. 

Trying to settle my unreasonable excitement down. It might relate to writing moment that make me feel free and relieved to unleash my illogical words not really to the entire world but it could be like opening my Pandora box and spreading all my contagious viruses to this white, innocent paper at least. Isn’t would be greatest thing that God or Big bang theory gave me? Maybe, I’m getting carried away and romanticizing only mundane, unimportant stuff.

Anyway, I promised myself to write everything even To-do- list, ordinary, everyday living. I admit that I’ve worked hard these days especially by concentrating on H’s books which are about idioms and phrasal verbs, but I guess that I can’t count on my words anymore.

On weekends, we were talking about creative procedure of our different works- they are totally different like cheese and chunk- there’s a huge discrepancy and a divided world between our works. I was trying to figure out my step by step journey of scribing a new short story, then I found that the most horrible phase is the moment of writing. I told him, to be honest, I do everything, any type of unrelated work to avoid and refuse the writing day. I’d love days of researching and exploring a wide variety of alternative aspect of the matter but the day od sorting out them in an innovative written, would be annoying. Because, you already knew that there would be a copious panic and dubious occasions in the middle of writing. Researchers carried out many studied base on one of the hazardous reasons of early death. These moments were one of the significant causes.

Joking apart, fear of achievement, fear of not accomplishing it very well, as you think fit, could make me numb to do anything but not writing the first draft.

He listened to me carefully like he’s all ears. After finishing my lecture about how to discovering naïve ideas, gluing them together by applicable exploration and eventually giving them chance to be alive in the world, he tried to apply some chapters and facets of my peregrination to his work which is masturbating to colorful codes.

We were empty and completely devastated before talking together. It helped us to get back to line, daydreaming the rest of the weekends about moving in Technology land that I’d named the second- jerusallam as the birth place of nowadays modern prophets.

But something happened to him today, so far, not so good because they emailed him to arrange an appointment talking about something and implicitly, it means No and rejected. It would be frustrating to him. I’m a little bit worried even there’s nothing obvious and certain but he explained me about their process.

These days, I buried myself to the Ottessa Moshfegh’s book with a lot of envious- green with envy- the book’s name is my year of rest and relaxing. It’s really remarkable particularly depicting the inert and inactive mood of the first narrator. I’m jealous that I’m not able to write something like that in English. It’s all about were born.

Not really. I’m not pretty sure about this fact. With pal friends recently were talking about American dreams and a certain enormous of opportunities. But, I’ve been disagreed because of a lot of happening I’ve seen in this huge country but sometimes, myself think like –what if- situations.

We have our dreams at hand. Why shouldn’t use it to go above, far away, somewhere is quite peaceful, full of serenity. To some, this power of mental illusion would become a Yale student. To others, something else. No matter how delusion there would, they are our freedom and incredible land to be our pure version of us without anybody’s judgments.

I gotta go. Kholio kortasar has been waiting for me since last night.


whenever I'm dogged and determined to decide something important, constantly practicing everyday i would be devastated in the middle of accomplishing, so i only want to write something the firsts come out of mind, no matter how grammatically incorrect they would be.

Let's start talking about the article i've recently read about "fat female philosopher".
The title engages me because of empathy feeling based on my background as a philosophy student that i studied when i was 18 years old. i know majoring on that kind of field and trying to figure out your identity throughout ancient philosophers is  the weirdest and oddest thing could be happened to someone,Anyway i was proudly there. But why am i proud? is it about my achievement or something is covert here?
needless to say, the second one is my point. Not only, I didn't accomplish any special attempt in philosophy, but also i was a mediocre student who only was astonished and appalled about any new theories, books, names of big shot, profound thinkers who were the acme and apogee of the whole knowledge in your fresh, pure, innocent mind.
Eventually i found myself not an avid, voracious philosophical book readers but as an enthusiastic eager of reading a wide variety of alternative books specially those were directly related to french and Italian literature and a few sentimental Persian short stories. I'm vividly able to remember those dark but completely luminescent nights in the middle of library where was the most peaceful place in the world with a couple of  invaluable friends of mine, all trying to discover the gist and nature of universe and regaining ourselves. those were the days.
oh,my. recalling those unique, freshness, ignorant days makes me totally sentimental. Short time ago,i was talking with one of those, actually the best one, unraveling a hidden secret which was related to that  glorious ambiance. she was merely surprised when i was nodding to tell a secret. I told her that i  wrongly thought by myself, perhaps you would be judgmental in the face of observing us again. But she laughed a lot and made fun of my thought and attitude. she was right. I made a mistake to miss a chance of reunion. 
Anyway, i really don't know what i wanted to talk about. all these commemorative memories come from the name of "philosophy" that was useful, conductive and formative to me. It has shaped me in many peculiar ways but i don't really know how. was it reading relevant articles and attending classes? was it an incredible atmosphere of the Tehran university? was it deluge of familiar ones who had the same interest as mine that was changing the world as a better and more logical place- oh,poor guys we were with immature pessimistic view for the future, then we got older realizing the core of unfairness of the life, thus, we let all those aims go- I can't resolve the exact reasons of forming me but i'm certain that the mixed of all was invaluable and unforgettable factors to personify someone.
Anyway, an article about fat female philosopher brings me here but nothing related was written. This is the magic of that type of philosophy i'm talking about, distraction of calculated, deliberated thoughts and reality that had been already prepared for you from other's ideas and perspective. we all need this digressions...

Finally, I've done it very well. Yesterday was the day of writing. As I told you here I couldn't overcome my fears and challenges how to write something fascinating these days that eventually it happened yesterday and my hands were ruined. Having fed up with writing, made me really invigorated and delighted.

Started to collect some tiny and miscellaneous ideas were messed up in every cranny and nook, gathering them and trying to discover something relevant to diaspora and xenophobia of immigration issue, then begging setting up some characters and their dependent environments. Many of them should waffle around the Hudson river where is my heaven.
There's still a lot to write and to read and to clean and packing and organizing. - this sentence makes me laugh because reminds me of Joe's declaration for Monica and Chandler marriage that was contained a lot of receiving and sharing:) love him n miss a big time-
Anyway, yesterday started reading a book named - a thousand fears and dreams- is written with Atiq Rahimi, Afghan writer. The whole atmosphere of the book is sort of hallucination and delusion that makes me intense to keep going today along with my hesitation of turning off or on or going to emergency style of the cell phone that I learn yesterday which i was dogged and determined to finish my unfinished writing project. gotta go to write a review about a book " hallow frames"
By the way, picking some new words from language tree was launched. Yay picking and eating them with alacrity.