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The American in Paris is an Iranian in New York -- alas, again...

(This is Kantô I.2. To participate, riff/comment below)

Alas again,

in the middle of life’s journey…

Or some such thing!

Better shout: The American in Paris is an Iranian in New York!! The American in Paris is an Iranian in New York!!! The American in Paris is an Iranian in New York!!! Add more exclamation points!!!! And more!!!!! And more…

On street corners, from rooftops and in dark alleys, arms thrust open in the middle of boulevards bracing for the oncoming traffic even, in the middle of life’s journey, carry on and shout and whisper and murmur and even turn to some dude sitting on the stool next, at the local bar (not frequenting them much anymore!) turn and say, without much intro, hey, dude, the American in Paris is an Iranian in New York, you know, the American in Paris is an Iranian in New York…

In the middle of this, life’s journey, will they heed the call! How this is not a gratuitous call. Not a random howl in the great void. How… This is the poet, the poet of the new world. Presence and absence abolished. Here and there, simultaneously. Throw out the words: identity, exile, politics, situation, writing, home, land, language, mother… and the others… we know which… throw them around and sequence them in some fashion… get sentences… some coherent, others less so… and then…

No: all over and goodbye to all — that. New frontiers and new techs. New ways of being/writing. New ensembles… But… also… The tensions… This, then: the chronicle, the theory, is not so much the espousing of one or another realm, but the exposing of how the tensions, the possibilities, fashion such anxities… for us, the children of the book — children of the book AND the revolution… Future of the book, too… and whence…

The performance of the anxiety, of the indecisions, of the uncertainties surrounding the multiple directions one can go… A text, one, and all its reconstitutions, its rewritings, reinventions… Ruptures and reconstrucitons…

Performance of the tension between modalities of scriptance… If scriptance is a way of existing with and through writing, there must be a place, a framework, a space, for the chronicling, the putting in motion of an unfolding theory, of this new scriptance. Not one, actually, many. New modes of circulation. New methods of creation. New modalities of notation. New manners of scription. New networks of dissemination. New ways of public-ation. New ethos of existation…

The American in Paris is an Iranian in New York. The American in Paris is an Iranian in New York. I know, hesitation seeping in… Taking out the exclamation points… Wonderings, whispers… Will they heed the call… Will they…

The first canto then carries on… Always the hesitation, always the restarts… always the relaunchings… OF course… In the middle of life’s journey…

I saw from above the passersby in the streets of dimlit cities…

How the whisper… The American in Paris is an Iranian in New York…

(The American in Paris is an Iranian in New York.)

138 comments to The American in Paris is an Iranian in New York — alas, again…

  • AmirAgain

    And a last gaze at the rooftops of Paris, from the window of a fellow wayfarer… Paris rooftops, Paris lights, Paris monuments, gaze, silence, again… And I readied to set out again…

  • Gordon

    So today’s the magic day and I realized I almost missed it. The postings I see have heated up in their frequency and the theme of wobbly coordinates predominates with many perspectives including the marvelous multilingual and polyphonic performances joining together from all over! Now how might Amir enlist concentric circles of imagination to stoke tolerance and peace? His poetic wonderment at least convenes an optimistic beginning. We salute your engaging and tireless voice as it extends into various collective futures.

  • Maja

    Oh, btw…guess what I am….

    I am a Dalmatian in Hartford…now riddle me that 🙂 !

  • Maja

    Pozdrav svima (Hi to all of you),

    Nastavi niz: Amerikanac u Parizu, Iranac u New York-u, Slovenac u Zagrebu, Hrvat u Beogradu, …
    (Continue the sequence: American in Paris, Iranian in New York, Slovenian in Zagreb, Croatian in Belgrade, …)

    Bez obzira kako nastavili niz, ljepota ovog svijeta lezi u tome sto uskoro, vjerujem, necemo vidjeti razliku izmedu Amerikanca i Parizanina u Parizu, Iranca i New York-canina u New Yorku, Slovenca i Zagrepcanina u Hrvatskoj, Hrvata i Beogradanina u Beogradu, itd….
    Ne samo da necemo vidjeti razliku, necemo je ni traziti, vec cemo uzivati u razlikama medu nama svima, kao da smo u Nacionalnom parku prirode. Uzivati u svemu sto jest.

    (No matter how you continue the sequence, the beauty of this world lies in the fact that soon, I believe, we won’t be able to distinguish between and American and a Parisian in Paris, Iranian and New Yorker in New York, Slovenian and a native of Zagreb in Croatia, Croatian and a native of Belgrade in Belgrade, etc…. Not only that we won’t be able to distinguish these people, but we won’t even be looking for distinguishing features, we will just enjoy in the differences among us all, as we would enjoy the beauties of a Nature park. Just enjoy in everything there is.)

  • je regard; puis j’ecrit
    j’ai regardé; enfin j’ai lit
    l’epique est dans l’esprit, l’ame, l’idee
    ca ne fini jamais
    comme nous
    fin

  • SarahM

    chat-chat,smiles & laughs. new friends in the hood.

    the gathering continues . . . .
    فإنه لا ينتهي أبدا

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  • amir

    actually, Mike’s stuff was perfect.

    Thus, I told them. I shall carry on — and not fear, ever…

    Pink love flip flops departs, taking with her the best part of the day.

    Just us, you know.

    Silence.

    and thus we set out again…

  • Readation

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  • It went GREAT here. YOOOOOHOOOOOO!!!!!

  • Je la relâche et elle s’eloigne
    C’est moi. Que j’ai vu passer.
    C’est moi…

  • amir

    we saw you and it was great. and read the little texts… harder here with the tech… How did it go???????!!!!!

  • amir

    wrapping up, it was hard to send vids. Wnt great. Nee a line. What do I do at the end of th poem!!!

  • amir

    give me a last line for the poem!!

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  • Mike Fitelson

    Enter: new arrival.

  • Mike Fitelson

    Transatlantic t-shirts

  • Amir et les enfants aux Arènes de Lutéce.

    Youtube vidéo:
    http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fhW24p-pCxU

  • Mike Fitelson

    self – SELF – SELF!!!!

  • Mike Fitelson

    A video post: polyphony. What is that? That’s happening there. Seriously?

  • amir

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  • Amir au centre 104, Paris 19ème.

    Youtube vidéo:
    http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HbK7EPeL4dI

  • SarahM

    l’invitation ambulante: Herza poem! A neighborhoodart project!!! bepart ofthe openepic online! contribute! all languages welcome! (invites in spanish, english, arabic- oh yes!) you are the only who will read this fragment! it only exists here!

    they said: ” oh,thank you”/ headnod “no” / what ? some avoiding eyes. “no tengo dinero” he said. what are we selling? we are not interested. some interested. some peaking, looking. wondering what it is. some are thankful. on the streets, pharmacy, walking on the steps up the hill, peering into the taxi cars.

    who are these walking invitationists??

  • Mike Fitelson

    Pink love flip flops departs, taking with her the best part of her day.
    “Just us, you know.”

  • Mike Fitelson

    Adults in attic considering teenager in basement.

  • Mike Fitelson

    Much fingering of literature: enter Caba with cake.
    Agreement: something.
    Silence.

  • Mike Fitelson

    The word: adorable.

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  • amir

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  • Amir, i just saw you in the streets of Paris. Can you hear our murmur—in North America you are an Iranian? At NoMAA we drink wine, eat bread and cheese. Where is the poet going? Yes, here you are… Iranian; and Dominican; and Newyorker;

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  • amir

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  • Phillip Escoriaza

    Vows are spoken to be broken — or are they not? Words are trivial, meaningless and forgettable (a dit Depeche Mode). All I ever wanted, ever needed, is here in my arms (or is it not). Give me words any day & every day take my fears away. Turn up the radio and smother my senses with melody and word. The word is da word, da juice, the works. Take flight, land on time, make waves, ride the crest, peak as well. Hold course, mesh and turn, sing, Canta laudamuste et in terra pax

  • And after the walk and after the qua is, after the guiding we arrived on the other side of the river… There, we launched again, and I, without, or should I say, with less fear than thought, readied to go… There they said others will be present, and they will take you to other realms… The, I shall go, I ventured, I shall get ready to go…

  • Après le march age, la poesy est epuisanre, poetry is exhausting, this is Isabelle, and Jean says anything with puissance is exhausting… Well said… In a bar before the 104…

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  • Just gave out all the unique fragments, that people started to take once others took… Le fragment secret, that no one else will have except for these faces… Here…

  • Le silence set signe de puissance amazing exciting sexy cappuccino Jessica et Melissa a Paris passer la journey sets pas see very good this last line black is beautiful most beautiful people in the world. This is where I learned there are no monsters…

  • AmirNY

    How to end it. How to end it. How to end it, HOW! How to end it. How to end it. How to end it, HOW! How to end it. How to end it. How to end it, HOW! How to end it. How to end it. How to end it, HOW! How to end it. How to end it. How to end it, HOW! Help help, help help Peoples help. How does he carry on. Who leads. Whereto. How? How…

  • Phillip Escoriaza

    L’etrangere comment leit motif. Encore foix!!!!! Tes amis aux Caraibes de langue espagnole, aux meme temps “Americains du tropique”, laisse-toi souvenirs et bonheur.

    —- Cultivo rosa blanca en invierno como en verano, — para el amigo sincero que me da su mano franca. — Y al cruel que me arranca el corazon con que vivo, — cardo ni ortiga cultivo, —- cultivo la rosa blanca.

    Oil spill, news spin, words of war, wars of words, peace and games, games of peace, meeting ground, play ground, give ground, take ground, long wait, bitter reward, after taste, juicy coutoure, faites la plein, I want more, rest and think, wrest and plead, take the plane, lose the plain, plainly state, fairly claim, seize the day, stop the clock, carry on and back no more look.

  • Meme mort il ecrit

  • AmirNY

    Redirect the structure of literary works AND only possible through the fearless exploitation of new possibilities AND this creation of a new structure matters because? Because of freedom and a different way of relating to the world (like punctuation). Always comes back to this. In or out of the city, in or outside of writing, in or outside of writing… what is this that I’m doing… Is this an attempt at killing writing. Killing my writing self… Killing myself through anti-writing… I’ve written it all before, and now… this…

  • Frank Coronado

    Walking along… being alone… countries and minds are connected!

  • je parle je parle encore et encore..
    devant Notre Dame de Paris..

  • AmirNY

    POURQUOI un symposium, Soudain sur la Seine… Love this idea… Il est certain que le livre est en train de subir des tas de questions, et des tas de problèmes… des changements radicaux… qu’est-ce qu’on fiat avec ces changements, la nature de ces changements, la vitesse de ces changements… comment est-ce qu’on les discute meme… Les contacts humains. J’etais touché par le fait que nous parlions, que nous nous sommes arrêtés, jadis, et qu’en fait, nous avons acheté un livre car, on voulait echanger parler… Il y a un apport symbolique de ces échanges. Les bouquinistes.. la tradition du livre, etc…

  • Seine simp with francoise…

  • AmirNY

    Dans les arênes de lutèce, un silence règne et fait face aux bruits, aux bruissements, aux hurlements… Les arènes de traitements de texte… Les arènes du silence… les arènes de lutextes… Ici, comme dans un rêve, les joueurs mettent en marche, en lenteur, le mode de ce livre, sa création, sa présence, son après-vie… On ne parle pas de jeux de lectures, ou de jeux d’écritures… mais des points de révélations… des fragments de fragments… Je vous invite a marcher dans ces ruines, à contempler la ruine… A New york, un même silence a lieu… une même exploitation du silence…

  • And so we carried on along the road the troupe and I along the qua is de Paris and we carried on along the road…

  • Then, I began to see that there were no monsters on the path…only innocence, excitement, joy, energy… No monsters… This was the light…

  • Les arènes deviennent un lieu d’écriture.

  • des gens applaudissent!

  • Et moi ET moi ET moi ET moi ET moi… *part en courant*

  • Romain Casanova Antoine Noe Thomas Alexis moi c’est plus important habib Richard il etait use fois use fille que sappelait foufoune ell set bonne… En literature signe les jennies DES arenas

  • Arènes de Lutèce:
    Ils marchent tous autour d’Amir en lisant.

    Un public d’enfant se joint au groupe. Et ils chantent.

    [url]http://d17.e-loader.net/uODg5URa3x.mov[/url]

  • AmirNY

    The notion of cumulation… Walking in streets how it all gets accumulated like mad and suddenly goes on. And how the book, in its finiteness is comfortable… Est un CONFORT. I’m working directly against my own comfort. Against my own comfort level… I’d rather be alone in some room or space for an undetermined amount of time… Might in fact go back to that… Even though it’s all over, really… Or is it… How the city before you unfolds and you write the movement… You write IN movement… You write with… Something terribly exciting about this…

  • Kicking Parisian ass

  • The screams in mouffetard the gazes at the bottom of the street… Silences silences

  • Walking in the mouffetard streets everyone here screams…

  • AmirNY

    On n’oublie pas la poéticité de la forme. Il y a indirection, il y a jeu de langage, il a humour et ouverture… Il y a incertitude… je vois les figures… Je vois les gnes qui passent… Comment ose-t-on vouloir des clôtures… Ne veut plus rien dire… Illusion qui a eu son époque… La belle époque des clôtures…

  • AmirNY

    Provoking people to be participants not just consumers. That’s why you go in the street sure. Chaning the nature of the participant and the actor. Actor becoming actee… But this is also about writing and the material that holds it. The nature of the chaning city. City becoming the material. Unfolding before me. Becoming the old paper. Not a theatrical piece, I insist. Not performance. But a poetic unfolding with the city. Not in. Big deal.

    Paris, ville des littératures: trope du poète ambulant, ces trottoirs, ses venelles. Paris, representé infiniment à travers des textes, devient texte…

  • amir

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  • The procession is progression; such a progression…[kaltura-widget entryid=”0_kgvfnc8k” size=”comments” /]
    Peter Ferko

  • AmirNY

    Procession: fact of going somewhere meaningful. Feeling part of it. People’s curiosity wanting to join in more willingness to follow. But what if we’re not sure where we’re going? What if one were to walk without destination. A grand pilgrimage to nowhere. Without even that meaning much. Without even that having much weight…

  • AmirNY

    Launch themselves and save themselves by creating an alternative narrative. By creating a new vase of the world. By making sense of the world through writing. I was going to write by making a new ‘case’ of the world, which should have been ‘case’ for the world, except that I got ‘vase’, which actually makes more sense. Reminds of a Khayyamesque riff or something. Making a new vase of the world… World as container. World as a space of growth…

  • SarahM

    She was born under the shadow of a flowering/towering saguaro cactus. A beautiful sage-colored, fleshy 200-year + being with its wooden hallowed out, burrowed boots, where Gila woodpeckers would cozy into, maybe 2, to escape the simmering Sonoran sunshine. Like building a “green” home made out of aloe vera walls. When the tree is dead and gone, the water sucked out and dry, the woody spines exposed in the dusty air- calm- the boots will remain, a tough scar enduring the life of its host and living yet longer, without its watery protection and the hundreds of birds, through the life cycle of the dear old señor saguaro, who made their homes there.

  • SarahM

    Express your outrage at corporate greed and irresponsibility! READ ALL ABOUT IT!!! June 12th 11am – PROTEST!!! BP!!! NYTimes Building NYC. Shall the writing of the epic be stalled/frozen/delayed/deferred/postponed/suspended in order to be present at a pro + test?

  • The subway is the site where otherness disappears, all the sweat and grime universal, the dirt and noise among and on all in perfectly balanced ways, a democracy of bodies in motion bodies in probity bodies in flux, limbs draped, gazes fixed, music blaring, coffees spilled, papers strewn. Wondrous wondrous… But bs too what I just put, because otherness is pretty damn present, except that IT either can get out, once underground. Swear and grime and noise and flux and fuckedupness conquer it, for a little while at least, until the overgrounds…

  • Stuck in the subway, it’s getting crowded, all passenger are strangers, no one is accompanied, each one is concentrated on their own inner thoughts, one by one starts doing eye contact to another passenger, some are smiling, no one says a word, it’s like everybody knows each ones thought, the recorded voice announces the station name, but seems like nobody cares… Now, it’s the last stop of the line, the door just got opened, no one is getting off…

  • SarahM

    s/he was an androgynous figure, leaning on the door of the subway train. Vigorously chomping on a granola bar while the train bounced, bounced, sped along. 145th to 125th. Open yet squinted eyes, angry about something, among the sleepy commuters. carelessly and deliberately throwing the wrapper on the train floor. One granola bar was not enough, another one appeared. This time the wrapper was strewn on the woman sitting beside. “Excuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuse me” the sitter protested. s/he was not bothered. Just pinched it and threw it on the floor as well.

  • amir

    And I fall… and I fall, martyr again… for the attempt at writing this life… the attempt at launching the epic.. the attempt at beginning, anew, in the middle of life’s journey…
    Around my body an artist of high marks draws a contour…. These are the last moments of my life… unless… Unless, they save me, with the readings of my own words… the words that always save, that bring me back from the brink!

    Homme-vent, son of wind, son of fire, son of sun,
    Son of sun, son of fire, son of earth,
    In company all their voices saviors to me…

    And I rise, and I rise… and I rise…

    And thus on our way we go again… Shall we, we shall, giving out fragments no one will be privy to, the fragments of this day, this hour, the secret of one tale, among many, given out only on this day…

    And I recall, along these walks: how I sat with my father and my mother on a side café, I, and they, with our dreams and illusions of long agos, when I sat and smiled with them and laughed with them and I, with only a pencil and a notebook, then, yes, a NOTEBOOK, composed songs that saved me, then, as now…

    We give out the secrets, the secrets and in the undeground, plead with the passengers, with the wayfarers of this day, to help us with words, sentences, expressions, anything, to help me along, along this journey, to compose the song that saves…

    And so we went, along the path, into closed spaces to show, the path itself, and all the tales, and all the stories, that had made this day, and the days before, and those that followed…

    Yes, we, masters and disciples all, along the path, we go… And I, also, carry on…

  • amir

    There, they suddenly surrounded me, revolutionaries thrust upon the soul of their unsuspecting wayfearer. Mutiny, mutiny, I cried within, but a game it was, or else… They came at me, heads lunging first and teeth showing, mad figures of history books, madder even than the songs I had sung, or the creatures I had imagined. The beasts, perhaps, metamorphosing, with each step, and easily, from one into another and…

    There was little way to tame them, but a sudden turn – and they accept to take my word, and read with me the lines that might save, save us all, the weary and the merry, and all those who accompanied us on this day…
    We sang all together and held hands and again and then went on, on sidewalks of worlds and along riversides sacred. There, they turned into guides, each for another, all for all, and we began the chatter with the keepers of the books, the wise elders along the wharves where for so long, these rituals had carried on.
    But what will happen to the fruits of these labors I posed, now on the path to disappearance. And they: never will these precious objects disappear, for they are, they are…

    Discussions. Debates. More and more… I with my positions and convictions, they also… the beast, perhaps, is tradition, or, if not tradition itself, all those obsessed with keeping it.

    We wandered all, guides and followers, masters and disciples, each for each, to the site of the monuments of the world. O tourist area O tourist area, spare us the pain of having to stand in line, we are here only to disturb, if only for a few minutes… Among you a poet is suffering, is written among our signs. Among you a poet is drowning! Find him, save him, save, HIM!!

  • amir

    IN THE MIDDLE OF LIFE’S JOURNEY…

    In the middle of life’s journey, in the middle of life’s journey, I say, again,
    I found myself standing, screaming, at the bottom of a hill, on a cobblestone street, among strangest faces and disgruntled gazes.

    I heard in my head and I screamed into these foreign streets, what are you doing here my man, what the hell are you doing here again, son of lost worlds, son of othertimes and otherplaces. I screamed out loud, it’s true, and I could not tell how it was that I had found myself, after so many trials, and so many lives, here, again, among…
    I jumped down from the tabletop I had momentarily occupied, and brought my French child’s ardoise to my shouder, and with an intelligent machine in one hand, a book in the other, and the blackboard on my shoulder, I set out again to …

    I had barely reached the other side, chanting and reading, passing out leaflets and talking, among them not of them, that… I had barely reached the other side, I say, along with the loyal companions, in an ancient arena with walls of granite and souls of millennia past, that I found myself among lovers and players galore. This is where beasts fought men, truly (I mean, seriously) and where now lovers cuddle on bleachers and old men play their French boules and teenagers kick around balls against walls and themselves.

  • Zeglobo Zeraphim

    C’est pour ca qu’on fait des oeuvres, pour se debarasser de leurs contenus… That’s why people make works of art, in order to get rid of their content…

  • amir

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  • Again, the song…

  • In the middle of life’s journey, I stood at the intersection of cobblestone streets and launched again the song… An endless beginning…

  • amir2

    The guy who told me where I could get the megaphone: spoke very little French, moved his arms and body a lot when he spoke, and had what seemed like a crazy tic of sorts. Inside a small store too… No one before him had been able to tell me where to go to get whhat I needed. And with him, I wasn’t sure he knew what he was saying; or, what I was asking… But he insisted: vo zaleh lah, yah — as in, vous allez la, il y en a… so I went, there, where he told me, and sure enough… the man was right on…

  • Cunado le mostré un poster del evento a mi vecina Barbara de 83 años de edad y ella leyó el título,un fuerte jajajaja sonó.I rather be the Amierican in Paris…for a few days, dijo….

  • amir

    Putting into motion the cacophony and our current situation, rather than discerning and isolating one possibility
    The universe around a book and the performances of it
    The new concepts: a.p.e.l., scriptage, cumulations, nodes and germinations…
    The simultaneity of events in NY and narratives unfolding in multiple places…
    Notion of parallel narratives and the creqtion of platforms that support them…
    The polyglotic adventure in full view…
    Expansion and digression and translation, recreation in other languages…
    The importance, rather, the coolness, of changing the TROPE of city…
    The march, the march…
    Text as NODUS and the departures, expansions, improvisations, as in, germinations…
    The integration of technology in this multiple and cacophonous way…
    The Seine Sympo on future of book being so right; along with the other site specific ones being so right…
    Question of the document and the archive and the text…
    The closed and finished book & the open epic, the ephemeral and the eternal, solitude and togetherness, interactions, streets and songs…
    Through all of this and more: the reconception of literature, of situation of the writer and concepts attached to it… NooWo Lit, NooWo writer…

  • amir

    Real-time scriptage; ephemeral scriptage…
    The notion of cumulation… How it all gets accumulated like mad and suddenly goes on. And how the book, in its finiteness. est un CONFORT…
    Public and private

    How overall in the open epic: the kantos can follow each other, jump from one to another be embedded in one another in a different shape etc… so the relationship of the fragments are different than just linear and they can and do constantly shift and change.
    Redirect the structure of literary works AND only possible through the fearless exploitation of new possibilities AND this creation of a new structure matters because? Because of freedom and a different way of relating to the world…
    Like what seems difficult because it actually gives me a different understanding of the world – I associate the difficulty with a lack of exposure tot that TYPE OF TOTLITY – style, structure, form, content, and I welcome that, because I want o rethink the relationship of things and phenomena in the world and reveal to me the fragility of my own beliefs and foundations…

  • Opposite

    Ah, s’il arrive de flâner parfois, ce n’est jamais sans une pensée pour cette douce époque où nous dédalions, sous l’emprise d’une ignorance heureuse, rouages naïfs d’un flux de circulation, ou d’une aire de stationnement, ou d’un flux de

  • amir

    Cette instanciation du premier canto: pas qu’elle rejette les anciennes manières, ou qu’elle adopte sans problèmes les nouveaux… mais que, simultanément: a/j’utilise les registres de l’ancien; b/j’utilise les registres du nouveau; c/ET je mets en route, j’EXPOSE les tensions et les petites batailles intérieures; je révèle les strains, je révèle, à travers certains acts d’écritures et de lectures, qui en fait composent le chemin d’un texe… à travers ces actes de pensées, d’écritures, à travers ces a.p.e.l.s, le texte devient un NODUS: d’où des germinations on lieu: jamais fini, toujours instable, toujours présent et invitant la participation; et pourtant, close, comme toujours… comme il faut… Le texte comme a/nodus; b/un récit parallèle à d’autres; c/une version de ‘la même chose’; d/un type…

  • amir

    Où suis-je. Que fais-je. C’est comme ca que je me dirige à chaque coup… Je commence. Recommence. Comme c’est. qu’est-ce que tu fous a paris. Et maintenant. Americain. Et maintenant, et maintenant. Ecrire la révolution. Lancer la révolution. “En plein milieu du chemin de la vie” mais je m’interrompais encore…

    Je voulais écrire l’Iran, l’amerique, j’aurai voulu écrire la France, mes voyages, mes vagabondages, mes pélerinages. ‘En plein milieu du chemin de la vie…’ Je répétais, en plein milieu du chemin de la vie… In the middle of liefe’s journey… Keep writing it, keep performing the writing of it… All along, all over, in trains, on planes, on beaches, in cities, the first liens and the seconds, walking, sitting, lying down, all the positions of the body… Performing the eternal beginning, the eternal launching…

    Le commencement, la relance. La traduction. Quelle langue. Il faut le dire: la tentation et les tensions… Je veux les mettre en route. Les performances de ces tensions justement: les tensions que les nouvelles possibilités nous offrent, les tensions que nous imposent la dissemination immédiate, la publication immédiate… et je compte lire, en même temps: côte à côte, le confort du texte clos, terminé, intouchable, édité, et de l’autre. La cacophonie que fait natire les autres écritures… Une première experience: la solitude et le silence, le passage du temps, la cloture, la distanciation, l’absence… L’autre: l’immédiat, la continuation perpétuelle, la relance, la présence…
    Mon scriptage: une écritue ambulante, que d’ailleurs je vais poursuivre, dans tous les coins du monde. Mes a.p.e.l.s, pas une lecture simple, ni une performance; A New York, en ce moment meme, moi, fils de l”iran, JE suis en train d’écrire un autre texte… A New York…

    Il ne s’agit ici ni de théâtre, ni de cirque, ni de lecture, mais de ce que les apels nous permettent de reconnaitre au niveau de notre relation au texte: il n’ya pas de texte sans lecture: et la lecture, cet acte immonde, cet acte pervers, cet acte majetueux et glorieux, nous achemine vers les délires du texte: sa compréhesion, sa degustation, son evaluation, ses ré-écritures… pas une piece de theatre, mais un scriptage, je répète, un kanto schizo. Le canto schizo: un scriptage qui se révèle a travers des apels…

    Performing the eternal beginning, the eternal launching…

  • Walking by the bridges by the Seine, thought of how many times and years I sat along thee and wrote with pen or pencil in a… Notebook! Now, here and there, iPad and laptop in tow, bags, batteries, and more… Writing with presence and absence, not in…

  • Opposite

    In New York, the American in Paris is an Iranian. (?)

  • Cronica… Young guy in metro begging, strangely, since he was young and fit, then gets some sous, and then even gets hit on by a few giggling girls who call him over and chat and give him something, and him with a big smile on his face that he contains until next station and opens and leaves and I seeing his abandoning the attempt at containment, and letting out tthe big ass smile… And yeah, I also had given him fitty centimes…

  • NICO

    la, c’etait Nico qui ecrivait, pas moi, pas Amir, et la, c’est Amir, au nom de Nico…

  • Salut Amir
    Tout va bien se passer samedi ne t’inquitees pas
    Bienvenue au 104!

  • amir

    [kaltura-widget entryid=”0_qln5ohlq” size=”comments” /]

  • Cronicas… Los americanos en el bar y la Nina que pidio person… Les flics who ran after the dude in the subway because he was running…the walk in the rain and the women huddled at the top of the stairs talk in’ a great funky hybrid of their fresh and Arabic…

  • Starting Friday, I will be releasing the Fragments II, III and then on Sunday, Fragment IV at the attempt to reconstruct Amir’s childhood fantasies.
    Check them out at http://armenian-poetry.blogspot.com/search/label/Amir%20Parsa

  • The slogans might end up being, and thus this takes a radical turn, everyone might shout, I am an Iranian on June 12… Or not, but, maybe I should write, I am an Iranian… In Iran… Or… (just give it up, it, I say…)

  • Coincidence or… Just realized, true this, JUST NOW realized!, that June 12 is also, ALSO!, the first year anniversary of the new Iranian resistance, borne in a dubious context maybe, but with it’s fiery thrust… Unplanned, this, and so, I AM…

  • [kaltura-widget entryid=”0_gymyvxr2″ size=”comments” /]

  • Amir: I liked what you wrote about the images of people have. Who is a New Yorker for us living here, who is a Parisian. We expect British actors to be excellent at Shakespeare (otherwise, we would never hear of them).
    The truth of the matter is, we don’t READ, HEAR, or KNOW the masses.. just a select few — even of the ones who have succeeded. The images of the New Yorker, the Parisian may very well be a complete marketing campaign, with a small percentage of human interaction and experience thrown in.

  • amir2

    Categories… Scales… Looks and rules and rulers and…

    The most exemplary example of the Americans in Paris has to be the expats of the 20’s (almost 100 years!!) and then the generations of jazz and blues musicians and singers and entertainers. The defacto Americans in Paris, and the fascination not only with the personalities and the effervescence has probably as much to do with the glorification of these artists as the colors of theirs skins, their differences and the mythologies they allowed France to concoct, and the situating it allowed the country vis-a-vis the U.S., and the image it allowed itself to create, of itself, of these particular others, and of otherness… Tolerance, championing of artistic styles, and… But it also concots, like pretty much all places at particular times, a certain image to which others must correspond: from physical appearance to behavioral patterns to outlook and modalities of creative engagement. There are certain expectations concoted within a framework, and non-correspondance to those expectations doesn’t precipitate a critical look at one’s own expectations and categories and images, but a certain bewilderment, even anger, at those not corresponding. Not picking on France of course, but it happens everywhere. Therse is, currently, an image here of the “Iranian filmmaker”, and another for the “Persian poet” and another for the “American writer”, and if one’s theories and practice don’t fit, there’s work to do. Same is true everywhere: for Americans, Iranians Mexicans, Dominicans, and more, there are images of otherness, and particular others and the expectations of correspondance to them. The alternative narratives, the alternative discourse, the category-busters, always… do what?

  • Zeglobo Zeraphim

    A Frenchman in Jerusalem… or —

    “Do you have time ?”
    This happens in Jérusalem, at Tamon café, in 1973.
    Time, back then, was all I had! Not a cent in my pocket, but so much time I didn’t know what to do with it!
    A Frenchman approached me and asked me if I would be interested in posing for photographs meant to illustrate a book about Jewish ancient history to be published by Hachette.
    – With your beard and your hair, it would be perfect.
    It was to be paid for, mind you. Paid little but paid nevertheless.
    With a few other extras recruited in the same pub, we were first taken in the old city of East Jerusalem. We were given djellabas like those Palestinian peasants still wear, in order to pass as authentic Jews. Then we were driven to the historic site of Massada (the Forteress) on the top of a cliff overlooking the Dead Sea. There, in the year 73 A.D., thousands of Jews had preferred to commit suicide with wives and children, rather than surrendering to Romans besieging their fortress.
    I knew that story. With the Mask and Puppet Theater (former actors of the Bread and Puppet) at Tzavta theater, we were performing a play called Massada : two or three live actors lost in a forest of mannequins made out of wire, all uniformly clothed in black drape and wearing white masks.
    The French photographers asked us to descend the slope slowly. I was doing it, trying not to trip on the stones on the rough path when suddenly, at the bottom of the hill, I caught sight of a little man, dark haired, with a pot belly, accompanied by an elegant woman much taller than him. He was photographing us with a huge telephoto lens. On the spot, I understood it all : Carlo Ponti and Sophia Loren ! Italians! I started shouting “Don’t shoot us, you fucking Romans !”
    It was a time when at each instant, I was possessed by my role – and where would I have played it better than here, in Israel ? The trouble was that I smoked hachisch a few times a day and it made me particularly angry. I easily saw enemies everywhere and I interpreted my visions with the absolute certainty that it was truly the truth !
    This sudden explosion could have caused me troubles, but in fact it pleased the director who asked me to come back in the afternoon for a second photo session. This time, we were driven in a jeep in the desert and we were told that we would be photographed by telephoto lenses from the top of a neighboring hill. There were only two people left then, an American wearing a kipa and me. He was a student recruited in a yeshiva, a religious school in Jerusalem. He too seemed convinced that he was playing the role of his life. He held tight under his right arm a Bible I felt he was ready to read me in Hebrew at any time.
    We were walking and talking when in the sand I stumbled on a stick. I bent down to pick it up, and then I saw it was not an ordinary stick: it was high, knotty and coiled, entirely painted in blue. I took it, as if this theater prop had been placed here for me on purpose. I kept on advancing, with more determination, as if this providential walking stick was giving me the prophetic quality I was dreaming of.
    Right after a dune, we saw vast tents, beige and black. My neighbor stopped short. “Bedouins!” He shouted.
    – So what Bedouins ? I asked him.
    – They have their God and we have ours ! »
    Once more, I was taken by a holy anger. I screamed at him :
    – Miserable ! At the time the book you hold under your arm was written, it was the witness of a revelation valid far beyond those hills! And those who wrote it weren’t cowards terrorized by the simple sight of a Bedouin’s tent ! »

  • Jason Karlawish

    Parsing Amir.

    Consider color categories. Mix yellow in blue. The result is green. Varying the ratio of yellow to green alters the shade of green.

    Now consider nationalities. Mix an American in Paris. The result is neither an American nor a Parisian. But, instead, well, something else. A new shade of nationality.

    And it is not equivalent to a Parisian in America.

    Or is it? How much of each nationality is sufficient to make the American in Paris equal to the Parisian in New York? Or the Iranian in New York?

    Ah categories! Measurement! Rulers and scales!

  • Gordon

    Identity days progress slowly, deliberately, searching for resolution to multiple sources along the ontological spectrum defining one’s otherness. What can this mean, the humidity dripping down my forehead? It’s never ethnic nationalism that can define one’s being–left alone on a deadened street, early June in imperial Paris, to what community does one affiliate? It is mystery that keeps us mired in imagination. We streak forward seeking answers to whomever asks the next question–with whom do I belong?

  • Gordon

    Identity days progress slowly, deliberately, searching for resolution to multiple sources along the ontological spectrum defining one’s otherness. What can this mean, the humidity dripping down my forehead? It’s never ethnic nationalism that can define one’s being–left alone on a deadened street, early June in imperial Paris, to what community does one affiliate? It is mystery that keeps us mired in imagination. We streak forward seeking answers to whomever asks the next question–with whom do I belong?

  • Zeglobo Zeraphim

    Vous avez du temps ?

    « Vous avez du temps ?
    Cela se passe à Jérusalem, au café Tamon, en 1973. Du temps, à l’époque, je n’avais que cela! Pas un sou en poche mais du temps, j’en avais à ne plus savoir qu’en faire, j’en avais à revendre.
    Un Français me proposait de poser pour des photos qui illustreraient un livre d’Histoire sur l’Antiquité juive édité par Hachette.
    – Avec votre barbe et vos cheveux, vous feriez parfaitement l’affaire. »
    Une affaire payée, notez bien. Peu payée mais payante quand même.
    Avec quelques autres figurants glanés dans le même bistrot, on nous a d’abord emmenés dans la vieille ville, à Jérusalem Est. On nous y a distribué des djellabas comme en portent encore les paysans palestiniens pour nous déguiser en juifs authentiques. Puis nous avons été conduits sur le site historique de Massada (la Forteresse) en haut d’une falaise surplombant la mer morte. C’est là qu’en l’an 73 de l’ère chrétienne des milliers de Juifs avaient préféré se suicider et suicider leurs femmes et leurs enfants, que de se rendre aux Romains qui assiégeaient leur forteresse.
    Je connaissais cette histoire. Avec le Mask and Puppet Theater (des anciens du Bread and Puppet) au théâtre Tzavta nous jouions une pièce appelée Massada : deux ou trois acteurs vivants perdus dans une forêt de mannequins en fil de fer, tous uniformément vêtus de linceuls noir et portant des masques blancs.
    Les photographes français nous ont demandé de descendre lentement. Je le faisais, en essayant de ne pas buter sur les pierres du chemin caillouteux, quand tout à coup, en bas de la pente, j’ai aperçu un petit homme rond et brun, accompagné d’une belle élégante bien plus grande que lui. Il nous photographiait en nous visant avec un énorme objectif. En un instant, j’ai tout compris : Carlo Ponti et Sophia Loren ! Des Italiens ! Je me suis mis à hurler « Don’t shoot us, you fucking Roman ! » (Arrête de nous canarder, maudit Romain !)
    C’est une époque où à chaque instant, j’étais possédé par mon rôle – et où aurais-je pu le jouer mieux qu’ici, en Israël ? L’ennui, c’est que ce que je fumais du hachisch plusieurs fois par jour et que cela me rendait particulièrement irascible. Je voyais facilement des ennemis partout et j’interprétais ce que je percevais avec la conviction absolue qu’au-delà des apparences, c’était la vérité vraie !
    Cette explosion intempestive aurait pu me causer des ennuis, mais en fait, elle plut au metteur en scène qui me demanda de revenir dans l’après-midi pour une deuxième séance de photos.
    Cette fois, on nous conduisit en jeep dans le désert et on nous dit que nous serions photographiés au téléobjectif du haut d’une colline avoisinante. Il n’y avait plus désormais qu’un Américain porteur de kipa et moi. C’était un étudiant qu’on avait recruté dans une yeshiva, une école religieuse de Jérusalem. Lui aussi semblait convaincu de jouer le rôle de sa vie. Il serrait sous son bras droit une Bible dont je le sentais prêt à me lire un passage en hébreu à tout moment.
    Nous avancions en parlant quand, dans le sable, j’ai buté sur un bâton. En me baissant pour le ramasser, j’ai vu que ce n’était pas un bâton ordinaire : c’était un bâton haut, noueux et torsadé, entièrement peint en bleu. Je l’ai saisi, comme si cet accessoire de théâtre avait été déposé là intentionnellement, pour moi. J’ai poursuivi ma marche avec plus d’assurance, comme si ce bâton providentiel me conférait la qualité prophétique dont je rêvais.
    Au détour d’une dune, nous avons aperçu de vastes tentes, bistre et noires. Mon voisin s’est arrêté net. Il s’est écrié : « Des Bédouins !
    – Eh bien quoi des Bédouins ? lui ai-je demandé.
    – Ils ont leur Dieu et nous avons le nôtre ! »
    Une fois encore, j’ai été saisi d’une sainte colère. Je lui ai crié :
    – Misérable ! A l’époque où était écrit le livre que tu tiens sous ton bras, il témoignait d’une révélation valable bien au-delà de ces collines ! Et ceux qui l’écrivaient n’étaient pas des lâches terrorisés par la simple vue d’une tente de Bédouins ! »

  • SarahM

    “I have a different idea of a universal. It is of a universal rich with all that is particular, rich with all the particulars there are, the deepening of each particular, the coexistence of them all.” Aime Cesaire

  • Dancing in the Persian clubs ghering memories of nightclubs past, a sadness and nostalgia, in the dances the sadness, then the music more and the contrast and memories of jailhouses and hangings, like now, all of it somehow endless and weighty, like now with others in jails all over, somehow, this is not the place, or… Is it.. (a lightness during the walks after a convo with the bouquinistes…
    And a chat just this second, with the waiter qui me demand si ca fonctionne bien… Ouais ouais, depending on the type of work you do, I say… Only now, a lightness… Is it that, I am, after all, one of, the, meaning, us?)

  • The women in their chic clothes, the champs élysées, the mythology associated with France… Dancing in the clubs, the rives, as if… False prophets and poor poets… All passes through… And then so many erased, as if…

  • amir2

    In the middle of the long walks in Paris streets and gardens and sidewalks, riffing on being an American in Paris who is an Iranian in New York with, somewhere inside, a lightness mixed in with some strange pissed-off-ness (not even sure at whot or whom), I can only sometimes think of…

    the Iranian in Paris, or more even the Iranians, in Paris. The long history of Iranian intellectuals and their fascination with all thoughts and things French, the incredible hold that the whole French imagination and episteme had on the generation of our fathers and mothers and grand fathers and grandmothers… the writers and the poets and the diplomats… The boulevards in Tehran how they resemble the ones here, the sensations in the streets… Why the hell was I sent to French schools anyway, and how I have grown distant… something claustrophobic about attachment to these European ideals and manners and forms of operation, something deeply “pesant3, weighty… I repeat, weighty… Even some of the mullahs spent time here, not to name names, and so many passed by… and after the revolution, so many took refuge here and sat around tables in cafes chatting exiledom and chatting glorious returns and chatting reverse revolutions and chatting how the mullahs had stolen it and chatting rebellions and injustice and new worlds and desires… this pestering nostalgia I could do without, flooding images again of the main protagonists of rebellions past…
    It all fees so past, so gone, so done, and yet, still around, still hanging around…

    Want to give it a great grand goodbye, grand wave of a goodbye, to this tale and the Paris of the Iranians and even myself in Paris with the images that flood when I walk its streets… The thought of being an Iranian in Paris with all its connotations is almost unbearable… Because sometimes the images flood and the associations with the worlds left behind and the immediacy, the immediacy of the events and the players and the poets past all together flood… and it actually becomes unsoothing and I almost want to sit by the curb of one of these sidewalks and… cry.

  • Jean P,

    Don’t worry buddy you’re not alone out there lol.
    Yo también tengo algo con que puedo relacionarme, y quizas pueda servir de ayuda…

    Al tener una edad bastante joven eran pocas las memorias y experiencias que me hacían falta, y al mudarme a un lugar distinto, el tiempo cubrió esos pequeños rencores memorables que me hacían falta. Ahora después de tener que marcharme de esas nuevas memorias y experiencias adquiridas para volver a donde todo comenzó. Fue bastante frustrante, aburrido (porque es muy aburrido tener que estar en casa todo el día para mi) y nostálgico. Intente vivir esa vida de nuevo y al final me di cuenta que no se puede porque simplemente no se puede, el ambiente no cooperaba, la gente mucho menos y los nuevos amigos tenían otro tipo de pensamientos. Y para mí el mejor medicamento es el tiempo para recuperarse y adaptarse…

  • amir2

    Another American in Paris you may run into (not literally hopefully!):

    http://www.parisdailyphoto.com/2010/06/american-school-bus-in-paris.html

    courtesy of Yari Ostovani, and his keen eye…

  • Lola Koundakjian

    A Thibaut:
    Je sais quoi dire,
    je sais quoi dire,
    je VAIS le dire,

    et TA ra ta tta!

  • Lola Koundakjian

    I am hoping you will not have rain on that day in Paris; I heard it was much cooler there.

    BONNE MERDE!

  • This wasn’t the first time of course… Far from it… This is not the first time… But maybe it could be the last… In Paris… Am I not done, tired of it all, like, really… Here sitting in the Tuileries, tapping on an iPad, with a dog walking around me, folks lying down on the grass where I’m sitting too, a few reading physical books ouais… A nice little anecdote coming up around the iPad of The Americain in PAreeee…

    This is the chronicle for sure of the writing of Kant I,2. In fact, kanto I,2 IS the chronicle of the writing of a part of kanto I,2, the script age on June 12, where I will attempt again the beginning of the ope epicI, in English, within a limited timeframe, while writing within the city, and actually writing the city itself. This is thus a chronicle, and a critique, yes… And, soon, the poem itself…

    (a few American girls just passes by and played with the dog that keeps circling me. “I love dogs” one says, and the other, “look, he wants to play with you!”)

  • amir

    The American in Paris is an Iranian in New York is less about identity (in fact, probably has little to do with that), or even presence and absence, than it does with the relationship of forms of presence and absence, and consciousness of presence and absence WITH writing. And the many ways that these new modalities affect scriptoral acts and interventions. Partly, I have longed to abandon writing, really, a big long goodbye, because the categories of belonging (a nation, a school), the categories devoted to genre, and the key concepts and frameworks, however exotic and sexy that were connected to writing+experiences, have little use, very little legitimacy, and totally inadequate in dealing with experiences. NO WAY, for example, for me to view or see myself as an “American” writer, but not an “Iranian” one either, or a “French” one, or a “Francophone” one, or a hybrid or a hyphenated version. This way of seeing and categorizing does a total disservice, at least, to my work. Looking at (seeing, really) and going through French magazines on art and literature in the past day and a half, I’m reminded of how if one/I were to look or analyze my oovra in those terms, it would look very discombobulated — but to perceive the whole thing as a polyglotic, multispatial, mutliplatformal venture, from the beginning, that creates new forms, and proposes alternative ways of seeing oneself in relation to others and to writing, then it makes beautiful sense. This is thus a critique (in motion) of the epistemological frameworks that are at work in regard to literature, and the ways we formulate and use categories, and the unfortunate habit of functioning within them. An ongoing critique of literary categories in regard to the work itself, the body of work and the body at work.

    How new technologies are allowing a more poignant, a more obvious critique of these conceptual frameworks also… One of those exotic concepts I mentioned, for example, is ‘exile’. How we love to use the term ‘exile’ in relation to writers. SO, cool, in a way… and yet, really — there is no such thing anymore — unless you are condemned somewhere (but even then…) Exile from exiledom, I often say, and a form of freedom…

    Lastly, not so long ago, I saw another banner at the Met with the title “The Americans in Paris”. It hit me then, that we speak only of those Americans of a particular epoque, background, way of having existed in Paris, and a catalogue of glorifying and fashioning a fiction that appeals to all, and that corresponds to the mythologies — of American about the French, and the French about Americans. So, yeah, this title, this framework, is a kind of balloon puncturing, a wrench, a way to deflate and make visible, make obvious, the mythologies that one place fashions about another. Each wanting the REALITY of the other to correspond to its IMAGE of the other, and thus privileging certain people and actions, and fashioning a fiction without alternative narratives.

    This is that alternative narrative. Or, rather, one of those alternative narratives. A critique, overall, to present how that alternative narrative is essential, and possible. and only one, among many…

  • amir

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  • Zeglobo Zeraphim

    When I read Amir’s work, I feel vertigo. Vertigo vertigo… Unbalance is pleasant sometimes, as long as you finally get back on your feet… He has been in Paris but a few hours and he has already been walking the streets exploring the itinerary that his followers will have to take to keep up with him; Ah Mira Amir el Persa en Paris… PARISIANS WITH HIM BECOME ALL PERSIANS!!! Pun is fun!!! My inspiration is exhausted. Refrain: vertigo.

  • amir2

    ZZ is right to bring up the notion of beginnings… this kanto, not I.2 but ONE overall is all about beginnings, the impôssibility of beginning, the anxieties of beginnings, the silmutaneity of beginnings and endings… a bit more precisely though, it is about notions of beginnings and endings, and editings and archivings and documenting, and reconsidering and revising, and lanching within a different context or in a different language, the SAME, and i m about to write text but it is really not even text but “thing”? Kanto I, the departure of the poet, lost in a wood, real or figurative, launching on the path… the writing here performs the incqpcqity of beginning, or rather, the constqnt reconsiderations, the constant interruptions, which can be “written” themselves… I actually want to take back the earlier “anxiety” of beginning: it is actually muuch more the thrill of beginning-again, and not moving forward too fast, which means living with the zork longer, changing it, caressing it, brushing it, kissing it, longer, and just messing aound, in joy, through relaunchings… the constant regeneration of kanto i is not then associated with anxiety at all, but its opposite!

    (Okay, here is a good one for teh AmParIrNY logs, in relation to “scriptance”, or the writing act. i am freagin typing on a French key board, which has a bunch of letters in different positions, and punctuation marks and all in different spots too! A couple of good ones: can not locate the apostophe and do not want to look too hard, which is making me speak/write a bit formally, since itz is replaced by it is and cant by can not et… plus the ! is right there, and the period needs a shift! so ! it is! more than the period! overused anyway the period, i say! now… I zill type the rest of this sentence qnd the follozing ones qs if <i zere typind on q good old Q,ericqn keyboqrd qnd see zhqt kind of funky thing <i get::: the Eyerqniqn in <pqris, I meqn I meqn the Eyerqniqn in <ny never zho is the q,zeicqn in pqris never thought thqt the keyboqrd itself could help zrite differently::: <priwz for zhever deterines zhqt letter on this keyboqrd is in teh plqce of our good ol A; qs in U S of A, A, A bqby!!!)

  • amir

    I’m here I’m here in the Arenes de Lutece… On the way, asked a guy if he watned to write something… che pas che pas quoi dire he said, I don’t know what to say, but then insisted I erase it because he knew WHAT TO SAY. (wanted to tell him, don’t worry, no one knows what to say, but…) Si si, che quoi dire che quoi dire, un jour on vaincra la faim, si on s’y met tous… We will overcome hunger if we all contribute… Or something like that… His name was Thibaut…

    MERci thibaut….

    Dans les arenes de lutece, un groupe de jeunes jour aux petanques… I want to have petanques with my tets rolled around them… will it work…

    Sand, traces of feet, loves, more lovers, friends, and silences…

  • Gordon

    AmeriParsa
    AmirParis
    AmeriParis
    AmirParsa
    ParseAmir
    ParisAmir
    ParsaAmeri
    ParseParsa
    Escaping
    Into the PrisonHouse
    Of Language
    Parsaameri first
    MoMAmir
    Hello Notre Dame

  • Zeglobo Zeraphim

    Quand en 1966 à la Castalia Fondation de Timothy Leary, à Milbrook, Upstate New York, je voulais écrire sur cette expérience et j’ai commencé à le faire sur le papier à en tête de sa League for Spiriritual Discovery (LSD. une des premières choses que j’ai alors écrit, d’une graphie déformée par l’acide fut : “Des commencements qui se sont réduits à des fins”.

    When in 1966 at Timothy Leary’s Castilia Foundation in Milbrrok in upstate New York I wanted to write on this experience of taking LSD, and I started to do it on a piece of paper whose header was League for Spiritual Discovery, one of the first things I wrote, with handwriting deformed by the acid, was: “Beginnings that were were instantly turned to ends.”

  • Mike

    The daddy who’s a newspaperman who’s also a photographer (but still wondering if that makes him an artist) is tired.
    The baby who’s almost two who’s cute as all get out has, nevertheless, needed three diaper changes since 4am.
    There’s no presence/absence dichotomy with a soiled diaper. It is what it is.
    No matter when, no matter where, no matter what.
    Could somebody get me a cup of coffee? Parisian, Hawaiian, Iranian, Washington Heightsian – makes no difference to me.(Or, based on the Konstruct of this Kanto, should it be: Could somebody get me a cup of coffee!!!!!!)

  • K M

    OK Amir. If you’re an American in Paris who’s really an Iranian in New York (with! many!! exclamation!!! points!!!!), I muse as to what that makes me.

    Une Française en Amérique who’s really a Virginian en el barrio? …Constantly struck by how the peaceful emptiness of the Arizona desert is interrupted by a cacophony of chihuahuas and Rotties discussing (over the walled-in rocked-over backyards) ¡el scandalo! of the latest flight of the ghetto bird, lamenting 110 degree days trop trop quickly on the heals of blissful 70s, the relative merits of tamales in the pushcart over icees. (Fresa? Limón?)

    I can match neither your philisophy nor your poetry. These feet are planted (too?) firmly on the ground, in the here and now (an idea we exalt continually) – savoring the past, tasting the present, cooking up the future. Finding contentment in life’s little gifts and looking for the jewels of nature hidden in everyday’s nooks and crannies.

  • Gordon

    Falling from the sky
    Pushing back against the force
    All in process
    But the moment we looked
    She was captured by the RIVER
    Capturing it in return
    Arriving in Paris
    In her all together
    An energy that swims
    In all directions at once
    Freeing us to discover
    All those sources unimagined
    Rising both above
    And below the surface.

  • All the whispering going on… In the ride, THE RIDE… To the airport, the driver was not shy no, not whispering… Es un demon, he said of Los “catolicos” torque estan violando la palabra de dies. But… Tu tambien, I tell him, los catolicos son cristianos… Not agreeing, he, truly… That he was truly following the word… Andan boracho andan fumando andan buscando prostitutaaas… And how the constantly go out and party and go to church and dance and drink… Him? No, la palabra de dies… La palabra del señor es permanent… Aqui y en el cielo… You read any other books, I ask… What for, ne answers, and then laughs, it’s all here… He was not whispering…

  • jess

    Not sure why we are whispering… or are we shouting or…. or how i got instantly subsumed into the we of this text or this beginning or … but here “we” are and it seems like a good place to be on a hot city day in the suburbs…. Always up for being at the intersection of the tensions, anxieties, and ruptures to see what the american in paris is an iranian in new york is doing, writing, thinking, being….

  • As you walk, I am typing,

    My mind — full of ideas parallel to your movements

    On this universe.

    We walk in tandem.

    You — on the globe
and
    I, in the ether.

  • Nelson

    I’ve got half-a-dozen windows open on my screen and one of them says: “…for all their limitations, the new digital technologies may, after all, be able to help us capture the ineffable in mid-flight.”

    And from the speakers a guy is screaming “can you see the real me?”

    IranianAmericanParisian on the internet (if I see a hypenated identity I’m outta here!)

    If anyone has a net big enough and fast enough to catch the ineffable in mid-flight, to make seen the real (anything), it may be Amir

  • amir

    Because the machine is… the ambulatory overcoming, the nature of the scriptage… Tell then of the nature of the walk… Tell of the machine that is the walk… of pilgrimages and protests and solitary poetic ruminations along the roads… Tell of these long walks along the streets and by riversides and in front of grand cathedrals tell of this new machine… this new coming…

  • amir

    The creation of the apparatus is THE STORY. The creation of the machine de guerre, is the STORY. With all its uncertainties… All its insufficiencies… All its lack of illusion too… Its lightness… Its laughter… Hahaha… La macina de guerra…

  • Amir could be your tour guide into future forms, if you let yourself follow his mischievous consciousness, his exhilarating/exile-rating adventuresome-ness past the obvious, common-sensical, and (damn stubborn) shopworn ideas about how to write, read, hear, blog, perform, publish, create, collaborate, program, and just plain be.

    Around him bleak landscapes inhabited by insipid bastard children of global market forces and uninspired employees of so-called cultural spaces [you know those boring poetry readings where writers stand on a dais and audience members sit politely in chairs facing them, you know paper books written in one language with beginnings, middles, and ends and in which book marks can be placed to let you know how far into them you are, you know even those online formats like websites and blogs which should have bred a riot of new literary forms but seem to have taken an evolutionary dead end somewhere along the invention of hypertext 15 years ago] – these places – seem redeemable, even dare i say, fertile again. With simple, yet profound gestures and re-positionings, Amir restores the blocked chi in all of these things, in all of us. Lets us feel how pleasurable it might be to hold the refined and the carnivalesque in our mouths at the same time.

    So if he asks me to join him in paris, i, an indian in new york, a new yorker in the (un)united states of america, a soon to be brooklynite in honolulu will whisper, shout, type, comment, read, re-read, note, take note, right there with him somehow. and then we’ll all see afterwords what type of new species of interaction has been created. We’ll create new taxonomy, like literary particle-smashing physicists. yeah. hell yeah.

  • I saw the passersby in the streets of delimit cities

    (the myopic mistranslation in which the two possible definitions of ‘delimit’ render the translator frozen. First, delimit is a verb, but here used as an adjective. Still: 1. fix the boundaries of or 2. be opposite to; of angles and sides, in geometry?

    Possibilities:

    I saw the passersby in the streets of cities that were the opposite of where I wanted to be.

    or

    I saw the passersby in the streets of cities I had defined according to my own megalomaniacal designs.

    neither seems to work entirely. In fact I want to be in Paris as it is designed by history.

    Thankfully, my vision cleared. The letters rearranged themselves into a vague but clearer darkness…)