Ahmad Kiarostami

“The marketing character is willing to give, but only in exchange for receiving; giving without receiving for him is being cheated”

“Not the one who has much is rich, but he who gives much.”

Erich Fromm - The Art of Loving - Pages 21 & 22

My computer is sitting on my coffee table. I just have two dim lights in my small apartment, and the monitor looks much brighter in this dark room. I got home about half an hour ago, put the new CD that I got last night into my stereo, lit one of my good Japanese incenses (I only use my Japanese incenses for especial occasions), poured a glass of wine for myself, and cut the Lavash bread that I got from the Whole Food and put it in the fridge. I also got a spicy tomato soup for dinner, but I’m going to eat it later. I eat this tomato soup 3 to 4 times a week, and I’m not very excited about it; I prefer to finish my wine first.

My apartment is small, and wherever I go I see the light of the monitor of my laptop. Two days ago I promised (to myself) that I won’t write again, and I don’t want to write. I have a movie to see tonight. It’s not one of the San Francisco Film Festival movies; it’s an old movie that I saw many years ago. Like all the movies that we used to see back then in Iran, I saw it with a bad quality. Tonight they are showing it on a big screen, with a good quality! I want to go and see it, but my mind is way too busy, and I can’t stop the temptation. I sit and put my laptop on my lap. I have a strange relationship with my laptop. During the day, when I have to work on the boring technical stuff, I can’t stand seeing it. But at night, she is my lover. I’ve spent many nights with her, much more than many of the lovers that I had in the past. I promised that I won’t spend another night with her, but I can’t resist; sounds familiar, doesn’t it? They say if you can resist a temptation, it doesn’t mean that you’re strong; it’s the temptation that is weak. Am I strong person? Many people think I am, but frankly, I don’t think so. I really don’t think so. I’ve just been practicing to lose things for a long time. Tonight, I’m going to lose the only opportunity that I have to see this old movie on big screen. I love to see this film, I love films in general, but it’s OK. Seeing the movie doesn’t make me excited enough to leave my lover now, I’m going to stay.

I’m thinking about this word “excitement”. I thought about this word a few hours ago at the Whole Food, when I saw a girl looking at the strawberries and trying to choose one of the baskets. I could easily see the excitement in her eyes. I also thought about this word two days ago, when a friend asked me “What the hell do you like then?!”. What do I like? It’s a tough question, and I can’t really answer that. I’ve been thinking about this question since she asked me; and I realized that my list is not longer than very few things. I’m thinking about the things that I’m attached to, and I can’t think of more than two things. The only two things that make me happy, two things that take me to another world, the only things I thought about after leaving them behind in Iran , the only two things that I really care about are my books and my CDs. I’m thinking about the list that I had few years ago, it was much longer that this. What happened to my list then? Once I had a long list, many things could make me happy, many things could make me excited. I had many hobbies, I liked to learn about everything. Just throw out a subject, and I most probably have something to say about it; and I’ve spend some time learning about it. Once someone said there are two types of people, people who care about learning, and people who don’t care. People who care to learn are two types as well, some are like a deep well, they know a couple of things very well and very deep. The other group loves everything, and is like an ocean, but two inches deep! They know about a lot of things, but not deep, they just can’t limit themselves to one or two things. Once I belonged to the last group. I loved everything, and wanted to learn about everything. What happened to my passion? What happed to my long list? This is the question that I’ve been asking myself for the last couple of days. Now I think that I have an answer.

*****

Tao Te Ching says:

Fill your bowl to the brim
   and it will spill.
Keep sharpening your knife
   and it will blunt.
Chase after money and security
   and your heart will never unclench.
Care about people’s approval
   and you will be their prisoner.
Do your work, then step back.
The only path to serenity.

This has been told many times in many different forms and words, but they are all the same: want it, and you’ll never get it. But turn your back to it, and it will be there for you. This is especially true in human relationships. But there’s a paradox there: if you turn your back to something just in order to get it, then you’re not really turning your back– you’re just playing a game. And if you really turn your back, then who cares about getting it anymore?

I learned about this in my childhood, I learned that I should let it go. I learned that I shouldn’t get attached to anything, or I could be sure that it would cause me a lot of pain. Like any other child, I was attached to my family, but I learned in the very early years that I can’t really rely on them. I was attached to my friends, but after loosing two of them in the war, and many more who left the country, I learned to let them go as well. I thought if I build something, if I create something, that’s going to be mine forever. But I was wrong. Since I was a child I thought no matter what, I’m not going to let anything destroy my own family, but for no reason, absolutely no reason, it happened and I couldn’t stop it. And I learned more and more to detach myself; I learned to reduce the importance of things that I cared for, just to protect myself from being in pain. My list got smaller and smaller, but loosing those few things got more and more difficult and painful. In order to protect myself and prevent the pain, I learned to reduce the importance of the items on my list, but with that, I lost the excitement. Excitement to me is equal to loss, to pain, and to suffering. I’m practicing detachment, I’m practicing not wanting, but every step towards that detachment is painful, and I just can’t get used to the pain.

They say Shebelli, the old Sufi, once said: “I want not to want anything“.
Sheikh Abolhasan Kharaghani said: “But you want that as well!“

I just want not to want anything, but I don’t know how not to want that.

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Originally written on April 21, 2006 - San Francisco

Eshgh e Sorat’s video passed 100,000 views tonight…

There is an old custom in our culture called “khooneh-takooni”, or “house-shaking”. Before Nowrooz, the Iranian new year, we have to clean every little thing in our house. I remember asking my grandmother about the name “khooneh-takooni”. I asked her why don’t we call it “house-cleaning”, and what does it have to do with “shaking”? She said khooneh-takooni is much more than just cleaning, you have to move everything and clean underneath. It takes a lot of time and energy, but it’s the only way to really have a clean house. She also taught me to do something else during khooneh-takooni. She said while you move your stuff, try to look for things that you don’t need. For everything that you don’t use anymore, there is someone who needs it. She said, you’ll feel good when you give your extra stuff to someone, and you’ll also learn not to carry things with you that you don’t need anymore.

During the last 17 years I’ve moved for 15 times, so I never had to do a real khooneh-takooni. But every year I go through my cloths, pick things that I haven’t used for a year, and I give them to The Salvation Army. Sometimes some of the items are still new, and it’s always hard to give away your new things. The rest are old and it’s difficult to say goodbye to your things that contain memories. But I always remember the last part of my grandmother’s advice: if I want to live lightly, if I don’t want to carry a lot of things with me, then I have to give them away.

During the last couple of months, I went through a complete personal Khooneh-takooni. It was (is) a painful process, I had to let go of many things; things that I was attached to: my beliefs, my expectations from life, my attachments, my joys, even my moral values. I knew it was time to let go; I could feel the weight of the last 10-15 years of my life on my shoulders. But it was time to grow, time to see the reality, time to redefine my life. But I wasn’t able to accept it; I wasn’t able to detach myself from my old values. Like a little child I got angry, I cried, I prayed, I cursed, I made up stories, but I was just trying not to grow; I was trying to stay a child.

Growing up is not a pleasant process, but when the time comes you can’t escape it. You can’t live in fairytale stories anymore. You need something more real, something tangible. Fairytales, like lollipops, might be sweet, but they won’t satisfy you forever. Keith, my beloved philosophy teacher, once said “When you tell your son about Papa Noel, you want him to believe it, you want to make a sweet world for him, you want him to wish for something and get it in the morning of Christmas, but who wants to marry someone like that?! You may play that game with her too, but if she really believes in Papa Noel, you definitely want to take her to see a shrink”. At some point you realize that Papa Noel is not real, but you still want to fake it for a while, just to continue getting your gifts. But deep down, you know that it’s just a story, and you start looking for something more real. Reality is not that bad after all. Reality is like beer, or olives; it tastes bitter at the beginning, but when you get used to its taste, you really enjoy it; much more than the fake sweetness of your childhood lollipops.

*****

Last weekend, I had two very long conversations with two friends. One of them didn’t know anything about my recent thoughts - she doesn’t read my “notes” - but these days my thoughts seem to be too much to hide. That night, she told me stories about her life that she had never told me before. She told me about all the pain and suffering that she was going through. She even cried a little. Like a wise friend, I tried to comfort her first, and then I started giving her some good advice - I tried to tell her how to see things differently. I read Sutra’s from Tao Te Ching for her. I told her to see life the way it is, instead of holding onto her expectations of life. I said the only way to stop the pain is either to stop living or to accept life the way it is. I said she has to see the beauty in it by changing her taste. I said she should know those fake lollipops won’t make her happy anymore. I talked about the joy of the bitter taste of olives. I told her she needs a khooneh-takooni. I’m a wise man after all, and I know a lot of good things to say to people! But then, she suddenly looked at me, smiled, and told me that all those stories was her way of trying to give me some advice. She had made me put all that advice into words for myself. She said all of her stories were real, the feelings were real, even those tears were real. But she also knows that they are important only when she takes them seriously. First I felt angry, even a little betrayed, and then I was confused. It took me a couple of days to really get what she wanted to tell me.

These feeling are serious and real, but not important. They are serious because they can take a lot of energy, they can change one’s life, and they can seriously hurt. But when I detach myself from them, when I look at them from a distance, or after a couple of years, I only laugh at them, and that’s why they are not important. I know after few years, I even feel nostalgic about the most serious problem that may be in my life right now!

All this time, I knew my thoughts were not important, yet I was still taking them seriously. Whatever I said before was absolutely real, about the emptiness of this world, about the unbearable lightness of being, the lack of excitement, everything. These feelings are very real, and very serious. But there are moments that I forget about the seriousness of these problems. Like yesterday, when saw a good flamenco movie; last week when I touched beautiful Japanese papers; when I put a picture of a little baby sleeping on my chest on my fridge; when I went to a great concert; when I was with a good friend and I saw love and support in my friends’ eyes and touch; when I listened to my great new CD; when the last minute, instead of going to the boring opening party of the film festival I took my friend to have sushi and sake, and then walked for hours in the beautiful streets of San Francisco; when I shared the joy of a good haiku with a friend; when I saw “Roads” for the 10th times; all these times I forgot about the emptiness. I could remember those “serious” and “real” problems, but they were not important.

It’s strange, but sometime I think what makes me hold on to those thoughts is that I feel that letting the feelings of emptiness go would make me feel empty!

Now I lie down in my bed and I look at the view of the city: the bay, the sky and the passing clouds; Arvo-Part is playing in my stereo, and I know that in neez bogzarad - and this too shall pass. I know in few years when I look back at these days I’ll feel nostalgic about them.

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Originally written on April 24, 2006 - San Francisco

دیشب کنسرت Duran Duran بود. سال‌ها بود که موسیقی‌شان را نشنیده بودم، حدود ده سال. کمی دیر به محل کنسرت (که 10 دقیقه بیشتر از منزلم فاصله نداشت!) رسیدم. وقتی داشتم به در ورودی (که تا محل اجرا 5 دقیقه‌ای پیاده راه بود) می‌رسیدم، صدای سوت و هلهله آدم‌ها رو از دور شنیدم. از هیجان غیرعادی مردم فهمیدم که برخلاف معمول کسی کنسرت را برایشان “باز” نمی‌کند، و خودشان از اول به صحنه آمده‌اند. نمی‌دانم از دویدن بود، یا از هیجان دیدن Duran Duran افسانه‌ای دوران نوجوانی که نفسم بالا نمی‌آمد. احمقانه است نه؟ پنج نفر “بچه” (اون موقع که Duran Duran معروف شد بیست و یکی دو سال‌شان بیشتر نبود) چندتا آهنگ “معمولی” می‌سازند (الآن که به موسیقی‌شان گوش می‌کنی بیشتر معلومه که چقدر کارشان “معمولی” بوده)، و نه تنها خودشان شهرت و ثروتی افسانه‌ای می‌سازند، بلکه در بخش عظیمی از خاطرات و احساسات جوانی صدها هزار نفر حضور پیدا می‌کنند. احساساتی که بعد از سال‌ها دیگر اصلاً نمی‌دانی وجود دارند، ولی با شنیدن یک موسیقی و صدای آشنا دوباره وجودت را لبریز می‌کنند. قبلاً فکر می‌کردم فقط “بو” می‌تواند به این سرعت صندوقچه خاطرات و احساسات را باز کند، ولی دیشب موسیقی Duran Duran کاملاً غافلگیرم کرد.

*****

تقریباً پارسال همین موقع‌ها بود که رفتم کنسرت Supertramp. قیافه آدم‌ها دیدنی بود: سن‌ها همگی در حدود 40 تا 50، آقایون با شکم‌های برآمده، شلوار کوتاه و جوراب حوله‌ای سفید ساق بلند، تی‌شرت‌های گشاد کهنه، غالباً موهای کم پشتِ نامرتبِ بلند، و ریشِ پر پشتِ خاکستریِ بلند. خانم‌ها هم با موهای بلند تا کمر، کمی وِز، بدون اصرار به پوشاندن آثار سن با رنگ مو، لباس‌های یک تکه بلند، شل و آویزان و راحت، همراه گردن‌بند‌های درشت مهره. انگار همه را از فیلم‌های دهه 60 وارد کرده بودند. از موسیقی و اجرای عالی که بگذریم، یک چیزی در “فضا” بود که کنسرت را خیلی خاص کرده بود، حس و حال مُردْم. در عین شادی و لذت، یک جور غم در فضا بود که برای من خیلی عجیب بود. با وجودی که می‌دیدمش، ولی “احساس”اش نمی‌کردم. دیشب در کنسرت Duran Duran احساسش کردم. غم جدا شدن از دوران “جوانی”.

*****

دیشب تا صبح خواب‌های عجیب می‌دیدم. خواب راه ایستگاه‌های توچال و درکه، با ضبط صوت داخل کوله. خواب کمیته و نوار کاست و آهن‌ربا. عشق رانندگی کنار پدر در حال تخیل رانندگی “تنهایی”، و جدال همیشگی برای علاقمند کردن پدر به موسیقی “جوونا”، به امید اجازه بلندتر کردن صدای آهنگ. “پارتی”های گاه به گاه، و دختربازی‌های از راه دور با نگاه‌های ممتد و لبخندهای کوتاه. بعد از ظهرهای طولانی خانه مادربزرگ و عمه، جدا از دنیای “بقیه”، غوطه‌ور در دنیای تازه آشنای عاشقی. همه این‌ها تمام شب حضور داشت، و عجیب این بود که در عین واقعیت، می‌دانستم که “رویا”ست، رویایی که نمی‌خواستم تمام شود.
قبلاً یک بار دیگر هم این تجربه را کرده بودم، ولی به مراتب پررنگ‌تر. چند سال پیش به مدت کمی بیشتر از یک ماه هر شب خواب مدرسه می‌دیدم، از دبستان تا دبیرستان. در خواب تمام بچه‌ها را به اسم می‌شناختم (چیزی که محال است در بیداری اتفاق بیفتد!)، تمام جزئیات مثل روزهای مدرسه بود، معلم‌ها، شیطنت‌ها، شوخی‌ها، بازی‌ها. این حس عجیب آن دفعه هم وجود داشت: در خواب می‌دانستم این فقط یک رویاست. با وجودی که همه چیز عادی بود، ولی مثل این بود که من از بیرون و با فاصله داستان را نگاه می‌کردم، هم داخل داستان بودم و هم با آن فاصله داشتم، و این فاصله به شدت همه چیز را غمگین می‌کرد.
دیشب دوباره مانند آن شب‌ها رویای گذشته داشتم، و امروز هم مثل آن روزها، تمام مدت گلویم گرفته بود و بغض داشتم.

*****

شاید “بغض” نزدیک‌ترین کلمه برای بیان این حالت باشد، ولی کلمه کاملی نیست. “بغض” فقط گرفتگی گلوست، در حالی که این حس به گلو محدود نمی‌شود. گرفتگی تمام سینه، گلو، سر و صورت است. بغض احساسی “رویه‌ای” است و با گریه “می‌ترکد”، ولی این حس بسیار عمیق‌تر است، نمی‌ترکد، انگار فقط در وجودت “حل” می‌شود. بغض را می‌شود فرو خورد، ولی این حس می‌بلعدت.

*****

این حس را بسیار خفیف‌تر قبلاً در جای دیگری هم حس کرده‌ام: هنگام دیدن فیلم‌هایی که شخصیت اصلی‌شان در مقطعی از “بچگی” به “بزرگی” می‌روند. بعنوان مثال “سینما پارادیزو”، بعد از سکانس آتش‌سوزی، و هنگامی که “سالواتوره جوان” ظاهر می‌شود، و می‌دانی که دیگر “سالواتوره کودک” را نمی‌بینی (اگرچه می‌دانی که می‌توانی با فشار دکمه‌ای هرچند بار دیگر هم او را ببینی!)، هنگامی که حس می‌کنی سالواتوره مرحله “کودکی” را با همه پاکی و سادگی‌اش طی کرده، و به جوانی (اگرچه شاد و پرهیجان) رسیده. و یا “روزی روزگاری در آمریکا”، هنگامی که درب زندان باز می‌شود و رابرت دنیرو (به جای آن بچه نه چندان پاک و ساده!) بیرون می‌آید. اگرچه که بخش عمده‌ای از فیلم تازه شروع می‌شود، ولی انگار از آن دنیای “بچگی” فاصله گرفته‌ای، با تمام آرزوها و امیدها و نقشه‌هایش. با وجودی که هر دو فیلم را بارها دیده‌ام، ولی شروع این دو سکانس، هر دفعه به اندازه بار اول “بغض” سر و صورت و سینه و گلویم را می‌فشارد، اگرچه بسیار لطیف‌تر و مهربان‌تر از امروز.

*****

“کودکی” و “جوانی” همیشه همراه با تخیل است، و نقشه برای آینده؛ منتها بدون رقابت با دیگران. بدون حسادت و چشم و هم‌چشمی، بدون سنگینی تجربه‌های تلخ، بدون عقده و کینه‌توزی، بدون احساس “حقوق خورده شده و پایمال شده”، و ضمناً بدون فلسفه‌بافی. شاید مهم‌ترین وجه تمایزش با تخیل‌های “بزرگی” همین باشد. مهم نیست چقدر آن تخیلات تحقق پیدا کرده باشند (که اگر به آنها رسیده باشی دیگر آنقدر ارزش ندارند)، یا نکرده باشند (که احتمالاً تبدیل به حسرت ‌شده‌اند، یا در بهترین شکل به “زندگی همینه دیگه”)، چیزی که باعث دلتنگی است فاصله از آن پاکی است و صافی و سادگی. فاصله‌ای که با “بزرگ‌تر” شدن‌مان (هر چقدر “موفق” و یا “فرهیخته”) بیشتر می‌شود.

تجربه دوباره آن احساسات، اگرچه فقط در رویا، و اگرچه دشوار، تجربه شیرینی بود؛ حتی شیرین‌تر از طعم توت و گیلاس در واقعیت.

*****

“دیروز در رویای آینده،
امروز در حسرت گذشته،
فردا چگونه خواهد بود…”

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Originally written on July 17, 2003 - Newport Beach

A few years ago, I went to a documentary film festival. The festival’s promotional clip was a two minute short film about a guy talking about his dog, about the first time he saw her, when he bought her, how he trained her, and his relationship with her. In the middle of the film, you realized that his passionate story was not about a “real” dog, but instead about a Sony robot. My first reaction to the film was laughing. But when I saw it for the second time, I realized it was not a joke. This guy was really in love with his robo-dog! I realized that his love is as “real” as someone else’s love for their “real” dog. All these years, I tried to find a difference, a real difference, between that dog and a real dog; a reason that justifies the love for a real dog, but not for a robo-dog, but I haven’t been able to find any. The slogan of the festival was: “How much reality can you handle?”

Recently I’ve been thinking about this question: how much reality can I handle? The answer seems to be very different from what I thought few years ago. Recently, I don’t have much tolerance for reality. I’m not talking about real as opposed to fake; I’m talking about reality versus dreaming. Real life disappoints me, real people (except for very few) disappoint me, and I have to admit that the biggest disappointment is me– myself. Dreaming seems to be the most effective way to take a break from this disappointments.

I’m too old to really believe my dreams may come true; I know this will never happen. But I refuse to grow up. Now, at the age of 35, I’m back to my Tintin world– I make imaginary friends and I spend time with them. The love that I get and give in my dreams is the only cure for this loveless life. I fantasize about the future, about how I want my life to be when I grow up. I know they will never happen, but I like this imaginary world more than the real world. Sometimes I think I’m going out of my mind and becoming crazy, but that’s only when I come back to the real world. In my dream world, no one is crazy, nothing is wrong, and nothing is bad. Just like a diver who tries to stay under water longer and go deeper, I also try to push my dreaming to the limits and stay there longer and longer.

If I ever start a festival, I know what the slogan will be: “How much dreaming can you handle?”

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Originally written on May 15, 2006 - San Francisco