While girls are taking XTC and Cocaine to lose weight, the Danish parliament is busy tightening penalties for the black labor. "Employers will risk up to 2 years in jail and a fine of 20,000 kroners a month if they are found to be employing foreign workers without work permits". It never says what if the employer hires a Dane in a black market.
On the other hand while the "drug abuse" is an excuse for losing weight the harsh rule is said to be "prior to the expansion of the European Union on May 1."
Black labor suck, o'right. Drug may suck too. (I'm not sure the two are comparatively harmful) But making extra excuses is just stupid, isn't it?

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Photocopied Books

I do not generally have money to by books. I do not also feel like given away the book I have read. I do believe that the book is yours once you have read it; especially because I write notes and comments on the pages of books. So since I not have money to buy book, I borrow the books from the library and make a photocopy of them.
I had done that a lot in Iran as well. But the reason was totally different. That was actually due to the censorship, which did not, allowed the reprinting of many, many book. So the only way to have it was to borrow the book from someone and make a photocopy. It was not economic at all since it was very, very expensive for me to pay for the photocopy.
However, when one borrows a book from library, one is reading a book that has been read by other person(s) as well unless one just get the book right after it has been bought by the library. Or there are book that noone reads them; They enter the library and "live" there for ever without noone turning their pages. If you borrow a book by Kant or Darwin you may chance to be the first one who opened the book after the bookbinder had closed it.
But those books which are being read-a case more applying to the book students are forced to read (let alone fictions)-one can frequently see that the previous reader has underlined or made comments on the book, which belongs to the library. I have seen book with comments on the author’s personal affairs as well. I have always been annoyed by this "notes" and underlinings. It feels like wearing someone's panties after he had sex with one's own mother! Or like eating the food someone has pissed in and you are totally aware of it!
I had made a photocopy of Thomas Richards' At Work With Grotowski on Physical Actions and have not read it till yesterday. The book was one of the "underlined" ones. But the lines were almost vanished in the photocopy. So it was not bothering much. As I said I do myself underline my own books. While I was reading the book and writing my note and comments and underlining some of the sentences, I realized that I am almost underlining the very same sentences that other reader once upon a time did. It was a bit of a spooky feeling. I did not know how to react to it. I never liked these fucking lines but now it was kind of different. It felt like retracing a path someone went through before. It gave a feeling of uniting through reading the same line. Unification between to persons who never met, but by what they read they have experienced something common. Although the previous reader does not share this experience yet I feel an interaction.
He fucked up the book, annihilated the virginity of the text. But I now can feel what s/he has felt. It may not be "pleasant" but it's touching. As if you can feel, through the underpants of the guy you wear, how did it feel when he was fucking your mum.

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از جنده گی تا سیاست
تنها
یک سرگیجه
جامانده است
و آه که من چقدر از واژه ی ِ آزادی متنفرم!

I pay tax; therefore I am. I have a Hungarian friend who once told me that his first impression after a week he moved to Denmark was that he would read in the newspapers that for example a guy who had committed murder was released from prison after two weeks but another who cheated the tax system was sentenced 12 years imprisonment! So check out the "Bogus Danes living in Sweden"

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Where is the border line between real and surreal? Are we living in a dream; In one of the Dali's paintings or in a movie of Bunuel? Or is it still the actual world where we are lost in? I though art could always be the most brutal of a human kind or as Artaud puts it Cruelty. But I seem to have been wrong.
"Another blanket is opened; inside are the bodies of a mother and child. The child, six or seven years old, is lying against his or her mother, as if seeking comfort. But the child has no head." Reports the Independent.

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Syber Satan has attacked the three-dimensional church. I mean what can one add to this?

Size DOES matter

Small country, small bomb or as we might say, "lille land, lille bombe"!

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سجلدَحوال

نام
نام ِ خانواده گی
نام ِ پدر
تاریخ ِ تولد
جنس
مذهب
تحصیلات
شغل
نشانی
و غیره ...
را نوشتم
و خود گم شدم.

I just had a dream. It was night somewhere in a street. I was with couple of other people. I felt a pain in my teeth, which was not actually painful but overwhelming and incomprehensible. I felt that my upper front teeth are cracking down. They were cracking with such a calm noise and fell into my palm. And then I began to bleed…

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Imagine you're a soldier and have made a deal with your mates in an Iraqi prison to have fun with the prisoners. Will you video and photograph the shit you doing? Wouldn't you be concerned that your ass is gonna be caught and you'll be in a fucking deep shit problem? Sine the news of "abuse" broke out I keep asking myself why did these dumb ass soldier not think that sooner or later these photos or videos are gonna be found and they're gonna be fucked up?
The answer might be that they did not really think that they are doing something wrong or in the other words they have been "just doing what [they were] told to do".
Otherwise one wouldn't "video footage from Abu Ghraib which show US soldiers having sex with an Iraqi woman prisoner, troops almost beating a prisoner to death, and the rape of young boys by Iraqi guards at the jail".
"NBC also reported that the rape of young boys by Iraqi guards, apparently in a special section of the prison, had been filmed by US soldiers."
"Ms Harman [one of the accused] said they were told to break the prisoners down in preparation for questioning. "They would bring in one or several prisoners at a time already hooded and cuffed. The job of the MP [military police] was to keep them awake, make it hell so they would talk," Ms Harman, 26, from northern Virginia, told The Washington Post. "The person who brought them in would set the standards on whether or not to 'be nice'."

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She says, "You're my sexual disease"!

گشتیم، بود
نگردید، حلّه!

Goddag mand økseskaft!

I just borrowed this book, Film Scheduling from our cool library (I mean, all the libraries are great here in Denmark) and was having a look at it while I was on the bus home. There is a glossary in the end of the book. The definition of the word, Director is quite funny; it is thus:

"Director: hired by the producer, the director is the person responsible for the creative aspects of a motion picture or television show".

It is not incorrect actually, but this is not how one usually puts it. At least the directors themselves never do. The more "artist" a director, the more offensive the definition above, am I not right?
There are two kind of directors. Those who say, "I'm an artist" and make few movies, if any, of which one may find the contradiction to this very "I'm an artist". They may of course make good shit as well, doubtlessly. There are another kind, such as Hitchcock, who say, "I'm a professional" and make lots of movies, so that some eventually turn out being the coolests.
P.S. Do I need to say, "fuck the third kind who neither finishes a job nor admits that he doesn't know whether to spell "art" with a Q or a "J"?

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Oh man, ha ha! It's fucking hilarious. The American Embassy has its bank account at Jyske Bank! Red-necks!

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I am an egocentric maniac, I know that. So excuse me while I enjoy being complimented by people.
A friend of mine and I were having some talks on writing some movie scripts. He believed that the only subject left that could have made any impact on audience is Pedophilia. So we had a few sessions discussing the movie and I had eventually come up with some greasy and abhorrent ideas.
I was searching my e-mail box today and found an almost one-year-old e-mail from this friend of mine, replying to some of my ideas, stating: "you're a sick twisted fuck...but interesting".
I was so happy to hear that. >:)

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روزی ـ روزگاری در جمهوری ی ِ اسلامی آدم ها را اعدام می کردند. امروزه ـ روز آدم را "می کنند" تا اعدام کنند! می گی نه، نیگا کن.

I've got a vision. I do believe one of these days someone with a big knife will stab me right in the face, while I'm seated in a train, reading my book. I can feel the knife passing through my front teeth, slitting my palate, slicing the bottom of my nostrils. I can taste the salty blood pouring down from under my eyes into my mouth. I can't make a noise. The guy who has hit me gets off the train, leaving his knife on my face. None of the other passengers have noticed what has just happened. How could they? It happened so fast. I couldn't even make a noise.
It the last station the driver finds my dead body in the compartment just behind his cabin. He thinks he is dreaming. He doesn't believe it's my corpse sitting calmly on the seat with a big bloody knife planted into it's head.

مرا به خاطر نسپار، اما فراموش هم نکن

کلمه ای که می خواستم را به خاطر نمی آورم. همه جا را دنبالش گشتم. انگار که من خیالاتی شدم؛ چنین کلمه ای انگار اصلا ً وجود ندارد. معین و دهخدا را هم از سر تا ته خواندم. نیست. پس من چرا فکر می کنم که این کلمه بایست وجود داشته باشد. چرا وجود ِ چیزی که هیچوقت وجود نداشته بایستی این قدر مهم باشد؛ این قدر پریشان کننده، این قدر هراس انگیز باشد؟ من چه مرگم شده است. هر شب همین وقت؛ یعنی درست وقتی که سر ِ شب صبح می شود، جلد ِ بعدی ی ِ فرهنگ لغت را از زیرزمین در می آورم و از ترس ِ اینکه مبادا صبح خواب بمانم وبه کارهایم نرسم در میان ِ اوراق ِ پوسیده ی ِ کتاب به دنبال ِ کلمه ی ِ مورد ِ نظر می گردم. با این خیال که اگر امشب را بیدار بمانم، فردا را حتما ً سر ِ وقت به رختخواب خواهم رفت و نتیجتا ً از پس فردا زنده گی ام یک نظم ِ معمول، به خود خواهد گرفت؛ نظمی که شاید مرا به نحوی به دنیای ِ آدم های ِ طبیعی ربط دهد. ولی افسوس. نه تنها تمام ِ روز را مثل ِ جسد توی ِ رختخواب افتاده ام و به هیچ کاری در طول ِ روز نمی رسم، بلکه این کلمه ی ِ لعنتی هم بیش از پیش مشوشم می کند.
مدت ها فکر می کردم که این کلمه با سین شروع می شود. ولی نمی توانستم پیدایش کنم. یعنی همه ی ِ کلماتی که با سین نوشته می شودرا در فرهنگ ِ لغت مطالعه کردم. ولی کلمه ی ِ مورد ِ نظرم پیدا نمی شد. رفتم به بازار ِ کهنه فروش ها و یک فرهنگ ِ عربی خریدم. با خودم فکر کردم شاید کلمه ای که دنبالش می گردم عربی باشد. نمی دانستم که این عقیده قرار است به چه قیمتی تمام شود. یعنی اگر بشود در زبان ِ دومی دنبال ِ کلمه ای کشت که در زبان ِ خودت یافتنی نیست، این امکان به شکل ِ بالقوه وجود دارد که آدم بعد از اینکه مطمئن شد کلمه ی ِ مربوطه در زبان ِ دوم هم غیر ِ قابل ِ دستیابی ست وسوسه شود که به سراغ ِ زبان ِ سوم و چهارم و ... برود. و این جاست که آدم ممکن است یک روز به خیابان برود و بدون ِ اینکه خودش متوجه باشد از آدم ِ بغل دستی اش بپرسد که " ببخشین، این تقویم مال ِ امساله ؟"
بله. حساب ِ روزها و سال ها از دست ِ آدم در می رود. تنها حسی مبهم از زمان در ته ِ ذهن آدم ، مثل ِ خاطرهای گنگ، همچون شبح پدیدار می شوند و بعد که می خواهی دنبالشان را بگیری به سرگیجه می افتی. زمان فقط سرگیجه است. عین ِ همین مرز ِ ناملموس ِ تاریکی و روشنی که بی آنکه بفهمی روزی را به روز ِ دیگر وصل می کند. یا در زمستان ها شبی را به شبی دیگر. اینجا انتهای ِ تحمل ِ طبیعت است. انگار روز و شب تحملشان تاق شده و قرار گذاشته اند که سال را بین ِ خودشان تقستم کنند. شش ماه مال ِ روز؛ شش ماه هم مال ِ شب.
در همین لحظه های ِ گذر ِ روز از روز یا شب از شب، در همین لحظات ِ آرام ِ مه آلود که تعریف ِ همه چیز دستخوش ِ حضور ِ پُر طمأنینه ی ِ رخوت ِ سنگین ِ مه است کلمه ای که پیدایش نمی کنم مثل ِ خارش ِ کف پا توی ِ پوتین ِ سربازی، سر ِ صف ِ صبحگاه تمام ِ هستیم را مختل می کند. کلمه ای که هیچگاه نمی یابیش. کلمه ای که در هیچ زبانی نیست. اما تو مطمئنی که بایست باشد. نه اینکه قبلا ً جایی دیده ای اش. اما فقدانش همچنان درد ِ شبهای ِ کسالت آور را دوچندان می کند و روزها روز به روز تهوع آورتر می شوند. حتا اگر دیگرزمان را حس نکنی، فقدان ِ آن چه که هیچ مبدائی و ریشه ای جز ابهامی تلخ در ذهنت ندارد لحظات را تحمل ناپذیرتر از آنچه که هستند می کند.
چه خوب است که آدم گاه دنبال ِ کلمه ی ِ موهومی بگردد که اصلا ً وجود ندارد؛ هیچ وقت وجود نداشته. این طور آدم تصور می کند زنده گی ی ِ احمقانه اش هدفی را دنبال می کند.