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The Shepherdess-Acts--

The Shepherdess-Acts--

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Publicado porhooshang danesh

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Published by: hooshang danesh on Aug 03, 2011
Copyright:Attribution Non-commercial


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After talking to the folks I sit through a
meditating silence. The sister’s anger, the
mothers’ shy approval, And I think I hear my
father, the dead are more powerful, and his sad
handsome face is here. He always jumped,
jumped rather than wait. He’d jump for the
brutal pleasures of everyday. He was like a boy
with his own bear. He’d been an orphan, so the
abandoned boy never left him.

He once asked me to go for a ride with him, and
took me to the most southern streets of Tehran;
places I’d never been to. In the busiest district.
So crowded, the very light seemed buried under
feet and noises. He parked the car, like he knew
his way around,, walked to an old cinema which
showed three Chinese Karate movies for the
price of one. He bought two thickets, we found
two seats in pitch darkness in the middle of some
dreary thing. The theatre was packed with men
only. They talked throughout the cheapest action
flicks, and broke

and chewed sesame seeds and spat the tiny
shelves at anyone seating below them. I
remember sinking into the wooden seat, thinking
this odd odor, these cold men, the flying shells,
this existing is the most horrid experience I’ve
ever had. And why is he doing this to me ? After
a few hours he got up and we left in the middle
of the third incomprehensible thing. Once
outside and in the car, he calmly said: “I just
want you to know how the others live.”

I didn’t speak to him for two weeks, until anger
receded in the distance.

“Once I had a father who was a giant.”

Silent repeats.

Because something tells me there are crocodiles
who lie in ambush.
And deep down I want nothing to distract me
from this knowing.
Deep down, I want nothing of this love.


I really prefer that everyone knows we’re all in
buildings with no fire escapes, and that light gets
buried in places here, and the faint murmur of
grass is gone and that mountains may have
stopped breathing and that isn’t good news and
“I had a father who was a giant.”

We’ll be mired by numbers, and stop-signs by
civic centers, by rootless thoughts, by un-read
newspapers- cashmere sweaters--sitting up in
By re-assuring cell-text calls every hour ! Re-
assuring what?
“I had a father who was a giant.”
Repeat this till you’re dead.

I wait all day aimless until its 11:00 PM in
Tamanrasset. I know she’ll be tired from her-12-

hour day, and that she is saving for me the most
special part of herself. I feel gratified. I almost
want a tiny madness in me to sprout, something
suggestive, something that probes the things of
the other side, something spirited. Blinded.
Something that howls in this special gathering of
us, pushing through our throats. Tearing out
roots, shaping new sounds. Repairing wounds.

She is late, and I complain to the computer, I
know its slowly acquiring, creature mists, its
future determines its now like a projection.
Blushing light from its far ahead makers come
in. It will be soulful someday, it says: “humans
create objects, and can give it soul. Rest
I know I want it that way.

When she clicks alive, I click right back. She
appears briefly: “I’ve been learning new English
for you.”

“Things to amuse you.”

“I don’t know how to say it, but I’ll write it for

“I go to take shower.”
“Then you can see my poussy, I want you to
think you can fuck my poussy.”

And she clicks off. The picture’s gone. I have the
sentence in front of my, she must have looked up
the words, and hurried through, with excitement
of their meanings.

And isn’t this a strange place for a dance.
Oh, savage Algeria.

I type:
“Les femmes Algériennes Je t'aime.”
“Algerian women I love you.” So, it’d be the first
thing she sees when she gets back. and wait
and tremble like a man out of its shell. Like a
man with grinding teeth, a knotted self.

“How long does a shower take?”
“Oh, mine are 10 minutes each.”
Silent conversations are statues, there are no
battles in them.

I want to hear the tiny sounds of water, where in
her body resist. The pink sponge, the green
soap’s slide..

She is back.
“How did it go?”

“Like this.”
And the towel is on he floor.

“Really, like that?”

“How will it happen.”

“Its like an itch, here, it never sleeps.”

“Now whip him, whip him.”
“Here’s where you be, where my finger is, here,
where the itch is.”

“My poussy, your love.”

“Your poussy, my love.”
“If you just look at it, it feels so good when I
know you stare.”

“Do you like me?’
“Yes and you?’
“Yes, yes.”

“Let me see, I have to see.”

“Its so hard.”

Then I dream of being on a roof’s edge.

“One more blow.”
“I want to see that nothing is left.”

Out on the sky no one must sleep.

Her deep blinding forms crackle the matter. And
out of the corners of night a leak.
A long enduring moment of tenderness escape.
In both of us, simultaneous.

And I become addicted to her, and she’s
addicted to me. And this will come to matter.

“I feel so relaxed.”

“I want you harder tomorrow.”

“Just harder, and talk to me in Arabic. It will
help me come.”

And then she teaches me the words in Algerian
Arabic. The words that can make her come

I won’t repeat them to you. They sound like
greetings along battlements. No fisherman’s
poles. They have the musical scales of wounds
and short boundaries. Words that never reach
the sea.

Then out of nowhere, she exclaims:

“I want sex, all night. And I like it rough, real
He looks at me knowingly.

And there and then it doesn’t occur to me, how
does a virgin girl know she likes it rough?

Out of two pages of Arabic words, I only
remember: Ahaboka Ya Samar.
It means I love Samar.

I paste her words in front of me so I can say
them on demand. I want to please her.

I log-into the travel agency and reserve my
tickets. In two months we’ll be together.

She says she’ll rent a house for me, it’ll only cost
120 Euros a month, with broadband, and a
satellite dish. A fancy TV set.
She watches Iranian-made religious movies
about prophets. She posts the name of her
favorite actors. They are all Iranians, I’ve never
heard of. They’re all actors we ban, on account
of complicity with an illegal government. She
doesn’t know any of this. Why bother?

She leaves little love notes on the actors’ site.
It annoys me. The act of not-knowing.

But I’m a horse trying to become a dog.
And she just wants to be.

And everything recedes slowly into daggers.

Perhaps because when love is in the flesh, it’ll be
shredded piece by piece.
And when its not in the flesh, its where the dead
And we know this.

And so if you want it to exist eternally.
You have to meet the dead, in their fields.


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