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I spent a large portion of my morning holding back tears. I don't think I've ever cried over missing Mehdi, which is actually strange, but I've managed to pull myself together whenever I feel homesick. But for some reason, today, even though I had dragged myself to the library, and was under the pressure of an upcoming supervision, I still found myself taking that deep breath you take when you're trying to push emotions back in, and setting a tissue to eyes welled up with tears. But in the end, I'm not too upset about it, because it lead me to coffee with a colleague, who, I must add, is also one of the warmest and dearest people I've met at Oxford. We didn't talk about how pathetic my day had been or even about how horribly suffocating the thick, dark sky is. Instead, we spent most of it talking about creative writing, in a very raw way. We talked about how sometimes we find ourselves overcome with this intense rush of desire to write the novel we both have been thinking about for years, but how we just can't do it, for some reason. Why? "Why don't we write?" we kept asking one another. Well, we don't have time. This program is so intense. But, is that really the reason? Did we start the novel before the program? Did we write in our long breaks between terms? I don't think that's the reason. I've been thinking about this for six months now: Why don't I write? Because, if there is one thing that I am not confused about in my life, it is that I want to write a novel, and I know I can. I don't know. I remember my creative writing professor once told me that he will do just about EVERYTHING to prevent himself from sitting down to write. He said, he would straighten his laptop for minutes. He would dust the keys. He would even organize the pens in his pen holder, and label all the folders on his desk. And only when he had run out of all procrastinating tasks possible, he would start to write. I'm not sure what it is about that initial keystroke that's so difficult to overcome.

I was overcome with one of these rushes to write on the plane ride home to California, this past Spring. And I opened my laptop (probably out of sheer boredom on the plane) and wrote. I wrote the first three pages of my novel, and it felt so right getting this story out. Then my battery light flashed, and just as it was about to die, I clicked, "Save" and the window popped open, "File Name:" "Save as Type:". "Docx" was right. I paused over the "File Name" for what felt like hours. I thought, "If I label it as 'novel' then I'll always see it, and feel guilt over another unfinished project blinking at me in my Documents folder. I didn't have a name yet for the novel, so I couldn't save it as that. I couldn't save it as short story, because that wouldn't do it justice." so I decided, to name it "-----" That's what it's saved under. "This title comes with no pressure," I thought. 

Yesterday, I opened "-----" and felt my heart skip a beat, because no one can tell if those rush of writing moments churn out any good work. But I read through, and I liked it. I really did. I know I can write this novel. I know I will, one day. And today's coffee with my dear friend assured me of it, I think it assured both of us.  

Conditions

As I twisted a napkin, so it felt hardened into a chain, they spoke,
"If they didn't actually rig the last election, and Tehran is just very different from all other towns in Iran.
If smaller towns are influenced by promises and threats of the military,
     and if the military has sided with Ahmadinejad.
If there is no internal strife between Ahmadinejad and Khamenei,
If there is, in fact, backstage engineering of the votes
If people are not entirely as apathetic as it may seem
If they don't have any other dangerous intell on Rafsanjani,
If he has entered the race so late as a tactic and not in rashness
If Khamenei is actually convinced that he has the majority of the people on his side
     And if Ahmadinejad also imagines that he has the majority of the people on his side
If my sources, and my sources, and my sources of the right-wing conservatists, the left-wing liberals, the swing voters in Iran are correct,
And if we assume that they will hold the reins tighter as a result of the last election,
If there isn't a boycott against voting
    (because, you see, there is not ideal candidate, we are in defense, throw them onto a continuum, stand for the best of the worst)
If we all vote
Then, I am 100% sure that this election will move to the second round, and that he will win...."

Past them, in my line of sight,
behind the closed circle of chairs we sat in, in the cold common room,
a young man stood at a TV,
pressed his palms together,
and ground his teeth into the sides of his hands.

The score was 2-2
and it was a penalty shot.

This is why I'm lucky....

This is from the academic book I am reading for my dissertation:

"Only Noah and the contents of his ark were supposed to survive God's celestial wash cycle, and yet giants were still walking the earth after the divinity purged its dirtied landscape. Some theologians speculated that these monsters survived by climbing the tallest mountains and thrusting their nostrils above sea level for forty days and forty nights, or that one of them, Og, had simply ridden atop the roof of the ark." (Jeffrey Jerome Cohen, Of Giants, 21) 

Jiggy

What happens if I stand up in this coffee shop and just start dancing? If I stretch my arms up over my head, and wave them back and forth, take a step or two forward and then three steps back? If I turn really slow and then bring one arm down? What happens if for a minute I let go, if I defy the social 'norms', and do what I feel? Because that is how I feel today. I feel like there is an energy boxed inside of me that needs releasing. When I go for a run, and I'm listening to music, sometimes I casually raise my arms above my head and pretend like I'm stretching, when really I'm dancing. I'll swing my arms forward and back, to pretend like I'm shaking out stiffness, when really I'm moving my body to the beat of a song. And when none of that satisfies my urge, I'll just try to keep my feet on the ground as little as possible, letting my toes touch the ground only for a split second before releasing them into the air, and I'll try to capture that moment when neither of my feet are on earth, but I'm moving. Running is the man's versions of flight, I think. And it is just about the only sensation that satisfies my constant need to dance. Because that's what it is. I'm addicted to moving my body. When I'm home alone in Oxford, I practically do all my tasks with a little jiggy. I'll flock my arms like a chicken as I walk over to the fridge. When I bend down to get a plate from the cupboard below the sink, I pause a second or two and shake my booty, just as sexy as Beyonce (only in baggy PJs). When I stand at my closet to decide which shirt to wear (though I always end up wearing the same two), I'll bring my knees down and up, alternate between moving my hips right and left. And if I'm walking over to the chair by the fire, I'll do a full-on turn in the middle of my living room. Sometimes there's music playing, but most often there isn't. Is that weird? I'll catch myself every once in a while doing sporadic dance moves when its dark outside and my light is on. I think the residents in the apartment complex across the street must think I'm a little crazy. But what can you do when there's a jukebox trapped inside of you?