f's phrase of the year:

You English-speaking people and your.... context

since when the freaking hell does it snow like this in november

3-hour deadline to submit to a poetry contest.... 1.5 hours spent writing a 5-line cover letter/bio
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yeah

well, that's it. the phrase that entered my head today was یه‌ کمی поправилась.

sometimes writing is staring at your feet.

f's phrase of the Scotland

You're a sheep in a babushka scarf

Fàilte gu Alba

It was in a zombie-like state that we landed in Edinburgh on account of little-to-no sleep (the usual conditions of flight), teenager-induced fury (can you be fined for leaving your light on, shuffling a deck of cards on a darkened airplane), and Air Canada Rouge (no more need be said).

Still, we were excited (and, in my case, relieved to have avoided murder-by-card-shuffle).

As we made our way down to customs, a nice, Canadian-sounding couple held the door of the "lift" open for us--the door which, when closed, caused every light in the elevator to turn off. And so, following a lively "we should be having popcorn", we all descended to passport control in the dark.

In the daze of the next few hours we roamed around a beautifully green metropolis and rows and rows of elegant Georgian townhouses, where my tendency to gaze into people's homes was intensified by the--it's not my fault--open doorways (in the middle of the city!), short curtains, drawn-back curtains, and what appeared to be wealth coupled with the occasional kitsch.

By the time we settled in Dishoom to have (an incredible) lunch we were completely exhausted by the un-Torontonian incline of a city where a pleasant downward tilt was inevitably coupled with a laborious ascent--god-willing on an empty stomach. Still, I had a good mental laugh when, forgetting that I was in English-speaking country, I couldn't decide between Persian and French, and then, remembering, between "bathroom" and "washroom" (realizing my mistake, of course, when faced with the simple UK "toilet").

After another lovely day in Edinburgh we joined a tour of the Highlands, during which we learned that Germans/Austrians are consistently the loveliest, friendliest fellow travellers; that being from Canada was akin to being from Mars, so rare were we among the throngs of American and European tourists; that New Zealanders drink Pepsi, it seems, by the gallon; and that extended bus rides put me to sleep like nothing else on earth--that is, I spent so much of our drive in an induced coma that Farzaneh eventually took to asking, "were you awake when our guide said..." (Another common refrain was, "don't mind her, she's Russian", when I was lost to the raspberry bushes; fellow Russians, take note!).

Yvonne, lest I forget to sing her graces, was marvelous. A "wee lass" about my size, about my age, narrated without pause while driving like the devil through twisting, winding, bumpy Highland roads--meaning so safely and confidently that even I, whose terrified North American brain translated every car in the neighbouring lane as "JESUS, oncoming traffic", was lulled to sleep (see above). Yvonne, who spent her spare moments in the greenery disposing of roadside litter, was the perfect representation of every Scot we met along the way: charming, mellow, lovely, all warmth and hospitality. We had not been so smiled-at or so sincerely greeted since Halifax (which, of course, makes perfect sense now).

Truly, this was a place to leave your heart. We often found ourselves exclaiming, "people live here!" because who could live in this fairy tale of fog and thundering silence. Who could live on the Skye of To the Lighthouse, in the shadow of those blue-green rolling hills, seemingly without end...

I should mention, also, that up until the very last day, we saw everything from storks to sheep to crows to sheep to seals and even a gorgeous deer emerging from a distant Highland forest. But we did not see what I later dubbed "the elusive Scottish bunny" until the airport hotel (roaming), until the airplane (in a real bunny hop-run). So perhaps they only appear when one is airborne--or close to it.

But let's attribute that to the magic of this land.

Beware, you will be charmed to death.

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For photos, click here

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over to poetry for a new one, soon to be removed

tonight's (totally spontaneous) YouTube reel

Unbreak my Heart
Spanish Caravan
Severed Garden
The Winner Takes It All [weeping--me]
Tango, Scent of a Woman
White Rabbit
The Show Must Go On
November Rain
Bitter Sweet Symphony
White Flag
A Whiter Shade of Pale [live in Denmark]
Life for Rent
Here with Me [memories--you]
Torn [still good]
To the Moon & Back [still very good]
Come Undone
Desert Rose
The Blue Cafe
Goodnight Moon
Windmills of Your Mind [Dusty]
Simply Falling
Temple of the King
My Love [Kovacs--whoa]
Can't Get You Out of My Head
In My Secret Life
Thank You, Dido

my reaction to seeing a rubber band on the floor at work: "oh no, better pick that up, my cat will eat that"

the Crabtree & Evelyn brand is known, in our home, as any one of the following:

Evelyn & Crabtree
Crabtree & Murdoch
Hansel & Gretel

........and, my personal favourite:

Simon & Garfunkel

i can write when i'm sad, grieving, longing, but not when i'm stressed. what's that called..

i dreamt of my grandfather in such heartbreaking detail that it hurt to wake.

... simple, everyday motions like walking in the snow, ordering pizza, getting his text: "at the pizza place, unit 3".

the fact that i was an adult. that i held his hand while we walked, like the child i was when he passed.

The beauty of a phrase like

(خط کشیدن (دور

to draw a line (around)

... is the easy image--the visualization of a purposeful (and complete) mental boundary.

Perhaps the closest equivalent in English is to draw a line under. To move on.

But the horizontality weakens the resolve. The air above this line is empty, after all, leaving plenty of room for relapse, for negotiation.

What can be more conclusive, more reflective of the twin concepts of closure/enclosure than a perfect circle of finality...

it's ridiculous that without my "good" pen i can't sit down to write.

only Borges can offer a parenthetical this is not a work of history after providing a historical background complete with references and even--just moments earlier--a footnote.

"Story of the Warrior and the Captive Maiden." Collected Fictions, translated by Andrew Hurley, Penguin Books, 1999, p. 208.

the other day, i correctly translated/identified טעים (ta'im, tasty) based on my knowledge of the persian (which i realized at that moment is actually arabic) طعم (ta'am, taste).

whoa.

someone looking over my shoulder in transit cannot be faulted for coming to a certain conclusion: news on Middle East, Persian Twitter feed, Persian Telegram ("what's Telegram??"), Persian music, keyboard, notes-to-self.

who would guess the heart of this Russian-Canadian Jew.

a dream last night that a lady--a former drug addict--went looking for someone (or something) at her dealer's home. she had a suitcase with her and a plan to disappear into another (cleaner) life. as she walked away empty-handed, someone approached her with an offer. she confidently shook her head and turned towards the elevator, preparing to leave. the doors opened. she placed her suitcase in the elevator and, without hesitation, quickly returned to the apartment.

Who is دونing pomegranate at 1am
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I am.