• “ either peace or happiness,
    let it enfold you

    when I was a young man
    I felt these things were
    dumb, unsophisticated.
    I had bad blood, a twisted
    mind, a precarious
    upbringing.

    I was hard as granite, I
    leered at the
    sun.
    I trusted no man and
    especially no
    woman.

    I was living a hell in
    small rooms, I broke
    things, smashed things,
    walked through glass,
    cursed.
    I challenged everything,
    was continually being
    evicted, jailed,in and
    out of fights, in and out
    of my mind.
    women were something
    to screw and rail
    at, I had no male
    friends,

    I changed jobs and
    cities, I hated holidays,
    babies, history,
    newspapers, museums,
    grandmothers,
    marriage, movies,
    spiders, garbagemen,
    english accents, spain,
    france, italy, walnuts and
    the color
    orange.
    algebra angered me,
    opera sickened me,
    charlie chaplin was a
    fake
    and flowers were for
    pansies.

    peace an happiness to me
    were signs of
    inferiority,
    tenants of the weak
    an
    addled
    mind.

    but as I went on with
    my alley fights,
    my suicidal years,
    my passage through
    any number of
    women-it gradually
    began to occur to
    me
    that I wasn't different

    from the
    others, I was the same,

    they were all fulsome
    with hatred,
    glossed over with petty
    grievances,
    the men I fought in
    alleys had hearts of stone.
    everybody was nudging,
    inching, cheating for
    some insignificant
    advantage,
    the lie was the
    weapon and the
    plot was
    empty,
    darkness was the
    dictator.

    cautiously, I allowed
    myself to feel good
    at times.
    I found moments of
    peace in cheap
    rooms
    just staring at the
    knobs of some
    dresser
    or listening to the
    rain in the
    dark.
    the less I needed
    the better I
    felt.

    maybe the other life had worn me
    down.
    I no longer found
    glamour
    in topping somebody
    in conversation.
    or in mounting the
    body of some poor
    drunken female
    whose life had
    slipped away into
    sorrow.

    I could never accept
    life as it was,
    i could never gobble
    down all its
    poisons
    but there were parts,
    tenuous magic parts
    open for the
    asking.

    I re formulated
    I don't know when,
    date, time, all
    that
    but the change
    occurred.
    something in me
    relaxed, smoothed
    out.
    i no longer had to
    prove that I was a
    man,

    I didn't have to prove
    anything.

    I began to see things:
    coffee cups lined up
    behind a counter in a
    cafe.
    or a dog walking along
    a sidewalk.
    or the way the mouse
    on my dresser top
    stopped there
    with its body,
    its ears,
    its nose,
    it was fixed,
    a bit of life
    caught within itself
    and its eyes looked
    at me
    and they were
    beautiful.
    then- it was
    gone.

    I began to feel good,
    I began to feel good
    in the worst situations
    and there were plenty
    of those.
    like say, the boss
    behind his desk,
    he is going to have
    to fire me.

    I've missed too many
    days.
    he is dressed in a
    suit, necktie, glasses,
    he says, "I am going
    to have to let you go"

    "it's all right" I tell
    him.

    He must do what he
    must do, he has a
    wife, a house, children.
    expenses, most probably
    a girlfriend.

    I am sorry for him
    he is caught.

    I walk onto the blazing
    sunshine.
    the whole day is
    mine
    temporally,
    anyhow.

    (the whole world is at the
    throat of the world,
    everybody feels angry,
    short-changed, cheated,
    everybody is despondent,
    disillusioned)

    I welcomed shots of
    peace, tattered shards of
    happiness.

    I embraced that stuff
    like the hottest number,
    like high heels, breasts,
    singing,the
    works.

    (don't get me wrong,
    there is such a thing as cockeyed optimism
    that overlooks all
    basic problems just for
    the sake of
    itself-
    this is a shield and a
    sickness.)

    The knife got near my
    throat again,
    I almost turned on the
    gas
    again
    but when the good
    moments arrived
    again
    I didn't fight them off
    like an alley
    adversary.
    I let them take me,
    i luxuriated in them,
    I bade them welcome
    home.
    I even looked into
    the mirror
    once having thought
    myself to be
    ugly,
    I now liked what
    I saw,almost
    handsome, yes,
    a bit ripped and
    ragged,
    scares, lumps,
    odd turns,
    but all in all,
    not too bad,
    almost handsome,
    better at least than
    some of those movie
    star faces
    like the cheeks of
    a baby's
    butt.

    and finally I discovered
    real feelings of
    others,
    unheralded,
    like lately,
    like this morning,
    as I was leaving,
    for the track,
    i saw my wife in bed,
    just the
    shape of
    her head there
    (not forgetting
    centuries of the living
    and the dead and
    the dying,
    the pyramids,
    Mozart dead
    but his music still
    there in the
    room, weeds growing,
    the earth turning,
    the toteboard waiting for
    me)
    I saw the shape of my
    wife's head,
    she so still,
    I ached for her life,
    just being there
    under the
    covers.

    I kissed her in the,
    forehead,
    got down the stairway,
    got outside,
    got into my marvelous
    car,
    fixed the seatbelt,
    backed out the
    drive.
    feeling warm to
    the fingertips,
    down to my
    foot on the gas
    pedal,
    I entered the world
    once
    more,
    drove down the
    hill
    past the houses
    full and empty
    of
    people,
    I saw the mailman,
    honked,
    he waved
    back
    at me.”
  • 320 syf.
    ·9 günde·Beğendi·9/10
    This was a tough read. If you care about women, it makes you want to cry out for them. A friend of mine from Ireland lent me his copy of this book and the first question I asked him was, was it good? He said, yes, and it is definitely thought-provoking. As soon as I finished reading another book for a book club, I picked this one up and finished it in four days. I literally could not put the book down. It is very well-written and tells a story of a man and his family in Afghanistan just after 9/11, during the Taliban times and after the fall of the Taliban. She claims she wrote it in a novel form based on true stories of what she heard told to her while living in Afghanistan. It definitely read as a novel, but I knew that it wasn't fiction from my experiences. I also knew that it's a very small representation of what goes on in Afghanistan in those areas as it is just one man and his family's story. It is also not a very flattering picture of that man's life and as for accuracy, I am assuming that it is accurate for that family, but not necessarily accurate for the entire society as a whole.
    Sultan Khan is an educated man who loves his books more than anything in the world and he has high dreams of printing books and selling them to everyone. He is also the head of his family, one of thirteen children. His mother, three younger sisters, two wives, children all live with him in a tiny flat that used to be in middle class district of Kabul before it was destroyed by the Taliban and the bookseller, Sultan Khan, is a canny and shrewd business man, as well as a devout Muslim, who despite his love of books, seems to have learned little from the knowledge at his fingertips. He rules the roost like a patriarchal despot with a decidedly strict view of the role of women. In fact, it is through the women in his household that the reader is drawn into how truly circumscribed and stultifying life is for Afghani women, even after the Taliban is no longer in power. Khan rules his household as if it were a feudal fiefdom, with little thought, concern, or interest in the desires, hopes, and dreams of the members of his household.

    But, what really broke my heart in this book is the youngest sister's story. She is an attractive and intelligent girl, but since she is the youngest, she is practically the family's slave ~~ always tending to the laundry, the cooking and serving the guests. She longs nothing more than to break away and maybe get a job as a teacher. She meets a man but her family told her to marry someone else. Even if she resisted and put up a fight, she would be killed like another friend of hers, whose brothers smothered her because supposedly "she wasn't pure and had a boyfriend while married to another guy". Women really aren't valued in that society other than to have children. It is shocking to read that even in an educated man's family, old tribal customs are still the norm.
    All in all, the book was hard to believe that somewhere in the 21st century people live trapped in their own lives due to no circumstances that they have any control. What is so beyond my comprehension is that how the Taliban was able to completely destroy a country and culture and still have fanatics that believe it is the way.
    Life in modern day Afghanistan is bleak, indeed. Those with an interest in other cultures will certainly enjoy this book.
  • "I am happy," you replied with a smile so soft that if I hadn't known you for years, I would have believed it. You leaned in to light the cigarette between your lips. One of the many vices you had willingly decided to adopt. Forcing them into your life as a way to disguise whatever other vices you had been hidding. "Why wouldn't I be?" You looked away so I couldn't meet your eyes. Even when your whole face and body believed your lies, your eyes didn't.
    Faker.
    "Out of all the things you are shit at," I said standing up. You looked at me, half laughing, half wondering what I was going to say next. "Lying is the one you suck at the most."
    You leaned back, both palms on the ground, your head tilted back facing the sky. Your eyes closed telling me that I might as well leave.
    "What a rude little thing you are."
    Laughing. Smiling. Like you didn't care. Faker.
    "I'm leaving now." You stopped smiling, but you weren't careless enough to let the rest of you know how bothered you were. "I hope you find the happiness you've been pretending to have."

    Consistency? I don't know her.
    I'm currently reading No Longer Human by Osamu Dazai. I really really wanted to like it, but... I think I hate it. I'll let you know once I finish it. What are you currently reading?
    Kaen.
  • Imitation is a factor of social training. In normal “society,” the phe-
    nomenon is limited by the multiplicity of choices and models suggested. In the CC (Coersive Cult), choice no longer exists and only one model is offered. Imitation of the other, or of the guru, takes on a character of ineluctability that blends into the process of indoctrination.

    Bandura described two phases in the process of imitation: a phase of observation and a phase of performance. Jointly, four sub-processes come into play during imitation. Attention, or sensory recording of the behaviors to be acquired; retention, which results in a mnemonic representation of the elements to be reproduced; physical replication, which has to do with repeating and integrating the behaviors to be acquired; and finally motivation, which influences the three preceding sub-processes.

    One can easily see that all the sub-processes are reinforced in the cult. The process of attention is covered by the selection or absence of information. The intensity of cult life is like “being hit over the head,” saturating the follower’s perceptive and sensory system. The processes of retention and motor replication are constantly stimulated by rituals — repeating “holy” words, memorizing texts, reciting prayers — which lead to automatic behavior and thought. Motivation is supported and strengthened by the obligation to produce results.
  • Kirase Mirine; Hewiti= Death gown;cowife

    I'd like to tell you about cowife that contuning from ancient times and our grandmothers described as death clothes.I’ve watched a documentary and in that, there are men,who has 2 wife or more than, and woman,who is been cowife, and their point of view this situation.
    When you ask men why they have 2 wife or more than;
    Firstly, a man says that If one of them dies, can I stay alone? I can’t. One of them dies, the other is ready.
    I don’t understand how can the man says that? I think this is selfishness.

    The other man says that I want her and I get her. That’s all. According to Sharia, you can have 4 wife. When you see King of Kuwait and Saudi, they have 80-90 wife but due to economic problems, we can get 2-3 wife. I have 10 daughter, whenever I want a new wife, I’ll change one of them for a new wife for me. When the second woman says not to allow her daughter, the husband says that the rifle is behind the door and has 80 bullets.
    So it means that the more money you have, the more women or the more money the more greed. I hope this mentality always remains poor. The women and the girls are not doll of men.

    And another man says that why should I have 10 children when I have 20 children?
    He spoke greedyily, as if offering each child a very good life.

    And women!
    Women begin to explain bitterly the fact that the past days that have not passed.
    One of them says that cowife is something like putting them in the grave and covering them up. In my opinion they die because their spirits no longer exist.
    Whenever I watch the woman, her voice is stabbing a dagger to my heart. You're so right I just want to listen to you and cry.

    Another says that even if I know about my brother's death, cowife is worse than it. Cowife is like a nonputrescible bough.
    How else could it be defined?

    Another woman says I thought that what was cowife? just two women together live very well. When I came this home, I understood that it was so difficult. Be cowife is so difficult for new woman and old woman.

    The other woman says that I was 11 when I got married. When I was 12, cowife came home and pointed to the person next to her.I haven't understood anything yet. Everyone had a second wife, and I thought it was a tradition.
    Oh my God! It's hard to be a woman.You should see how she told us in a helpless way.
    Her husband,who is next to his second wife, says that we saw each other at the wedding and fell in love and got married. But they're both useless. I'll take another one. 100 men, police office and turkish government can't stop me.
    When I watched them, I was shocked. And I have seen how ignorant the man has.I'm very sorry for him because he's never going to be satisfied.
    There are so many women who commit suicide. Cowife is like a death gown. I hope this ordeal ends immediately.