His artificial heart valves

The doctors said it's good for 20 years...max 25--his artificial heart valves. I don't even remember exactly but I know they gave a time limit. They said he can get it done again at that time if...well, if he hasn't passed by then. He was 56 when he had it done, and I always do the math: we will have to check it again around when he is 76---if, and only if, he is still there, that is.

Every time he is back from a blood test, and says his blood is not "meezoon", I do another calculation in my head. He is going to be 60 in December. Four years has gone by already.

Sometimes I worry if something happened, I don't even have enough money to get my ticket there. Sometimes I feel like the only legitimate reason I should save any money would be to make sure I can get there, if sometime happens.

When he had his "open-heart" surgery was when I had one of my major panic attacks, where I couldn't breathe. For months, every time my phone rang with a family member's name on it, I got chills through my spine.

I have suppressed all this. All the drama of the years...every single incident...every bad news. And now, they have come back one by one, eating away my flesh and drowning me into a massive depression.

Remember, there is a time limit. So it's just this moment that counts. Nothing else.

Sacred Sunday Mornings

I wake up early on Sunday mornings. Wash my face, brush my teethe and go downstairs. Open the door and grab the Sunday paper, waiting there for me, like a hungry animal waiting to be fed and loved.

I make my coffee, take out the paper and go through it page by page...well, not exactly. I skip certain sections like the Sports and Classified but you know...I try to enjoy it all. Always read the bestseller booklist and Steve Lopez's columns. The ultimate sarcastic writer. (www.latimes.com/lopez).

I realize, the past couple of weekends, I have even read the obituaries--very carefully, very in detail. This week, they had a special on the dead War soldiers: Sergent Martinez, 23, Sergent Hernandez 19, Sergent Garcia, 21...all Mexican young males. What a surprise that they recruit the poor minorities to die. Total dead in Iraq, they say, 3798. What a big lie...it must be triple that number.

I love my Sunday mornings. As I sit on my red couch, and the sun slowly comes into the quiet living room, My Sanctuary... I read, I reflect, I pray, I hope and I look forward to better days...because there will always be better days, because that's what the universe does, it moves towards improvement and perfection.

And still, writing is therapeutic.

Foseel

The place for mediation was on Wilshire Blvd, between Hoover and Vermont. So the day before, when I noticed where it was on mapquest, I decided to visit the people from the past who work on 520 S. Lafayette Park Place. Where I was stuck for 3 years and 2 months.

I existed Hoover from the 10 freeway. Saw the sign for Loyola Law School and smiled. Went up Hoover towards Wilshire and all memories came back. Part of me of felt I was back in my own element. Part of me was over it...had let it go.

At noon, I headed east on 6th Street, passed the Superior Court, the old Church on the left hand side and made a left turn on Lafayette. Parked. Walked upstairs. Got off 2nd floor. The carpets were new but they were this ugly bright green. The immigration lawyer was still...in business. I guess people are still coming in...God Bless the US and A.

Went inside and looked at LT. She started laughing while on a phone call, hung up and came to give me a hug. I noticed the doors had been colored this ugly bright blue also. I walk in and say hello to the ones that would remember me. B said I had gained weight! No Dah.

Then we walked to Pescado for some good homemade El Salvadorian food. On the way there, I noticed how anxious I am to get back already. I also started to wonder how all those people have stayed there for that long...15, 20 years. Foseeel shodan keh!.

We had lunch. Small talk. A told me about her Pilate's class, the highlight of her life. I hurried eating. We walk back and I say bye. Get into my car and speed to get to the freeway.

I had a flashback of me back then...how I wanted to move on, to get out of there, to get to where I am today.

Now, I am here. So I better make something out it.

Let it go...the past smells like dust and it's making my allergies worse.

3rd Sunday

Last night I finally cried. I was worried about myself actually. Worried that I might burst. I had been numb...walking around extremely calm, or much like a zombie. Emotionless...

Then, I cried. And I cried a lot.

But then, last night was the 3rd Sunday.

Am I still numb?

Brother Omar

Out of 120 people in that room, I sat next to Brother Omar. Well, when I chose that seat, he wasn't there yet. When I returned with my food, he was already sitting down. He had a full beard and was quiet. As I gobbled down my food in a hurry before the presentation started, I noticed he wasn't touching anything on his plate. His full plate, was sitting there, just waiting. I looked at him with a question mark. He noticed it. I tried to smile. Of course, I knew what was going on. Did he know that I knew? No, I don't think so. Brothers in the community would never believe that a Sister is not fasting. Then, he politely turned to the whole table and said, "If you are wondering why I am not eating yet, it is because I am fasting for Ramedon" Wow. Good for him, I thought. I felt kind of embarrassed and tried to eat a little slower now.

Then, we all finished our food, and I even had my coffee. They collected all the dirty plates, while Brother Omar sat and waited. The presentation began. And Brother Omar waited and waited until it was 7:07, Iftar time. Then he silently ate his cold food from his plate.

Yes, out of 120 people in the room, I had to randomly sit next to Brother Omar, who made me feel guilty. For what? I don't know, but I felt weaker than him for not being able to do what he is doing, for not being patient...for not following tradition. For not caring...

10 years ago, I used to fast, but today, I am much closer to God than I was 10 years ago.

There. I resolved this conflict in my head. Done.

JW II

He is going to die from a heart attack at the age of 43, in about 7 years...if he continues to smoke like this and work like this.

Don't say I didn't call it.

Aadameh Nashokr

I am one of those people. The more "Nashokri" you do, the worse it gets. They made this old concept grandma used to say all the time into a best-selling book called The Secret and are making so much money out of it.

Good-bye jacket

Last night it rained. It was the first rain of this "rainy season" and it's still summer. Well, it's Fall tomorrow officially. I heard the rain from my window hitting the ground really hard, and I smiled. I smiled because season change is a beautiful concept. In the morning, I looked for my jacket, only remembering that I left it behind in a hotel room in San Francisco months ago.

I hope whoever took it will enjoy it and will have a warm winter.

I, on the other hand, will have the opportunity to buy another jacket.

Operation Exit Strategy

OES has begun.

Stop blaming yourself...Ms. K. You are who you are and you need to experience joy in your life, every day, until you die.

Eugene M.

He used to live at my apartment before. They said he lived here alone for 7 years and took really good care of this place. That's all I knew until his mail came. He has not given an address change yet. First it was junk mail, until one day I got two copies of the L.A. County Bar Journal, one for me and one for him! Bingo. The old man is a lawyer. What did I do immediately? I looked him up online of course, and there he was, with a 5 digit bar number from 1976 and still had the old address--my address online. Now, there are two lawyers on California bar website with the same address, 29 years apart in experience, whom have never met.

I want to find Eugene, and give him his letters. Then I want to ask him what happened in his practice? Did he retire and move? Did he enjoy the years? Did he work at home in this room ever? Why did he leave this place? Was he ever married? Did he have children? Did he get a divorce or did his wife die from cancer? Why was he renting and not owned a house? Did he go crazy one day, quit his job at the large firm, so he couldn't pay his mortgage and the house foreclosed?

I want to know Eugene's life story. All of it. And I want him to tell me what to do with my life and what not to do...and tell me that this is all worth it...that one day, I will see that it was worth it...one day, if it's not too late yet.

fighting the big D (Depression)

An unexpected visitor.

A late lunch in a deserted dark sports bar with horrible service...salad and a basket of French Fries (What an oxymoron).

Good conversation about a potential business.

New hope.

Opening my mental knots

This weekend, I went to my jewlery box and realized what a mess it has been. All of my chains had been tangles together, to a point where I thought I was missing some chains, and had forgotten exactly what rings I had and how many.

I sat there, for about one hour if not more, and untangled every single one, cleaned them with this cloth and nicely put them back in the boxes, hoping that by doing so, I would also untangle my mental knots...

Gerehaayeh Ravani...as Dr. H would say!

No wonder my life has been such a mess and I could not think straight for months.

A couple of random e-mails to a few distant friends.

A couple of random faxes coming through today.

I call and leave a msg for another lawyer who is out on a Holiday.

No traffic on the freeways today.

Most of the day, I stare out into the half-empty parking lot and day dream.

Happy Rosh Hashana and of course, Ramdon Mobarak.

JW

He is really motivated by money, it's his biggest drive, although his car is older than mine, and the only clothing I have seen him wear is cargo shorts and a T-shirt---in the last 6 weeks.

He steps out every hour or so for a cigarette break. He reeks of smell.

He cusses a lot, as freely as he wants to, and calls other people dumb asses and jack asses a lot.

He knows his shit and he is a good lawyer.

Prinsoners of Mind

We let our minds run our lives. We are nothing but prisoners of our minds.

Our minds tell us we don't deserve better.

Our minds tell us what's right and wrong.

Our minds tell us when to be happy, how to be happy and how long to stay happy.

Our minds tell us the past will repeat itself.

Our minds tell us the future brings suffering.


I want to break free from this prison.

I will break free from this prison.

I am free of this prison.

She told me I am unstable and impulsive. She said this after 10 minutes of sitting down and listening to what I told her. We had not even ordered appetizers. Am I?

She said the best way to get over your weaknesses to to accept them, make friends with them, and make room for them in your life. Like roommates.

She said she likes my strength.

But She also criticized me for not knowing what I want from my career.

The sun screen guy said some of the most interesting people he has known still don't know what they want to do with their lives...

I am one of those interesting people.

And that was interesting lunch.

Summer Days in Tehran

The big charkh-o-falak was visible from our small kitchen window, where I would sit for hours in the long summer evenings of Tehran, watching the kids on the streets play soccer or just look at the charkh-o-falak and hope that my Dad would come home any minute after work and take me there.

At times, when the trees grew, the Charkho-Falak would hide behind their branches. At other times, especially during winter days, the Charkho-Falak was very openly naked.

I can still hear the screams of children who were riding the big Charkh-o-falak.

I would sit there on a chair and just stare at the outside world, while my mom cooked in the kitchen. I would eat some kind of snack like pofak namaki or gojeh sabz or geelaas since it was summer and the best cherries were from those Tehran summer days.

Some nights, he came home early and took me with him. He would hold my small hands and we would walk down the street, across the big Vali Asr Blvd. and go to Fun-Far.

My heart beat along the way. Although I had been there over and over in the past, each time it was a new excitement. We would usually go on about four to five rides. I specifically remember the Machine Zarbehy ride (as i make up the name now, of course), where you would drive this mini-car and try to avoid hitting other cars. There was also one big ride at the end of the park, which was high up, and when we were on top, we could see our apartment, on second floor of a building on 18th Street, Gaandi. At that point, I usually waved at my mom, pretending she was watching me now from the same kitchen window.

As I got a bit older, my Dad would let me go on the more "dangerous" rides by myself.

Sometimes we would go with other family or cousins. Sometimes my grandma or mom would accompany us. I think I always wanted to get Pashmak there or something sweet.

And of course, some nights, he would come home late or would be just too tired to take me there. At that point, I just sat by the window and waited until the sun set behind the Alborz Mountains, and the small soccer players slowly packed up and went home.

Nothing in America will ever satisfy my hunger for the long, hot and lazy summer days of Tehran from 1980 to 1988.

Something will happen in 3 weeks...that's all.

Three weeks.

My Black Baaftani Jacket

On September 8, 2001, when the summer had just ended and the cold wind was slowly emerging, I bought a black baaftani jacket.

It felt so nice to wear a new and warm jacket from the onset of fall...a fresh way to invite fall into life. Like saying, "Hello, welcome back. I am ready to greet you because I will be warm in this jacket."

That night, we went to the beach and celebrated his birthday. We went up a roller coaster and a charkh-o-falak even though he was scared of heights. He was so scared he would close his eyes when we got up there. I think I even remember him wearing this red short-sleeved checkered shirt.

For the past 6 years, I have always identified my black baftani jacket with him and his smile.

Tomorrow is his birthday again.

My black baftani jacket is old but still keeps me warm.

"it's all about memories..." he would always say.

Kissin' Ass

Kissin' Ass is hard to do. It's never been my thing really--ever. Not even when I was a child, I don't think I did it, to any one...no adults, no teachers...

Now, at the age of 30, I am slowly learning that in this world, to succeed, to move up or wait a minute...sometimes to just get by and pay your rent and gas bill, you MUST kiss some ass.

Ass Kissers are better off in life.

I will learn to kiss ass more often.