24 Jun 2020
Fereydunshar, 27 of December, 2019
Diaspora: dispersion: dissolution: a forced transplant: resiliance: memory.
I
Georgia became in a short time a personal thing. The designated limits of its dimension turned out to be a comfortable knitting and its borders special bridges connecting territories that haven’t been spoiled by the progress of the boring, unifying, and alienating globalization of the 21st century, made of white smiles and glimmer.
While Georgia could be compare to an observation tower from which to look the merge of peoples and cultures, Iran has remain loyal to its image of bellybutton of the world in spite of the big theocratic veil in which is covered.
Not always a trip comply with expectations and itineraries: often travelling is a collection of death hours, or is a bulimic activity, an excessive consume of places, things, foods, drinks, people, roads, smell..a nevrosis
18 Jun 2020
Shiraz, almost midnight, firsts days of january, 2020
After days of national grief in the city of Hafez: rain, markets, nighty roamings, hashish smoker who panhandle fire and bread.
We are three, we thought about going to Kerman but there the funeral of General Soleimani is going to take place.
We are somehow atracted to the idea of sumerging ourself into the crowd and be part of a cause that does not belong to us, just to taste the course of the events that, with passion and without regards for what the future will actual think, are considered historical.
After a quick reflection, and a brief discussion we thought that was wiser to avoid following the sorrow and turn our heads to the sea.
We want to reach Hormuz island.
We are improvising, we try to book last minute three seats on a night bus but everything is fully booked to virtually anywhere: we are not dissuaded, we are convinced that directly in the bus station we will find some last minute seats to Bandar Abbas.
17 Feb 2020
Tehran, 22/12/2019
To observe Tehran, as if I were behind a window: disguise as myself: absent amongs the city’s entropy.
A breadmaker has his mind away from us, he is not aware he’s being spyed on. Dressed as an unripped thinker who can’t ever take off his pijama, he lays down the dough on the hot rock of the oven. Behind us only the cold night, the closed walls of the other shops, the curb of the street.
Another night will end in Tehran: like a smoked sigarrete in a furtive alley.
10 Feb 2020
Tehran, 21/12/2019
To describe Persia it is not an easy thing nor a granted one: is easy to enter its borders, easy to interact with its inhabitants, easy to be moved and stounded by its martian geography, easy to be engulfed by the weight of a civilization that centuries before being seduced, forced and covered by Islam was – and to some extend still is – the bellybutton of the world and the obsession of every cultural and military power of its own time - nihil novum sub solem.
What is that fascinates to such high degree?
What lies behind all the insidious propaganda and delusions we have to cope with in our current era of intense [mis]information?
Is reality still stronger than any ideas or we have failed to create a proper division between the objective reality and the virtual ones: are we ought to dig into the details to find the underlined coherence and contradictions?
My iranian adventure was a deep trip into a country that appears more like a piece of acid jazz: non estatic, convulsed, to be redifine, changing skin, chaotic, noisy, unpleasant (at moments), mesmerazing, inspiring, fermenting, enthusiastic, melancholic, and in conflict within itself and within the power that dominates its demons.
A trip into the stomach of the ancient and current world to see and admire the patina that men from other centuries and millenea ago fell for.