شاید وقتش باشد...

شاید وقت مردن باشد و زادن. خسته شده م از بودنم...

گفتا که نه تو مردی؟

رفتم به طبیب جان، گفتم که ببین دستم
هم بی دل و بیمارم، هم عاشق و سرمستم  
صد گونه خلل دارم، ای کاش یکی بودی
با این همه علت ها در شنقصه پیوستم
گفتا که نه تو مردی؟ گفتم که: بلی اما
چون بوی توام آمد، از گور برون جستم
آن صورت روحانی، وان مشرق یزدانی
وان یوسف کنعانی، کز وی کف خود خستم
خوش خوش سوی من آمد، دستی به دلم برزد
گفتا ز چه دستی تو؟ گفتم که از این دستم
چون عربده می کردم، درداد می و خوردم
افروخت رخ زردم، وز عربده وارستم
پس جامه برون کردم، مستانه جنون کردم
در حلقه آن مستان، در میمنه بنشستم
صد جام بنوشیدم، صد گونه بجوشیدم
صد کاسه بریزیدم، صد کوزه دراشکستم
گوساله زرین را آن قوم پرستیده
گوساله گرگینم، گر عشق بنپرستم
بازم شه روحانی، می خواند پنهانی
بر می کشدم بالا، شاهانه از این پستم
پابست توام جانا، سرمست توام جانا
در دست توام جانا، گر تیرم وگر شستم
چست توام ار چستم، مست توام ار مستم
پست توام ار پستم، هست توام ار هستم
در چرخ درآوردی چون مست خودم کردی
چون تو سر خم بستی، من نیز دهان بستم

رنگ تعلق

موارد دیگه ای هم هستن که باید به نوشته ی قبلی اضافه کنم:


ششم اینکه وقتی می خوای تغییر بزرگی بکنی باید آماده ی این باشی که دنیا باهات مقابله کنه. واقعیت اینه که چه آدما چی شرایط هیچکدوم از تغییرات عمده ای که تو رو از محدوده ی نرمال منحنی جابجا می کنن خوشحال نمیشن. همه دوست دارن تو رو پر از  اینرسی در جا زدن و تغییر نکردن ببینن به چند دلیل: یکی اینکه این تغییرات تو رو با اونها متفاوت می کنه و اونا انقده دوستت دارن که نمی خوان ازشون دور بشی دوم اینکه شاید این تغییرات تو رو از اونها بالاتر ببره و اونها انقده تو رو دوست ندارن که بخوان ازشون بالاتر بری. تو با تغییرت به نوعی نه تنها علیه خودت شورش می کنی اکثرا علیه اطرافت هم در حال شورشی و این خلاف پایداری و تعادل سیستمه. تو داری مثل یه پالس عمل می کنی که تعادل اطرافش رو تغییر می ده و این رو کسایی که تعادل رو دوست دارن دوست ندارن.


هفتم اینکه باید عاشق باشی. عاشق خودت، عاشق دیگران، عاشق همه.مهمتر از اینکه عاشق باشی اینه که متنفر نباشی. تنفر مانع اصلی رشده، مانع اصلی تغییر و بزرگ شدن. تنفر مثل زندانیه که فرصت هر تغییری رو ازت می گیره.

تخته بند تن

رشد شخصیت فرد نیاز به پیش نیازهایی دارد که تا تامین نشوند این رشد اتفاق نمی افتند: 

 

یکی خودآگاهی نسبت به نیاز به رشد است. رشد شخصیت در دوره ی پس از بلوغ به شکل ناخودآگانه کمتر رخ می دهد و اگر هم رخ دهد بسیار بطئی است. آنچه نیاز اصولی رشد شخصیت فرد است احساس نیاز به رشد است. آدمی باید از خود به جان آمده باشد و نیازمند برآمدن از خود باشد. این اصلا به این مفهوم نیست که شخص به خود علاقه نداشته باشد بلکه به این معناست که شخص خود را در حد فراتر از این خود موجود توقع داشته باشد. کسی که می خواهد رشد کند باید حتما به خودش علاقه مند باشد اما لازم است آنقدر به خودش علاقه مند باشد که از آنچه که هست ناراضی بوده و به آنچه باید باشد و نیست فکر کند. این انگیزه مهمترین نیاز رشد است.  

 

دوم ... الان باید برم علی رو ببرم فرودگاه. بیام اگه یادم باشه می نویسم. :)  

  

قبل از اینکه برم سراغ دومیش مهمه که باز تاکید کنم کسی که از خودش بدش میاد یا کسی که خودش رو انقدهم کامل میدونه که نیازی به تغییر ندازه، هر دوشون فرصتی برای رشد ندارن. 

خودآگاهی یعنی اینکه به خودت انقده علاقه داشته باشی که بخوای رشد کنی و در عین حال بدونی که هنوز خیلی جا داری که رشد کنی. 

 

حالا دوم. تغییر در جهت رشد در کنار خودآگاهی نیازمند جهشه. نیازمند اینکه یه تصمیم بزرگ گرفته بشه برای رشد و آدم با تحمل سختی هاش بتونه از مرزهای موجودش بیرون بیاد. همین جهش بزرگه که کار رشد رو خیلی سخت می کنه حتی اگه خودآگاهی برای نیاز به رشد وجود داشته باشه. موضوع بازتعریف مرزهاست. موضوع اینه که حس کنی مرزهای موجود شخصیتیت به هیچ وجه در حد توانایی هات نیستن و باید گسترشون بدی و این گسترش نیازمند اینه که با یه تصمیم بزرگ (و شاید سخت) از خودت بیرون بیای بکشی بالا. تخمت رو بشکنی و متولد بشه. پیله ت رو پاره کنی و پرواز کنی. یا اینکه پوست تنگت رو پاره کنی. همینجوری همینجوری نمیشه تصمیم به رشد گرفت و رشد کرد. رشد نیازمند انرژی زیادیه که مصرف کنی تا حدی که شاید همه ی نات رو ازت بگیره. 

 

و سوم، بدون خوشبینی نمیشه رشد کرد. باید به هدفت خوشبین باشی، تا بتونی سختی های رشد  رو به خاطرش تحمل کنی. باید جس کنی این همون چیزیه که می خوای و سعی می کنی که بهش برسی. تو نگاه دینی یکی از بزرگترین کمک ها و نیروها اسمش توکل و اعتماده. اینکه خودت رو به خدایی بسپری که فکر می کنی تشویقت کرده که اینکارو بکنی.

 

و چهارم، اینکه به اهداف دراز مدت نگاه کنی و از شکست های کوتاه مدت نترسی. این خیلی خیلی سخته. هر لحظه ممکنه ناامید بشی و جا بزنی. هر لحظه ممکنه فکر کنی ظرفیت هات در این حد نیستن. باید یاد بگیری که مهمترین موضوع واست این باشه که در راهی. اینکه داری میری. اینکه نزدیکتر میشی. اینکه تو راه بودن حتی شاید مهمتر از رسیدن باشه. و باز هم اگه توکل کنی سختی های کوچیک واست آسون میشن. جلو میری بدون اینکه بترسس. 

 

و پنجم، این رو گفتنشوخیلی سخته. بحث به قول اینوریا دیستراکشنز. اینکه چیزایی که همه ش حواست رو پرت می کنن. نمی تونم خیلی از بدیشون بگم. چون همینا کلی چیز یادم میدن ولی خیلی وقتا هم باعث میشن فراموش کنم که قرار بوده رشد کنم. درساشون خوبه ولی وقت تلف کردناشون نه. پس بهتره خیلی مواظب باشم و پای هیچ چیز فرعی بیش از اندازه وقت نزارم.  حتی بعضی وقتا سخته که بفهمم چی فرعیه و چی اصلی. 

 

 

آرزوی پرواز

گفت که با بال و پری، من پر و بالت ندهم 

در هوس بال و پرش، بی پرو پر کنده شدم 

 

 

 

تا حالا بهت گفته بودم من اینا رو نمی نویسم؟ خودشون اینجا نوشته می شن؟

پس چه ترسم، کی ز مردن کم شدم؟

این روزا روزایِ غریبیه. آرومم و سنگین. خسته نیستم. منتظرم. منتظر خیلی چیزا. منتظر آتیش، باد، بارون، رعد و برق،‌ آفتاب، رنگین کمون. منتظرِ دریا، خواب بعدازظهر، تنهایی، مرگ و تولد.  

مدتهاست که از آدمیت مسخ شدم، ققنوس شدم، اینو می‌دونستی؟ مدتهاست دردکشان می سوزم، به دست خودم خاکسترم رو به باد و بارون میدم، صبورانه زمان رو نگاه می‌کنم تا سلّانه سلّانه پیش بره، و باز زاییده می‌شم، خاکسترا رو کنار می‌زنم، نفسی می‌کشم، بالی می‌زنم و پرواز می‌کنم، این‌ بار بلندتر، این بار زیباتر، این بار قوی‌تر.  

این شده کار همیشه‌ی من. همینه که باعث شده روزمره نشم، حالم از خودم به هم نخوره. یا وقتی حالم از خودم به هم می خوره ترجیح بدم بمیرم.  

 

هین سخن تازه بگو تا دو جهان تازه شود 

 

و من هیچوقت تا این همه مشتاق باززایی نبودم.

 

 

The Final Scene

Mozart looked at me with intolerable mockery.

"How pathetic you always are. But you will learn humor yet, Harry. Humor is always gallows-humor, and it is on the gallows you are now constrained to learn it. You are ready? Good. Then off with you to the public prosecutor and let the law take its course with you till your head is coolly hacked off at break of dawn in the prison yard. You are ready for it?"

Instantly a notice flashed before my eyes:


HARRY'S EXECUTION


and I consented with a nod. I stood in a bare yard enclosed by four walls with barred windows, and shivered in the air of a gray dawn. There were a dozen gentlemen there in morning coats and gowns, and a newly erected guillotine. My heart was contracted with misery and dread, but I was ready and acquiescent. At the word of command I stepped forward and at the word of command I knelt down. The public prosecutor removed his cap and cleared his throat and all the other gentlemen cleared their throats. He unfolded an official document and held it before him and read out:

"Gentlemen, there stands before you Harry Haller, accused and found guilty of the willful misuse of our Magic Theater. Haller has not alone insulted the majesty of art in that he confounded our beautiful picture gallery with so-called reality and stabbed to death the reflection of a girl with the reflection of a knife; he has in addition displayed the intention of using our theater as a mechanism of suicide and shown himself devoid of humor. Wherefore we condemn Haller to eternal life and we suspend for twelve hours his permit to enter our theater. The penalty also of being laughed out of court may not be remitted. Gentlemen, all together, one-two-three!"

On the word "three" all who were present broke into one simultaneous peal of laughter, a laughter in full chorus, a frightful laughter of the other world that is scarcely to be borne by the ears of men.

When I came to myself again, Mozart was sitting beside me as before. He clapped me on the shoulder and said: "You have heard your sentence. So, you see, you will have to learn to listen to more of the radio music of life. It'll do you good. You are uncommonly poor in gifts, a poor blockhead, but by degrees you will come to grasp what is required of you. You have got to learn to laugh. That will be required of you. You must apprehend the humor of life, its gallows-humor. But of course you are ready for everything in the world except what will be required of you. You are ready to stab girls to death. You are ready to be executed with all solemnity. You would be ready, no doubt, to mortify and scourge yourself for centuries together. Wouldn't you?"

"Oh, yes, ready with all my heart," I cried in my misery.

"Of course! When it's a question of anything stupid and pathetic and devoid of humor or wit, you're the man, you tragedian. Well, I am not. I don't care a fig for all your romantics of atonement. You wanted to be executed and to have your head chopped off, you lunatic! For this imbecile ideal you would suffer death ten times over. You are willing to die, you coward, but not to live. The devil, but you shall live! It would serve you right if you were condemned to the severest of penalties."

"Oh, and what would that be?"

"We might, for example, restore this girl to life again and marry you to her."

"No, I should not be ready for that. It would bring unhappiness."

"As if there were not enough unhappiness in all you have designed already! However, enough of pathos and death-dealing. It is time to come to your senses. You are to live and to learn to laugh. You are to learn to listen to the cursed radio music of life and to reverence the spirit behind it and to laugh at its distortions. So there you are. More will not be asked of you."

Gently from behind clenched teeth I asked: "And if I do not submit? And if I deny your right, Mozart, to interfere with the Steppenwolf, and to meddle in his destiny?"

"Then," said Mozart calmly, "I should invite you to smoke another of my charming cigarettes." And as he spoke and conjured up a cigarette from his waistcoat pocket and offered it me, he was suddenly Mozart no longer. It was my friend Pablo looking warmly at me out of his dark exotic eyes and as like the man who had taught me to play chess with the little figures as a twin.

"Pablo!" I cried with a convulsive start. "Pablo, where are we?"

"We are in my Magic Theater," he said with a smile, "and if you wish at any time to learn the Tango or to be a general or to have a talk with Alexander the Great, it is always at your service. But I'm bound to say, Harry, you have disappointed me a little. You forgot yourself badly. You broke through the humor of my little theater and tried to make a mess of it, stabbing with knives and spattering our pretty picture-world with the mud of reality. That was not pretty of you. I hope, at least, you did it from jealousy when you saw Hermine and me lying there. Unfortunately, you did not know what to do with this figure. I thought you had learned the game better. Well, you will do better next time."

He took Hermine who at once shrank in his fingers to the dimensions of a toy figure and put her in the very same waistcoat pocket from which he had taken the cigarette.

Its sweet and heavy smoke diffused a pleasant aroma. I felt hollow, exhausted, and ready to sleep for a whole year.

I understood it all. I understood Pablo. I understood Mozart, and somewhere behind me I heard his ghastly laughter. I knew that all the hundred thousand pieces of life's game were in my pocket. A glimpse of its meaning had stirred my reason and I was determined to begin the game afresh. I would sample its tortures once more and shudder again at its senselessness. I would traverse not once more, but often, the hell of my inner being.

One day I would be a better hand at the game. One day I would learn how to laugh. Pablo was waiting for me, and Mozart too
.

روایت باززایی - ۱۲

When I came to myself I was bewildered and exhausted. The white light of the corridor shone in the polished floor. I was not among the immortals, not yet. I was still, as ever, on this side of the riddle of suffering, of wolf-men and torturing complexities. I had found no happy spot, no endurable resting place. There must be an end of it.

In the great mirror, Harry stood opposite me. He did not appear to be very flourishing. His appearance was much the same as on that night when he visited the professor and sat through the dance at the Black Eagle. But that was far behind, years, centuries behind. He had grown older. He had learned to dance. He had visited the magic theater. He had heard Mozart laugh. Dancing and women and knives had no more terrors for him. Even those who have average gifts, given a few hundred years, come to maturity. I looked for a long time at Harry in the looking glass. I still knew him well enough, and he still bore a faint resemblance to the boy of fifteen who one Sunday in March had met Rosa on the cliffs and taken off his school cap to her. And yet he had grown a few centuries older since then. He had pursued philosophy and music and had his fill of war and his Elsasser at the Steel Helmet and discussed Krishna with men of honest learning. He had loved Erica and Maria, and had been Hermine's friend, and shot down motorcars, and slept with the sleek Chinese, and encountered Mozart and Goethe, and made sundry holes in the web of time and rents in reality's disguise, though it held him a prisoner still. And suppose he had lost his pretty chessman again, still he had a fine blade in his pocket. On then, old Harry, old weary loon.
Bah, the devil—how bitter the taste of life! I spat at Harry in the looking glass. I gave him a kick and kicked him to splinters ....

روایت باززایی - ۱۱

I was now, as I perceived, that good-looking and ardent boy whom I had seen making so eagerly for love's door. I was living a bit of myself only—a bit that in my actual life and being had not been expressed to a tenth or a thousandth part, and I was living it to the full. I was watching it grow unmolested by any other part of me. It was not perturbed by the thinker, nor tortured by the Steppenwolf, nor dwarfed by the poet, the visionary or the moralist. No—I was nothing now but the lover and I breathed no other happiness and no other suffering than love. Irmgard had already taught me to dance and Ida to kiss, and it was Emma first, the most beautiful of them all, who on an autumn evening beneath a swaying elm gave me her brown breasts to kiss and the cup of passion to drink.

I lived through much in Pablo's little theater and not a thousandth part can be told in words. All the girls I had ever loved were mine. Each gave me what she alone had to give and to each I gave what she alone knew how to take. Much love, much happiness, much indulgence, and much bewilderment, too, and suffering fell to my share. All the love that I had missed in my life bloomed magically in my garden during this hour of dreams. There were chaste and tender blooms, garish ones that blazed, dark ones swiftly fading. There were flaring lust, inward reverie, glowing melancholy, anguished dying, radiant birth. I found women who were only to be taken by storm and those whom it was a joy to woo and win by degrees. Every twilit corner of my life where, if but for a moment, the voice of sex had called me, a woman's glance kindled me or the gleam of a girl's white skin allured me, emerged again and all that had been missed was made good. All were mine, each in her own way. The woman with the remarkable dark brown eyes beneath flaxen hair was there. I had stood beside her for a quarter of an hour in the corridor of an express and afterwards she often appeared in my dreams. She did not speak a word, but what she taught me of the art of love was unimaginable, frightful, deathly. And the sleek, still Chinese, from the harbor of Marseilles, with her glassy smile, her smooth dead-black hair and swimming eyes—she too knew undreamed-of things. Each had her secret and the bouquet of her soil. Each kissed and laughed in a fashion of her own, and in her own peculiar way was shameful and in her own peculiar way shameless. They came and went. The stream carried them towards me and washed me up to them and away. I was a child in the stream of sex, at play in the midst of all its charm, its danger and surprise. And it astonished me to find how rich my life—the seemingly so poor and loveless life of the Steppenwolf—had been in the opportunities and allurements of love. I had missed them. I had fled before them. I had stumbled on over them. I had made haste to forget them. But here they all were stored up in their hundreds, and not one missing. And now that I saw them I gave myself up to them without defence and sank down into the rosy twilight of their underworld. Even that seduction to which Pablo had once invited me came again, and other, earlier ones which I had not fully grasped at the time, fantastic games for three or four, caught me up in their dance with a smile. Many things happened and many games, best unmentioned, were played.

When I rose once more to the surface of the unending stream of allurement and vice and entanglement, I was calm and silent. I was equipped, far gone in knowledge, wise, expert—ripe for Hermine. She rose as the last figure in my populous mythology, the last name of an endless series; and at once I came to myself and made an end of this fairy tale of love; for I did not wish to meet her in this twilight of a magic mirror. I belonged to her not just as this one piece in my game of chess—I belonged to her wholly. Oh, I would now so lay out the pieces in my game that all was centered in her and led to fulfillment. 


SteppenWolf