Post by Nadar Hassallen on May 27, 2010 7:40:23 GMT -5
The chill of Alaskan air blew against the man's shoulder, clad in a baggy shimagh, the shimagh scarf being used, seeing as its length was longer than one might normally see, as a sort of cover, slung around his shoulders and waist. For a moment, he simply took in the severe crisp sensation of the breeze, glossed eyes closing to feel the nature around him, a sensation that he was unable to receive when surrounded by so many people, and for a moment, he felt something warm. It was not quite a warm in the oxygen around him, not at all, but moreso a warmth in his heart. Here, in the silence, deep in the stillness of an ever-flowing land, his mind was put at ease, giving him chance at thoughts other than his work. Though many would think otherwise, due mainly to his constant silence, Nadar often worried of the students, the teachers, the faculty of the establishment.. He worried about the two teachers who had their children here, in such an environment. He worried of the students who were going days without sustenance. He worried about the children purged with thoughts of evil.. He worried about those that were soft in speaking, too wrapped up in the disheartening thoughts in their own minds to come to purpose. No, Nadar no longer worried over himself. He had lost thoughts of such concern through the course of many years, and although many seemed to notice his sombre, sedated desolation. Not many, of course, but it had been enough to make him bothered of his own melancholy disposition. That was less an anguish of himself, but more of a trouble of the involvement of others into his situation.
Upon coming into America, Nadar had come into contact with so many new things, things that he would never have even dreamed of owning or gaining access to back over seas. First of all, the thirty-four-year-old man had the ability to read, what seemed to him, a never-ending supply of books, novels, scripts, manuscripts, however one wished to describe them. In the middle-east, these items were not a daily acquisition. Just the opposite, one had to know people or have people who knew people to even find good reads. Anything that was at hand for buying was gone through the government and given the "okay" to be seen by the general public. Like newspapers and theatre, novels were another way to get out the speech of mankind. As such, they were one of the first things to go once Iran became a "not quite democratic" party, as Khomeini would having put, saying that it would have been to close to the westernization of the middle-east, wording and action that would later cause incredible rebellion among the people. It was something that many people wanted back in that time, western ideals coming to the middle-east. The people wished to see a free world rather than a corrupt and every-changing constitution. At that point in time, Nadar would have been spending many of his days in the "box", as many might have put it. For traitors and rebels, it was a way to force civilians or pressured soldiers to stay quiet of their thoughts and keep in line. No one was allowed to read there. Chances were, it would be too dark to see, even if one had a book to read. After coming to America, Nadar utilized his rights to read. In fact, he had gone through nearly three-hundred books in the two years spent there. This was not only for pleasure reading, but also for the knowledge of American culture, history, and, most importantly, language. Once he had sustained enough of such information, he began his pleasure reading, an act that he often carried out, due to the sudden open schedule, something that he had not often bumped into while over-seas. Some of these books included famous novels, such as The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald, a marvelous read that he quite enjoyed, although he would never be able to understand why someone would take the labors of documenting such a scrupulous tale, more of a critic on the point of view than the writing or contents, Animal Farm by George Orwell, a severely spelled-out take on the world and how, through the attempt at equality, no matter what events take place, one person or race will subtly find a way to take charge, A Farewell to Arms by Ernest Hemingway, a painstaking piece that could forever be placed into the situations that Nadar had been through himself, something that he had to cease reading after going through half of the pages, and Breakfast at Tiffany's by Truman Capote, a novel about a quirky and sexy woman who, despite her endeavors at parties and social events, is not at all what she seems, something that Nadar, though enjoying the writing style, was unable to truly get into, having no mental connection with the plot of character mindset. In fact, Nadar had come into contact with such a variation of stories and plots that his mind could only begin to handle so much, and with his terrible memory, something that he often felt might be a ticket to his grave, he was quick to forget names and titles of many pieces. Of course, there were just as many that he kept decent detail of, and fitting, he often kept journals of what he was reading, jotting down notes and thoughts as he would go along with his novelistic studies. Many of such novels had an outlined collection of the psychiatric stand point of certain characters, such as J.D. Salinger's The Great Gatsby, Truman Capote's In Cold Blood, or William Faulkner's Soldiers' Pay. Of course, the older man had also read his own deal of romantic novels, such as Pride and Prejudice (Jane Austen), Born in Ice (Nora Roberts), and Gone With the Wind (Margaret Mitchell), but none of that genre seemed to attract his attention or keep it if at all gained. After the death of his best friend, he had not the heart to read anything where a person was personified by someone that they spent every waking moment with. Although in non-romantic terms, Kaved had been the one person who seemed able to bring all of Nadar's thoughts into vocal action. He gave Nadar a voice when the man was too afraid to speak, too beaten by the government to even recall the fact that he even had a voice to use for portraying his emotions. It was the birth of such thoughts that dragged Nadar out of his books and onto places like this; this was a place where the young man could speak to the single person that, no matter where he was, Nadar knew would be listening.
It was the exact reason that he was sitting on the roof that very moment. Of course he had been thinking of his best friend; he was always thinking of the great times the two had enjoyed together. It was because of that older man, by a mere three years, that Nadar had gone through so many days of turmoil without losing his mind. In fact, Kaved was the soul reason why Nadar waited so long before running away, which, at a younger and less experienced age, would have probably gotten him killed, despite the reactions he had gotten whence attempting such as a teenage boy.
God only knew how much Nadar had to say, how much he needed to express to his friend. "First of all.." Nadar muttered to the wind, "I miss you.. I do not believe words in any form... Could ever describe how much I miss you." To any person keeping watch, he might have sounded mentally challenged, speaking to no person in general, only to what could have been the voices in his head... Or an illusion of the mind. Of course, with the occupants of the reform school at which he taught physical education and health, it was not an odd occurrence to meet a child with such ailments, but to have a faculty member under such extreme psychological relapse would have made a scene. Such a thing could have easily ended in the taking of his job, and with his lack of a "green card" as an American would have described it, the very last thing that Nadar Hassallen needed was questioning.
"I wish you could see this place... There is no sign of sand anywhere. And the mountains... They are covered in trees which are called 'evergreens'. The name is for the unusual way that they stay lush during such harsh conditions.. There is a man here, named Kohaku LeBara.. He has told me that, once the Summer comes, much of the snow will melt away.. And the flowers will grow. I do remember how you and I would search for the few flowers in battle... How we would pray that they were not disturbed from their place.. Do you remember these times? .. I do..." his speaking seemed distant, as if there was too much plaguing his mind to focus on a single subject in particular, a line of ideals plummeting through his mind sight as quickly as the one before it was to be spoken, "There are so many things here. I would never have dreamed. Here, men and women kiss openly.. And show affection toward each other. Women.. Do not have to hide their face from the world. Books. Music. Theatre.. Kaved, there is so much I wish I could show you... I read a book in which man spoke of his dislike of the government... There were no soldiers to beat me and burn it. In fact, I could have openly commented and none would have opposed my thoughts.." After a moment, he looked down to his hands, then closed his eyes to stop the upcoming of liquid to burn his lids. After calmed, the man looked up at the darkened sky, picking a star to name as his consort before continuing his rant, already having spoken more than he would in a normal day, with the exception of teaching.
"They have.. Fountains... In these fountains, you are able to get water.. Whenever you like. This water is clean, Kaved. One does not have to boil their water before drinking it.. You merely place a glass under and drink it 'straight from the tap' as I have heard it said.." again, he paused, this time to wipe an already forming tear from his eye, "And food, Kaved. There is an open supply of food for any faculty and student to take part in... I do not have to wonder when I will next have a meal.. Nor must I hide sustenance in fear that it will be taken from me.." Wiping his eyes at that point had seemed futile, for by then, he was in a mad frenzy of tears, contorting his face into an odd scowl, deterring from his usual stoic expression. As the salt-water continued to flow from his eyes, an unusual whine escaped his lips, though delving into a deeper subject that had been consuming his mind as of late, a horrible thought that often reoccurred in both his cerebration and dreams.
"You do not hold.. You could not know... How much I wish for you to be here as well.. If I had decided to leave earlier.. To take you with me.. If we had gone together, then-- " his voice broke off into a collection of sobs, tears that he had not shed in a long while, "Then.. You could be here too... You would teach theatre. We would joke and wrestle... Just as we had always done.. Kaved, there are so many here-- But it is nothing but loneliness without you. You were my other half. Brother....." Upon breaking into Persian, his mind grew boggled with incandescent thoughts, zooming into his ears from silent conversations that he had gone over with himself many a time before.
"I could have done something.. Something-- I..." again, he trailed off, murmuring words to a brightly shining star in the distant darkness, his head falling against the curve of his knees, now pulled tightly to his chest, a single hand tangle in the mass of the man's coarse, black hair, the other rubbing lightly in the stretch of his temple and forehead, wrinkled with furrowed brows.
Nadar had come outside to collect his thoughts and speak with his fallen brother, but it seemed that such recollection had only put him in a fit of guilt.
Upon coming into America, Nadar had come into contact with so many new things, things that he would never have even dreamed of owning or gaining access to back over seas. First of all, the thirty-four-year-old man had the ability to read, what seemed to him, a never-ending supply of books, novels, scripts, manuscripts, however one wished to describe them. In the middle-east, these items were not a daily acquisition. Just the opposite, one had to know people or have people who knew people to even find good reads. Anything that was at hand for buying was gone through the government and given the "okay" to be seen by the general public. Like newspapers and theatre, novels were another way to get out the speech of mankind. As such, they were one of the first things to go once Iran became a "not quite democratic" party, as Khomeini would having put, saying that it would have been to close to the westernization of the middle-east, wording and action that would later cause incredible rebellion among the people. It was something that many people wanted back in that time, western ideals coming to the middle-east. The people wished to see a free world rather than a corrupt and every-changing constitution. At that point in time, Nadar would have been spending many of his days in the "box", as many might have put it. For traitors and rebels, it was a way to force civilians or pressured soldiers to stay quiet of their thoughts and keep in line. No one was allowed to read there. Chances were, it would be too dark to see, even if one had a book to read. After coming to America, Nadar utilized his rights to read. In fact, he had gone through nearly three-hundred books in the two years spent there. This was not only for pleasure reading, but also for the knowledge of American culture, history, and, most importantly, language. Once he had sustained enough of such information, he began his pleasure reading, an act that he often carried out, due to the sudden open schedule, something that he had not often bumped into while over-seas. Some of these books included famous novels, such as The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald, a marvelous read that he quite enjoyed, although he would never be able to understand why someone would take the labors of documenting such a scrupulous tale, more of a critic on the point of view than the writing or contents, Animal Farm by George Orwell, a severely spelled-out take on the world and how, through the attempt at equality, no matter what events take place, one person or race will subtly find a way to take charge, A Farewell to Arms by Ernest Hemingway, a painstaking piece that could forever be placed into the situations that Nadar had been through himself, something that he had to cease reading after going through half of the pages, and Breakfast at Tiffany's by Truman Capote, a novel about a quirky and sexy woman who, despite her endeavors at parties and social events, is not at all what she seems, something that Nadar, though enjoying the writing style, was unable to truly get into, having no mental connection with the plot of character mindset. In fact, Nadar had come into contact with such a variation of stories and plots that his mind could only begin to handle so much, and with his terrible memory, something that he often felt might be a ticket to his grave, he was quick to forget names and titles of many pieces. Of course, there were just as many that he kept decent detail of, and fitting, he often kept journals of what he was reading, jotting down notes and thoughts as he would go along with his novelistic studies. Many of such novels had an outlined collection of the psychiatric stand point of certain characters, such as J.D. Salinger's The Great Gatsby, Truman Capote's In Cold Blood, or William Faulkner's Soldiers' Pay. Of course, the older man had also read his own deal of romantic novels, such as Pride and Prejudice (Jane Austen), Born in Ice (Nora Roberts), and Gone With the Wind (Margaret Mitchell), but none of that genre seemed to attract his attention or keep it if at all gained. After the death of his best friend, he had not the heart to read anything where a person was personified by someone that they spent every waking moment with. Although in non-romantic terms, Kaved had been the one person who seemed able to bring all of Nadar's thoughts into vocal action. He gave Nadar a voice when the man was too afraid to speak, too beaten by the government to even recall the fact that he even had a voice to use for portraying his emotions. It was the birth of such thoughts that dragged Nadar out of his books and onto places like this; this was a place where the young man could speak to the single person that, no matter where he was, Nadar knew would be listening.
It was the exact reason that he was sitting on the roof that very moment. Of course he had been thinking of his best friend; he was always thinking of the great times the two had enjoyed together. It was because of that older man, by a mere three years, that Nadar had gone through so many days of turmoil without losing his mind. In fact, Kaved was the soul reason why Nadar waited so long before running away, which, at a younger and less experienced age, would have probably gotten him killed, despite the reactions he had gotten whence attempting such as a teenage boy.
God only knew how much Nadar had to say, how much he needed to express to his friend. "First of all.." Nadar muttered to the wind, "I miss you.. I do not believe words in any form... Could ever describe how much I miss you." To any person keeping watch, he might have sounded mentally challenged, speaking to no person in general, only to what could have been the voices in his head... Or an illusion of the mind. Of course, with the occupants of the reform school at which he taught physical education and health, it was not an odd occurrence to meet a child with such ailments, but to have a faculty member under such extreme psychological relapse would have made a scene. Such a thing could have easily ended in the taking of his job, and with his lack of a "green card" as an American would have described it, the very last thing that Nadar Hassallen needed was questioning.
"I wish you could see this place... There is no sign of sand anywhere. And the mountains... They are covered in trees which are called 'evergreens'. The name is for the unusual way that they stay lush during such harsh conditions.. There is a man here, named Kohaku LeBara.. He has told me that, once the Summer comes, much of the snow will melt away.. And the flowers will grow. I do remember how you and I would search for the few flowers in battle... How we would pray that they were not disturbed from their place.. Do you remember these times? .. I do..." his speaking seemed distant, as if there was too much plaguing his mind to focus on a single subject in particular, a line of ideals plummeting through his mind sight as quickly as the one before it was to be spoken, "There are so many things here. I would never have dreamed. Here, men and women kiss openly.. And show affection toward each other. Women.. Do not have to hide their face from the world. Books. Music. Theatre.. Kaved, there is so much I wish I could show you... I read a book in which man spoke of his dislike of the government... There were no soldiers to beat me and burn it. In fact, I could have openly commented and none would have opposed my thoughts.." After a moment, he looked down to his hands, then closed his eyes to stop the upcoming of liquid to burn his lids. After calmed, the man looked up at the darkened sky, picking a star to name as his consort before continuing his rant, already having spoken more than he would in a normal day, with the exception of teaching.
"They have.. Fountains... In these fountains, you are able to get water.. Whenever you like. This water is clean, Kaved. One does not have to boil their water before drinking it.. You merely place a glass under and drink it 'straight from the tap' as I have heard it said.." again, he paused, this time to wipe an already forming tear from his eye, "And food, Kaved. There is an open supply of food for any faculty and student to take part in... I do not have to wonder when I will next have a meal.. Nor must I hide sustenance in fear that it will be taken from me.." Wiping his eyes at that point had seemed futile, for by then, he was in a mad frenzy of tears, contorting his face into an odd scowl, deterring from his usual stoic expression. As the salt-water continued to flow from his eyes, an unusual whine escaped his lips, though delving into a deeper subject that had been consuming his mind as of late, a horrible thought that often reoccurred in both his cerebration and dreams.
"You do not hold.. You could not know... How much I wish for you to be here as well.. If I had decided to leave earlier.. To take you with me.. If we had gone together, then-- " his voice broke off into a collection of sobs, tears that he had not shed in a long while, "Then.. You could be here too... You would teach theatre. We would joke and wrestle... Just as we had always done.. Kaved, there are so many here-- But it is nothing but loneliness without you. You were my other half. Brother....." Upon breaking into Persian, his mind grew boggled with incandescent thoughts, zooming into his ears from silent conversations that he had gone over with himself many a time before.
"I could have done something.. Something-- I..." again, he trailed off, murmuring words to a brightly shining star in the distant darkness, his head falling against the curve of his knees, now pulled tightly to his chest, a single hand tangle in the mass of the man's coarse, black hair, the other rubbing lightly in the stretch of his temple and forehead, wrinkled with furrowed brows.
Nadar had come outside to collect his thoughts and speak with his fallen brother, but it seemed that such recollection had only put him in a fit of guilt.
