Neda: An Iranian Martyr

The BBC documentary on the tragic murder of Neda Agha-Soltan was broadcast on HBO this evening and is also available on youtube in six 10-minute parts that say a lot.

Watching Neda die will remain one of my most unforgettable experiences.


Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Part 5
Part 6

Weekend in Paradise

As already posted, the daughter just obtained her undergraduate degree at Stanford University. What a priceless weekend, from Philosophy Professor Debra Satz's thought provoking class day lecture on the ethical ambivalence of market forces (Want a lower interest rate? Sign over your kidney as collateral.) to Sunday's moving commencement speech by Susan E. Rice, US Permanent Representative to the United Nations.

I had read but mostly forgotten the NY Times article about the daughter's residence, Synergy. While I waited downstairs for her to get ready for dinner, some students in the next room were gathered around a piano. A particularly compelling song started, and I had to approach them to ask its title. As I entered the room, I saw that one of the ladies was wearing a pair of sneakers and nothing else. Their eyes were on my eyes. Knowing I would be examined for Neanderthal reactions, I allowed myself to see her as I would see anyone (neither staring nor averting). I addressed all of them, “Do any of you know what song this is?”

They smiled. A young man fired up his iPhone, "I know it's from Amelie" and started looking for a link to snag the precise title.
"The movie?"
"Yeah."
"That's all I need. Thanks so much."

The weekend took me back to my first college graduation and the exhilaration it produced. What an emotional experience, tasting and smelling the thrill and wide open space before one's child while being reminded that one once had that space, the operative word - had.

I'm skipping a lot. That said, in a certain respect, the song was perfect and will forever remind me of three days in June, 2010.

Graduation in Palo Alto

Greetings from downtown Palo Alto, where your humble blogger enjoyed delightful food (Red Curry Beef at Siam Royal) and shops including Mac's Smoke Shop, live music on the corner of University and Emerson next to the Digital DNA Sculpture, and a priceless three hour conversation with the delightful daughter, who graduates from Stanford University this weekend. Even more than San Diego, and differently but equal to Seattle, Palo Alto features a remarkably aware and educated population with no shortage of diversity or cerebral horsepower, a correlation I have noted on many occasions.

The daughter's genius boyfriend joined us for lunch. He won't talk about it, but she told me how last year he hacked into the database of a local prestigious network, and while inflicting no damage hijacked all of their machines and printed benign messages on their screens. He let them learn who he was, and after some conversation, they offered him a part time job for the duration of his time in Palo Alto. Well versed in Buddhism although he does not formally practice, he heads to the east coast this fall to start on his doctorate (Mathematics). The daughter, somewhat to the chagrin of dad (wanted Bloomington), returns to Tucson (yes, Tucson) to start hers in Sociology.

Her interests are remarkably similar to mine, which is what made the conversation so rich. We discussed consciousness at a depth I rarely get to experience, including distinctions regarding levels of awareness. At least in my experience, a “for real” talk like that (as opposed to a new age enthusiast offering his take on Peaceful Warrior) is very difficult to find. The key is “for real” and must involve actual experience resulting from effort. I can't tell you how moved I am that my kid is exploring this terrain. The bulk of the conversation involved the application of sociology to education. She was the instructor.

The Stanford campus is as close to heaven as I have ever experienced. In another priceless moment, I got to hang out at the Synergy House while the daughter packed up in preparation for the move (to the soundtrack from The Graduate). Her roommate, an international relations graduate from the Orient, and I discussed comparative cultures and the way religion influences the political perspective of a nation, in particular the difference between the Dharmic and Abrahamic frameworks. Does it get any better than having terrific conversations with freshly developed young minds while your graduating daughter packs up her things to Simon & Garfunkel? In my real life (The current fiasco is a practice life – at least I learned a lot, had a great kid, and got a full time slot on a campus with a part time faculty gig.), I want to be a professor at Stanford. Almost any field would be all right (except Chemistry, poetry, or anything involving a foreign language).

Carnival of Souls

Shot for a song by relatively unknown director Herk Harvey and featuring totally unknown actors, Carnival of Souls (1962) is a strangely compelling film that at first comes across as a mediocre B-flick. However, it plants seeds that produce an entirely different result, and despite some of the awkward acting and a few marginal scenes, this is no B-movie. There is a reason this film acquired a cult following and is frequently shown and discussed in university film courses. Very short at only 76 minutes, the story follows a woman who crawls out of a river after the car she is in crashes from a bridge and falls into the water below.


Skipping the plot, the film features a granularity that puts the audience right into 1962. You see the traffic, the car dashboard and radio, the advertising, and the background in a way that truly paints an atmosphere you can almost smell.

Things are not what they seem for this oddly cool yet drawn church organist who, in the most compelling scene of the work, falls into a sort of trance while playing the organ, the music drifting from standard church fare into notes and energies that are anything but. (The music required the use of a theater organ instead of a church organ.) Her hands and fingers, as well as her bare feet, acquire an escalating energy that does not belong in church, and hearing her, the minister rushes in to interrupt, deeply disturbed and shaken. Clearly under duress, he terminates her on the spot. What is that energy and where is it coming from?

She leaves, and we soon learn about the carnival that has been haunting her since she crashed into that river.