First snow in Tehran

It is cold in Tehran. It is cold in Tehran. There is the cold steel of millions of cars that stubbornly resist to be revolutionized. There are the icy streams of Vodka that flows in narrow canals along roads; roaring forth from the affluent residential areas in the North; to enter the Southern areas of the city diluted in dull, dirty and shallow streams. There are the cold steel of hundreds of plastic surgeon’s scalpels cutting into the flesh of thousands of upper middle class teenagers; who all carry the banner of the revolution in the flesh; white band-aids on the bridge of their noses. There is the cold rim of Ayatollah Khamenei’s heavy-set glasses on roadside signs, reflecting the scattered rays from the silver steel sun disk up there far above the smog dome of Tehran. There is the warm light from a tiny fire on the sidewalk, soaked up by the contours of a little girl, clutching some cardboard as she turns to warm her bum – appropriately wearing a petite hejjab, of course!
There is the cold blue and green light from the fair ground lighting in meticulously manicured gardens and greens in the middle of endless highway loops and bridges. Was there ever such a desolate sight? Parks and greenery made for cars.
There is the icy peak of the far away, majestic Damovand, which still hasn’t been reached by the news of the outcome of ’79.
There is the flat golden sepia light from street lighting reflected off windscreens of cars as they park outside malls on Friday nights (Thursdays). Such is the public space in Iran – car compounds and malls.
The snow has started falling in Tehran. My weary Beckett shoes slips along the sidewalk – there is no revolution without friction. Foothold, we need foothold -- a revolution needs friction to be able to take off. Get us some salt, Nielsen!

(I turn towards Nielsen but he’s not there. He has abandoned ship. Off on a personal adventure. In pursuit of love. Has there ever been such treachery? Kill him, kill him – calls the mob. He’ll be the first to go...)