1399 by Pedram Yar

Walking / 1399 [RTE026]




Hey mom,

I know you don’t read this letter because it’s in English. And I don’ want to publish it in Persian. I’d like to hide our story behind English words.

In the spring of 2020, when the initial version of this album was made, I went for a short walk to listen to it and there, I ran into you. You were on the other side of the street and like always, you were moving your left arm up and down along each step you took. It was a unique image. Rarely had it happened to see you from afar. I changed direction and headed towards our old house.

The walk became longer. Two intersection later. Twenty years ago, when there were a few buses and the streets in “Ghasem Abad” were big and empty. Each distant horizon led to dust and road. The seats in the bus station were broken or there was no station at all. I remember the pine trees on which I used to lean while waiting for the bus, the trees whose resin used to stick onto my hand and clothes. Every now and then, you used to walk back and forth to the middle of the street and kept waiting at the dusty curve of the street for the yellow light of the bus. The moments passed too cold, too warm and too long.

So, one day you preferred not to wait any longer. You took my sticky hand and said let’s walk to the first station. We went a few kilometers. Everything got better. The cold became mild and the warmth became mild. My blood flowed faster and my eyes got brighter. The trees became more diverse and I saw the crows taking the same direction as us. I walked past people and saw the opposite movement of the clouds. I became familiar with walking.

You were my first walking teacher. Instead of anticipation, instead of my unanswered questions, instead of terrifying silences of the dust-ending street, instead of dealing with the dullness of Mashhad’s weather, you suggested walking.
Thank you mom.

Pedram

Art Studio & Record Label

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