On March 31st, I woke up to snow. Blizzard conditions. I stared out towards the Alborz mountains wondering if its Christmas or if I died and became an elf.

It didn’t matter either way. I realized that I didn’t have to rock and roll in a toilet bowl as usual upon waking, and that’s all that counted at the moment. I rubbed above my navel and mumbled “Inunchuk”.

The previous 5 days had been a wandering blur of involuntary fasting and self-desolation. Not being able to eat anything, frequent bathroom visits, and fending off drugs and vague familiar faces incessantly recommending IVs; this had become my life. Then the last 48 hours were especially notable for:  increased diarrhea and extremely exagerrated farts, ranging from 9-12 seconds on average. Was I becoming a ruminant? Was I beginning to emit butyric, acetic, and propionic acid? My gastro-intestinal tract was being terrorized by Iranian pathogens!

 

It felt like a full on civil war inside; but instead of battle imagery, instead images of run amok circus events and medieval carnivals bombarded my consciousness. I used shamanic methods to rationally appropriate the pain (and the physiological cacaphony) into a healing narrative.

I failed.

But I kept trying. And for days. I didn’t know how or what I was pooping out anymore. Not having eaten for days, where was all this shit coming from? Was it residual crayola crayons and glue sticks from 1st grade ? WWF figurines? It felt like the invisible forces were scrubbing down my intestinal walls and sending my vital organs through a conveyer belt car wash from the 80’s.

I lost nearly 7 pounds but obstinately denied meds during this time. In the middle of all this havoc, I got a call from my father’s cousin who is a banker and he said his boss is “ready to see you immediately about the project…like right now….hurry up, he’s leaving town soon”; (he’s the one whose “close friends” with the President of the P.E.O.)

I managed to feign sanity and posture for about 45 minutes as I walked into a small green bank “Karafarin Bank,”; their motto was in English: “global knowledge, local solutions.” I quickly wished for a proximal solution for the runs.

Being out in the world required a level of focus and concentration I was not used to: I had to be deflecting gaseous emission protocals every 9 seconds, combating their diverse antics at the source, and employ my actin-myosin ring wisely.

I had a tormenting talk with the branch manager, who looked like Mr. Burns from the Simpsons; he interrupted my lofty explanation of the project to dial Ali Abadi (the President of the P.E.O). Mr. Burns had a brief chat with him as I looked away in extreme agony for a few minutes. Ali Abadi agreed to drop in “next week” for financial reasons and agreed to pick up any paperwork I can provide him about the project. I rapidly agreed to come up with something and went back to the apartment to tend to carnival demands.

In the last nite, a sort of aftermath bliss coated the intestinal carnival atmosphere and I began to look forward to the releases of 12+ second gaseous emissions throughout the night. They were unusually gratifying. My persistent whimpering and moaning while on the can transformed overnight into hefty unexpected, rejuvenating laughter. This was a turning point I said to myself; the carnival’s revolutionary guards had arrived and the scene would soon restore peaceful cotton candy production . I was very weak by now and I wondered how I could still be walking when I made my way to bed.

Staring out into trees covered in snow in the morning, I felt like I had finally come out of a week long coma. And a truce had been signed.

I wiped my ocean of drool and walked around the apartment like a gimp. I proudly boiled an egg. I hate boiled eggs. But this was going to be my first real meal in days.

It snowed rather hard for a few hours. It felt like Christmas morning minus my sisters and cookie roulette. I read Ayatolla Khamenei’s response to Obama’s New Year’s speech to Iran. Though Obama had an unprecedented new year’s greeting and directly addressed Iran warmly, Khamenei made strong valid points in his response, and rightfully cited the paradox in Obama’s address. I was still very weak but it was time to hop back into I Ran project mode. I mustered enough energy to begin progress on the new umbrella folder I had in mind; The I ran  Pitch Folder , offering the following documents for influential contacts I’ve made: Tyler’s letter to President Ahmadinejad, a personal letter to Ali Abadi (President of the P.E.O), a mission statement of the project, Tyler’s bio, my bio, a letter from US Track & Field expressing support for the project, a copy of Kintaro Walks Japan, and a brief history of hurdles over the last 3 years. I was determined to make 7 folders over the next three days and have the documents also translated into farsi. I established an April 7th Visa deadline.