STORIES OF MR. KEUNER
If Sharks were Men

Bertold Brecht

"If sharks were men," Mr. Keuner was asked by his landlady's little girl, "would they be nicer to the little fishes?"

"Certainly," he said. "If sharks were men, they would build enormous boxes in the ocean for the little fish, with all kinds of food inside, both vegetable and animal. They would take care that the boxes always had fresh water, and in general they would make all kinds of sanitary arrangements. If, for example, a little fish were to injure a fin, it would immediately be bandaged, so that it would not die and be lost to the sharks before its time. So that the little fish would not become melancholy, there would be big water festivals from time to time; because cheerful fish taste better than melancholy ones.

"There would, of course, also be schools in the big boxes. In these schools the little fish would learn how to swim into the sharks' jaws. They would need to know geography, for example, so that they could find the big sharks, who lie idly around somewhere. The principal subject would, of course, be the moral education of the little fish. They would be taught that it would be the best and most beautiful thing in the world if a little fish sacrificed itself cheerfully and that they all had to believe the sharks, especially when the latter said they were providing for a beautiful future. The little fish would be taught that this future is assured only if they learned obedience. The little fish had to beware of all base, materialist, egotistical and Marxist inclinations, and if one of their number betrayed such inclinations they had to report it to the sharks immediately.

"If sharks were men, they would, of course, also wage wars against one another, in order to conquer other fish boxes and other little fish. The wars would be waged by their own little fish. They would teach their little fish that there was an enormous difference between themselves and the little fish belonging to the other sharks. Little fish, they would announce, are well known to be mute, but they are silent in quite different languages and hence find it impossible to understand one another. Each little fish that, in a war, killed a couple of other little fish, enemy ones, silent in their own language, would have a little order made of seaweed pinned to it and be awarded the title of hero.

"If sharks were men, there would, of course, also be art. There would be beautiful pictures, in which the sharks' teeth would be portrayed in magnificent colors and their jaws as pure pleasure gardens, in which one could romp about splendidly. The theaters at the bottom of the sea would show heroic little fish swimming enthusiastically into the jaws of sharks, and the music would be so beautiful that to the accompaniment of its sounds, the orchestra leading the way, the little fish would stream dreamily into the sharks' jaws, lulled by the most agreeable thoughts.

"There would also be a religion, if sharks were men. It would preach that little fish only really begin to live properly in the sharks' stomachs.

"Furthermore, if sharks were men there would be an end to all little fish being equal, as is the case now. Some would be given important offices and be placed above the others. Those who were a little bigger would even be allowed to eat up the smaller ones. That would be altogether agreeable for the sharks, since they themselves would more often get bigger bites to eat. And the bigger little fish, occupying their posts, would ensure order among the little fish, become teachers, officers, engineers in box construction, etc.

"In short, if sharks were men, they would for the first time bring culture to the ocean."

bff

After playing the role of Grinch and then getting humbled by all the merry gravy Christmassy thoughts around me, I got home with a tummy full of succulent turkey and a head buzzed with whiskey on Thursday night.

Around 2:00 a.m., knowing that waiting any longer or contemplating any further on the matter would be fatal, I booked a ticket to Montreal city for the following morning.

There was a person I needed to see that I seldom spend time with. My best friend, A.

The first time I saw him I was 10 or 11, and we played perverted card games and tagged in the dark. Three years later while at a “grown up party” at my house, his mother gave me A’s number and told me to call and invite him for my upcoming birthday bash. So I did, and he came with his two buddies (both of which were also present at our first encounter)—these boys were the only boys in that birthday party.

We became close friends, the four of us, along with my girl-bff E. We grew in teens together: fell in and out of love with our first boy/girl friends, with each other, with guns and roses and smoking and skiing. Other permanent members were there, some were added and/or subtracted. Then I went away. I moved to a cold country with a young history and a foreign tongue. I would call them and cry: every week at first, then every month, then every season, every birthday…and then, well, every now and then.

A lot happened in between (I had my first major heartbreak, first accident, first university class, first drug) without them. But summers remained our meeting point and how easy it was to reconnect and rediscover each other. A moved to Montreal, E moved to London. M is in Tehran right now protesting on the streets, the other A is making the world a lovelier place to live in.

Long story short (or apparently not), these individuals remain very close to my heart and gut and memory. We are as different as we could ever be, but damn we love that one Bon Jovi song.

So yes. I needed to see A. I needed his signature laughs and his existential dilemmas and offensive jokes. I needed us getting drunk and remembering things of past. I needed us to be 22 year olds, like how were 10 years old together.

On the train back, and I am still high on that vestigial feeling: “friends forever.”

Lolita, my love

As my tongue pronounced: Lolita
Lolita
that essential sound
low lee tuh

a christmas gift
to my brain
that tired, foul, fragile organ
nervously encapsulating
a careless skull

As my selfish tongue
raped the name: Lolita
I thought of love
of hermaphrodites
and asexuals
I
thought of a repeated thought that pokes a straw in my skull
while sucking
on and on
and smirking
breathing
like a child

there goes, up and up
sprinkles of over analyzed
cryptonized
chastised and crystallized
brain-matter

And some days Lolita matters...

some days, it escapes my tongue
lost in a kiss lock
bodies dipped in alcohol
only dipped-
not itself
not in love.

good morning-

i might have a cold, or maybe it's just the hangover. i think my "sent messages" got a bit too messy and i think it's too late to go back to sleep. and under these confusing circumstances, i remember having another long, eerie dream last night that perhaps involved you.

i'm hungry and i think i might try that greasy fast-food restaurant i live on top of and hope for the best. i'm hungry, but i don't think i need someone else in my bed-- im full of that.

but that's just today.

i think, now, that i don't have to be graded on what i read and what i write, i can read and write again.

and i can think of this winter and imagine day by day snow thickening the surface of the city and i want to get away i want nature and a small town with one convenient store and a convenient liqour store.

my neighbors are fighting.

quote of the day

"We build homes to protect ourselves: from nature, from others, from ourselves. And then we leave."

- Don Gillmor

word of the day

provenance |ˈprävənəns|nounthe place of origin or earliest known history of something : an orange rug of Iranian provenance.• the beginning of something's existence; something's origin : they try to understand the whole universe, its provenance and fate.See note at origin .• a record of ownership of a work of art or an antique, used as a guide to authenticity or quality : the manuscript has a distinguished provenance.

untitled

i know people exists, not because i see them on t.v., but because i hear sirens from outside, in the late hours of night.

i know animals exist, because there's veggie bacon.

and i know horses can't leave voice mails. they're just too proud.

on the road

[a view: north of Iran]

they day before my retun, i met this boy (no, no, not like that, keep reading).

he came from paris to tehran, on a motorcycle, by himself.
he had passed through 16 countries, and thought he is going to die when after a brutal accident he was unconscious for a few days and was taken care of by a Turkish family that found him.
they even fixed his bike for free, since his credit card was stolen.
he was to continue his journey to india, and then all the way back to paris. (on a motorcycle, by himself).

i met him through a series of strange circumstances. we went to Lavasan and on the way talked about Proust, politics, and liberty. i found a very good friend.

"To pass through virgin lands in the contact of unknown populations and cultures; crossing wild lands where I could scream and only get the echo of my own voice in answer, that was the most beautiful thing nature could ever ofer to me," he wrote in an e-mail on his return to paris last week.

cool.
no?

delayed gratification, or such

This is from the other night:

strange sounds creep under the sheets-

crawl up the bunny ears

and suddenly give away

ebbed by other creatures

This morning the coffee was too bright

hurt eyes

hurt gaze

Too bright to consume when,

I forgot to swallow

and return

in the cup that is your hand

Tonight some words remain hovering

in the top cabinet

infested

abandoned by household behaviors

discerning toward a fond exchange

held in someone else’s imagination

The understanding never precipitates

it only delay.

what am i doing here?

my country's at war.

and i'm worried about a flu...

of grapes and women

There is a woman with a cane.

She walks home with a bag full of grapes in the afternoon

She looks like decay

She moves slowly but

She is very stern she is very adamant about her steps you know

She

has a Julia Roberts smile, squinted eyes, soft nose, pale skin, and curly hair

She hates run-on sentences because she can’t run

She hates little girls with pretty toes and the boys that follow them home

She doesn’t wait for the light to turn green

She wont stand in line when the bus arrives

but the woman smiles at me

hands me a grape

caresses my face

I look at my toes and they are fit

They work, ma’, I swear

Just give them time and they’ll be okay

There is a woman with a cane

There is a woman with a cane

oh so blue

When I was eleven I became obsessed with the color blue. I painted my walls light blue, got satin sapphire drapes, and navy bed sheets. If it wasn’t for my mom, I would have dyed my hair blue, too.

I’d go around asking everyone what their favorite color was, and I was astounded every time I learned it was anything other than blue.

“But the ocean is blue. The sky is blue. And there are more shades to blue than in any other color,” I would plead, trying to convince the lost souls of un-blue.

Fast forward a few years, and my walls are light orange, the bed sheets are stripped red, and I have a red heart pillow that a boyfriend may or may not have given me.

Fast forward a few years later, and it’s all about white.

In these playful reminiscents I suddenly became really uncomfortable, to think that my periodic absolutes change so much and so often.

How long until my current obsessions fade and get replaced by something other than…well,blue?

But I’m not worried. I love my red hair.

I.AM.SO.EXCITED.TO.BE.A.F***ING.JOURNALIST.

YES.

voluntary confinement

how much do i tell/ how much do i hide

there is a hiding place next to that shelf

but i'm not saying where

come catch me:

i'm the invisible science of scrolls

invincible arm of letters

am i in trouble, sir?

oh yah.

am i going to feel pain?

you bet.

but the question is, rather,

are you scared?

and how many scars

make a map

for my wall.

first sneeze

W. K. L. Dickson, 1893

There's a first for everything. This was the first time human sneeze was captured on motion picture.
I'd say bless you, but I don't believe in it.
And you're dead anyways.

for all the story tellers

pictures and sounds, sounds and pictures,

and holograms

and words.

in

your

hands.

Yesterday I saw this little prince again, and I bought another copy.

Whenever you see it, just get it. Don't think twice.

Trust me, you're gonna need it.

smiley circles

Today, among all the brilliant things that Joe Fiorito said, this was one of the best:

“Be here, right now”

Obvious, right?

False.

After years of writing columns- and fucking good ones, too- for Toronto Star, Joe knows what he’s doing. He told the teens and twenty-something-old students sitting in front of him to take off their ipods when they’re walking on the street, and look, listen, and ask. He told them that if they don’t care about what they’re doing or writing about, no one else would. And if no one cares about any one, and if there are no more stories to tell or to listen to, then what the fuck are we doing here?

After all, there is one ultimate ending we all share –death, and meanwhile, we’re all in this together, right?

Right.

This all can sound so mundane, obvious, or cliché. All of us at some point or another have thought about these things, and continue to do so depending on who we are (socio-paths excluded). And yes, they can sound out-dated and paternal. But that doesn’t change the fact that they’re true.

After class, as I was waiting for the streetcar, I saw a cute little old man sitting on the sidewalk, looking at passersby with ragged clothes, a curious look and a (literally) frozen smile. He was holding tight to a Second Cup, that was inside a Tim Horton’s cup, all inside a venti Starbucks cup. He had a cardboard on his left side with pictures of jesus, and some other saints I’m not familiar with, taped on it. He was of Asian dissent.

I gave him a dollar and he smiled.

On the subway, there were three people, a robust woman and two other men, who were talking in sign language. I tried not to stare and also not look like I’m trying. It’s a hard act to maintain. Two women standing next to me did stare at the animated conversation, but with a wide smile and kind eyes. They were speaking a language I guessed to be African.

By the time I was strolling on Devonshire toward the library, I felt warm and exuberant. I didn’t know why.

A cool boy was holding an old stranger’s hand and was trying hard to understand where it was that the white-bearded fellow wanted to go.

I smiled at them.

A girl across the street and walking in the opposite direction was looking at orange leafs falling in front of her, when she smiled.

I smiled.

A man was walking towards me and as soon as we crossed eyes,

We smiled.

Cliché. Cheesy. Flakey.

Whatever, I was happy.

"'God,' he said, 'why have you chastised me with such a terrible deformity as thinking? Why have you taught me to think, instead of teaching me the humility of cattle!'"

-Shah of Shahs, Kapuscinski