30.12.09


STORIES OF MR. KEUNER
If Sharks were Men



by 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.”

23.12.09

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.

11.12.09

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.


8.12.09

quote of the day





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


- Don Gillmor




5.12.09

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.