Monday, May 28, 2007

A foreward on nowadays plastic bag farming

There are several ways to start a story and I think you have no way but starting a story at some points. Millions of people have tried millions of them. Someone by love, someone by war, but I am sure no one start a story from Isfahan-Tehran highway at 2:00 PM. It was a plastic bag near the highway and I had such a stomach ache that I have no way except fulling the bag with the stuff that I had eaten last night. My parents were in their car waiting for me. My brother was 4 years old and he was trying to see what I am doing. When I came back, my parents didn't tell me anything but it was my brother who argued that I have to be ashamed for throwing the plastic bag in the farm nearby, because in his point of view it wouldn't be possible to grow any plastic bag tree in a farm. Regardless to the color or size of the plastic bag.

Years after he went to school of agricultural engineering in University of Tehran and he understood that his brother was not that wrong. He realized that I've started a story there.

Many stories can start from a same point, in space, time or even both. I have a grandma who was driving alone between Tehran to Isfahan with a Mercedes Benz during 1970s. This is the same start as the story of plastic bag in space but not in time. On that time, I might be just a banana tree in Africa. I was not even existing in the world of ideas. But she was a very stylish middle-age woman with tones of proud and make up. Because she was so unique (Of course. who was driving such a car on that time and space alone? Full of lorry drivers with horny mustache, neither Sofia Loren nor Tall Pari(1) couldn't have done that) she could have had an idea about everything from cooking rice to the war between Arabs and Judds. She was also a fan of western music. Frank Sinatra, Andy Williams, Elton John. Although she didn't know English at all, she could understand that these are proper music because proper people listen to that when she had been abroad. She was an experienced woman. Loads of restaurant and traveling abroad. She was not only eating in restaurant, she was also learning culture and class. A proper one, which suits with her shoes and car.

On that time, it was a shame for my parents to listen to those crap. Especially my dad, although I found those signs of status years after in his old tapes and discs.

Years passed and one day her son had a terrible accident with the Mercedes Benz and that was the time. All of a sudden she understood that she is getting old and the days are not similar to the past. Her rice cooking skill was not as NUMBER ONE as before. Politics as well. In 1979 revolution happened and it made such a thunder that the business of my grandpa collapsed from the roof of the country. Her grandson also, I mean me, had a terrible diary in Italy. It was so terrible that my grandma smelled it in Tehran and on such days, bloods and bullets, flew to Italy to bring a plastic bag for me, but she couldn't manage to bring the highway. Never mind, highways can be found every where. But Italy was not the same as before, because the price of Dollar for my granny was not as before. She should have stayed in my parents house instead of a 5 star hotel. Such a shame.

I said all of that to just start a story. This story now has Alzheimer and is looking at the TV screen, all night sometimes, to make sure that thieves are not coming into her place from TV. Don't think that she is getting crazy, not at all. In Christmas when I went back she told me:

- Safa, I think I will not see your wedding although I am sure you are not virgin. That makes me happy.

She was always very right and wise. I was thinking such a hard time this old wisdom has passed during these years after that tragic accident. One day she was praying and I was listening. She was singing Feeling of Andy Williams instead of the true pray. She knew the lyrics by heart. I didn't tell that to my mom because I liked the song, it reminded me the first morning that I wasn't virgin anymore. On that time, my parents and brother were in the Tehran-Isfahan highway without me and any plastic bag. I was drunk driving all the highway down from the city of her black eyes to small lovely village of her toes. The highway was passing from mountains and jungles. In the middle of one of the jungles just some minutes after the vast abyss of her stomach, it was a lake that I stopped to have a swim there. Beside the lake was a pack of small plastic bags.

"In such a condition, you should expect everything from your patient"

Her Doctor said to my mom yesterday at the same time but not space. Yesterday, I was 6000 KM away, on my bed and trying to show her how you can send thieves in to the computer screen. She couldn't believe that I could monitor the location of people who are coming to my blog. Yes, I can as my grandma can monitor the clouds in her ocean of thoughts. I am the only bird there who is bringing bread and Notella for his kid laying down on the sofa. Chick Chick Chick.

This story hasn't been finished as well, although many stories have started, grown, and vanished from a plastic bag or into a plastic bag or even both.

(1) Tall Pari was a very famous prostitute during late 1960s and 1970s in Iran who was hanged after the revolution.


Anonymous said...

i like your story


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