Mojtaba-Iraqi
10-25-2011, 11:39 AM
#2: To Eat or not to Eat, That is the Question!
Man is ruled by certain traditions, which are made to restrict his “id”, as Freud asserted, in order not to be equalized with normal animals, though some animals live according to specific norms during their lifetime. My father was one of those highly tradition-admirer men, who sometimes unwillingly yield to those traditions. He believed that if one does what people do, he will be on the safe side from their unexpected wickedness.
Having brought his drafts to the typist, it did not make much sense to a kid, who was totally a sarcastic of the traditions, though admitting them by words, as the son of the poor writer. I always see him writing. “Daddy; it’s a stupid world. It doesn’t worth to write about!” At that moment, I observed a thunder of trust in his eyes, and breeze of confidence in his smile.
The first impression of a guest is of a high importance for a decent welcome. The typist brought a fine big dish of pulpy sweet melon. The dish was a profound valley, full of hills of golden wheat, surrounded by roses; roses of the dish. “Yea, this is the time to make the air raid!” I understood from a look of my father that: “son; we are guests, and guests should be polite, don’t…” I could not understand much; I was an island on which the rain has no immediate effect. I started harvesting those hills of wheat, one after the other, but one. I left the last piece, because the traditions say that the last piece brings bad luck. So, I left this bad luck for the poor host. I observed the farms of roses of embarrassment on my father’s cheeks.
“Why do you do this to me? Why don’t you grow up like others? Why…?” The dignified father suffered a lot, but his mercy blocked him from punishing the innocent little sweet son. After seventy times seven threatening and promises, I accompanied my father to the house of the typist on the next day. This time, he presented a dish of peaches. As I promised, just one. My father and the typist started their work. “Oh Greed! Why don’t you sleep for a moment? Don’t take my deflowered dignity and promise from me!” These prayers seemed not to be from the heart. I normally used to do my evil plans when my mother was on the phone. I used the same strategy: “yes, he is busy with his draft and typing; this is the time.” Serpentinely, I told my father: “Daddy; may I eat some of those stupid peaches?” unconsciously, he agreed. Bingo!...
As usual, and admiring the traditions, I left only one. When they finished typing, they found the dish empty. Shockingly, while the host covered his anger with the clouds of shyness, he said: “why don’t you eat the last one too?” I replied: “To eat or not to eat, that is the question!”
Man is ruled by certain traditions, which are made to restrict his “id”, as Freud asserted, in order not to be equalized with normal animals, though some animals live according to specific norms during their lifetime. My father was one of those highly tradition-admirer men, who sometimes unwillingly yield to those traditions. He believed that if one does what people do, he will be on the safe side from their unexpected wickedness.
Having brought his drafts to the typist, it did not make much sense to a kid, who was totally a sarcastic of the traditions, though admitting them by words, as the son of the poor writer. I always see him writing. “Daddy; it’s a stupid world. It doesn’t worth to write about!” At that moment, I observed a thunder of trust in his eyes, and breeze of confidence in his smile.
The first impression of a guest is of a high importance for a decent welcome. The typist brought a fine big dish of pulpy sweet melon. The dish was a profound valley, full of hills of golden wheat, surrounded by roses; roses of the dish. “Yea, this is the time to make the air raid!” I understood from a look of my father that: “son; we are guests, and guests should be polite, don’t…” I could not understand much; I was an island on which the rain has no immediate effect. I started harvesting those hills of wheat, one after the other, but one. I left the last piece, because the traditions say that the last piece brings bad luck. So, I left this bad luck for the poor host. I observed the farms of roses of embarrassment on my father’s cheeks.
“Why do you do this to me? Why don’t you grow up like others? Why…?” The dignified father suffered a lot, but his mercy blocked him from punishing the innocent little sweet son. After seventy times seven threatening and promises, I accompanied my father to the house of the typist on the next day. This time, he presented a dish of peaches. As I promised, just one. My father and the typist started their work. “Oh Greed! Why don’t you sleep for a moment? Don’t take my deflowered dignity and promise from me!” These prayers seemed not to be from the heart. I normally used to do my evil plans when my mother was on the phone. I used the same strategy: “yes, he is busy with his draft and typing; this is the time.” Serpentinely, I told my father: “Daddy; may I eat some of those stupid peaches?” unconsciously, he agreed. Bingo!...
As usual, and admiring the traditions, I left only one. When they finished typing, they found the dish empty. Shockingly, while the host covered his anger with the clouds of shyness, he said: “why don’t you eat the last one too?” I replied: “To eat or not to eat, that is the question!”