An exercise in I don't have time to remember because I have to start a new life began as soon as I lay foot in America. One of my cousins is so good at this that she pretends or really does not remember. There was nobody in high school, not even her. There were no teachers, nobody sitting on her right and if there were, she does not remember their names nor faces. I have often wondered if she does this to counter my remembering. She says "you live in the past Arpie." I remind her that it is because she has a past that she is talking to me.
It could be Nancy Ajram or Fayrouz or even Fahd Ballane's voice overheard somewhere. How do you stay in place and time? I was not even in Lebanon when Nancy Ajram was born but her music, a gift from a friend, is so Lebanese. I just cried tears postponed for a month. She helped me. This is the first installment. I had to cut short. I had reached the store where I had gone to buy my American Spirit tobacco. The new owners, an Indian family, are very nice. As nice as the previous owner. I also have a machine which makes filtered cigarettes. Organic, economical and tasty. I am not advertising smoking, on the contrary. I have noticed that I smoke less because the cigarette I make is more satisfying and I don't have to reach for another from lack of satisfaction. And one day...who knows?
But I digress and I postpone, I get sidetracked, I find myself in Ridgewood, New Jersey buying a box of empty cigarette tubes with filters. There are 200 tubes in one box. That's one carton. I bought it three weeks ago and it is still half full. Now I can invest in the market with the money I have saved...uhm!
Or is it postponing the dealing with the past? There must be a connection between the past and cigarettes if they came together here. I will not go into analysis but here we are the three of us. The past, cigarettes and moi.
Yes, yes, I know they are bad. The tsk tsk tsk kind of bad which is half way to "tskel", to quit, in Armenian.
And only after that, after quitting, the past will be dealt with I suppose. Right now, I still have to think about my future.
"Sandplay" Buy It Here
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
Friday, March 20, 2009
Those Lebanese and Canadians
The Bullet Collection by Patricia Sarrafian Ward cannot be put down. I have been devouring it for lack of a better word. All those who grew up during the civil war in Lebanon would love this book. I was at least 25 when the war broke out so I had had my childhood, good, bad or indifferent. Discovering how it was for the generation of Ms. Ward makes me appreciate the good, the bad and the ugly of mine. We were very lucky to have been growing up in between two wars, the end of WW2 and the Lebanese civil war. But to live through it while growing up and to write a book about it on the other side is heroic. Amazon.com only has used copies of this book but get it.
Those Lebanese!
I also devoured Hourig's paper submitted for her doctorate degree in education. She had shared parts of it with me throughout the years and I had given her the degree based on bits and pieces of her beautiful writing. This completed version is a tour de force unimaginable and unique. She has done a magnificent job, painfully, painstakingly, slowly but surely. We thought it will never end, and in fact, it hasn't. It has the ability to make a difference within and without. It is her unique approach both in writing and researching that makes it original.
I have been reading her paper since the day following her defense, in Montreal. Profoundly moved by the whole experience, I cut my trip short and returned home with a lot to think about.
As if on cue, Khajag and his son Vassag landed in New Jersey two days later from Toronto and took me out, out, out, out, way out there in a place where it was easier to think.
Words are not enough to express my utter amazement at how Dr. HA has made the journey, the journey of a hyphenated identity, a Lebanese-Armenian-Canadian-Woman identity journey.
Those Canadians!
Those Lebanese!
I also devoured Hourig's paper submitted for her doctorate degree in education. She had shared parts of it with me throughout the years and I had given her the degree based on bits and pieces of her beautiful writing. This completed version is a tour de force unimaginable and unique. She has done a magnificent job, painfully, painstakingly, slowly but surely. We thought it will never end, and in fact, it hasn't. It has the ability to make a difference within and without. It is her unique approach both in writing and researching that makes it original.
I have been reading her paper since the day following her defense, in Montreal. Profoundly moved by the whole experience, I cut my trip short and returned home with a lot to think about.
As if on cue, Khajag and his son Vassag landed in New Jersey two days later from Toronto and took me out, out, out, out, way out there in a place where it was easier to think.
Words are not enough to express my utter amazement at how Dr. HA has made the journey, the journey of a hyphenated identity, a Lebanese-Armenian-Canadian-Woman identity journey.
Those Canadians!
Thursday, March 19, 2009
Electricity
In one of my secretarial, administrative, clerical, receptive and customer service money making "schemes", I was a word processing operator. When one of my colleagues found out that I come from Lebanon, she came over, sat beside me and generally wanted to make me feel welcome. She said she had Syrian and Lebanese friends but she never understood why we turn all the lights on in our homes. She thought it was odd that we would turn on all the lights. I had never thought of this as odd but now that she told me this, I realized it is true because here in America, the lights in homes are not lit full force. Usually they are found in corners or on side tables. Even I had adopted this way of lighting without realizing it. I still live like that and mom thinks I live in darkness. She likes everything lit especially when guests are expected. All rooms, all lights, turned on maximum. The apartment is lit. We are generous with our guests. We don't spare them anything. And probably, we want them to see how spotless our home is. Nothing out of place, everything shiny and dust-free, see? And our smiles should be out there in full view for our guests to see how happy we are to honor them and to be honored by them.
This must have started when electricity was invented. We have electricity, lights, let's turn them on, everywhere, even our chandeliers are now electric, let's turn them on too. We have electricity. And it became a way to show off, then a habit, a custom, and now I find it oppressive.
Have you been to Times Square at night? If yes, have you tried to stand there for more than a minute? I rest my case. In my case, in the one that is resting, there is age, thus the frequency of rests, but that has given me the chance to reevaluate the matter of energy consumption.
This must have started when electricity was invented. We have electricity, lights, let's turn them on, everywhere, even our chandeliers are now electric, let's turn them on too. We have electricity. And it became a way to show off, then a habit, a custom, and now I find it oppressive.
Have you been to Times Square at night? If yes, have you tried to stand there for more than a minute? I rest my case. In my case, in the one that is resting, there is age, thus the frequency of rests, but that has given me the chance to reevaluate the matter of energy consumption.
Monday, March 2, 2009
Finding itself!
Welcome to my blog! I have been writing for almost a year now and here is what I have written so far. I have taken out pages and pages so as to make your first reading easy. After this initial posting, I will be able to post regularly in reverse order, i.e. the newer posts first. You can leave your comments, suggestions and news in the section reserved for that purpose. I would be happy to hear from you.
So long,
Arpie
April 25, 2008
It is the following morning. I wake up with “yereg shghtayvadz aysor inknavar” singing in my head, a line from an Armenian song meaning yesterday in chains, today self-ruling. How appropriate I thought, that of thousands of Armenian, French and English songs that I know, this line would pop up from my subconscious as I wake up. Waking up with a song or a phrase is not unusual for me, but this one takes the cake.
May 30, 2008
Discovery: I found out that on the side of an aluminum foil box, there is a writing which says “push this to lock roll”. I did. It locked the roll from jumping out of the box every time you pull out the foil. How many immigrants did not know this? I am assuming those who were born here knew and they are laughing their heads off right now. I have a feeling this could be the subject of an essay or thesis having to do with either immigrant ADD due to culture shock or just old trauma or, simply, why would you read the side of a foil box unless while taking it to the recycling bin outside, it just occurred to you to read the box because you have time and you won’t miss a chance to read anything that comes into view when you have time. Like when we were kids and were taken to a ride in a car. Falafel Arax, Imprimerie Zareh, A Vendre, Occasion, Banco di Roma, Shirinian Bros. Daron, Cinema Amir, Cinema Capitol, Cinema Alhamra, Bank of America, Cinema Metropole, Toshiba, Empire, Rivoli, Grand Theatre, ABC, Nawas Travel Agency, Thos. Cook & Son, American Lebanese Shipping Company, Ibra Haddad & Fils, Electrolux, La Gondole, Chez Paul, Semiramis, Sindbad, Aeroport International de Beyrouth, … push this in to lock the roll…Welcome to the United States of America.
September 22, 2008
I sang at the Garden Café three times this summer already. I sang English standards that I had had no chance to sing during my yester gigs. The audience’s response was beyond my wildest dreams. It was a lovely experience for me because until then I had sang mainly in Armenian venues except for rare occasions in other worldly locations. Still, even in the latter case, my repertoire consisted of mainly Armenian and French songs with a dash of English from time to time. I mean this was the first time I was singing English and French to a non-Armenian audience apart from that one time in Los Angeles in 1979 when I first started singing at the pressing of my voice teacher. After four months of weekly lessons, she had urged me to start singing in public.
Oh, no, not again. I have to go look for a job again? It doesn’t matter. Whether you are a secretary, a typist, a receptionist, an actor or singer, there comes a time where you have to go look for a job. The fact that she finds me ready to sing in public has a price tag. I have to find a place where I can sing.
The opportunity presented itself, although I didn’t know this at the time, in the form of a friend visiting from San Francisco. My friend wanted to go to the only Armenian Night Club/Restaurant in the area at the time, the Sayat Nova, in Pasadena. Until then I had never been to Pasadena and at Sayat Nova. We went together with a couple of other friends. I don’t remember if there was a show that night but I know they had a band, and singers Paul and Harout would entertain the dancing and adoring crowd on weekends. We met some other acquaintances there and the conversation reached the point where I asked “why aren’t there any female entertainers, except belly dancers?” When it came to Armenian pop or dance music, they were all men since Armenian pop music was invented. Caro, one of the friends we met there challenged me with “would you sing here?” “Who should I call when I am ready to do so?” I retorted. That’s how I started singing Tuesdays and Wednesday at the Sayat Nova Restaurant.
But I digress. I was to tell you about that first time I sang in English in public. It was during my Scientology days. Oh yes, I have taken a few lessons. It doesn’t have to be a secret because it isn’t. Even if I wanted to hide this fact, I couldn’t. It is out there on the internet. Someone took it upon themselves to create a website and put the names of everyone who passed through Scientology. Google my name and you will see. The Celebrity Centre was on La Brea Avenue and on Amateur Night you could go and try your chops. I went to sing a couple of songs. One of the songs was the English version of Jacques Brel’s La Valse a Mille Temps. Translated, it had become Carrousel. “We’re on a carrousel, a crazy carrousel, and now we go around, again we go around, and down again around, and up again around, so high above the ground we feel we’ve got to yell, we’re on a carrousel, a crazy carrousel.”
After I finished singing, I was told “you sing like a professional”. There was a lot of ego feeding in Scientology at the time. But I was there mainly because I had met there the only people outside of my immediate social circle which consisted of my two roommates, classmates from my High School in Beirut. I moved to Hollywood to be closer to people who were themselves actors, singers, artists and lo and behold every other person in Hollywood was Armenian and every other Armenian was from Beirut. Oh, what just happened?
A couple of weeks ago, a Saturday night, when I went shopping for food items in the neighborhood market and was walking through the aisle, pushing a cart, I heard a woman say "The lady with the voice. She has to shop? She should have someone shop for her." The whole time that it took her to say this I went from panic to surprise, recognizing her as one of the audience members at my last singing at the Garden Cafe, to being astonished that she would express herself so freely and loudly and realizing what was just said, embarrassment for not yet having someone do my shopping. It was the answer to "am I worthy?" By then we were crossing each other in the aisle so I decided that these were not her problems and told her "thank you, you made my day" with a big smile and a girly giggle and planted a kiss on her cheek.
My boss gave me a bottle of excellent, top of the line Pino Grigio wine today. He said that it is one of the best top of the line bottles. I wondered what had precipitated this. Then I remembered. Earlier in the day I was having fun proving to myself that he is driving me crazy and I still don't know if it is on purpose or because he wants to justify his position as my boss. I ask questions. I think he likes that because at the end of one of our interminable conversations where we were not understanding each other he finally understood what I was telling him and told me not to worry about it. Why didn't he understand what I was saying from get go? I will tell you why. He is one of those men who believe, and he told me so today, that only a woman understands a woman. Imagine how much he has going against him. We waste a lot of time in the office not understanding each other because he has this preconception and not because he is stupid.
When we reached his “don’t worry about it” we had wasted five good minutes because he wasn’t in a dialogue mode. That's why he gave me the bottle of wine. For the pain and suffering he caused trying not to understand me.
November 17, 2008
Oh, where did September and October go? The jobs follow each other and do not look like each other. By the end of September I had translated a book from Armenian to English just in time to start babysitting for Talar, a six month old girl, born in Montreal and who, together with her two year old brother Sevag and their parents, moved to New Jersey in June. Talar’s mom, an excellent educator was called on an emergency mission for the only Armenian day school in New Jersey for the month of October. That’s how I got to take care of little Talar a whole month. That’s how we ended up having lunch together every day because my mom was cooking up a storm every day. Lunch in America has been a solitary activity as far as I can remember. This was more like being in Beirut where everyone came home for lunch and went back to school or work.
December 9, 2008
Not only Sevag (Talar's brother) knows the Armenian alphabet but at two, he knows the names of most animals, fruits and can construct full sentences without any difficulty. Such as “Mrs. Anahid, I am going to tell my dad to buy you a new refrigerator because I broke it.” He is a wonder to be with and knows some words in Armenian that I had to look up in the dictionary.
December 10, 2008
Since I last wrote on this blog, I haven’t stopped socializing, in a manner of speaking. My work is so solitary that even when I am with one other person, it becomes a party. Not to mention a wedding, an engagement and Thanksgiving dinner, friends visited from other states like Northern California, Rhode Island, Boston and Scituate, Massachusetts. I saw a performance of In the Heights (excellent), and a performance by the Epiphany Project (wonderful). The first was a musical about the trials and tribulations of Dominican Republicans in the Washington Heights section of New York, the second was a concert by the husband and wife team of John Hodian and Beth Williams. She sings ancient songs of different cultures and languages. John, on the keyboard, Mal Stein on drums and dumbeg, with special guest Souren Baronian on Duduk took us to a timeless and inspired world of music.
Years ago, I had heard Souren Baronian and his band at St. Illuminator’s Church in New York where I was a secretary by day. This coincided with the presentation of his first CD called It’s About Time. After hearing the concert I knew that title had two meanings. One was the fact of his finally having a CD and the other the time signatures on the tracks. A beautiful concert, well executed, tight and the hours flew by so quickly, no one wanted to leave.
That was in 1995. I finally met Souren last month and told him how much I enjoyed that concert. He was kind enough to give me all the CDs he had produced since then.
We also visited the New Milford Home for Old Age and celebrated the start of the holiday season by singing Christmas songs. I was invited to sing with two lovely sisters from Staten Island who had made the trip for the occasion, their father, a catholic Minister accompanying us all on the piano.
December 27, 2008
This blog is for that which I cannot sing, draw or perform.
Thoughts of not being assertive enough have been floating around me for a while now. The state of waiting is part of the process of creation. Waiting doesn’t mean one’s life is over. One could be waiting for a number of reasons both voluntary and involuntary. There is no right or wrong in waiting. There are only degrees of activism within the individual.
New Year Resolution: Be more assertive.
December 30, 2008
This year, the fashion seems to be not to make any New Year resolutions. You know why of course; because for the first time in my life, I made one.
My friend Hourig was in the car and little Talar was screaming and crying. Talar’s mom was apparently out of the car buying something. While Hourig put the phone on Talar’s ear, I sang to her and she heard me. It was the same song I have sang to her in my living room when I was babysitting her in October. Not only she stopped crying, but she was listening they tell me. They tell me this because Talar cannot. She is only 8 months old.
Somewhere between the last two paragraphs we entered the year 2009.
January 11, 2009
I finished the book “Մեր Այդ Կողմերը” (Around Our Neighborhood) by Mgrditch Margossian of Istanbul, Turkey. It is a gem of social study, history, Armenian history, tradition, Armenian dialect and humor. My grandparents being from the Diarbekir region of Turkey spoke a dialect of Armenian that I have heard all my life. The writer is from the same region and recreates his childhood in the book. I couldn’t put it down. When I finished, I wrote to the publishing company http://www.arasyayincilik.com/ where you can order the book if you want, in the dialect of Dikranagerd.
January 21, 2009
My following essay appeared on http://www.keghart.com/node/283
Friends of Hrant: Voices in Dialogue are a group of Armenians, Turks and Kurds with roots in Anatolia who have come together to share their deep love and respect for Hrant Dink and to carry on his legacy and dream. On January 17 in Ottawa, Canada, they put together an evening commemorating the second anniversary of Hrant Dink’s senseless killing and invited the public to attend the event.
For this occasion, I drove to Montreal from New Jersey taking the 87 Thruway on to Highway 15 in Canada and from there five of us Armenians drove to Ottawa on highway 417, thus bypassing the ways of politics, governments, hate, denial, ignorance, revenge and demands. The experience was liberating. Understanding open arms of non-Armenians greeted us upon arrival and welcomed us in peace and appreciation.
Despite the fact that non-Armenians outnumbered us 5 to 1, from then on and throughout the event, the evening brought us closer to each other via the tool called compassionate intelligence. We, the Armenians were the endangered species for them. They had worked so hard and slept so little to let one more Armenian know that they understood our plight. They knew. There were tears, hugs and laughter, smiles of understanding and discoveries, language and name comparisons, geographical locations of ancestors were noted. At one point I had to come to terms with the sense that the grandparents of the people I was talking to might have been the neighbors of my grandparents.
At times we forgot why we were there only to later realize that it is Hrant Dink who brought us together. His vision was being realized as we were honoring and remembering him. He was among us and we were all him.
In Beirut, where I was born, the Kurds used to live in huts behind a whole circle of buildings in our neighborhood. They always wore their traditional costumes and before television they were our only source of entertainment and education in matters ethnic. The husbands sold vegetables on carriages in the mornings and were oh so kind to all the Armenian housewives who kept bartering for pennies.
But I had never met a “Turk.”
And here we were: “Turks”, “Kurds” and “Armenians,” in the moment, looking alike, crying alike and smiling alike.
There were over a hundred people seated in the little auditorium of the Canadian Library and Archives. There were two large screens with Hrant’s picture on both. Underneath the picture, the year of his birth but no year of death. Instead, three dots symbolizing his place in the hearts of his friends.
After the welcoming remarks we were treated to the sounds of the Duduk; a recitation in Armenian of Shiraz’ Danteagan; an article written by Hrant Dink was read in English; and the keynote address was given by Phil Jenkins, Chair of Writers-In-Prison Committee, PEN-Canada. At one point, he juxtaposed Hrant’s life with that of the great Chilean activist Victor Jara who had inspired a song that Mr. Jenkins sang a cappela inviting the audience to join in “…his hands were gentle, his hands were strong…”
We also watched three video clips of Hrant which I had never seen. In one of them, during his acceptance speech for the Henri Nannen Award, Hrant asks the German politicians seated in the audience and other European governments in general to take responsibility for what happened to the Armenians in 1915 and help us overcome the great divide. In another clip, Hrant expresses his wish that the people of Turkey be educated about what happened to the Armenians before we can establish dialogue with them.
I will paraphrase a line from Obama’s inauguration address: “Unclench your fist and we will talk”. Surely, that goes both ways.
The impeccable event organized by Friends of Hrant: Voices in Dialogue gave me the opportunity to unclench my fist.
Hrant Dink, his hands were gentle, his hands were strong…
To watch Hrant’s interview with TV5 go to http://www.keghart.com/node/282.
February 1, 2009
It was approximately 11 a.m. when I said my goodbyes to my hosts in Montreal. I had planned to tune in to the presidential inauguration ceremony from my car radio and I did just that. I stopped at the ATM to withdraw some money and then at the foreign exchange place to buy some American dollars and headed to the store which sold all kinds of nuts. That place, together with Andalouse who makes the best Mana’ish sandwiches have become a permanent part of my Montreal itinerary. Obama had not spoken yet and I figured I have time to buy some nuts. It took a little longer, because the lady at the counter decided to re-bag the nuts so I don’t have problems with customs. When I went back to my car, Obama had already been sworn in and was speaking. Can you imagine the amount of focus I needed to stay on course while driving and listening to Obama? I drove through downtown Montreal, over the Champlain Bridge and sure enough, missed my exit. I took the next exit, drove to a parking lot, parked and listened to the end of his speech. As I made my way back to where I was going, journalists in D.C. were commenting about the inauguration, about his speech and the soon to begin parade. They were so excited about being there and if they hadn’t used the words Canadian or Canadian Embassy, I wouldn’t have known I was tuned into one of the radio stations in Canada. Duh!
February 5, 2009
And the prize for best story told to reporters goes to: Mr. Leny Escudero of France. Singer Leny Escudero goes to listen to singer Xavier Lacouture. He is seated when he notices an acquaintance and gets up to shake his hand. At that moment, the giant tango ball that hangs from the ceiling has a malfunction and starts spinning out of control, its chain brakes and it finally falls exactly where Mr. Escudero was seated a few seconds ago. He would have been dead. It devastates everyone. Later, journalists “Hey, Mr. Escudero, you almost…” He says: “The amount of work it took Mr. Lacouture and I to do this trick…you must be very naïve.”
February 6, 2009
The nurse came in and exclaimed "jghara"? I understood what she said because my grandmother, who was born in Turkey, used the Turkish word “jghara” for cigarettes and she smoked one or two cigarettes a day. While embarrassed that the nurse probably smelled it on me I acted ashamed and turned my head away from her and looked down for a while. I was going to cry because I felt like I needed to tell her my life story to explain why I had had a cigarette in the car on my way to the doctor. I couldn’t of course. Sensing my utter devastation, she said “I smoke too, but just one or two a day, I tell myself it costs money.” She went on to explain other reasons and ways she finds for not smoking. She made me comfortable and left the room.
The doctor came and asked me what my complaint is. I said that I was there for my general check up; after all it had been three years since my last one. The doctor took my blood pressure, checked my body, and took blood samples. When I asked him about my blood pressure he said that it is perfectly normal.
It was decided that an EKG is needed and in comes the same nurse with the machine. She hooks parts of my body to it while telling me about where she is from, Istanbul, where her ancestors are from, Istanbul, adding that she had never heard about the catastrophic events in the end of the 19th and the beginning of the 20th centuries while she was growing up because her parents or her grandparents, although Armenian, had not experienced them. And now she doesn’t want to hear about them either. She just doesn’t want.
Oh, look, a sane Armenian who happens to be a woman.
And do you know why I was able to finish my very emotional temporary assignment at A&P headquarters in Montvale, New Jersey? I had to open hundreds and hundreds of envelopes containing Certificates of Liability Insurance which where then alphabetically, by the name of the insured, filed. Because one man, amogst hundreds, made my day three different times by smiling sincerely and asking how I am doing. I was so touched by his kind smile that I was going to cry. I decided not to. Instead relived the moment for a few minutes and enjoyed the afterglow. I don’t even know his name. But I will always remember his kindness.
This rarely happens when formalities are so thick in their layers that people have no time to be. And there is the matter of compatibility too. His smile was compatible with what I was most deeply able to experience at the time. It has only happened one or two times in my life that I would have instant mutual recognition and liking with a total stranger.
February 12, 2009
Positive thoughts are lacking to express the feeling of nostalgia I am experiencing today. It is not nostalgia for anything specific or even vague. It is just what it is. I could guess, having eliminated what it is not. I could add that there is a very strong wind outside with overcast skies. I could confess having had two glasses of whiskey last night at my cousin’s where, true to tradition, after a 9 year hiatus, we had a round of poker, with drinks, mixed nuts and one dollar to start. My dad’s absence was felt like no other time since his passing. Once we accepted that fact, it was the turn to discover that we had all forgotten how we played the game. Little by little, with each hand, we remembered. It took mom the longest to catch up because she kept thinking at times that she was playing the very popular card game (for Lebanese-Armenians) “Belote.” Once she focused though, she came out the winner at the end. I broke even with maybe a few nickels ahead. It doesn’t matter how much money you play with because that is not what the game is all about. It is how you play. I don’t know a better place where you can sketch people’s character as well as at a round of poker game. Especially when it is in a relaxed atmosphere like ours was yesterday. I had long realized what a strong mother I have but watching her totally lost in the beginning, seeing her indifference to our laughter and her determination as she persevered and beat us all was awe inspiring.
I don’t know why but lately I have been able to laugh freely. Forget what I said above about nostalgia. It too shall pass but I want the laughter to remain. How do I do that? Can we force laughter to be around us all the time? Can we order it, control it, own it or even pray for it? I don’t know. How do you keep laughter around? Even in my deep despair, there was a time when I could, at will, create laughter not only for me but for those around me. It was a way to escape.
Now that I pretend to be an adult, I have discovered soul searching and have dived in many times to bring out the flower each time. Some smell better than others.
What with getting used to this soul searching so much that it becomes an automatic reaction to everything personal or impersonal and makes one dizzy with thoughts untested, false conclusions and stuck in a maybe?
Hey, I don’t know what I am saying either. Let’s move on.
February 14, 2009
Amongst many video clips circulating on the internet having for theme Valentine’s Day, this one, about the friendship between an elephant and a dog, takes the cake. In case you close this blog after watching it, I want to express my wish that one day we see the elephant being friends with the donkey. Now, here is the clip: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aFz-FMj-9Ps.
February 18, 2009
My car got towed away last night from where I had parked it having misread the sign. It had said No Standing from 11p.m. to 7 a.m. and my eyes had neglected the am/pm part. My mind had neglected it. This is a flagrant example of the damages of being in a hurry. I am late for life in general and particularly in my chosen field of the entertainment arts. Show biz. At least that’s the state of mind I was in when I went to New York to hear Souren Baronian play his G Clarinet with Mal Stein on percussions and Robert Boghossian on oud. They had towed it at 11:03 p.m. They couldn’t wait any longer. And then you have to go be nice to them, pay them a lot of money so they can give you your car back. Aaaah, to have friends in the right places is one thing, to trust them is another. Souren had told me it is on Broom Street between West Broadway and Wooster. I had to Google the name of the Café, get the official address and go park on West Broadway. Had I parked on Broom, I would not have had my car towed and a ticket on my windshield as I redeemed it. The café had a door on both West Broadway and Broom streets.
Slow down people. Take it easy. Breathe. And always read the small print.
February 19, 2009
I got rid of clothes. Three giant garbage bags worth which I donated to the Lupus Foundation http://www.lupus.org/ (they pick it up from in front of your house, neat!) together with old video tapes. They take VHS tapes.
In the afternoon, as I am getting rid of unnecessary clutter in closets and drawers, rearranging, etc., I find a beautiful scarf all wrinkled. Ah, is that why I haven't used it. I put a giant pillow on the floor, cover it with a towel; I take the good old iron, sit on the floor, on my knees, and start ironing. Zoom, I am instantly transported to Beirut, I am not on my knees, I am standing up. I have an ironing board. I am 14 years old, it is summer and I am ironing amongst other things, shirts for my father, seven of them, one for each day of the week, every week. Not just shirts, but the shirts took the longest time to iron. Summers were for helping mother, whether it was making all the beds every morning (except the one belonging to my parents) and cleaning the whole house three times a week or helping with the laundry by hanging it to dry on the clothesline and then doing the ironing; setting the table or washing the dishes. In winter, there were fewer chores demanded from us what with having to learn four languages and all in school. And yet there was the occasional vacuuming of carpets, and being a girl scout on Sunday mornings, starting at 7:30 a.m. sharp. Be prepared.
My knee starts to hurt as I am ironing the scarf. If he was alive, my dad would have told me "My dear daughter put a pillow under your knee so it won’t hurt” or “My daughter, how can you read in this light? It will damage your eyes!” and he would turn on the light. By the time I pressed the scarf and two blouses which were waiting to be ironed in the closet for five years, I remembered many instances where dad would come to the rescue. Thunderstorms for example had a way to become a scientific experiment hence less scary. “Start counting when you see the lightning and stop when you hear the thunder. Multiply that number with ... and you will know how far from us the thunderstorm is happening. I wish I could remember that number now. But just being aware of the time lapse between lightning and thunder, gives me an idea as to how far the thunderstorm is. At east I know that much. And even that helps.
Every year, on the 3rd Thursday of February Armenians honor all the guys named Vartan or Vahan on the anniversary of the war which was some 1500 years ago against the Persians which was lost but which allowed us to remain Christians (De Gaulle had a famous line for this: "Nous avons perdu la guerre mais nous n'avons pas perdu la bataille" I think. Loose translation: We lost the war but not the fight). The battle was led by Vartan and Vahan Mamigonian. My dad’s name was Vahan and I couldn’t have come up with a better way to honor him if I had even tried.
Plus, I now have an ironed scarf.
March 4, 2009
Here is a gem from almost 3 year old Sevag. Talar's older brother.
So long,
Arpie
April 25, 2008
It is the following morning. I wake up with “yereg shghtayvadz aysor inknavar” singing in my head, a line from an Armenian song meaning yesterday in chains, today self-ruling. How appropriate I thought, that of thousands of Armenian, French and English songs that I know, this line would pop up from my subconscious as I wake up. Waking up with a song or a phrase is not unusual for me, but this one takes the cake.
May 30, 2008
Discovery: I found out that on the side of an aluminum foil box, there is a writing which says “push this to lock roll”. I did. It locked the roll from jumping out of the box every time you pull out the foil. How many immigrants did not know this? I am assuming those who were born here knew and they are laughing their heads off right now. I have a feeling this could be the subject of an essay or thesis having to do with either immigrant ADD due to culture shock or just old trauma or, simply, why would you read the side of a foil box unless while taking it to the recycling bin outside, it just occurred to you to read the box because you have time and you won’t miss a chance to read anything that comes into view when you have time. Like when we were kids and were taken to a ride in a car. Falafel Arax, Imprimerie Zareh, A Vendre, Occasion, Banco di Roma, Shirinian Bros. Daron, Cinema Amir, Cinema Capitol, Cinema Alhamra, Bank of America, Cinema Metropole, Toshiba, Empire, Rivoli, Grand Theatre, ABC, Nawas Travel Agency, Thos. Cook & Son, American Lebanese Shipping Company, Ibra Haddad & Fils, Electrolux, La Gondole, Chez Paul, Semiramis, Sindbad, Aeroport International de Beyrouth, … push this in to lock the roll…Welcome to the United States of America.
June 12, 2008
Oh, what a wonderful morning/noon I had with the kids. I was a teacher’s assistant at the Early Learning Center for four months. It was like being at the United Nations. It was a temporary assignment with the two year olds. I went today to visit them after being away for two months. They all got so excited because I let them. Jiho was laughing non-stop to get attention. Mathew was the first to run to me, then Jiho, Yenna, Naomi, Max, Maral, Katherine, Shane, Ravi and Razzi. Tia was still her uncommunicative self and Sam was taking in the whole show. He finally got up and came to give me a hug. Razzi was so excited that later he didn’t have his usual nap. Apparently he sleeps as soon as his head hits the mat. Children have a way of making one feel important don’t they?
Oh, what a wonderful morning/noon I had with the kids. I was a teacher’s assistant at the Early Learning Center for four months. It was like being at the United Nations. It was a temporary assignment with the two year olds. I went today to visit them after being away for two months. They all got so excited because I let them. Jiho was laughing non-stop to get attention. Mathew was the first to run to me, then Jiho, Yenna, Naomi, Max, Maral, Katherine, Shane, Ravi and Razzi. Tia was still her uncommunicative self and Sam was taking in the whole show. He finally got up and came to give me a hug. Razzi was so excited that later he didn’t have his usual nap. Apparently he sleeps as soon as his head hits the mat. Children have a way of making one feel important don’t they?
June 26, 2008
Anne Sylvestre has been an inspiration and a constant companion to me with her songs as I was turning 17. If it wasn’t for her, I would have never turned 18. It was her album that I bought with my first ever salary. The first song on the album is T’en Souviens-tu La Seine. Here she is in April 1998, singing it à l’Olympia de Paris. http://www.dailymotion.com/search/anne%252Bsylvestre/video/xkp5l_sylvestreten-souvienstu-la-seine.
Anne Sylvestre has been an inspiration and a constant companion to me with her songs as I was turning 17. If it wasn’t for her, I would have never turned 18. It was her album that I bought with my first ever salary. The first song on the album is T’en Souviens-tu La Seine. Here she is in April 1998, singing it à l’Olympia de Paris. http://www.dailymotion.com/search/anne%252Bsylvestre/video/xkp5l_sylvestreten-souvienstu-la-seine.
August 19, 2008
Crying is good and I just realized I have not done that in a long time...sort of postponing or resisting or having no time for it. Life is too short. To tell you the truth...As a teenager, when I used to get angry, and because I didn't like being angry, I would burst into tears for having lost my temper. It follows that I will surely try to control my temper, deny myself that feeling for whatever reason and there are millions, until I went to Armenia in 1986 for the first time. I cried so much that I was told I should be taken to the shores of Lake Sevan to poor my tears in and thus contribute to the rising of the water level which had reached its lowest ever and everything was being done to remedy that.
Crying is good and I just realized I have not done that in a long time...sort of postponing or resisting or having no time for it. Life is too short. To tell you the truth...As a teenager, when I used to get angry, and because I didn't like being angry, I would burst into tears for having lost my temper. It follows that I will surely try to control my temper, deny myself that feeling for whatever reason and there are millions, until I went to Armenia in 1986 for the first time. I cried so much that I was told I should be taken to the shores of Lake Sevan to poor my tears in and thus contribute to the rising of the water level which had reached its lowest ever and everything was being done to remedy that.
September 22, 2008
I sang at the Garden Café three times this summer already. I sang English standards that I had had no chance to sing during my yester gigs. The audience’s response was beyond my wildest dreams. It was a lovely experience for me because until then I had sang mainly in Armenian venues except for rare occasions in other worldly locations. Still, even in the latter case, my repertoire consisted of mainly Armenian and French songs with a dash of English from time to time. I mean this was the first time I was singing English and French to a non-Armenian audience apart from that one time in Los Angeles in 1979 when I first started singing at the pressing of my voice teacher. After four months of weekly lessons, she had urged me to start singing in public.
Oh, no, not again. I have to go look for a job again? It doesn’t matter. Whether you are a secretary, a typist, a receptionist, an actor or singer, there comes a time where you have to go look for a job. The fact that she finds me ready to sing in public has a price tag. I have to find a place where I can sing.
The opportunity presented itself, although I didn’t know this at the time, in the form of a friend visiting from San Francisco. My friend wanted to go to the only Armenian Night Club/Restaurant in the area at the time, the Sayat Nova, in Pasadena. Until then I had never been to Pasadena and at Sayat Nova. We went together with a couple of other friends. I don’t remember if there was a show that night but I know they had a band, and singers Paul and Harout would entertain the dancing and adoring crowd on weekends. We met some other acquaintances there and the conversation reached the point where I asked “why aren’t there any female entertainers, except belly dancers?” When it came to Armenian pop or dance music, they were all men since Armenian pop music was invented. Caro, one of the friends we met there challenged me with “would you sing here?” “Who should I call when I am ready to do so?” I retorted. That’s how I started singing Tuesdays and Wednesday at the Sayat Nova Restaurant.
But I digress. I was to tell you about that first time I sang in English in public. It was during my Scientology days. Oh yes, I have taken a few lessons. It doesn’t have to be a secret because it isn’t. Even if I wanted to hide this fact, I couldn’t. It is out there on the internet. Someone took it upon themselves to create a website and put the names of everyone who passed through Scientology. Google my name and you will see. The Celebrity Centre was on La Brea Avenue and on Amateur Night you could go and try your chops. I went to sing a couple of songs. One of the songs was the English version of Jacques Brel’s La Valse a Mille Temps. Translated, it had become Carrousel. “We’re on a carrousel, a crazy carrousel, and now we go around, again we go around, and down again around, and up again around, so high above the ground we feel we’ve got to yell, we’re on a carrousel, a crazy carrousel.”
After I finished singing, I was told “you sing like a professional”. There was a lot of ego feeding in Scientology at the time. But I was there mainly because I had met there the only people outside of my immediate social circle which consisted of my two roommates, classmates from my High School in Beirut. I moved to Hollywood to be closer to people who were themselves actors, singers, artists and lo and behold every other person in Hollywood was Armenian and every other Armenian was from Beirut. Oh, what just happened?
A couple of weeks ago, a Saturday night, when I went shopping for food items in the neighborhood market and was walking through the aisle, pushing a cart, I heard a woman say "The lady with the voice. She has to shop? She should have someone shop for her." The whole time that it took her to say this I went from panic to surprise, recognizing her as one of the audience members at my last singing at the Garden Cafe, to being astonished that she would express herself so freely and loudly and realizing what was just said, embarrassment for not yet having someone do my shopping. It was the answer to "am I worthy?" By then we were crossing each other in the aisle so I decided that these were not her problems and told her "thank you, you made my day" with a big smile and a girly giggle and planted a kiss on her cheek.
My boss gave me a bottle of excellent, top of the line Pino Grigio wine today. He said that it is one of the best top of the line bottles. I wondered what had precipitated this. Then I remembered. Earlier in the day I was having fun proving to myself that he is driving me crazy and I still don't know if it is on purpose or because he wants to justify his position as my boss. I ask questions. I think he likes that because at the end of one of our interminable conversations where we were not understanding each other he finally understood what I was telling him and told me not to worry about it. Why didn't he understand what I was saying from get go? I will tell you why. He is one of those men who believe, and he told me so today, that only a woman understands a woman. Imagine how much he has going against him. We waste a lot of time in the office not understanding each other because he has this preconception and not because he is stupid.
When we reached his “don’t worry about it” we had wasted five good minutes because he wasn’t in a dialogue mode. That's why he gave me the bottle of wine. For the pain and suffering he caused trying not to understand me.
November 17, 2008
Oh, where did September and October go? The jobs follow each other and do not look like each other. By the end of September I had translated a book from Armenian to English just in time to start babysitting for Talar, a six month old girl, born in Montreal and who, together with her two year old brother Sevag and their parents, moved to New Jersey in June. Talar’s mom, an excellent educator was called on an emergency mission for the only Armenian day school in New Jersey for the month of October. That’s how I got to take care of little Talar a whole month. That’s how we ended up having lunch together every day because my mom was cooking up a storm every day. Lunch in America has been a solitary activity as far as I can remember. This was more like being in Beirut where everyone came home for lunch and went back to school or work.
December 9, 2008
Not only Sevag (Talar's brother) knows the Armenian alphabet but at two, he knows the names of most animals, fruits and can construct full sentences without any difficulty. Such as “Mrs. Anahid, I am going to tell my dad to buy you a new refrigerator because I broke it.” He is a wonder to be with and knows some words in Armenian that I had to look up in the dictionary.
December 10, 2008
Since I last wrote on this blog, I haven’t stopped socializing, in a manner of speaking. My work is so solitary that even when I am with one other person, it becomes a party. Not to mention a wedding, an engagement and Thanksgiving dinner, friends visited from other states like Northern California, Rhode Island, Boston and Scituate, Massachusetts. I saw a performance of In the Heights (excellent), and a performance by the Epiphany Project (wonderful). The first was a musical about the trials and tribulations of Dominican Republicans in the Washington Heights section of New York, the second was a concert by the husband and wife team of John Hodian and Beth Williams. She sings ancient songs of different cultures and languages. John, on the keyboard, Mal Stein on drums and dumbeg, with special guest Souren Baronian on Duduk took us to a timeless and inspired world of music.
Years ago, I had heard Souren Baronian and his band at St. Illuminator’s Church in New York where I was a secretary by day. This coincided with the presentation of his first CD called It’s About Time. After hearing the concert I knew that title had two meanings. One was the fact of his finally having a CD and the other the time signatures on the tracks. A beautiful concert, well executed, tight and the hours flew by so quickly, no one wanted to leave.
That was in 1995. I finally met Souren last month and told him how much I enjoyed that concert. He was kind enough to give me all the CDs he had produced since then.
We also visited the New Milford Home for Old Age and celebrated the start of the holiday season by singing Christmas songs. I was invited to sing with two lovely sisters from Staten Island who had made the trip for the occasion, their father, a catholic Minister accompanying us all on the piano.
December 27, 2008
This blog is for that which I cannot sing, draw or perform.
Thoughts of not being assertive enough have been floating around me for a while now. The state of waiting is part of the process of creation. Waiting doesn’t mean one’s life is over. One could be waiting for a number of reasons both voluntary and involuntary. There is no right or wrong in waiting. There are only degrees of activism within the individual.
New Year Resolution: Be more assertive.
December 30, 2008
This year, the fashion seems to be not to make any New Year resolutions. You know why of course; because for the first time in my life, I made one.
My friend Hourig was in the car and little Talar was screaming and crying. Talar’s mom was apparently out of the car buying something. While Hourig put the phone on Talar’s ear, I sang to her and she heard me. It was the same song I have sang to her in my living room when I was babysitting her in October. Not only she stopped crying, but she was listening they tell me. They tell me this because Talar cannot. She is only 8 months old.
Somewhere between the last two paragraphs we entered the year 2009.
January 11, 2009
I finished the book “Մեր Այդ Կողմերը” (Around Our Neighborhood) by Mgrditch Margossian of Istanbul, Turkey. It is a gem of social study, history, Armenian history, tradition, Armenian dialect and humor. My grandparents being from the Diarbekir region of Turkey spoke a dialect of Armenian that I have heard all my life. The writer is from the same region and recreates his childhood in the book. I couldn’t put it down. When I finished, I wrote to the publishing company http://www.arasyayincilik.com/ where you can order the book if you want, in the dialect of Dikranagerd.
January 21, 2009
My following essay appeared on http://www.keghart.com/node/283
Friends of Hrant: Voices in Dialogue are a group of Armenians, Turks and Kurds with roots in Anatolia who have come together to share their deep love and respect for Hrant Dink and to carry on his legacy and dream. On January 17 in Ottawa, Canada, they put together an evening commemorating the second anniversary of Hrant Dink’s senseless killing and invited the public to attend the event.
For this occasion, I drove to Montreal from New Jersey taking the 87 Thruway on to Highway 15 in Canada and from there five of us Armenians drove to Ottawa on highway 417, thus bypassing the ways of politics, governments, hate, denial, ignorance, revenge and demands. The experience was liberating. Understanding open arms of non-Armenians greeted us upon arrival and welcomed us in peace and appreciation.
Despite the fact that non-Armenians outnumbered us 5 to 1, from then on and throughout the event, the evening brought us closer to each other via the tool called compassionate intelligence. We, the Armenians were the endangered species for them. They had worked so hard and slept so little to let one more Armenian know that they understood our plight. They knew. There were tears, hugs and laughter, smiles of understanding and discoveries, language and name comparisons, geographical locations of ancestors were noted. At one point I had to come to terms with the sense that the grandparents of the people I was talking to might have been the neighbors of my grandparents.
At times we forgot why we were there only to later realize that it is Hrant Dink who brought us together. His vision was being realized as we were honoring and remembering him. He was among us and we were all him.
In Beirut, where I was born, the Kurds used to live in huts behind a whole circle of buildings in our neighborhood. They always wore their traditional costumes and before television they were our only source of entertainment and education in matters ethnic. The husbands sold vegetables on carriages in the mornings and were oh so kind to all the Armenian housewives who kept bartering for pennies.
But I had never met a “Turk.”
And here we were: “Turks”, “Kurds” and “Armenians,” in the moment, looking alike, crying alike and smiling alike.
There were over a hundred people seated in the little auditorium of the Canadian Library and Archives. There were two large screens with Hrant’s picture on both. Underneath the picture, the year of his birth but no year of death. Instead, three dots symbolizing his place in the hearts of his friends.
After the welcoming remarks we were treated to the sounds of the Duduk; a recitation in Armenian of Shiraz’ Danteagan; an article written by Hrant Dink was read in English; and the keynote address was given by Phil Jenkins, Chair of Writers-In-Prison Committee, PEN-Canada. At one point, he juxtaposed Hrant’s life with that of the great Chilean activist Victor Jara who had inspired a song that Mr. Jenkins sang a cappela inviting the audience to join in “…his hands were gentle, his hands were strong…”
We also watched three video clips of Hrant which I had never seen. In one of them, during his acceptance speech for the Henri Nannen Award, Hrant asks the German politicians seated in the audience and other European governments in general to take responsibility for what happened to the Armenians in 1915 and help us overcome the great divide. In another clip, Hrant expresses his wish that the people of Turkey be educated about what happened to the Armenians before we can establish dialogue with them.
I will paraphrase a line from Obama’s inauguration address: “Unclench your fist and we will talk”. Surely, that goes both ways.
The impeccable event organized by Friends of Hrant: Voices in Dialogue gave me the opportunity to unclench my fist.
Hrant Dink, his hands were gentle, his hands were strong…
To watch Hrant’s interview with TV5 go to http://www.keghart.com/node/282.
February 1, 2009
It was approximately 11 a.m. when I said my goodbyes to my hosts in Montreal. I had planned to tune in to the presidential inauguration ceremony from my car radio and I did just that. I stopped at the ATM to withdraw some money and then at the foreign exchange place to buy some American dollars and headed to the store which sold all kinds of nuts. That place, together with Andalouse who makes the best Mana’ish sandwiches have become a permanent part of my Montreal itinerary. Obama had not spoken yet and I figured I have time to buy some nuts. It took a little longer, because the lady at the counter decided to re-bag the nuts so I don’t have problems with customs. When I went back to my car, Obama had already been sworn in and was speaking. Can you imagine the amount of focus I needed to stay on course while driving and listening to Obama? I drove through downtown Montreal, over the Champlain Bridge and sure enough, missed my exit. I took the next exit, drove to a parking lot, parked and listened to the end of his speech. As I made my way back to where I was going, journalists in D.C. were commenting about the inauguration, about his speech and the soon to begin parade. They were so excited about being there and if they hadn’t used the words Canadian or Canadian Embassy, I wouldn’t have known I was tuned into one of the radio stations in Canada. Duh!
February 5, 2009
And the prize for best story told to reporters goes to: Mr. Leny Escudero of France. Singer Leny Escudero goes to listen to singer Xavier Lacouture. He is seated when he notices an acquaintance and gets up to shake his hand. At that moment, the giant tango ball that hangs from the ceiling has a malfunction and starts spinning out of control, its chain brakes and it finally falls exactly where Mr. Escudero was seated a few seconds ago. He would have been dead. It devastates everyone. Later, journalists “Hey, Mr. Escudero, you almost…” He says: “The amount of work it took Mr. Lacouture and I to do this trick…you must be very naïve.”
February 6, 2009
The nurse came in and exclaimed "jghara"? I understood what she said because my grandmother, who was born in Turkey, used the Turkish word “jghara” for cigarettes and she smoked one or two cigarettes a day. While embarrassed that the nurse probably smelled it on me I acted ashamed and turned my head away from her and looked down for a while. I was going to cry because I felt like I needed to tell her my life story to explain why I had had a cigarette in the car on my way to the doctor. I couldn’t of course. Sensing my utter devastation, she said “I smoke too, but just one or two a day, I tell myself it costs money.” She went on to explain other reasons and ways she finds for not smoking. She made me comfortable and left the room.
The doctor came and asked me what my complaint is. I said that I was there for my general check up; after all it had been three years since my last one. The doctor took my blood pressure, checked my body, and took blood samples. When I asked him about my blood pressure he said that it is perfectly normal.
It was decided that an EKG is needed and in comes the same nurse with the machine. She hooks parts of my body to it while telling me about where she is from, Istanbul, where her ancestors are from, Istanbul, adding that she had never heard about the catastrophic events in the end of the 19th and the beginning of the 20th centuries while she was growing up because her parents or her grandparents, although Armenian, had not experienced them. And now she doesn’t want to hear about them either. She just doesn’t want.
Oh, look, a sane Armenian who happens to be a woman.
And do you know why I was able to finish my very emotional temporary assignment at A&P headquarters in Montvale, New Jersey? I had to open hundreds and hundreds of envelopes containing Certificates of Liability Insurance which where then alphabetically, by the name of the insured, filed. Because one man, amogst hundreds, made my day three different times by smiling sincerely and asking how I am doing. I was so touched by his kind smile that I was going to cry. I decided not to. Instead relived the moment for a few minutes and enjoyed the afterglow. I don’t even know his name. But I will always remember his kindness.
This rarely happens when formalities are so thick in their layers that people have no time to be. And there is the matter of compatibility too. His smile was compatible with what I was most deeply able to experience at the time. It has only happened one or two times in my life that I would have instant mutual recognition and liking with a total stranger.
February 12, 2009
Positive thoughts are lacking to express the feeling of nostalgia I am experiencing today. It is not nostalgia for anything specific or even vague. It is just what it is. I could guess, having eliminated what it is not. I could add that there is a very strong wind outside with overcast skies. I could confess having had two glasses of whiskey last night at my cousin’s where, true to tradition, after a 9 year hiatus, we had a round of poker, with drinks, mixed nuts and one dollar to start. My dad’s absence was felt like no other time since his passing. Once we accepted that fact, it was the turn to discover that we had all forgotten how we played the game. Little by little, with each hand, we remembered. It took mom the longest to catch up because she kept thinking at times that she was playing the very popular card game (for Lebanese-Armenians) “Belote.” Once she focused though, she came out the winner at the end. I broke even with maybe a few nickels ahead. It doesn’t matter how much money you play with because that is not what the game is all about. It is how you play. I don’t know a better place where you can sketch people’s character as well as at a round of poker game. Especially when it is in a relaxed atmosphere like ours was yesterday. I had long realized what a strong mother I have but watching her totally lost in the beginning, seeing her indifference to our laughter and her determination as she persevered and beat us all was awe inspiring.
I don’t know why but lately I have been able to laugh freely. Forget what I said above about nostalgia. It too shall pass but I want the laughter to remain. How do I do that? Can we force laughter to be around us all the time? Can we order it, control it, own it or even pray for it? I don’t know. How do you keep laughter around? Even in my deep despair, there was a time when I could, at will, create laughter not only for me but for those around me. It was a way to escape.
Now that I pretend to be an adult, I have discovered soul searching and have dived in many times to bring out the flower each time. Some smell better than others.
What with getting used to this soul searching so much that it becomes an automatic reaction to everything personal or impersonal and makes one dizzy with thoughts untested, false conclusions and stuck in a maybe?
Hey, I don’t know what I am saying either. Let’s move on.
February 14, 2009
Amongst many video clips circulating on the internet having for theme Valentine’s Day, this one, about the friendship between an elephant and a dog, takes the cake. In case you close this blog after watching it, I want to express my wish that one day we see the elephant being friends with the donkey. Now, here is the clip: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aFz-FMj-9Ps.
February 18, 2009
My car got towed away last night from where I had parked it having misread the sign. It had said No Standing from 11p.m. to 7 a.m. and my eyes had neglected the am/pm part. My mind had neglected it. This is a flagrant example of the damages of being in a hurry. I am late for life in general and particularly in my chosen field of the entertainment arts. Show biz. At least that’s the state of mind I was in when I went to New York to hear Souren Baronian play his G Clarinet with Mal Stein on percussions and Robert Boghossian on oud. They had towed it at 11:03 p.m. They couldn’t wait any longer. And then you have to go be nice to them, pay them a lot of money so they can give you your car back. Aaaah, to have friends in the right places is one thing, to trust them is another. Souren had told me it is on Broom Street between West Broadway and Wooster. I had to Google the name of the Café, get the official address and go park on West Broadway. Had I parked on Broom, I would not have had my car towed and a ticket on my windshield as I redeemed it. The café had a door on both West Broadway and Broom streets.
Slow down people. Take it easy. Breathe. And always read the small print.
February 19, 2009
I got rid of clothes. Three giant garbage bags worth which I donated to the Lupus Foundation http://www.lupus.org/ (they pick it up from in front of your house, neat!) together with old video tapes. They take VHS tapes.
In the afternoon, as I am getting rid of unnecessary clutter in closets and drawers, rearranging, etc., I find a beautiful scarf all wrinkled. Ah, is that why I haven't used it. I put a giant pillow on the floor, cover it with a towel; I take the good old iron, sit on the floor, on my knees, and start ironing. Zoom, I am instantly transported to Beirut, I am not on my knees, I am standing up. I have an ironing board. I am 14 years old, it is summer and I am ironing amongst other things, shirts for my father, seven of them, one for each day of the week, every week. Not just shirts, but the shirts took the longest time to iron. Summers were for helping mother, whether it was making all the beds every morning (except the one belonging to my parents) and cleaning the whole house three times a week or helping with the laundry by hanging it to dry on the clothesline and then doing the ironing; setting the table or washing the dishes. In winter, there were fewer chores demanded from us what with having to learn four languages and all in school. And yet there was the occasional vacuuming of carpets, and being a girl scout on Sunday mornings, starting at 7:30 a.m. sharp. Be prepared.
My knee starts to hurt as I am ironing the scarf. If he was alive, my dad would have told me "My dear daughter put a pillow under your knee so it won’t hurt” or “My daughter, how can you read in this light? It will damage your eyes!” and he would turn on the light. By the time I pressed the scarf and two blouses which were waiting to be ironed in the closet for five years, I remembered many instances where dad would come to the rescue. Thunderstorms for example had a way to become a scientific experiment hence less scary. “Start counting when you see the lightning and stop when you hear the thunder. Multiply that number with ... and you will know how far from us the thunderstorm is happening. I wish I could remember that number now. But just being aware of the time lapse between lightning and thunder, gives me an idea as to how far the thunderstorm is. At east I know that much. And even that helps.
Every year, on the 3rd Thursday of February Armenians honor all the guys named Vartan or Vahan on the anniversary of the war which was some 1500 years ago against the Persians which was lost but which allowed us to remain Christians (De Gaulle had a famous line for this: "Nous avons perdu la guerre mais nous n'avons pas perdu la bataille" I think. Loose translation: We lost the war but not the fight). The battle was led by Vartan and Vahan Mamigonian. My dad’s name was Vahan and I couldn’t have come up with a better way to honor him if I had even tried.
Plus, I now have an ironed scarf.
March 4, 2009
Here is a gem from almost 3 year old Sevag. Talar's older brother.
I was having dinner with them last Saturday. His mom and dad, sister and I. His mom is talking to me when Sevag interrupts her with "Մամա Արփիին հանգիստ ձգէ թող իր ճաշը ուտէ, դուն ինծմով զբաղիր» (Mom, let Arpie have her dinner, you take care of me).
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)