For the Three Followers

It says here that I have three followers on this blog. In other words, three people who at least are notified every time I post something. But I don't know if they read it. Only very few people have put comments by encouraging me to write. It could be the same person. Does he/she read this? Some people let me know that they read by sending me an email. Thank you all.

I would like to speak to the followers now. Are you still following me? Why? I would like to know. What are the characteristics of a follower. Because I want to be an active follower too and I would like my followers to be active as well. What is the use of following? Cooperation? Collaboration? Witnessing? Recording? Being there?

I admit, although I do follow some select people's endeavors, I rarely make comments. Except on Facebook where some of my friends know me. I made a mistake, for example and said yes to someone I thought was someone else. Mistaken identity. Same last name. I posted a comment once in a group and was immediately flamed. It was a stupid comment and it was stupidly understood.

So for the sake of consistency, perseverance, and maybe to put order in my thoughts, I might still write here.

Commonality of Languages

Hey there, can we agree that languages use at least the same sounds? For example, I long ago realized that the dialect of Armenian my grandparents used had the same pronunciation for the letter "a" as the English language. The same intonations, give or take some degrees of differences. Can we live with that?

Is that all I wanted to say when I hurried to the computer? Nada! I went to say goodbye to the deli owner in the neighborhood. He asked me if I was writing my book. My book? said I. What book? I am not writing a book. He said "didn't you tell me that you were writing a book?" That's when I realized that I might have. That is something I might have told but I was for sure lying. Now why would I lie like that? Probably to exaggerate my standing. If this is getting too philosophical, psychological or analytical, let me finish by saying that he reminded me about wanting to write a book.

This could be an exercise in that direction. Life has to be remembered. What we think is important. What we feel even more. So why would I choose to feel bad when I can feel good. Circumstances. Eh, I know English too. I understand most accents except the "égue." Although it does not need understanding. It just changes the sound of the "e." From the "e" of the "le" to the "é" of "café." Now say Le Café. You thought I was going to say something bad about the égue didn't you? You would have been almost right. It means sharp. In my defense. A truth cuts the lie. No, not in pieces. It just makes it disappear. It is not there anymore.

Have you bought your copy of the newly released CD "Sandplay" wherein I sing my own compositions? If you live in the alentours of Glendale, California, Abril Bookstore will have some tomorrow, Wednesday. If you live in the New York City area, the Prelacy bookstore carries some. In both cases please call to make sure.

Abril Bookstore (818) 243-4112

Armenian Prelacy (212) 689-7810

They will be in other select cities soon. I just hope to God your city is selected.
Because. That's "vorovhedev" in Armenian. I love saying that word in Armenian. It carries a certain "je ne sais quoi" which enables one to use it in a thousand different ways, to make a thousand different excuses to say I love you too.

Talar

Talar will be 2 years old next month. Her mom just called me and told me the following:

Today they pick up Sevag from school and are heading home when, out of the blue, Talar says

- I want to go to Arizona.
- What's in Arizona?
- Arpie is there.
- No, Arpie is still here in New Jersey.
- Arpie is here?
- Yes, she is here.
- Where is she?
- At her home.

Children make my day every time.

I just took my medication

It was three hours overdue. And here I was saying "what's the matter with me? I can't sleep." I had things to think about. And I almost slept for five minutes with a dream waking me up. Or was it? So I took the medication.

So I can gossip about him. He is a bad, bad, bad boy. He is a bad, bad, bad, baaaaaaaaaaaaaaaad boy. Hey, that could be a song. Actually it is a song I just wrote. Tonight I saw a program called "Artist's Den" on the television. A whole hour with Patti Griffin. She was amazing. She is amazing. I wish I could write songs like that. Hey, I am just talking with you like you were here. I am giving a virtual show. For free.

After Patti Griffin, I saw Holly Hunter talking to Tavis Smiley. Do you see anything weird about that? No. Except during Patti's concert I kept insisting that she reminds me of someone. That's right, Holly Hunter. There she was looking great and amazing too.

I have done this before but vocally. With no one around me to hear, I used to perform when I had a little space upstairs where I used to live. This is a blessing in disguise. Now at least someone is reading this. Hello!

So, as I said in one of my postes d'antan, I am a people. I am one of the characters in a Sempé picture as written and sung by Anne Sylvestre, "Comme un Personnage de Sempé."

It just dawned on me that most of the people leaving comments on this blog go by the name of Anonymous. By my modest calculations, they are all famous. It is so easy to live the dream in a dream state isn't it? For example, I should have been asleep dreaming right now. But I am not. I am chit chatting. I can't even call my saintly friend in California right now. It is past their bedtime too. Glorious opportunity to write, for someone who can have long periods of avoiding this said wonderful activity.

I also had a Margarita on the rocks with salt today. At the Panchos Burritos restaurant. Great name. It is the best restaurant in our town. They have sidewalk sitting with huge yellow unbrellas in warmer seasons. Today I realized they have doubled the size of the place. Good for them I said.

So I didn't go to Arizona yet. I was rushing to get out of here and that was not supposed to be the idea until the demolition crew arrived. From then on I got a little impatient if you will excuse my other language. Now that the crew has decided to misunderstand me, and I quote, "we can't work with that girl" saying has abandoned premises until April 5, to know this has helped the slowing down process. Even been able to think here and there. Haba!

Caught!

The thief was caught and the license plates are back on my car. It was probably a prank. This is/was a good omen. It gave me a chance to relax. In due time.

Par Example

Parfois, "sometimes, people will say the opposite of what is true as an attempt at levity" Craig Ferguson twittering. I like that.

I also like that someone stole my car's license plates, thus making my departure tomorrow, this morning, quite impossible, and thus giving me a chance to write something. Life has been so boring lately. What with my mom moving out into her own apartment, and moi looking frantically for a place to rent before the demolition crew arrives, and by process of elimination, finding myself in Arizona. I think I'll take the offer presented to me there. It was one I couldn't refuse and it was affordable. That was it. Nothing more. Boring. Well, there was also a recording I was doing and just in the middle of completion. That's all. Life is easy. Even the demolition crew, which arrived unannounced, did not keep me from staying on course, i.e. thinking about and doing the leg work for my move to Arizona and the leg work for the CD which is coming out. By leg work I do mean mainly finger work. The keyboard. It is very close to suggesting music. The personal kind of music which has perhaps brought about the expression "music to my ears".

Where was I? So, I was ready to leave with my car and some belongings to Arizona. Drive cross-country to Arizona. I had always dreamed of it. There is only one way to see the country. And that's by seeing the country. There were some other boring incidents having to do, for example, with me getting angry one morning because I was awakened by the sound of the house being banged on. I opened my bedroom door, and found a worker dismantling the door next to mine. Who wants to wake up like that? Specially after a night of pure headache (my doctor told me all headaches are unexpressed anger and/or rage). Whether it is true or not, I don't know. But in this case it sounds true to me. I had already heard the sounds of demolition and remodeling for a month every day except Sundays. I pulled the door shut behind me in a way that would show anger. Bang! "Why don't you get a tractor and go over the house once and be done with" I told him walking as far away from the noise as possible. "They told me to come to work, I came to work" he said for his defense.
"Nobody asked you to come to work. You came to work because you wanted to come to work and you chose this morning to come to work. I know this. We are all dancing to your tune." This information was gathered by me through multiple telephone calls to the landlord. One time, in order not to hit this man, I had offered to make him a salad. He had refused in such a way as if his refusal might upset me. "Oh no, thank you very much. I just had some lunch, that is why." After hearing Dave Letterman talk about a friend who overtipped a bad waiter and explained it as sarcasm, this whole salad incident became very clear to me.

A few days later, a Saturday, before nine o'clock, after another headachy night which was still lingering by the time I awakened to the sound of heavy banging with a hammer. I opened the door stumbled out towards the sound and found the other worker from Mehico spread out on the floor banging on something. I didn't look for details, I just wanted the sound to stop. "Stop" I said at the same time as the Fire Department's alarm horn started tooting. It is across the street from where I live and it can start at any time of the day or night. The worker continued banging on the floor and I kept saying "stop", louder each time until he heard me. He turned to me and said very calmly "alarm" and went back to work. That's when I screamed "STOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOP!" I showed him my head and said "headache" because he no speak inglaise. I thought him a few words in English though before this incident. I even fed him twice. He wanted to go to California with me. I told him I am not going to California, I am going to Arizona. He said he will go to Arizona with me. So I had to explain that I am invited there, whereas he, is not. I came back to my room, closed the door and started screaming at the top of my lungs. Crying, screaming, from pain, both emotional and physical. When I came to, my headache was gone. At one point he came to the door and I could hear him say "Miss, Miss, are you ok?" All I could say was "GO HOME". Then in the middle of my pain I thought he would think I mean Mehico and would start a discrimination suit on me, I said, "Go Upstairs", where he had nested for the last month and where I used to live. He did and I could hear him talk on the phone probably saying things he imagined because I can understand how that would not make sense to someone. An hour later, he worked some more but this time in a totally different manner. As if he was afraid to make a sound, he was sandpapering a newly installed door. He did a good job. The other guy demolished, this one built. That's life.

That was that. He left that Saturday and wanted me to give him a ride instead of him walking five miles to the bus stop. I hesitated for a moment, then I got my Christian courage up and said "ok" as the demolition guy walked in with a friend and I asked him immediately to give the worker a ride and he agreed. I have seen none of them since. Another call to the landlord was met by stern reprimand. I had screamed at the workers and asked them to leave. And that's the truth, the whole truth, nothing but the truth.

I accelerated my departure taking advantage of the lull and producing better results for my work and even reserved a hotel room in Ohio to have a deadline which was to be today. This morning. Sunday, March 21, 2010.

But someone has stolen my car's license plates.

Fifteen Minutes

Fifteen minutes is all I have right now before I watch my tv shows. Yes, some of us still watch television. Imagine that. After a long day's work, we like to do whatever it is that we like to do. Now I only have eleven minutes. By the time I am done with this post you might be able to guess what show that is. It is not important that I watch it, nor do I need to watch it, but I simply like to watch it. So, I ask you, why should I not watch it? One of the qualities of this show is that it does not insult one's intelligence. When a negative is used to explain a positive, you might conclude, in this case, that somewhere there is a lot of intelligence insulting going on. And you would be right. No double space after a period all you 1960s typing students. There is no need. But my thumb is used to double click on the space bar since then and I can't control it right now. OK, I caught that one. Now I don't know what I was talking about. Ha, the show. Yes, I almost need to watch it because that's where I get my cathartic kicks.

Երեսնիդ վարդի ջուր:

Sandplay, the CD

Sandplay, my vocal album is at www.cdbaby.com/cd/arpiedadoyan. Also at http://www.digstation.com/links.aspx?albumid=ArpieDadoyan.

Խօսակցութիւն մը Դալարին եւ Սեւակին հետ

This evening, I went to see my friends Talar, 2 years old, Sevag, 4 years old, and their parents Diane and Varouj. Talar, Sevag as well as Diane were with me throughout the time I was preparing my CD so from time to time I would give them a copy of what we had done so far and they would listen to it until it came out of their ears. They know every song on my album, word, music and harmonies. They demand to hear it when they are in the car, in the kitchen and in the living room. They were in Montreal a few months ago and I got an email from Montreal from my friend Hourig, through whom I had met Diane. She writes that little Talar will not stop asking for Ayp Pen Kim (one of the songs on the album) until she actually hears the song then she calms down and starts singing with it. Their tastes about their favorites have changed throughout the months. One day they like Ayp Pen Kim, another day they Ov Bidi Lseh, Il Est Beau, or Vorovhedev, or Dlé Yaman, Hrammetsek, etc.

Diane had made soup for them tonight. The three of us, Talar, Sevag and moi are sitting around the table and are talking and eating. Mom has made Alphabet Soup for them. We recited the alphabet then the Armenian alphabet at which time I had the bright idea to tell Sevag «հիմա դուն Իւ Փիւր Քէն կուտես կոր», «հիմա Դա Եչ Զան կուտես կոր» եւայլն: Քովես Դալարը «ես Իլ Է Պօն կերայ» ըսաւ եւ ես գետին ինկայ խնդալէն: Սեւակը քաջալերուած «ես Որովհետեւը կուտեմ կոր» ըսաւ եւ երեքս խնդացինք: Այսպէս շարունակեցինք մինջեւ որ միակ երգը որ չկերանք Տլէ Եամանը մնաց եւ ես յիշելով որ Տիանը ինծի ըսած էր թէ Դալարը այդ երգը չ՛ուզեր լսել, ըսի՝ «Դալարը Տլէ Եամանը չի սիրեր: Դալար, ո՞ր մէկ երգը կը սիրես ամէնէն շատ:»
Դալարը մտածեց բայց չպատասխանեց: «Սեւակ, դուն ո՞ր մէկ երգը կը սիրես»: Անհապաղ «Տլէ Եամանը» պատասխանեց Սեւակ: «Օհ, դուն Տլէ Եամանը կը սիրե՞ս» ուզեցի վստահ ըլլալ: Սեւակին պատասխանէն առաջ, Դալարը «դուն Տլէ Եամանը կը սիրե՞ս» հարցուց ինծի: Բերանս բաց մնաց: Քիչ մը իրաւունք ունի որ իմ նախասիրածը չէ եւ ճիշդ այդ ձեւով ալ հարցուց արդէն: Այսինքն դուն կը սիրե՞ս որ մենք սիրենք: Վստա՞հ ես որ կը սիրես: Այդ հարցումը ես ալ ինքզինքիս մինջեւ հիմա կը հարցնեմ:

People

And their reactions to my move can be quite disconcerting and revelatory. It puts the seal on my brilliant idea to move from New Jersey to some other state, in this case, and by pure lack of other choices except ones imposed upon me, to Arizona. From New Jersey.

Mom moved out first. We put her in a smaller apartment. When I say "we", I had nothing to do with the decision. I was helping the majority's decisions. Two against one.

I lived ten years in the same house with my mother, in New Jersey. For my friends that is a medal winning accomplishment. For me, it is a miracle. For if I had any low self esteem before that, I don't find any traces of it now. Watch out.

Don't say things like "you will miss her." Give me a break. I am still here, in between these boxes, in between her and my furniture we will be leaving behind. What part of ten years you do not understand? Actually, now that I am counting properly, it has been 11 years.

I am happy to announce that it is the longest I have stayed in any one place if we don't count the house where I was born in Beirut.

Some make it more dramatic. My cousine calls from France while mom was still packing "you are going to come home, open the door, she is not there. What are you going to do?"

Just what does that mean exactly? Can someone explain that to me? As if I asked mom to leave and now I have to live with the consequences? That's what I am hearing here. Can you ask me a question please? For example, do I feel liberated?

Yes, I do.

A Dream Comes True

Sometime in the year 1990, in the city of Providence, in my California Street apartment, I had a dream wherein I was going through some thick file folders of tan color. Nothing unusual about this scene as it was a replica of what most of my life had been during the hours of 9 and 6. That's 5 and one more. Whether I was typing agreements at Motown Record Corporation, letters at the State Bar of California or applications and letters for clients at a law firm, I had to do what I had to do. Go through them and take care of them one at a time. But these were nothing compared to the pile of folders in my dream. It was quite a tall order and only until I took care of each one of them tan colored files would I get to the blue one labeled "The People File".

Needless to say I woke up with a sense of "that's a long road ahead of me full of hard work".

I have often wondered in what form and under what circumstances I would know that I have reached the bottom of the pile in real life. When would the turn of the people be whoever they or we were and whatever the blue folder represented. Until yesterday I had no clue but the knowledge that it was something I liked, i.e. people, and that has given me hope all these years. A lucid dream is a lucid dream is a lucid dream. You bet I was curious.

Sometime this morning, before going to sleep (yes, I went to sleep in the morning), I decided to finally put the folders that I had chosen to take with me to Arizona, in a small box. Halfway to the finish line I remembered the dream. A yellow folder, a red folder, a purple folder and we are done. I like purple, I swear, but it is not blue. "We are not there yet Arpie" I said to myself.

Not that fast baby, look to your left, eye level, on top of the boxes, there it is, the blue folder. Afraid of being disappointed again by looking to see what is inside or to read the label, I put the blue folder in the box and went "waaaaaaaaaa! Can you believe that?" I have been saying that a lot lately by the way.

You must be wondering too. Sometime later I had the courage to open the folder. Pictures from here and there. Just a few. The class picture of the two year olds at Jack in the Box Early Learning Center two years ago where I was a teacher's assistant. I still remember most of their names. A few pictures of moi on stage playing a role with others in costumes, some headshots and if there was a picture of me I wanted enlarged, it was there. I took out the theatre pictures and left the kids picture and mine in the file saying to myself "I am people too."

I am people, people.

Ամէն Մարդ Իր Էշը կը Քշէ:

Իմ էշս վերջապէս հասաւ մեր մօտ: Անունը դրի Խտասալաձայնասկաւառակ որ այս էջը արդէն լեցուց իր մեծութեամբ, երկարութեամբ, ժամանակի պահանջքով, եւ ինչու չէ ինքզինքը բան մը կարծող դիրքորոշումով: Իմս է ըսելով չէ որ կ՛ըսեմ՝ սակայն լաւ էշ մըն է: Ես թիւրին թիւրին ամէն էշ հաւնող անձը չեմ: Էշ կայ, էշ կայ: Ասիկա լաւ էշ մըն է: Կը զռայ միայն երբ որ ուզես որ զռայ: Ան էշերէն չէ որ կեցած տեղը մէյ մըն ալ առանց պատճառի կը զռան եւ բոլոր գիւղի կամ քաղաքի բնակչութիւնը կը լսէ ուզէ չ՛ուզէ: Չէ: Այս մէկը սիրելիս քիչ մը աւելի խոնարհ է, եթէ կը թոյլատրէք այդ բառը գործածեմ: Անոր համար այդ անունը տուի իրեն որ սորվի ինքզինքը բան մը կարծել եւ հետեւաբար տրամադրութիւնը բարձրանայ ու զինք քշելու իսկ պէտք չ՛ըլլայ: Այլ ինքնիրեն սկսի քալել, հետոյ վազել առանց գիտնալու որ մարդիկ ճամբուն եզերքը կեցած զինք կը դիտեն եւ ինծի երանի կուտան: Գիտեմ, շատեր պիտի ըսեն «Այս ինչ լաւ էշ է քոյրիկ, ուրտեղէ՞ն գտար: Ինչպէ՞ս գտար: Այս որքան ապրանք շալկած կը վազէ: Երանի անոնց որոնք այս ապրանքները աւելի շուտ պիտի վայելեն քան բոլոր անոնք որոնք թերեւս չստանան իսկ իրենցը»: Երկար պատմութիւն է: Հէքեաթ է: Դեռ դուք իր զռալը չէք լսած:

In this case, quantity wins.

Each year, right around this time, sometimes even in summer, an e-mail arrives from a fellow Armenian, with the word "IMPORTANT" written in the subject line, urging me to go to the MSNBC site and vote yes to the question "should the United States acknowledge the Armenian Genocide?" I voted once many years ago, only to realize afterwards that by sheer numbers (of population) the "yes" will loose.

This genocide matter has either blinded us to reality, made us emotional masochists, or we don't know how to count. The Turks don't have to work hard to get a number that surpasses the Armenian votes. Whereas even if every Armenian on the planet voted in this poll, it will hardly make a difference.

I for one do not like to see year after year the "yes" vote to be 22% or somewhere in that vicinity.

Unless we recruit the help of our non-Armenian friends and make them take the poll in droves and droves, I don't see how we can win this. That begs the question, how many Armenians have non-Armenian friends in droves?

It hurts me to think that we would fall for such an absurd poll. Please stop circulating this insanity.