The American Girl from What? What?

As Clear As What?

2012-01-13T17:10:00.004-07:00

For lack of a better word, I will call it inspiration myself. When one has too much to express and doesn't know where to start, when to start and how to start, and the only thing one knows is that writing is the only avenue left for her to pursue at 5:30 p.m., all the other avenues having reached their destination today, one makes the decision to embrace the choice by acting upon it. I cannot deny the reality of the present. And here I thought I had run out of subjects to write about. Is this what writer's bloc is all about? Too much to sort through? Nobody around to tell you to just start already? Until your back is up against the wall?

The joy pouring out of my fingers, and the sound of the clicks on the keyboard makes me think that it was not in vain that my poor dad carried the iron typewriter to the car, drove the car, carried the typewriter to our house, put it on a table, told me to sit down, opened a book, put it to the right of the typewriter, and said "learn". It doesn't matter what the subject is. Like you, I want to find out why I started typing too. At the end of the day, when all is said and done, I will know. If I get out of bed for this or that excuse, I will know that there is still work to be done. If I sleep until morning, non-stop, like it happened last night, I must have had a good day. It is as simple as that. And that's all I have to go with right now.

If I write at least a few paragraphs herewith, having only me as the judge and critic as to its value, then I can dare distribute it elsewhere. I can copy and paste it on my blog, people can read it and find out at what time I go to sleep every night (see above if you forgot already), or do I still see that special friend. If I answer the latter inquiry by yes, I would be lying. If I answer no, I will have to explain the why and I don't want to.

So what is one to do? Talk about the weather? Politics?

I just made myself a cup of Armenian coffee and will sip it from time to time as I continue writing. Anything to make me write more about nothing will do today. My iWrite is my iRight as opposed to my iWrong. You thought I was going to say iLeft didn't you? How could I say that if I leave? It is not about politics. Let's make it about politics though. I want to know when did this right and left start in politics? From where I am sitting, it is obvious to me that for the right and the left to communicate in any shape or form, both ought to acknowledge that agreements are made in the middle, a little to the left, where the heart resides. This is just from where I am sitting, having only my body as a tool and witness for the defense.

A long time ago, having bread and cheese for dinner with a cup of tea was the utmost in humility or...poverty. Not today. The most expensive items in a supermarket are bread and cheese. All the other items that come in a can, in a box, in a plastic bag are affordable. The cheapest item is cabbage. I have had so much cabbage the last year that a whole city could have been lit by its consequences (to your face, rose water).

I should also stop smoking. It is the hardest thing to do. It is a very bad habit I must admit. I feel like slapping my hand a few times when I catch myself smoking. That hand which extended to receive a cigarette from a lady I had just met outside the Armenian church, and who was sitting under an olive tree, smoking a cigarette. I had conversed with her and I found out she is from Armenia and just moved here from California. Although she spoke English quite well, she still wanted to take lessons to improve herself. She was wondering where she can find a tutor. I was almost going to say "I can do it" but thought harder and decided that I should rather not. I am busy.

Later, after lunch in the church hall, I was out of cigarettes and approached her to ask for one. She was oh so very happy to oblige and started giving me three which I protested against to no avail. She put them in my purse. I don't know how that happened.

So it is the same hand that I also smoked the cigarette with. Right now it is scratching my head which has seen this picture. And right now, this is more important than going to see Midnight in Paris.

A couple of months ago, as part of an idea for networking, I started going to open mic Tuesdays a bloc from where I live and attempted to sing a song or two in English, French and Armenian. Of course I was in the wrong show, although the D.J. had long told me that the stage is open to any kind of act, in any language and for everybody, I still felt that it is not here that I will achieve my goal of networking. I am too shy to ask and what I have asked indirectly has led me to believe that no musician in that joint would be able to work with me. Why? Because I need management, I don't know where and with who I can sing what I know and can. That's all. In order to find work, one has to have a portfolio, pictures, past achievements, successes, a demo tape and a DVD perhaps. I am sure I have all these but they are all in the past.

Right now all I have is this page. Oh, there is a lot of food in the kitchen, every group of food is represented. Including alcoholic beverages.

Let us see how the American whiskey I just poured myself is going to affect the tone of the writing herein-forth. The Armenian coffee has long been consumed. It took less than a day to write the above paragraphs. To be exact, just about 22 hours. Oh no, I was not waiting for inspiration to strike. I let the moment come when I would want to write and realized that I can.

Is that as clear as whiskey?

This morning started with me deciding to go see Midnight in Paris at 2:45 p.m. at Tempe Discount Cinemas where the ticket is $4.00. That was before I realized I had come back to God/Universe a while ago and had to follow my heart instead. My heart was on this page, with You that I miss talking to, with You who has always been there for me when everyone else left, with You who has no name. I don't want to publicize You because it will not convey the truth of how I found You. I might sound like an old cliché but I have to say I love You and adore You.

In 1968 Beirut, I used to work in a company that represented the Merck A.G. firm. At around 11 a.m. I would order a sandwich from the shop across the street, a chicken sandwich on pita bread with mayonnaise and mustard only. It was so good that to this day I sometimes find myself having one, weather permitting.

Speaking of weather, it is in the 70s today in the Phoenix area. It has been so beautiful this winter that it makes one forget all worries. I hear it is the same in the east coast and Europe too. We must all have done something terrific lately. Applause.

I was wondering why I got a chance to eat a chicken sandwich like the one in Beirut today.

Take care.

The Perfect Hostess

2011-12-05T11:38:00.001-07:00

She had invited friends over for dinner and, hopefully, a good time to be had. She had thought of everything within reason, dietary preferences of her guests, and budget. She was constantly on alert for three plus days lest she forgets something important. She had made lists, crossed out possibilities and actively worked on fulfilling the demands of a wonderful evening she wished all her guests would have.

The day and time came with one minor obstacle. It was raining cats and dogs. The guests were graciously cooperative and helped her alleviate her anxiety. They filled the room with their laughter, wit and sheer presence. 6/7th of them spoke Armenian and would have liked nothing more than to dive into their maternal language that they all loved, sprinkled with some Turkish inherited from their lands' occupiers, who, in turn had inherited some of it from occupying Arabs' lands. Out of respect for the 1/7th of the guests, they all spoke English. "I really do have great friends" she thought and that superseded any fishy subjects or other conversations about food.

The desserts were succulent and plenty, so was the wine.

She wanted to do everything by her own self. She tried to do everything by herself. She asked for help when needed but didn't let anyone leave their seat which for some active personalities was unsettling. She tried to remedy this by having one guest jump up and down with her at one point.

After everyone had left, with the promise to do it again, with parking authorization tickets guaranteeing their return, it took the hostess a while to settle down and finally go to bed. She tossed and turned although she was sleepy and tired. She couldn't understand why she was replaying the whole evening over and over in her head as if she had forgotten something. She couldn't have. She even offered them some cognac towards the end. So what was it?

"I FORGOT THE COFFEE AND TEA!" she screamed getting out of bed. She said this in Armenian of course: "Ամաա, սուրճը եւ թէյը մոռցայ:"

Then she realized it was too late to do anything about it, made herself a cup of Sleepytime tea, drank it, forgave herself (I think) and went back to bed and this time she slept like a baby thanking her good fortune.

Մտորումներ Արեւմտահայերէնի Մասին

2011-11-01T23:54:00.000-07:00

«Արեւմտահայերէնը կը մեռնի կոր» կը լսեմ ասկէ անկէ: Պէտք է բան մը ընել: Պէ՞տք է բան մը ընել: Եթէ այո՛, ի՞նչ:

Ճեփ ճերմակը, սեփ սեւը, նոփ նորը, ճիփ ճիշդը, կաս կարմիրը, խոփ խոշորը, տափ տաքը, եփ երկարը, կէս կնիկը, բոլորը կը մեռնին կոր եղեր: Ահազանգի մատնուած ենք: Աւելի շեշտելու համար, «ս» մըն ալ աւելցուցած էինք ճեփ ճերմակին եւ դարձուցած ճեփս ճերմակ:

Սիրոյ մասին է նորէն: Ուրիշը սիրելէ առաջ ինքզինքս եմ սիրած կամ մոռցած սիրել, որոշած չսիրել կամ որոշած սիրել: Անկիւնադարձ առանց ետ դարձի: Դժուար ճամբայ այն իմաստով որ պէտք է յիշել, կրկնել «մանթրա»ի պէս, թերեւս նոյնիսկ երգի վերածել:

Կը սիրե՞նք արեւմտահայ լեզուն: Եթէ այո, ինչպէ՞ս կը յայտնենք մեր սէրը:

Հազիւ տասը տարի էր Ամերիկա էի երբ Մոնթրէալէն ընկերուհիս, իր եղբօր եւ քրոջ հետ այցելեց Նիու Եորք ուր ես կ՛ապրէի: Մինջ ես սկսած էի արդէն անգլերէն բառեր խառնել երբ Հայերէն կը խօսէի, իրենք` ոչ: Ընհակառակը ինծի թուաց որ նոր բառեր աւելցուած էին արեւմտահայերէն բառամթերքին մէջ: Նախ պզտիկ մեղանչանքի զգացում մը պատեց զիս բայց իրենց հանդէպ ունեցած հիացմունքս անմիջապէս որոշեց այսուհետեւ ուշադիր ըլլալ:

Յաջորդ մեղանչանքս, այսինքն երբ նորէն սկսայ անգլերէն բառեր գործածել երբ Հայերէն կը խօսէի, կասեցաւ իմ երեք մենակատարութիւններուն շնորհիւ: Զանոնք գրելը եւ հետոյ բեմ ելլել խաղալը օգնեցին որ իմ մայրենի լեզուն խօսիմ նորէն:

Անցեալ տարի, երբ Սուրբ Աբգար եկեղեցիի դպրոցը հայերէն կը «փորձ»էի սորվեցնել պզտիկներուն, ես ալ սորվեցայ: Դասը հետաքրքրական դարձնելու համար նախ պէտք էր սէրս գտնէի հանդէպ լեզուին եւ փոխանցել զայն պզտիկներուն որպէս լաւ լուր: Երբեմն կը յաջողէի:

Միակ ձեւը բան մը հաւերժացնելու, զայն գործածելն է: Ինչպէս որ Անգլերէն կ՛ըսեն «If you don't use it, you lose it!» Ես կը գործածեմ կոր: Դու՞ն, ա՞ն, միւսնե՞րը:

Իսկ Հայաստանում էս հարցով պարապող կա՞յ: Չգիտեմ, բայց լաւ կը լինի որ լինէր:

Լսուած Աղօթքս

2011-10-03T11:01:00.000-07:00

Մեր մէջ թող մնայ բայց երէկ եկեղեցի քացի: Բայց մինջեւ որ որոշեցի երթալ, յիշեցի որ կ՛ուզէի երթալ արդէն բայց տեղ մը չէի արձանագրած որ յիշեմ: Այս տարի դաս ալ չեմ տար կոր որ Կիրակին երբ հասնի ոտքի ցատկեմ, այնպէս որ հրաշք համարեցի երբ արդէն ինքնաշարժը կը քշէի դէպի եկեղեցի: Կրօնքի մասին պիտի չխօսիմ այլ սիրոյ, կարօտի:

Երբ փոքր էի, մեծ մօրս ձեռքը բռնած կամ չբռնած, քալելով եկեղեցի կ՛երթայինք, բան մը որ կրկնեցի ՁՕՕ4 թւի Սուրբ Զատկուայ օրը, երբ առաջին անգամ ըլլլով Պէյրութ քացի ՅՕ տարի ետք: Այսինքն այդքան տարի անցած էր: Զարմիկիս տունէն (որ կը գտնուէր ճիշդ այն հողաշերտին վրայ ուր միւս մեծ մօրս եւ մեծ հօրս բնակարանը կար ժամանակին, մեր տունին շատ մօտիկ) քալեցի մինջեւ եկեղեցի: Նոյն ճամբէն որ կը քալէի երբ հոն կ՛ապրէի, որ թէ իմ դպրոց երթալ քալու ճամբան էր, թէ եկեղեցիի ճամբան էր, եւ թէ քաղաք երթալու ճամբան էր: Քալեցի գրեթէ ամայացած փողոցներէն, գոց խանութներուն առջեւէն, յիշելով ուր ինչ կար եւ հիմա չկայ, իսկ ուրիշ տեղեր, կան բայց չկայի նման են: Եւ լսեցի միայն իմ կրունկներու ձայնը եւ անոնց արձականգը փողոցի շէնքերուն վրայ:

Հասայ Սուրբ Նշան եկեղեցին: Եկեղեցիին մէջ, նկատեցի որ կեդրոնացումի պակաս ունէի աղօթելու համար: Աղօթելէն աւելի պէտք ունէի շաղուելու հայութեան հետ, թերեւս տեսնելու հին բարեկամներ: Ուրեմն ելայ դուրս, եկեղեցիին նշանաւոր բակը, յուշերով լեցուն: Չկային հին դէմքերը կամ շատ հազուագիւտ էին: Բարեբախտաբար հանդիպեցայ մի քանի հին բարեկամներու, թաղեցիներու, եւ դպրոցի հին ընկեր-ընկերուհիներու:

Մինջեւ Արիզոնա քալս, բացի մերթ ընդ մերթ հայերէն ուսուցանելէ Նիու Ճրզիի երկու դէմի եկեղեցիներու շաբաթական դպրոցները, այդքան կորովով չէի աշխատած որքան Արիզոնայի Սքոթցտէյլ քաղաքի Սուրբ Աբգար եկեղեցիին մէջ ամբողջ անցեալ դպրոցական տարեշրջանին, մեծ սիրով:

Երէկ պզտիկ բացակայութիւնէ մը ետք եկեղեցի կ՛երթայի ճիշդ այնպէս ինչպէս Պէյրութ քացի երկար բացակայութիւնէ մը ետք: Անհուն զգացումներով լեցուն: Հաւատացէք որ երէկուայ զգացումներս շատ աւելի զօրաւոր էին եւ հակազդուեցան նոյնքան զօրաւոր ընդունելութեամբ: Զարմացայ ժպիտներուն, «I was wondering what happened to that lady who used to come"ներուն: «Արեւը ծագեցաւ»ներուն: Չեմ չափազանցէր կոր: Յուզիչ էր տեսարանը:

Պատմեմ: Պէյրութ ներկայացուցի իմ «Այբ Բեն Գիմ» մէնակատարութիւնը: Հոս, Սուրբ Աբգար եկեղեցիի Մելիքեան սրահին մէջ, անցեալ Դեկտեմբերին, թերեւս վերջին անգամ ըլլալով ներկայացուցի զայն իր բարեփոխուած ձեւով: Անկէ ամիս մը առաջ, երբ Տէր Զաքարիային հետ որոշեցինք ներկայացման թուականը՝ ան նկատեց որ այդ օրը Սուրբ Աբգար Եկեղեցուոյ անուան տօնն է:

Ես արդէն, անձնասէր ըլլալուս, նկատած էի որ Աբգար անունը կամ բառը միակ հայերէն բառն է որ Այբ Բեն եւ Գիմ գիրերով կ՛ըսկսի:

Ինչ զուգադիպութիւն ըսած էի հետոյ Քոլէթին: Պէտք է ըսեմ ասիկա Տէր Հայրին: Քոլէթը խոհեմաբար ըսաւ որ ներկայացման ատէն բեմէն ըսեմ ատիկա որ ամէն մարդ գիտնայ:

Այդ օրը հասաւ: Անհամբեր սպասեցի որ Տէր Հայրը ժամանէ որ իրեն այս հրաշալի լուրը տամ: Չժամանեց: Ուրիշ կարեւոր անձնաւորութիւններ ալ չժամանեցին:

Բանբասանք թող չ՛ըլլայ բայց ժողով ունին եղեր նոյն ժամուն:

Լաւ: Ես ալ ներկաներուն պատմեցի եւ իրենց հարցուցի եթէ գիտէին: Չէին գիտեր: Ուրեմն իրենցմէ խնդրեցի որ Տէր Հօր ըսեն այս իմ ըրած գիւտը անշուշտ կարծելով որ ամէն մարդ ինծի պէս պիտի ուրախանայ: Ես մէկ պատճառ աւելի ունէի ուրախանալու անշուշտ բայց ով է հաշիւ բռնողը:

Յաջորդ Տէր Հօր տեսնելուս իրեն հարցուցի: «Ձեզի ըսի՞ն»: Ըսաւ «Ինծի բան չեն ըսեր»: Ես ալ պատմեցի իրեն: Աբգարին եւ Այբ Բեն Գիմին պատմութիւնը: Չեմ յիշեր ինչպէս հակազդեց, կը ներէք ինծի բայց ինքն ալ չէր նկատած:

Վերադառնանք երէկ: Գիտէի որ Տէր Հայրը գիրք մը գրած է եւ Ուրբաթ երեկոյ անոր մակագրութեան օրն էր: Երբ զինք տեսայ երէկ, շնորհաւորեցի եւ հարցուցի եթէ «քրէտիթ քարթ» կ՛առնէ: «Այո ըսաւ կ՛առնենք, բայց աղօթքն ալ կ՛ըլլայ» աւելցուց դէպի իր սեղանը քալելով:

Ես սահմռկած մնացի: Եկեղեցի ուշ հասած էի: Այնքան ուշ որ հաւատացեալները դուրս կ՛ելլէին երբ ես ներս կը մտնէի: Արդեօ՞ք այդ ըսել ուզեց Տէր Հայրը: Չ՛աղօթեցի այլ գիրկնդխառնուեցայ բոլոր անոնց հետ որոնք ուրախ էին զիս տեսնելու: Լսուած աղօթքի մը նման: Հետոյ քացի մոմ վառեցի եւ մինակս աղօթեցի: Մեղայ:

Երբ սրահ կը մտնէի, անցեալ տարուայ աշակերտներս դասարանէն ելլելով մէկ մէկ վազեցին քովս անունս տալով: Երջանկացուցին: Հետոյ, իրենք ինծմէ աւելի խելօք, նստած կերան իրենց հոգէճաշերը իսկ ես, ուրախ, չէի գիտեր որու հետ խօսում, ուր նստիմ: Շատեր գանգատեցան որ մէյ մը հոս եմ մէյ մը հոն, «կեանքիս պատմութիւնը» պատասսխանեցի:

Շատ լաւ ժամանակ անցուցի: Մեղայ:

Les "new post"s se suivent mais ne se ressemblent pas!

2011-09-29T11:57:00.000-07:00

Il a fallut que je voulasse recommençer le matin de nouveau étant donné que je n'avais aucune idée comment arrêter le barrage des "il faut"s qui m'attendaient; sans compter qu'hier il y a eu une addition sur la liste qu'il faudra commençer le matin avec, dorénavant. C'est une façon de respirer pour remonter la morale. Alors que, en se reveillant, mon instinct, ma routine, est de courir vers la cuisine pour preparer le café, je dois réspirer consciemment tout d'abord. Tu ne vas pas mourir, au contraire ma chère. La discipline s'il te plaît. C'est ce que j'avais oublié de faire.

Et puis il faudra que je rapporte les résultats à l'enseignant qui est un ami d'antan. Il est vrai, qu'en recommençant mon matin j'ai senti mieux qu'avant et je dois lui dire ca.

Alors; qu'est-ce que je fais ici?

J'écris en français et je viens de m'apperçevoir que ce clavier français, celui qui commence par A et Z de gauche à droite, au deuxième rang en haut, eh bien, rien que ces deux lettres, representent l'état où je suis, voyez-vous?

Je suis dans un état est bien le cas de le dire.

Alors géographiquement au moins, je me retrouve dans cet etat, et je me joins à vous qui, lisant, doivent se demander si je vais pouvoir dire quelque chose de "marketable." Le point va dans les guillemets, merçi Bedros. On m'avait fait croire autrement pendant un certain temps.

Revenons à mon état adopté. Oui, j'ai bien dit adopté parceque ça s'adopte un état. Personne ne peux me mettre dans un état sans ma permission. J'adopte ou non c'est mon choix. La liberté en plein état de production.

Vendredi passé j'ai eu le grand plaisir de parler en francais avec une amalgame d'hommes et de femmes venus des quatres coins des Etats Unis et du monde. J'étais heureuse, heureuse pour au moins deux heures. Les membres de l'équipe "French Speakers" sur Meetup.com se retrouvaient tout près d'ici et je suis allée plus comme résultat d'une manque de vie sociale que pour pratiquer mon français. Ainsi que pour rencontrer des "étrangers."

Voila. C'est tout ce que je voulais vous dire.

Gracias A La Vida

2011-09-27T16:51:00.001-07:00

Need I say more? Short of talking on the phone, it is the next best thing to singing. I know that without self-expression, right now, I could just sink into despair.

And what does it matter if one is writing about the past? About, let us say for the sake of an example, my geography teacher in high school, Mademoiselle Kaligian. Later she married and became Madame Kurkjian, and always Arpi as her first name.

One of her paintings is hanging on the wall in my apartment. The one you can see hereinabove. She gave it to me this past June when I went to visit her in southern California's Glendale city and liked it the best amongst many. She had been painting oil canvases for a while and her apartment walls were covered with them. I was really flabbergasted. I mean I couldn't take my eyes off them and her in total awe and inspiration.

She talked, as usual, and I listened. We had so much in common and I had no chance to tell her that as she was still talking. It was a magical moment when out of the blue she told me "but you, you have faith!" How did she know that? I guess from the expression on my face as she was telling me how she had, one day, decided not to paint anymore and to get rid of the last remnants of paint in the tubes, she had squeezed out the paint onto a piece of paper or cardboard or canvas I don't remember which.

Lo and behold it had turned into a painting she couldn't throw away. The paint she was trying to get rid off had a different agenda. Something had been born out of nothing. She had done some minor work to facilitate its completion and that painting was hanging in her apartment. The "don't give up" painting I recall thinking.

She had also lost 100 pounds since I last saw her at the 75th Anniversary of our high school some six years ago. After my performance, having for subject school life circa 1950-1960s in Beirut Lebanon, she told me that what I had created was literature. I never forgot that. In other words, she gave me an A+ that day. It meant a lot to me because she was one teacher I greatly admired because of her lack of b.s.

What else could I do upon my return, if not paint?

The title song, Gracias a La Vida, written by Chilean Violetta Para and popularized by Mercedes Sosa, is the one I have been working on since then and learning a little Spanish in the process; out of pure curiosity and because I found out how close it is to French, and sometimes to English, albeit simpler and easier.
.

Tupperware

2011-09-27T02:13:00.000-07:00

Speaking of spending most of my time in the kitchen nowadays, I had the bright idea of using the container with a red lid for food that could be had by my roommate and I told him so. I came up with this plan after an incident wherein I had left the food in the container outside so that it cools before I put it in the fridge and had gone to sleep. In the morning it became obvious to me that roommate thought it was for him to take to work and he had done so. He returned the container still half full because there was a lot of Imam Byeldi (trans. The Imam Fainted, that's how good that dish is) in it (enough for four people) and apologized for not asking before taking it.

So this new plan worked the next time I had food to share. In the evening roommate came in and my attention focused immediately on whether he had brought back the containers. He had not. As if on cue, maybe he had heard my thoughts, he explained that he had forgotten the food in his lunch box and will have it the following day.

That's when it hit me. I had turned into my mother. For Armenian moms, the plastic container is more valuable than the food she cooks and sometimes gives away. She wants the containers back. Understandably. But I am not even a mom. How did I become mom without being one? This thought amuses me because as I was growing up I was so not like her and thought that I had missed my calling in life. It has nothing to do with having or not having children. At the first opportunity, mother, thru daughter, will reveal herself. Who knows how many other instances of being my mother I have lived thru, unaware.
I have discovered some but I am sure there is more.

In my first monologue, I had a whole routine about the subject of food containers and Armenian women's obsession about them. As I play my mom in the kitchen, she is looking at the three shelves holding all her plastic containers and exclaiming "where have my Tupperwares gone?" Every woman in the audience would start laughing recognizing themselves.

All this is happening as I am rediscovering my mom from a distance. Mother and I used to live together for over ten years before I moved out here to Arizona which has given me a chance to realize what I really admire about her.

Tupperwares excluded of course.

Games Gift

2011-09-23T11:33:00.000-07:00

As I was thinking about what would be a good title for this blog, I got sidetracked, because if I don't do it to myself, others will do that to me. Actually, if we can consider that love is the most important thing in the world for a moment, the mere thought of it took me away from this page.

I come with proof that getting sidetracked is part of the process.

During my temporary switch to another track in my head, I was thinking about games, and if we play them in the name of love. I do.

After that little confession to myself, let's just say it is little, I came back to this page, directed the cursor to the title box and I was given three choices for title. This is new, I had not seen this before, I have choices which gives that I don't have to think and sweat over a title right now.

"Games Gift" was the first choice and the best one because it echoed my exact thoughts at that moment about the subject of people playing games. Where did this choice come from? Is there a database somewhere parallel and a copy of my thoughts? If there is, Google has it apparently.

Games People Play, Eric Berne's book I had read in the summer of 1975 comes to mind. It is so appropriate to the present. I had forgotten the wisdom I had found in it, although it was written by a psychologist. Parent, Adult, Child, the three roles people play in life intermittently was the main subject of the book. I liked it so much. Around the same time, from the same author, I had read I'm OK You're OK. Both books rang true to my ears at the time.

All three roles have their positive and negative aspects. I caught myself in one before I even knew what I was going to write about. So this is a confession that games are part of the gift and a gift by themselves.

Games Gift.

Ինչ Տարբերութի՜ւն

2011-09-21T20:13:00.001-07:00

Երկուշաբթի դժուար եղաւ անկողինէն ելլել: Ոչ մէկ խրատ, պարտականութիւն, հեռանկար, երազ եւ սփոփանք կարեւորութիւն ստացաւ: Ոչինչ: Ոչ կրնայի ետ քնանալ, ոչ կ՛ուզէի օրը սկսի, ոչ ոտքի, ոչ նստած, ոչ երգով, ոչ գրելով, ոչինչ կ՛ուզէի ընել: Անպէտք կ՛ըզգայի բառին բուն իմաստով: Կէսօրէ ետք հեռաձայնը զարկաւ եւ վերցուցի: Ամաա՜ Արիզոնայէն է, այստեղէն: Շատ ազնիւ զոյգ մը որոնց այստեղի Հայկական եկեղեցին հանդիպած էի եւ մի քանի անգամ իրարու տուն գացինք եկանք, խօսեցանք, փիլիսօփայեցինք, կերանք, դիտեցինք, եւ հիմա ահա կը հարցնեն թէ ինչպէս եմ: Իրենք ալ նոյն տրամադրութեան մէջ են առանց պատճառի: Անդօն եւ Արփին:

Արդէն հոն քիչ մը շտկուեցայ: Ժամադրուեցանք Ուրբաթ օրուայ հանդիպումի մը իրենց տունը:

Ժամ մը չ՛անցած հեռաձայն մը եկաւ Թօրօնթօյէն: Մանկութեան ընկերուհիս էր, Արփին: Խօսեցանք խնդալով, երբեմն բարկանալով, անճրկուած հայեր աշխարհի չորս ծագերուն: Հաճելի էր եւ զգացուած էի:

Երեքշաբթի, նամակատուփին մէջ ինծի ուղղուած տրցակ մը կար: Սիրելի Վիգէն Դարբինեանէն ի Ֆրանսա: Իր եօթը երգերու խտասալիկները ինծի կը ղրկեր որովհետեւ մի քանի շաբաթ առաջ «Սքայփ»ով կը խօսէինք առաջին անգամ ըլլալով եւ իրարու խօսք տուած որ մեր խտասալիկները պիտի փոխանակենք: Նոյնիսկ ոչ հայ տնեկիցս մտիկ ըրաւ: Զատեցի անոնք որոնց հանդէպ ես մասնաւոր տկարութիւն ունիմ: Քննադատեցի, սիրեցի, յուզուեցայ, երկրորդ ձայն երգեցի, երբեմն երրորդ եւ այսպէս զգացի որ դեռ կարող եմ ձայն հանել:

Իրիկուան նորէն հեռաձայնը հնչեց: Արփին էր նորէն, Թօրօնթօյէն: Չեմ կրնար հոս կրկնել թէ ինչու կը հեռաձայնէր բայց կրնամ ըսել որ այդ խօսակցութիւնէն վերջ ամէն ինչ աւելի լաւ սկսայ տեսնել: Գիտցայ որ բարեկամութիւնը, անկեղծ բարեկամութիւնը չէ կորսուած աշխարհի երեսին: Բաստ ունիմ: Կեանքը ապրիլ սիրով, առանց խմբագրելու, շատ դժուար է: Ընկեր եւ բարեկամ կուգան յիշեցնելու թէ թիւրին ձեւն ալ կայ:

Այսօր, Չորեքշաբթի, Սինթիան հեռաձայնեց Մասաչուսէթէն: Այդպէս, կարծեմ որպէս օրէնք, առանց գիտնալու: Հարցումներէն մէկը - Are the Armenians taking over the world? Այնպէս կը պատահի որ երբ որեւէ կապի վրայ կը կոխէ համաձանձը իրեն հայու մը քով կը տանի եղեր վերջերս: Իրեն ըսի որ այսօր Հայատանի անկախութեան քսաներորդ տարեդարձն է: Շուտով կ՛անցնի: Այդ ալ շատ հաճելի էր եւ սիրով լեցուն:

Մէկ ժամ չ՛անցած Նիու Եորքի ընկերուհիս, Արփինէն հեռաձայնեց: Լիլիթ Փիփոյեանի կատարմամբ՝ «Կապոյտ Մանուշակ» երգը լսած էր եւ ինծի յիշած որովհետեւ Լիլիթի համերգին միասին գացած էինք տարիներ առաջ: Ժամադրուեցանք քալ ամիս ի Նիու Եորք:

Լուր մ՛արի, լուր մ՛արի տեղէ մը, ամէն ինչ շատ լաւ է, շատ լաւ է: Թէ նոյնիսկ ես լաւ եմ, ես լաւ եմ, թէ դեռ ինծ կը սիրեն, կը սիրեն:

Այսօր:

Կեանքը Խոհանոցին Մէջ

2011-09-21T19:32:00.000-07:00

Երեք ժամը չէր բաւէր, այսօր չորս ժամ անցուցի խոհանոցին մէջ: Անշուշտ եփելով: Չէ հապա սառնարանը բանալ գոցելո՞վ: Խմոր չեմ բանար կոր ոչ ալ տոլմա կ՛եփեմ կոր այլ՝ ամէն մէկ կերակուրը ոչ մէկ տեղ տեսած կամ կերած եմ ոչ ալ եփած եմ ասկէ առաջ: Այսինքն յիշատակներ չկան եփածիս մէջ այլ պարզապէս ներկան ինչպէս որ է, ինչով որ ունիմ, ինչպէս որ սիրտս կ՛ուզէ:

Կերակուր եփելը ինքնուրոյնութիւնս գտնել է: Կրնա՞մ ինքզինքս գոհ պահել: Կրնամ եղեր: Համով են եփածներս: Իսկ չեփածներս, այսինքն անոնք որ աքցանի ընտանիքին կը պատկանին, ալ աւելի համով են: Վկաներ ալ ունեցած եմ:

Մէկ բացառութիւն ըրի այս չտեսնուած, չհամտեսուած շարանին մէջ: «Իմամ Պայըլտը»ն: Երբ վկան, որ հայ չէր, ոտքի կեցած համտեսեց զայն, «Օ Մայ Կատ» ըսաւ եւ գնաց աթոռին նստաւ, երեսին գոյնը նետած: Պիտի մարեր այսինքն:

Անշուշտ իրեն պատմեցի այս կերակուրին անունին պատմութիւնը: Եթէ չէք գիտեր, կը նշանակէ Իմամը Մարեցաւ:

Իսկ որպէս զուտ հայկական, եթէ ամառ չէ, երբեմն ոսպով ապուր կ՛եփեմ:

Նորէն կը գրեմ շուտով որովհետեւ պէտք է գրեմ այլեւս:

We, the Children of the Armenian People

2011-05-27T15:14:00.000-07:00

We, the children of the Armenian people
With the first light of the morning
Always smiling, always happy
We go to school in droves of rows

Although our lunch box is quite small
Ours is life and the future
With books plentiful as treasure
We hold in ownership under our arms

Home of the Armenian light
Inside our beloved school
Our sacred language is heard
Like a song forevermore

I sang this song as a child in Lebanon, in Armenian, from a poem by Moushegh Ishkhan and music by Parsegh Ganatchian. I had a chance to pass it on to the students of the Sunday Armenian School this past school year. They sang it with piano accompaniment last Sunday for the commencement and made me proud.

I made a small adjustment. In the 50s it was natural that our lunch boxes were poor. We were still recovering from the calamity our parents and grandparents had gone through. Even I am doing better now, so I thought I'd change the word to small as in small country, population number, world power ranking, etc.

I loved the Armenian language when I was a child because I didn't know any other yet. Imagine how difficult it is to teach kids a language they will thank you later for but now wonder why. Why should they come to school every Sunday and learn words like "yes", yes, yes. It is the Armenian word for "I". Isn't that a positive coincidence? An affirmation for survival? There are other magical coincidences between the English and Armenian languages that I was able to share with the students in order for them to find a connection to it. Most of these kids' parents do not speak the language so how are they to relate to a language they have never heard before? Enter comparisons, similarities, paradoxes like "IO" which means yes.

What? What? Yes and there is more. We are all connected somehow.
Phenomenal. How did that happen? I suppose we are trying to build the Tower of Babylon the right way.

Mother

2011-05-09T11:45:00.000-07:00

Mother,
I delivered about 25 bouquets this past weekend to various mothers in the Queen Creek, Tempe and Scottsdale areas of Arizona. Some mothers were not home so I left the bouquets with one of their neighbors who were happy to accept. The GPS guided me to places I had never been. Immense gated communities where the streets are so quiet it explains the fact that I woke some people up from their sleep. What struck me most was the attitude of people receiving flowers. From elation to downright apathy. Maybe the latter ones were in the middle of something. I don't know. How can you not smile when receiving flowers? Even if they were not sent to you, they are flowers, beautifully arranged for the occasion. This made me think that the attitude might not have been directed towards the flowers but the fact that a woman with an accent is standing at the door and we better be careful. I am being generous. The worst was the look I got from a woman who drove into her driveway as I was leaving having given her bouquet to the neighbor and I was telling her this. The who are you to even dare talk to me look. She is still a loving mother to someone who sent her the flowers I explained to myself. These were the rare occasions which brought me to reality. No one has to follow your script I said to myself. I realize my excitement about delivering flowers while being a robot and following every turn the GPS voice would command me to was mine only.

Please accept that as my love for you.

I Am Home or "Hassa! Hassa!"

2011-04-15T11:40:00.000-07:00

Those of you who are wondering what is "hassa", it first of all means I arrived in Armenian and some of you will know what story I am referring to. Those of you who do not know, have to be first told about my maternal grandfather we called "Dede". He was a hero during his youth having saved many Armenian women from their abductors after the deportations of the Armenian Genocide in 1915. He had been in jail twice and escaped both times. When he reached home no one recognized him at first.

In prison, they had tortured him so much that he had lost most of his eyesight and hearing. We had to talk loud into his ear for him to hear and he could only see shadows. He and my grandma, "Nene" lived within a few minutes' walk from us. They also lived even closer to their eldest son, my uncle Hrant and his wife, Aunt Arous. One night when Uncle Hrant had a meeting and Arous was visiting Dede and Nene, it got dark and Dede did not want Arous to walk half a block home by herself and accompanied her. As they approached the building, Arous told Dede that she can now see the building and that she can continue by herself. Dede stood there anyhow and kept asking "Arous hassar?" (Arous did you reach your destination?) And Arous to hollar back "HASSA!" Dede doesn't hear Arous and keeps repeating "Arous hassar?" Finally, having no other choice, Arous runs back to Dede, says "HASSA! HASSA!" and runs back home.

In my case it is the contrary. You all thought I had arrived a year ago. Physically yes, I had. But this is another kind of arrival. I am finally home instead of in a geographical location. Let me rephrase that. I am where I always wanted to be.

After One Year: Almost Here

2011-04-06T21:02:00.000-07:00

On my return from Montreal an offer was waiting for me that I could not refuse. A better place to live in. This does not mean that I did not obsess about the pros and cons even though the pros are way more than the cons. I did and I still do. I will be loosing the neighborhood I got used to and the nearby park where I used to go often, sometimes to work and sometimes not to work; my roommates; and the dog, Jack. The rest is all good stuff. An added bonus are the tall pine trees outside the living room. It suggests familiarity to me. I kept looking at them transfixed as I had missed them so very much. Lebanon's mountains were full of pine trees which also gave pine nuts. Back to the present, the trees could be inspiring in the future. The future I speak of is a couple of weeks away.

I can't believe it has been almost a year. A year ago, today, I was either in Missouri or Oklahoma on my way here. And now I am on my way to a new place. It is odd that when I was looking at places to rent in Arizona, it seemed that Mesa would be a good place to live. A phone call to a family friend here to inquire about Mesa and apartments in general sidetricked me so that I am only now realizing my original intention. How about them apples?
It is all good.

Arpenaran in Montreal

2011-03-23T16:52:00.000-07:00

Բանաւոր Բացակայ

2011-03-20T23:48:00.000-07:00

Մեղանչած կ՛ըզգամ այսքան երկար ժամանակ չգրելուս համար եւ քանի որ այս «պլոկ» կոչեցեալը կարդացողներուն մեծամասնութիւնը հայեր են, ուրեմն կը պարտիմ հայերէն գրել:

Ու կը մտածեմ: Ինչու՞ համար ամէն անգամ պէտք է բացատրեմ եւ լուսաբանեմ թէ ինչու կը գրեմ եւ որ լեզուով:

Գործիս երթամ:

Յունուար Ձին սկսայ Արփենարանը գրել եւ Փետրուար ՁՑին կեցայ: Ոչ թէ որովհետեւ կը կարծէի վերջացած է գործս բայց, ինչպէս որ արուեստագէտ ընկեր մը ըսաւ, պէտք է գիտնաս ըսել «վերջացած է» երբ ալ սառած կեցած ես եւ չես գիտեր եթէ վերջացած է կամ ոչ: Այդպէս ալ ըրի: Ես զինք ձգած էի բայց ինք զիս չէր ձգած: Անվերջ կը հալածէր: Հիմա սկսած էի արդէն ինքզինքս բեմին վրայ տեսնել խաղարկութեան մէջ: Ամբողջ տասը օր մտքով բեմադրեցի անդադար: Մեկնելես երկու օր առաջ Սուրբ Աբգար եկեղեցիի սրահը հրաւիրեցի մօտիկ մի քանի բարեկամներ պարզապէս գաղաբար մը ունենալու համար եւ գիտնալու որ գրածս զառանցանք չէ: Չէր:

Քիչ մը ոգեւորուած հասայ Մոնթրէալ: Եկաւ ժամը բեմ ելլելու: Մէկ ժամ ուշացաւ այդ բեմ ելլելու ժամը որովհետեւ կարեւոր կառաւարական անձնաւորութիւն մը կ՛ըսպասէինք որ վերջապէս չ՛եկաւ եւ ես ելայ բեմ: Հետոյ հասկցայ որ քառորդ ժամ հետոյ ժամանած է եւ մերժած են զինք ներս ընդունիլ:

Ժողովուրդը համբերութեամբ սպասեց Արփիին: Եկուր տես որ Արփին իր կտորը Տիգրանակերտի բարբառով կ՛ըսկսի եւ ինչ որ եկեղեցիի սրահը հակազդուեցաւ խնդուքով հոս տափակ ինկաւ գետին: Տասը վարկեան ալ սպասեցին որ հայերէն սկսիմ խօսիլ եւ «աաահ» մը քաշելով շտկուեցան իրենց աթոռներուն մէջ «հալլա պալլաշ ըլֆըլմ»ի պէս (ֆիլմը հիմա սկսաւ այսինքն): Թող ներեն ինծի: Իմ հանցանքը չէր:

Բայց կար հակազդող Տիգրանակերտցի Տիկին Մարին որ մեր ընտանիքին հեռուէն ազգական կուգայ թէյզի (մինջեւ կը նշանակէ) Հազրօյէն: Նստած էր բեմին շատ մօտիկ: Այս Տիկին Մարին իմ բարբառը կը սրբագրէր նստած տեղէն, կը պատասխանէր հարցումներուս ու կը շտկէր հնչումս: Եթէ ամուսին բառը գործածեցի, «էրիկ, էրիկ» կը յուշէր: Շատեր հասկցան եւ խնդացին, ուրիշներ չհասկցան եւ չխնդացին: Իսկ ես սկսայ բեմէն հետը խօսիլ ինքնաբերաբար որովհետեւ ամէնէն ներկայ անձը կը թուէր ըլլալ քոնէ այս բաժնին մէջ: Պէտք էր զինք հետս բեմ հանէի կը մտածեմ:

Կար նայեւ ուրիշ կառաւարական անձնաւորութիւն մը հանցին Պարոն Սթէֆան Տիոնի: Ըսած էին ինծի որ Պարոն Տիոնը մի քանի բառ պիտի խօսի բայց կ՛ուզէ մնալ եւ դիտել հակառակ որ մէկ բառ հայերէն չի հասկնար: Լաւ որ մէկ երկու ֆրանսերէն երգեր ունէի գրպանս որոնք զինք դարմանեցին իր տանջանքէն: Ըսին նայեւ որ իր սեղանին տիկին մը կայ որ պիտի թարգմանէ:
Բեմէն տեսայ այդ տիկինը: Թարգմանելու երեւոյթ չ՛ունէր: Իսկ Պարոն Տիոնը մեծ ուշադրութեամբ եւ առանց յօրանջելու կը դիտէր:

Յաջորդ օրը բախտն ունեցայ այդ տիկինին հանդիպելու եւ հարցնելու թէ ինչպէս անցաւ թարգմանութիւնը: «Իրեն ըսի որ հին պատմութիւններ կը պատմես կոր»: Առ քեզի թարգմանութիւն:

Վերադարձիս անմիջապէս Պարոն Տիոնին իմակ մը ուղարկեցի, շնորհակալութիւն յայտնելով եւ ամփոփ ձեւով բացատրեցի թէ ինչ էր ըրածս բեմին վրայ:

Ի՞նչ էր ըրածս բեմին վրայ: Հրաւիրեցէք զիս ձեր քաղաքը կամ գիւղը Արփենարանը ներկայացնելու եւ դուք ալ կը գիտնաք թէ ինչպէս գիրը, գրականութիւնը եւ լուացքը մօտիկ բարեկամներ են:

Montezuma Well

2011-01-10T20:39:00.000-07:00

There are so many writings about this well. Scientists have not discovered, for example, the origin of the consistently warm water that feeds Montezuma Well. A current research topic with scientists from Northern Arizona University is trying to decipher where the water is coming from and from what level. Scientists have noted the flow rate from the Well rarely fluctuates -- but the source deep in the earth's layers remains a mystery.

Its story began 12 million years ago, when the part of the Verde Valley was covered by a large, shallow lake. Floating plants in this bodyof water caused dissolved calcium carbonate to form minute crystals, which slowly sank to the bottom and accumulated into thick layers of soft limestone rock.
About two million years ago, the lake waters began disappearing. Underground streams started dissolving softer areas of the underground limestone, and a cavern began to form. The passage of time and the force of water carved a cavern larger and larger until, about 11,000 years ago, the roof of one of these caverns gradually crumbled, forming Montezuma Well.

Water enters Montezuma Well at a constant 74 degrees F with a flow of over 1,400,000 gallons every day. As the water passes through the limestone, it collects large amounts of dissolved carbon dioxide -- nearly 100 times more than most natural aquatic environments.

The high levels of CO, make Montezuma Well completely inhospitable to fish, despite the presence of oxygen in the water. In their absence a community of unique species, each dependent on the others, has evolved. Four of these species are found nowhere else on the planet?
Algae, small floating plants, manufacture food from light energy and the rich supply of carbon dioxide in the water.
At night, a great feeding frenzy begins among the creatures who have adapted to this harsh aquataic environment. Amphipods, tiny shrimp-like animals, feed by combing algae through appendages below their mouths.
Leeches, living by day in the bottom sediments of the Well, rise at night and, searching with sensory hairs on their bodie, gulp large quantities of the small amphipods. Night-swimming water scorpions also make evening meals of the shrimp-like creatures.
With the first light of day, these creatures sink back to the depths of the Well until sunset, and the beginning of another cycle.

It was my pleasure to type this from the article by Rex Vanderford of National Park Service in the free publication, Echoes.

Montezuma Castle

2011-01-10T20:19:00.000-07:00

"Sheltered within a cave high on a limestone cliff overlooking Beaver Creek, this five-story, twenty-room pueblo was once home to prehistoric Sinagua people. Abandoned after A.D. 1400, this imposing cliff dwelling is now preserved at Montezuma Castle National Monument."

The above writing is from the label of the plastic water battle we bought from there and I have kept for this wonderful occasion. The occasion being of having given myself a chance to write.

My cousin, Arpi (I have also friends named Arpy, Arpie and Arpinée), had sent me an email asking me how I am doing. Instead of writing back, I called her. For some reason she couldn't hear me and kept asking me repeatedly how I am doing with an urgency in her voice. I finally told her to read my blog.

I took this picture last week when we visited the Camp Verde area of Arizona, less than 100 miles north of Phoenix. I had no idea this place existed having had my focus on wanting to visit the Grand Canyon one day. That's where one starts if one wants to see wonders in this corner of the woods. Expectation is one thing, wonderful surprise is another. Oh, what a day it was. So welcome and needed after a full year of hard work. It was my mini-vacation and the cold I started battling did not dumpen my joy for being away from the city, out in nature, exploring and discovering.

For some reason, I cannot put another picture here. See you in Montezuma Well (my next posting).

2010

2010-12-23T14:49:00.001-07:00

Ահաւասիկ: Թէ վերագաղ Երկու Հազար Տասը թւի եւ թէ էնֆորմացիա առ որ անկ է:

Յունուար: Արիզոնա եկայ տեսնելու թէ կրնա՞մ ես հոս ապրիլ: Որոշեցի այո՛: Քալիֆորնիայի մօտ ըլլալն ալ օգնեց վերջնական որոշում առնելու անմիջապէս փոխադրուելու հոս:

Փետրուար: Իմ առաջին երգախտասալը, Sandplay, լոյս տեսաւ:

Մարտ: Տես` Տուփերու Մէջ, հոս գրուած:

Ապրիլ: Փոխադրուեցայ Արիզոնա:

Մայիս: Շատ աղուոր է հոս:

Յունիս: Գործ բնտռեցի:

Յուլիս: Քալիֆորնիա քացի այցելութեան:

Օգոստոս: Անձնական կեանք ունեցայ:

Սեպտեմբեր: Հ.Մ.Ը.Մ.ի պարահանդէսին հրաւիրուեցայ: Չ՛ուզեցի երթալ որովհետեւ հրաւիրողը իմ նոր սկսած գործի տնօրէնն էր եւ ինծի համար Հ.Մ.Ը.Մ.ը սրտի շատ մօտիկ էր բայց ահա որոշեցին որ պէտք է երգեմ այդ օրը, քոնէ մի քանի երգ որ գաղութը «վայելէ» զիս, «ճանչնայ» զիս: Բոլոր փողոքներս ապարթիւն անցան: Երգեցի մի քանի երգ միայն: Կարծեմ այդ մասին ալ գրած եմ հոս: Մի քանի շաբաթ տեւեց միայն այդ ապրուստ շահելու ձեւը:

Հոկտեմբեր: Հայերէնի դաս տուի Կիրակի առտուները Սուրբ Աբգար Եկեղեցիի Կիրակնօրեայի աշակերտներէն անոնց որոնք կ՛ուզէին Արեւմտահայերէն սորվիլ:
Չէին ուզեր, այդ ուրիշ հարց է: Իրենք իրարու հետ կ՛ուզէին խաղալ, խօսիլ, խնդալ: Գիտեմ, մենք ալ անանկ էինք: Անոր համար թէ՛ կ՛ըզգամ հետերնին եւ թէ՛ կ՛ուզեմ Հայերէնի հանդէպ իմ սէրը բաժնել իրենց հետ:
Խաչիկ Դաշտենցի Ծննդեան Հարիւրամեակի ձեռնարկին կարդացի Փրափիոն Ծաղիկը եւ Այբենգիմէն պզտիկ կտոր մը ներկայացուցի:
    Որովհետեւ Շահան Նաթալիի աղջիկը, հիմա անունը չեմ յիշեր, որ Քալիֆորնիայէն պիտի քար Կար ու Չկար յայտագրին մաս կազմելու, Հայկական հեքեաթ պատմելով Halloweenին, չի կրնար քալ, Տէր Հայրը ինծմէ խնդրեց այդ դերը ես կատարեմ: Աւելի ճիշդ ըսաւ «ինծի պիտի օգնես»: Ես ալ կեանքիս մէջ առաջին անգամ ըլլալով հեքեաթ պատմեցի: Անգլերէն լեզուով: Յովհաննէս Թումանեանի Քաջ Նազարը: Շատ մեծ հաճոյքով:

Նոյեմբեր: Ըստ օրէնքի, Նոյեմբերին, մեր եկեղեցին ալ իր տօնախմբութեան օրերը ունի: Նոյեմբերի Վեցը եւ Եօթը այդ օրերն էին: Ինծմէ խնդրուեցաւ երգել: Երգեցի երկու օր ետեւ ետեւի, երկար յայտագրով եւ քէյֆ ըրի, կարօտս առի, ինքզինքս գտայ, որդերս թափեցի ինչպէս կ՛ըսեն, ու պարեցի: Չէ՞ որ տօն էր:

Դեկտեմբեր: Yerevan Nights - Երեւանի Գիշերները տօնուեցաւ Եկեղեցիին բակէն սկսեալ մինջեւ Մելիքեան Սրահ ուր բոլոր գաղութի ձեռնարկները տեղի կ՛ունենան: Բացի Սեպտեմբերի Փիքնիքէն:   Խոռովածի եւ Քէպապներու տեսակներ կը դիմաւորէին մեզ: Խաշ ալ կար: Այո՛, խաշ: Սեղաններուն վրայ appetizerներ եւ, նորէն երգեցի: Այս անգամ երբ բեմ ելայ, բարձրախօսը առի եւ «այս աղջիկը նորէն պիտի երգէ» ըսի: Եւ երգեցի: Նորէն:
                       Մանթիի մրցում կար կազմակերպուած Դպրոցին կողմէ: Ես ալ մասնակցեցայ որովհետեւ յիշեցի որ խօսք տուած էի ամիսներ առաջ: Ամէնէն Unusual Style category-ին մէջ հաղթական ելայ:
                       Դպրոցի Christmasի հանդէսը ըրինք: Ամերիկահայկական ձեւով: Իմ աշակերտներս արտասանեցին Բարեւ Նոր Տարին: Հատիկ, հատիկ, մէկ տող առ մէկ տող: Կէսը լաւ, կէսը վատ: Աւելի ճիշդ երեք քառորդը լաւ:
                       Անցեալ կիրակի ներկայացուցի iPen Keemը: Քիչ մը բարեփոխուած իր անցեալի երեւոյթէն: Սիրով:
                       Երէկ Bâtons Salés պատրաստեցի:

Երկու Հազար Տասը Եղաւ իմ անուշիկ խտասալիկիս տարին: Իմ անձնական հաղթանակը: Տարիներու աշխատանքիս արդիւնքը: Բաւարարուած կ՛ըզգամ:

A very Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year to you all.

Կեդրոնանալ

2010-12-23T12:04:00.002-07:00

Փոխանակ unrequited լաւ ապրելու, աւելի լաւ չէ՞ր ըլլար ապրիլ կարճ ժամանակուայ love մը որ երկողմանի է:

Չէ՛ կ՛ըսէ Սիլվա Կապուտիկեան գրեթէ իր բոլոր բանաստեղծութիւններուն մէջ: Օրինակ իր Ես Եւ Դու -ին մէջ:

Թափառում ենք փողոցներում
Ես՝ քո սիրով, դու՝ ուրիշի,
Այրւում ենք մենք հրդեհներում
Ես՝ քո հրով, դու՝ ուրիշի:

Կարօտում ենք, խնդում, տխրում
Ես՝ քո խօսքով, դու՝ ուրիշի,
Սուզւում քա՜ղցր երազներում
Ես՝ քո տեսքով, դու՝ ուրիշի:

Է՜հ, ինչ արած, բախտը խռով
Թող աշխարհում մեզ չյիշի,
Միայն ապրենք մենք սիրելո՛վ՝
Թէկուզ ես՝ քե՜զ, դու՝ ուրիշի՛...

Bâtons Salés

2010-12-23T11:40:00.000-07:00

Ca prend un chapeau la première lettre a ci-haut?
Qu'importe oui ou non, par une coincidence extraordinaire, cela, c'est à dire le chapeau, va très bien avec le baton.

Ան Սիլվեսթրին Տեսայ 2005ին

2010-11-17T08:37:00.002-07:00

Շոքեկառքը գրեթէ տասերկու ժամ առաւ Նիու Եորքէն Մոնթրէալ հասնելու: Բարեբաղդաբար նստարանս պատուհանին մօտ էր եւ լաւ մը դիտեցի վազող, փախչող տեսարանները: Մոնթրէալ կ՛երթայի իմ նախասիրած երգչուհին լսելու: Ֆրանսացի Ան Սիլվեսթրը: Շատ քիչեր գիտեն իր մասին: Նոյնիսկ Ֆրանսայի մէջ քիչ են զինք ճանչցողները: Մօտ քառասուն տարի իր երգերը լսած, սորված եւ երգած եմ թէեւ միայն տան մէջ բայց եւ այնպէս շատ մը ընկերներ վարակած էի Ան Սիլվեսթրով: Իսկ վաղը, Տիկին Անգինէին հետ պիտի երթայինք մտիկ ընելու այս հիմա եօթանասուն երկու տարեկան երգչուհին: Տիկին Անգինէն առաջին անգամն էր պիտի լսէր զինք: Իսկ ես առաջին անգամն էր զինք անձամբ պիտի տեսնէի, լսէի բեմին վրայ:

Հետս առած էի իր ձայնային սկաւառակը որ գնած էի այն օրը որ իմ առաջին ամսականը ստացայ Պէյրութի մէջ: Գնած էի նայեւ Շարլ Ազնաւուրի մէկ սկաւառակը որ այլեւս մօտս չէ քանի փոխ առնուած էր ինծմէ տարիներ առաջ եւ աւաղ դեռ ետ չէ վերադարձուած: Ան Սիլվեսթրի սկաւառակը դեռ ունիմ որովհետեւ կրնան մտնել եւ ամբողջ տունդ գողնալ բայց քանի որ չեն գիտեր թէ ան ով է, անոր սկաւառակը չեն տանիր: Այս մէկը իրաւ պատահեցաւ:

Հասաւ ժամը եւ Ան մտաւ բեմ: Սկսաւ երգել եւ ես սկսայ արձունքներս զսպել յիշելով ուր լսեցի զինք առաջին անգամ, ինչ հոգեկան վիճակներ ունէի եւ ինչպէս զինք մտիկ ընելով կը մխիթարուէի եւ ուժ կ՛ըստանայի: Իր երգերը ամէնէն աւելի երգուած գրականութիւն են: Սրամիտ կամ տխուր, հաւատարիմ կամ տգեղ, դրացիին մասին թէ կիներու, մարդոց մասին թէ միասերականներու, խելացի մօտեցումով կը շոյեն իմ խելքը, կը մտածեն իմ տեղս եւ կ՛ընկերակցին իմ վիշտերուս:

Նոր երգեր ալ երգեց: Իրաքի պատերազմին առաջին տարին էր եւ արդէն Ան օրօր մը գրած էր այն երեխաներուն համար որոնք իրենց ժամանակէն առաջ ծնիլ պարտադրուած էին ռումբերու տեղալը չսկսած: Տիկին Անգինէն շատ ազդուեցաւ որովհետեւ ինքն ալ Իրաքահայ է:

Իր հին երգերուն ընկերակցեցանք շատերս: Ծափեցինք անընթհատ եւ ետ բեմ կանչեցինք զինք գրեթէ չորս անգամ: Չմերժեց: Բարձրախօսով յայտարարուեցաւ որ կարելի էր Անին տեսնել դուրսը եւ խօսիլ հետը: Ելանք դուրս: Շարք կար: Սպասեցինք անհամբեր, ես գրկած իմ առաջին սկաւառակիս շապիկը որ ստորագրել տամ իսկ Տիկին Անգինէն երբ մեր կարքը հասաւ, չսպասեց: Նետուեցաւ Անին վզին, արձունքախառն, «ես ալ Պաղտատէն եմ» ըսելով: Մինջ իրենք լալաքին խնդուքներու ձայներ կը հանէին իրար գրկած, ես պէտք էր համբերէի նորէն: Քառասուն տարի սպասողը մի քանի վարկեան ալ կրնայ սպասել մտածելով: Հետոյ կացութիւնը բացատրեցի «խօսքը մեծին ջուրը պզտիկին»ը յիշելով եւ ումպ մը ջուր խմեցի ձեռքիս շիշէն:

Ես կրնայի՞ մրցիլ այս գիրկնդխառնումին հետ: Ամօթ էր նոյնիսկ փորձելը: Ընդհակառակը այս մեծ տաղանդին առջեւ ես փոխադրուեցայ Պէյրութ, եղայ տասնըեօթ տարեկան: Զգացի այն ատենուայ զգացումներս եւ այդ ատենուայ զսպուած արձունքներս սկսան հիմա հոսիլ, մաքրելով անցեալի նոսթալճիան, թաքուն մելամաղձոտութիւնը այդ ատենուայ:

Անին ցոյց տուի իմ առաջին սկաւառակս եւ խնդրեցի որ ստորագրէ «Je m'apelle Arpie; sans H » . « Ah oui. bien sûre » ըսաւ Ան: Ապուշիկս Արփի, ըսի մտքես : Այսինքն հիմա աս ըսելու ատէ՞նն էր: Կը կարծես որ այս մեծ արուեստագիտուհին քեզի harpie՞ պիտի կարծէր: Ստորագրեց: «Pour Arpie, Amicalement, Anne»:

Տարի մը վերջ Անը նոր սկաւառակ մը հանեց, անունը՝ «bye mélanco»:

Schizo - From my Old Files of 2005

2010-11-16T22:05:00.000-07:00

I am hitting the Tab button on my keyboard

So my car can stop at every stop sign

When going to work and coming back daily

I suddenly see one of the front tires

Rolling by itself ahead of my car

I immediately hit the Backspace button

But the tire alas does not come back to me

I then click on Find, type the word “tire”

Hit the Enter key and wait for results

The tire is by now nowhere to be found

I click on Open, get out of the car

I step on the screws spread on the pavement

I click Select All, they’re now together

Become the paper clip waiting for my command

They say “we’re hungry” and they wait for me

I lay down on the floor by the broken car

And feed them micros receiving their smiles

I jump in the car and click on Find again

The screws fly away, come back with the tire

They’re waiting for me, I’m waiting for them

A minute has passed when I realize

I could click “Replace”

To my great surprise the tire grudgingly

Hops on the axis, the determined screws

Speed up behind it, find their place and turn

Turn until a bell rings confirmation

I click on the Go, the car starts rolling

I then click on Save and give it a name:

In My Dream I Can Change the Tire of my Car

Staying in the Present

2010-10-25T00:32:00.002-07:00

The present from my window is a street in Phoenix, Arizona where cars pass by. I am on the ground floor and I see the cars passing through my window. The window has venetian blinds which, as you might have guessed, are open. There is a tree between the street and my window. In the room itself, there is this personal computer and a chair where I was seated with my body turned away from the computer and my neck turned towards the computer just before I adjusted my position or my attitude, pick one. That was a minute ago. I still feel a pull in my neck which needs further attention. Will be right back. I realized what the problem was and have corrected it. It is better than before but not ideal. I know what ideal is and thinking about it would send me either to the past or the future and I want to be in the present.

It was a fire truck that just passed going north. I am still in Phoenix, Arizona. I think it is a different kind of place here than anywhere else I have been. Today, after church, someone told me they are bored here. I have heard that word a lot lately.

The present got boring for a few minutes and that gave me a chance to want to stay in the present even more. Because boredom expects something that is not happening. To combat it, one must remember the passion, the gift, the present and the freedom.

There is a traffic light a few yards from my window and the countdown for the pedestrian crossing light can be heard at times very distinctly, other times not at all. I have not figured out why yet. It starts from ten and ends at zero with the screen showing the numbers followed by a green pedestrian walking. A green screen with the figure of someone taking a step forward. We have seen those in many cities but the numbers are a novelty for me.

Where is the gift in all this? I am writing. That's one gift. I can cry too. That's another gift. I can complain till morning. Is that a gift? It would be if I could complain in a literary way, like a woman of letters. The letters Ayp, Pen and Keem in my case. iPen Keem is the name of the show I will be giving on December 19, in Scottsdale, Arizona, in Armenian. From Ayp to Keem would be a good translation of the name. It will coincide with the official release of my CD Sandplay which contains songs from the show. One to be exact. The other songs on my CD are from my show Tayen Fe. That translates from the letter Ta to the letter Fe. But what are all these letters you will ask. These are the letters of the Armenian alphabet I would answer. Then you will say "oh, now I understand."

I did that without complaining. I will wait and complain during my show. Just for laughs. After all if you can't make them laugh, don't complain, you will end up boring everybody.

A man just rode his bicycle coughing and spitting loudly. I am complaining.

The moral of the story is that the present contains the past and the future. The gift is to know this. I like that. Do you?

Der Zor Diary: A Pilgrimage to the Killing Fields of the Armenian Genocide

2010-09-17T12:10:00.001-07:00

I think my cousin (second) Lucine speaks for all of us Armenians in this brilliant compte-rendu of her trip to Der Zor this past August.

Der Zor Diary: A Pilgrimage to the Killing Fields of the Armenian Genocide

A Date With

2010-07-16T23:39:00.009-07:00

I decided that I should party too. So I checked the website of an Italian Bar and Grill and found out they have a band playing 70s music, R&B and what have you. I am there dude I told myself and started planning my outfit nonchalantly with the super-objective of making this a date with meself. It wasn't that easy. Nice but not too nice, casual but not too casual, happy but not too happy was the motto. I was ready within the hour and I left the house with the assurance of a woman who knows how to have fun.

I parked the car and conditioned my brain to think that I can handle this. I found one place at the bar next to a pretty blond woman who told me immediately that after nine years, she was living the branch of the company she worked for and heading to headquarters in downtown Phoenix. This was her last day and she had received many cards and flowers. I congratulated her and wished her good luck. She was with a handsome man in Bermuda shorts. We continued the small talk while the band was playing "Chain of Fools" and as soon as she found out that I sing she took it upon herself to introduce me to the manager of the place when he shows up. He is drunk she warned me.

I asked for some fried calamari and a Cesar's Salad while drinking my vodka with Green Apple Pucker. I will call her Pat, told me that she likes the guy next to her but she doesn't. People say the strangest things when they have been drinking. I took this to mean that she had not made up her mind about him yet. He didn't seem to mind. He had two women on the other side of him swooning all over him. Pat let me have my dinner and soon it was time for the manager of the place to show up, put one arm on my shoulder and the other on Pat's as if he owns us both and quiz me about my singing. I said, with a name like Portofino, this place ought to have some Italian music or at the least European. He said "No, English, sing English". I said that I can sing a capella and he challenged me with "do you have the balls to go up there and sing a capella?"

Those who know me can guess what happened. When the band took a break, I did. There was a brief silence of astonishment followed by a few people clapping. I had known this was the wrong crowd for my repertoire but as I said before, this was a date night with meself.

The lead singer and manager of the band, a woman in my age group, was the most interested person in the crowd. When I finished singing my English song and was heading back to my headquarters, she stopped me and wanted me to sing another song. No one else seemed to want so I hesitated. When she found out I can sing La Vie en Rose, she lost her mind and I gave a show just for her while the manager came to dance with me in a manner which was more trying to change the situation than dance. "Do you want me to stop singing?" I asked him in my microphone. He said yes, this is the wrong crowd. Then he told me "this is not a French restaurant, it is Italian." Yeah, right. Hint: On the menu, under French Fries, Freedom Fries was printed in smaller letters. I can't remember what incident had precipitated this change many years ago. Are we still there?

I stopped singing in the middle of the song unfazed and when I saw Pat, I knew that she had not expected to see and hear what I did. She said "You rock!" with tears in her eyes. Pat is a genuine Arizonian, born and raised here. I gave her my card because she was adamant in finding me a job. The singer soon approached me while I was paying my bill and gave me tips about the business side of things.

Two women stood by me in a crowd of many. Just one would have been a glorious party for me, but two? Hey, you never know.

Puisque

2010-07-16T18:23:00.004-07:00

Cela va prendre longtemps à tapper mais comme j'ai appris à tapper avec le clavier Français, cela ne sera pas si mal que ça. Tout d'abord il faut m'éxcuser les fautes d'ortographes flagrants que je vais faire mais ami perdu ami retrouvé est plus important que les fautes d'ortographes et puis il a promis (comprendre "menacé") de m'apprendre le français. Il a deja oublié les compliments qu'il me donnait, tel "tu parles tres bien le français" il y a plus que 20 ans de ça. Mais il se souvient des choses que moi j'ai oublié.

On s'est retrouvé puisqu'il m'a cherché. Je ne sais pas si moi j'aurai fait la meme chose. Peut être je l'avais déjà cherché. Je ne me souviens plus.

Et le revoila. Transformé.

Dans un bar/water hole à New York en 1974. Un homme s'approche et me dit que son ami qui est assis au bar en face de nous est timide mais voudrait faire ma connaissance. L'homme et moi on s'approche de lui et puis le revoila. On se connait aussi longtemps que ça.

Il est qui il est mais qu'il soit français, à part mes cousins-cousines en France, et le seul, en plus, que je connais, me donne sujet de réfléction. Pour qui chante-je les chansons en français? A présent, même les musiciens français chantent en anglais. Pour qui me prends-je?

"Who does she think she is" est un refrain que j'ai entendu plusieurs fois dans ses différentes incarnations. Si j'ai jamais cru que j'étais quelqu'un, je ne serai pas si romantique. La langue française est la langue de l'amour mais il y a des limites a ça aussi. Pas tout le monde qui parle français est romantique dans le sens que moi je comprends la romance. Je ne vais pas tomber amoureuse avec le premier venu qui parle français. Il se peut même que je ne voulasse pas parler du tout avec la personne.

Mais j'ai jamais eu ce choix luxurieux ou les gens qui parlent français s'étalent devant moi pour que je puisse choisir.

Toto, Lili, Rene et Titi sont toujours au jardin d'enfants, Hugo, Flaubert, Racine et Molière sont dans les bouquins et moi je me balade dans une robe que je viens d'acheter de Wallgreens pour $12 americaines. C'est faite en chine. Le 14 Juillet etait il y a deux jours.

Ceci dit, ça a été un plaisir inégalable que d'écrir en français. Comme il m'a dit l'autre jour: "Il faut voler plus bas."

Վերջապէս

2010-07-15T12:57:00.008-07:00

Կը քնանայի կոր: Անգլերէն լեզուն քունս բերաւ: Քնացայ: Երազիս մէջ յիշեցի որ հայերէն գիտեմ: Արթնցայ: Թէ ինչպէս յիշեցի: Հայերէն Լեզուի Սրբագրիչ Բառարան անունով էջի մը կոճակը կայ այս էջին վերեւը եւ որը հազուագիւտ գործածած եմ: Եթէ հետաքրքրուած էք հայերէնի ուղղագրութեամբ հասցէն հետեւեալն է - http://nayiri.com/search?l=hy_LB: Ինչ լաւ աղջիկ եմ, չէ՞: Ստիպուած:

Քարթ մը ստացայ սիրելի ընկերուհիէ մը որուն իմ խտասալս ուղղարկած էի: Յետ Գրութեամբ կը տեղեկացնէր թէ տասնըհինգ տարուայ մէջ առաջին անգամն է որ հայերէն կը գրէր: Ուրախանայի՞ թէ տխրէի: Այս ընկերուհիս հայկական դպրոցը աւարտած է տարիներ առաջ: Ուրեմն որոշեցի ուրախանալ որովհետեւ եթէ մենակատարութիւններս գրած չ՛ըլլայի, նախ արեւելահայերէն «քիպորտ»ի վրայ եւ հետոյ արեւմտահայերէն, նոյն բանը պիտի ըսէի:

Երբ մօտիկ ընկերուհիներ կամաց կամաց հեռացան Պէյրութէն իրենց ընտանիքներով եւ հասան այս ափերը կամ Եւրոպա, նամակներ կ՛երթային կուգային էջերով: Մեր կարքն ալ եկաւ: Մենք ալ եկանք: Նորէն նամակներ սկսան երթալ քալ էջերով: Բոլորը հայերէն լեզուով գրուած: Պահած էի զանոնք եւ հետս պտտցուցած տունէ տուն, քաղաքէ քաղաք, երկիրէ երկիր: Չէի կրնար զանոնք թափել: Երբ հաստատեցի որ բոլոր անոնք որոնց ես տարիներ շարունակ նամակներ ղրկած էի, առանց վարանելու թափած էին այդ նամակները, ես ալ իրենցը թափեցի: Բայց մինջեւ որոշ թուական մը: Այդ թուականէն ասդին չեմ թափած ոչ մէկ նամակ որովհետեւ հետոյ երբ համակարքիչը մէջտեղ ելաւ նամակները սկսան տպագրուիլ փոխանակ ձեռքով գրուելու եւ աւելի նուազ տեղ կը գրաւեն պահուելու համար: Չեմ գիտեր եթէ իմ ղրկած նամակներս դեռ գոյութիւն ունին: Կարեւոր չէ: Կարեւորը այն է որ ձեռագիր եղողները թանկարժէք են ներկայիս: Ամէն մէկ հայերէն ձեռագիր գանձ մըն է այս օրերուս:

Իսկ ինչ ըսել Ֆրանսերէն լեզուին: Կիրակի օր, երբ Քալիֆորնիայէն նոր տուն հասայ, քիչ մը տխրած էի այնքան բարեկամներ ետեւ ձգելուս համար որոնց հետ չթր փթր Հայերէն խօսած էի օրերով եւ նկատած որ իրենցմէ ալ աւելի Անգլերէն բառերու օգնութեամբ կը խօսէի Հայերէնը: Երբ սենեակս մտայ, ուղղուեցայ շիտակ դէպի համակարքիչ: Հազիւ զայն բացի, միակ Ֆրանսացի ընկերս կը զանքէր «Սքայփ»էն: Մի քանի շաբաթ առաջ զիս վերագտած էր իմ կայքէջին միջոցաւ: Տասնըհինգ տարի է Ֆրանսերէն չէի խօսած: Ուրախութիւնս չափ ու սահման չ՛ունէր:

Յաջորդ օրը շուկայ քացի գնումներ ընելու եւ հանդիպեցայ Լիբանանցի Մայքին խանութը որ ծխածոտի տեսակներով, անուշահոտ իւղերով, մոմերով եւ Արկիլէներով լեցուն է: Իր հետ Արաբերէն կը խօսիմ: Այդ ալ նորութիւն է: Լիբանան ծնած եւ մեծցած՝ Ամերիկայ քալես ի վեր, առաջին առիթը կ՛ըստեղծուի Արաբերէն խօսելու:

Նկատած եմ որ այս երեք լեզուներու պարագային յաղորդակցութիւնը լեզուին հետ գրեթէ կապ չ՛ունի: Այսինքն, ինչպէս Արաբները կ՛ըսեն՝ - եւ եթէ թարգմանութիւնս ճիշդ է - թռելով կը հասկնայ կամ «պյըֆհամնի ՛աթթայէր»: Ուաթուաթ անանկ կ՛ըսէին, չեմ գիտեր:

Այո՛, այս տաք օրերուն կարելի է դիմանալ:

Visitor Counter Started in April 2010

2010-07-11T12:34:00.003-07:00

I have not found a way to put the date next to the counter of visitors to my blog. But I find the 400 number encouraging. Let us say that 50 of those are my visits to my own blog, it is still substantial.

Thank you for reading folks. It makes me want to write better.

Hrammetsek (Welcome)

2010-06-19T12:08:00.004-07:00

A couple of days ago, as I was lounging besides the lake in the backyard here and wondering how I can make a video of one of my songs from my lovely compact disc album called "Sandplay" to satisfy the curiosity and demands of some wonderful people who wanted to hear Hrammetsek in the Dikranagerd parpar, it occurred to me that since it is the song that matters, what the heck, I can shoot a video with my digital camera and then add my music to it. And so I did. It is on Facebook's Dikranagerdtsi Armenians' group page.

Believe it or not, the majority of my friends are not on Facebook, we communicate differently. Some read my blog but the majority doesn't. With some, it is only e-mails while others use the telephone, not to mention Skype, IMs, etc. So I have to click here and there, from one to the other in order to respond or originate a conversation or to just keep in touch and say "hello."

Short of a close friend within a 300 mile radius from Glendale not California but Arizona, I decided to use the video to show that I am doing ok without a friend in sight and to invite you for a visit. But don't come yet. This, is the PR Department.

End of School Year

2010-06-06T15:17:00.002-07:00

What have I learned so far?

That even if the teachers did not have time to iron your costume but did have time to iron the costume of your partner for the song-and-dance you are about to do for the year end ceremonies of your kindergarden graduation, you have to make your entrance onto the stage, sing your part while trying to hold back hysterical laughter about the situation and exit dancing, sort of. It was more like a rock'n'roll movement consisting of walking sideways without taking the feet off the ground, while singing "hey people, make way for Miss Arpie Dadoyan" back and forth with my classmate and cousin who had the same last name but said her own first name.

We got our diplomas from Mr. Simon Vratzian, the fourth and last prime minister of the short lived independent Republic of Armenia (1918-1921). Before I knew this, I had concluded that since he spoke Eastern Armenian, spoken by the people of Soviet Armenia, he is a communist, and I had a hard time balancing the very nationalistic teachings of my school with this fact.

Just like when I used to think that the oldest priest in our church was Jesus...

After the ceremony was over, dad approached me smiling, congratulated me and told me that I had just had another sister, that mom was in the hospital and that she was fine and will be home soon." So mom was not there and what is this about a new sister? I was intrigued. Then it was the turn of my dad's uncle to be presented to me as just having arrived that day by boat from America and he congratulated me too. Aunts and uncles, cousins and acquaintances, everybody was happy. It remains one of the happiest moments in my life.

see for yourself

2010-05-22T13:45:00.005-07:00

sorry you had to tilt your head...

bougainvillias

view from my balcony!

many of them

2010-05-22T13:36:00.002-07:00

It Could be a Cactus Too

2010-05-22T13:21:00.003-07:00

They are singing from joy and moving their arms in unison.

I don't know what this is. Somewhere it is autumn.

The Lantanas of the Neighborhood

2010-05-22T12:40:00.004-07:00

The first time I walked in the neighborhood I was in such awe of the many plants and flowers growing in people's front lawns that I decided to do it again with a camera. This wanting to share and knowing exactly which of my friends will like them while others will "amaa dzaghigi ngarner trer e" saying will laugh their ass off, does not permit me to feel alone. Thanks for the memories.

I had previously posted pictures of the Lantanas I found in New Milford, took home and nursed for a few months and lamented their absence the following year. Do not despair my friend. Here, I saw them for real in different colors. White, purple, red, orange and multicolored ones.

No, my life has not become all about flowers but they seem to be everywhere. Specially the cashier clerks. Besides the family I have set up shop with, they, the cashier clerks, the people behind the counters where I buy coffee, food, toileteries, cigarettes or incense, are also like flowers. They are very kind, smiling and willing to serve, something triggered by my change of attitude resulting from lessening my indiscrimate services to others. I think.

Lo and behold, my housemate found a job in a flower shop. Last Saturday night, I drove there and helped her voluntarily so that she can finish her work before midnight and we can go have fun with our mutual friend. And we did. I put close to 150 red stem roses each into its own cellophane rap, each unique in size, shape, amount of leaves on the stem and beauty.

No, there is no other way. Life is a flower.

Part VI - Oh, the arch!

2010-05-14T18:19:00.003-07:00

Part V - Before Arizona

2010-05-14T18:08:00.003-07:00

This is in Oklahoma at an Indian outpost. I couldn't see what I was recording from the sun's glare. Sorry for the quality but add the wind and you have a blind shoot.

Part IV - Random Pictures

2010-05-03T08:31:00.010-07:00

The cross on the right is over ten times the size of the telephone poles on the left. This is somewhere in Texas. The biggest cross in the western hemisphere they claim.

The snowcap is in Flagstaff Arizona so are the other two pictures taken within a couple of hours apart.

Part Three - Walking Freely

2010-04-28T14:01:00.023-07:00

Route near Streetsboro, Ohio.

These purple trees were everywhere along the Interstates.

Yes, that's a beer in my hands.

Fairview Heights, Illinois' Joe's Crab Shack where I had crab cakes as in the photo above this one. Yummie!

Not only am I embarassed about having forgotten Illinois, but yesterday, while rechecking my hotel receipts to find the name of the town in Missouri where I stayed overnight, I found out that I had actually stayed at the Super 8 in Fairview Heights, Illinois on the third night of Crossing the U.S.A.

Freedom takes time to get used to. The kind of freedom that involves moving the body from one point to the other and this for seven days. Every minute was about a decision to do something for myself. It gave me a chance to consider being selfish having no other choices, like if someone was traveling with me, it would have been a whole different set up and experience. Maybe even better but different. I had to remind myself every minute that I was free to do and go anywhere I wanted. I liked the feeling so much that it became secondary where I went and what I did.

Enough about me though. Right before Oklahoma City, as the Interstate I-44 will slightly descend, I see it (the road) ahead take the shape of a heart. It divided itself into a heart and then became one again. I had just passed the sign which said "you are now passing through the heart of America" and maybe not in those words (did you think of recording or photographing this? no, how could I? I was in awe and I am not sure I saw what I saw. Do not confuse the word awe with saw.)

In Ohio, I went to a Native American museum at Fort Ancient. A deeply informative, multi-media presentation of Native American life from thousands of years ago to the recent past with trails going through their ancient city, archeological finds, recreated boats, paintings, ancient tools, etc. Would talking about how I felt when I came out of the museum be considered "she is talking about herself?" If you will forgive me, it made me sad.

In Weatherford, Oklahoma, the radio clock in my hotel room showed one hour, the television showed another and my cell phone another. OK, this was a motel and I was the only customer that night. But for $29 a night, the room was big, had a mini-frig, a microwave, a television, a shower and the television remote was given to you upon registration and payment.

"You mean people will steal the remote too?" I asked the very tired and non-smiling woman who came out of a room to greet me.

"They will steal anything!" came the tired answer.

"But if they steal this, what would they do with it without a television?"

"That's just it" she said and we silently became friends having agreed that you need a television set in order to use a remote. The woman was feeling better already. I could see it on her face. I was feeling better too having made my mark as an innocent intelligent. Now, as I am writing, I see it differently.

First, my question should have been "Why don't you keep the remote with the television?" Then I would have known instead of thinking like a paranoid traveler who thinks there are thiefs everywhere and that would be the only reason for the remote to be kept in the office. So I still don't know what made her smile.

Secondly, once they pay and they have the remote, what would keep them from stealing the tv set too?

Unless the thiefs are non-customers, i.e. "let's go and rob the Economy Inn" folks. Then, and only then this would make sense. Enlighten me.

The next morning, at the gas station, I asked the cashier clerk for the time and when she told me the time I asked "In Weatherford?" She said "In Oklahoma." I can't describe the look on her face when she said that and I can't describe the embarassment I felt. I punished myself by getting chicken strips and potatoes, at 10 o'clock in the morning, which were, thankfully, very tasty and deliciose and so finger licking good that I couldn't stop eating.

My first evening on the road, in Streetsboro, Ohio, the motel was across from a restaurant named Rockne's. This intrigued me because I used to date a Rockny in 1976 and I had not heard that name since. I walked freely towards the eatery after registration and smack came face to face with a picture of Rockne Knute in sports attire and a football in his hands. I figured the restaurant is named after him. On my way out I wanted to know what was his claim to fame. The receptionist didn't know, the waitress didn't know, a passing waiter was happy to let me know that he was the football coach of Notre Dame. "Was that before Jerry...uh...oh..." I was wondering if it was Parseghian or Tarkanian? There was no help from the waiter either so I asked him where Notre Dame was. In which town or state I wanted to know. My knowledge kept making me think of Las Vegas but hey, I could be wrong. The waiter didn't know where Notre Dame was.

I just did a search on Rockne and I find out as head coach of the University of Notre Dame in South Bend, Indiana from 1918 to 1930, he achieved an all-time winning percentage of 88.2%, the highest percentage in Football Bowl Subdivision (formerly known as Division I-A) history.

Coincidentally, the only person I know who is from Indiana, David Letterman, was just announced as coming up on Live with Regis and Kathy and that's the reason I have the television on at 10 a.m. today. I was on his show many years ago you know.

So, I'll talk to you in Part IV of Crossing the U.S.A.

Part Two - "Bless your heart"

2010-04-27T00:07:00.006-07:00

Downtown Cincinnati

Sports Arena on my left

When I turned right the sign read "Welcome to Kentucky" but I don't have a picture. This was what I got. I'll take it.

After the unexpected shock of the Welcome to Kentucky sign, I continued south on I-71 which at that point was also I-75. Somehow, somewhere, probably while I was admiring the blue of the grass so green, and unbenounced to me, they must have become two because suddenly I realize I am driving on I-75. I regroup myself and start thinking back to see where I left I-71 but I can't come up with an explanation. I need gas too, so I take the next exit to find out what happened.

The gas station is on top of a hill overlooking more grassy hills and some houses. Beautiful. But where am I? I am in the United States of America I tell myself and go into the shop to pay for gas. A man in his early sixties is sitting behind the counter; a woman mid 30s who looks like she works there; and right next to me, another woman in her early 40s maybe. I don't know, I am trying to set up the scene. After giving the man the money, I ask him "how did I end up on I-75 when I was going on I-71?"

Before the man even had time to think about what I was saying, the woman next to me said "Bless your heart!" in such a way that tears welled up inside me. And of course I took this opportunity to let them know how far I had come which received another "Bless your heart!" Instead of saying "thank you", I said "I know, I know" smiling in disbelief that I have gone through four states in a day and a half. They told me how to get back on I-71, they gave me options when I inquired about motels in the area, they wanted me to stay in their town because I told them I don't want to drive at night. I thanked them profusely receiving their good wishes and blessings.

I went to the car, sat down and looked at the Atlas while in my head repeating "bless your heart, bless your heart, bless your heart" the way she said it. I relived it over and over it felt so good.

I now could see how far I had gone out of my way. I had been driving away, southeast, for about two hours. Which meant that to get to I-71, I had to continue south to Lexington, then west to Louisville via I-64. I didn't mind but I was emotional and hungry.

I drove to the next exit, where all the nice motels were supposed to be and came face to face with a Kentucky Fried Chicken place. I know, I know. I went in anyhow. You will forgive me but to each their own. I just wanted to be able to say that I had Kentucky Fried Chicken in Kentucky. I said it.

It was different than your usual Kentucky Fried Chicken place. It was a buffet setting and it was way more delicious. Or so it seemed to me. Especially the spinach which was the best boiled spinach I ever had.

The people eating their chickens were like you and me. Not like the woman at the gas station. She was different. Her very blue piercing eyes and her red cheeks reminded me of the folks up in the mountain villages of Lebanon. People who live close to nature. I wish I had asked her name cause I remembered her throughout my trip and what she said warmed my heart and opened my eyes to a people hetherto undiscovered.

I would meet a few more like her on my journey but she still stands the closest to me on that hilltop overlooking the Kentuckian afternoon.

Bless her heart.

Part One - Tire Pressure

2010-04-24T22:17:00.013-07:00

Having done my duties as a sister, daughter, aunt, and cousin on Easter Sunday, I went home and tried to follow my cousin's advice to get eight hours of sleep before my drive to Arizona from New Jersey the next morning.

Sleep would not come. I was too excited and eager. I sat up and said out loud "I was trying to shove sleep down my throat." This was followed by a decision to start loading the car and leave when done.

Outside it was still dark and I heard my name called. It was my neighbor, Diane. "Have a safe trip" she said. I blew her a thank you kiss because I was afraid I would cry if I said anything. I didn't have time to cry.

At 7:03 a.m. Monday morning April 5, I drove out of the driveway, something I had done for eleven years. This was the last one.

I went to the gas station next door and checked my tires. The right side tires had shown some melancholy lately. I filled them with air by looking at healthier tires. Did I say I prayed before leaving the driveway?

The night before, a friend from California told me to have my tires checked before leaving because his tire blew once because of overpressure. I wish he hadn't told me that. I had no time to have them checked. I wanted to leave. And I left. I wish he hadn't, because I was incredibly worried that if I have put the wrong amount of air, the tires would blow up. And I saw signs on the road throughout my travels. Pieces of blown up tires all over the asphalt. Every couple of hours, I would see one and if I had forgotten to think about my tires for a couple of minutes, they came to remind me to stay worried. "Is this my tire acting up or is it the road?" was a constant until it would stop. It was the road most of the time.

I even looked for a tire specialist or tire store or an auto repair shop the next morning when I was in Streetsboro, Ohio. The guy I asked had approached me with a request for a dollar so he can buy bread. I told him to either tell me where I can find a tire store or check my tire pressure himself to earn his dollar. He said that I could buy a pressure gauge across the street. I said that I didn't need a gauge, I needed someone to check my tire pressure thinking a gauge was a complicated thing and needed extreme intellectual abilities and would be expensive. He said that if I had a gauge he would check it himself. I decided that was the end of it and gave him a dollar for wanting to help.

Again, I filled the tires with air by approximating them with tires that had diplomas and continued on. A nine hour drive going south in Ohio, passing through Cincinnati and smack right in the middle of it entering Kentucky (I am saying the Welcome to Kentucky sign is in downtown Cincinnati), visiting the Ohio River in Louisville (first picture above) and just west of Louisville finding a Motel 6.

It was green, so green, the next morning, the view from my window (second picture above). The grass spreading on rolling hills with a cluster of houses far away. Just like country. I was in the country. Halfway through Ohio, it had started looking like this. Kentucky was the greenest state. The grass is so green that it is almost blue. That's probably why they call it the Bluegrass State.

It had been 90 degrees the two previous days but this morning the sky was overcast and the air cooler. I drove to the gas station not far from Motel 6 which I had chosen because it was the one advertised in the Atlas of the U.S.A. and Canada that I had had and studied for ten years with something like this in mind. Why not? It was clean, comfortable, and it had a beautiful view. It was not a motel as we know in the east coast. It was a hotel masquerading as a motel.

At the gas station, I found out there is an auto repair shop in the back. I was thrilled. I drove to the back and as I was parking the car I noticed all the cars had Indiana license plates. I must be very close to Indiana I thought. A very kind young man helped me and used his own pressure gauge to check my tires' air pressure. While he was doing that I was concluding that it must not be very expensive to buy one. When I told him my problem, he calculated that it was a very small leak and checking them every time I buy gas would be enough to get me to my destination. I inquired about a place where I can buy a pressure gauge and I bought one.

Now not only am I pomping gas but I have a gauge. For a very long time I used to pronounce gauge as gowge. Now, I even have one. I was getting more excited by the day.

As I drove away I decided to stop at the first rest area to make phone calls, take my vitamins, etc. This tire business had me so worried that I had forgotten everything else.

At the rest area a huge sign said Welcome to Indiana, Crossroads of America (third picture above). This was the pinnacle of my excitements so far. I think I called someone and told them where I was. In fact I did that every time I was in a state, I called someone and told them. "I am in Oklahoma" was the best. Part of my excitement was due to the fact that I could for the first time take a picture of a welcome sign. The others so far appeared when I was driving.

I had slept in Indiana without knowing that I was sleeping in Indiana. I found this out when I was checking my hotel receipts a week later in Arizona. The Motel 6 was in Georgetown, Indiana. The town I bought my gauge from.

There you go, part one of Crossing the U.S.A.

Providence, April 17, 2010, URI Feinstein Center

2010-04-22T16:39:00.002-07:00

I sang more than I talked, I talked more than I walked, I walked more than I danced on stage that day. Yet, one of the first things said to me later by audience members was that I had probably been dancing since I was two years old. To which I replied "probably" because I vaguely remembered that I indeed used to dance at that age. My maternal uncle Hrant used to teach me the samba, the tango, the rhumba and the pasodoble steps. We danced side by side up and down the little space that we had in the living room of my grandparents.

Then school happened. I had to learn other things.

When I first started singing in public, I was afraid to do and say anything in between songs but thank you. Gestures, walking, some movements but not exactly dancing came later.

Dancing, really, as I would at home when nobody is looking, that's how I must have danced.

That is very satisfying to know.

Bougainvillea

2010-04-21T12:46:00.003-07:00

The morning after my arrival was Monday, April 12, 2010, and since then I have been picking beautiful bougainvillea plants and have put them in a vase on the kitchen table together with little yellow wildflowers.

The site of these beautiful bougainvilleas keeps transporting me to my childhood home which sat as the top of a T street, the vertical part of the T had bougainvillea plants on the gates of a garden overlooking the street.

One day, mom and I went picking some so I can take them to the teacher the next day.

I gave my flowers to the teacher and she put them in a vase on top of the cabinets where we put our lunch boxes and jackets. A few minutes later they were replaced by leftover flowers from a wedding the previous day. Flowers people paid money for because they needed care and nurturing to grow. It doesn't matter what kind they were. Pick one. So my flowers ended up in the garbage because nobody had paid any money for them. They grew around wildly without much care and came with their own leaves and stems. They didn't need arrangements to look beautiful.

My consolation was that no matter how sad they looked in the garbage, they still looked more beautiful than the ones in the vase.

Everytime my roommate here sees these flowers in the vase, she smiles and says "they are beautiful".

I have come a long way since kiddygarden.

Forward Motion

2010-04-20T00:48:00.003-07:00

Let's see if I can write one paragraph without reaching for a cigarette. It is interesting that whenever I write, I also reach for the cigarette more often than when I am not writing. I have so much to deal with, to handle, to accept, not to accept, to throw away, to recognize, to keep on going.

To write? She asked perplexed. "It must be" came the answer and so it is.

Now that she made sure she was not committing a big crime by writing, as an introduction, she wondered if she had anything else to write about on this blog which has some wondering where she is.

I can start from there.

There being here, in a new state and of mind. Where am I? In the 70s, we heard the saying "remember, wherever you go, there you are?"

So what does it matter?

Լաւ էր - չէ՞

2010-04-12T22:18:00.003-07:00

Ինչ լաւ էր, ինչ լաւ իմ լաւ
Ինչ տեսարան պարզուեցաւ
Երբ ես կեցայ հոն՝
Ուր ինծմէ առաջ
Ոչ ոք չէր կեցած
Եւ եթէ կեցած էր
Չէր տեսած այն ինչ ես տեսայ
Երբ այս առտու պատշգամից
Նայեցի:

The Other Side

2010-04-12T21:54:00.003-07:00

I probably stood at a place where nobody had stood before on the balcony this morning. And this is what I saw. You must admit even I don't have that much imagination. I just read my previous posts wherein I end the post with "see you on the other side." And here I was thinking that I had already communicated everything with everyone in person or by telephone, therefore I did not have anything else to say.

I must have lied.

From Tucumcari, New Mexico

2010-04-09T17:42:00.002-07:00

American Indian Museum in Ohio, Indian Trading Posts in Oklahoma, Ohio River in Louisville, Kentucky, old Highway 66 and the biggest rocking chair in the world in Missouri, the biggest cross in the western hemisphere in Texas, the purple trees along Interstates 64, 44 and 40 to name a few landmarks.

I decided to stay here tonight instead of, for example, Amarillo, Texas or the more sophisticated Albuquerque, New Mexico.

It seems like the week went by so fast going through New Jersey, Pennsylvania, Ohio, Kentucky (where I had Kentucky Fried Chicken but don't laugh), Indiana, Illinois, Missouri, Oklahoma, Texas and now I am in New Mexico.

It has been an emotionally potent trip so far and I have enjoyed every mile with a smile on my face and the sun on my head. I have sat in the car for hours and I have just waited for the towns, cities and states to arrive. And they have so far been present to all the rendez-vous.

It will take more than one post for a detailed description of all that I saw, did, said and experienced. I have a bunch of pictures some of which are hard to believe but hey, I didn't do it.
It was there and I took it. I hope to post the pictures sometime next week.

I will be in Arizona probably Sunday. I am beginning the best part of the trip and I don't have to rush anymore...

If you want to look at a map, I am going west on I-40 all the way to Flagstaff, then head south to Phoenix.

So long.

On the Road Again

2010-04-02T10:06:00.002-07:00

If all goes well, I will be driving to Arizona starting this coming Monday the 5th of April. I hasten to let you know because my web activities will be cut off tomorrow night and I won't have access to it on the road unless by some miracle I land in places where they have internet cafés.

All those lucky enough to have received my mobile number, please keep in touch. I will too.

Talk to you on the other side.

Happy Easter.

For the Three Followers

2010-03-30T22:53:00.002-07:00

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

2010-03-29T22:48:00.006-07:00

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

2010-03-29T14:06:00.003-07:00

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

2010-03-27T01:12:00.003-07:00

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!

2010-03-22T15:07:00.003-07:00

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

2010-03-20T23:16:00.002-07:00

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

2010-03-17T19:44:00.002-07:00

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

2010-03-15T22:38:00.008-07:00

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

2010-03-14T20:07:00.005-07:00

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

2010-03-14T10:07:00.002-07:00

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

2010-03-13T11:58:00.002-07:00

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:

2010-03-11T00:45:00.004-07:00

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.

2010-03-03T16:34:00.003-07:00

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.

Տուփերուն Ընդմէջէն

2010-02-16T19:34:00.005-07:00

Տուփերով շրջապատուած եմ: Մեծ, պզտիկ եւ միջակ: Քալելու համար պէտք է ոտքերս տարորինակ ուղղութիւններով շարժեմ: Տասը տարի է այստեղ կ՛ապրիմ եւ վերջապէս գրեթէ որոշած էի երջանիկ ըլլալ երբ զանքը հնջեց եւ ես ստիպուեցայ յետաձգել իմ երջանկութեան գաղափարը ուրիշ օրուայ: Հիմակուհիմա այս տուփերը պէտք է լեցնեմ որ երթամ իմ երջանկութիւնը Արիզոնա նահանգին մէջ հաստատեմ: Աւա՜ղ սակայն, բոլոր տուփերը հետս պիտի չքան: Մէկ մասը հոս ինծի պիտի սպասեն մինջեւ որ իրենց ճակատագիրը որոշեմ:

Երկու օր առաջ, շատ դժուարաւ, վերջապէս եւ ստիպուած ոտքի ելայ տուփեր բնտռելու: Ստիպուած՝ որովհետեւ արդէն վարի յարկի նորոգութիւնները վերջացած են եւ կարքը հասած է վանդակին: Միայն անոնք որոնք մտած են իմ դղեակս գիտեն թէ ինչու վանդակ կ՛ըսեմ: Առաջ բանտ կ՛ըսէի պարզապէս որովհետեւ սենեակին ճիշդ մէջտեղը, դէպի վարի յարկ տանող աստիճանները կան: Այդ բացուածքին շուրջը երեք ոտք բարձրութեամբ պատ քաշած են որ մարդիկ վար չ՛ինան: Իսկ այդ պատին վրան, իրարմէ մօտ ափի մը չափ հեռու, փայտէ ձողեր տնկած են որոնք մինջեւ արաստաղ կը բարձրանան: Ոչ մէկ երկրաչափական պատճառ չկայ իրենց գոյութեան: Տէքոր է եղեր:

Շատ արագ կ՛աշխատին այս գործաւորները եւ լուր չեն տար թէ երբ պիտի սկսին ձայն եւ փոշի հանել: Եւ քանի որ պէտք էր իմ ապրանքներս նորոգութեան աւերներէն զերծ պահէի, սկսայ զանոնք տուփերու մէջ տեղաւորել որ վար տանիմ ապահով տեղ մը դնեմ: Ահա այդ միջոցին էր որ վերջապէս որոշում առի իսկապէս Արիզոնա փոխադրուելու: Մէկ ամիս է կը խօսէի այդ մասին եւ կը փորձէի ինքզինքս համոզել: Գործ է: Մեծ գործ: Ինչ ալ ըլլայ պատճառը, թիւրին բան չէ փոխադրուիլը:

Ըսեմ որ այս տուփ լեցնելու գործը կը թեթեւնայ երբ որպէս երժշտութիւն՝ մտիկ կ՛ընեմ յառաջիկային լոյս տեսնելիք իմ երգի խտասկաւառակը, որ կը կոչուի Sandplay: Այսօր ան հասաւ այն ընկերութեան մօտ որ զայն պիտի տպէ: Եւ ես գլուխս տուփերուն մէջէն հանեցի որ այս ուրախ տեղեկութիւնը բաժնեմ առ որ անկ է:

Հիմակուհիմա այսքան:

There are boxes around me that I am filling with my belongings according to their usage and destination. Some of them will go to Arizona with me, some will stay here in storage and some will be given away. I have also condemned some to stay behind for whoever wants to use them. All this is cause for celebration specially when we add the background music from my soon to be released vocal compact disc, Sandplay. Look for it in a bookstore near you.

Town Hall Meeting by Phone

2009-12-08T18:17:00.005-07:00

I picked up the phone and the operator said to wait for Congressman Scott Garrett who will speak and answer questions live. I stayed on the line thinking "live? He wants to speak to me and answer my questions? Oh, but I can't think of any questions I could ask him. I hope I won't be embarassed." After a brief moment, I heard the Congressman talking to a caller, answering a question. I was relieved that he was not calling me personally. A lot of people's phones had been ringing, not just mine. When he finished answering the caller, he said that he is talking to us from Washington D.C. and that we could ask him questions live by touching two numbers on the phone. Now came my utter astonishment at the idea of a town hall meeting by phone where you can either participate or just listen. I had never heard of such a thing. What an original concept. The callers were from mixed political leanings and were speaking coherently, sometimes even making sense to me, the politically quite skeptic. It was hard for me to focus on what I don't understand and a few questions went over my head. I hang in there. I liked the sound of it all. Do not forget that I have been recording a vocal album and my hearing is very discriminatory lately. Clean pronounciation, perfect grammar, good sounding voice and knowledge, he is a moderate Republican. He avoided a few questions by side stepping them but he answered most of them.
He even said to dial the corresponding number to the one out of three problems that we face as a country which we think is the most important and then gave the results of the poll at the end of the meeting. We don't want to borrow money from other countries.

I held the phone to my ear for a good thirty minutes and enjoyed the fact that I am in America, in New Jersey's Bergen County and I am listening to my representative congressman speak to me live over the phone from Washington D.C. Only in America.

Պազար

2009-11-21T21:55:00.010-07:00

Եկեղեցիին պազարի օրն է: Հին բարեկամներու հետ տեսնուելու առիթ մը, չհաշուած եկեղեցիին օգտակար ըլլալու եւ համադամ ճաշեր ուտելու պարտքերը: Երկար սեղաններ շարուած են քով քովի: Մայրս, քոյրս ու ես բաւական շրջելէ ետք տեղ մը կը գտնենք: Մեր սեղանին չկան ծանօթներ բայց մինջեւ մեր տեղ գտնելը ծանօթներու բարեւեցինք ուրիշ սեղաններու ետին: Քոյրս ու ես ելանք նորէն շրջեցանք, գնումներ ըրինք պզտիկ կրպակներէն, խօսեցանք, կատակեցինք, իրարու նուէրներ առինք եւ վերադարձանք մեր սեղանը այս անգամ ընթրելու: Ատէնը մէյ մը խօսնակին ձայնը «ձեր ինքնաշարժին տեղը եթէ չփոխէք, ոստիկանը ձեզի տոմսակ պիտի տայ» կը յայտարարէր ինքնաշարժին թիւը տալով: Կամ «ինքնաշարժին լոյսերը վառած մնացած է եւ ձեր պաթէրին պիտի պարպուի»:
Զարմիկս եկաւ: Տեղ ըրինք: Քրոջս ընկերուհին եկաւ: Տեղ ըրինք: Մեզ հետ կրցան նստիլ որով մի քանի հոգի մեկնած էին արդէն: Շատեր գացին, ուրիշներ եկան: Ոտքի կեցողներ, շրջողներ, երեխաներ եւ անվերջ բարձրաձայն խօսակցութիւն: Դժուար կը լսուէին յայտարարողին ըսածները:
Քիչ ետք աճուրդը սկսաւ: Ուրիշ մարդ մը սկսաւ աճուրդի դրուած նուէրները ցոյց տալ, բարձրախօսէն յայտարարելով գինը, եւ բնտռեց այդ գինէն աւելի տուողներ ներկաներուն մէջ: Մենք հազիւ կը տեսնէինք կամ կը լսէինք թէ ինչեր աճուրդի դրուած էին: Կրցանք տեսնել գծագրութիւններ, մոմակալ մը, եւայլն: Մի քանի կտոր ծախուելէ ետք մարդը դժուարութեան հանդիպեցաւ եւ ուզեց մեզի յիշեցնել թէ ինչու համար եկած ենք:

«Եկեղեցին հայկական ես աչքս գոց կը տեսնեմ: Իսկ ուրիշներ բաց աչքով չեն տեսներ» աւելցուց:
Ու կրկնեց «Եկեղեցին հայկական ես աչքս գոց կը տեսնեմ: Ո՞վ գրեր է ասիկա: Ո՞վ գիտէ:»
- Վահան Թէքէեան ըսի զարմիկիս որ աչիս նստած էր երբ ձախիս նստած տիկինը, որուն չեմ ճանչնար «Ի՞նչ ըսաւ, ո՞վ չի տեսներ կոր» հարցուց ինծի:
Կրկնեցի ինչ որ մարդը ըսած էր:
Դիմացս նստած տիկինը քաջալերուելով որ պատասխաններ ունիմ «Մարդուն անունը ի՞նչ է եղեր» հարցուց: «Վահան Թէքէեան» ըսի: «Այսինքն այս մարդը, առանց տեսնելու, եկեղեցի՞ն գծեր է» հարցուց: Կրցայ «ո՜չ, բանաստեղծութիւն գրեր է» ըսել եւ ծռեցայ սեղանին տակէն իբրեւ թէ բան մը բնտռելու:

Դեռ անուն չեմ գտած

2009-11-15T10:32:00.007-07:00

Այդքան ալ թիւրին բան չէ եղեր այս խտասալ պատրաստելը: Երգելով ալ չի վերջանար: Ինքնին դպրոց մըն է եւ ինքզինք ճանչնալու առիթ: Մանաւանդ որ վերջ ի վերջոյ ես եմ պատասխանատուն թէ ինչպէս պիտի հնչէ այն ինչ որ ժամանակին կը կոչուէր ձայնապնակ: Այդ բառը երբ դեռ կար ես կ՛երազէի ունենալ իմը բայց երբ բառը փոխուեցաւ ժապաւէնի (քասէթ) եւ հետոյ «էյթ թրաք»ի, իմ երազի պաստառի վրայի նկարներն ալ համապատասխան փոխուեցան, մինջեւ որ հասանք խտասալին: Արտօնեցէք որ ձայնապնակ կոչեմ զայն:

Կարելի էր մէկ ամիսէն ունենալ կոկիկ բան մը բայց երբ անդրադարձայ ձայնագրութեան տուած կարելիութիւններուն՝ «աման» ըսի, «ինչ լաւ է, քիչ մը համեմներ աւելցնենք»: Քիչ մը այստեղ, քիչ մը այնտեղ, այս մէկը հանենք, միւսը դնենք, եւ ահա եօթը ամիս եղաւ:

Աղջիկս Bal Des Débutantes-ին պիտի մասնակցի: Ամէն ինչը բացառիկ եւ կատարեալ պէտք է ըլլայ: Մուտքէն սկսեալ պէտք է գրաւէ ներկաներուն, առ նուազն, ուշադրութիւնը, լաւ քալէ, լաւ խօսի, խօսքերը լաւ հնչեն, իր տաղանդները ցոյց տայ եւ պէտք է ներկաները ուզեն զինք իրենց տունը տանիլ եւ իրենց հարսը ընել:

Հոս է որ խնդիրը կը բարդանայ: Աղջիկս մէկ հոգի է: Չի կրնար ամէնուն տունը հարս երթալ: Թերեւս ատոր համար է որ աղջիկ չ՛ունիմ: Բայց ահա մօտ օրէն խտասալի մը ծնունդ տալու ճամբուն վրայ եմ արդէն: Եօթը ամսու եմ: Բոլորս գիտենք ինչ ըսել է եօթը ամսու ըլլալ: Պէտք է պատրաստ ըլլաս ամէն վարկեան: Ինչ կ՛ըլլայ ինչ չ՛ըլլար:

Երգելը ամէնէն հեշտ մասն է այս փորձարութեան: Սխալներ ընելն ալ հեշտ է եւ սորվելու առիթ, բայց ամէնէն կարեւորը եւ դժուարը, ինծի համար, արտայայտուիլն է երբ պահանջքներ կ՛ըզգամ: Սորվեցայ որ եթէ սիրտդ թուրշի կ՛ուզէ, բերանդ պիտի բանաս եւ «թուրշի կ՛ուզեմ» ըսես: Պէտք է ուտես այդ թուրշին եւ ոչ թէ պատճառներ գտնես չ՛ուտելու: Երեխան է կարեւորը հոս եւ ոչ թէ աղին քանակը մարմինիդ մէջ: Այս միակ առիթն է ուր կրնաս սրտիդ հետեւիլ սանձարձակ: Տիեզերային օրէնք է:

Այսինքն դուն քու վրադ վստահութիւն ունեցիր: Թէ ոչ ամէն անգամ որ ձայնապնակը լսես, ականջներդ պիտի ցաւին, հետոյ սիրտդ: Տեսա՞ր, ետ սրտին եկանք:

Իսկ երեխան ի՞նչ պիտի կոչուի: Այս ալ դժուար է որոշել: Հայերէ՞ն թէ հայա-ֆրանսա-անգլերէն: Չէ՞ որ Ֆրանսերէն եւ Անգլերէն երգեր ալ կան ձայնապնակին վրայ: Չէ՞ որ Ամերիկայ կ՛ապրինք:

Ameriga

Gateway

36+2 (այբենգիմի տարրերուն թիւը)

December

Linelle

Ser-mi-eh

Բայց ինչպէս որ ըսին ինծի «երբ որ վերջանայ, կը գտնես»:

Նայիլ, Լսել եւ Շնչել

2009-10-17T15:08:00.010-07:00

Նայիլ բառը (Տիգրանակերտի բառբառով՝ ըյեալ կամ իյեալ ) eye եւ eyeing կը ներշնջեն:

Իսկ լսէ բառը listen-ին քիչ մը շատ կը նմանի:

Պատահականութի՞ւն է որ շնչել, հնչել, փչել եւ խնչել բառերը նոյն ձեւով կը հնչեն:

Comme Promis

2009-10-05T14:49:00.010-07:00

Compromis!

Le sort de l'Arménie et des arméniens est compromis. Qu'on soit pour ou contre les protocoles rien n'est sûre aujourd'hui. Après avoir lu les centaines de pages d'informations et des articles sur le sujet, je suis plutôt confuse et en êtat d'attente. Et vous? Etes vous sûre de vos croyances? C'est un peu difficile d'éxprimer et de tapper tout ça en Français surtout quand on pose une question. Car je fait recours au clavier Anglais/Américain chaque fois que j'utilise le point d'interrogation. Ainsi, la langue française est compromise aussi à moins que quelq'un me dise où se trouve le point d'interrogation. Point finale.

A peu près.

J'ai eu la gentillesse de traduire le paragraphe d'en haut pour un anonyme qui protestait véhément et me demandait ce que feront les personnes qui ne comprennent pas la langue française. Je suppose que la dite personne a déja lu la traduction. Et pour ne pas comprommetre la faconde, je l'ai enlevée. Un compromis de moins n'est-çe-pas? Ah, j'ai trouvé, j'ai trouvé, j'ai trouvé! Le point d'interrogation que je cherchais, je viens de le trouver. C'est la virgule majuscule.

Que penser du timing de ma trouvaille? Est-ce une coïncidence ou une leçon? Ne pas compromettre c'est de trouver le point d'interrogation?????????????

Allez! Demandez vos questions!

Are We There Yet?

2009-09-17T10:52:00.003-07:00

We have recorded most of the songs except a couple. Right now the recorded ones are being mixed. In past recording sessions, except for one instance from which two songs will also be on my CD, I had a hard time listening to the end product and there was no room for improvement. Both times the undertaking was thus interrupted. It is a matter of being at the right time, at the right place, with the right people. Now I find myself listening over and over again to the ones I just recorded because I was given the chance to participate in the process over and beyond my singing.

I just listened to the awesome new album by The Flaming Lips, "Embryonic."

We are not there yet, but this is as good a place as can be right now.

Wondering

2009-09-15T09:08:00.005-07:00

The American girl from What? What? is wondering if one has the right to trample all over people if they are successful in business, have made money and are able to donate to local charities, cultural organizations, candidates and political parties, churches; have managed to be on the boards of a few such organizations and hence been able to give themselves freedoms and use those freedoms on matters unconsequential, if not detrimental, to the needs of a community thus, albeit unintentionally, making the passage difficult for other people whose participation and input would have, at the least, been of benefit for said community.

Փոխան Բեմ Ելլելու

2009-09-14T06:51:00.011-07:00

Սոսի քրոջս տղան ամուսնացաւ:

Նկարները ելան: Լուսանկարիչին կայքէջին վրան են:

Ժիր գիտնալով որ մայրս ալ պիտի փափաքէր զանոնք տեսնել, զինք հրաւիրեցի որ միասին դիտենք: Մայր ու աղջիկ նստանք համակարքիչին դիմաց ու բացի էջը:

Առաջին նկար՝ հարսին մազերը կը սարքեն: Քարինն է:

«Հաաա՜, իրենք են» ըսաւ մայրս եւ ես հասկցայ որ յաջորդ նկարը պէտք է ցոյց տալ:

Երկրորդ, երրորդ, չորրորդ նկարներն ալ իրենք էին եւ մօրս հետաքրքրութիւնը նոյնը մնաց: Այսինքն «ասիկա ո՞վ է» եւ «հաա՜ա»էն անդին չ՛անցանք: Նոյնիսկ իր առջնակ թոռը, Հուրիկ քրոջս մեծ աղջիկը, որ հարսին «պրայծմէյտ»ներէն մէկն էր, ստացաւ քաղջ սակայն ամէնէն դրական հակազդեցութիւնը մինջեւս: «Հա՜ Սանանն է»:

Այսինքն խնամիական կողմնորոշութիւն չէր մօրս ըրածը: Մենք եւ իրենք չէր: Վերջը հասկցայ:

Արագ արագ կ՛անցնիմ: Հարսնեւորները կը տողանցեն նկարներուն ընդմէջէն:

Հարսը տան դռան առջեւ: Հասանք եկեղեցի: Հարսը ինքնաշարժէն դուրս կ՛ելլէ: Փեսան՝ Վահիկը, խորանին առջեւ կ՛ըսպասէ իր կնքահօր եւ ընկերներուն հետ:

Մինջեւ հիմա ժխտական ոչինչ կայ բայց մեծ հետաքրքրութիւն ալ չկայ: Այսինքն ինք ներկայ էր պսակին եւ այս ամէնը տեսաւ:

Հիմա մատանի կրող փոքրիկ մանջը կը քալէ դէպի խորան: Ետեւէն կուգայ փոքրիկ աղջիկը վարդեր թափելով հարսին առջեւ: Ճամբուն կէսին, չես գիտեր ինչու, կանք կ՛առնէ եւ ալ չ՛ուզէր յառաջանալ: Ամէն կողմէ թեւեր երկնցած իր ճամբան ցոյց կուտան բայց աղջնակը կը մտնէ այն նստաշարքը ուր իր մայրը նստած էր եւ վերջ:

Ներողութիւն: Ցատկեցի: Մատանի կրող մանջուկէն առաջ, կարծեմ նոյնիսկ ամէնէն առաջ, կը մտնեն Վահիկին մեծ մայրը, հօրը կողմէ, որմէ վերջ միւս մեծ մայրը, այսինքն իմ մայրս: «Հաա, հաա, ես եմ, ե՜ս» կ՛ուրախանայ վերջապէս մայրս: «Այդ ո՞վ է թեւը մտեր եմ»: Իր նախասիրած փեսան է, քրոջս ամուսինը, Հէնրին, կը բացատրեմ: Մայրս վերջերս քիչ մը կը շուարի իր յիշողութեան մէջ: Քիչ մը կ՛երերանք այս նկարին դիմաց, կը քննարկենք իր հագած հագուստը թէ գեղեցիկ էր եւ ինչքան վայլած էր իրեն ու կը շարունակենք:

Պսակը կը վերջանայ, հարս ու փեսան դուրս կ՛ելլեն եկեղեցիէն, ճերմակ աղաւնիներ ազատ կ՛արձակեն, ժողովուրդ, հարսնեւորներ, ուրախութիւն, կը նստին իրենց վերապահուած ինքնաշարժը ու կ՛երթան նկարուելու: Հիմա պանթոկի շքեղ սրահներէն մէկուն մէջ ենք: Խմիջքի պահն է, այսինքն «Քոքթէյլ»ի եւ ախորժաբեր ուտելիքներու: Հիմա ընթրիքի եւ պարելու սրահն ենք: Հոս նորէն մուտք կը գործեն այն կարքով որով մտած էին եկեղեցի: Այսինքն նախ մեծ մայրերը: Հոս ալ քիչ մը կը տնտնանք որովհետեւ քալած ատէնը մօրս հագուստին վարի մասը քիչ մը շեղակի քացած է: Քիչ մը կը նեղուինք եւ կը շարունակենք:

Կը տեսնենք Պէյրութէն այս առթիւ ժամանած քրոջս ընկերուհին Ազնիւը, Ֆրանսայէն՝ զարմիկներս, Քալիֆորնիայէն, Շիքակօյէն, Տիթրոյիդէն, Պոսթընէն ազգականներ, խնամիներ, բարեկամներ եւ ուրիշներ: Պարողներուն մէջ յանկարծ կը յայտնուիմ ես: Մայրս, ուրախ, կը բացականչէ «տես, հա, դուն ես, դուն ես, դուն ալ կաս մէջը, կը պարես կոր»: Հաաա՜ լաւ որ ես ալ կամ եղեր:

Նկար մը յանկարծ կը ցնցէ զինք: Մայրս, հարս ու փեսային հետ նկարուած: «Ամաա, ասիկա ե՞րբ նկարեր են: Իրենք ե՞րբ մեր սեղանը եկան: Չ՛եկան: Չնկարուեցանք:» Իրեն միայն նկարը մատնանշեցի, որպէս փաստ: Ինչպէս որ ըսի քիչ առաջ, մայրս քիչ մը յիշողութեան խնդիր ունի:

Այս երեւոյթը զինք դարցուցած է աւելի անկեղծ ու թափանցիկ եւ հետեւաբար մեր յարաբերութիւնը լաւացուցած:

Երբ սկսայ այս կտորը գրել, միակ բանը որ գիտէի այն էր թէ պէտք է գրէի: Եւ քիչ մնաց, այդ պզտիկ աղջկան պէս, կէս ճամբան պիտի կենայի, բայց շարունակեցի պարզապէս գիտնալու համար որ ինչու՞ կը գրեմ: Գիտցայ:

Ցատկելու համար դէպի անցեալ: Նստելու համար իմ մայրական մեծ հօր քով, օրաթերթը բանալու եւ իրեն համար բարձր ձայնով կարդալու: Գրեթէ ամէն օր որ դպրոց չ՛ունէինք, ամէն կէսօրէ վերջ որ ազատ էինք, ամէն անգամ որ իրեն այցելութեան երթայինք կամ ինքը մեր տունը գար:

Բարձր ձայնով կը կարդայի որովհետեւ Տէտէին լսողութիւնը եւ տեսողութիւնը նոյնքան տկար էին: Այսինքն շատ տկար էին: Այդ ալ ուրիշ պատմութիւն թէ ինչու: Հիմա հոն չ՛երթանք:

«Արփօ՜ էկօ քիչ մի ընծի էս թերթէ, սանկ, քիչ մի կարդայ, ինչ կ՛եղնայ, հաճիս:» Կը Կարդայի:
«Էս մինծ գիրիրէ կարդայ»: Նախ խորագիրները կը կարդայի:
«Անցի՜» կ՛ըսէր եթէ հետաքրքրուած չէր:
«Մի քանի տող կարդայ իյյանք ինչ կ՛ըսէ», եթէ քիչ մը հետաքրքրուած էր:

Կը կարդայի, բարձր, երբեմն, երբ չէի կրցած իրեն «ոչ» ըսել եւ հետեւաբար ինքզինքես բարկացած էի, պէտք եղածէն աւելի բարձր կը կարդայի: Գլուխը կը դարձնէր ու ինծի կը նայէր այնպէս մը որ ըսել կ՛ուզէր «հիմա ինչ եղաւ քեզի»: Կը խելօքնայի:

«Զարմանալի բան»: Տէտէյին ամէնէն շատ գործածած նախադասութիւնը:

Ամառը կը նստէինք իրենց «վերանտա»ն եւ ես դրացիներուն համար ալ լուրերը բաշխելու նպատակաւ կամ իմ հեզասահ կարդալս ու հստակ առոգանութիւնս իրենց լսցնելու համար, կամ եւ, ինչու չէ, իմ իսկ ձայնը լսելու համար, ձայնիս ուժգնութիւնը քիչիկ մը կը բարձրացնէի:

Աշխարհի զանազան երկիրներէն Լիբանանեան եւ հայկական կեանքէն քաղաքական կամ մշակութային լուրեր որոնց կ՛ընկերանային անուններ որոնք կը սորվէի կամա ակամա: Կը սորվէի նայեւ իմ սորված հայերէն լեզուն լաւագոյնս օգտագործել կարդացածս ատէն: Ու կարդալը կը դառցնէի հաճոյք: Նախադասութեան կետադրութիւնները կը յարգէի, բառերը մաքուր կ՛արտասանէի, շեշտերս կը փոխէի եւ աւելի հետաքրքրական կը դարձնէի այն ինչ որ իրապէս ինծի չէր հետաքրքրէր այդ փոքր տարիքիս:

Այս մարզանքը հետաքային իմ թատրոնի դերասանական օրերուս գործի պիտի ծառայէր:

«Էհ, ըսօր կը բաւէ: Ապրիս, ապրիս աղջիկսի: Շատ շնորհակալ իմ: Կը բաւէ»:

Օր մը Տէտէն ուզեց որ անպայման կարդամ այն յօդուածը ուր Մարիլին Մընրօն, տեսողութիւնը զօրացնելու համար, զանազան աչքի մարզանքներ կը թուէ «Աչքի Մարզանքներ» խորագիրին տակ: Տէտէն անշուշտ չէր գիտեր Մարիլին Մընրօյին ով ըլլալը եւ ինչ երեւոյթ ունենալը: Ուզեց որ անգամ մըն ալ կարդամ սոյն յօդուածը: Կարդացի եւ ուրախացայ իրեն համար: Մինջեւ հիմա կը յիշեմ անոնցմէ մէկը կ՛ըսէր որ արագ արագ նախ ամէնէն հեռուն նայիր եւ հետոյ ամէնէն մօտը:

Զարմանալի բան: Ատկէ առաջ ոչ մէկ նոյթով այդ աստիճան չէր հետաքրքրուած Տէտէն:

Մօրս «հաա՜ես եմ, ես»ին պէս ու քիչ մըն ալ աւելի:

Խոնարհութիւն:

A verb

2009-09-14T06:49:00.002-07:00

- Գա՞մ
- Come!

It is 8:00 A.M.

2009-09-14T04:51:00.003-07:00

Almost. I just finished editing my old posts.

Why Did You Call This Time?

2009-08-14T00:59:00.004-07:00

Let me guess. To put order in my thoughts? To appease? To comfort? To tell a story? Yes? Do you have a story? Many stories. But you don't want to tell any stories? Why? It would be gossip! But the world runs on gossip. They did this, he did that, she said this and you said that. She did what? She threw the shoe at her husband. Well, it wasn't a shoe, it was a flip flop, nevertheless, she threw it at him with "don't you dare say anything bad about..." whoever. That's not the point. He had time to duck and he didn't. It hit him. He probably didn't believe his eyes. He probably thought he was watching television and the flip flop was going to hit the camera, not him. I thought the problem was being taken out of proportion and it would soon escalate into violence but it didn't, if you don't count throwing a flip flop at someone as violence. Anger can be very funny when observed. How does one decide to take one of their flip flops and throw it, in a moment of rage, at their adversary? It takes imagination. Or does it? Could it be that the not too long ago shoe incident in Iraq inspired this otherwise nice lady into behaving in such a manner in front of the guests? There is no comparison between these two incidents as to the recipients' severity of the crimes (hint: gossip). Nor is there any possible comparison between the two footwear. One was a shoe, a man's shoe at that, the other a flip flop. The only thing in common these two incidents had was the amount of anger the footwear carried and its trajectory.

When I came home that afternoon, there was a package waiting for me. I knew what was in it. I opened it, put my headphones and listened to Beethoven's Piano Concerto No. 3 in C Minor, with Alfred Brendel on the piano and James Levine conducting the Chicago Symphony Orchestra, recorded live in 1983 and later remastered. One of my favorite pieces of music that I have wanted to own since 1974. I listened to Alfred Brendel's every note, every day for about one year, on that 33 rpm record album in the studio apartment I rented (sub-let) in Manhattan. There was no television in the apartment but there were two albums, the other being Marvin Gaye's "What's Going On". For one year Beethoven, Alfred Brendel and Marvin Gaye kept me company. When I left New York for sunny California, they were left behind. They weren't mine. Thankfully, my roommate in California owned a few albums. One was Joan Baez' "Diamonds and Rust". My favorite song on that album, "Jesse..."

"...come home there's a hole in the bed
where we've slept..."

Aaaah, yes, now I know why you called.

Who Will Listen?

2009-07-16T01:15:00.003-07:00

Do you think that is a good name for my upcoming album?
- You are the singer, it is your album, you are asking me?
- Yes, I want to know your thoughts about it.
It is also the name of one of the songs on the album.
In Armenian it would be "Ո՞վ Պիտի Լսէ".
- Հոգ չէ երգէ դուն comes the answer. Don't worry, just sing.
So, what do you think?
Oh, never mind. I'll probably come up with another title when the clouds clear out.

The pain of not doing it

2009-05-24T00:29:00.003-07:00

Is greater than the pain of doing it.

First, two nights ago, on The Late Show with David Letterman, a lovely woman in her late 60s I would say, sang a beautiful Scottish folk song accompanied only by a pianist. I felt embarassed for having considered myself old for this sort of thing just a day before.

Second, on my way to the dentist today, a pick up truck passed me and drove a good five minutes in front of me making sure I see the white painted sign of Just Do It on its back window.

Finally tonight, as I was channel hopping, I fell upon the movie Little Miss Sunshine. It is all about this sort of thing mentioned above. By now I am inspired and am thinking this is all about me and for me. That brought about a decision to call my disc of vocals All About You and Me.

I do that a lot. I had been listing possible names for my book in progress even before I started writing. My favorite was The Big Tease (a word play only those who know Arabic would understand). I found out it is taken by a movie about a hairdresser.

But is this why you called?

No, you called because I couldn't sleep. I am either writing, editing, rehearsing, performing on stage, singing or writing songs all in my head. Instead of finding a way to let all these energies come thru and express themselves, I am writing essays on my blog.

And this sort of thing is the pain of not doing it.

Lantana

2009-05-18T17:09:00.010-07:00

Apparently, the flowers above which I remember from Lebanon because we used to suck the sweet ends of its tiny petals are called Lantana. I had not seen one since until two years ago, when I went to the nursery and there they were. They are supposedly perennials and great was my joy in nursing them, taking pictures in their developing stages and waiting for their rebirth the following year. They were nowhere to be found. Last year I did not find any at the nursery. This year, yes. In a tiny pot, two flowers with a different color combination than the ones above, red and yellow, waiting to be strategically planted. I will wait for Diane to show up Wednesday so we can do this with the utmost ceremony owed to this rare and nostalgic for me flower.

Spring Has Sprung

2009-05-16T20:18:00.009-07:00

How did the Blue Jay arrive in my garden, when and from where? How can it be that I am here to see it and exclaim "Oh, a Blue Jay!" I did capitalize the B and the J in my exclaiming too. The blue jay started singing and looking to his right with his back turned to me. I followed his gaze and saw that he is looking at the Robin perched on the neighbor's white fence. The next moment, the robin flew threateningly towards the general direction of the blue jay who flew away. The robin kept looking around and advancing towards the baby spruces ligned up between my garden and the neighbors' driveway . I realize this is the robin who had nested in one of the spruces and two baby robins were waiting there. Do baby robins have a different name? Do baby wild doves have a different name? A few years ago, two baby wild doves were born on my air conditioning unit outside my bedroom window. The whole process, from preparing a nest, to laying the eggs, to birth, took a few months. Each time I looked out my window there was something new. The babies stayed there until they could fly. And fly they did one day. I still see many wild doves around the trees and wonder if they are the same ones I sweated for by not turning on the A/C in order not to scare them.

My mom relinquished the garden to me this year. She had to. Her arms hurt. I bought many flowers which I have been planting in a zen like process, slowly enjoying the outdoors, the earth and my newfound freedom in planting my own flowers. Earth, the final frontier.

2009-05-05T21:46:00.003-07:00

I have been submerged in thousands of used stamps that I have been organizing for a month now. Way back when Dad used to collect them and I am organizing them saying to myself, once again, if I don't do it, who will? I did all of Europe, the Americas, Australia, New Zealand, Africa (do you know where Benin is?), Lebanon and Armenia. I am taking a breather before I tackle the huge pile that is Asia. Even after that I will need more time to start liberating the rest of the stamps from their prison, i.e. the little envelope parts they are attached to and then start the whole process over. You might as well know, although you are under no obligation and you can close your eyes at this point, that I enjoyed doing this activity more than I thought I would.

So what good is that to the world you might ask? Answer? Anyone? No? Too bad. As soon as I am done with this I promise I will do something for the good of the world as soon as I find out what that something is. So there.

What I ask is that someone sends me the contact of a reliable and trustworthy source to appraise my stamps.

The Best Revenge

2009-04-29T10:50:00.014-07:00

Oh no, I am not advocating revenge in the old sense. The best way for vengeance is to take the route of self-improvement. When I say self, I mean the people who, like me, are Armenian by heritage. When I say improvement, it means in strategic thought and action. It takes a giant leap into faith and out of the repetitive. The ways of politics have not changed in 94 years and I for one think that the change we seek should come from within. The truth always prevails and it is on our side. That should be a consolation but it is a long way to checkmate.

If you have not had the chance to check http://www.keghart.com/ yet, please do so and read some of the articles there dealing with the aftermath of when we rediscovered how naive we still are. Some are truly therapeutic. Despite the fact that a poll on the aforementioned website shows that 62% of readers had said President Obama will not acknowledge the Armenian Genocide, that same percentage of Armenians in general have been utterly disappointed. The others are having a hard time holding back the "I told you so."

I voted for Obama because he seemed to be the better candidate and not because he promised to acknowledge the Armenian Genocide. I voted as a United States citizen and not as an Armenian. Yet, when the issue of the Catastrophe comes up it becomes hard to separate oneself into two and thus see things objectively.

Both the Palestinian cause and the Armenian cause can take a look at Cyprus and see how the land grab that was conducted in 1974 is still in the hands of Turkey. When the powers to be don't have the capacity or don't want to repair injustices more recent, like Darfur as another example, I have a hard time expecting that they will repair injustices prior.

I see the best Armenian minds coming together, starting with our champion chess players, Gary Kasparov, although the latter has his hands full currently, Knarig Mouradian of Lebanon who was the four time women's chess champion of the Arab countries at the young age of 22 and grandmaster Levon Aronian of Armenia and let no one tell me that there are no intelligent Armenians. If the game demands strategy, they will be the best strategists. There was no Armenia to speak of for over 600 years until 1990. We are new to the dirty business of politics. Yes, I know, I know, there was a brief independent republic in 1918. Other than that we were always subjects under this or that power, can we be verbs for a change? We might even end up being followed by a good adjective. Before the verb and the adjective, we need a realistic objective, one that does not make me feel that my only salvation as an Armenian depends on the utterance of the word genocide by a United States president.

In the meantime, I want to enjoy what is left of this dreadful month of April which seems to get longer every year.

Happy spring!

I'm OK You're OK

2009-04-16T19:10:00.021-07:00

In 1973 or 1975 in the cool and sophisticated village of Broummana, on the outskirts of Beirut, I read the book I'm OK You're OK. What part of OK I did not understand? None. I was OK. It was written in black on white. So it was true. I understood OK to be OK. I was so happy that I was OK. My happiness lasted a few hours. Then I forgot. There are other people in the world you know? I might think I am OK and next thing you know I am not. And that's normal. In fact it is law. As soon as contentment sets in, we slip-slide as in what goes up must come down. Then what do we do? Do we wait for someone to make law what goes down must come up? Was there ever a law for that? I know there are thousands of "how to" books written reminding that I'm OK You're OK. So it must be true.

Conclusion: Going down is automatic. We are down before we know it. Going up takes time and effort if not sheer will. In both cases, I'm OK You're OK is timeless.

After I wrote the above, I received a phone call from my dear friend Arpinée with whom I was very open about my moods of late. She informed me that I am not alone and gave me examples and names of people who are going through rough times of late. She added that they too thought they were alone in not finding a way up. If it was a staircase going to heaven, the fact of knowing that I am not alone took me one step up. I wonder if others did the same when they found out that they are not alone. One, two, three, hop!

I am not alone. Many blessings to all who have felt the same way lately...and to those who haven't also...I do not discriminate.

The Mother Who Saved Hazro

2009-04-06T21:16:00.010-07:00

Hazro is a small village some 50 miles from the city of Diyarbekir in Turkey. My dad was born in that village. He had three older brothers who were also born there. My Uncle Arshag, the second born who was around 8 years old during the deportations of 1915 has written extensively about Hazro and life in and around Hazro in his later years. He had no children and somehow all his handwritten notes ended up with me. Stacks of notebooks bundled in a plastic shopping bag have been sitting in my "things to read" pile and for the past ten years I have read most of it. Some narratives handed down from previous generations, some personally witnessed and some guess work went into it. His handwriting is not hard to read and yet he has rewritten them clearly in another notebook without much editing. The following incident is described in detail with names and conversations and fills up pages. I will attempt to write it as briefly as I can.

The year is 1895. The Sultan has given secret orders to kill the Armenians here and there. One order reaches Hazro who had one head of gendarmes and two gendarmes who didn't have much to do in a village of 10,000 half of which were Armenians and the other half, Kurds who lived in their separate neighborhoods. There were some 4-5 Turkish beys with their families "representing" the Sultan. The beys and the head of the gendarmes gather for a secret meeting to decide the day and the way to organize the massacres. They realize they don't have enough man power to do this and decide to invite a couple of the neighboring Kurdish leaders ("ashirats") to attend a second meeting. The killings will begin early the next day. Everyone goes home to prepare including the two brothers who, upon entering their home, go directly to the room where their arms are kept instead of to their bedroom.

Their mother, a Cherkez woman and now the head of the household, is awake and finds this odd. She questions one of his sons, Katim Bey, who has sworn to secrecy, and very astutely makes him confess. She is apalled by what she hears and makes his son swear that they will do everything to stop this from happening. She tells him that the Armenians have our trust and have done nothing wrong to deserve a killing. She tells him that if they do that the Sultan will later hold them and all the beys responsible for the killings. In a nutshell she tells him to take the high road if he and his brother consider themselves the sons of the late Najib Bey.

The brother, in turn, persuades his brother and later that night, all the other beys of Hazro, not to carry out the order of the Sultan. When asked about the reason of this change of heart, Katim Bey admits that it is his mother's wish. The beys have great respect for this very noble woman and quickly realize that she is right. They all agree that the order of the Sultan should not be carried out and immediately send word to the Armenian men in the village to come for a meeting at the early hours of the morning. The Armenian men arrive half asleep not only to find out that they were to be killed but that they have to protect themselves in case the neighboring Kurds decide to follow the Sultan's order.

By the set hour of the morning all the beys' men and the Armenian men are in position to defend Hazro and the Armenians from being killed. Except for a few incidents wherein the attackers were overpowered, the Armenians of Hazro are saved together with other Armenians who had escaped from other towns and villages and taken refuge in Hazro.

The Cherkez woman's name is not known.

Sadly though, in 1915 there was nobody standing up for the Armenians of Hazro...

If I didn't know the Armenian dialect of Diarbekir, Turkey

2009-04-05T13:09:00.005-07:00

would I have written and sang this?

And how do you know this dialect of Armenian you would ask? That's the only Armenian my paternal grandmother, Sarah, spoke having been born in Diarbekir, Turkey, married there, had children there, and escaped from. She lived with us in Beirut. After her husband, Sarkis, was taken away, she lived in hiding for many months after the Genocide because their house was in a cul-de-sac. Finally, when they found her together with her two sisters, whose husbands had also been taken away, she was told they will spare her life and those of her children if they changed their names to Muslim ones and became muslims. She pretended to agree and the names were changed for a while but "I wanted to call my children by their baptism names, Kevork, Zohrab, Arshag and Vahan so we escaped hiding in the coals on a carriage to Aleppo."

The Enabler and The Precedent

2009-04-02T12:40:00.009-07:00

Unclenching the fist entails not threatening your citizens with punishment for telling the truth. Unclenching the fist entails not blackmailing the United States with "consequences" for acknowledging the truth. Unclenching the fist requires the kind of power which educates citizens and does not deny them their land's previous history, the history about the keepers of the land before they were thrown out into the desert and exterminated for being Armenian Christians.

Unclenching the fist is easier and cheaper than the millions of our taxpayer money spent for denial of that which will set you free and make you a benign power rather than a bully. But how would you know that? You are too busy clenching your fist and spreading your denials around, thus becoming the enabler of other despots and mass murderers around the world. You have been doing that for over 90 years and if we let you, you will turn around and accuse Armenians of that which you are unable to acknowledge yourself.

I don't know if President Obama knew the extent reached by his one sentence on inauguration day but this is the time and the reason to say it. "Unclench your fist and we will talk." It doesn't matter who he said it to at the time. He set a precedent and opened the door for opportunity. I hope he remembers this sentence when he goes to Turkey in a couple of days and the issue of acknowledgement comes up, if it comes up.

All the Yegisapeths, the Aghavnis, the Karnigs, the Zoras, Hagops, Dikrans, Anahids, Arminees, Arams, Vanouhis, Melkons, Arekags, Yenovks, Mgrditchs, Vartouhis, Manoushags, Haroutiuns and their sons and daughters need to rest in peace and as long as the whole world is not unanimous towards what happened to them, they will not fully rest. Neither will we.

Postponing the Past

2009-03-24T17:32:00.007-07:00

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.

Those Lebanese and Canadians

2009-03-20T10:32:00.006-07:00

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!

Electricity

2009-03-19T08:49:00.009-07:00

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.

Finding itself!

2009-03-02T16:34:00.024-07:00

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

How do you turn 17? I know about turning right or left, turning around, turning back, turning the other side, turning white, yellow, red and green, I know about these things. But I don’t know about turning 17. How do you turn 17?

Patience at 17 is more like escaping into or away from something that needs patience because it has been imposed on you.

But where do you escape to? Do you turn left? Do you turn right? Or do you take a few steps back to see the big picture?

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 8, 2008
If I can’t go to a retreat, I’ll invite that which I want to retreat from to retreat. In the sense of, it is not you, it’s me.

May 14, 2008
I guess May 13 expired just like me. I was nowhere to be found yesterday. I searched myself, the books, the pc, the neighborhood. This was just a look from the window; you don’t think I’d actually go out to look for myself, would you? Although sometimes a brisk half hour walk has made me think that I have found myself.

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?

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.

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.

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).