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.
