Armenia IV

Armenia Pics III

Armenia pics, II

Pictures of Armenia...and I have more...

Mother Armenia

About two weeks ago, I went to Armenia.  At some point, I will show pictures, but because every picture takes 15 minutes to upload here,you're going to have to wait.

Yerevan, Armenia has statues.  A lot of statues.  I would say that the statues were randomly distributed, but I don't understand randomness; it's easier for me to say that the statues were positioned in such a way that sometimes I thought each one was silly, sometimes I thought each one was sad.  But for every statue I sawI  realized that I was completely wrong about the Soviet Empire Yerevan, Armenia is a much smaller city than Lincoln, Nebraska.  But Yerevan has more statues, has more books, has more hope.  Yerevan is a small city, but if you were able to see the statues...

I climbed up the top of the Cascades of Yerevan...and though I'm fat I decided not to take the elevator.  My heart almost gave out, but I was powered by the hatred (thanks Skeletor...er...thanks Dad...I guess your intense hatred has fueled me in a way that you can't understand).  From the almost top of the museum (how pissed off was I that the monument wasn't finished!), I was able to see the smog...and I saw the statue of Mother Armenia.  Monotheism destroys statues, inhibits creativity, and cuts off the hands of poets. Atheism allows 3 colors:  grey, white, and brown.  I will take   those three colors, as long as I still have my hands.  Let me have my hands.  Mother Armenia still has statues with hands.

I'm not a poet, but I can tell you this one thing:
I'm asked to know verbs
I'm asked to know jesus
I'm asked to remember you
Sometimes I can, sometimes I can't.

I have a weirdo sister, I have a fallen friend.
I have a friend that keeps on singing about sadness,
I have a friend  who has found his voice.
I can only be me.
So...uhm...suck it.
It's me.   With my irreplaceable glasses
but my already broken heart.

Just remember my name.

I have so many pictures; I have so many ways to show you that you have no idea; I have so many things to ask you this:  can you really believe?  And, because I know the answer, why do you?

The 1 year anniversary

I don't know if it's because I'm skewed or because I'm lazy, but I have no pictures of my family.  I have pictures of places:

I don't miss my dead mother.  I don't miss my still living father.

One of the things I used to say was "yeah...but those people are fakers.  My father has forsaken all because of his belief."  Whoops.  That's my fault for idolization, for believing in someone, for defending the indefensible.  After my realization/deconversion, the only person I thought really believed in the spew coming out of his mouth was my father.  Because he had forsaken riches (and took his family with him), moved from churches who had theological differences (8 of them), and preached a gospel of knowing Jesus.  Forget the Pastor's Child syndrome, the Preacher Syndrome is much more interesting.  At some point, belief becomes a reason itself.  You can't believe in some higher power, some irreducible mover, something ineffable and anti-intentional; you no longer believe in anything other than fear.  The fear of what isn't. 

Here is the truth of my life:  there is no one and no thing whose imagination can fully realize me.   (If you are interested, ask me for the Soda Machine Proof of your non-belief.)

I'm sorry that my mother is dead.  I know my sister misses her.  I know that my father has evaded her death.  I know, and I wish it weren't true, that I don't miss her.  I miss the idea of a mother.  Just like I miss the idea of a father.  And a grandfather.  And a reason to live other than me.  Because I can be really depressing. 

Abuse

I guess it's only as soon as I woke up on the floor, my glasses askew, that I could finally understand the terrible truth.  The terrible price of freedom.

I would love to believe.
I would love for you to love me.

Your belief in RELIGION fucked me up.

And your belief separates me from you.
You've chosen the easy way, Dad.

You need comfort, but not the comfort of your god.
You need...you need...you need an embodiment.

Don't ever think I've forgotten your singular backhand.
Don't ever think I've forgotten how I inconvenienced you with my blood.

Strap a bomb on, Roger.  You aren't that far away.

I can say this:  I'm sorry that my blood intruded on your prayer meeting.
I'm sorry that I think that your running to Suffern every Sunday is worse than my running to Dubai.

Beverly is dead.  She was more yours than she was mine, and you forsook her.  Not because you didn't love her, but because you're weaker than I have ever been.  Your weakness is why you joined the Navy, why you joined the Salvation Army, why you married her, and why you preached the rapture of the saints every sunday.  Weakness doesn't absolve you, and your belief can't save you.

You believe in a god.  The same god that you made me believe in.  The same god that took her.  How fucked up is that?  your god wanted her to die.  that's what you pretend you believe.  that's some fucked up shit.  the same deity you've pretended to believe in took your wife.  Isn't it easier to see the can of mom's ashes than it is to remember how she held your hand?   That same hand you wanted to use against me?  Do you remember that hand?  Probably not.  Holiness has that wonderful attribute of negating memory.  

Really?  Marriage?  Jesus isn't enough for you?  Hahahah That's the funniest shit I've ever heard.  Yet you subjected me to god and jesus and belief and how god was enough for all of our weaknesses and all of our strengths and so much fucking bullshit.  Fuck you for changing gears so easily.  and fuck you for ever hitting me.  don't think i've ever forgotten it.  And fuck you for forcing your chameleon beliefs onto me.  If i had known then, I wouldn't still be thinking in terms of the redeemed and the forsaken; I wouldn't be so scared of authority, and I wouldn't be so insecure.  So, thanks.  Your fake belief ruined me.  Awesome.

Maybe that is the best thing you have ever given me:  the outrage and hurt and memory.  I still remember when you called me out on strikes in Little League, and I still laugh at it.  I don't laugh at your hand on my face, I don't laugh when I remember the reason, and I don't laugh when I think of all the bullshit you shoved on me because you were too weak to admit that you were hurt.

Not because you are going to your hell.
Nor because I could ever go to your heaven.

You hurt me.

Not because you drew my blood, but because you inculcated this belief that I can't get out of my head.  That's abuse, pure and simple.  You abused me.  Out of your own weakness.  And I despise you for it.


My dream is that we can meet for lunch.  We will both order a sandwich, and you will finally say you love me for who I am.

Stupid dreams.

The US and my father's wedding, as per Danny's request.

I came back to the US for my father's wedding.  You know, the wedding that made me feel like I could no longer feel my fingers.  This has been an emotional tsunami (thanks, Skeletor, for the everlasting inside joke) for my sister and me.  Well, more for my sister than for me.  Because I'm not so much with the "emotions" or "expression."

The last time I was here, February, my father didn't talk to me.  At all.  This time was no different. I would like to say his reaction was my fault (you know, because I like to blame myself for a lot of things), but it wasn't. His reaction was simply an extension of his personality. Roger has made it impossible for me to relate to him. There are so many similarities between the two of us: I have 7 books on my bedside, and one in my bed; I feel guilty for things I can't control; I will always take care of those I care about, if they need it; I'm selfish; I'm really scared.

However, I'm quite different, in that I'm completely available to an entirely different clientele.  I will always be there for my sister, but never for some "former church member."  I have one, very small family.  That family resides in my head and in my heart.  That family has proven itself to me, in weird, incomprehensible ways. If you don't know who you are, you wouldn't be reading this.

I believe that our baselessness reveals our divinity, and not the other way around; I think the best times I can ever have are with friends at a bar, on a Sunday afternoon, watching football and drinking too much; my personality can no longer be changed based on those whom I'm surrounded by; and the most important difference: No one has relevance to my life unless I allow it. 

The Beauty of Upstate...really Upstate...NY:

I can't speak of hijabs and kenduras, the burkha or the sharia law...because I can't understand it well enough to explain it to you.  I can only speak of deserts and hatred.  If you knew what I thought of a simple raindrop, or of an oak leaf fluttering to the ground, or how sorry I was that someone cried when I left...

Can you struggle with something you know isn't there?

Angels.  Numbers.  Someone else's approval?

Can you abdicate?

Your title.  Your relationship. Your failure?

Can you bother?

A new nephew. A slight tax burden.  A foreign girlfriend?

Can you be forgiven?

For faults.  For insensitivity.  For fear?

Can you love?

Yes.

But I want forgiveness first.

When I rode the horse, I was thinner.

I would beat a dog, if I could get just get that needle ...
I would never miss anyone I have ever loved if I could get that needle...
I would eat a baby if I could get that needle...

Just a...  I don't even want that...  What about a sniff?  What about being in the same room?  What about knowing someone who knows someone...?
I would snort your tears through a straw if I could just get that needle...

This night is one of the worst nights ever.

Some nights, I'm 100% sure I can't go on.  Those nights, surprisingly, aren't the worst ones for me.  I always know that after some slick knife-play, my wrist veins are inviolate.  I don't have the strength to saw through them.  I have only ever found the strength to puncture other veins, as if I had diabetes (but without the insulin problem) or as if I had finally found the tattoo I've always wanted.     

Just a sniff of it.

I don't even want it.  I just want to see someone else have it...

Pilar emailed me today.  The abortion went well.  Meaning Pilar didn't die.  Unlike the thing inside.  That has been successfully killed. Sorry, kiddo.

I don't even need to see it personally.  Just a picture of someone else enjoying it would do.

Actually, a picture of someone looking at a picture of someone else doing it would be sufficient.

I don't want it. 

I don't want to have that sense of needing something every hour.  Oh...I already have that.  How about this:  I'm stronger than loving something that doesn't care about me.  Yeah, I like that.  Here's what I have to say to the white face of this thing I want, the unknowable face of some god, the stoic face of tomorrow.  I am not owned.  I am not yours.  I have been in the throes of your grace, but I have never been yours.

I have a cigarette, I have a drink, and I have a wild dream of living forever.  But I am not, and will not be, yours.  Ever.

I am mine. 

Whatever

It's kind of weird, what my parents never taught me.  My father never told me that a man's "whatchamacallit" goes into a woman's "punkin."  My father never told me that a cow can be subdued by punching it on the forehead, my mother never said that the best way to house-train a dog was to give the dog a treat every time it "went" outside.   My parents didn't teach me how to respond to love, they taught me how to recognize duty.

Three days ago, I held a pigeon in my hand.  Her (yes, it was a her) bland eyes belied her gripping talons.  I carried her into my apartment and fed her bread.  She ate the food from my hand.  It was amazing.  What wasn't amazing was when she couldn't find her way through my open door.  She bombarded my bed, she took a dive at my hand (until she realized that I was still holding bread).  She gave up.  When I picked her up to let her go, I felt her heart.  My hands were wrapped around her wings and chest.  Lub-dub-dub-Love-dub-dub-Love-dub-dub.

1
You and I danced in the rain, not realizing that the sun had already exploded. 

Obviously, we didn't realize we had less than 8 minutes to live.

When the moon burst, I said to you:  "Love me, please."  You wouldn't even show me your boobs.  How can I combat that? 

2
I wanted to buy a new mattress, you wanted a new baby.  I said "We don't even have an old baby."  You pointed to your vagina and suddenly I wanted a new baby too.

3
In my dream, I saw you wandering.  I stood at the edge of your vision and waved, signaled, and even lit the world on fire.  Every time I tried to catch your attention, you looked away from me.  Even as your world burned.

4
Butterflies are the closest thing I have to an angel.  I have a feeder outside my home, and I diligently attend to it.  The worst part is in the morning when I find no butterflies feeding there.  I find huge paper wasps flickering around my homemade feeder.  Actually, the worst part is when those wasps sting me and I squash them in retaliation.  I would never do that to a butterfly.

5
Today, I was told that I lack a capability to care.  I responded by saying "shut up."  I can care.  I can care about weakness.  Think of my dreams:  friends I have known forever, people I haven't alienated, a nice book.  Now think of your dreams.  You probably don't even have a good one.

6.
Today I thought of rain.
Today I thought of you.
Today I wanted to be somewhere else.

7
I want to make a Chinese Lantern and inscribe the surface with my true name.  I want to watch the enlivened gases take that lantern and rise, rise, rise.  I want to see my name writ on the night sky.  I want to watch that lantern fade, and I want to cry.  I want to shout "I have never had a duty, I've only had a story".  And I hope that my story makes my father want to love me.

8
I'm flying to NY and, unlike the rest of my family, I can easily say that NY is not my home.  It is my safety net.  My home is that roiling water, that wave crashing on the rocks of Oregon or Maine.  My home is in that throbbing, scared heart of my pigeon.

The lack of guilt via another blackout , then the horror of what I thought I left behind.

Today is Friday, July 30th, 2010. 

The last day I can put a date to is Monday, July 26th, 2010.

On Sunday, July 25th, 2010  I went to The Viceroy to have a drink.  After 6 pints of Foster's and 8 shots of tequila, I left.  I remember going to the grocery store and I remember buying 2 steaks, 1 package of fajita seasoning, 1 jar of jalapeno peppers, 1 canister of Pringle's, 1 6-pack of Diet Coke, 3 packs of Marlboro Lights, and 2 bottles of water. 

I remember the walk home, the 6 bags of sundries condensing in the heat.  I remember inserting my key into the security door, and I remember Dennis walking in behind me.  I remember me saying "Dennis, let's go have a drink," and I remember Dennis saying "I have to wake up early." 

I remember that in the elevator, we decided that I would drop off my groceries and I would meet him at his door.  I remember meeting him, hailing a taxi and going to The Dubliner, and I remember ordering a drink.  I don't remember anything linear after that. When we went to that bar, when I ordered that drink, it was on Monday, July 26th.  2010. 

Sporadic Episodes after that:
07/26/10:  Shower of hot water.  People looking at me and a bunch of stuff I wrote on the white board.
07/26/10(pm):  12 empty glasses of whiskey
07/27/10:  Movie playing, me trying to take off my socks.
07/27/10:  Sweating and wondering why I was standing outside.
07/27/10:  1 bottle of Glenlivet empty in front of me, Pilar smiling and saying how much she loves me 
07/28/10 (am):  2 empty bottles of Budweiser and a waitress (Adina) asking if I wanted another whiskey.
07/28/10(pm):  1 jar of jalapeno peppers empty, 1 empty bottle of rum cradled in my hand.
07/29/10(am):  Double whiskey.  Double whiskey. Double whiskey.
07/29/10(pm):  My thumb on fire because apparently I no longer know how to work a match.

In between those moments, I washed my sheets, arranged my books, fixed my faucet, and went to work.  I have only a slight memory of me accomplishing those tasks.  It was only after I realized I was burning  (rather severely) that I...unblacked out (?).

I'm aware now, because of my thumb, and I checked my calendar: 4 days of my life completely gone.

I thought I had left the blackouts behind.  I thought I had left the fear that drives them behind.  Stupid ol' me. Fear follows me like a jet's contrail. 

I am sorry if anything I wrote (apparently I wrote a lot) offended anyone (specifically Amy Tavern).  Deeply sorry.  And I'm sorry if I have failed anyone who doesn't know how easily I can disappoint.  I will not say that I won't do it again, but I can promise you this:  I won't ask you for money.  (Unless you are rich and/or have initials in your name with either a consonant or vowel.)

A hanger and a hoover

So I've been dating this girl, Pilar.

She comes over and makes rice, bacon, and eggs.  Every 3 days.  Every 3 days we see each other, and the two days between she sends me text messages about how much she loves me and misses me.  For those two days I want to vomit.  I like to spend time with her:

We went to the Dubai Mall this last weekend, and this is her in front of the waterfall.  This is her in front of Burj Khalifa:

Such a sweet girl, so why am I queasy for 2 days out of every 3? 

That's right, kids.  Pilar is pregnant, which means Timmy's apparently gonna be a daddy.  Unless I can punch her in the stomach and use a wooden spoon in ways that are completely unrelated to cooking.



I know, I know...that's the wrong thing to think.  I can't help it.  I'm not fit to be a father, just as I'm not fit to be a son.  If I could just get a bag of rock salt, a plunger, I wouldn't have to be sick for two days out of three.  Instead, I have to wait for the miracle to come.  And buy a bassinet.  And medical care.  And figure out how to not fuck things up.



What if it is retarded?  Is it too late to drown it after it comes out?  What if I look at it and can't hold it, ever?  What if it has all the worst parts of me?  What if it grows up and doesn't want to look at rocks or read or sit in the rain?  What is going to happen when I fail it?  What if it thinks I could have done better, and I agree with it?  What is going to happen then?  Are we going to sit in some dismal and dank space, staring at each other in flickering candlelight, both wishing the other were dead?  How many ways can I screw this up?

Maybe I'll be lucky and the world will end.  Maybe a quick trip down a flight of stairs...

Maybe I will love it.
Maybe it will love me.
Maybe we will sing stupid songs and hold hands
and I can tell it lies about clouds
and it will believe me.
Maybe we can talk about families,
and maybe I can be strong enough to cry with it.
Maybe I will not call it "it."
Maybe I will call this baby mine,
and this baby will call me.  Forever.

___________________________
Most of that post I wrote 1 1/2 weeks ago, because I'm prescient.  It was only today that she told me she was pregnant, and only today that we got the results from "the Pee Stick."  I had already made my peace with becoming a father, although I still had my reservations about it.

In the UAE, a woman who is not married but is pregnant gets thrown in jail.  After she comes to term, the baby is taken and the woman is deported (at the very least, lashed and stoned at the worst).  This, clearly, is not an option I am willing to take.  So today Pilar and I talked about it.  She kept saying "I wish I was dead" even though each time she said it, I tickled her.  She kept saying "What am I going to do" even though I kept reminding her (via tickling) that the question should be "What are We going to do."  We decided that she has to go back to the Philippines, ASAP, and I will join her there in the near future.  It appeared as if things were going to go relatively smoothly, other than the separation and the fear. 

I always imagined, if this day ever came, that I would be the one to suggest an abortion  (cf: title of this post).  I wasn't.  Pilar did.  I'm going to be a would-have-been father.  An "if circumstances had been different" father.  And, a little bit, I am relieved.

But a small, tiny piece of me wants to hold my baby.  An infinitesimal portion wants to send a picture of my baby to people I have known, and across the bottom of that picture I want to scrawl:  I Have the Ability to Love.   A large part of me just wants to go to sleep for a while, to wake up, to go to work, and to never think about it again.  That majority will win, for now.  But some nights I know I will yell at my apartments walls that I can love just as well as anyone.  And I will pull down that used, positive pregnancy test (which I didn't throw away) and think of all the things which could have been.  Because those are the things I like to think about in the latest watches of the night:  what could have been.