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.