Mark the day before you forget...

I'm beyond all acceptable limits of exhaustion. But before i collapse into a dreamless sleep, hoping that tomorrow will be a little better than it was today and for the past week, i need to stop here and mark this day - it's been exactly a year since i came to Richmond. This time last year, equally exhausted from a twenty hour trip, overwhelmed by flights, layovers, luggage and customs, i set foot in Richmond - without a clue of what to expect, and yet hopeful, optimistic. Looking back i can only smile at the clueless self that i was then and say to her - "you did well."

I wish i could celebrate this day with a cupcake. Instead, all i have is peanut butter sandwiches and leftover dinner from yesterday, since i've been to frazzled to care about buying groceries. If i outlive the next few days, i may give myself a moment to look back, once again, and sum this whole year up, as i have a habit to celebrate beginnings and their anniversaries. Weird that the start of a calendar year has never held a symbolic meaning to me. However the beginning and end of every consecutive stage that i have undergone throughout my life have been important, if for nothing else, at least as punctuation marks that one finds scattered around in any given tale. Life as a tale- i very much like the idea of it...

For now, all i can say to myself is this - happy one year of living in Richmond.

Street Art

Rebound

I have to admit that this is a totally rebound post, since for the last two hours (and the past ten day) I have been writing away like a fiend what is slowly coming to resemble a paper – that is in academic sense. And the writing of the following post is driven by pure inertia, since I’m unable to stop, and will be happy to write about anything that does not involve words poverty, foreign aid and aid donors (which I unconsciously or consciously misplaced with the word bastards on more than one occasion). I’m done with the fun part - the rewarding in itself scavenger hunt for information, the reading and scribbling notes part (by far is my most favorite), then the outline, then the part where I actually sit down and write the damn thing and even come up with a conclusion that actually looks and sounds good (that is in my biased opinion). There is still the not so fun part left, which entails citing the sources, making sure that I did not accidentally steal someone else’s quote without giving proper credit, and four days of reading the thing million times over to make sure that there are no awkward typos (and I am very VERY prone to those) and that I did not forget to replace one of the aforementioned profanities. Not that I would be distorting the truth. But I don’t think it will leave the best possible impression – not in this case, anyway.

Other than that, I have somehow miraculously passed the credit review for student loan application with my non-existent credit history and will be able to borrow the difference that even the full amount of Federal Stafford loan cannot cover. Talk about expensive. I also found out that I will get much better rates if I have the loan (Graduate PLUS Loan) processed through school and can borrow up to the full amount of attendance cost, as opposed to tuition cost, which means that even if I get no “free” scholarship money and decide that an honest, white collar, administrative job is too lame for me, I will still be able to pay rent and have a place to live (and it gets coooold up in Boston) and be covered by health insurace. It’s not the best case scenario by far, since we’re talking about a huge black hole of student loan debt on my otherwise debtless record, but at the same time it’s not the end of the world. It’s actually rather encouraging, which in its turn means that for now it’s one less thing to worry about – and instead I can direct all my obsessive energy towards speculating on other stuff, like how I’m going to move my ten thousand pairs of shoes and whether or not my new roommates will be nice.

Speaking of roommates - the roommate situation is getting a little monumental. It was monumental to begin with, since I’m sharing a house with a Korean guy, an Indian guy and a guy who was born in Afganistan but moved to the States when he was little. Add an odd Armenian female to this and you have the most unique international boarding house ever possible to imagine. I think one of the reasons I decided to rent this room (apart from cheap rent and nice neighborhood – since a certain someone had sent me off to this side of the world with a blessing and a prediction that I was bound to inevitably end up in a crack house in downtown Richmond) - one of the reasons that I got this room was the ridiculousness of the idea. You would not be able to come up with such combination of different cultures even if you tried to. And I thought it might get interesting at dinner time. Which, apart from odd Korean food, has been relatively tame. The part that these are all guys actually works as an advantage, cause I seriously have very low female tolerance and who- stole- my- lipstick and who- ate- my- fat-free- yogurt, who-stole-my- boyfriend and who- you’re- sleeping-with situations would get old very fast and start getting on my nerves. I get along with guys well. We live in peace - no political, ethnic, religious, gender or other conflicts. We work as a team. I don’t bitch, they leave me alone – everything’s cool. Except for one thing - dirty dishes. Yup the dishes and food living in the sink, which, you have to admit, is gross – and this is coming from someone who is not the cleanest person in the world. Apart from that the rest of my tenancy has been relatively uneventful... or wait, there was that time when the electricity was cut off for the most part of the evening and it brought back old memories of dark and cold Armenia. And that one other time when the water was cut off for like two days – Armenia repeated. And then that other time, or three or four times, when the downstairs bathtub was not draining at all… and that other time when the heater was broken and there was no heat or hot water… Never mind all that, I’ve been through worse shit, and I can deal with it –with more than necessary bitching, of course, but that’s just part of the fun. But dishes! My god it’s gross. And it bugs me so much that endless notes on the message board are starting to change from “Please wash your dishes. It's unsightly” to “Wash your fucking dishes already!” On these guys the f word has been known to have some effect. If not, I’m moving out. To live in the Fan. Who cares that it’s expensive. I’m getting a forty thousand student loan anyway. And no, this is not an ultimatum.

There it is, the coolest one of the notes that the Universe has sent me so far and it, in fact, knows how to read my mind.

I do believe it should comfort you to know, Nika, that whenever you face a fork in the road of life, no matter which path you choose, I'll be there in all my glory.

(Probably moon walking, with a long, feather boa trailing in the breeze...)

You can't go wrong -
The Universe

Wrapping it up

in two short paragraphs -

my recent whining two posts ago has so far landed me two complicated cases that we otherwise call snakebiten ones - with title defects, missing heirs and three party deeds, two subdivision plat recordations and another case with real estate complications due to a long and messy divorce. On top of that i got two new bankruptcies for Northern District of Florida and i dont know how bad they are since haven't had time to take a look at them yet. So far, i'm doing a badass job - i'm happy and very pleased with myself and have to admit that i am a nerd (for the lack of a better term, since lawyer groupie doesn't quite do it) when it comes to these little legal details.

In other news - it was bright and sunny in Richmond today, Phillip Morris stock dropped by 0.03 points due to my drastic reduction of cigarette consumption, Tamara posted really great vacation pictures in Mexico, dooce finally moved to her new house and i discovered William Easterly.What else can you ask for at the end of any given Friday?

Nowhere

- where the time goes...

If I may contradict myself one more time – I always do that anyway. At least I know it’s safe enough to do that, since these contradictions never go further than wistful speculations at moments of distress. Talk about mood swings – only a few days ago I was talking about how happy I am in Richmond and how I wish I didn’t have to leave…

But a part of me, knowing that I’m going to leave anyways, wants to simple get up and go now, right this instant – for the sake of saving myself the trouble of having to do that in August, for the sake of avoiding the next three or four months – and I can already feel that they’re going to be difficult, it’s already hard as it is right now, emotionally straining, and I’m really not that well equipped to deal with this kind of strain in any given moment. So what the hell. Why not get it over with now instead of dragging it for another summer. Why not save myself months of heartache and uncertainty? Why not get it over with now instead of spending all that time in complete unproductive boredom while watching the level of my anxiety gradually peak…

I’m running ahead of myself. Trying to picture what it will be like when it’s time to leave. Browsing craigslist to see if there’s a place available for August, still so ridiculously early and so premature – both my seemingly needless anxiety and the emotional strain. I was talking to a lady at ACORN in Boston today, to see if I could get a part time, even a volunteer job up there, figuring that if I have to get a job, I rather work for a non-profit. Something I could have done here in Richmond as well, had I had enough patience to wait. But I never have patience. None whatsoever.

It sounds tempting. So tempting. To simply get up and go. Somewhere, anywhere.

A few weeks ago, for the millionth time, I was offered to move back to Florida and work in my old office there until it's time to start school. A job that was one thing I couldn’t leave behind when I left, a job that I am still doing it from home, thus my location being a point of little relevance. A job that i don't think I’ll ever be able to quit, even if I’m in a mine shaft, somewhere in Siberia, hundreds of yards under ground. At least I know I’m so good at doing what comes so close to resemble welfare. Those five Kleenex box bankruptcy cases – four for the client, one for me that I manage to straighten out with so much proficiency and getting so much positive energy back as reward...

It sounded attractive, the offer, for reasons other than a much better pay, a place to stay without having to pay rent, in a town that I more or less know and almost like… a boss who has come to accept me as almost a family - his little sister that he never wanted, but family nevertheless. It sounded tempting. Touching. Humbling. And for the millionth time I had to turn it down, for reasons other than seeing the move to Florida under these circumstance just as pointless as moving anywhere else. Not time yet. Too soon. And yet, never soon enough. Never fucking soon enough.

What’s holding me here?

A relationship - a relationship that at moments leaves me just as lost and at my wit’s ends as moving to a completely new and unfamiliar place. You know, those few months after a move, when you still don’t know the place well, and haven’t gotten used to all the boundaries yet, and can still nurse the illusion that you’re free within these unseen boundaries for a little while longer. Until you get to see and recognize not only these visible bounds, but your own limitations as well. I’m exactly at that very point in this relationship. And I’m not sure I’m taking it well.

Maybe I’m just not cut out for this stuff. Or maybe it’s one of these days of overcast skies and everything falling tumbling on me. A bad day, living situation that is starting to get on my nerves, unchallenging job, equally unchallenging people and feeling of loneliness that is so much stronger in moments like this. Maybe it’s just a fucking moment. A mood swing. And if I sit through it patiently enough, it will simply go away once it’s all nice outside again.

It’s supposed to be beautiful this weekend. Maybe I’ll take a trip downtown, go to the river or stay in Cary town and tell myself all the reasons why I love Richmond so much… and try to convince myself that I still have quite a few good days left here, that I could still seize a few of those photographic snapshot moments that stay forever frozen in the eye of your mind.

Or maybe I’m just not cut out for all this stuff. And I simply want to disappear.

prolific

Such a funny word, not just cause it sounds funny, but because it pairs up with flying foxes (pteropus scapulatus)and pear trees (pyrus communus), and can be used to describe both the crop year (prolific year for tomatoes, that is) and a particular writer (i.e. prolific writer with fecund imagination) all at the same time.

At times i wonder if i will ever get to fully know and understand the English language in all its depth and glory, but one thing is certain - i love it like i love only very few things in this life...

To Whom It May Concern: It's another Friday of Mountain Dew and Complete Boredom at Work

The urge to smoke stronger than ever. And I'm whining. Rather loudly. It's unsightly.

Damnit. I guess i'm more addicted to cigarettes than i thought i was.
The patch is not working - of course it isn't, since every time i put it on, i have to take it off twenty minutes later, if i want to stay alive. It makes me dizzy. Not fuzzy, euphoric, pot high kind of dizzy - but "I'm about to pass out" kind of dizzy, with splitting headaches, 80/40 blood pressure, nausea and vomiting. Sorry for graphic details. It was bad. Really bad. Didn't help that first time i tried it on, it was late in the afternoon and I had not had dinner yet. I thought that maybe the full patch was too strong for me - but nope, half has the exact same effect. The other day i had to turn around and walk back home so that i don’t faint in the street, in the middle of all that traffic. How pathetic would it be to die from an attempt to quit smoking? Or nicotine overdose. But that's exactly what this whole quitting business is doing to me. I've been irritable, bitchy, headachy and plain depressed for the last several days. Why am i doing this again? Oh yeah, so that i can run happily ever after for forty five minutes a day, three days a week. That's right. When's my next marathon again?

I need to devise a new plan for quitting. The patch's not working.

i guess i was looking for an easy way out, hoping that it would make me not want to smoke. Of course it isn't going to work. What did i expect? Did i innocently and naively believe that tobacco companies would actually allow an easy and effective way of quitting to be roaming freely out there in the open market?

Well, maybe there is no easy way out and it's going to take more time and commitment than i'm willing to dedicate to at this point. But perhaps, if i keep working on it, one less smoked cigarette at a time, i will, eventually, wean myself off of this habit. Just like it was with the recovery from eating disorder - it took time. A long time. And headaches. and stomachaches, and weight gain, and dizziness. And relapses. Many many relapses - but it worked in the long run, didn't it?

Need to write a blog on overcoming eating disorder, because the way i make it sound here appears way too easy-breezy. I also need to start writing that damn paper on effectiveness of foreign aid, or the lack of it thereof. Got a World Bank report of nothing but two hundred pages of bullshitting on the effectiveness of development assistance, without providing any statistical or other evidence. The whole point of the report summing up to yeah, aid works, it's efficient but there is no way to prove it. Of course. Sure the World Bank is being effective fighting poverty. The amount of funds it spends on organizing seminars, and conferences and trainings and shipping one confused consultant from one corner of the world to another. Business class travel. VIP reception and nothing less. As J. Maarten Troost said in "The Sex Lives of Cannibals", the World Bank is very concerned about alleviating poverty, one consultant at a time. Or something along those lines. The only reason for the whole organization to exist is to keep airliners and five star hotels in business. And that, we have to agree, is a significant contribution to global economy. Transfer of funds from one wealthy pocket into another. Plus you appear concerned and nobel and oh-so-altruistic in the process. Nice. Funds are disbursed as shown on paper. Where they go is a matter of little importance. We have the numbers. They're satisfactory. We've got something to brag about at the next UN or whatever other summit that may cost an annual budget of an entire Pacific island to organise . And write another two hundred page BS report.

So here i am, aspiring to be one of those consultants who will fall under big guy's mercy of big paychecks and tax exemption - that's what thirty thousand worth of hoity-toity education from an elitist school is there for, right? At least that's what their career service web-page claims to do. It better does. But wait, i have to start school first. And finish it, for that matter. But before i do that, i need to write this paper that's due the end of the month. And quit smoking. Oh yeah, that's what this whole blog started as. Went off on a tangent.

So smoking. So far, i haven't gone too far. In the last five days i've smoked a total of twelve cigarettes. That's not quitting. But at least a lot better than what it was a week ago. So patch is no longer an option. Cold turkey is not something i can do with my non-existent will power. What's left? Therapy? Right. Acupuncture? No way. Nicotine free cigarettes? I might consider that at some point. For now, it's Marlboro Ultra Lights (they taste like shit, by the way), proscribed at a limited doze of no more than four a day. That's the only plan i could stick with for now. That's all. Done bitching.

Poshla kurit&.

I’m twenty six years old. As someone gently reminded me not that long ago, it’s still ridiculously young. And yet old enough to be able to drive, vote, buy cigarettes and alcohol, get married and divorced, have children… It’s an undistinguished age, untelling, neither an indicative of maturity nor an excuse for irresponsibility. Maybe an age of quarter life existential crisis of some sort, but then, isn’t life in its entirety some kind of existential riddle in itself?

I’m twenty six years old. Still young, and yet at times I feel like I’ve lived several different lives and have aged without actually getting old. And now I’m starting to notice the first signs of actual aging. Like the first gray hair. Very fine lines around my eyes that are hardly visible, but there nevertheless for me to know where the first wrinkles are going to appear. I no longer seem to have adequate amount of energy to rush through the day juggling a million of tasks without any sign of tiredness and exhaustion. I can no longer survive getting only four hours of sleep during the night. I cannot go longer than four or five hours without having sufficient amount of food. But apart from those physical signs, other things have changed as well. I have mellowed. Significantly. Fast paced environments that used to give me highs make me dizzy and disoriented now. Schedules and deadlines that I once lived on make me now cringe. I am no longer willing or able to handle stress and intensity in any aspect of my life. I’m burnt out on drama. It all appears to be unnecessary fret, meaningless noise and ado. I’m tired. And I know I’m getting old, not older, not only because I seem to have gotten used to the slower, quieter pace, but because it seems like I will no longer be able to go through what I have already been through, and that I can no longer afford to make the mistakes I already made once, in the past. These things are starting to have a toll on me. I’ve grown protective towards myself and my well-being. It seems that all I want these days is peace of mind and sense of normality – the very concept I am having a hard time finding definitions for. Maybe what I’m trying to describe by this normality may appear as plain indolence for someone else, or mundaneness for another. But given my past, where nothing but the early years of childhood came even close to resembling “normal” no matter how lose you set these boundaries for defining normal; where everything was complicated, burdened, disturbed, fucked-up, stressful and strenuous, it is only natural to want that one thing that I have been deprived of, right?

My otherwise happy and unclouded childhood was interrupted by troubled political, social and economic events that my country underwent after the collapse of the Soviet “Empire.” My early adolescence was spent in loneliness and fear and hiding the feeling of loss and grief for my father. My college years were all about growing bitterness and apathy. It was one big disillusionment, years in school, because I was old enough to openly see the reality as it was, to openly reject and criticize it, and yet not old enough to be able to deal with it with the knowledge and maturity of an adult, and more importantly with less destructive, and healthier ways. Granted I was a product of overly idealistic parents, raised on the only religion they believed in, that of ultimate human goodness and universal values of morality, it was easy not to get disillusioned. I tried to find some kind of salvation in my marriage. I grabbed on to it like a drowning at a straw, as a desperate attempt to save myself from dreaded cynicism and apathy, without having the foresight to see that my very salvation would grow into source of depression and even greater destruction. There was nothing normal about that marriage, and I am equally guilty for contributing a considerable share to its insanity.

Troubled and interrupted childhood, painful adolescence, disillusioned youth, broken marriage, broken faith, bitterness, callousness and subsequent apathy –I’m not listing all of this to evoke some kind of pity or compassion - in fact, my life hasn’t been worse than that of millions and millions of people that once lived and are living now. I know that I am far better off than many others. I am merely trying to make a point, first and foremost to myself that it is understandable to want to have things that are normal. To want to be normal. To want rest, and peace and quietness for at least a little while longer.

I can not afford another broken marriage. I do not want to go through life from one failed and disastrous relationship to another. I do not want to live in the humiliation of poverty and deprivation if not in economic sense, at least in moral sense of pride and dignity. I no longer want to feel disabled by another mental or physical disorder. And i no longer want to try and build yet another life from scratch... These things are starting to have a toll on me. They are. And I’m tired. And somewhat lost.

Part of me wants to simply give in to this current state of indolence and serenity. It’s probably the first time in many years that I have felt so peaceful, to undisturbed, so quieted and humbled. Part of me knows that I could be happy like this, living like this, taking care of my humble little needs, taking it day at a time, a moment at a time. I could be happy in Richmond. I could make Richmond feel like home, even if I were to end up living here on my own. But then, the other part of me knows that it’s not really an option. Giving in is not an option. Not at this point at least. Not until I’ve tried to be happy at another place, in another mindset…And only after having experienced something other than this, something different than this, but still normal nonetheless, only then I can make a legitimate choice and a conscious decision to come back to the quietness that Richmond is for me now.

I say I’m happy now. Perhaps I’m confusing the concept of happiness with a glass of orange juice in the morning and a back rub at night, and perhaps all there is to them is joy and pleasure and comfort of ordinariness. I don’t seem to mind it at all. In facts that’s one of the few things that seems to make me happy these days. And what is wrong with the idea of wanting an ordinary life anyway?

I’m not sure where I’m trying to get with this… I still catch myself having to hold back the urge to simply spill it all out and let the daylight see what really is on my mind. Or maybe I let myself get lost in these overly long sentences with overlapping clauses so that I don’t have to say what otherwise could be said in one simple sentence, without even a single subordinate clause.

A Picture of Time

by Lynne Tillman

You say there’s no time like the present. But what is the present here? I’ve watched TV for ages and seen movies since I was three. TV’s daily life and movies are a communal fantasy. Today is in color, yesterday’s in black and white, and there’s no agreement about tomorrow.

I hear music everywhere, and then there are voices. Everyone’s speaking in a flow and rush of language, the words are like water. There are echoes, too. And I know the whispering won’t stop. It’s the past. Time passes on and fools us by living underneath the surface.

You say there’s a reality we all exist in, and I say I won’t agree to it. You become red, enraged, and I make something from that. Red becomes an opening, surprising you. But I put it in the corners, where its brilliance is held in suspension. I keep explosive red, like time, to myself. I keep it, like dreams and wishes, for myself.

I suppose it’s obvious. I’m always fighting time. It’s relentless in its mission, and I’m nothing to it. But there’s no time in dreams, which is why I need them. There’s protracted suspense, the ragged drama of discontent and tempestuous wishes. And morose blue may suddenly pop up, disguised as threat, to announce the predatory present. I may be able to appease it, the blues, if I can find a place to put it. Even in dreams I want to control sadness and danger. I surround and contain them, and later everything catches up with me.

You say take hold of yourself. I hold on to dear, difficult life and keep track of success and failure—and loss, the holes and emptinesses where I could fall off and forget the world. Oases and shelters beckon, tempting illusions wrapped in bars and stripes. I reach them and take the time to think about what to do next.

Time moves on without my consent. I should have known better. My schemes might be planted next to startling green thoughts and in earthy, black fields. If I’m lucky, the dark is rich and compassionate and will let me rest for a while. Something good might come along.

Is it judgment I’m awaiting or mercy? I don’t know. I draw a broad line around myself and make a fortress against inevitability. Suddenly there’s static, an impish, contentious energy I never expect. It disrupts connections, compelling me to assimilate forces I don’t fully comprehend. Like electricity, which I’ve never stopped relying upon. I know it was discovered and had to be captured, even subdued. Yet it was always there, and it probably wasn’t waiting, the way I am.

You’re naked, you say. Protect yourself. I cover myself in shame, lust, and greed, smearing and hiding the humiliating marks of battle. I’ve done this many times and have become a funny kind of palimpsest. You say no one can escape, and I run down a narrow, single-minded trail. I burrow deep and throw on another layer, for warmth or as a palliative. I grow big and orange. Fire is more orange than red and, like anger, throws off more heat than light. When it dies, there are embers and ash, wan reminders of its glory. The sky becomes night and swallows everything. The night is a thrilling action figure in the human theater. I hide in the dark.

You say I can’t fight the inevitable. But what else is there to fight? I arrive at my destination and tremble at reason’s door. It’s inviting to enter, seductive, but there’s really not enough room. Still I’ve learned I can’t be an exception and walk in through the back door. To outfox reason’s complacency, I escort the unpredictable unconscious. As usual no one notices. Later, perpetually, everyone’s surprised.

You and I watch the current match between rationality and irrationality. I bet on what we can’t know, which wrestles with everyone’s limits and confounds certainty. It usually claims victory, and tonight I win easily. There was more behind the scenes than we ever appreciated. You’re sorry to lose, and I console you. But the truth is I applaud the victory and prefer it to reason’s insensible claims. Like the one that says time heals all wounds. Time’s no cure, no doctor. You and I go on. We continue somehow, and our persistence is the source of everything we make. I want to surrender, but I can’t, and I live in that paradox, and so do you.

It snowed in Richmond...

after an entire winter without snow, with the exception of couple of snow flurries that didn't last more than a few minutes. It was strange, to open the back door in the morning and see everything covered with a thin layer of snow.

A few months back I was somewhat looking forward to the snow - winter snow brings some kind of peace and relief. i couldn't wait to see the snow on these littlebrick houses that look like doll houses, when their windows are lit... But it never snowed, not even once during winter. And now there was something strange and discordant seeing this snow, when all the trees are fully blossomed and after i had folded and put away all the thoughts of winter in the farthest corner of the closet together with my warm clothes...

Speaking of smoking

... and nicotine patches.

Running out of cigarettes in the middle of the night used to be my biggest fear. I could not possibly imagine what I would do without them for an entire night of long hours, without holding the dry, thin, cylindrical object in my fingers, seeking comfort inhaling the bitter smoke. The idea that I might, one day, not be able to smoke was enough to drive me insane. And I mean INSANE. To the extent of calling a cab in the middle of the night and paying two dollars for a trip to the nearest kiosk to buy a one dollar pack of cigarettes (yes, prices in Armenia are still relatively cheap last time I checked, despite the US dollar losing its value against the local currency).

I buy cigarettes in cartons these days. Cheaper, more convenient, and the risk of running out is not as frequent. I have three packs of cigarettes left. A few days ago I told myself that once I’ve smoked them all, instead of buying a new carton, I’ll get a patch. A nicotine patch. I’m still uncertain when, why and more importantly how that idea came to me, but lately I have been thinking, that perhaps, one day I should stop smoking. That perhaps, one day, I could and would stop smoking. Even as I’m typing this, I don’t think I fully believe that in about three or four days I may stop smoking. Altogether. Hmmm.

The thing is, I’m not just addicted to those damn cigarettes. I like them. In fact, I love them. I love the taste. The bitterness. The process of lighting up, the first drag, inhaling, holding it in, exhaling. I even like the gross, nasty smell that sticks to my fingers long after I’ve smoked. I like those few minutes when even at my most distressed, I can distract myself and not think about anything. Just draw it in. And out. The serenity of it…

I also cannot quite imagine how I would continue doing my everyday things without them – it’s as much of a habit as it is an addiction. What do I do when I first wake up? When I drink coffee? When I’m listening to that one piece of music that simply has to go with a cigarette? What do I do when I’m sitting outside, writing. Or people watching. Or meditating. Or decompressing. Do I actually think that sticking a little patch soaked with a certain chemical to my skin is actually going to stop my cravings for a cigarette by simply giving me sufficient supply of nicotine so that I don’t go crazy? And bite somebody’s head off?

And more importantly, do I really think, and really believe, that I’m going to quit smoking? Really? REALLY?

Smoking has always been more than an addiction to me. I grew up in a traditional society where women who smoke are look down upon with dismay for reasons other than mere health concerns. They are often considered of questionable, if not altogether lose moral character. Smoking was my way to revolt, to refuse to conform and follow the rules of a society I could not quite identify myself, let alone accept and reconcile with. This was my way of asserting myself and standing up for my choices, even if this particular one was harmful and damaging to my health and possibly gave me a questionable reputation. At the same time, I used to be attracted to the dark aspect of it, and apparently had certain fascination with self-destructive behaviors. It surprises me that considering my compulsive and addictive nature, I never got into drugs and alcohol, never even tried to. I’d be just the type for a junkie, I’m sure. But I used to find it attractive - a dark, stick thin figure, an empty stomach, strong black coffee with no cream and sugar, and cigarettes. Lots and lots of cigarettes. And books. And notes. Scattered all over the place. And I pretty much lived that life for several years. And all these years I have fought battles for my rights to smoke. I’ve kicked off quite a few men who I’d date randomly and sporadically during my school years, who would as much as dare to hint that I stop smoking. There were also those who were less subtle and would tell me pointblank that they could not possible be seeing a woman who smokes. That an Armenian woman does not smoke. That women should not smoke. Period. I’d shrug my shoulders – your loss, now get lost. And continue smoking. Some of the worst fights in my previous relationship were about my smoking. It had gotten to the point of absurdity of me being forced to make a choice between cigarettes and the person I was with – the ridiculousness of the idea enough to throw me into blind rage. I stood my grounds, I defended my choice. I yelled and screamed. And broke dishes. And I continued smoking.

I’ve been smoking for almost ten years. I’ve always pictured myself as a woman who smokes. And drinks coffee. And smokes. Relentlessly. I’d go through a pack of cigarettes like it was a handful of peanuts and by the time the evening was over, my pack would be empty. I have spent endless nights awake, smoking, reading, writing. This time last year I had an entire month of doing nothing but stay at my mother’s apartment, try to eat well and figure out what I was going to do next. And chain-smoking from morning till night. Since then I have cut back considerably. For one thing, no more indoor smoking. No more smoke breaks every thirty minutes or so during my work hours. No more smoking in restaurants, even in tobacco capital, unless I’m sitting outside. And I no longer go to bars.

And now I’m thinking about quitting. In about three days I’m planning to stick a patch on myself in hopes that that little piece of whatever it is will substitute not only the nicotine to which I’m addicted, but everything else that smoking is for me. A habit, pleasure, distraction, comfort, my past, my memories… What's ironic, I’m not even sure if I want to quit. Well, that’s not quite true. I do want to quit, but the funny thing is, my reasons are far from all the reasons you'd think one would have, including the money i'd save and the obvious health concerns, which one would think should be a priority.

I more and more realize that this whole smoking thing has become a nuisance to me and the very few people who are around me these days. And of course they all have to be non-smokers. Even the guy who works at Phillip Morris is a non-smoker. Blah. Whatever. It’s only now and here in the States, that I have thought, for the fist time, about the discomfort that smoking can cause to non-smokers. It actually bothers me. But what bothers me more, is how much I have to go out of my way to make sure that I’m not suffocating anyone in at least twenty yard radius. When I’m surrounded by people, the fact that i have to wait to finally be able to snatch a moment and sneak out to smoke a cigarette, while feeling guilty the whole time, is humiliating. Making sure that there’s no one in the aforementioned twenty yard radius is just plain aggravating. Feeling constantly guilty and apologetic about my smoking is just as demeaning. It belittles me, and I rather not feel that way than go outside and smoke my damn cigarette. And as much as I continue saying that “It’s my thing. I love it. Let it go.” the constant bitching about my smoking is not going to stop. The funny thing is thought that the one person who is most discomforted by my smoking doesn’t bitch. And rarely says anything. But sometimes it’s even worse than loudly expressing disapproval. That way I can at least snap back, like I did in the past. And have extra motivation to stick to my guns. His silence is disarming. I can’t yell back. I can’t break dishes. And smoking no longer gives the satisfaction that it used to. All I can do is feel bad and guilty and make sure I washed my hands and brushed my teeth before I go back into the room where he is.

But the main reason for my trying to quit is that a few months back, out of sheer curiosity and in hopes of getting rid of pent up frustrations and anger, I started running. And now I’m really getting into it. And truly enjoying it. What amazes me most is that after all these years of self-abuse my body is still strong and capable enough to perform this physically and cardio-vascularly demanding activity. It stuns me that my tarred lungs still have the ability to last me for entire two, three and even four miles on my better days, at more or less decent speed, without having to stop. The high I get from rush of adrenaline and endorphins is magical enough to make me swear, while I’m in motion, to never smoke another cigarette in my life again.

Smoking and running generally don’t go together. It’s either one or the other. I’m at a point when I’m starting to like the latter more to try and stop the former. Do I actually believe that it’s going to work? I’m not sure. I am not as enthusiastic as I might sound in this post, but mainly because I’m skeptical by nature, especially when it comes to things immediately related to me. But then, most of the things that I’ve accomplished so far were driven by this skepticism combined with something else that sort of resembles curiosity. Depending on which one overshadows which determines the outcome. Or something along those lines. A mind trick of sorts, i guess. I have to admit that I’m just as curious about quitting as I’m skeptical. So there, I said it. I know I talked too much. But before I go…

I bought new running shoes today. Really fancy and expensive ones, named after me, to replace the shabby old pair that I’ve had since… high school. I can’t wait to I get them in the mail. Tomorrow I’m getting the patch, although I won’t stick it until Tuesday. I’m sure there will be rants and raves about the whole process, so please forgive me if I start getting on your nerves. I’ll try not to turn this into a full blown anti-smoking campaign. But this is my blog, god dammit. And this poor little thing has witnessed everything I once thought I ‘d never be able to do, from breakup of my marriage, to my full recovery, to grad school acceptance and now running. Maybe, well maybe, smoking will be one of these things.

Last week, talking to my brother on the phone, i told him about my recent kick for running. He was silent for a moment, and then asked;
"When do you smoke then? Before? Or after. Or both."
"While i'm running," i answered, " i smoke while i'm running."
He laughed.
"i'm not surprised at all..."

This is a prelude for a much longer rant and post of smoking, running and nicotine patches.

Stranger Than Fiction

"This is a story about a man named Harold Crick. And his wristwatch."

Click, click. The voice with British accent reading the script as sharp and crisp as the sound of the typewriter.

"I am not crazy. I'm just written that way..."

An ordinary story about an ordinary man with his mundane every day life planned out and calculated minute to minute to the last second. I wonder if he goes nuts over the weekend, unless he "plans out" his free time as well. The story doesn't tell. What it tells thought is an overly comic story of a tragic writer with writer's block who can't figure out how to kill this Harold Crick guy.


"As much as I would like to, I cannot simply throw Harold Crick off a building. "

And the Harold Crick guy, who suddenly starts hearing a voice in his head talking about his life like one would read fiction.

Over all, a cute movie - despite the fact that it's not overly exciting or artsy or deep or weird or surreal enough to my taste, and not at all dark and tragic for me to immediately fall in love with. But still, something about the movie that makes it a Nika movie, and very few get to be honored with that title - "I Heart Huckabees" and "Run, Lola, Run." would be good examples. There's something in all these three movies have in common, something comically existential despite the first glance silliness that makes me like them more than an average cute movie.

Favorite snippets...

"I adore you." "I adore you too"
"Anarchists have a group? They assemble? Doesn't that completely defeat the purpose?"

"You don't like cookies? What's wrong with you?"

"I do not need a nicotine patch. I smoke cigarettes..."


"Little did he know! Little did he know! I taught an entire class on little did he know..."

And of course i loved the idea of making the world a better place with cookies.

I still have an eternity of four months in this city...
and another spring and entire summer left.
Thinking about it this way makes me smile -
There still is another summer to be lived...

This picture, taken today near downtown Richmond, looks like a random shot of Yerevan...

It’s always been hard for me to voice what’s really bothering me. I’ve never been good at expressing unprocessed emotions, frustrations, fears and anger. I have been equally unsuccessful in dealing with uncertainties, although what’s ironic is that these uncertainties often arise from my refusing to openly say what’s really on my mind and what exactly it is that makes me feel uncertain, uncomfortable, insecure at any given moment. I’m shielded in a way. There’s things that I simply cannot bring myself to talk about. Sometimes I cannot even write them out – this whole blog, or most part of it is a collection of cryptic messages, riddles that no one besides me can decipher. Why is it so hard for me to simply say, like I would be stating a fact that “ “This is white.”, “This is black.”, “This bothers me.”, “”This is what I’m afraid of.”, “This is what I need.”, “This is what I’d like to know...”. Do I actually think that by voicing such thoughts of discomfort and fear is going to kill me? Like words would cut my throat before they even reach my mouth? Is it really that big of a deal to let someone other than myself know that I’m uncomfortable, in pain, hopeful, wistful, in need of something, afraid of something else.

Is the fear of being rejected or misunderstood so great? Or is it simply because I do not think that my own feelings or needs are good enough or important enough to be voiced? Either way, these are some deeply rooted issues, and as much as I hate issues and would rather ignore than deal with them, I have to admit that they bother me on ongoing basis and inevitably result in my growing bitterness, resentment, frustration, which when bottled up for over a period of time, ends up exploding in a most graceless and emotionally messy way.

I am not sure when and how it happened that I simply stopped letting others know about what i feel and how i feel about whatever it is that may be important to me. When did i start to believe that showing need or emotion is a sign of weakness? Perhaps if I dig a little deeper, I will find a specific cause – some past event that has brought this on, but so far I’ve learned that analyzing past issues only gives me an understanding of the cause itself and does not necessarily help me deal with consequences. The consequence is that what once used to be a justifiable fear of rejection has grown into a habit of not talking and bottling up. And being more concerned about keeping certain appearances. That showing emotion, need, dependency, voicing fears, frustrations are signs of weakness, inadequacy, incompetency and that it will inevitably end up hurting and disappointing me. And that as long as I keep all of it nicely hidden, I will not run to risk of appearing weak or being hurt, even if the pain of unvoiced emotions is much greater than actual rejection. Since then I’ve been very successful in hiding all that stuff, in convincing not only others but myself as well that I’m fine, that I don’t need anything, even at times when I really, desperately need help, compassion, understanding. And just like it was with food, I sometimes deny all love, compassion and understanding to myself, thinking that I do not deserve it. I have become very successful giving an appearance of being fine. Since then I have developed great tolerance for pain and discomfort. I have eliminated my needs to the very basic. I’ve learned to live without expectations from others. I have become extremely self-sufficient and independent. Obsessively, to the point of neurosis independent only to realize not that long ago that this obsession with being self-sufficient and independent is driven by nothing else but the past fear of being rejected. Even when there are no longer any grounds for this fear.

What bothers me now is that even after knowing and understanding all of the above, I still choose to deal with these issues in the same habitual way, of keeping quiet, pretending to be fine and dealing with them on my own. What bothers me now is that I still choose to put myself in blatantly ambivalent and uncomfortable situations whereas for the most part these situations can be avoided if I choose to as much as hint that there is something wrong. What bothers me now is that I still seem to be more concerned about keeping certain appearances, like being strong, self-sufficient, cool, reserved, polite, nice, undemanding than actually being honest with myself and everyone else. Even if I don’t even care whether I’m strong, self-sufficient, cool or reserved. And what bothers me most is that I rather label all my uncertainties with “questions you don’t ask” and shove them away instead of having the courage to ask them and live and deal with answers. Especially when I know that pain is not what I’m afraid of anymore.

reposting

There are questions you do not ask….
Because you no longer want to know the answers. You don’t need them, just like the questions themselves, they’re pointless…So you push these questions far back to the corner of your mind, keeping them quiet and still, locked.

And there are questions you do not ask no matter how badly you want to know the answers. You try to ignore them, hoping that these questions will outlive themselves and disappear completely from your event horizon…
It’s not important,
It does not matter- you keep saying to yourself… cause you know that deep down you already know the answers to even the unborn questions and the only thing you can do is accept them each in its own time.

And you live day by day in self inflicted bliss of denial and ignorance, choosing it as your only mode to exist, knowing that the only thing you can ask and hope for is that you wake up the next morning…

* I no longer question. I merely accept. And I’m no longer afraid of pain- you don’t question pain just like you don’t question your own happiness…

I’m no longer afraid of getting hurt- and by having realized this I seem to have somehow eliminated all the possible pain I may have to endure at whatever point in the future.

i already miss Richmond.
i haven't even left yet...
i woke up this morning with a tight knot in my stomach and a pang of panic as if i was already gone, feeling disoriented, lost, alone and nostalgic. i still have what seems another eternity of four months left... and i already miss Richmond.