The Future of Foreign Aid (or rather, my own future)

"Is foreign aid the solution to poverty?"

Solving poverty, a concept in itself noble and inspiring, is, by its nature, a utopian idea. Like every utopia, it is somewhat removed from reality and has an element of delusion. It is an equal delusion to assume that foreign aid alone is the solution. Whereas it pursues abstract and at times intangible goals, the mistakes of aid are costly and shortcomings tangible. Foreign aid cannot solve poverty not only because it tries to find a “fix” that does not exist. Foreign aid fails because it is poorly managed, blind and incompetent, and does not reach those who it is aimed for. Poverty – a complex and multilayered phenomenon, has no magic fix – a belief that foreign aid has been deluding itself for decades. Instead, there are ideas – humble, small, creative ideas that can be used to help the poor. The poor are not passive recipients, waiting for aid to relieve their burden. The poor are a resource, a major and determining factor, often overlooked and underestimated. Foreign aid, unsuccessful for decades in its pursuit to find external solutions on global scale, needs to shift its attention to those it is trying to help. Foreign aid can help the poor. It can help them effectively and significantly. To be able to do that, it needs to stop its Quixotian quest, admit its mistakes, learn from the past and seek precise ways to achieve effectiveness.

I finished writing my paper. It’s done. Submitted. Over. Now I don’t have to think about it anymore. The results won’t be in until this coming fall. By then I will be in a completely different place with a completely different mindset. And the results most likely won’t matter. Not that they matter now. Although this was a scholarship paper, the monetary reward was hardly big enough to get me motivated to such extent. I did, in fact, put a lot of time and effort into writing it. I tried to read everything I could on the subject and do my best to say everything I wanted to say. And I did write this paper first and foremost for myself. The rewards are already in – I wrote a paper, one that I actually really like – and hell, in fact, froze over.

It’s been a while since I’ve written anything close to this in its length and depth. Hell, I don’t remember writing a decent paper even when I was in school. Despite the fact that I went to the best school in the field in the whole country, its “excellence” hardly amounted to anything – academically it proved to be way too unchallenging and close-minded, still suffering from deeply rooted Soviet notions of discipline and bureaucracy, combined with corruption flourishing all over the country. My straight A record does not mean a thing (except for looking good on paper), since getting anything less than an A would indicate a complete failure under given circumstances. Before I altogether gave up on going to classes, thanks to my good grades and whoever it was that invented “individual schedule”, I took the liberty in choosing my own little projects that were often frowned upon and gained me a reputation of undisciplined waywardness. I learned early enough for my own good that I was not going to get anything out of that institution and chose to learn whatever I needed directly from work experience. Hence my resume dating way back to 1997, when I landed my first teaching translating jobs at the age of seventeen. In fact, it was thanks to this work experience that I came to choose the field I’m about to get into - the same field that less than a week ago I claimed as inefficient, incompetent and ignorant in the aforementioned paper.

I did read a lot for this project. I learned quite a few details, discovered names, the history, the existing “schools of thought.” However, when it comes to the effectiveness of foreign aid, I didn’t find out much that I didn’t know already - by merely growing up in a developing country and watching aid officials, their projects and lives of ordinary citizens (or “locals” in foreign aid language). In the past I have, in fact, been indirectly involved with both UN and USAID, working on a number of contract-based, short term projects in a passive role of a translator. You actually don’t need to be a wiz to see how wasteful, short sighted and incompetent these agencies are. You only need to take a glance at an arbitrary project budget to learn more than you need to know – and this is only the part that I had access to. It’s enough to meet a consultant to realize that the guy has no clue whatsoever either about the country he’s stationed in, or about the job he is doing there. The ones that are actually bright (and I’ve been lucky enough to come across a few) speak bitterly about both the present and the future of this huge industry that is first and foremost a business – one that finds ways to transfer money of the poor from rich countries to the rich in the poor countries. As one of the harshest critics of aid said, “foreign aid has subsidized political irresponsibility and pernicious policies …it has been an opiate of the Third World governments to rely on handouts instead of on themselves for development” (see Bovard for the full article, if you’re further intrigued – a lot of insightful details and examples). I’m not even going to get into the whole Noam Chomsky conspiracy thing (and I do, very much so, believe in conspiracies). So why in the world am I getting into this?

I have to admit that there is an element of vanity in my choice – it’s cool to be in the network of international agencies with big names, such as World Bank, United Nations, International Monetary Fund, the USAID. It’s cool to be able to travel all over the world. Excellent career opportunities, attractive pay, noble and prestigious field. But then I have to stop and ask myself: how long will it take until I get completely bored with the nobleness and prestige and disgusted with bureaucracy, incompetence and outright hypocrisy? At least I know beforehand what I am getting into, if I choose to shoot for the big names, and won’t be stepping fresh out of grad school with rosy visions of saving the world, to get disappointed before my first contract is up.

Perhaps the biggest importance of this project for me was that despite the fact that foreign aid has gained such a deplorable reputation of being useless, wasteful, incompetent and corrupt within its own system, I still see hope, if not for the whole industry, at least in small projects and my place in it. I always believed, and have already spoken about seeing the role of foreign aid in creating opportunities and hope for those who don’t have it. I do believe in humanity and compassion. I do think that foreign aid can help the poor significantly, even if it alone is not the solution of poverty. In my paper I argued about the importance of understanding the nature of poverty, and how, despite its global scale, it is a local and even more so, a personal matter. I argued the importance of cultural sensitivity instead of acting upon assumptions that policies of the West are universally applicable. I argued, based on what I knew, and having my newfound and beloved Mr. Easterly to back me up, that the only hope for poverty is the poor themselves. And I argued the importance of establishing an accountability system in any project implementation and getting feedback from the “locals” to see if aid is working.

What do I see in my future in the field of foreign aid other than my passionate beliefs and a potentially good topic for thesis that I’d like to explore? Small NGOs? Microlending? A job of a consultant residing in luxury suits in five star hotels and business travel class? The Heller School of Social Policy and Management (hosting the program of Sustainable International Development at Brandeis) claims that it trains the next generation of development planners and policy maker for whom a global society free of poverty, preventable disease and environmental degradation is achievable. I can’t quite see myself as one of these “planners.” I’d rather be one of the “searchers,” as Easterly sees them, working in a godforsaken corner of the world, making sure that kids get vaccines, access to clean water, and chance to get proper education. Or continue my interrupted microlending career and give out loans to farmers and small business owners. One of the founders of the most famous microlending institutions did, in fact, receive the Nobel Peace Prize for his efforts to create economic and social development from below. Whatever it is, I do pray to God that I don’t become one of those well paid, meddling bureaucrats, sitting in an office buried in paperwork, without having a clue what poverty is like.

I feel like I’ve been through a war. I’m very, extremely tired. It’s been very bad few days – days that felt like weeks. Days that dragged on like a nightmare that was never going to end. I’m glad it’s over now. I still feel weak and tired, partly due to lack of sleep, partly because improper nutrition. That I’ve gone on schedules like this for weeks and months at a time in the past amazes me. That I managed to get out of it alive, without any serious damage is just as astounding. The last few days only proved how much I really do not want unnecessary stress in my life – job related or otherwise. It’s just not fucking worth it. Whatever it is.

It has quieted down now. In a few more months I can completely forget everything I have learned about real estate and not have to deal with it for the rest of my life – or at least until I decide to buy my own house. Thinking about it now – it would actually be very very nice to have a house in Richmond, on Strawberry Street. Wishful thinking… but then, it’s my dream - I can dream about whatever I want. So a cute little Victorian in the heart of the Fan can be added to my dream list.

It’s almost weekend. I’m going to Baltimore, to take pictures of the slums and check out the Inner Harbor. There’s a baseball game that I’ll have to suffer through though, an activity that sounds pointless, if not plain ridiculous. It might be fun though, watching crowds of people screaming and going absolutely nuts about something as uninteresting as a bat and a ball. But then, i'm easily amused - so who knows, i might even like it.

Summer’s almost here. No particular plans except to try and get the most of my stay in Richmond. Take a trip to Brandeis, check out the place before I move, look at apartments. And then August, and everything after… and I am actually really looking forward to it. One thing I know better than anything else is that I really really want to go to school , and Brandeis sounds just the place for me.

I will be sad leaving Richmond. But that's a long and drawn out lament that i dont want to get into now. The plan though, is to come down here as often as I can and no one knows better what it feels being split. The distance between Richmond and Boston is nothing compared to the other side of the world. It might even work out well in the end…

This time next year I’ll be looking for internships – DC area for summer, overseas for fall. Then research. Thesis. Graduation. And a complete blank beyond that point. I have no clue where I will end up – but then again there’s always that house on Strawberry Street and the dream to make Richmond a home…

Maybe one day – too soon to tell. It’s not time yet.

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.

Spring on Monument Avenue

Snippets

A man and two women sitting outside at Betty's. Drinking wine. Smoking. Laughing. Engaged in a light and leisurely conversation. They seem to be enjoying themselves. The man gets up and leaves, soon to come back carrying a white cardboard box, our of which chocolate cake comes out. They start eating the cake, continuing the conversation and as i watch them, i can't help thinking how cool it is to have someone to bring you chocolate cake, while you're hanging out on a Saturday afternoon thinking that life could not get any better.

***
Once i woke up in the studio apartment of a guy i used to spend considerable amount of time with, to find out that he wasn't in bed. This rarely happens, since i'm usually the one who's always first to wake. He was in the shower, the door between the room and the hallway shut. He had closed it intentionally for the noise not to wake me up. i found this little detail very touching and endearing. Later the same morning i made french toast and scrambled eggs for him, and left his place with a smile on my face.

***
I have a whimsical, almost wistful desire to have someone bring me breakfast as i'm waking up. Or make breakfast for someone other than myself, even all that it involves is making coffee and pouring milk into a bowl of cereal. But i almost always end up with men who generally do not eat breakfast. Bummer.

I have so far learned to tell the difference between a regular and diet drink. But to learn to tell apart Coke from Pepsi is yet another skill to be mastered...

On accomplishments

I used to wonder whether accomplishment is about the actual achievement of some kind of end-result or the feeling that arises when you know you’ve done something productive, positive, no matter how small. I used to further wonder whether this end-result had to be something tangible, valuable or material or was abstract and just as relative as anything else.

I don’t really like the word accomplishment – it’s too finite for me, too definitive, too focused on this end-result, whereas I do things for the sake of the process and would rather not think of its outcome.

I’ve never had a clear view of what I’d like to do with myself, things I’d like to have, or have accomplished. True, since I was little I liked to speculate about what I could be or do, more considering those options with wishy-washy wistfulness than any kind of seriousness of intent. With the exception of becoming a doctor - I was pretty determined on that one for a while until my mother talked me out of and for which I’m forever grateful to her. Since then I've dreamed about becoming a biologist, psycologist, a writer, but I could have just as well been dreaming about being an airline hostess, train conductor or astronomer.

If you asked me some five-seven years ago where I thought I would be at this point of my life, I would hardly have a clue, and Richmond would certainly not be one of the places I would start guessing.

The problem with me has never been about being or not being able to do things that I want to do – the problem has always been in not wanting to do anything at all, and being depressed, bitter and disillusioned to even get motivated enough to do something. And if that was not the case, it was insufficient amount of faith in myself that wouldn’t let me as much as even try. And besides most of my late teen and early adult life was spent worrying and taking care of things of more basic and imminent nature, like supporting myself, helping my mother, making sure that at least she didn’t have to worry about me. Granted considerable part of that time was spent feeling completely hopeless and apathetic and helpless to try and change anything. Another part was spent in an unsuccessful and failed relationship that was a complete desaster, unless you consider choosing no relationship over a bad one as accomplishment in itself.

Today when I think about accomplishments, I can hardly name a few that appear important, significant. The fact that I was good in school and good at the very few things that I actually did end up trying hardly accounts for anything. Yes, I did manage to miraculously graduate from school with straight As, despite my less than exemplary attendance, my active attempts to drop out at the beginning of each semester, and simply not going to class the whole senior year. And yes, I’ve always been successful in finding jobs that I more or less liked and was appreciated enough to feel “accomplished” about them (one of my bosses actually called me the best legal assistant he had had, since the existence of the firm – how awesome is that?). I’ve been described as “talented, promising, bright” - but when it comes to accomplishments, I really don't have much to brag about. I have not written a book, made a movie, become famous. I haven’t built homes or opened a business. I don’t have exciting experiences of exotic countries and foreign cultures other than what I’ve found here and the ones that were sort of “given” to me by birth. I really haven’t done anything much at all, except for moving from States back home and back to the States again every two-three years or so ever since I was fifteen.

And yet, when I think about what matters to me, and what I feel “accomplished” about, a few things come to mind. Being able to pull myself out of my previous hopeless and helpless state was an accomplishment. Overcoming depression, bitterness and apathy was another one. Saying no to a relationship that was bad and harmful for me and realizing why exactly it was bad and what about it was so harmful for me was an accomplishment. Staying alive and not breaking down after a strenuous, emotionally demanding breakup was an accomplishment. Choosing my sanity over chaos was accomplishment. Giving up my illusions, delusions, utopias and dystopias and learning to live and cope with the reality as it is was certainly an accomplishment. Overcoming an eating disorder was one of the greatest thing I have ever done, knowing that I did it on my own makes it even better. Being able to overcome part of my fears and starting to make weak, but at least some kind of attempts to do things that I want to do is an accomplishment. Learning to appreciate life as it is and being happy with the mere thought of being alive is an accomplishment. Having been in a new relationship for almost a whole year without going crazy about any of my past relationship issues is definitely an accomplishment. Learning to dream again is probably the greatest one of them all.

I may have not accomplished much, but I’m still young enough to afford to think that the greatest part of my life is still ahead of me. I may or may not write a book, make a movie, save the world or millions of dollars. But at least I have overcome one of my greatest fears – the fear of living – and that, definitely is an accomplishment.

Where does a Human Rights and Social Movements major find work without prior experience?

Mental checklists

of things that i absolutely have to do
(even though i keep ignoring and postponing them as long as i possibly can, trying to pretend that one can be an adult and be just as fine without...)

• Get a divorce (seriously!!!)
• Learn to drive and get a license (and dont even ask me to elaborate on this one...)
• Get a credit card (sounds easier than it actually is)
• Get a degree!!!

and things that i'd like to do at one point or another, with no particular order

• Make a bead curtain
• Take a photography class just for the sake of it
• Write a research paper on causes and origins of poverty
• See the fat bastard one more time
  
• Make a documentary about Armenia
• Teach my own class at Yerevan State University of Linguistics the way i wish the classes were taught to me
• Write a book - "Perfect Vacuum" that currently lingers as an unfinished blog project. Maybe even turn it into an artsy, surreal, david lynch like film that nobody would watch.
  
• Speaking of David Lynch - i'd like to meet him and try to talk him into visiting the lovely town of Kapan, that is in the South of Armenia- a town that would be dead was it not for an old Soviet mine that is currently run by the British (?) - is it still them, digging out there? A place with really desperate people and freaky things happening that everybody knows but no one talks about-Twin Peaks without the excitement. To imagine what great source of inspiration this would be for David Lynch to make a whole new miniseries that would be so much better than the Twin Peaks...
• Make an apple pie and learn to say "pie" in a deep Southern accent that i find so cute and am still unable to master.
• Get a job in Planning Commission of the City of Richmond, the likelihood of this being very slim - that is if i decide to settle down here after i'm tired of my yet unstarted career of foreign aid work and am ready to trade it for community development, which is another way of naming miscellaneous projects that do not fit neither under urban planning nor under social work, but sound nice and cute enough to be considered.
  
• Have a kid, and if it happens to be a girl, name her Inessa, after my Bosnian roommate who i lived with back in Charlottesville
  
• Get another degree, in counceling, and work with people with eating disorders.
• When i'm old, and i mean really old, become an armchair astronomer and try to figure out the secrets of the universe...
  

Recently I was asked if I ever wanted to go back home to Armenia. Or rather, the question was put before me this way: “You don’t want to go back to your country, do you?” The question itself struck me as ridiculous, if not insulting, and despite the fact that lately I have been wondering whether I actually will be going back home anytime soon and knowing that I’m in a much healthier place now, that I’m away from everything that used to frustrate and aggravate me about my own country, my immediate respond to the question was “Why? Of course I want to go back. I love it there…” In respond to which I got a look of disbelief and something resembling pity – the way you look at slightly disturbed people, like they don’t know any better…

It makes me slightly uncomfortable to think that I might be looked upon as a refugee, who was lucky enough to escape a post-communist, underdeveloped third world country and has found shelter in this land of freedom, wealth and prosperity. As much as I know that this is not the case, I am aware that very often that’s exactly how I am perceived. As much as I try to persuade them (as well as myself) otherwise, I am not sure if I will be able to list at least one rational and legitimate reason for my being here, other than this "wealth, freedom and prosperity". I’m here after all, aren’t i? This time neither as a student, nor an “alien relative”, my permanent residency status obtained in series of rather unfortunate than lucky events. In a way I feel like I’m being hypocritical. I could have chosen not to come back at all, or if I had to, follow all the steps to obtain a student vise before I was granted a residency status. Yet I made the choice, and even if I know that it wasn’t the promise of a “better life” that brought me here, I don’t think I will be able to explain to myself, let alone anybody else, why I chose to come back. Does personal paranoia of being trapped and landlocked in one place for too long stand as a valid reason? Do past unresolved issues and memories appear legitimate? Does it appear plausible that one day I would probably be just as happy to leave the States, once again, for some other, completely unfamiliar and unexplored place? This pretty much ends all my arguments… So where do I go now?

The truth is, I’m split between the two countries. And it goes beyond liking them both, for one reason or another. Or disliking them, for that matter. They say when you spend considerable amount of time away from your own country, you will no longer be able to go back and feel at home in your own home. You change somewhere between exploring a new, different culture and reconsidering your own. It's inevitable, especially when the process starts when you're relatively young and flexible (I was fifteen, when I first got here). At the same time, as easy as it was for me to adapt to this new country (and I do not think that it’s possible to get more assimilated than I am right now, unless I was born here), I will never be able to feel fully at home here either, knowing that as open as I am, I will always be foreign, to one degree or another.

Being split between two completely different cultures, this partial assimilation to the new, acquired culture and dissimilation from your own gives you a unique, dual vision of both worlds, and a somewhat split and at times surreal sense of reality. It is both fascinating and overwhelming at the same time. It takes away the ability to take any social, cultural or political phenomenon for granted, or as some kind of an absolute. It makes you constantly question, compare reconsider, and makes you a bigger skeptic than you'd actually want to be. They say that’s how you grow beyond cultural borders and broaden your outlook, but perhaps that’s just being spread thin and scattered, with a feeling of being constantly uprooted…

It’s true that a part of me is glad to be away from Yerevan. As much as I love it, I know that it’s better that I’m away right now. It’s not starvation, oppression and economic hardship that I’m trying to escape, but whatever the reason is, I should consider myself fortunate, if for nothing else, at least for having a choice to be here on my own volition. Something that many others don’t and will not have. But at the same time, I have this nagging feeling that by being away from home, I am missing something important and valuable and losing the grip of the reality there. As if soon enough I won’t be able to claim it as my own ( and more on this later…)
It actually disturbs me more than being considered a first generation refugee-immigrant who was lucky enough to escape whatever it was she was trying to escape.

Twelve Random Musings

that i'm too lazy to turn into full blogs, but i've never been good at blogging anyway, so what the hell...

• i drink coke when i'm bored - and by coke i mean every carbonated soft drink that's out there. I do not drink it very often, the reason i mention this is cause i'm drinking coke (Mountain Dew) right now, which means i'm bored out of my mind - it's Friday, and i really do not want to do any more work.
  

• Morning is my most favorite part of the day. I like the promise and possibilities it holds, even if the day ends up being as undistinguished and uneventful as any other ordinary day. Still, i find the promise of early morning almost intoxicating, when even the most unlikely event still has a probability of happening.

• Breakfast is my most favorite and perhaps important meal of the day, and i always wake up looking forward to it. Even if it ends up being orange juice and a plain bagel. It hasn't been that long since i started appreciating the joy of something as simple as breakfast, having spent the most part of my “adult” life in self-induced semi-starvation and neglecting such basic needs as food.

• In no particular order: I like apples, peanut butter (and peanuts), bran muffins, cinnamon, crepes, dark chocolate (very dark chocolate, like 85% dark chocolate) and coffee - good coffee, only good coffee, and always freash, preferably brewed and not filtered, the coffee that i make, although occasionally I’ll opt out for starbucks, which leads to…

• I’m a starbucks junky – not because I’m all that crazy about their different kinds of coffees with names that are a foreign language – it's more about the feeling of gratification and self-pampering that every one of their cardboard togo cups holds. i also like the idea of coffee shop culture - long afternoons spent outside some coffee shop (most likely the nearest starbucks) with a good book or a notebook, random encounters and bonding over a cup of coffee between complete strangers... I like the sense of familiarity of seeing the people who frequent that one particular store that i go to and the realization that i'm one of the regulars, especially when i get a free refill or a whole muffin for that matter. This leads to...

• Coffee shops are one of the best places to watch people. People watching is one of the most amusing activities - the better you get at it, the better the stories that you make up to match every face you see, the better the chances in predicting their behavior at any random social situation. I draw comfort from the fact that as random and bizarree human character is, there are certain patterns that can be foreseen, certain behavioural codes, unwritten rules that you intuitively know - and how much in common we all have. Bars are another good place to people watch, although a completely different world with its own, completely different rules - it's amazing to realize that i've learned more about life and people during a year of barhopping when i was in Yerevan, than in the previous five years taken together.
  

• I love cities – or rather the idea of a city, any city. More specifically, downtown. Something about tall buildings and streams of roaring traffic and crowd that makes me feel small, anonymous, almost invisible. I love the feeling of being small next to something so vast and big, I like feeling the weight of those building on my shoulders, i feel safe and hidden in the crowd. i like the noise, smells, sounds - the pace of the city. i wish i worked downtown, since at present moment I ‘m fascinated with downtown Richmond. Funny thing is, although people keep telling me that i will really like Boston, i never had a desire to see it. And still dont. But I'll be moving there in a few months, so we'll see... Cities I’d like to check out in the near and maybe not so near future while I’m in the States - Baltimore, Philadelphia, Charleston, Nawlins at some point, and maybe San Francisco. At some point SF was the top of my list, but lately I'm more drawn to working class, crime-ridden, decaying neighborhoods, which leads to…

• I have a strange and dark fascination with urban decay – as much as i'd like to elaborate on this one, i can't quite explain what it is about things old and rustic that i find attractive, genuine and real...

• Sometimes during my evening walks (and I walk all over the place), when the lights in the windows start coming out, I like looking at the houses and trying picture the people who live there, wondering what their life, or a random moment of their day is like – what they do when they wake up in the morning, how they spend their evenings after they've finished dinner and settled quietly for the night – musings that give me an almost whistful, nostalgic longing, although I know that I’m longing for something I have never had…

• I also like to picture myself in most random and improbable situations and places, trying to imagine different lives that i could have had - trying them on like one would try an outfit... knowing that this one life that i have is way too short for me to experience everything that i wish i could...
  

• Other places that I’d like to see and maybe live in at some point of my life or another: Istanbul (I can’t believe I didn’t go there when I was so close and had a chance); Beirut (for me the symbol of Orient); Tehran, Prague, Budapest and maybe Samarqand… or take that random holiday to Spain and while i'm at it, stop at Lisbon and Morocco on my way...

• I’m still trying to decipher the true and full meaning of decadence…

Last night, for the first time in a while, I was falling asleep without any unresolved and disturbing issues pressing on my mind, and as tired as I was, I felt peaceful, happy, somewhat accomplished... I am not sure whether it was the nice weather, the run we went for earlier, great dinner of steak and roasted potatoes, or the overall quiet and relaxing evening, but I felt happy and grateful and was soon fast asleep, as I thought about the coming day and realized that I’m actually looking forward to it.

It's all about possibilities...
I'm a sucker for possibilities. I have left countries, marriage, changed places, turned my life upside down in the name of these possibilities. Without them life turns pale, mundane, it's safe, secure, perhaps even comforting in some ways, but it's limited, predictable...

I always said that any given choice that's limited in its options is not a choice at all, but rather a forced decision. I need to know that at any given situation there will always be more than a limited number of choices. I need a life of possibilities that go beyond a career, income, security. Possibilities that allow me to be at any place at any given time, even if my decisions are driven by whims and do not necessarily follow logic. Even if after making any given choice, however random and whimsical, i'll be eliminating all the rest of the options, at least i will know that my i was making a free choice, instead of being forced to choose between black or white.

I'm restless again. Impatient. Part of me wants time to pass quickly, since i cannot wait to find out what's going to happen next. And yet another part of me is stalling, wishing that i had more time, a little more time, although i know that even if i had all the time in the world, it wouldn't be enough. It would never be enough...

And i'm running again. Running in hope to find answers, to chase away frustration and uncertainties, running for distraction, when it becomes too unbearable to sit still for another minute, to think for another minute. when it becomes impossible to wait, and wait and wait, losing count in hours, days... to suddenly realize in panic that another month is over... and wishing i had more time...

Once i was told that as long as I knew whether i was running away from or towards to, i would be fine. And once again, i have no clue, and i have too little time to try and figure that one out. so i run, and run in hopes to tire myself out, because at least then i can give myself some rest - something that i'm starting to lose - I'm becoming restless...

ambivalence