It may still be worth sticking around...

Despite the fact that in my idealistic heart of hearts I keep a very warm and cherished spot for anarchism, I am, after all, a product of the “motherland” and notions like “capitalist pigs,” “exploitation” and “injustice“ about the rest of the non-socialist world were drilled into my head way before I started learning the alphabet. So as far as my political beliefs go, I lean left – and that is far left. Yet, as strong as my political beliefs are, I choose to spare my readers from what may be perceived in these whereabouts as nothing less but socialist propaganda. In fact, I don’t talk much politics in this blog at all. I also haven’t voiced any opinion about this year’s grand circus either pre or post election, even though I was following it quite closely (via Jon Stewart, of course). Now that the election is over, all I can say is that I am happy that Obama won, even if he is hardly left enough for me to swear by his name. And since I cannot come up with anything else half decent on the said subject, I am referring you to this piece over at The Upside of Entropy - a brilliant depiction of the impending doom that the democrats have for us coming.

[…] by the end of the first year the new Democratic Majority will have already doomed the planet by appointing a bisexual llama to the Supreme Court, giving illegal aliens special laser guns that destroy patriotism, replacing the American flag with a "postmodern" flag that, being entirely blank, can be interpreted to be whatever you want it to be, mandating that all adults over age of 20 must marry at least one piece of furniture and consummate the union in a place of worship, renaming the country "New Europe", replacing the National Anthem with Kajagoogoo's 1983 hit "Too Shy" and adding a constitutional amendment randomly shuffling the definitions of "man", "woman" and "wanksta" twice every calendar year.

I wonder if legal aliens get to play a role in here somewhere. My favorite part:

Their final acts-- Subpoenaing God, Jesus and the Holy Spirit for "possession of suspicious metaphysical properties" and replacing Christmas with a state holiday devoted to the activity of throwing unwrapped condoms at a bust of Ronald Reagan-- will finally push the Almighty over the edge and trigger an immediate snuffing-out of all material substance. God will shake his head sadly at his failed experiment and move on to other pursuits, though it is likely he will, after a few millenia, break down and recreate a pocket-sized Sean Hannity to keep around for company and occasional moral advice.

Like I said – brilliant.

Because the English language is not compatible with Russian humor

"Какая Ваша самая большая положительная черта?"

"Умная."

"A Какая Ваша самая большая отрецательная черта?"

"Шибко умная."

Feel free to disagree (with the title, of course, rather than the content). And while you're at it, give me a hint as to how to translate the perky little word "шибко."

The fall in Richmond has been beautiful...

***

I know it’s been a while. Long drawn silences like this seem to have become a periodic occurrence. My other daily commitments draw my attention away from this little creation of mine, even though I know that at a given time I could probably write about at least half a dozen topics that bounce around my head, neither fully formed nor expressed.

The truth is, more often than not, my cognitive process as of late has been revolving around numbers, and even when I am not solving one of these crazy multivariate optimization sets, I catch myself thinking in numbers, thinking about numbers and even dreaming in numbers.

I am weathering this semester quite well. It has been much harder than any of my past academic experiences, but that’s the whole beauty of it. I am amazed that among all the Econ, Stats and Math majors, I am performing just as well. Even if I did start with a relative disadvantage, even if I, as one of my professors warned me, was facing certain challenges in a particular class since I did not have a proper background in statistics, I feel comfortable, capable and at home in this new solace of mine.

My love affair with math is in full swing. Even though I am here to study economics, I seem to be more interested in mathematical expression of a given concept, than its real-world implications and interpretations. I know there is a certain danger of becoming myopic if I let this become a deeply engraved habit. After all, the real world does not behave in a rational or predictable way, in real world I do not have the luxury of holding other things constant and since it is far from being as perfect as mathematical models are.

Yet, as a recovering perfectionist, I seem to have found a new and fascinating outlet to channel my obsessions. Math is perfection. A kind of perfection that can be obtained. A kind of excellence that can be achieved by application of pure logic and rationality and a few straightforward rules. It’s simple and beautiful even in its most complicated problems. Besides being truly and deeply fascinated by it, I find endless comfort in it, since as fucked up as this may sound, it allows me a chance to reach for perfection without having to starve myself or throw up all over myself or annihilate myself with self-loathing and hatred. And I find it just as remarkable as rewarding.

Snippet from a recent conversation

"You know, living together feels like you're passing all these little tests..."
"Like what? You realize that you're not a complete shithead around him?"
"It's not what I had in mind, but yeah, that too."
"So you're not a complete shithead around him?"
"I'm not. I'm actually quite sweet."
"Sweet? He thinks that or you think that?"
"He thinks that... but more importantly, I know that."
"What? You? Sweet?"
"Yeah, if you can believe that..."
"Well, then, if he has found a way to make you be sweet, then I say he's the right man for the job..."
"Which was what I meant by saying that living together feels like passing all these little tests."

He was the greatest - the kindest, the humblest, the most patient... He worked hard - he never stopped working until last year, when he was eighty three. Eighty three!

He was my favorite - the most favorite in the whole entire world. He was the world to me and I adored him. I was his favorite - he loved me like nobody else. Like nobody else he was proud of me.

The endless hours he spent with me, playing games, reading books, taking me to parks, to plays, riding the metro just for the fun of t. He fulfilled every passing whim of mine - he simply worshiped me.

It is so sad to realize that the older I grew, the further apart we drifted. For the past few years i saw him only a handful of times. I missed him, but I am sure he was the one to miss me more...

And now that he's gone... it's hard to really grasp the fact, let alone to reconcile with it. Being so far away makes it that much harder. It's hard to reconcile with the fact that I keep going on, even when this loss does not seem to have an immediate impact on my everyday reality... And yet I go on, knowing that if it weren't for school, if it weren't for the busy and rigorous life that I am in now, I would have fallen apart in million pieces, in a heartbeat. Fallen apart because of grief, because of guilt, remorse and regret.

I could have been there with him. I could have been there for him. There were so many things that I could have done for him, so many ways that I could show him just how much I loved him...

So much pain and guilt and remorse...

My grandfather passed away.

When I saw him in Yerevan a little over a month ago, he told me that it was probably the last time that he was seeing me in his life... It gave me a painful pang in the stomach, as I wiped my tears, trying to shake off the thought of him not being there one day.

I do not know how one reconciles with something like that...

Living with the boy is calm and cloudless. It’s comforting, effortless, idyllic. We do not argue, we don’t fight. We laugh. We laugh often.

…

In a very curious way I find it odd that suddenly even the most mundane and trivial everyday routine acquires such “togetherness…” Only not that long ago, these trivial things were simply something that I would do alone, on my own, in between personal and professional/academic lives. Things like laundry, groceries, cleaning… these little chores that give me so much comfort in their ordinariness, things that I love to do when I need a break, some down time or to simply clear my head. Now they seem to have acquired this sense – a sense that I cannot describe in any other way but “togetherness” even when they are not necessarily done “together.”

…

The only other time I lived with someone was when I was married and that does not evoke the best memories. Sometimes I get these flashbacks, series of flashbacks that throw me into a state of mild panic, before I realize that it is in the past, far removed in the past and just like one shakes off a bad dream, I have to push these memories away, after I have realized that they are no longer real, that they are not happening, that I am safe now, that this is a different relationship where we do not fight and I do not have a reason to slam the door and leave…

…

“So you guys are serious?” they ask me after they find out that the boy and I have moved in together. It cracks me up every time they do. Define serious. And while you’re at it, define un-serious, please. Does the fact that we are living together necessarily guarantee that this whole thing is going to end with a ring, a mortgage and a couple of kids? I do not know that… Do I wish that it indeed ended with a ring, a mortgage and a couple of kids? I do not know that either. And yet, was I any less serious before I moved in with the guy? I would not say so, just like the fact that I am living with him now doesn’t make it any more serious than it was before. I still love him the same, except that now I see him a little bit more often.

It amuses me that suddenly this little fact appears to be such a big deal just because it may be some kind of a cornerstone in some relationship book or another. See, as scary as it sounds and despite my notoriously cumbersome commitment issues, if I were to have it my way, I would be moving in with a guy only after a few weeks of knowing him, my logic being that if I like you enough to want to spend a big chunk of my time with you, I might just as well be living with you. The whole “my place/your place” gets pretty boring pretty fast…

And yet, in reality, I wasn’t to have it my way (perhaps for the better of it) and the boy and I followed each and every “step” of this unwritten relationship book, from nerve-wrecking “undefined” phase to post “i love you phase” one little step at a time…

…

And yet, living together is a big deal, in a sense that does not necessarily involve the aforementioned ring, the mortgage and the kids. It’s just what a relationship is – or what I think it should be – a man and a woman, living together.

…

Living with the boy is nice. It’s comforting. It’s fun. And as much as I resist the idea of matching cups and bath towels, as much as it takes some getting used to, it does not seem to require an effort at all. It makes me realize that despite my experience in the past, it does not always have to be an uphill struggle and that I never ever have to find myself trapped in a situation where the only thing left to do is to break the dishes and slam the door and leave.

Source: Virginia Department of Historic Resources

The boy and I are living in the cutest apartment in the Fan. The Fan! The old, historic and beautiful Fan - the most desired location in the whole-entire city of Richmond, if not the world itself. I am in a close proximity to the best that Richmond has to offer. I am in the Museum District. I can walk to Carytown. I can become a regular at the Racine. Run in pretty neighborhoods. Walk a few blocks over to see a friend and borrow a cup of sugar... And when I have a minute to breathe, I can live the happy and carefree life of an artsy (or should i say nerdy) hipster that I sometimes pretend to be.

I started school.
I need to blog.
I need to see a shrink.

There have been other reasons for putting off writing for so long, besides the fact that since I got back I have been incredibly busy with life, school and a million of little tasks that are not small enough to be completely ignored, but are small enough to be a source of endless frustration because they take too much of my time. My inability to write is also due to the fact I cannot figure out where to start. I simply cannot pick up right where I left off since there has been too much change in a matter of less than a month and the older I grow, the slower I become in responding to change. Yet, the older I grow, the less time I have for such things, and time at this point seems to be a true luxury that I can hardly afford. Oh joys of adulthood. If only I knew that getting older wasn’t simply the thrill of being able to wear makeup and smoke cigarettes…

I still haven’t fully digested the past few weeks that have been happening way too fast. I am still in the process of adaptation. It surprises me that this time it is taking so long. I wasn’t gone for too long, but I guess it has been long enough to make readjusting quite a process on its own. I am still getting used to my new surroundings – new living arrangements, schedule and such. And I still haven’t recovered from the past summer, which made me realize that there are a few reoccurring issues that I do not know how to reconcile with. While in the past I successfully dealt with a load of emotional crap without any outside assistance, I seem to be incapable of dealing with issues that are fundamentally existential in their nature. Hence the necessity to see someone about them. I do not know whether this as a sign of maturity or that of emotional laziness since as cynical as this may sound, I am at a point where I rather pay someone than do it on my own, especially when I no longer seem to have the patience, the energy and or the time to do so alone. Someone told me that it makes me sound extremely American…

On a brighter note – I am really having the time of my life with life, school and ahem, the new roommate situation and if I am not pancaked by the giant steamroller that is graduate level mathematical economics, updates will be coming shortly…

a sidenote...

The summer’s over, although I still haven't put my summer clothes away, the summer’s over, even if I still do not want to say my goodbyes, and yet I know that just like I will be neatly folding away the bright colored clothes, I will have to pack the memories away, wrap them up, seal them with wax and put them away, on the top shelf in the back of my mind, where they will be safe and free of dust— yet another summer of kaleidoscopic events, of heat and sun, watered streets of Yerevan smelling of freshly cut grass, blue unclouded skies, and me [...] delirious, a butterfly on the sidewalk with rainbow colored wings, crazed and dazed with the sun [...].

The summer is gone and yet I have to wonder how long it will take until I have finally outlived it, accepted it and moved on... the summer that seems to be nowhere close to acceptance.

I believe this is what they call nostalgia

Я прошу: хоть ненадолго,                    
Бoль моя, ты покинь меня,                 
Облаком, сизым облаком                      
Ты полети к родному дому,                   
Отсюда к родному дому.                       

Берег мой, покажись вдали,                  
Краешком, тонкой линией,                    
Берег мой, берег ласковый,                  
Ах до тебя, родной, доплыть бы,             
Доплыть бы хотя б когда-нибудь.             

Где-то далеко, где-то далеко                
Идут грибные дожди.                         
Прямо у реки в маленьком саду               
Созрели вишни, наклонясь до земли.          
Где-то далеко в памяти моей                 
Сейчас, как в детстве тепло,                
Хоть память укрыта такими большими снегами.

Ты гроза, напои меня,                       
Допьяна, да не досмерти.                    
Вот опять, как в последний раз,             
Я все гляжу куда-то в небо,                
Как будто ищу ответа...                     

Я прошу: хоть ненадолго,                    
Грусть моя, ты покинь меня,                 
Облаком, сизым облаком                      
Ты полети к родному дому,                   
Отсюда к родному дому.

Где-то далеко
Music: Mikael Tariverdiev
Lyrics: Robert Rozhdestvenskiy
1977

And it doesn't seem to stop...

Of course Georgia's "venture" into South Ossetia was "foolish" and "ill-judged," and of course "pleas for military backing from the West in any confrontation with Russia are unlikely to be heeded." And it doesn't take much to realize that "[t]his conflict is about more than the two separatist regions of Abkhazia and South Ossetia, or displacing Mikheil Saakashvili, Georgia’s hot-headed president." Of course Russia tries to reassert itself in the Caucausus, but then think about what would have happened back in the day if, say, Mexico decided to turn communist...

Here are a couple of the more intelligent articles on the topic found nowhere else but in the Economist:
Russia Insurgent

The Americans Arrive

I am back in Richmond and besides trying to contain my overbearing excitement I have less than five days to deal with the fact that:

• I moved in with the boy
• School starts on Thursday and
• The summer is over (at least in my head)

I am almost sick of the symbolism of August - August and everything after...

“Welcome back to the United States, Miss…”

I am in DC now, having arrived late last night, after a long, nerve-wrecking flight. It’s 7am and I am sitting at a Starbucks across the street from the World Bank, having left the boy asleep at the nearby Hotel Lombardy. Even at this early hour there are people in the street and they smile to me as they walk by. I find it very comforting. It feels good to be back, it feels very good indeed.

An eternity seems to have passed during the last twelve weeks. It seems that I have stepped back in from a different world, a world that appeared to have an extra dimension to it, making the reality there that much more thicker and harder to comprehend. And now I am back at exactly where I was before I left and there is nothing more distinctly different than DC compared to where I have been in the last 12 weeks. Being here right now makes me realize how long and strenuous this summer has been. Being here makes me realize how much I have changed in the matter of a couple of months and I find this fact slightly disturbing…

Leaving Yerevan was not easy... I realize now that it never fully “registered” in my mind that I was back in Yerevan to begin with and likewise it was hard to fully comprehend that I was leaving…

The last couple of weeks before my departure were so strange, so surreal. I was alarmed and on guard because of the events happening right next door, exhausted and tired of the city, torn to pieces and scattered all over the place in an attempt to juggle work, social obligations and too many last minute tasks, while frantically trying to stay on top of the news as I watched hoards of evacuees from Georgia swarming the streets of Yerevan. It felt like I was in some kind of a script – a Doris Lessing script – I felt like I was somehow experiencing certain passages of the Golden Notebook… and that was making my being in Yerevan all that much more surreal.

Leaving Yerevan was not easy…

Yet, there is nothing more comforting than being back. It truly is. And I couldn't be more grateful.

"...the most serious challenge to the post-Cold War balance of power since the collapse of the Soviet Union"

Yep, this does not smell good at all...

Yerevan
Photograph courtesy of Jan-Michael Breider


Although, as mentioned in the previous post, I am unable to take any pictures of my own of the amazing imagery that I see every day, I feel very fortunate to have found the photographs of Armenia taken by Jan-Michael Breider in 2005, who kindly gave me permission to upload a few here, on my blog. His gallery contains a number of awesome pictures taken both in Armenia and elsewhere. Many thanks to the kind photographer for an opportunity to share images of my own country through his own eyes...

It’s been two and half weeks since I came to Armenia. Apologies for lack of elaborate posts – work has been consuming most of my time and inspiration. Conducting surveys in Armenia proved to be a much more strenuous task than it was in Georgia – partly due to logistical problems with our host organization, partly due to the overall character treats of my country-men. However, after a week of extensive travels, my love for Armenia proportionally increases as my liking of Yerevan gradually decreases. Unfortunately, my camera broke and I didn’t have a chance to capture the magnitude of Ararat, the sparkling beauty of the lake Sevan and the depth of the green mountains in Dilijan and Ijevan. The beauty of my country is humbling and awe inspiring. While working with people requires a lot of skills in diplomacy, I truly enjoy communicating with them, especially the folk living outside Yerevan. There is a lot to be learned from them – a lot more than any report on the state of the country would ever tell you.

The depressing aspect of my work is that I do not completely agree with what the organization that I represent does for the people. FINCA mission aside, it is obvious that microfinance in the region does not defer much from any given commercial bank – it is perceived as such, it operates as such. Interest rates are high, poverty outreach is minimal and repayment schedule is so rigid that at times I wonder why anyone would want to borrow on such terms. But then I realize that there is no other alternative and it makes me even more depressed. I think about the “untapped” market that FINCA executives constantly talk about, then I think of the rural folk who are the part of this “untapped” market… I wonder what it is like in other places of the world – I wonder whether microfinance is really what it is presented to be while it is still hot and “sexy.”

I have five more days of field work left. As of right now I am completely clueless what our analysis is going to reveal. While I know the obvious, I am somewhat reluctant to see the results, knowing equally well that there is no way that it would reflect the stories of the simple folk that I have heard so far…

This is how I know that the Universie really loves me...

Nothing is left to chance, Nika. The choreography of players and circumstances is plotted with mind-numbing precision. Gigantic forces of attraction are activated and engaged. The odds of your inevitable success begin skyrocketing. And every second of every day is calibrated and recalibrated… whenever you remember to visualize.

Who loves you, baby?

The Universe