In case you’ve been wandering what’s happening to me, and why I don’t write much, and nothing in French, well, it is, because I am stuck. Stuck. Stuck. Stuck. I feel like an apricot human being, a monster, a little being that doesn’t know what language to speak, what to say, how, why, where to put a comma, when to stop a sentence, when to hit the return key, etc. I am a fool, not exactly an old fool yet, but I’m going there, one year, two years, three years, one silly poem after the other.
Today I saw a friend, and we played chess, and it was fun, and we laughed a lot, then I went home, and I thought, “Everything or almost has been written about everything, and it feels like there is nothing left to say, but to say it otherwise, except for that little part that hasn’t been said yet. There is a secret I’ve been keeping with me for ten years already, something that could change the world, the way we live, something I got through my brother, something I told a few people about, but it sounds so crazy that I almost never talk about it, and I was about to turn that secret into a mystical novel, but I got stuck, stuck, stuck, and it’s been three years already, and I’m now left without a penny.” Ha! ha!
I saw the moon, and it was full, or it looked like it was full, but there were clouds covering the top part, but the bottom part looked like it was full, and that half of a full moon was coming down in between the new buildings they built this year, Yerevan is booming, you see, if I still had my photo camera I could show you, or maybe I could make a drawing, but why? Imagine boxes, big, gray, ugly, stupid looking boxes with nothing inside yet, they don’t even have their windows ready, so the moon, it could have gone into one of those boxes, and hide there. How beautiful the moon, even if you’ve seen it one million times.
The earliest nightmare I can remember, I mean the oldest, but I was only four: I was falling. Since then I’ve often dreamed that I could fly, and every time it seems as if I could better than the previous time, if only a little better, so that it came to be that I could fly at will, but never too far from the ground, and then at higher altitudes, at higher speeds, with better ease. I dreamed that I could teach flying. I dreamed that I could throw myself down a bridge, and fly despite the fear. The most recent dream I had about flying involved catching a person, who jumped from a building, and despite her weight I was able to fly off and show her around, this is the city, this is outside the city, this is a forest, see how beautiful it is?
I love woods. You don’t see much in the forest, especially a Canadian forest in the winter when the sun left, and it’s all blue, snow blue, and the trees are little, thin things. You can’t see much in there. The wolves have all been killed, there is not as much as a rabbit left. Not a deer. Not a bear (thank god). There was nothing at all for me to see in those woods of my childhood, but much to imagine. What I can’t see, I imagine. What I imagine, it can exist or not exist. I find that what most people call reality is just a tiny part of it. You don’t see much in the forest, if it’s just a tiny part of it you see.
Inside of me is like outside. My inside is part of your outside. You are part of what I call outside, but so is my inside. It’s all outside to me. If there is anything that is really inside it must be the part of me that I can barely get to, the things beyond the things that I can imagine or dream about.
One thing about your dreams: Don’t let other people influence your dreams, and I’m not talking about the things you wish for, no, but of the pictures you see at night, those dreams. Those voices inside of you, the faces, what happens to you–part of it, part of it must be... it came down from our distant ancestors (the fear of falling), but there are other things, recent ones, new thoughts, new combinations, new truths.
Truth can be old or new. Different truths. Truth truer, true like. Can anything be true like or can a thing be either true or not? True here, false there. Now true, then false.
If the universe is finite, then there is something wrong with arithmetic. 1+1+1+1+1+1+... etc. all the way into infinity doesn’t sound true. The proof of it is the monstrosity called Pi. When the space aliens come visiting us, one morn, they’ll show us how to write that number and all the other ones in a way that will make sense.
in Gabdalah
they threw numbers at me
six,
seven,
five,
twenty,
forty,
twelve,
etc.
I laughed at them.
in Fudhimap
they tossed a hand-grenade at me.
I ate it. “Are you men?” I asked them.
“You could behave better than that!”
they screamed, oh!
yes,
they did,
they screamed
they were afraid,
little half-humans,
poor things,
afraid of the light they were.
the light they were. They were light?
They were afraid of themselves.
There can be nothing worse.
in Ramtaville
I was about to delete these words...
in Fintameh
I asked you
what words you wanted me to change.
This one?
That one?
Today I saw a friend, and we played chess, and it was fun, and we laughed a lot, then I went home, and I thought, “Everything or almost has been written about everything, and it feels like there is nothing left to say, but to say it otherwise, except for that little part that hasn’t been said yet. There is a secret I’ve been keeping with me for ten years already, something that could change the world, the way we live, something I got through my brother, something I told a few people about, but it sounds so crazy that I almost never talk about it, and I was about to turn that secret into a mystical novel, but I got stuck, stuck, stuck, and it’s been three years already, and I’m now left without a penny.” Ha! ha!
I saw the moon, and it was full, or it looked like it was full, but there were clouds covering the top part, but the bottom part looked like it was full, and that half of a full moon was coming down in between the new buildings they built this year, Yerevan is booming, you see, if I still had my photo camera I could show you, or maybe I could make a drawing, but why? Imagine boxes, big, gray, ugly, stupid looking boxes with nothing inside yet, they don’t even have their windows ready, so the moon, it could have gone into one of those boxes, and hide there. How beautiful the moon, even if you’ve seen it one million times.
The earliest nightmare I can remember, I mean the oldest, but I was only four: I was falling. Since then I’ve often dreamed that I could fly, and every time it seems as if I could better than the previous time, if only a little better, so that it came to be that I could fly at will, but never too far from the ground, and then at higher altitudes, at higher speeds, with better ease. I dreamed that I could teach flying. I dreamed that I could throw myself down a bridge, and fly despite the fear. The most recent dream I had about flying involved catching a person, who jumped from a building, and despite her weight I was able to fly off and show her around, this is the city, this is outside the city, this is a forest, see how beautiful it is?
I love woods. You don’t see much in the forest, especially a Canadian forest in the winter when the sun left, and it’s all blue, snow blue, and the trees are little, thin things. You can’t see much in there. The wolves have all been killed, there is not as much as a rabbit left. Not a deer. Not a bear (thank god). There was nothing at all for me to see in those woods of my childhood, but much to imagine. What I can’t see, I imagine. What I imagine, it can exist or not exist. I find that what most people call reality is just a tiny part of it. You don’t see much in the forest, if it’s just a tiny part of it you see.
Inside of me is like outside. My inside is part of your outside. You are part of what I call outside, but so is my inside. It’s all outside to me. If there is anything that is really inside it must be the part of me that I can barely get to, the things beyond the things that I can imagine or dream about.
One thing about your dreams: Don’t let other people influence your dreams, and I’m not talking about the things you wish for, no, but of the pictures you see at night, those dreams. Those voices inside of you, the faces, what happens to you–part of it, part of it must be... it came down from our distant ancestors (the fear of falling), but there are other things, recent ones, new thoughts, new combinations, new truths.
Truth can be old or new. Different truths. Truth truer, true like. Can anything be true like or can a thing be either true or not? True here, false there. Now true, then false.
If the universe is finite, then there is something wrong with arithmetic. 1+1+1+1+1+1+... etc. all the way into infinity doesn’t sound true. The proof of it is the monstrosity called Pi. When the space aliens come visiting us, one morn, they’ll show us how to write that number and all the other ones in a way that will make sense.
in Gabdalah
they threw numbers at me
six,
seven,
five,
twenty,
forty,
twelve,
etc.
I laughed at them.
in Fudhimap
they tossed a hand-grenade at me.
I ate it. “Are you men?” I asked them.
“You could behave better than that!”
they screamed, oh!
yes,
they did,
they screamed
they were afraid,
little half-humans,
poor things,
afraid of the light they were.
the light they were. They were light?
They were afraid of themselves.
There can be nothing worse.
in Ramtaville
I was about to delete these words...
in Fintameh
I asked you
what words you wanted me to change.
This one?
That one?
::: ::: :::
[Picture: The Tzirane by reading_is_dangerous]
I shall come back here tomorrow, to kill the bugs. They must be numerous.
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Hey, beautiful post. Yes, everything's already been said about eveything. But think of it this way: what you put on paper is your soul, your unique experience, your truth. It belongs solely to you and has never existed before nor will again. You do have something unique to say, although i agree writer's block can be a killer. Good luck.
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