after singing

I was ready to reach into my purse when i heard the upbeat vocal melody coming from the other side of the subway car. When i peered into the center, to my right i saw her over-sunned small face accented with oil-laden bangs. Her nightgown hung on her body like a table drape for her active mouth on display.

Her hand wasn't extended in the way that asked for compensation for her cool work. When she noticed i wasn't looking away like others she became nervous and began singing to the wagon window, to herself. One of the ladies sitting facing me maintained her reaction that could either be described as disgust or dismay to the "unfortunate" situation of the oblivious.

How everyday people in this area think of mental health issues is not something i've looked into. There is this singer; the lady that travels from trash bin to trash bin with her two, sometimes three, dogs; the man in maybe his late 60s whose eyes are peculiarly close together that often jovially chats with those at the moment who care to have the patience; the lady in the blue shirt with shoulder-length black hair on the street that often talks angrily to the invisible someone there, and all the others that i haven't noticed. The details that i have chosen to type to you are, of course, based on stereotypes about people without homes or people with mental health issues.

One could think, if reading the descriptions out of context, that i'm writing of random people on the street, as they are actually less descriptive than our ignorantly bliss selves would like to admit. We'd much rather settle with the reasoning that it's just not "normal" to be picking through trash bins [unless you are of course part of the group that CHOOSES to dumpster dive for political/environmental reasons]. This scenario of course is mirrored on streets America over. I am unfortunately, without background knowledge of the Armenian fight for Rights for those with mental health/housing issues. As such, advocacy, aka understanding what Armenian "normal" is, will remain a bit stunted. No metro vigilantism for me, especially not until i've the language down, or residency secured - ugh, straps just got tighter.


And maybe the straps are black leather?... If they are it's because they were picked up from Highland Metalfest 2010 at the Puppet Theater. There were 8 bands: Aprigon, Divahar, Ayas, Psychometria [very impressed], Blood Inheritance, Azhirock, dismorial, Horse the Band. The bands were from Georgia, Armenia, Russia, Iran, and America [Horse the Band, the headliner]. Lovely to see the different styles. Eyes rolled a bit when i was told by a friend that she was told, "It's just as weird as any other place," by a Horse the Band member when she was asking what brought them to Armenia. yeah, thanks for the information.

Favorite parts of the fest: #1 - at the end when the main organizer, maybe 25 yrs old, screamed into the mic after giving his thanks to all who helped make it possible, "Support the SCEEEENE!" yes, brother, yes. #2 - metal backup singers. Though none had in-unison routines, i was appreciative. Note: they were all women, which kept with traditional gender roles found in the States as well. One of the two sets read from music sheets their opera-esque parts [it was awkward to watch them wait for 15 minutes on stage until the band leader finally decided to play a song that required their participation. heh.]

Saw Sameba Cathedral this time around in Tbilisi. This thing is so huge, no wonder it took almost 10 years to get it looking this way. When inside it's more sparse than i would have imagined. This possibly means that another $100,000 later it will be "complete."

My answer to the Armenian border [Georgian border] guard's question "You're going to tour around Armenian for four months?" was, "Well, i'm also working/volunteering at two organizations. I've got to go to the Ovir," to which he approvingly nodded and said, "Welcome, have a good time." "Ovir" i learned yesterday is actually a Russian abbreviation о.в.и.р. [pronounced Ov-eer in Armenian/English] standing for the office of registration something or other...

I just received a letter from one of the organizations that i can present to the Ovir for a temporary residents card [1 year] ! ! ! ! So, i will soon become an official resident until June 2011. dust, settle.

I had no idea Storkville really existed - that this, is where all the babies come from. Did i mention, for those of you who have never lived in America that these 200 lb looking nests would be destroyed for 'public health' reasons [against safety codes]. There are an average of 3 to 4 storks PER nest, achem, twig mansions. And in some parts they are on EVERY telephone post. heh. !

Also, I may have bed bugs. The new temporary German roommate will help me figure it out tonight with a plate and hot water...

Viva!

Metrobe

42 isn't the most interesting of numbers, but when its cameo takes place within foot conversations, disbelief is a natural reaction if it is a female speaking of themselves. I don't want to type "awe," as this word brings to mind admiration -damn connotations/words - but there seems to be such a high degree of something similar in the looks of the faces of those listening to me that indeed aweness comes to mind...either that or the looks hint at, "now please name the planet from which you come." Dramatic, yes, but as a friend put it, "they want to sell shoes," though this phrase was in response to me questioning whether or not the salesman was correct in saying that there wasn't a 41 or 42 in the house. It of course made me laugh because it was also relevant to the fact that, yes, stores in Armenia want to sell shoes, so the likelihood of them stocking up on giantware is, to keep with the theme, short.

I do however have faith in the world of Metrobe. Having never lived in a city with a metro system, i'm fascinated with our stop that has an extensive array of shops to get whatever it is done. At the moment, for me it's summer shoe ware, part and parcel of what is now known to me - and others if they care to adopt - Metrobe. It's a uncomplicated line, about 11 stops, rather than the effective and more common circle, but give Yerevan some time, it'll complete the project, despite some local doubt. So, i've seen about 5 other stops and ours - in terms of supply - only has one true competitor [aka my second option].

By the time i was making my way home only 3 of the shops that carried shoes were open and i was able to find a 41, which equals light-at-end-of-tunnel.

Viva la Metrobe!

Over the Mulberry

This year, if i had been the type to purchase the cellophane [or sheet as you will see later] and rig it in the required cradle-like fashion beneath the branches of this tree before the ripeness of each berry began plotting the desecration of our front porch, entry way, kitchen, and who knows where else, this bloglette would not exist. There was enough small talk concerning the ensuing bloom to adequately prepare my brain and joints for that harvesting task. Instead, I sit here witnessing the meeting between each matured creation with its concrete maker - the walkway to the house - just after the sweep of all sweeps. The experience helps me add to the list of things formerly unknown.




There was a phase of denial that bore the bed of droppings you see here- a mahchakal [bed in Armenian - bare with me while i prepare for the final exam that i was able to get an extension on] that more than likely hosted thousands of fly larva in the weeks it took to form. Don't doubt though that now all realities have set in concerning what it means to have a mulberry tree as a centerpiece of a concrete patio area. Cleaning up tracked-in berries for the 50th time takes a toll on the soul.



Part of me is hoping that the occasional torrents of cool summer weather Armenia experiences, something reported by the Dutch roommate, will undo the negligence of which i am guilty through Permanent-rest-o'-fly. Sure the berry is tasty, but as you can see, their death - like most - takes some concerted energy to clean up. They're continuously everywhere, like that person named Jesus or Francesca Schiaveno - kudos.

Next year, one of my subtitles will be Mulberry Harvester/Liquor Distiller. Eej and I had the pleasure of tasting this type of vodka at a farewell gathering in February. Hamayak indicated that it takes 10 kilos of these suckers to make a liter of vodka. Coincidentally, during our urge to pluck from the overly pregnant tree [wishing it was a bush referenced in the children's song] he and Elen his German speaking daughter came over to help with the harvesting.



Note the hard way to do this - small pot in hand versus the smart way - big sheet in multiple hands with a person willing to monkey up the tree and shake the branches like a primate lacking human words, though fully capable of the physical equivalent.






Feeling a little closer to understanding the process of development. Here's to a somewhat welcomed "i feel ya."


















At the base of this statue on Saturday was a gathering of about 6 people holding pictures of a person who had been arrested some weeks ago in the same square, apparently because he was part of the opposition. This surface information was gathered by a friend from one of the six, which was then translated on to me. One can see people enjoying their time on roller blades around the small to-do. Really, it was just only several people with enlarged photo graphs. You can't see the people holding the pictures as they're sitting at the base - a position they decided to take when more police and about 6 men in soldier uniforms showed up. Most interesting was when they began to chant, which means in unison they said loudly the name of the arrested approximately 5 times. The megaphone in the middle of the crowd was used at just about point blank range [ouch!] of the faces of the chanters while the phrase, "Don't disturb public order," and something else, which missed translation, made it to the lobes of people expressing their opinion. interesting. As the picture hopefully accurately portrays, the majority, let's say 90% of the people, gathered are the Reaction to the picture holders. Had there not been any police/soldiers/photographers, unfortunately, i doubt hardly a Saturday-er would have noticed. Curious to know what the sports car toting dude in the foreground makes of it all.

Just about through the 3rd season of The Office. Life is funny, because i'm only now (and appropriately so) falling in love with the cast/storyline.

Glory Po Ruski Znachet Slava

It was more so in the way she, Olya, said it, "You will grow older quicker if you don't have children," [for those of you who know about my centenarian obsession of sorts, my ears perked a bit]. It came up three times, actually the only topic of conversation, over chai breaks on the train ride to Petropavlovsk. She sang the praises of motherhood and the independence [possibly recognizing the hint of Western musk in the audience] a woman gains after using the man's donation of seed, heh, feminism rears a beautiful head. Surely, it was no coincidence that directions on childbearing made their way into the train cabin just as they had in 2005 when we were instructed to keep our waist properly protected with warm clothes so as steer clear of barren-osity that bitter winters bring.

Asia, a Chechen beauty, caught a glimpse of the emotional goodbyes in Almaty and decided to keep me close company on the way to North Kazakhstan. Her laughs, accompanied by the slap on the arm or leg and/or lean-into, were as familiar as interactions with all loved ones back home. As a newcomer in Armenia, proximity to others remains substantially distant - I could see Nik wilting like an unkempt floral arrangement in such circumstances that lack the tackle-bear-hug every now and again. It is comforting to see men in Armenia kissing on the lips when parting or standing with arms linked.
Not better or worse intimacy, just different. ... Asia had that type of loving-purity about her, the type that takes some to politics or some to work at the pound, a place where they can freely splash their charisma all over the audiences. I sat and listened to the Russian conversations - absorbing new words/concepts where I could, but also relishing in the memories of a engaged younger me that her mannerisms ceaselessly stirred. In observer moments such as these I remembered the point of connection with a classmate when I realized the language barrier she faced was like that of mine when living in another country...words...









Someone asked why I wasn't flying to my destination, a question that they themselves answered immediately with, "The train is romantic isn't it?" I did leave most of the steppe of Kazakhstan for my gazing eyes and less for the lens that loves to share with you. simply a taste.


For those who've seen Eastern Promises, there was a passerby on the train who caught my attention by the nagolka [tattooed - nagolka is the Russian name for the homemade skin art done in prison] story written in depth on his arms and the clean-cut nubs of his right ring and pinky fingers. An image ran through my head of his reaction to the removal of him from his body pieces, void of the vocal, sweat screaming out each pore, and lips wringing - a tough one.

Four days on a Kazakhstani train can get the mind lancing into stories untold by guidebooks... the reason I may have started from a middle squeezed between the sweetest of reunions








viva!