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Thursday, September 22, 2011
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AS I SEE IT
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It never ceases to amaze me
the greed with which we cling to the illusion
of our own importance no matter how often
we are exposed as irrelevant.
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Our genocide?
The West wouldn’t allow it.
The recognition of our genocide?
If we write enough books,
produce enough eyewitness accounts,
and organize enough demonstrations,
the West may finally see the light.
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Historic lands?
All of America is someone else’s historic land,
so what?
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Perhaps truth or reality itself is a territory
beyond our comprehension,
and God Himself is the negation of the “I”
and everything connected with it.
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If Calderon is right and “life is a dream,”
it may not even be our dream but someone else’s.
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In my younger days our elder statesmen
would seek me out and give me advice – all of it useless.
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History may become more comprehensible
if you think of serial killers as failed political leaders.
*
What if I am wrong?
I will be dead wrong on the day I assert infallibility.
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Friday, September 23, 2011
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FROM MY NOTEBOOKS
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If you search long enough for something
you are sure to find a substitute.
*
The more I deal with Turks
the more I like my fellow Armenians;
and the more I deal with Armenians
the better I understand Turks.
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A writer is someone who has developed the art of speaking
even when he has nothing to say.
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My mother believed what she read in the papers
except what I wrote.
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Spengler: “The less one needs others,
the more powerful one is.”
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My ambition in life when young:
To come to terms with death.
My ambition now:
to die in order to have the final answer
which may or may not exist.
*
There are no questions and answers in reality –
both begin and end in the convolutions of our brains.
*
We are told space must have an end.
We are also told space is being created
with the speed of light.
It follows, no matter how fast we travel
we will never see what’s on the other side of space.
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Love means being always on the verge of tears.
Love feels as though your insides
were being surgically removed
without anaesthesia.
If you have not experienced love,
you don’t know bliss.
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Saturday, September 24, 2011
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SHRINKS
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Almost everyone I have been reading about recently
has been analyzed. I have never been near an analyst
and I doubt very much if I ever will find myself
in the same room with one.
What could he tell me that I don’t already know?
And what could I tell him?
Where would I begin?
I am misunderstood and spat upon by hoodlums?
Who hasn’t been?
Homer, it is said, was kicked out of seven villages,
all of which, after he died, claimed to be his birthplace.
To this day no one knows where he was born or,
for that matter, buried.
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