Saturday, February 25, 2017

The Unnameable

You texted that you would have to stay longer for a meeting. Reading the message my imagination went wild feeling in all the gaps of the misspoken words, of the details you so skilfully left out. Longer... you took the time from me, from us... Why? For whom? Whose on the other side of the spiral that you are so desperately yet calmly reaching towards?

You know, last night I had a dream, a dream about something I would rather not name, because well, probably because of some stupid superstition that if I name it then it might become more real then it needs to be. Or maybe because naming it makes it so blunt, so plain and cliche. We don't like cliche, we don't starve for uniqueness either,we like being us, being ourselves. But yes, back to my dream... I cried, I cried in my sleep because you hurt me so much in my dream. With the first sunlight crawling inside our room through the cracks of the blinds you got up and kissed me as usual, took the extra blanket from the floor and made sure I was warm and covered before you left. I heard you but was too mad to open my eyes, to mad to even give one of those half-asleep smiles that has a special tenderness of effortlessness that makes it so sincere. I was mad... hurt... still half-asleep, still under the veil of dreams that can be so vivid at times that one can't help but wonder which is more real, your morning kiss or the hurtful dream?

I went on with my day pretending it's just a bad illusion that will soon pass. And then I received your text. I did not want to treat it as a sign but the pain crawled back into my chest like green smoke that is noiseless but can't be unnoticed. So I noticed it, I had to. Hours kept passing and biting my lips did not help any bit. has it been hours really? probably not, but it sure felt like it. Time is so irrelevant at times like this, it can stretch when you are in a state of waiting, it can fill the entire room with it's slow pace, crawl under the furniture to fill out every single empty spot and crack. The silence grew louder in the room and it seemed as if the walls would scream at me soon, and all because I so desperately wanted to escape my own thoughts while their haunting presence would not leave the room.

Desperate emptiness.. It is torturing me... the unnameable...


                                                                                                                         © Lilit Ghazaryan

Saturday, August 9, 2014

He's gone...

  I open my eyes. Its dark in the room, my head feels heavy and I can hardly feel my body. For couple seconds my mind feels lost and then I remember... The first thought that crosses my mind is that he's gone. And the same thought keeps spinning in my head, trying to convince me that it is true. It's like I just woke up from a nightmare, only that nightmare is my reality.
  The last couple days reappear in front of my eyes like a movie, it's like my mind is trying to remind me what had happened.

  Wednesday, 02:15 pm - I receive the call and rush to the hospital. 3:25 pm - the nurse tells me he's doing fine, she goes on talking and describing me his situation but I can't hear anything or understand her words. All I got was surgery, he's doing ok so far. "So far"... What does it mean? 
Wednesday, some time after 4, I'm sitting and waiting when the doctor approaches me. Again words that I am not able to comprehend. I don't understand. He keeps on talking. "I'm sorry, we did everything we could". What? So how is he? I still don't understand but I can't speak either, my entire body is frozen. I feel like a piece of ice standing in the hallway. The doctor slowly pronounces the words - I'm sorry, your husband is gone. I feel and hear how my frozen body brakes down into tiny pieces. I sink down and don't realize how appear on the floor with my legs numbed. And then... Then I don't remember. I just woke up. I guess I must be in the hospital. How long have I been here? Where is he? I want to see him. I have to see him. How long have I been here? Did they bury my husband without me? No, they can't, they wouldn't! What do I do now? What am I supposed to do? Should I quite my job? Do I continue paying my bills? How do I go on living? The questions get bigger and bigger until they feel the entire room. I feel like my own questions are attacking me. And this darkness. Why is it so dark in this room? As if the darkness inside is not enough. Give me some light, damn it! Give me some light.
 I can't take this anymore! What is happening? I can hear my own voice. I'm screaming. Why? It feels like somebody else is screaming inside me, someone else is controlling my voice.
The lights turns on and a group of people enter the room, they are all wearing white. Must be nurses, then I must be in a hospital. Uggh... what's that?
 -This will help you relax
I hear a woman's voice, but I don't have any strength to react to it, my entire body goes numb, I feel my eyes closing...

 
I see white. I'm not sure if everything  is white here or it's just a bright light. Where am I? What am I? Dead? I wish... I finally completely open  my eyes, a man is sitting in front of me, looks like a doctor. He's holding some papers and a pen, he keeps staring at me but doesn't speak for a while. I finally decide to break the awkward silence.
-Where am I?
-You are in a mental institution Mrs. Jackson
I feel my lips moving, shaping an awkward smile, more sarcastic than anything else. The man goes on.
- I am your primary doctor, Mike Williams. You have been here for four months, since the day your husband passed away. You're suffering from severe depression, hallucinations, also memory loss.
-I remember that my husband is gone
-Yes ma'am, but you don't remember anything after that day. In fact I have explained this same thing to you several times. You don't remember our conversations, your treatment, in fact you don't remember that you have been here for four months already.
  I so don't care even I am surprised. It's like somebody has turned off all my senses, emotions and feelings. He's gone... Nothing really matters anymore. That is the last thing that I remember because that was the last thing that mattered. The doctor is still talking, but I can't hear him. Everything and everyone around seems so unreal. Has the world changed this much or is it just me?
  Memory loss... hmm... well, why do I need my memory when there is nothing worth remembering anymore. There's no logic, no meaning, it's just nothing around me. Even my own thoughts seem so abstract and disorganized to me. I close my eyes, trying to shut down the entire world, the entire universe of nothing. I close my eyes, praying that whoever had turned off my senses would turn me off entirely... He's gone.


                                                                                                 © Lilit Ghazaryan


Thursday, May 8, 2014

Հանրային Ռադիո, Մանկապատանեկան Խմբագրություն

   10 տարեկան էի երբ պապիկս՝ պապուն, ձեռքս բռնած ինձ տարավ Հանրային Ռադիո, մանկապատանեկան խմբագրություն։ Նույն օրը առավոտյան հեռուստացույցի առաջ նստած էինք, ու ասեցի որ շատ կուզենայի հաղորդում վարել, բարձրաձայնեցի հենց այնպես, ավելի շատ ինքս ինձ համար։ Իսկ պապուն լսեց ու նույն օրը երազանքս իրականություն դարձրեց։
 
 Եվ այդպես ես հայտնվեցի մանկական խմբագրությունում։ Այն ժամանակ խմբագրության սենյակն ուրիշ հարկում էր, ձայնագրման ստուդիան դեռ տեխնիկայով հարուստ չէր, պատանի հաղորդավարներն էլ այնքան շատ չէին ինչքան այսօր, ես էլ շատ ավելի լուռ էի ու ամաչկոտ (վստահ եմ խմբագիրներս կհիշեն)։
  Ռադիոն շատ արագ դարձավ առօրյաիս կարևոր մասը, ու այդպես շարունակվեց մոտ 10 տարի։ Ամեն օր դասերից հետո հպարտությամբ էի քայլում դեպի ռադիոտուն, մուտքի մեծ դռներից ներս մտնելիս ինձ կարևոր էի զգում, ցույց տալիս անցագիրս ու բարձրանում խմբագրություն։ Իսկ այնտեղ ուրիշ աշխարհ էր․․․ Կողքից պարզ ու հասարակ թվացող սենյակն իրականում կախարդական էներգիա ուներ։ Այնտեղ մի խումբ ստեղծագործ մարդիկ կարողանում էին ամեն օր մի նոր աշխարհ ստեղծել ու ուղարկել եթեր, նոր հերոսներ, նոր պատմություններ ու արկածներ։ Իսկ մենք՝ պատանի հաղորդավարներս, պատիվ ունեինք հանդիպել իրական հերոսների, թե ստուդիայում, թե խմբագրությունում։ Մենք այդ աշխարհի մի մասն էինք, մեր ձայնն էր հնչում հանրայինի եթերում․․․ Եթե այն ժամանակ անգամ դա չեմ գիտակցել, այսօր գիտեմ, դա մեծ պատիվ էր։
 
 Ժամանակի ընթացքում ռադիոտան շենքը էլ ավելի ջերմ ու հարազատ դարձավ, մարդիկ նունյպես։ Ասես մի մեծ ընտանիք լիներ, և իհարկե պատասխանատու աշխատանքի կողքին կային նաև խենթ ու խելառ արկածներ, ծիծաղելի կիքսեր, ուղիղ եթերից շփոթված հյուրեր։ Երանի մեր խմբագիրների համբերությանը, որ մեզ պես գժերին պիտի հավաքեին ու տանեին ստուդիա։
   
    Սիրում եմ ռադիոն․․․
    Առաջին հաղորդումը կարդացի Անահիտ Նավասարդյանի հետ, "Արեգ"-ը։ Այդ ժամանակ խմբագրությունում ամենափոքրն էի։ Հետո "Արեգը" վերանվանվեց "Հարրի Փոթերի Ակումբ" ու առավոտյան եթերաժամից տեղափոխվեց կեսօր։ Մանկական խմբագրությունում մի ուրիշ փուլ էլ ինձ համար "Աբռա-Կադաբռա"-ն էր, թեթև, ժամանցային հաղորդում։ Վերջին հաղորդումը կարդալիս ""Հարրի Փոթերի Ակումբ"-ն էինք ձայնագրում մի խումբ պատանիների հետ, այս անգամ ես ստուդիայում ամենամեծն էի․․․

Այսօր ռադիոյի օրն է ու ես ուզում եմ սրտանց շնորհավորել բոլոր ռադիոսիրահարներին ու ոլորտի աշխատակիցների, բայց առանձնահատուկ պիտի շնորհավորեմ Հանրային Ռադիոյի Մանկապատանեկան Խմբագրությանը, այնտեղ հանդիպած բոլոր ընկերներիս, որոնցից շատերն արդեն իրենց բնագավառում կայացած մարդիկ են, ոմանք արդեն ընտանիք են ստեղծում, առանձնահատուկներն էլ արդյունքում դարձան անփոխարինելի ընկերներ։ Ամեն տարի նոր պատանի լրագրողներ են գալիս մանկական խմբագրություն, իսկ մեր խմբագիրները մնում են ու նույն եռանդով, նվիրվածուրյամբ շարունակում կերտել մի կախարդական աշխարհ թե ռադիոլսողների, և թե սուդիայում գտնվող պատանիների համար։

Շնորհակալ եմ բոլորիցդ․․․ Ռադիոն միայն այսօր չէ որ հիշում եմ, բայց այսօր առիթից օգտվելով կասեմ՝ շնորհակալ եմ։ Անուներ նշելն անիմաստ եմ համարում, վստահ եմ դուք կգտնեք Ջեզ այս տողերում։ Շնորհակալ եմ մեծ փորձի ու գիտելիքների ձեռքբերման համար, անսահման էներգիայի ու ջերմության համար։ Շնորհակալ եմ որ առիթ ունեցա մի մասը լինել այս կախարդական միջավայրի, այն օրից երբ դեռ 10 տարեկան էի, ու պապուն ձեռքս բռնած ինձ տարավ Հանրային Ռադիո, Մանկապատանեկան Խմբագրություն․․․

                                                                                                                    Լիլիթ Ղազարյան



Friday, February 7, 2014

Sunday

Another Sunday... She always hated Sundays....
She was sitting in front of the typewriter, trying to make the words make any sense. She hadn't written anything for almost a month now. The silky robe was hugging  her body, leaving her legs uncovered. The sunlight was slowly filling the tiny study she had for ages, making her realize that she had been up all night.
She hadn't written anything for almost a month now. The editor was waiting for another article, but she had nothing. She hated writing for living, hated when was forced to write for certain hours, certain pages, and most of all certain people.

Photo by Lilit Ghazaryan
Writing used to be to be so much more fun when she was a little girl. All of her writings belonged to her and only her. She was the one deciding what to write, when and how. She had many different diaries and journals. She really enjoyed writing back then, when it was nothing more but just a hobby, a fun way to spend the free time. She always regretted the day when she decided to turn her hobby into a profession. People always say "Do what you like and you will never have to work a day in your life". That is so silly.

First it was fun, she was writing and discovered more about herself and the people who enjoyed reading her works. But then she learned that writing for selling is a lot harder then writing for your own joy. She had to take into consideration everybody's opinion but hers, and it was killing her. She had to write to make money, to have a job and writing started to become less and less enjoyable. She had lost the privacy in it. She had to lose her own style and ideas, she had to forget about creativity, originality, and become just like all the other writers that seemed so dull to her. She used to hate them, but now she was one of them.

Sunday... And here she was, in front of the typewriter, torturing herself, the machine, and the pure dog that really didn't like the sound of the typewriter. She had to give her article Monday morning, yet she had nothing to give, no single line was written. And somehow she didn't even care. She was just sitting there and aimlessly typing about herself in third person, about her poor dog that hated the sound of the typing machine, and about her crazy Sunday that was about to change her life...

That Sunday she decided to quite writing. At least that's what she told to the rest of the world Monday morning, and only she, her typewriter and her dog knew that she was going back to writing, real writing, writing for herself, about herself.

That Sunday changed her life....
She stopped being a "Writer", to start writing again...

                                                                                                      © Lilit Ghazaryan

Sunday, January 26, 2014

Just a Woman

She's not in love, she's just a woman, with the obligation to feel and connect emotionally . . .

It's been three years and seven months. He has moved on, but she is still sitting on the old sofa, staring outside the window and feeling defeated. Women like to win, especially when it comes to men, but she felt like she was the looser of the story. He has moved on! That alone made him the winner, automatically. He has a new life, while she is still living in their memories.

There was no love, no past or future. It was an abstract reality that they had created together in her small apartment. Their meetings were neither short nor long because they did not keep track of time. They didn't care about morning or night, there was one time: together. There were no months or days, no weeks or seasons, just one time: together.

Just One Time: Together

They never met outside her apartment, they did not have dates, didn't care about the movies or restaurants, there was one place: together. The space for them was just an illusion, they didn't need any space, their space was simple: together. Even her apartment did not matter, it was all just an appearance, a dream that could take place anywhere, anywhere at all.

Just One Space: Together

There was no love, no connections. There were no obligations or arrangements, just one feeling: together. The spoken words were not carefully selected, the actions were not intentionally observed. The situations were sincere and real, with no covers. They had no labels to attach to themselves or the apartment, no tags to stick on to each other. There was one label: together, a label that proudly hang on the door that wouldn't even be knocked as a warning sign to enter.

Just One Feeling:Together

And now their time and space was crashed, the feeling lost, the label disappeared. The door that had been never knocked on, wouldn't even open now. The apartment that didn't matter got ugly realistic shape for all of a sudden. The time that was frozen started ticking loudly and the calendar kept tearing its own pages to catch up with the season. Together - an illusion that was so sweet became real suddenly, it was so real that it started to hurt. The feelings that were never there sat next to her on the sofa which still carried their memories. Their Time, Space, Feeling - Together, all gone... all gone together. And only one thing left - the pain, not for them but for her alone.

Just One Suffering: Apart

                                                                                                                       © LiLit Ghazaryan

Tuesday, January 7, 2014

"Labeled the ugliest woman in the world"... a true inspiration

I could not help but share this incredible video. Lizzie... a true inspiration, a person that has so much courage and self-confidence to survive all the labels we put on people without even knowing them. Her speech makes one think about the people's perception of each other. We tend to judge people without even knowing them, sometimes it takes nothing more but just a look to be rejected. The word unfair does not really describe that kind of behavior, I prefer the word stupid, because it truly is. We make judgement and form opinions based on nothing. Our entire world is revolving around the appearance, starting from the marketing of the simplest products to forming opinions about people. We spend more time, money and energy on buying accessories for our appearance; whether it be clothing, jeweler or a fancy car;  then gaining inner "accessories", such as values, morals, education and knowledge, kindness. In a way we all have turned into marketing associates, we just think about the ways to represent ourselves, about the way we look, but never about who we truly are inside. In fact for many people their appearance and the appearance only is who they are, their looks is what represents them. In other words we turn into these beautiful gift boxes, wrapped up in the nicest papers with colorful patterns and unique designs, accessorized with bows, sparkles and stars; but all those gift boxes are empty. We take too much time in wrapping up ourselves, but not enough time to truly discover our inner gifts and the beauty.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=c62Aqdlzvqk


Feel free to leave your comments, would like to hear some ideas.



Friday, December 20, 2013

Grey Racism

Once my sister told me that when she was a little girl she used to look at those black and white movies and think that life was also black and white in those days. Was it? Maybe, we can never know.

What I do know is only after what she said I realized that our world is truly colorful. I started watching the old movies from a different point of view. I was doing my best to catch the missing colors in each scene, trying to guess the shades that were hidden in black, white, and grey. Can you imagine if life truly was black and white? Black sun and white moon in the black sky, grey sunsets and oceans. Grey trees slowly dancing with the white wind and black flowers around it.
And... grey people, all the same, walking down the grey streets. I wonder what people would come up with then to substitute racism. Different shades of grey? Maybe, maybe not, but most likely we would come up with something. We people love to point fingers at others, we like to create differences and then label people according to them. We have an urge to belong to groups, therefore we invent those groups. It doesn't really matter what we call those groups, religions or political parties, they are still just labels that we proudly wear to know that we are part of something. Why? Fear of being alone, unique, different? Fear of being pointed at by another group?
How easily we pick roles and then quickly adapt to them, We do things because we should, we are supposed to, because that's what the role is automatically telling you to do. We take actions that are expected, not from who we are but from the role we picked. The saddest part of it, however, is the fact that we ourselves believe in those roles, we wear the costumes believing that those are us, we proudly represent the fiction as our own life.
Colors... One of the biggest gifts of our world. We admire it when it is out there in nature, away from us, but when it comes to our own skin we label it, we divide it into groups and start pointing at each other. You think blue flowers dislike the red ones? Sounds silly, doesn't it. But look at what we are doing people, apparently flowers are smarter then us.
Colors... once my sister thought me to really appreciate them, because we could have a black and white life like the old movies.

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