(back to the usual dull drool, sissy wimp?. of topple-tumbling lumps of hopes to squash the poor weakling against the anvil of his own heart which happened petrified, safe and proper, and in good time too?.
be a man, buddy, and seek solace in simple truths, whose simplicity makes them so peerlessly unrivaled in their inevitable surety and the truth is that no busting your balls at construction sites, no sunburns or frostbites will remove or postpone the pending next time, where she wont say, Lets dont, and start instead to catch the trick of having it in the environs of the GAZ-24 interior
or else this one for your consideration, undisputed because of its simplicity: the most vivid recollections of the delights past cant fetch the joy back, yet just a speck of mopish memory flits by and bang! the pain, suppressed, ditched, gone ages ago, pops up afresh to bite you meanly it makes you wince even here, by the unknown river running through the middle of nowhere, thousands of kilometers away from the crumpled bedroom, after millions of instances of passing the ubiquitous relay baton of I from one I on to the next one
I tell you what, my dear I heal yourself with the same dogs hair got bitten by a simple truth, eh?. peen it with as simple a tool!. bust the bugger with the wedging edge of a wider grammatical approach, proceed from I to we who are we after all?. some shaved and powdered or greasy, bristly, shaggy (whichever is dictated by current fashion trend) cartload of shifty primates each jumping member must abide by the groups rules and no trick will ever get you off the hook ignorance of a law serves no excuse, nor gives a chance to dodge its application to you, right?. now then, comfort yourself with this simple truth, wipe up your mawkish slobber and wait if itll dissolve that nasty clutch on your balls core, maybe
oh, shut up, man!. such stuff is not for female tender ears hmm seems, like, Id better give it a start over)
~ ~ ~
Hello, sweetheart
Though our brief live meeting did not bring you to calling me Dad, I cant help being sentimental addressing you
The day before yesterday in the late afternoon, executing the plan shared in my latest email, I climbed the heights in the neighborhood of the ghost village of Skhtorashen to pay a call on the local immortaltwo-thousand-year-old Plane tree, the oldest denizen of the Mountainous Karabakh.
The walk along the scorched ruts in a desolate dirt road winding up the slope would be a pleasure but for the oppressive August heat and my eyes kept unwarranted scanning the steep ahead to pick out the signs of the water-spring asserted by all who had ever visited the place.
Most springs in the Mountainous Karabakh are supplemented with the water-managing structure traditionally made up of a retaining stone wall carved into the slope to protect a 5-6 meter long trough of roughly hewed stone slabs, the other wall (short, just to befit the troughs width) meets the longer one at the right (and only) corner and is rigged with a stub of iron pipe stuck out from its middle above the trough butt. The softly lapping stream of cool clear water runs from the pipe to fill the stone bowl embedded in the wall for thirsty cupless people, and falls from it into the knee-deep trough for cattle and other animals to drink. Brimming up the trough, the water flows over its left end and moseys meandering down the slope.
However, the water-spring by the giant tree was uncustomary flipped, with the water running in reversefrom left to right. And one more surprise by the backward spring, inability to quench my thirst which, all along the climb started at the roadside diner by the turn to the town of Karmir-Bazaar, prodded me on with the alluring visions of gently bubbling current, but no Because I ran into a mahtagh.
( the two most frequently used and thrilling with their depth and beauty bywords in Armenian are:
1. tsahvyd tahnym; and
2. mahtagh ahnym.
Of which the first means, Id haul your pain. Literally. Just 2 words, yet what abysmal, unfathomable profoundness!.
As for the second pair, it make a vow of doing sacrificemahtagh. Normally, they do a mahtagh as the confirmation of happy outcome. For instance, when a dear relative was dangerously ill, yet recovered or, say, survived a car jump down a gorge, then its high time to do a mahtagh for which end any variety of domestic animals can be slain and offered as a sacrifice reflecting the bypassed dangers dread, as well as the prosperity of the person in charge of mahtagh-doing.
The sacrificial flesh must be shared among the relatives and neighbors to which they would proclaim the traditional felicitating formula, Let the offer be accepted, or else it's not a mahtagh. Still and all, the mahtaghs being edible is not the point; you may do it even with a second-hand outfit, donating a pair of worn-out but still sturdy jeans to some poverty-stricken wretch. Giving is the essence of mahtagh, some kind of offering to be registered by the unseen, unknown forces that are in control of fate, aka chance, aka fortune