poor misguided fool
Join Date: 03 2005
Reputation: 6 | 0
| | this will be forgotten too
i don't know whether this story belongs here or not as it's not quite true. well, all parts of it have really happened but with different people, at different times. this story was written in armenian and i've made a clumsy translation. it might be known to the people who visit the literary nook board.
So many hot summer days were cool for me under these trees. So many thoughts have passed while I was sitting here. And so many papers were covered by those thoughts. |
Many years have passed and I’m here again. I have a bottle of coke in my bag, my favorite CD in my walkman and what else do I need to spend a hot summer day in the park? The trees seem to be curtains and they hide me from the hot world.
It was sitting here when I was listening to Tori Amos and writing one day. I can't remember how old I was then and what stupid things I was writing. Will I find those papers for remembering what I was doing? I remember Tori clearly. That day I began to love her even more. Now I blame myself that Tori's CDs are somewhere in my room and maybe they're covered by dust.
Has this park many changes since my last visit? I don't recognize those people who are here too. But did I see the same people when I was coming here so often? Same people are gathering around the statues of Aram Khachatrian, Tamanian, Komitas and the cat, in Yum-Yum but never here. Young people don't like this park cuz it's too quiet.
The only person that I know here is the mad old painter. He hung his paintings on a rope that reaches to the night torch from the nearest tree. Many people think that the old painter is untalented but I’d say that his paintings are better than those, which hold the same mountains or other such standard things.
The old man doesn't remember me. We talked very much years ago and I’ve written about him. Weird, he doesn't go around any more and cry: "oh, my hands!" isn't he drunk now? Why don't I remember what was he saying then? Maybe I’ll find his words in one of those forgotten papers that were covered by ink right here.
People are surprised to see me here. A young girl is in a park, where you can find only old men or grandmothers with their little grandchildren. A young girl has crossed her legs, her ears are closed by headphones and she's writing something. A young girl is wearing the same shoes as the old woman next to her. A young girl came here all alone and years ago she was coming here all alone as well.
Someone is coming towards me. She’s a middle-aged woman but her face is already covered by wrinkles. What does she hide under those wrinkles and the kind smile that suits her much? She says something. I have to remove one of my headphones for hearing her.
"May I sit here?" she asks again.
"Yes, yes, of course."
And like it happened often when someone sat next to me, the woman started a conversation as well.
"Do you study?"
I was tired of hearing the same question every time, so I answered roughly, "I study or not. Does that change anything?"
"If you want, it will change something. Our conversation may continue and it might be nice for the both of us."
"And if it won't be nice for the both of us?"
The woman smiled and didn't say anything.
I was still listening to music with my other ear and I was singing with a half voice.
I want to be naked running through the streets
I want to invite this so-called chaos that you think I dare not be
"interesting, would you really wanna be naked running through the streets?" she asked.
"Yes, if there will be a need"
"what about shame?"
"Shame? Can you explain me what is shame? Why do people close certain parts of their body? Why are the animals always naked running? Just because they're free and no one has told them that they have to wear clothes. I want to be free like them and run naked through the streets one day."
"maybe you'd run at night, so no one will see you."
"No, it's cold at night. The best time is evening. Not hot, not cold."
"When are you going to do that?"
"I’ll do that when clothes will be the only thing in the world that won't let me be free."
"interesting." she said and was silent for a while. Suddenly she asked, "Are you married?"
"Is being married funny?"
"Look at me, how I’m sitting. I look like a crazy teenager. Who will marry me?"
"Someone who sits like you, dresses like you, comes to the park all alone."
I was used to that there shouldn't be anyone like me, so I answered, "There is nobody like me."
"You shouldn't say that. All the people are alike in some ways and are different in other ways. Do you see that old man? He’s like you just because his eyes are brown like yours."
"It’s not enough."
"Anyway, I love loneliness. I can't imagine my life with someone stupid."
"Why do you get married with a stupid?"
"What? So I should get married with a woman? All men are stupid."
"Don’t say like that!"
"Show a guy that isn't stupid and I’ll get married with him."
"They are many. You haven't met them."
"Have you met?"
"See? So they just don't exist. I know that you're married. If you weren't married, you wouldn't look older than you are."
"Aren’t there many women that are married for many years and they look very old."
"Happens. They’re happy cuz their husbands adore them. Your husband doesn't adore you."
"You’re right. I’m unhappy because of him."
And suddenly, I don't know why, she left. I didn't leave. I wrote down our conversation just how much I remembered.
Under these trees many people have seen me and started a conversation with me. Then they've left, and I’ve never seen them again. I have even forgotten some of them.
It’s evening already. I’m still sitting here, where I came almost every day years ago. The wind is blowing. I remember I’ve written something about wind as well but I’ve forgotten that too. How I forget everything! And why should I remember? Is it important for me? Right now I’m writing, don't I? Maybe this will have the same fortune as my previous writings (whatever they were). Maybe I’ll burn this like the others or maybe it will stay under sunshine so much that will become yellow.
But you're not allowed
An unfortunate slight
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