It has been a long arduous flight to get to Yerevan.
From Montreal to London, then to Prague then to here.
Several hours at each of the stopovers. Several decades' worth of emotions and stress.
I haven't been to London for close to two decades. I still remembered my uncle's house, the underground station. The street. The narrow cobblestones.
Heathrow airport and the London underground have a morbid fear of waste baskets. Apparently terrorists could use them to hide explosives. I had to wait until I got to the station close to my uncle's house, and there on the platform, hidden behind a column, probably forgotten by the wastebasket eliminating squad, was one where I could throw away my paper tissue.
I hope some vigilant citizen does not point that out to the authorities. Otherwise Londoners will be walking around with bulging pockets full of used tissue paper and candy wrappers.
But then again, there is always the option to litter. Which is an offence punishable with a fine.
Here's another idea for a novel, the "Wastebasket Catch-22". No need to elaborate.
I also pray that terrorists do not start hiding explosives in public washrooms. If they do, they would shut them all down, so you will have to live with exploding bladders instead of exploding washrooms.
Too many explosions for my taste. Not even Central London, the world's most expensive real estate, deserves that kind of treatment. But then again, maybe it will lower those ridiculous real estate prices.
A few months ago, someone sold a broom closet in Central London for over 180,000 BP. He called it a very small apartment.
The broom closet wouldn't even hold a toilet with plumbing in it. So much for exploding toilets.
As for Prague, I hadn't visited it for a quarter century.
I tracked down my old Czech roommate and asked him to meet me. He was busy travelling in the opposite direction. Better luck next time he said. Next time, in another twenty five years, I might be dead.
Since I had a few hours to spare in Prague I thought I could at least take a city tour and visit some of my old haunts. No such luck. The plane was delayed from Heathrow. I had only three hours left in Prague. Not enough to do anything but sit at the airport and wait.
The Prague airport is now a mish mash of American brand eateries, from Burger King to Kentucky Fried Chicken. Every other store is a Duty Free place almost indistinguishible from any other Duty Free store in any airport in the world. The only thing that is unique at the airport is that it has a lot of crystal and glass works stores. But all are empty. Too expensive.
I logged on, to a KFC wireless access point. What a senseless place this world has become. There was nothing authentic left at the airport. You could not tell that this was Prague. Except that people spoke Czech. I could tell they did, but you, who do not understand Czech can't tell it. Even my Internet access was through KFC.
I asked for pivo (Czech for beer), they offered me two choices. Plzenske (or Pilsner Urquell), which I can get in Montreal, and Budvar (from Ceske Budejovice), the true original Budweiser (which the Americans think is their beer, first of all what they drink is not beer, secondly it is not theirs OK?). This Bud was for me. The taste was how I remembered it. Authentic, cool, a real beer taste of olden times. Memento Vivi. If you wonder what that is, keep reading.
Twenty five years ago, there was an old hospoda (Czech for tavern) at the airport, and it served over twenty different brands of beers. Capitalism has brought efficiency, two brands and that's it.
When I left Prague, there was no "Velvet Revolution", we would secretly read Vaclav Havel plays and Milan Kundera novels using the samizdat network and there was no McDonald's in Czechoslovakia, a country which no longer exists. Sort of like my youth spent there studying which is now only a memory, and maybe some writings jotted down in Czech, some songs, a guitar, very few photos, textbooks, and a few dozen literary works. Memento Vivi.
Memento Vivi (Latin for memory of life) were glass display cases which contained artifacts related to a specific period or event in the life of an individual. They were designed to evoke the event or the period in that person. They were all the rage during the Renaissance and could be found all the way into the 19th century. Once photography was invented, the whole idea just went poof.
Czechoslovakia went poof.
The Soviet Union went poof.
And out came the place where I am today, Armenia.
My youth went poof.
Not that all these were related.
Many things go poof in the universe. Many minds go poof. Generals make soldiers go poof. Soldiers make each other go poof. About ten billion years ago the whole universe went poof and created itself. That Big Poof was more like a Big Bang.
There is an article in today's New York Times about the Creation Museum that opened in Petersburg, Kentucky. The Creation Museum is destined to be a place for school children to visit to learn about the "opposing scientific" theory to evolution and cosmology. In the Creation Museum children are taught that the world started exactly 6000 years ago, that dinosaurs lived together with man, and that Noah's Ark, along with all animals, carried pairs of dinosaurs in it as well.
Here's another idea for a story, Noah's Ark as the Love Boat for a pair of male and female tyrannosaurus rex. Hey, it's an all-you-can-eat buffet cruise for Mr. and Mrs. T-Rex.
The minds of these people have definitely gone poof. And they insist on making the minds of children go poof. It must be an infectious disease.
Memento Vivi got replaced by Memento Mori (Latin for memory of death), they are display cases which contain artifacts highlighting the dear departed's life and evoke it in the hearts and minds of those who knew them.
The people have gone poof, but the Memento Mori keep them "alive". They were originally invented in Egypt. Mummies they used to call them.
These days the most popular use of Memento Mori is for soldiers who have gone poof at the hands of other soldiers. They display their medals on a pillow.
My father's Memento Mori is in Armenia. It is his personal archive. They are held at the Tcharents Museum of Art and Literature. It is literally across the street from my hotel.
Here is a major announcement.
As long as we have children there is no need for Memento Mori. Our genes are remembered in those of our children.
Hellooooooooooo world. Waaaaaaaaake up. Everyone is immortal !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Hello!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
My mind must be going poof. All of Armenia is a Memento Vivi and a Memento Mori at the same time. To my people.
Too many Mementos. Can I take it?
From Montreal to London, then to Prague then to here.
Several hours at each of the stopovers. Several decades' worth of emotions and stress.
I haven't been to London for close to two decades. I still remembered my uncle's house, the underground station. The street. The narrow cobblestones.
Heathrow airport and the London underground have a morbid fear of waste baskets. Apparently terrorists could use them to hide explosives. I had to wait until I got to the station close to my uncle's house, and there on the platform, hidden behind a column, probably forgotten by the wastebasket eliminating squad, was one where I could throw away my paper tissue.
I hope some vigilant citizen does not point that out to the authorities. Otherwise Londoners will be walking around with bulging pockets full of used tissue paper and candy wrappers.
But then again, there is always the option to litter. Which is an offence punishable with a fine.
Here's another idea for a novel, the "Wastebasket Catch-22". No need to elaborate.
I also pray that terrorists do not start hiding explosives in public washrooms. If they do, they would shut them all down, so you will have to live with exploding bladders instead of exploding washrooms.
Too many explosions for my taste. Not even Central London, the world's most expensive real estate, deserves that kind of treatment. But then again, maybe it will lower those ridiculous real estate prices.
A few months ago, someone sold a broom closet in Central London for over 180,000 BP. He called it a very small apartment.
The broom closet wouldn't even hold a toilet with plumbing in it. So much for exploding toilets.
As for Prague, I hadn't visited it for a quarter century.
I tracked down my old Czech roommate and asked him to meet me. He was busy travelling in the opposite direction. Better luck next time he said. Next time, in another twenty five years, I might be dead.
Since I had a few hours to spare in Prague I thought I could at least take a city tour and visit some of my old haunts. No such luck. The plane was delayed from Heathrow. I had only three hours left in Prague. Not enough to do anything but sit at the airport and wait.
The Prague airport is now a mish mash of American brand eateries, from Burger King to Kentucky Fried Chicken. Every other store is a Duty Free place almost indistinguishible from any other Duty Free store in any airport in the world. The only thing that is unique at the airport is that it has a lot of crystal and glass works stores. But all are empty. Too expensive.
I logged on, to a KFC wireless access point. What a senseless place this world has become. There was nothing authentic left at the airport. You could not tell that this was Prague. Except that people spoke Czech. I could tell they did, but you, who do not understand Czech can't tell it. Even my Internet access was through KFC.
I asked for pivo (Czech for beer), they offered me two choices. Plzenske (or Pilsner Urquell), which I can get in Montreal, and Budvar (from Ceske Budejovice), the true original Budweiser (which the Americans think is their beer, first of all what they drink is not beer, secondly it is not theirs OK?). This Bud was for me. The taste was how I remembered it. Authentic, cool, a real beer taste of olden times. Memento Vivi. If you wonder what that is, keep reading.
Twenty five years ago, there was an old hospoda (Czech for tavern) at the airport, and it served over twenty different brands of beers. Capitalism has brought efficiency, two brands and that's it.
When I left Prague, there was no "Velvet Revolution", we would secretly read Vaclav Havel plays and Milan Kundera novels using the samizdat network and there was no McDonald's in Czechoslovakia, a country which no longer exists. Sort of like my youth spent there studying which is now only a memory, and maybe some writings jotted down in Czech, some songs, a guitar, very few photos, textbooks, and a few dozen literary works. Memento Vivi.
Memento Vivi (Latin for memory of life) were glass display cases which contained artifacts related to a specific period or event in the life of an individual. They were designed to evoke the event or the period in that person. They were all the rage during the Renaissance and could be found all the way into the 19th century. Once photography was invented, the whole idea just went poof.
Czechoslovakia went poof.
The Soviet Union went poof.
And out came the place where I am today, Armenia.
My youth went poof.
Not that all these were related.
Many things go poof in the universe. Many minds go poof. Generals make soldiers go poof. Soldiers make each other go poof. About ten billion years ago the whole universe went poof and created itself. That Big Poof was more like a Big Bang.
There is an article in today's New York Times about the Creation Museum that opened in Petersburg, Kentucky. The Creation Museum is destined to be a place for school children to visit to learn about the "opposing scientific" theory to evolution and cosmology. In the Creation Museum children are taught that the world started exactly 6000 years ago, that dinosaurs lived together with man, and that Noah's Ark, along with all animals, carried pairs of dinosaurs in it as well.
Here's another idea for a story, Noah's Ark as the Love Boat for a pair of male and female tyrannosaurus rex. Hey, it's an all-you-can-eat buffet cruise for Mr. and Mrs. T-Rex.
The minds of these people have definitely gone poof. And they insist on making the minds of children go poof. It must be an infectious disease.
Memento Vivi got replaced by Memento Mori (Latin for memory of death), they are display cases which contain artifacts highlighting the dear departed's life and evoke it in the hearts and minds of those who knew them.
The people have gone poof, but the Memento Mori keep them "alive". They were originally invented in Egypt. Mummies they used to call them.
These days the most popular use of Memento Mori is for soldiers who have gone poof at the hands of other soldiers. They display their medals on a pillow.
My father's Memento Mori is in Armenia. It is his personal archive. They are held at the Tcharents Museum of Art and Literature. It is literally across the street from my hotel.
Here is a major announcement.
As long as we have children there is no need for Memento Mori. Our genes are remembered in those of our children.
Hellooooooooooo world. Waaaaaaaaake up. Everyone is immortal !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Hello!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
My mind must be going poof. All of Armenia is a Memento Vivi and a Memento Mori at the same time. To my people.
Too many Mementos. Can I take it?
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