And I saw there some very sharp words and some bloody ones. The pilot told us that these sometimes returned to the place from which they came, but that place was a slit crop. I saw other terrible words, and none too pleasant ones to look at; and as they melted, we heard:“Hin, hin, hin, his, ticque, torche, lorgne, brededin, brededac, frr, frrr, frrr, bou, bou, bou, bou, bou, bou, traccc, trac, trr, trr, trr, trr, trrr, trrrrrr! On, on, on, on, ouououououon! Goth magoth.”I cannot tell you what other barbarous words I heard. And the pilot said that these words were the clash and neighings of horses in a battle-charge. And then we heard other big ones that gave out a sound like the fifes and drums, and others a sound like that of trumpets and clarions. You may believe that we had plenty of sport.I wanted to pickle a few of the throaty words in oil, just as one does snow and ice, between straw; but Pantagruel would not hear of it. He said that it was foolish to preserve something that one never had lack of, but always keep to hand- such as is the case with good throaty words among all good and joyous Pantagruelists. (the final passage Book Four; Rabelais 1979: 621)
Erevan, a building?
Nothing could be further than the truth. A city built from scratch out of the blocks of pre-diluvial sandstone, an alpine village made of matchsticks. I am astounded there is nothing but red dust and faces like plucked chickens. And you say it was not here, within this marvel, this jewel of a city, Young Armenia.
And I too am ashamed of its shabby interior, its strange moon like appearance.
September 1996
Lake Yerevan
Better than a thousand words, than the silken word mongerer of deadlines and schedules, promises without end, are the stolen moments: a bitter lemon twisted on the tongue, a glass of water cupped from a mountain spring, eagles still as night, dark skies, emptiness and a shepherd's hooping hoot.
The blades of grass sing. They are the reeds of memory, brittle and unforgetting. I lift my arm. It holds nothing but air, the salt of liberty and the currency of freedom, running like a golden river from the depths of the lake to the everturning skies above.
September 1996
Artist's Cave
I imagine an artist who lived in a cave, and I imagine then that they were a musican. And because they lived only in this cave they could make no music. All they could hear was the sound of their music, a sound they heard but could never understand. Then they could only live like a dog and make works scratched out of the earth. Their work was there, made up from the carcasses of the carrion they found to eat at the cave entrance. Surviving images made from a carcass, and a music of bones.
June 2005
