Little Armenia

I've moved into an interesting neighborhood. It's a lot safer than the areas I'm accustomed to inhabiting. There are no bars on the windows, and I'm the only person who still puts a security bar on his steering wheel at night. It's also very Armenian.

I have no judgments to make on Armenia or its culture, because I have never been exposed to it until now, so I have no idea what to make of it. What I have gathered from recent interactions is that it is a proud and friendly culture, notwithstanding the hell it's been through. There is one couple in particular, however, that have left me scrambling to sort out the underlying meanings of their actions, sort of how I imagine a lot of people scramble to sort out the underlying meanings of my own...

My first introduction to this couple came as a knock at my door around 8:00 at night. They're an amiable, older couple, so I wasn't immediately scared that I was about to be shot to death in my doorway (remember, this area is safer than I'm used to). The moment I opened the door, the first thing they asked me was, "Are you Armenian?" There was no "Hi, we're your neighbors, the Jonesians," or "Welcome to the complex," so all I could really say was, "No, but I'm not a bad guy. I promise." They shrugged and introduced themselves, saying in very broken English that they used to be friends with the woman who lived in the apartment before me. There was a certain humble dignity to them that I admired, but there wasn't much time to do so before they excused themselves for the night and left me thoroughly puzzled.

Yesterday, the old man walked past me while I was futzing about in my pseudo garden. We exchanged nods, and I went back to what I was doing. Two minutes later, he set three kitchen knives on the ground in front of me. I didn't even hear him coming; suddenly, there were three knives on the ground by my hand. He smiled and nodded, so I suppose he meant well by it. Still, I wasn't sure quite how to respond. Maybe this is how people feel when I give them random gifts or favors, but I'd never thought of depositing knives in front of people working in their gardens.

Now, of course, there is the question of how to respond. It would be courteous to give them something back, but I don't quite have utensils to spare. I'm sure there are all sorts of cultural do's and don't's to gift giving with Armenian folks, but I have to wonder whether the internet is 100% effective at spelling them out. I suppose I could bake them some paklava, but I have no idea if that would be appropriate or not, especially if I end up burning it. Who knows? Maybe food will transcend the cultural-linguistic boundaries. I could take pictures of the process in which I make the pastries with their knives. Then again, they might misinterpret my meaning.

Easter Sunday

I can't remember what I did last Easter. I think I was staring at the screen, growling over my thesis and wishing I could be frolicking about like a bunny hopped up on chocolate creme eggs. Pun intended. Not being raised religious, Easter has pretty much been another time for presents and goodies, basically like Christmas and Halloween all in one (after all, the Easter Bunny scared the crap out of me). Fast forward a decade or so, and it's taken on new meanings, not the least of which being the end of my Lenten experiment.

I'll start with that first. How did my Lent go? Did I make it all forty days without processed sugar? No. What, Kyle? You caved? Not exactly. I had crazy nightmares about being duped into indulging in sugar, and I have a six-inch pile of deferred confections on my desk at work to prove it. Nonetheless, it is absolutely astonishing how sugary the American diet is. These were my three downfalls: salmon sprinkled with brown sugar, a chicken sausage flavored with maple syrup, and finally, and most diabolically, a piece of kettle corn deposited into my hand by a vendor at the Poppy Festival, and instinctively put into my mouth and chewed before I even realized what it was. Yikes, yikes, yikes.

Nonetheless, I learned a valuable lesson from this experience: that there is no pleasure in life that cannot be replaced by something better. Despite the onslaught of "I'm sorry," "You poor thing," "I could never do that," et cetera (notwithstanding the fact that this was my decision and not some punishment thrust upon me), I upped my fruit consumption, focused on improving the variety of my diet overall, and even starting to lose some of my sweet tooth. My gums have even stopped bleeding when I floss! TMI? Whatever! This is freaking awesome, and I have to call the bluff of anyone who says "I need my ___."

But aside from the physical aspect of things, the Easter holiday is based on the resurrection of Jesus and thus is a time for great celebration and hope for new life. This is an aspect I'd never associated with the holiday, so I decided I would go to a service today. Combining goals, I arranged to visit the Self Realization Fellowship Lake Shrine for a group meditation and service. Unfortunately, the website did not mention that the service would be canceled for the holiday and replaced by a much bigger, much earlier event. C'est la vie. Not to be daunted on this day of new life, I kept searching.

The temple garden, dedicated to religions of the world, is rightly hailed as one of the most beautiful in the state of California. Straight away, I found a lovely tiled bench on the lake shore, sat, and watched the fountain bubble, the turtles courting each other in the water, the ripples, the callas, and suddenly, the most miraculous thing happened: I was calm. The chaos that had filled my mind for the past few weeks was gone, replaced by that pair of turtles caressing each other's faces.

As I moved from the bench to the Windmill Chapel, I became aware of a new mentality. I felt free from the rush; I didn't have to go anywhere. I could just sit and listen. I could feel the air of bodies coming and going. I could hear their breathing. A woman entered behind me and began to talk but cut herself off. Normally, this sort of action in a quiet space would have irritated me disproportionally, but this time, I had only one question: What did she just discover that made her cut herself off? It's the sort of idea I'd entertained a few times before, but I'd never really felt before now that people can still discover, still wonder, if not about the same things that I wonder. It was the effect of the silence, stripping away the misanthropic cloud to remind me that I am among people, that I am one of them... that I belong with them.

As I left the chapel, feeling renewed, I reflected on that which truly fills me with wonder. Mist. Sunsets. Stars. Tears. And on thinking of them, the realization occurred to me that all the stress I'd put myself through, all the sacrifices I thought I was making for good, all the self-denial I'd made for the wrong reasons, did not matter. I did not have to do anything; the way I live my life is my choice. Then I came to understand the name of the place, and I left in peace on a bright Easter Sunday.

Sweet Tooth

I'm getting zombie teeth. You know the type, long, sharp, hungry for the brains of... well, maybe not the third level there, but I'm getting, as they say, long in the tooth. I'm 23; this doesn't normally happen until after 40. So what is the deal?!

Back in October (Around Halloween time... Ooo, zombies...) I wrote up my hypothesis for the digestive issues I'd been experiencing: that they were caused by the reawakening of a latent dairy allergy. This was quickly disproven by the fact that the issues persisted for a while, notwithstanding the use of orange juice for cereal (which is pretty darn good anyhow). Now, it's gone from the middle of the tract to the top, and I'm a little miffed.

It turns out that periodontal disease is pretty darn common, somewhere around 75% of adults get it. In this case, the gums recede until the roots are exposed and sometimes require dental extraction. Not my cup of tea. Oh, and by the way, it seems that the issue has intensified since joining the adult work force and upping my consumption of tea. Turns out, that's a factor. I've also been upping my sugar consumption. It seems that's not only a factor in my mouth but also in my gut. Excess sugar consumption feeds bacteria, which then produce toxins that can kill gum tissue and upset the stomach. Oh really? Tell me more! All that rigorous tooth-brushing I've been doing to massage the gums and clean up the teeth has actually been stressing out the gums even more! It's a zombie trio, and they've caught my chompers by surprise!

A couple of things will need to happen here. I don't think the tissue can regrow, but the shrinkage can be stopped. Fortunately, my smile (when I show it) is unaffected, but I really don't like the idea of going full-zombie. Fortunately, next week is the start of Lent, which gives me a great opportunity to give no processed sugar a test run. That means 40 days of no dessert. Yikes. This will require some serious creativity. I may even include 40 days of no tea and incorporate a new, softer toothbrush. At this rate, I can only hope that this plan succeeds where "no dairy" failed so miserably. Updates in April. Now if only I could find someone willing to consume all the sugary delectables piled up around my apartment...