Weaver of Poorly made worlds

Theyre trying to make these unique so theyre harder to guess, but theyre just ridiculous. Here's a small sample.

What was the first exam you failed?

Where did your mother and father go for their first date?

What was your favorite teacher's middle name?

What is your favorite breakfast food?

What street was your mother born on?

What future job did you want as a child? (I wanted to be a chef. My job is chef. Easy guess.)

What was your first word as a child?

How old were you when you first ate your favorite food?

The Greek phrase "Δεν ξεχνώ" goes also for our brother ethnoi across the former Ottoman empire! Greeks were also forced to labour - literally - to death along with them in the amele tabourou (Amele Taburları‎‎) labour camps. The survival rates were a dozen out of thousands of people, in a system that gave ideas to Hitler.

In Greece we have a very famous book about those labour camps, "The Number 31328, the book of slavery" ("Το Νούμερο 31328 Το βιβλίο της σκλαβιάς") by Greek writer Elias Venezis. From his hometown, Ayvali, 3.000 Christians were taken to the labour camps. From them only 23 survived and he was among them, and wrote this book. I can imagine the similar horrors Armenians underwent. Every April 24th let's remember them and honour them!

and after looking at the first one again it is also, a beatle photo

10 years ago, I was watching my Potential and Opportunities dissolve and evaporate in an ocean of cheap gin and expensive whiskey.

But 5 years ago, I was in Rehab.

One of the exercises they had us perform was to imagine ourselves happy, 5 years in the future.

Many of us in that room had forgotten how to imagine nice things happening to them. A few snorted (well, I snorted), finding the notion that we’d even still be around in 5 years grimly humorous.

For about half of us, it was the last stop on the way down.

But I indulged the therapist. I was there, after all, because I did not want to die. So, I imagined myself, 5 years hence.

Happy.

It came to me all at once; an artistic remix on Norman Rockwell’s Freedom From Want, reframed with myself placing food at the table.

Sunday Dinner At My Place, I answered, when it came my turn to share my fantasy. I was asked what food I imagined eating.

It’s not the meal itself, I said, it’s the implications framed around it. Sunday Dinner At My Place means that I have a Place. It means that I have Family that will actually speak to me and friends who actually want to see me. It means money enough not just to feed myself but others too. It means having the time to spare to take the time preparing the meal.

A lot of nodding heads all around me. A struck chord. Many people with no Place, in that place. Nowhere that would lament their leaving.

5 years hence, as I lay down to sleep in my Home, with my Wife and my Son, surrounded by my Art and my Flowers, I reflect.

It was a long road. It was hard. We lost people. So many people. There were long days and long nights and hospital stays. Angry arguments with ghosts. I changed, in ways I never hoped for, or expected. Good ways, finally, for once. Slowly, against the backdrop of a world in chaos, I found my mind.

Sometimes, My Wife wondered aloud, what she did to deserve me. After some stumbling with my feelings, I eventually settled on an answer.

I’m a Rescue.

She gave me a Home.

And, so, I gave her a Family.

It seemed fair

This Sunday, my folks, which whom I have not had a shouting match in years, will come over for dinner. We will cook and eat together. My Friend became My Wife, and she took a piece of me and with it she made Our Son. There will be many hugs, and no violence. Good Things Happened.

I don’t know who needs to hear this, but you don’t know what the future holds.

don’t give up yet, ok?