intimacies: submission
day twenty-eight - daemon
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I have a confession to make. My creative daemon’s hunger is obscene.
If I don’t complete an idea within 24 hours, it metabolizes concepts, disciplines and insights into a multidisciplinary magnum opus. I’m not exaggerating. This daemon devours every new connection I find until one idea has quietly annexed an entire world.
This morning I realized my book must be translated into Armenian when it’s published in English. The thought arrived with the force of a law rather than a preference.
Then came the obvious problem. Who’s translating it?
Me.
I read Armenian. I write Armenian. I don’t know how to translate a book. Then I understood. I don't get to negotiate with that.
I looked out my window and laughed. I shook my head while something much older inside me felt intensely alive. There is a suffering in meeting the woman your work demands before you've learned how to become her. There is an equal pleasure in realizing she’s already become impossible to refuse.
I want Armenians who have inherited genocide into their nervous systems to receive something different. I want them to discover that thriving belongs to them, too.
My beloved culture has spent generations treating erotic transformation like a personal affront to God.
I’m coming.
eros, always,
նայիրի
Every purchase of The Erotic Revolutionary's Manifesto adds up to cover the monthly rent a Palestinian family needs to avoid displacement into even more dangerous conditions. It’s $350. That’s 15 sales. Let’s help keep them as safe as possible. Abdul and Ola have two children, Sidra and Omar. Omar just learned how to walk. Sidra is cuter every day. Here’s a voicenote Abdul sent me. It’s Sidra, saying I love you, Lele (Nairy). Please help me help them.


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This reminds me of the book, An Unnecessary Woman. About the woman in Beirut who spent her entire life translating literature just because she loved to do it.