пускай с моею мордою
   печатных книжек нет,
  вот эта подпись гордая
есть мой автопортрет



рукописи не горят!.. ...в интернете ...   

head header

March 14.

In the morning I went to the Site, and till around noon was fixing the clay-tipping chute on the gorge's steep slope.

When going to the Site, I met another of my former colleagues from the gas pipeline firm—Camo, One-Monet-Per-Joke.

Camo asked if I knew English well enough to explain the essence of the Armenian question to visitors from abroad.

'I could if properly paid for the job,' said I.

Then, he asked for how long I had been keeping my beard and if I'd like him to present me with a razor. I thankfully declined his generous offer.

'But,' he said, 'if Azeries caught you they would surely take you for a
phedayee PHEDAYEE —
     (Armenian borrowing from Greek) "freedom fighter".
and pluck off your beard hair-by-hair.'

'In such a case,' said I, 'let you give me your razor the moment they catch me.'

He contemplated the idea for a moment and refused.

When I was on my way back from the Site, GRAD shelling commenced.

Now, bombardments are being performed another way, turned into a kind of suspended torture.

Previously, when they were shooting by volleys, there was an interval of relaxation after each round of explosions—they need some time to recharge, reasoned I.

But presently they shoot no more than half-a-dozen missiles at a time. Then, the launcher leveling is readjusted and you know not how soon or where the next portion would burst.

Under such unpredictable conditions running is simply senseless—one may run right into being on target for the follow-up blasts.

These reasons make my gait so stately slow when not carrying the breads. Yet, when the explosions are too close, I'm quacking like an inwit runner.

After lunch, I went to the downhill town with the bread.

Sashic was unshaven and annoyed at me arrogantly walking the streets during bombardments.

Valyo was not at home – mobilized to the Republican Army as a skilled specialist; he had served in the Soviet Army artillery.

His buddy, Leva, went to have a word with the authorities. In his opinion this particular segment of population (the directors) should have nothing to do with the combat service.

Leva himself is a deputy-director and utterly indignant about the precedent.

During one page from Joyce, the shelling renewed.


I cut and took to Underground a bundle of wood for the stove.

Then, I played backgammon with Aram at his place and lost three monets to him.


The water-walk's ahead.

The day was sunny and really pleasant.
Good night.

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