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

Stepanakert
                   Saga

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

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    days:

March 11.

Why did I do it?

Well, as a rank-and-file-existentialist, I should (and did) conceive the shell cutting that tree in front of me as a test: How would I act under the circumstances?

Would I just pass by or take part in the happening?

Exactly the same way as with the choice I had to do ten years ago after I was arrested by the KGB for staging a wildcat sit-in at a state construction firm.

A worker, going on strike in a land where all the power belongs to the working class people, is an instance of sheer inconsistency.
So, my case was an unquestionably medical one, and—with perfect logic—they locked me up in a madhouse.

Day after day I was lying stretched on my back in the shaded part of the walking-ground enclosure for the 5th Division of the District Mental Hospital with my eyes shut trying not to think that in about an hour they would come back again with their syringe needles to make me wiser through my ass that had already been turned into one bleeding sore by pricking it week after week no less than three times a day.

One day, I suddenly felt something dropped on my belly; I opened my eyes—it was a candy-kiss and no one nearby except for a couple of permanent inmates of the 5th Devision and each of them submersed, past recall and return, into their respective and inexplicable parallel worlds.

That, too, was an existentialistic test: what would I do to the untraceable candy?

Well, I did just what you would do to any explicable sweets—I ate that candy from the blue.

<!-- Yesterday's incident demanded my reaction, and I answered the challenge.
But what if the shell-felled tree was a bribe from the war? And—accepting it—am I not a corrupted collaborationist?
To hell!
Whatever happens just has to happen; what's done has to have been done.
And, as a reward, I received one more apocalyptic visual impression for my collection: that of glassless blast-ridden rows of school-house windows desperately stretching out their white frames lashed by a ghostly pale blizzard in the deadly blackness of the night. -->

But, today, it was sunny: merry melting everywhere and glaring streams.

At the Club there was a usual exchange of casual remarks with the staff-members dropping into my room. (Gee! I called it my!)

Near twelve a.m., a phedayee PHEDAYEE —
     (Armenian borrowing from Greek) "freedom fighter".
-looking visitor appeared in search of paper to roll up a cigarette.

I gave him the paper issue from Wagrum's desk dated last October, and then remembered that Wagrum was keeping it as his diploma piece, his masterpiece—a mock program of Azeri television.

After lunch the mother-in-law sent me to see if they were selling the coupon-due-flour at the Corner Shop.

The flour was on sale indeed though not in the shop but in the back yard providing the lee from a possible shelling.

Some sixty men (elderly for the most part) and a dozen women crowded about.
The feminine queue was much shorter.

<!-- All the queues down here except for those to water-heads are traditionally segregated according to queuers gender-->

The mother-in-law brought ten-kilos of flour.

One page from Joyce.

The guitar-playing coincided with a prolonged GRAD volley detonating in the town.

The mother-in-law was at that moment baking bread.

Yoga: my knee seems to be rebounding after the slip—the pain is not too acute, and the poses are nearing the norm.

The water-walk is ahead.
Good night.

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