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



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

head header

March 13.

At yesterday's bombardment, seven people were killed in town, and I don't know how many wounded.

This morning in the Club I had to listen to a presentation on the current military-political situation in the region delivered by Arcadic in my (former Renderers') room.

'We are fighting harder than the enemy,' stated he, 'for we have no place to retreat.'

Then, he dove into a potpourri from the history of the Armenian question and criticism of Azeri propaganda tricks.

<!-- If my approbation did not live up to his expectations let him next time look for a more responsive audience for his verbal diarrhea.-->

After lunch, I went uphill to the mother-in-law's where I had transferred that blasted tree from the Upper Circle. In her yard I sawed and clove two thirds of the brought wood.

The day was so bright and warm that I worked in a shirt.

One page from Joyce.

Guitar. Ahshaut awoke and played it too.

And he also participated in my Yoga making me a target for hurling his toys at. Equal levels (I was sitting on the floor then) widens communicational opportunities!

After they went over to Underground, I had a supper and then Sahtik came back to wash the plates, but first we passionately protested against this here war.

She, by the way, wanted to know how to name the reverse of the missionary position.

Alas! There is a shameful gap in my education. Might it be—if one is allowed to make a guess—"the unconverted rider"?

And it's also a pity that the anti-war actions we are engaged in have to be mute – with Nasic/Armo's family and half a dozen of cellarless neighbors hanging on under our bed. The worn-out floorboards are too poor a soundproof.

Poor us.

Then Sahtik washed up the dishes, I helped her drying them with a kitchen towel.

The water-walk looms ahead.

Good night.

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