A workmen going on strike in a land ruled by the working class is an instance of sheer inconsistency. So, my case was an unquestionably medical one, and—perfectly logically—they locked me up in the madhouse.
Day after day I was lying on my back, stretched out in the shaded part of the walking-ground enclosure at the 5th Unit of the District Mental Hospital, with my eyes shut, trying not to think that an hour later they would come back with their syringe needles to make me wiser through my ass already 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 onto my stomach; I opened my eyes—it was a candy-kiss and no one nearby except for a couple of permanent inmates, of those submersed, past recall and return, into their respective inexplicable parallel worlds.
That also 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 rotten 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 the glassless blast-ridden rows of school-house windows stretching out in despare their slim white frames lashed by a ghostly pale blizzard piercing the pitch-black 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'!)
About twelve am, a phedayee-looking visitor appeared in search of paper to roll up a cigarette.
I gave him the paper issue dropped on the 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.
Guitar-playing coincided with a prolonged GRAD volley detonating in the town. My 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.
March 12
…I looked into the mirror-like glass and met a stare from the reflected young face of a longhaired gent with sleepswollen eyelids—should be me, eh?—the glass slided by and on entering the reception hall I was given the key to a fivestar suite which I found in a disgusting mess but I knew all too well it was me who had left it that way…
In the morning I went to the downhill town on the round of bread-calls with two loaf-tout cloth-bags.
On the way back, walking with a deliberate retardation (there was a whole hour until the Club opening time), I met Vladic, Valyo's brother. The first handshake of the day.
Idling on, I tried to find a peripatetic solution to that soul-in-transplanted-heart problem from THE BHAGAVAT-GITA's perspective.
Conclusions were grim enough: the donor's death empties his/her heart of both the soul and the Parathma while the recipient's soul/Parathma system is thrown away with the invalid heart. The operation results in a soulless being made up of flesh only—a kinda wholly organic robot.
(…if only THE BHAGAVAT-GITA was correct as to the location of soul in the human body. Or, if there does exist a thing conventionally called 'soul'…)
In the Main Square I entered the rounded terrace opposite the former CPSU DC Building and watched the distant snowclad mountains and the high pillar of smoke in the direction of Askeran. At night and all the morning, cannonade noise was rolling from down there.
The Club was locked. Shamir gone. I drew the duplicate key from my pocket and with calm pride opened the door. The staff members kept out of my room today, gossiping in the corridor.
I lunched alone and then went over to the Underground and brought Sahtik and Ahshaut home. I'd like them also see this sun shining gaily.
For Ahshaut's day nap, Sahtik took him back to the Underground under the mother's-in-law surveillance. Sahtik planned to visit the Main Post and get the allowance for Roozahna. I was to keep her company and meanwhile hanged on at the Underground's entrance. From that place I spotted Valyo who walked along the opposite sidewalk, obviously heading to our flat. I called out for him.
He crossed over and wished to have a look at this Underground. I served as a silent guide while he was sharing his impressions. (The place too crowded and dark and cold when compared to theirs, was his final conclusion).
Proceeding from the main corridor into the room he broke an encouraging news: the Azeri offensive against Askeran was repelled; phedayees captured four Azeri tanks and a GRAD installation.
Then we went out. Valyo parted with us at the nearest street-crossing. After receiving Roozahna's money Sahtik returned to the Underground.
One page from Joyce.
Sashic brought a sack of flour by his car. Gavo, a good neighbor of Sashic's, was helping to haul the sack from the car trunk to our hall-aka-kitchen.
Speaking to me on the present situation, Gavo explained that we live in a time of anarchy when there is no state protection—the former Big Brother provides us with nothing but lip-service TV news programs reporting how many GRAD missiles hit this town on the day.
So, to be on the safe side, Gavo calmly reasoned on, Armenians had to win this war, and they would.
During the hour of guitar playing there started a GRAD bombardment. The volleys were not full-charged, from five to ten missiles at a time, yet with a stepped up frequency.
I counted six such sprays to say nothing of single blasts and those by twos and threes.
The booming drumbeat continued well into the Yoga.
Supper.
Now, it's reletively calm except for occasional gunshots in the town.
The water-walk's ahead. Good night.
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-Round-Road. In her yard I sawed and chopped two thirds of the brought wood. The day was so bright and warm that I doffed to my 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 the 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"?