The Blog

That day Stepanakert was being bombarded without even the lunch break, nonetheless, I ventured to the town theater and ticked “for” in my voter ballot. And even today, with my status plunged down to that of a refugee, I’ve got no regrets because up till now that right seems so too attractive to my adamant mindset.

However, back to 'in order of appearance'…

A month later there was another meeting in the village club to collect donations for the victims of the Spitak earthquake in Armenia (the seismic magnitude at the epicenter in the range of 10 to 12, 25 000 dead, 514 000 homeless, 140 000 crippled).

I donated 2 rubles and 50 kopecks, all I could contribute without losing a chance of surviving up to the payday.

The teacher of Biology, Rafic Shakarian, a ready-made Roman senator by his looks, began to carp: “No need for kopecks!” I had to curb his patrician pride by reminding that he, personally, was not the target of my offering, and 50 kopecks were equivalent of 2 bread loaves… The discussion dried up, the kopecks were accepted.

In February, the Lenin square in Stepanakert saw the outset of mass rallies in support of the exit from under the Azerbaijani jurisdiction and unification of Mountainous Karabakh with Armenia. The Regional Council of the Nagorno-Karabakh Autonomous Region sent petitions on this account to Moscow, Baku and Yerevan…

From the jokes of that period:

“They clear up the heaps of debris in place of the houses tumbled by the Spitak earthquake. The derrick pulls up a huge concrete flooring slab revealing a man still alive, miraculously.

‘Is Karabakh given back to us?’ – asks the survivor.

‘No, man! No!’

‘Drop the fucking slab back then!’"

Some stuff to perk you up, huh? Still, I have heard folks laughing at it…

Laughing even after that beastly carnage of Armenian population in the city of Sumgait, 27 – 29 February 1988.

I ca

The troops of the Soviet Empire did not interfere for three days and nights. When they entered the city to disperse the ferocious mobs, 276 soldiers got bruised.

There followed a bubble of hush for a couple of months, when multi-thousand streams of evacuees filled the highways between Armenia and Azerbaijan: Armenians from Baku to Armenia and Karabakh, Azerbaijanis from Armenia to Azerbaijan. Counter-directed migration of peoples…

A year later, influenced by the common spirit of turbulent times, I married and migrated to Stepanakert to weave the family nest atop of the stirred up volcano.

The job of an isolation-tape man at the construction of gas pipelines to far-off parts of Karabakh was an extensively outdoors and far-off employment so the son was born in my absence.

About half-year later, in August, they attempted at the SCES putsch in Moscow. The Central TV news program Vremya presented a dozen of bureaucratic pans in a consolidated row behind the wide desk of the State Committee for the Emergency Situation (SCES) reading up to the population their orders – the democracy a

In the morning, to demonstrate my discontent, disgust, and disagreement, I did not board the truck starting off to carry my co-workers to remote villages but handed in my resignation letter to the perso

“…because this here organization is a state firm, and I have no desire to work for the state of SCES, please fire me of my own accord”.

The BCM-8 Chief, Samvel Hakopian, amusedly chortled and signed his approval to satisfy my plea.

Next morning that SCES putsch went kaput and I, having lost the job along with their lost cause, concentrated on building up our family house in the lot allocated by the City Council on the ravine slope behind the Maternity Hospital…

When the walls were raised 1 meter tall, there started bombardments of Stepanakert City with Alazans from the Sushi City and Khodjalu Village, yet in the following 2 months I still laid the walls to the level for spa

The money for the slabs had been paid too but the Building Materials Plant never delivered them because of the unfavorable situation.

For about a month I stayed unemployed because the city enterprises were coming to a halt one after another and there appeared a slot to make a dent in Ulysses in earnest.

My mother-in-law spotted that I could write for stretches longer than normal, and fixed me up with a job at the editorial house of the regional newspaper The Soviet Karabakh where she had the position of a janitor and the editor thereof originated from the same village as her, and, as luck would have it, their family names coincided too.

My job come to be translating articles from Armenian to Russian because The Soviet Karabakh daily was published in Armenian and on Saturdays supplemented with a Russian digest, so as Big Brother could check the stuff brought up in the previous 7 days.

My position of a translator did not fall under the category of the mother-in-law-backed nepotism. Not in the least! In two years at the village school I studied all the curriculum textbooks in Armenian Language and Literature from the school library, starting off the ABC Primer.

Learning a language by textbooks is way easier than thru communing with the native speakers because texts allow you more time to get it, and cancels the strain of tries at catching serendipitous shreds in the over fluent, non-stop twitter of those who use it from their crib.

However, I was not paid for the month of work at the newspaper because the city got blockaded and bombarded on a regular basis with heavy artillery pieces, and the population switched over to dwelling in the basements of the five-story buildings, for the most part. Often blackouts worsened the situation, before the electricity was cut off for good. In the basements, they used oil-lamps or candles. When a candle melted away completely, the wax drippings were used for production of a new one, though of lesser size, of course.

The gas supplying was not stop because the gas trunk-line went thru Stepanakert climbed up to the Shushi City, whose population in the aftermath of the massacre in March 1920 became ethnic Azerbaijanis who you couldn't left without heating in winter.

The most forceful report on the ravages in the spring of 1920 was left by Osip Mandelstam in his poem “Here in Mountainous Karabakh, in the ancient Shushi City…”

He didn’t eye-witnessed the carnage but ten years later roamed about mute lanes in the demolished Armenian blocks in Shushi.

However, poets can see thru not only into future…

* * *

Bottle #6: ~ The Clover To Roll In ~

Where the screwball popped up from I couldn’t even say. Nix, not a damn chance.

Moreover, that I was not on high yet in my regular nirvana and just a sec back sca

It’s hard to say or recollect the street’s name though ‘cause of them names keep replacing each other way too often, depending on who’s in power right now, the Reds or the Whites, but in our neighborhood I’ll find it blindfold by groping, yep, with both hands tied.

Verily decent neighborhood, the ours. No harassment from cops, nopes, no patrol car will ever take risks to get in if alone. It’s only in the all-out posse, with the sirens a-wailing so as to uphold their own courage. But there’s always a chance to run into an M2 or else into some of cheap China machine guns. The question of karma and stuff, you know.

Not much of manufactories here either. A score or there about of Northern Koreans day and night rattling their sewing machines in the basement opposite the bar You’ll Get It. A no never mind production line. Samely dispensable as those posterity of the Jamaica’s delegation to the International Forum of Youth and Students Organizations of the World, on the sixth floor in the tower-block where they keep packing coke for Don. Completely quiet, decent, and no trouble at all society members.

Well, yes though, last week one of their team took a dive from the window. Exactly as I was passing by for the lunch break, he plummeted a-singing his parting aria of the Lonesome Swan if you know what I’m about. High alt up to B-flat in the second octave and no doubt.

And in the right moment too. No one got damaged, of those uninvolved. With quite a tolerable precision value, in the sidewalk – sh-plumps! And keeps the classical supine position, the eyes plumb-up into the sky. Maybe, with a pinch of kinda reproach.

You’d never think the dude was a Jamaican brat. Sooner might be taken for a native from some state in southern India, by his looks.

And those two brothels too, under Thai Massage signboards, yet the nurses in the business are not so too tiny after all, same pod’s peas, each and every from the Middle Russia regions, not for nothing we have striven after joining the crowd of chip implanting globalization.

Not even a regular slot machine hall around, just a couple of clandestine rat holes for local gamblers in Three-Card Brag and Black Jack. Backwater, in short.

As regards those sporadic reports at night, it’s just youngsters trifling with their handguns. All in all, the hood weekly output rarely overshoots a couple of farting-bags with stiffs, on average.

And as for my nirvana where could it be from two minutes before the second slim?

Moderation and consideration, in keeping with good homeopathic ma

Not that I need much really, politely landed in the corner will graze a package of chips, I, or maybe a hot-dog, two at most. Cutie critters them those doggies, do not bite back. Then the spill of a cup of something from coffocoa line, atop – that’s my lunch in a whole day, and back I goes to my bench to watch the pulse of the business activities, while enjoying my third slim, and as for the wholesome joint its turn comes at night, code named “night-cap gasper”.

So, no way I would omit him any moment back but—here you are!—out of nowhere this feathered wonder, pelage a-bristle, hair style in the vogue of 60’s when children of flowers kept a-stirring their cultural revolution in the California beaches.