Few days ago (the actual date is in the previous notebook of the diary), poetry evening in Dom. Vanji talked us into coming, it's both free and good fun. The art director was scrambling to fill the seats, barely. Some elder hippy, inventory here, theorizes about the local bands' drummers. It's a bit cold.
CD somehow astonished me, it's not art what he wrote but hits me somewhere. Vanji himself has good stuff, I'll have to get the book, published by local Ulaznica (entry ticket, literally).
She has a new hairdress. Sleš is freezing. One guy has zippers up the legs of his trousers, unzipped them all the way. Has crazy legs.
On the way out we eat corn on the green market.
On 12th, sociology class, and our professor was so devastated with the putsch in Chile, the class was actually devoted to the subject, didn't matter what she had planned. She was all for a road to socialism via elections, why not do it peacefully. She was likewise excited, in a positive way, when Allende got elected and Chile started to prosper.
Yesterday she came around 9:30. For the umpteenth time she watches me having breakfast, and I don't even know whether I ate at all, munch it quickly then into the room, show the slides. Then take her pictures for her index and that special sunshine in her hair, lots of poetry in all those shots. She stayed a good while.
At noon I handle the homework then straight to school. After school, with B.N. I do "Business inc." (another movie I absolutely don't remember). Animation progresses slowly and weakly, at least by the end Gavra came to mock us.
At Sonja's class, some guy comes to announce somtething, about the choir. This was the regular way - any professor who organizes anything would send a student, preferrably with a note to read aloud, to go from class to class during a class. Sonja greeted the guy by surname, so we knew he's in one of her classes. Bilja had to ask what grade is the guy. First four. And then Bilja just had to blurt „then why is he so outthrown“. [ouch, there's no good translation for „razbacan“, which is literally „thrown away in all direction“, i.e. big hunk of a guy, well built]
Today went to town to buy some paint. Rudolf writes frequently, may come for easter. At school all good for nothing, but she waits for me afterwards. We don't go to a movie, "Žuta" ("The yellow one") is still not on. Maybe we'd go to disco, but it's Jozda's birthday (actually party is today, he was sick then). She doesn't feel like going. I say I'm okay with your gang, and my yahoos may be completely nuts. Čarga is a bullshitter, and Matori may be primitive and J.B. is limited but he's okay, the rest are more or less fine. Gavra is a case to itself, but him you know. And she agreed.
The party is madhouse. I had several vinjaks without the accompanying sandwitch, so they weren't canceled. She had two beers. We went east often. Mostly sat in a corner. One of the host's Herzegovinians tried to simmer her but I was there, so we got him drunk too. (... 13 words...) Jozda played "Black butterflies" several times, sometimes without anything in between.
We take off at 22:30, I complain about my fly, is semiautomatic. Opens by itself, luckily closes by hand. She says that's because you sit with Bilja. Um, yah, even now I'm not drunk enough for that. She's okay but I'm not the one. And I spilled a bunch more of incoherence and then appologized for that. (... 27 words...)
Slapping myself on the way back to sober up, doesn't work. Dropping by the party for a bit more. Home at about 1:40.
Next day, painting my room. Will take some time. Four different purple walls. Ceiling light milky blue. Floorplanks milky pink. Against the cocklestove furnace, a white square sized exactly to fit a projected slide. And the chandelier goes into three mother's cunts to be seen no more*. In the attic I find a cask from grandfather's tavern, woven with wicketwork, which is rotten on the bottom. I take it to Staklobanat, to glasscutters, to remove the bottom so it can serve as chandelier. The bottom is of unequal thickness, going between 2 and 20mm, this was handblown some sixty years ago or more. So I start with shilling to the majstors, "they told me this is impossible to cut without it completely breaking, but I've come to you for an explanation: why is this impossible?". Of course, the professional pride gets worked up and they cut it just to show me how good they are, for free. The edge is jagged but inside the wicket, so it doesn't matter. I painted the wicket and the chain on which I hung it in red. Didn't hang it in the same place, center of the room, but some 60cm to the window. I have a lair, when this is finished.
Sparse notes for the period. I'm learning to drive, the course is nearly at end. Her nose is a bit runny(... 13 words...). Her nose is like zastava 101, nice design but quality lags, it leaks. Watched the "Žuta", Ružica is really good. After the movie we can't leave each other. The wind carries dust, kills.
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* it's still alive and still has only two sockets operational. In the bedroom in the old house.
27-II-2021 - 6-II-2026