Cultural Institution Blesok • Established 1998
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ISSN 1409-6900 | UDK 82+7     Blesok no. 100 | volume  | September, 2015



                     Peer-reviewed journal
Blesok no. 100September, 2015


p. 1
Gorjana Jordanovska



    I did not know Igor a lot. I only met him once, we were in a bar, we had a Blesok editorial board meeting. This was my first meeting, we were supposed to meet the board. I did not know Igor, nor Kalina, anybody. And I carried a poem with me, I wanted to read it that evening, quickly scribbled, taken from nowhere, I thought it was nice. I did not know that Igor was a poet, I had no idea who Igor Isakovski was – I only knew that he was the main guy in Blesok, that was it. I asked some people, not to be clueless, and they told me: “He comes to the café once in a while and he keeps on complaining that the whiskey is so expensive. Well, if it is expensive, don’t drink it!” And I thought, there’s trouble, I don’t know how he would turn out at this meeting. And I got angry with him that evening, honestly. He ordered shots for us: “These are new here, brand new, very nice, there’s honey in them”, and we drank them, several in a row. There were a lot of people, they were reading poetry, people came to the stage, everybody would say something, gave it a shot. I thought maybe I was also going to try. I gave Igor my poem (he was sitting next to me) and I thought he would most probably tell me it was good – hope dies the last, of course. And he read it completely, he only asked me about something he did not understand, and I thought – here, it did not attract his attention, so it was bad. Yes, he turned, he looked at me and he only shook his head and gave me back my paper; he said nothing, I think he only raised his eyebrows and that was it. And I got angry with him. Of course I did not read it afterwards. I stayed a bit, I stood up to leave, I forgot to pay, I returned, Igor was at the bar, he raised his glass from afar, somehow indifferently, and I left.
    Then, much later, I came across the poem Fuck You, Isakovski, and I thought, somebody must have written it for him. That is how much I knew, and hope dies last, doesn’t it? Then, after I had forgotten

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