A truly surreal feeling has descended on our lives here in this Casablanca of the Balkans. The war ten miles or a universe away, all of us exhausted lying on the grass looking at the clouds, drinking beer in the afternoon, totally lazing about now that the refugee crisis has temporarily stabilized, waiting for word from Belgrade because we are trying to get back in, of course making fun of all of the new arrivals, sports photographers and financial reporters who’ve shown up, with their long lenses and attitudes…

In the Blace camp we ran across a lot of our friends and acquaintances from Pristina, translators, drivers, the guy who developed my film, middle-class refugees with mobile phones, mired in the muck awaiting an uncertain future in a fenced in camp or put on planes with unknown destinations.

Macedonian police and army a bunch of unfriendly and unhelpful goons, every day we fought with them, yelling, screaming, calling them motherfuckers and I actually spat at one. They treat the refugees like shit and deny us access. The Macedonians a spoiled bunch of fools who have no idea how lucky they are, the only former Yugoslav republic to escape war, discos and McDonald’s open and swinging while the Kosovars sat in the mud of their border.

Didier of Liberacion, toughest war correspondent around, tells us that Buffy The Vampire Slayer is his favorite TV show, because “mais oui, she wants a normal life but she has to fight the evil…”

Relationships crashing over the telephone, nineteen year old refugee girls seduced, old Polish guitar restrung for the left hand, cherry blossoms blooming, we got speakers for our CD player, life here in exile brain hurting and alles kaput.