Prologue

How Come The Algorithm Of Chaos Was Refurnished

All somehow got in the groove by now. Well, yes, half a year in this here blockade, and you day after day wait for the pending ethnic cleansing, humanitarian catastrophe, another dirty war or special operation they keep threatening you with but still...

And before they there (who? where?) are reaching out for the Button, barking their orders down the chain of command, manning the installations, zeroing in on... and so on and forth, you have to find something to fill up the eternity forked out to you, right? Haven’t you?

So meanwhile, to ward off my premature demise from ennui I keep it up, my addiction, yeah, keep writing little by little. Moreover, I’m a small man on campus and because those ends of the world proliferate like mating rabbits (for the optimism’s sake I shun calling the roll even though I could and who feels interested in the matter fire off Google or something and enjoy your fill of consternation) let them themselves then sort it out who’s after who in their queue of ends.

Now, the hardest task, when you’re a writer, is finding a plot. It is the thing of paramount importance, the plot is, from which you’d see what you are about at all and what comes after what in your scribble while its absence spells disastrous primeval chaos and that metaphysical shit you’d better give a wide berth. Don’t ever venture into that dreary jungle, too few and far apart are those who managed to come back, almost zero, statistically speaking, were ever seen after. I swear. But even those who pop up back, by pure chance, are eyed suspiciously: wow, man! What a surprise! but why can’t I recollect you? your name, again?

In short, chaos will take you to the cleaners. Do you follow? Be smart, go and find a plot, so as to avoid unnecessary risks both for you and unprepared public. Hence, by the by, springs up that cursed, below-the-belt question: where to get it? The effing plot?

Here is my friendly and open answer: I have no idea! And in the same breath, parallelly, I am informed on existence of prodigies grunting under the weight of heaps, and hills, and Cheops’ pyramids of plots they have. Looks like some unscrupulous archaeologist has leaked to them the King Solomon Plots’ Mines GPS numbers. Yeah, so it looks to my naked eye. That’s how they go about it, clandestine extraction of plots, on the sly.

Asking for proves? Both natural and clever attitude, yours. Okay, recently and rather inadvertently I rammed into the fact myself and got dismayed in earnest. I wish I still remained in the dark about the issue. But it’s too late now. No way to ditch my awareness (screw Google!) that there is a certain authoress of more than four hundred plots and printed too in the form of bestsellers. While from behind she hears already the wheeze of another (also female) racer turning out her 387th book! How do you like it? The couple of shrews, even if counted apart, belted Steven King’s, and Alexander Dumas,' and Alexander Dumas Jr.’s output taken collectively. I couldn’t but feel dismayed and sorry for the guys because of unalloyed solidarity of cavemen.

However, my concern is yield of worthy literary products not base flimflam for housewives and other society strata witth not fully developed psyche. As of yet, if ever.

The problem touched here (as lightly as it is humanly possible, not to take much of your precious time) is not anything new. On the contrary! Back in 19thcentury did irk it Pushkin, the great swarthy Pushkin who gave birth to the Russian poetry per se. It was his habit, when too sore by the problem, to ask his serf nurse:

‘Whither to sail?’

That was his way of begging from Arina Rodionovna a plot, subtly and metaphorically...

And all of a sudden, no nurse applied, I had a lucky strike! A good plot was stumbled at, faith! Even though it had some drawbacks—being written in English—but then who’s ideal, eh? And as always, the silver lining was in place, that is, the Russian reader hadn’t chanced yet to get not bored by the stuff. Besides, no need to skirt around the sanctions meant to quench the Russian aggression, alias Special Military Operation, against Ukraine because the plot sits on this, Russian, side of the communicational hedge, at the litres.com domain, lucky me!

’Now, boy, to the mill!,' said I to myself, and dug elatedly, and delved euphorically into translation. But then the insider whistle-blower (I don’t know if you have this built-in bitch which is beyond the point anyway) blew it, the above-mentioned whistle. Like, there had cropped up not a little deviations from the original text and the original author might feel hurt, a sort of.

Well, yes, I also marked there a thing or two for deeper contemplation, after the whistling I did, and had to scratch where anyone’s supposed to when having an itchy sensation but then, gradually, I came to the final conclusion:

‘Fuck you! You don’t like it? Then go and sue me! Sue me or draw it if you be a man! Ungrateful jerk! I’ve let you into my personal space, allowed you to publish your hooey from my personal litres.com account, and now what?’

So, while the bugger gathers back his shooed off thoughts, I go on translating it into Russian for my compatriots… No blood ties involved though, my compatriots by sharing this here planet.

2023-05-05