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 from day to 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, that I’m a small man on campus and all those ends of the world proliferate like mating rabbits (for the optimism’s sake I won’t call the roll even though I could and who feels like being interested in the matter fire off your Google or something and enjoy your consternation), so let them themselves sort it out who’s after who in their queue of ends.

And the hardest task, when you’re a writer, is to find a plot. That is the thing of the first and foremost importance, the plot is, so that you could see what you are about at all and what comes after what in your scribble while its absence spells disastrous chaos possibly even a primordial one which metaphysical shit you’d better give a wide berth. Don’t ever venture into that jungle, they are too few and far apart who managed to come back, almost zero, statistically speaking. Take my word. And even those who pop up back, by pure chance, are eyed suspiciously: wow, man! is that you? but why I don’t remember? your name, again?

In short, chaos will take you to the cleaners. Follow me? Be smart, and find yourself a plot, and avoid unnecessary risks both for you and the unaware public. Hence, by the by, emerges a below-the-belt question: where to get it? That effing plot?

Here is my friendly and open answer: I have no idea! Although in the same breath, parallelly, I do know about existence of the prodigies grunting from under the heaps, and hills, and Cheops’ pyramids of plots they have. Looks like an unscrupulous archaeologist has leaked the King Solomon Plot Mines’ GPS numbers to them. Yep. So it looks to my naked eye. And that’s where they now extract their plots, on the sly.

Wanna proves? Quite an appreciable attitude, yours. Now, not too long ago and rather inadvertently I rammed into it myself and got dismayed in earnest. I wish I had never discovered the fact. Which is a too belated wish at present. No way to ditch the knowledge (screw Google!) that there is a certain authoress of more than four hundred printed plots! And from behind she hears the wheeze of another (also female) racer turning out her 387th book! How do you like it? The shrews, even if taken apart, belted Steven King, and Alexander Dumas, and Alexander Dumas Jr., taken collectively. Of course, I felt dismayed and sorry for the guys because of pure-hearted primeval cavemen solidarity.

However, my concern is the trade of writing and not flimflam for housewives and other society strata of those of not fully developed psyche. As of yet, if ever.

The problem touched here (as lightly as it is humanly possible,not to distract you for long) is not anything new. On the contrary! Back in 19th century 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! There happened not bad a plot, faith! Certain drawbacks present though—it was in English—but then who’s ideal, eh? And again, there’s a silver lining to it– the Russian reader was not bored unbearably by the stuff. Besides, no difficulties with those aggression quenching sanctions, you know, the plot sits on this, Russian, side of the communicational hedge at the litres.com – lucky me!

‘Now, boy, to the mill!’, said I to myself, and dug, and delved into translating in an elated mood. 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, that above-mentioned whistle. Like, there cropped deviations from the original text and the original author might feel hurt, a sort of. Well, yes, I saw there was a thing or two for a deeper contemplation, after the whistling, so I scratched where anyone would when they have an itching sensation and, gradually, draw I 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, for my compatriots by this here planet.

2023-05-05