Round, and Round, and Round—a kinda preface to the AoC—b:

The Silver Screen, my boy, brings forth a whale of a joy!

Thus, on parting with my hope for an outstanding career in sports or, to make it graspable even for tik-tokers, as it turned my ex-hope far behind any fail-safe, I had to ponder pretty deep: where to? In which direction to channel my amazing talents for their full realization?

Clear enough, to stake on a Russian movie with me in it as the leading star will cut no fronds off Golden Palm. That ficus on steroids pulls for lesbian passions lately. Yeah, sure, with the advancement in plastic cutting and sewing the task is fairly trivial – silicon padding here and there, penis turned-inside-out-and-tucked-in to fix you with a brand new pocket, and – giddy up, girl!

Up to unsparing display of raw facts of nature and naked truth in the minutiae of all sorts. Up to the details which would leave ISIS hit men stilled in catatonic fits. Up to the confrontation with the Animal Protection Society canvassing for the global ban on demonstration of films awarded the Palme d’Or by the Cannes Film Festival Jury (moreover special prizes by the said panel of connoisseurs) to the octopuses imprisoned in bio-laboratories specialized in developing the methods for extensive farming and processing of the said critters into canned sea-food, protein-rich and stuff, despite the APS claims of supremacy of octies intelligence over that of humans.

And at that point I raised my voice. Stop! (said I out loud) Whoa, man! (said I to myself) I put my foot down shut up with this shit! Not a chance I’ll ever allow to spoil this hunky bad ass, me. The buster does deserve, albeit slightly narcissistic, love and fondling, on the whole.

What about tacking to UzbekFilm, huh? To star in their psychological thrillers?

Yet, there’s not without a cinch too. Any schoolkid can easily foretell that UzbekFilm directors roll their joints up of the buds grown locally which stuff is over and above the herb used by Mr. Snoop Dogg of the New-York City. Although yeah, he’s got a good connection too, look into the guy’s eyes and you’re immediately high from pure solidarity. I mean, given the Uzbek ganja quality, one thriller in progress will take a decade for its accomplishment. Minimally.

Now, they roll out a noir masterpiece when there have remained no audience around to appreciate the subtleties of the director’s touch and far-fetching allusions even less to dig the crap at all. Rather a bleak debit-credit perspective, to be frank.

What remains there? Hollywood? A suck-dried wasteland. For each and every leading role a scrambling line of Kobzon’s great-nephews in four generations ahead. And such a hubris knee they are! Your being on friendly terms with Auntie Fanny Tsiperovitch is not a pledge and good enough guarantee for you acting the next Batman or Bond, James Bond! Some gratitude for my keeping back politely any comment on their great Uncle’s lousy singing and the preposterous wig he sported thru all of his career.

Nothing doing, Bollywood loomed ahead for my destination, last and only. Which also teemed, on the second thought, with certain problems.

Each film down there is a marathon of no less than 2 sequels (which is minor) and in every one you have to give out up to 6 numbers singing and dancing simultaneously. About dancing, I am cool, the choreography’s brimming up in me after the third shot. Even I myself get amazed and delighted by the spontaneous dance figures given out by me, unexpectedly.

However, my scope of the available vocalizing never surpassed that of V. Vysotsky’s husky below, shots or no shots. Which musical talent I am proud of, yet by sober estimation, those falsetto hits “Jimmy! Jimmy! Ay-ya! Ay-ya!” fanatically loved by the Indian film-goers are not in my gamut.

In the end I just cast that whole sphere—lock, stock, and barrel—of movie production like a bone thrown by a knight to dogs at a feasting about the Round Table. Fight for it, limp mongrels!

Still at times, as I shave the bristles off the mug watching me from the mirror, do address I the character:

‘Yo, Bro! I say, the three of us—I, Belmonde, and Nick Nolte—would make a god-awesome fine team for The Three Musketeers! The trinity they can’t even dream of, those dandelion cunt-suckers can’t.’

OK, let’s leave them alone in their sandbox acting fallen in love or in the battle field. Leave them alone, the bohemian elite of featherheads! They know nothing even less can learn they, stuck in stale, dismal monotony, where all the difference between the drifters and Wall Street wolves they act springs from the studio wardrobe.

c. Waiting hat-in-hand for charity alms from Nature? Forget it! We’ll rip off all by scientific methods!

For those curious to see the extent of my wobbling after encounter with the two mighty blows—neither the Golden Palm nor Gold Olympic medals for me!—which shocked the very foundation of my psychic conditions, let them once again scrutinize the Vasnetsov’s masterpiece The Knight at the Crossroads (1,67 m x 3,08 m).

See? That’s me on the horse back, side view, with high boots on and in medieval pants instead of my perennial jeans. The almost life-size replica of me sitting on my faithful steed in deep contemplation – now what? Maybe, to try a tack towards the fundamental science? Moreover, they always were in a good rapport, the science and my inner world. Congruence in basic features, you know.

Yep. I’ve got a fairly scientific temperament and potential, especially in the sphere of thinking. When I start thinking I might just keep in on, and on, and on… thinking, I mean. At times fully forgetful of what namely or which was the initial thought, yet still go on, and on… The force of inertia, I think.

Furthermore, there certainly sits a deep-rooted bent for research, in me. Say, I come across some vague device or thing, or other implement, you know, where even a kid would get it instantly – the crappy scrap’s an obsolete doodad from decades back, throw the trash away, wash your hands and forget it. But no! I would dismantle it and unscrew the last screw to see what’s inside before collecting the dingus’ parts altogether to dump into the nearest garbage container, still as uncracked enigma...

So why (if you don’t mind my asking), given so favorable a bunch of kick-off talents, did I not get along with a scientific career? And everyone supposing at this point that I’d give out a list of shortcomings, uncertainties, and sheer absurdities it’s full of and start picking holes in science then think once more, mon cher.

That way it would look like a template already: sport activities knocked out, movies production steamrolled ruthlessly – what ugly things will I dig out disparaging the science?

Vain are your agronomical expectations, my dear friend! Whenever I talk business, I pour out the truth as is without any equivocacy and other oversees spice. Such a stance makes my life easier, afterwards, it leaves no space for belated self-accusations in being a slickly streamlined bitch obedient to demands and exchange rate in the political arena, trading my truthful self for a soft seat under my ass at my workplace and other comforts. Nope. The first and foremost is my personal health for whose sake I say what I think, and feel, and understand.

So what—again and namely—saved science from my ground-breaking, epoch-making discoveries which neither Einstein nor Tesla saw in their wildest dreams?. Ever?.

Despite my obvious propensity towards pure science, there popped up a pesky predicament attributed irrefutably to my personality traits. One of those prevented my plain sailing to the glamorous shores of purity.

To tear, straight and openly, the mask of false shyness – yes, it was me or, rather, my unconquerable dislike of useless inactivity that separated us from each other, Science and me.

The most noteworthy fact about my vibrant briskness is that it tends to manifest itself selectively. On the one hand, I’m quite capable of sitting on for hours, who fly by like seagulls past a buoy of no interest to the gluttons looking for some chow, when I am pouring over an electronic microscope or thru the Hubble telescope (none of which I have got, as of yet, as well as a bicycle which cryingly unjust deficiencies I refuse to discuss now).

And on the other hand, whenever called to participate in a sitting of any kind at all, be it an AA caucus, a General Assembly of UN (the most hateful are those time-wasting get-togethers of a trade union members) I feel sick in one way or another. Some averse endocrine shit shoots thru my system, the bladder sounds sirens of micturition alert and, so as to abate their combined peak of energy, I evaporate on the sound excuse of legitimate need of peeing immediately.

That same restlessness turned to be the stumbling block as big as the huge rock carved with the directions for further routs in front of the knight-ridden stallion’s face who does not know how to skirt around it, the stallion doesn’t because the knight in his medieval pants and not my jeans gives no clue to his means of transportation and just sits irresolute and irresponsive to the uncertain snorts of his companion with the stares of them both fixed blankly to the rock.

Which fork to take? Really? The divination for the outcome down each of the three trails available are pretty ominous: loosing your dear life, loosing your faithful steed, getting married to who knows whom. Some bleak dilemma for any sentient explorer, take my word. Just like choosing your way in science which, let’s be frank, is a minefield of all kinds of briefings, meetings, colloquiums, symposiums, congresses, conferences, convocations...

Let us peruse a trivial, predictable case of my visiting Stockholm to collect the Nobel Prize for my quant-mechanical achievements and—bolt from the blue!—it turns out I have to sit thru the Ceremonial Blah-Blah first! So? And have you consulted my peppy whippiness beforehand? Just to plumb if your planing had feasible grounds?

Hence, the conclusion which any average horse would whisper into your ear: sorry, mankind, for leaving you without the second to none discoveries and inventions but—even for the sake of your unavoidable convergence with AI—I won’t rape my nature. Not a chance!

That’s what I am and gonna stay on unlike the proverbial hunchback getting straightened by his grave. Mind you – my personal hole is to be dug taking in account the peculiarities of the would-be filling (supposedly – me but… well, whatever... Forget it.)

Sehrgueys, are notoriously tough customers, if you recall the Cicero’s harangue or another, recenter development at the Radonezh Monastery where the Catilina’s namesake’s funerary skiff went counter the flow drift which phenomenon was not expected by the onlookers from the bank because 600 years ago the science was not keen yet on motor-boats.

(*A life-hack tip here for startup parents: be careful at choosing the name for your newborn so as not to kick yourselves later for the gaga flippancy – “Ah! The kid’s turned utterly unruly!”)

And finally, summing up my scientific experiences, it’s only fair to admit: whatever is is right and although we, I and the science, keep moving on independently, the separation might very well be for the better.

How do I know? Easy as a pie. After taking a shot at a crossword or puzzle I have a nasty backache next day because whatever I do I do with enthusiastic vigor.