The Algorithm of Chaos

Short and sweet

Who reads Prefaces or Forewords these days? Neither you nor I or any other person smart enough to have their IQ checked frequently.

So instead of stuff in the style of your grandparents’ school teacher I’ll tell you how come this here The Algorithm of Chaos happened to pop up at all.

Things have already got somehow settled down – well, yes, after six months of the blockade (written in Stepanakert, Mountainous Karabakh, in spring 2023) you, naturally, expect to fall victim in ethnic cleansing, or humanitarian catastrophe, or in another undeclared war, aka special military operation any other day…

But while they (who? where?) are reaching for The Button, issuing orders, manning the equipment… Loading… Zeroing in on… and countless other actions – I still have to while away my share of eternity for taking all that shit, right?

Good news, I’ve got what to whittle that enormous mass of spare time with. Years ago I got hooked on writing.

By me, it’s rather a winding process. Starting a sentence, I’m not quite sure what it’ll be finished with. Both how and where are no less moot points. And getting thru a passage resembles wandering in the primeval forest. Or, better still, alike to treading thru virtual world of a computer game.

On entering a passage against the backdrop of squalid backstreet lane, you make for God know where until – after a sudden turn – your boots step onto the tiled pavement in a brightly lit casinos area. Welcome to the passage end!

There’s a stir in the air, luxuriously attired ladies of tempting paint job in their faces, gents of murky aspect, casting furtive looks at you: now what? Where to?

I wish I knew! Wait till the next passage end, we’ll see there…

That’s why I entertain a firmly fixed idea, that my writing is not quite what writing is supposed to be.

It’s not me who writes, it’s I thru who it is written. By whom? Well, at the end of some future passage. Maybe…

Call it escapism if you like. Yet, what else can I do? I'm a small man, who’s stuck in a situation where all sorts of world ends may spring up at a moment’s notice.

(To keep to my diligently cultivated optimism, the list of all possible ends is not presented, although I could. Those eager to know the details of half a dozen the nearest disasters to come might choose opening Google and – wow! Well, I mean… gasp in funk.)

Those world ends are so immense, a small fry like me has nothing to do with such ga. Let them figure it out for themselves, who’s after who in their queue.

I’ve got cares of my own, among them writing to brighten up the drag of spare time.

Firstly, you have to fix you up with a proper plot. Without the thing, it's pretty hard to grasp what you're about, after all. And what comes after what, and where.

In general, it keeps you on this side of sanity. Without a plot you’re simply lost in chaos. It’s your Load Star in too badly charted seas of creative metaphysics. In simple terms, that’s a mess of the maze from where very few were lucky come back. A negligible number, statistically.

But even those 2 sorry fools, who had somehow managed, were met with unconcealed suspicion, like, Jimmy, is that really you, bro? But why your Mom and dog refuse to admit the fact?

Hence, my brotherly advice to anyone who’s hooked, like me, on writing – no risky fumbling with chaotic shit. Find yourself a plot, nice and neat, to eschew odd troubles for both you and your custodians.

Undoubtedly, here arises a low blow question: where to find the effing plot?

To be frank with a fellow in misery, here’s a direct answer: I have no idea, Frankie!

Yet, in the same breath, I know for a fact, there are prodigies who can’t give the number of plots they are sitting on. No storage space in their attics, spilling out the gable window, the goddamn plots are. What’s more, the poor devils are just drippling them and have to restrict their walk routes to only their backyards.

How come? Well, a secret tunnel to King Solomon plot mines, by the lead of an archaeologist friend. Presumably.

There’s no time to deeper delve into the subject of alcoholism in the archaeology domain right now. However, I happened to see with my own eyes (by pure chance, and later I even regretted seeing it) the list of bestsellers by a certain author comprising above 400 items! A stable UFO connection.

More than that, there popped up already another one hot on her heels, catching up steadily: 387 printed book titles!

Not a big deal? That couple of ladies has made one King, named Stephen, plus two Alexanders, surnamed Dumas bite the dust! Well, brother, I’m fearful for the future of males in this world. Bitter tears of solidarity well up in my eyes…

Originally though, writing was my subject, not the ersatz scam for kitchen tables.

The problem, who’s tip was hardly scratched by my touch (delicate as ever not to distract busy people off their respectable routines) is not new; even Pushkin grappled with it. At the roughest moments he used to ask his serf nanny:

‘Where shall we sail?’

That was his dodge to beg Arina Rodionovna for a plot, in a way both metaphorical and cunning…

And here you are, a bolt from the blue! Though having no nanny, I had a lucky strike! A worthy plot popped up, though in Russian, sitting in my PC. Which is also for the better – no Anglophone person has chanced to be tired of it…

So, I braced up for translating to share it with my compatriots…

Not by blood, yet by the planet.

2023-05-05

Non-Epigraph

It's not what it looks like!

The 2 following paragraphs do not make an epigraph.

Nope. It is the final warning to sissy purists, pedantic SOBs of scent trained specially to tree any lively language, so as to pronounce it offensive:

„Most Honorable Miss/ Lady/ Sir!

Stop handling the book, close it, take another look at the title, try to grasp the meaning, and think again and deeper: do you really need it? Why risking your mental health? Don’t endanger the core of your snug life in a nice world miles away from our everyday reality.”

. . .

Beating about the bush for a Prologue:

a). Why Did I Kiss-Goodbye Sports?

Looks like I’ll never get it why on earth it happened that, in my whole life, a weightlifting career hasn’t hooked me on. Such a spectacular sport as it is.

Just watch in what sly way he sidles up to the glossy shaft with cast-iron bells screwed to its ends. The man is meekness itself in his velvety squat beside it, the eyes averted so as not to scare it off. And all of a sudden, a kinda wild man – heh! – he tears that bloody mass of metal off the floor, jerks up, and lifts above his head.

Then the sportsman waits for three seconds, upright, strained arms outstretched toward ceiling, coccyx a-twitching, before to slam the thing underfoot onto the platform! Some guys, of those who's not in full control over their emotions, will even yell something, like, ‘catch it!’. Or even jump in place.

The jump, of course, is not so impressive – his build isn't the right size to clear a bar set half a meter high, even with a pole vault.

The thing, meanwhile, clanks its complaints to the platform about harsh usage, before to shut up eventually.

And then the weightlifter puffs up and barges off like a proud flagship icebreaker! Or rather a bulk-carrier for his mountain of muscle meat, on his way to the podium of 3 uneven steps.

There, he’d occupy a step to stoop from it and shove his head into the noose of a ribbon with a medal dangling from it. Then follows one whole bundle of actions: he straightens up, sniffles heartily, sticks out his chest, and contort his mug in a thoughtful expression, pretending he’s a music lover.

Because at that moment there sounds the state anthem of the country, which has sent him to the competition, or of another nation whose big man sticks his chest out on the highest step of all the three.

Besides, there are also those multicolored flags hanging down from 3 poles. The all-embracing beauty of the sight just stuns you as any other on-looker…

Attractive, yes, however, the attractiveness pull was not quite constant, and I’m at a loss to put my finger on why so. Despite all the tempting beauty of the sport, I somehow felt – no, it’s not for me, all those bells on that shaft, even though polished to appealing sheen.

And later on, after my fanboy delights about the Olympics in the tv box subsided, it dawned on me that big guys there weren't just toiling away for free.

Someone was scraping an apartment out from under that damn barbell, another was trying to get a seat on the committee presidium, wherever they'd put him.

Which, by the by, is right – that not for nothing he'd spent the years of his youth in gyms working himself up to the point of stupefaction and drowning in his own sweat.

It was not for the sake of throwing a derailed mine cart back onto the rails somewhere down the gallery, under the sounds of his farts in place of the state anthem, right?

Although there are those who strained for nothing at all – no gains and the chronic hernia instead of a medal.

And so, based on the above considerations, sports failed to appealed to me in earnest. Well, maybe, rhythmic gymnastics and figure skating, to a certain extent, but then again, only for a while, until I got a taste for Rubens' forms.

Too bad. After all, sport is life. Any hockey player will tell you that.

True, it's not so easy to follow his cloud-couckoo-land lisping; the guys have too many teeth knocked out in the ice rinks, they all have a lisp, each and every one of them. Hand-picked. Like the fucking team of knights under Uncle Chernomor.

Although no, by my calculations, they oftener gurgle than hiss; being a scuba divers unit, after all, they emerge straight from the sea, like Navy Seals by Netflix.

As for the hockey teams, on leaving the harsh ice of the arena, they, of course, put their false teeth plates in, to have something to smile with. Yet even then, they noticeably mumble. Such is the hallmark of their profession.

As aptly noted R. Rozhdestvensky in his lyrics to Arno Babajanyan's music, from each one all that there is in him, to each his scars, and tolling bells’.

No, wait, wait! It was Mikael Tariverdiev, a Georgian Armenian, who wrote music for that hit:

‘tyn-dyn-dyn ty-dy-dy tyn-dyn-dyn!’

He has a cool rhythm there, by the way.

Yes, in general, I left the sports for the above reasons. We parted without knowing each other anymore intimately than that.

And after, I had to willi-nilly look for a fitter outlet where to engage my beloved self in.

. . .

b). The World for Lucky Ones

On bidding my forever-farewell to all hopes for a decent sports career or (to use a proper modern language) after it became my ex, irrevocably, I had to choose the right direction for my uncommon impulses and remarkable personal resources.

Occasionally, yet more and more insistingly, I began to ponder over the film industry: why not to apply matchless me for leading roles there? And the immediate next question: how to enter the World of Silver Screen?

There was no prospect of winning the Cannes Film Festival by cinching my metaphoric wagon to the infantile Russian cinema.

To win favors with the Palme d'Or, that ribald ficus-bitch prize, you should shoot a lesbian love story full of passionately explicit angles.

Sure enough, for the present day level in the field of plastic cutting, sewing, and ironing, there’s no foreseeable problem. You bulge a silicone bump here, revamp the organ there to give it proper ‘inside out’ looks, and – giddy up!

Toward the frames of so uninhibited frankness, which drives ISIS militants into complete stupor as stilled as by the patients in catatonia cases ward.

To scenes that kindle a wild outcry in WAP, which still campaigns for the global ban on demonstration of Cannes-winner films to octopuses imprisoned in multiple biological laboratories all over the world.

Of course, the World Animals Protection organization habitually entered a losing battle. The labs at octopus farms, where they’re recycled into canned food for humans, have already discovered the hidden quality of such films to cause the growth of an additional tentacle, the ninth; which means additional 20 cans of delicacy product from each 2-year-old head.

And, most importantly, the gain calls for no material expense, thanks to the magical power of art…

WAP argue that cephalopods are smarter than humans, therefore, eating them is a crime against the reason… A sample of usual blah-blah of losers…

And here ‘Whoa!’ I said. So said I and stomped my foot. ‘I won't let spoil so handsome a man!’

The guy (I mean myself) deserves, albeit a little bit narcissistic, yet still respect and love. In general terms, to hell them those plastic surgeons.

Now what? Maybe, to take a shot at Uzbek-Film, eh? In their trademark psychological thrillers?

Yea, not what you’d call an inspiring idea. After all, it's obvious immediately that the native directors there smoke home-grown weed… And that sort of crap works wonders deeper than Mr. Snoop Dogg can ever get in the Holy-Hell-York-City. Although, his also is not a bad connection, I admit. Look him in the eye for just 6 jiffies, and you’re in the flight just because of the eye contact…

Rather a bleak picture is drawn by summing up the present opportunities in the former home neighborhood.

Now, what's left there? Hollywood?

But Joseph Kobzon's grandnephews are queuing there three generations in advance for every starry role.

And so arrogant those offspring are! Aunt Fanya Tsiperovich – they haven't even heard of, let alone care!

So, all that's left is Indian cinema; the only pool for angling.

However, even there's not without a catch – during a two-part film, you have to pull off half a dozen fiery dance numbers and sing along the fancy feet-work.

Oh, well, of course, my choreography’s beyond praise after a couple of clear shots. Maybe, a couple of couples. But I'm amazed myself by where those knee-jerks come from.

The stumbling block is my vocal proficiency; I can only roar in the style of V. Vysotsky. All those falsetto parts, like, ‘Jimmy-jimy! A-ya! Ah-ya!’ I can't handle, if making judgment based on a sober assessment.

For that reason, I tossed this whole industry, the film-making, like a bone to dogs at a feast of the Knights about the Round Table. ‘Fight for it, you good-for-nothings!’

Though at times I get sad, when scraping the stubble off this here mug before the mirror. – ‘Dammit, bro, Belmond, Nick Nolte, and I could have rocketed the Three Musketeers the way those cute little dandelions never dreamed of.’

Well, screw them, let them mess around in their sandbox, play house, war games, and elite bohemian settings. It's all the same (dreadfully monotonous) and the same, and the same.

Whether he's pretending to be an oligarch or a bum, the difference is invariably from a costume department. But they're all great (for heaven's sake!), without exception.

And now I have to walk through life as if through a museum of fossilized giants, thanks to the archaeologists. Every day they dig up a new brontosaurus, each one more gigantic than the next.

Where do they dig up such pterodactyls?

In short, even that steppe remained out my reach. Completely.

. . .

c). Never wait for Nature’s favors; rip them off by scientific methods!

And if anyone's curious how I felt after that tragic double failure – no way to see myself in a movie, upon no hope to dangle an Olympic medal – they might consult the famous canvas by V. Vasnetsov ‘A Knight at the Crossroads’. That's exactly me only rearview, and not wearing the jeans I never part with.

There am I mounted on my Savraska horse, lost in thoughts: whether taking a turn toward science is worth it?

Certainly, why not? More over, my inner world organization so aptly qualifies for a try. I’ve never met anybody of so scientific temperament, of such resourcefulness and limitless potential, especially, when it concerns thinking. Oh! That’s where lies my prevailing predilection.

At times, gone too deep in thoughts about something, I just keep thinking, and thinking, and… I may wholly forget what it exactly was about, or what my starting thought was, yet, I still keep thinking on. Not out of inertia, but just because I love the process.

Besides, there is a streak of a researcher in me.

Let's say I get my hands on some obscure gimmick, where it's at once clear, the junk is a complete throwaway. Now, why to be in the way of natural flow of events? Just throw the crap away.

But no! I absolutely have to tear it apart, like: what's in there, huh? And once I've finished the research and realized that bunch of smaller parts remains as incomprehensible as the initial throwaway was, only then, with a clear scientific conscience, I drag it to the trash pile.

So why, I wonder, possessing all main faculties and points needful for a scientist, I stayed away from pure science?

If anyone expects here a list of scientific follies, annoyances, cranks, and freaks in the given field not answering my moral standards, then no, dear friend, you're in the wrong.

Because it starts already to look a kinda cliché here: the dude takes sports apart, bulldozes the film industry, so what holes will he pick out in the field of science?

Forget it, my friend! Your agronomic expectations are groundless. We're doing just fine in science; we do dare explore any mysteries of the material universe. We also contemplate spiritual matters during the hours established by labor laws. The only lag, annoying but inevitable, is healthcare.

Here, everything is turned upside down; we begin protecting after the fact, when disaster has already struck and all that's left to do is sprinkling ashes over our grievous heads.

Healthcare should protect proactively, not after the enemy has penetrated your borders and set up defensive lines of disease, so that the rescue strategy falls into the hands of pharmacological octopuses. And they won't let their chance slip! They'll fork out so much for the sufferer that even their own mother wouldn't recognize them if she hadn't also become addicted to pills and now everyone looks the same to her—Bruce Willis.

But to survive in our advanced world, chemistry alone is no longer enough. You need a solid spiritual foundation for your right to continue the struggle for existence. And this right is acquired through spiritual hygiene, so that you remain as healthy as a moose. This has determined my line of behavior on life's tricky crossroads.

I always keep it straight. When I start speaking, I speak the truth, without equivocation or frills borrowed from Lingua GlobBureaucratica.

This line makes my life easier later, when I have to pay with my body's resources. Sticking to plain truth removes gnawing doubts. It keeps my health intact. Prevents sinking to the same level as the scum at the particularly streamlined society strata who fall over themselves to meet market demands and the dictates of political and sexual conformity.

I do not trade myself for trendy comforts and undeserved benefits. And most importantly, I do not allow myself to spawn imaginarities. The main threat to health roots in them, when, instead of ‘I want you!’ they say, ‘You could perform at La Scala with your contralto!’ and instead of ‘Lend me a tenner till the pay-day,’ they say, ‘What a cool tie you're wearing today!’

But otherwise, as already noted, everything is going great on the scientific front.

So what exactly saved science from great discoveries on my part? Discoveries whose magnitude neither Einstein nor Tesla never even dreamed of?

For all the talents I am gifted with, and those are literally created for boosting pure science with my priceless contributions, there’s a frustrating hitch on my part.

A single point in the otherwise flawless list of my unrivaled qualities. That seeming trifle has pushed the radiant science horizons away from me and, in the same breath, made me unreachable for the bereft science.

And this is (I announce with a bitter sign) is my intrinsic restlessness. Which bitchy feature manifests itself quite, dammit, selectively.

Say, I would sit for hours – forgetful of their flight alike to that of aloof seagulls over a buoy inedible and lonely – at the computer, or over a microscope, or under the Hubb telescope (although I don't own the last 2 of mentioned items, as yet, nor a bicycle).

However, being called to take part in a meeting of any kind – be it a gardening association, or even the UN assembly (the most hateful are briefings and/or trade union election meetings, although other ones also cause a sharp drop or rise in my blood pressure, while my urinary system lives thru the peak of its activity) – I evaporate at once making my excuses up about the need to get rid of the superfluity.

It was precisely this restlessness that served the stumbling block bigger than the boulder before the long-maned mare of the knight in the V. Vasnetsov's painting. The poor beast is at a loss which way to go around it: right or left? Same case in my relations with science which is unable to progress on without get-togethers. That circumstance brought our relations to absolute standstill.

Why, there are all those symposiums, conferences, meetings, and reports, not to mention colloquiums and face-to-face confrontations… Or whatchamacallit? Well, anyway…

Let's consider a perfectly plausible case: I arrive in Stockholm to collect my Nobel Prize for quantum mechanical achievements and – welcome in for a rude surprise! – it turns out I also have to sit through the awards ceremony!

But have you inquired about my restlessness? Would it stomach it?

Hence, the entirely predictable final: sorry, humanity. Too bad you’re left without ground-breaking discoveries, but even for the sake of your upcoming merge with Artificial Intelligence, self-raping is not my cup of tea.

I am what I am, and that's what I'll stay. Ass stubbornness? Call it to your personal liking. I am damned if it’ll fix it.

Sehrgueys are hard as nails critters. The funeral boat, supposed to take the body of one of them along with the flow, floated upstream, contrary to the mutual expectations. Although, at that time, science hadn't even considered the possibility of outboard motors.

(Note to new parents: choose your newborn's name carefully, lest you lament when it’s too late, ‘Oh! What an ungovernable kid!’ Biting your own elbows is a poor snack – I share that as a well-meaning professional.)

. . .

d). Find yourself and pass the steer wheel to the foundling

And if anyone has read this far and thought to themselves, with an experienced sleuth sneer, ‘Clear as day, here we’ll have crying shame upon the education system,’ then, with your foresight, you’d better forsake gambling, dear Dr. Whatson.

I won't grab with my wrathful hand the scruff of the system which formats us not because of its being flawless and chaste – far from that! That whore has been screwed by everyone in every possible form of positioning – but because I feel a poignant pity for her. And now, filled with compassion up to my neck, I have just one word to utter: ‘Ehh!’ And those that follow are just interjections, not utterly obscene, but full of overt passion. ‘Off with you! Go have a rest, you slut, until the next reform…‘

As a self-bred gentleman, I’ve got no intention of digging deeper in the subject, firmly stop at where my ramblings along the spiral-like net of roundabout paths of reasoning has finally led up to.

Yep, my dear, you are to enter! It’s your turn, sweetie – the dessert’s being saved for the end.

Hats off, gentlemen! This isn't a harlot of the demimonde, but the peerless Lady Fiction herself!

I foresee everything – the wry grin of anyone who happened to rub elbows with me (slightly, the luckiest of them): ‘What could the guy have in common with literary matters?’; the condescending: ‘The insolence of the lout! He dares call himself a writer!’ – from the chicken farm of haughty Laureate-Nominees; and the: ‘Nimble fellow!’ – from the conveyor line of slipslop caterers; and: ‘Fucking mother-fucking-fucker!’ – from the counter-culture shit-shovellers.