I am a writer. Which fact happened not because I was promoted, appointed or trained and certified. Hell, no! What the fuc... I mean... nothing of the kind!

I got pressed into this vessel of bitter wrath even before Serafima Sergeievna inserted the lacquered handle of a nib pen (don’t forget to dip the nib into the ink well for writing!) between the cramp seized fingers of a first-grader gull – mine…

And then – off you go! March to do what's planned by Dick-only-knows who in Dick-only-knows where to be accomplished by applying me, when I still had not been yet near about this here world at all.

Bastard damn well knew beforehand what conscientiously painstaking ass of a peon would I make, eventually…

Writing is an ungetriddable birthmark, inseparable, were you even as blind as N. Ostrovsky.

True, he wrote badly and garbage, but still better than the deaf-blind-mute challenged from their birth or brought to the same standard by the compulsory secondary education.

I am a writer who writes the picture of the world as I see it. The image is final, stable and incorrigible because of the absolute absence of predisposition, in me, for proofreading and—as a result—having no time for the deed, chronically.

This reason is weighty enough to make my views pretty conservative and stubborn, there's no way to convince me of anything not conceived by me firsthand, personally. On the other hand, I am an easily malleable stuff for any fool to shape me into waiving the worldviews rigged up and sermoned by myself.

Yet, if giving it a sober thought, do I need it? Or anybody? What’s the use of those creative impulses tornadoing my PC keyboard? And that's another victim, by the bye, who's not at fault absolutely, the keyboard isn't.

Just so violent sadistic battering of the innocent accessory thing plus monstrous harrowing of my beloved self.

For suchlike excesses, one should be born by blood-thirsty ghoul Saltychikha after her one-night stand with Malyuta Skuratov, the henchman of Ivan the Terrible (where, the hell, has I misplaced my birth certificate?).

(Which SOB was murmuring right now, “So was it written in your birth tablet”, back there, huh? Let me interview that unsolicited genealogy writer, eye-to-eye, for 17 minutes maximum, and the bitch will on his own accord sign the confession that his tablet-scratching was a gruesome act of sabotage ordered by, at least, three intelligence services of different imperialist nations!)

Of course, I'm interested in any response to my scrabbles. But quite a few bottles have sailed off my hands tagging along after the torrents in the Digitized Gulf Stream, and only silence echoes back—not a single splash by the wiggly tail of a playful goldfish, no whiskey-voiced 'ahoy!' by a pessimist albatross:

“Hey, Titanic! Smack bang you heads against a fucking iceberg!" (as if it would stop us, both the iceberg and me or let us bypass each other, or cancel what was predetermined before the creation of the world!)

Still, it does not take much of IQ to figure out the reason for sea critters’ shyness – the Internet is only 25 and folks are not used yet to think openly. What’s worse, being trained to read between the lines, they can’t see what is said directly, right before their eyes.

At 25, I was a way more timid guy, albeit shaggier.

Let’s speak easy, the hunger for feedback once more highlights my irrepressible egoism and wish for a distraction. Gimme anything to forget all them those Big Brothers—glossy glove puppets, each one, stretched over three fingers – the Military-Industrial Complex of their respective belonging. Seated about the ghostly sheen in their table of negotiations, they portion away the uneven heights of Karabakh:

“These uranium deposits in Kalbajar be for you, and this piece of pleasant climate for military bases – my share.”

And soon after the talks (and also resulting from them) the Prime Minister of Armenia (non-Armenian), gives up the lives of 7.5 thousand boys to fulfill his obligations to Big Bros, and along the highway through the indescribable beauty of mountain nature, huge SPAYKA trailers are rushing crammed with the variety meat of humans, torn, spoiled, messed-up by the cluster bombs shrapnel, white phosphorus and fragments of old-fashioned Grad missiles…

The world has changed beyond recognition since then. It has become more comfortable, more dynamic. Kinder. Cleaner.

It’s getting harder and harder for me to keep apace with the tempo in its everyday life, to follow all those witchy-bitchy gadgets.

However, these all are my problems, because of my age, maybe. Too slow learn I keeping the refugee ID on me, presenting it to polite Russian peacekeepers in a freshly chopped off colony…

I still can’t know nothing and care less when off the city limits, the team job of repairmen from the Stepanakert Water Supply Services, unearthing a water-pipe on a slope, gets interrupted by an unknown person (non-Azerbaijani), who shouts, “Siktyr Ermenlyar! (fuck off Armenians!)” and shoots a sidearm at them.

Because the peacekeepers communicated with the Azerbaijani side about the pending repair work at that spot and got "Roger that!" in broken Russian.

Because exactly that hour in Shushi City, another irreplaceable (and why not? as if the trick is only for very Big Brothers, eh?) president, spiffed in a swanky camouflage, winds himself up by his own screams before a row of microphones and video cameras, so that the whole of Azerbaijan perk up and get united:

"Wow! What Rambo of a czar we have! The big shot knows how to hook up a great victory!"

"Ilham sulh!"

"Sieg heil!"

(Corporal Schicklgruber at this moment grinned maliciously:

"Genau das hatte ich gesagt! Das dritte Reich ist unsterblich!. Ja! Ja, meine lieben Herren! Sieg heil!.")

Because another 20-year-old boy’s body stiffens on the slope, shot and killed by another Hero of Nation.

The blood oozes through a new hole in his worn-out T-shirt. The dark-red blood, which is not to turn grass in just an hour, it has a more important function – it is the means of payment for purchase and sale of land, ranks, medals…

Because another mother shoots her hands aloft to hit them against her knees and scream: "Wai! balas! Wai!"

Because another brother accepts a weapon put into his hands for the sacred revenge.

Because The Show Must Go On!

Because it's dead predictable, this fucking show.

Both in East, with all its subtleties, and in techno-bureau-pluto-pragmatic West, and in other parts of this here world. Globally.

But I don't need to go into all that, I'm too tired of this invariably base, monotonous shit.

All I need is a chance to cultivate a vegetable garden, water the cabbage patch and stuff, awaiting for the clattering hoofs of the praetorian Contubernium on horseback galloping to take my life.

And they but will come, my dear feathered lovebirds, for there is no other option, because what was there that same thing will come back, and rerun, and then again and again repeat itself later... or had I already said that?. well, anyway…

All I want is to declare anew my love and, following the example of great Julius (of Czech nationality) to alert over and over again:

People! Do not turn spare parts of war! You are capable of more!

Do not let them drive you into the global perimeters of compulsory vaccination! You are not dumb cattle, you deserve a better lot than that!

Or do I want too much? Huh?. People?.

Anybody home?!

Oops! Here we are again! Over and over! Completely forgotten. Would I ever keep in mind recharging this damn phone?.

O! Fuck!

05/23/2022 22:25 – 07/14/2022 18:32

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