The Blog

And here comes a sigh, of its own accord, from my broken heart full of grief – Oh, no! The State Committee for Emergency Situation was never down and out. All of them, our dear feathered friends, are alive and kicking, clack-clacking and hopping, both they and the rest of the gang: the Kremlin Dreamer, drunk on the blood of Romanov family’s children, and the Kremlin Ghoul, who drove the multimillion classes to their execution as the elements incongruent with the socialist mass happiness, foreseen in hypotheses of theorists of Marxism and rote-learned by practitioners from the murderous Communist Party, and shiny-shit-loving Leonid Ilych, and the following mummies, each and everyone of them are here, smugly embedded in the Barbie Doll approved by the nomenclature Quality Check Department, licked up with tongues of silver by proxies from the Union of Writers…

It’s only that now, for democracy’s sake, they use any rude obscenity they’re aware of, and by them a comment does not count as such without foul-mouthing in the style of pimply ignorant teenagers.

To be frank, all of us are scions of our teenage goonness, but for some reason my nostalgia cuts off at bullies from vocational schools.

Abrupt and unaccountably.

And now, a bunch of grown-up men (by their looks) yet without a clue that the frowned-at slang of Maht is the innermost essence of the language at large, which requires the most careful handling and correct presentation to let all the facets of Maht’s associative connotations properly do their job.

No off-hand handling here!

In order for a raw vulgarism to shine as it should, it sometimes needs to be preceded by no less than half a page of thick-set text.

Do you remember those mornings of Louis #14 entering his Royal chicken coop of a court?

‘His Majesty… Maht!’ and the usher fucking the floor with the fucking pole in his hands…

And what’s more (here lies the subtlest trick of a master stroke), the Maht-word itself should sound without superfluous pathos, sincerely and (you might even say) in a homy way by which a compatriot will be felt immediately, in the speaker.

Take, for instance, the ubiquitous "f*cked up", turned a sheer truism already by its everyday use, while more often than not "f*cked vertically" would serve the purpose much better!

And a whale of other similarly useful finesses that will make of you the soul of a party and always welcome guest…

But no! For the guardian machine-gunners at LitProm, all this is a sealed-and-too-deep-buried scroll.

Stupidly, basely, pick they up shoddy patterns from each other by the "copy-paste" method, not able to comprehend with their heads screwed up the wrong way that their ‘limp dicks hang like a drenched hearse wreath’, citing the classic.

Alas! we’re in a deep sh*thole where the language pearls are dealt with by swine! Like those shibzdiks behind the row of sheet-iron car sheds, lining to suck at the cigarette stolen by Vovchik from his elder sister, and droning monotonously:

'I say, pussy-ass, ain’t we, pussy-ass, cool, huh?'

'Yep! Pussy-ass! We, pussy-ass, are shocking!'

The pussy-assers memorized without grasping what’s that all about…

Poet Mayakovski was who did truly face-off shocking at his concerts. He would hang the grand piano by its legs over the stage, and lay up a tea-table with a samovar beneath it, and—who could guess?—starts drinking tea together with his buddies at that table until the most smart from the bewildered public stops gaping and tries at expressing their dissatisfaction, to which Vladimir Vladimirych (no! no! no! I’m not aiming at the Chairmanship, it just coincided!), without particularly bothering to look back over his shoulder into the hall and even almost without delving into what, specifically, the complaints were about, thundered the diagnosis from the samovar council: “You’re a fool yourself!”.

(Which is hard to deny remembering the ticket paid for.)

Eeeh! Folks knew how to showdown shockingly before the Bolshevik revolution…

No, I don’t argue, at LitProm there also happen those kissed by the divine Muse in their domes, who it is pleasant to discover, but the bulk of the rest drudge on creaking their uniform harness belts, scratching pens, indistinguishable from any other poop on their creative work floor, and when their superior, the Chairman Deputy, deigns to poop a piece of his memoirs out, like, how at the premiere of the horror film “Alien-12”, he shitted his jeans (sic! he swore on his mother’s grave!), then all the scribble-groupies lap up while it's hot, delightedly, the seasoned connoisseurs and gourmets: “Ah! how, pussy-ass, poignant!”—“yes, yes! so, pussy-ass, refreshing!”—“Wow! pussy-ass! some fullest pussy-ass!”

Still would! the most burning memory from the young years of the Turn-key, except for the bumblebee biting their pussy-ass, however, the Chairman Deputy has not yet shared that one…

In short, they kicked me out of that almshouse after 3 weeks, although I didn’t use a single taboo word there.

Or maybe that's why?

. . . . .

And the presence of the electricity (yes, there happened blackouts, but not for long – a day or two, no more than four, and on such days by the candlelight I toasted to ArtsakhEnergo (which somehow excused breaks in electricity supplying. Besides, the crazy blizzard was not their responsibility), combined with the presence of my desktop PC, prompted me to recall the longly-delayed The Rascally Romance, which I diligently set about.

Preface to the 2nd Edition of The Rascally Romance

“… A couple of years ago, some incomprehensible affliction beset me, several times a day I turned off completely, fainted regardless of the place and time: in the kitchen, in the yard, on the steps of the stairs climbing up to the entrance door… then I slowly floated back out of nowhere, pulled me up from the recumbent position, and tried to live on.

So I suffered for three-four days, and on September 1, as a law-abiding teacher, I made my way to the teacher's room at school in our village, but instead of “hello! congratulations!” I could say only:

“Take me to the District Center Hospital or I’ll die.”

One and a half weeks under the IV drips in the Lachin Hospital helped me put my feet upon the ground and surely persuaded of the risk of leaving the novel (the idea of which had been brewed up for more than a decade) unwritten; and it would be a pity.

Such preconditions brought about the first online publication of the work completed in a little over a year. Later, while working at translation of the stuff into English (to leave such a material to the vagaries of political course changes would be a sin), I saw that some parts in the Russian version were written post-haste, barely indicating the details with a sloppy blueprint dashes in the feverish style of dastardly storming the job – o! not to be late! only not to be late!

And so, in irksome shame for the hurriedly over-looked blunders, I had to sit down for the next (I swear – the last!) edition of The Rascally Romance.

As for the original plot and arrangement of components, there are no objections—you can’t twist cooler something bent so dashingly—and the work was mainly carried out about placing right words where they belong, in a nutshell – editing the style.

It’s like going over a finished product with a piece of sandpaper (for those who understand what it’s about, and the rest are only able to “jingle their precious pendants of nano-pebbles” (J. Lennon from Liverpool) or simply “click-clack their fucking balls” (V. Kaverin from Konotop)).

Seems like that's it.

Bye!

2018-10-28

The future clearly proved my perjured, perfidious nature.

But then, who's never sinned?

* * *

Bottle #36: ~ We’ll Catch On And Out-Hollywood ‘Em! ~

"But why indeed?" thought Inokenty the next morning, “or, rather, what exactly do they find in that smoking? Besides, on so all in, enthusiastically massive level?."

It was impossible to ask Maya for the information straight from the horse’s mouth, because she was taking a shower, and from behind the bathroom door there sounded a springy swish of water in duo with her cheerful whistling – Maya's inseparable habit in the moments when she rubbed her sides. Yes, she could soap the sponge in silence, but its touch to her body triggered off all sorts of warbles and trills in supreme improvisations of unheard virtuoso pieces (never repeating themselves). This her quality delighted Inokenty who could not stand clammy deviations from the familiar classic numbers thanks to his absolute musical ear in the first half of the day.

For some stretch of a while he continued thinking on down that path, despite the obvious lack of factual evidence for his speculations-in-progress concerning the subject. Eventually, Inokenty took out a cigarette from Maya's jeans so as to experimentally convince himself that he was right, for which purpose he went out onto the balcony and lit it, the cigarette.

Visually, the smoke looked rather interesting if not getting into the eyes, however, the cigarette’s taste only accrued the unbiased negativism of the experimenter's attitude.

Consequently, most of the research material, not subjected yet to the test in hand, had to be disposed of into the ashtray (originally, a half-liter glass container for pickled cucumbers), that long since lost the sticker from its side, grown dim and misty, somehow becoming one with the iron rods planted along the three edges of the rectangular balcony, enclosing its narrow perimeter with the wooden handrail beam run at the blind intestine level in an individual of average hight to connect the rods' tops.

Then he briefly followed the evolutionary warps in a lonely cloud, exactly in the center of the otherwise empty sky, in toto, from where, by a perfectly pure chance and all the way unconsciously, he dropped his gaze down past the seventh floor balcony he stood onto.

The sight unfolding there alerted Inokenty sharply.