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.
