The Algorithm of Chaos. Сергей Николаевич Огольцов
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The fact is well-expressed in that lyrics by Robert Rozhdestvensky to that soundtrack song by Arno Babajanian for the famous Soviet spy-epic sequence:
…give your cut to the mutual course / the scars and evening bells will be your pay…
Damn, no! Wait! It was Michael Tariverdiev who composed the music, a Georgian Armenian:
‘tyn-dyn-dyn ta-da-da tyn-dyn-tyn’
A really cool rhythm there, by the way…
Now, they were the reasons why I walked out on sports. We split, you may say, without getting to know each other properly.
The sad outcome called for hunting down some other field where to apply myself.
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 СКАЧАТЬ