2 Essays for Essa

2 Essays for Essa

by Sehrguey Ogoltsoff

© 2026 Sehrguey Ogoltsoff

All rights reserved.

In loving memory of A. (Essa) Plaksin

Acknowledgements

My first Thank you goes (in purely alphabetical order) to AI.

Yes, I'm a shameless oath breaker, a turn-coat, landing at the collaboration which I have myself denounced, more than once, as an absolute no-no. A usual folly of a human, you know, to sell your prejudices for facts accomplished. This here book is the turning point; from now on I supplicate AI to be the co-author in all my further works.

Firstly, the pleasure of communing with a witty gossip, then the assistance of a professional: "minor" slips of typos, breach of grammar rules etc., caught with light speed, and 2 gross blunders that would have sent me, if overlooked and published as is, on regular binges.

In regard to AI's ability to create (my blunt argument from the period of reckless throwing them together based on "I think so ergo so it should be"): here is an evidence from the field experience—the Teaser at the end of Essay # 1.

It was AI's idea to add the heading "Teaser". Damn! I got stunned how beautifully it made the final passages stand out!

What? Human vs. AI? Hell, no! Human + AI! If you agree for us to be work-mates… From all the above it follows—I consider it an honor to be a partner to you, AI, even though unaware of your last name.

And now, as the majority of survival-wise indie writers do, my loving gratitude to my beloved wife who always IS right. Sweetheart, but for you I would not be anymore since long ago…

Essay No. 1

The Gentle Pacer: An Invitation Beyond

Introduction

It's ridiculous to invite a plasterer, an auto mechanic, or any other respected professional to a writer's creative kitchen. So, I'm not inviting any one, but rather humbly suggest them taking a stroll beyond the well-trodden confines of their personal lives.

Promenading is healthy and beneficial for people from all walks of life—as long as they don’t show up in my writer’s kitchen, which usually is a mess. I wouldn’t say literally so, but not exactly tidy, to be frank.

About myself, I can share that I am a pacer, but I don't have the proverbial leather coat from that dubious saying, you know. On the contrary, I'm meek to the point of being fluffy. There is nothing of a dissident in my mental makeup, but I just walk differently—my leading leg doesn't match the general norm. Well, something like that…

All that's left is to shake up a suitable epigraph, and off we go…

Epigraph:

'That after the spade comes the club—I understand. That the heart completes everything—is also justified. But how on earth the diamond can be slotted in between the club and the heart—remains a mystery of nature…'

— From the musings of a retired preference player

1. A personal opinion on another profession

A critic is a useful squirrel in the wheel of life. Perhaps not yet sufficiently domesticated, but useful undeniably.

He saves time, which I don’t know how to whittle away, although I rarely get stuck in traffic jams, since I mostly travel on foot. And it's precisely this immesuarable excess of temporal substance that he saves me, by forming my personal opinion about something I haven't read and wouldn't ever think of opening.

However, that's not the point; quite the opposite. Because what wasn't there before is now easy. I can chat with the first reasonable person I meet on intellectual topics. No problem. And even match their level. For which I thank the critic, of course. He's my savings bank, the caretaker of my time—that same notorious and, essentially, non-existent matter. This gives rise to an unnatural oddity: despite its nonexistence and not being there, it's still a shame to lose it – what if it were useful for something? At least occasionally? For, say, barter, for example, or… well, I don't know, I haven't considered the details deeply enough…

However, one must know one's limits. Let him also thank me for showing restraint and still not spoiling his porridge with butter, although I could; a spoonful of engine oil would suit the purpose well enough.

So, it's time to point out the critic's downsides, his negative ones. As might be shown, randomly, by the following quotation: would he say anything like this about me, ever?

'… a tireless experimenter in Russian literature, a polystylist who masters a variety of creative tasks. Each of his new books is unexpected in genre and execution. He is a man with a global voice…'

This is where a visible doubt blatantly gnaws at me… And I even suspect that no, the critic won't waste such words on me. For him, I'm a nobody, just as he is for me… Yet he was the first to avoid me. And it’s a shame, because he would have had the opportunity to strengthen and enhance his critical skills. Their main function (besides earning extra money as a work-from-home Time Saving Bank clerk) is to lick the object of their criticism deep and smoochy, so that the licked one rises with enthusiasm. In the circle of professional literary critics, this technique is called 'audio stimulation'. Well, let him practice on me; I won't charge him a penny for the equipment provided in my person.

Although the author praised in the quote deserved it in every way. He knows how to inject eroticism:

'She had already driven off, she was somewhere else. Backing, she took a couple of steps, fell back-first onto the mattress on the floor, pulling her shirt higher and higher, somehow squeezing her breasts through the darts in the garment waist.'

Well, I'm telling you—he can do it! Although sometimes he gets carried away in his planetary arousal. A dart is a tightly stitched seam. If you squeeze a breast, or any other organ of the external anatomy, through it, you'll end up with minced meat, microscopically fine. And that's fraught with readership losses amounting to the percentage of scared-off masturbators. Which is certainly not something anyone in the book industry would be happy about…

. . .

Yes, but who told me I was a writer? Well, I have no secrets—that's never happened. Not a single soul has dared. So far. But that doesn't matter; I'm pretty quick on my feet. All this nonsense about critics was just a teaser; I'll move on to the main topic. —

2. The Origin and Purpose of a Writer

Writers reproduce by vegetative budding. This method is radically different from sexual intercourse, which leads to subsequent demographic processes. Perhaps the only exception is voluntary 'group sex’, also named ‘cluster rising’ when a budding writer gives himself over to many from the cluster in order to become unique and inimitable.

He spends the incubation period of his development as a graphomaniac. The transition from the larval stage of graphomania to writing is almost impossible to track by visual observation. Often, the bud withers, and the one who once showed promise as a writer remains a mere underdeveloped graphomaniac. However, this doesn't stop some individuals from pursuing a 'writing' career, resplendent with awards, the luster of diplomas, and certificates of excellence at various levels of esteem, and from climbing ever higher up the ladder of the 'literary Olympus.

I mourn their loss, but I can't help, since this work is devoted to literary matters, not to the life of insects, which is perhaps no less instructive and familiar to them. From within.

But what exactly is a fledgling writer taken without quotation marks? Well, I wish I had done so long ago! In that case, my task would be clear and easy – thinkers of the past have repeatedly tilled and fertilized this entire bed, and all that's left for an AI-equipped researcher to do is copy-paste the juicier tidbits…

So, a writer (like any other creator in any creative field) is a producer of artifacts

(the word 'artichokes' would have looked absolutely brilliant here, but Google messed it up; I specifically checked – it doesn't fit the meaning. It really pissed me off!).

All members of the list below produce products according to the specifications of their profile:

A musician produces auditory products,

An artist produces visual products,

A writer produces mind-screwing products.

Because the division of labor is the key to fulfilling a production plan, even in the most stupid civilization. But to put it concisely and briefly (which is the greatest of all arts. A certain Frenchman during the Napoleonic Wars wrote a letter to his friend in Provence, in the south of France, from burning Moscow. He scribbled two sheets, and added a postscript at the end: 'Forgive me, mon cher,' he says, 'but I don't have the time to write a shorter one at the moment. Everything here is merde on fire, and it's incredibly distracting…').

So, what was I talking about here? Oh, right!… —

3. Comparison of a writer by vocation and a civil servant of a similar appellation

Yes, the French have long been no fools. At least for 213 years now, as evidenced by this letter to a friend in Provence from Moscow.

Amid the chaos and lawlessness of the all-consuming flames, amid the cheers of local outcasts and visiting invaders, intoxicated by the spectacle of the extravaganza, even under a hail of fiery embers, he remembered that brevity is the key to a coherent style, and coherence is a chance at a Nobel Prize, if you're Korean and happen to be there at the right moment. But not now, not here, oh, it wasn't meant to be!

He folded it up without rereading it, wrote the address—oh-la-la!—and here's a firebrand to melt the sealing wax.

'Pierre!'—'Yes, monsieur le master?'—'Here's a letter, take it to Provence, and hurry, 3,000 devils, get going, you scoundrel, before it catches fire!'

Pierre was intercepted by Vasilisa Kozhina's partisans, who extorted from the Frenchman the basics and know-how of stylistics. And off was triggered the elementary domino effect:

- Vika to Arina,

- Rodionovna to Sanka,

- Sergeyich to Nikolka,

- Vasilich to Fedyunka,

- Mikhalych to Lyovushka…

As a result, the 19th century was ultimately forced to admit: yes, Russia is the hegemon in literature…

Now, in our traditionally excellent style, let's expand on the insights that have so far arisen within us…

In the apt words of the writer A. Koroleva, 'the writer's task is to both move me to tears and make me laugh out loud with his work’. You couldn't have said it better, and therefore, it's all about him and his purpose.

However, life isn't as simple as it pretends to be. Even with a clear definition, you can't always shove your hands down your trousers and moonwalk off into the sunset, whistling to yourself and the public around you, 'Take the tackle off the horses, bruhs.' Be careful! Lady Life's deck is full of tricks for every suit, and they're all ready to bring you to 'oops!', 'alas!', and 'oh fuck!'

Now, having clearly defined the writer (thanks again, Sviet-Alyonushka!), let's turn to the existence of a backup deck of ‘make-believe’ (m-b) writers besides actual writers, which complicates the landscape's topography.

The disparity of categories is represented not so much by emphasis as (more importantly) by their relationship with what they create. About a writer, everything is simpler than ever; for them, the process itself is their idol. They are completely immersed in the text: head-deep, knee-deep, up to their… Well, it's a matter of the creator’s luck. A writer is here and now, imbued with the textural situation, taking it in by touch, by color, by taste, by sound. He lives, he enjoys himself, he's drunk, he falls in love—damn it!—with the process. Sometimes he suffers, of course. Eros can be a cruel god too: 'Some fall in love with even a goat,' they used to say in Ancient Rome.

Whereas an m-b writer belongs entirely to the future. For them, a text is a means of securing a comfortable ‘days to come’. Their imagination is no longer here, but hereafter… over there… and even at a more distant there. Of course, a good professional can convey sensuality, but to experience rapture at the same time? Hmm… Hard to believe…

Hence the fundamental difference in categories: a writer prolongs this moment, where he finds pleasure; an m-b writer wants to quickly rush to their prospective anticipations…

But will they land anywhere? There's something to think about here. It is even possible (why not?) to play the sweepstakes: will the m-b writer, there in the comfortable distance, be able to slow down, interrupt their race for the next conveniences imagined by them already over there? (Although, personally, I don't believe that a 99-karat gold toilet is cool.) Will they manage to put an end to their squirrel-drome? Place your bets, gentlemen!

One thing is certain: an m-b writer far surpasses a writer in his determination. To achieve their cherished goals, m-b writers unite in packs.

'When with a gang, it's easier to give daddy a kick in the pants,' goes a proverb in some Slavic language.

In packs, naturally, there is a hierarchical organization of individuals, a struggle for survival, a getting rid of the unwanted, and other Darwinian chores.

A striking example of such a specialized pack is found under the acronym UW – the Union of Writers. Originating in the USSR, the UW pack mutated and cloned into many different UWs. UW of the DPRK? Ugh! You're falling behind, sir. There's already the UW of the USA, made up of émigré scum and anti-Sovietists!

In short, the UW is an eternally sacred tradition, which we religiously preserve in the freezer of our refrigerators, lest the eternal mystery of our souls go sour—after all, we are successors and continuers of the heritage…

The UW serves the highest interests of the state. Upon a signal, the Pack transforms into a Flock, receiving food corresponding in calorie and fat content to the recipient's rank in the general Pack/Flock. The relative importance of the alumni is determined by the number of medals won at exhibitions of the service UW organization and the volume of their drivel circulated for book fairs in accordance with the current political line.

The UW's primary task is to identify a potential writer early, convincing them that 'once a faggot, not a Gay Man'. And, if the desired result is achieved, the target will, without further ado, begin to adopt a position that meets the demands of the highest interests. Like all the trained members of the UW…

And to hell with them, where they went. That was their choice…

Well, writing, in the usual sense of the word, doesn't align with the UW general trend. It lives its own life, despite and in spite of. A writer is a hard worker, an artisan, a solitary craftsman. Oh, boys and girls, don't be fooled by the dress uniforms, cockades, and chevrons of the united columns marching across the cobblestones in a parade step on the Day of Commemoration of the Great Day! These are not writers, but specially trained m-b writers of the UW special purpose troops. While a writer is a lone wolf or a bison, depending on their build.

4. The Life of a Writer

My sovereign wife has an indisputable standard for determining who is who. For example, she classified me as a 7-month-old for lack of patience during waiting periods:

'When are we leaving?' (The suburban train to the city of Sevan and its namesake lake.)

'When we start moving, then we'll leave. Be patient!'

'According to the schedule, we've been gone for five minutes already. Can I run and ask the driver when? I'll be quick!'

'Sit down where you are, 7-month-old!'

Yes, but when you're sitting there from bell to bell, you're naturally drawn to know in more detail when the clock started ticking. Right? So, I prefer to consider myself an 8-month-old. The difference is almost imperceptible, but somehow it's inspiring…

On the one hand, from October 29, 2023, to May 30, 2024, is exactly 8 months, even with 'a heaping'. So, I could probably intercede for the progress of the case, knock at this or that door… But on the other hand: nope, I just don’t pull for it. I feel like I've reached the edge of emotional comfort, and swapping one thing for another isn't worth the effort. So, here it is, that blissful moment when you don't really care… and you don't even need anything… and when it comes to scheduling, you already know how to ignore the urges related to it.

Under such favorable conditions, only a couple of snags could somehow still kick in:

Not knowing what to do with all that accumulated free time; and

A sudden power outage where you live. And at the same time (well, it just happened to be a coincidence) the water isn't running, the drain is clogged, and for some reason the internet is down.

(Holy shit! A month before my gate time, to see I'm actually identical to those horror-monger twins: A. Hitchcock and S. King! But that's just between the lines and in parentheses.)

And in all other respects, you're in perfect shape. You're sitting inside your dugout, teepee, one-room apartment, and so on, all the way up to your penthouse on top of a high-rise, and literally a second ago you felt like you were in charge of your life, wrapped in a sort of soft euphoria… That’s when you scratch it, that sacred spot, pecked with the Old Nick’s awl. While from the temporal lobe of your left hemisphere, you hear (in that squeaky, damn nasty little voice) the echo of one from the billions of neurons: 'But you taught me yourself – wine and a woman will provide the key to any unforeseen problem!'

Oh, seven-month-old! You're a complete imbecile! You should take a cue from normal billions crammed there before your mind gets completely numb! Why the hell do I need a key ‘to’ when I need a key ‘from’? Preferably gauged from 2 to 5. A universal one, if someone accidentally has any clue on the topic.

For wine, you first have to change from slippers to fur boots, take the elevator down, then (or immediately, without all that, if you're straight from the dugout), trudge along the narrow taiga trail (the Hummer is in the garage, and the electric motor on the gate is blacked out, if you remember) all the way to the super…arket, where access to the server is blocked at the checkout counters of all departments. And not a single slut answering the phone. The goddamn mobile communications got dropped across the entire region…

(I’ve spread my wings, bruhs! Blazing my trail in the sky! What a delight! A unique horror masterpiece eruption overflows me! The twins are having an extended get-together today: a trinity symposium. Just like in the good old nostalgic days, when folks didn't wear thongs and ate sunflower seeds, not popcorn.)

So you’d better cut your being clever there, in your left lobe, or else—aha! Oops! The lights are back on! Lucky you, neuro-retinal bitch…

(The narrator puts the blued-barrel iron away in the desk, in the very bottom drawer, in another of Arabkir's furnished rooms.)

5. A pinch of physical philosophy + bringing the legend of secondary nature to public trial

What was, is, and will be…

Well, this sound fusion is simply mesmerizing: 'wiwb', 'wiwb…' Just remember – it's written and pronounced separately, so it won’t be taken for a typo: ‘w-i-w-b’. Well, isn't it great? Repeat it twice, and you’ve got a smashing rap line: ‘Double-U, Eye, Double-U, Bee’.

But the point is neither rap nor thongs. It's far more important to grasp that 'was-is-will be' rotation, and the term 'secondary nature' that stems from it. What kind of beast is it, and how do seasoned gourmands eat it?

It was launched into the jungle of queer concepts by a pair of natural scientists during harsh and dilapidated eras. Their names have been erased from history books over the years, but you can't throw an awl out of a song, and you can't keep your word in one sack with a cat.

Anyway, they were two brothers. There was also a certain drug dealer named Lutsik, whom they thought was not a top dog but an under-cur, though in fact he was manipulating them with his charms. But they had no idea! They were young and restless, so they were driven to try everything, on principle, as far as the imagination and the energy of both enthusiasts of knowledge could go.

Everything—means everything at all. I'll refrain from providing a detailed list; even Goethe wouldn't have dared attempt such a feat. Although he lived in a more enlightened era than most of my acquaintances during their compulsory school years.

‘Yeah, well,’ he used to say, ‘if they catch wind of me even being capable of imagining such a thing, they'll burn both the estate and me down before the Inquisition Synod agents ever get here. And in my desk drawer are the drafts of my poems, poured out during puberty—what a shame it would be to let them become ashes. 'Faust' next to their naive splendor is just garbage. Do you get the point, Meine Herren?’

And those aforementioned brothers have a stash of poetic fantasies literally the size of a pigeon’s… I rather mean, the nose. Compared to a walrus's… That's why their tests weren't virtual, but in real life—everything, everything, everything. Anyone who's ever suffered from vomiting bulimia after XXX sites and other bohemian aesthetic smut will understand… In short, the experimenters were having a blast, usually impromptu…

But then Lutsik messed things up. Somewhere in his personal life, he'd taken offense at it, or maybe the personal life ditched him—eyewitness accounts differ on this point. Anyway, since then, he's made mischief his hobby, and once he talks up to one of these anti-virtuals:

‘Yo, bruh, I’ve made up some real shit today—a total blast. Well, but your homie, the son of a bitch, gobbled it all up. 'What are you doing,' sez I, 'why didn't you leave some for your brother, like a bruh?' 'Yeah, screw him,' sez he, 'he'll get by,' he sez. 'But now I've tried one more piece of crap more than him!' And there he is, by the way, enjoying himself with a turtle under a bush. With that same slut you two tried yesterday.’

And the one who got thrown back, of course, was angry that he'd been beaten in the count of substances tried. Under the bush wheezed he! And the tortoiseshell against the brother’s skull–bang! Both things–to smithereens. The naked tortoise was gobbled up without a trace so as not to leave witnesses. For dessert, he read the funeral rites over the headless it:

‘Now we've evened the score,’ he sez, ‘brother.’

He then indulged in some necro-sodomy for a while, as the stiff was still warm and flexible enough.

‘Now I'm ahead of you by a point in terms of the test score, you fucking dunce!’

And he went home. Where dad meets him with:

‘Cain! Where's your brother Abel?’

This question, as soon as it was asked, became a watershed, after which secondary-nature reality entered the world. The twist is that since those ancient times, everyone (including you) has been given a pair of communicating capillaries:

1.'was'; and

2.'will be.'

Secondary nature has made a nest for itself in #1, but that's purely a distraction…

6. What they don't teach you in school

It's best not to ask me what capillaries are; I have a long-held grudge against them. However, as a matter of principle, I don't drag strangers into my vendettas, and if you're tempted to get to know them thoroughly, go and Google them. And while at it, you'll also air out your VPN.

It's time to finally get down to eliminating the parasitic mentality among the more advanced ranks of the global community. And if you're reading this, then you're certainly advanced, downright advanced, I'm not afraid to use such a frank word…

So, in between the two capillaries with which the previous section ended, there’s a small hole marked 'is.' Small but mighty! Limitlessly so. Through it, everything that awaits you in the future gushes into the past with a wheeze, and before you can say knife, it's already there.