Five years on Substack and an equal amount of embarrassing lessons

Nevedomosti №8

me naively thinking I was “an essayist” then (I wasn’t, for the matter, I wasn’t thinking that either, in fact, I don’t remember what I was thinking, I have no recollection of past “me” whatsoever, so that “me” in fact, is a figment of online world assembled from the digital traces I often feel quite embarrassed to look at)

It was the 12th of April, now it’s 14th of April, so it does feel like two days, or rather like eternity or rather like absence of time wherein the memory has no beginning and just keeps rolling and rolling and rolling as if my mind has always been like that and it could be, in fact, 12th of April 1563, the exact year when I started writing. But no! The digital trace says it was 2021, which means all this you’ve been witnessing is nothing but a result of COVID, a word nobody even says in 2026 anymore. But no! Whatever that unspeakable word signifies, it surely provided me with a lot of free time for reading and writing, but the catalyst was “day job” regardless of how interesting it can be (sometimes) and lucrative too (ever so slightly) but still never quite tapping into the self-actualisation area, the area where we, humans, forge something that can be 1) bigger than us 2) more interesting than us 3) cost us infinitely more than it can give us back (no fucks given by both sides, so to say) 4) can be done for its own sake 5) be quite annoying too (ever so slightly) 6) resemble, in a way, two things simultaneously: childish play and religious practice, both fervourful and selfless, wherein “Self” indicates two things: something targeted vastly outward (radiantly dispersing its divine gifts upon the unsuspecting and readership) and something targeted deeply inward (dissolution of the acting agent subject in the process). All sounds cuntastrophycally phylosophical! Absurdly so! As we like it! I do, not sure about you but hope you do too (ever so slightly).

My comprehension of the phenomenology and meta-(s) of the process is a couple trillions brain cells short. It is, well, stimulating: intellectually, artistically, emotionally, erotically even, in a metaphorical and metaphysical sense, of course, but sometimes in physical too (ever so slightly)! But nothing more, for if it wasn’t stimulating me I wouldn’t be doing it — that’s the uncomfortable truth and probably the only lesson I’ve learned — IT MUST BE STIMULATING: DOPAMINE YEAH FUCK YEAH DOPAMINE GIMME MORE FUCKING DOPAMINE!!! — and every next thing should be even more stimulating, it’s a self-reinforcing feedback loop, self-fulfilling prophecy, an anti-sisyphean struggle, which is when the poor lad has to roll the boulder faster on every round because his personal trainer (the Universe) is greedy lady and wants more and more and more and more she’s an insatiable mademoiselle (corrected: the Universette) almost praying mantis she is! But no!

I lied, that’s not the only lesson (there must be five of them otherwise it’s not proper content), the second one naturally downstreams from the first — the next thing must be better than the previous one, otherwise why do anything why write anything why make “texts” and play this game if I can’t even beat myself, one of the only two opponents (the second remains undisclosed but perhaps — as a rhetorical trick based on providing false information intended to plant the seeds of speculation and confuse you — the ever so cunty Universette).

The third lesson is trickier and involves a lot of identity work and a bit of lunacy: you must constantly change your names and names of your publication. For example, I’ve tried at least five different ones and some of them survived, often as tulpas. This publication used to be called “The Lifeboat” then many other names until I settled with nova·nevédoma (lit. the New Unknown, Obscure, Unexplored, or even Subconscious — depends on your favourite Slavic language). This one I love so much I doubt I can (or should) ever change it. The account name / author name, however, is always subject to change, so get over it! I might become Susubember Barambola tomorrow and Vanyok (Adidas-lad version of Ivan/Vanya/Vanechka) the day after and Vanessa on some decent Tuesday when I feel queen and diva or whatnot and even Ivanushka if I ever feel durachok. The lesson is: all that doesn’t matter; the work, however, does! As Vladimir Friedrich Aristotle said, “One’s aura is farmed not by the name but by the deeds. Thy work shall always be bigger than thyself. Always have an alt in a metafictional multi-player online games (MMO) or you may become decrepit moron in the next update, nerfed to cinders. One must die elsewhere but in one’s ego grave.” And was right! (no “But no!” here, see…)

The fourth lesson is even tricker for an unprepared mind: try leaving Substack for a year and see how fucking lonely it’s out there, not physically (digitally) or psychologically lonely but somewhat intellectually and ontologically (as for someone from the very small almost non-existent village with three people and one judgemental goat) — where are the peers? where’s that tribe? where are those “like-minded individuals” and “soulmates”? where are those telepathy streams (channels where those streams can flow)? where else to dig 1) an ego grave 2) a dopamine mine 3) a tunnel to the centre of the Earth and then to the other side 4) a well so deep you can drown everything there: your sorrows, your victories, your woe, your happiness, your grief, your Self 5) a rather bloody enormous pit to stockpile memes for a likely case of memepocalypse, a new eschatological outcome during which all stray and free-roaming and free-range memes would *wopa-a-a!* vanish! So, where??? I used to doubt this place can be that “where” disliked (still do) many things about it and still believe that Istina (Transcendent Trüth, very universal, very divine, on some axes synonymous to the Universette, as a consequence cunty, too, ever so often) exists somewhere but not on Substack (thank you very much), it is, however, as close as I’ve seen and reached so far!

Before we move on to the fifth lesson: there are a thousand people from all around the world (except the Norths: Dakota and Korea) reading me every week / month, and many of them I’ve known personally, some of them have become my friends, some of them even soulmates. THOUSAND! OFTEN WITH “S” AT THE END! HEAR ME? IMAGINE! Honestly, that’s more people than have ever lived in my village Tulubaika over a few centuries (buy my book about it, many people say it’s very good apparently and most importantly I myself think so too sometimes) that’s more names and faces that I can physically remember without developing psychosis meaning that’s A LOT OF PEOPLE! What I can do tho, what I seem to be capable of at least and what I must do as well, is to be grateful to all those people — THANK YOU СПАСИБО CHEERS MOST RADIANT BEAMS OF APPRECIATION DROOGI DROGETTES DROOGALITES! SPECIAL LOVELY THANKSEST THANKS TO MY BELOVED DEAREST WIFE!!! Thank you for your support, for being with me during those five years! Thank you for sending me lucres every month, thank you for buying my books, for liking my posts, sharing them, leaving comments, everything you do! Thank you everyone, especially, the entire crew of the Soaring Twenties Social Club with no exceptions, all my dear friends there, EVERY ONE OF YOU, especially our dear leader Thomas J Bevan may his mem for creating the club and igniting the original promethean fire and Jeanne S for reading my work since my first ever piece of fiction! Thank you everyone who has ever read my work, everyone who has read to this point now! The only way I can pay you back is to apply the second lesson fearlessly until the Universette is satisfied (at least once), and I will! LOVE LOVE LOVE LOVE LOVE!

Now, the fifth lesson… But no! The thing is, actually, the fifth lesson here is left as an exercise for the reader, alas and alack, but I’ll say this (as a hint, also as another instance of the rhetorical device applied earlier): after five years, I feel like this: