We are

one of the very few literary groups who cares more of a bottle of Jack than of you. Yet, you are here going through the work of such people. And the sights are heavy on you; and it is not sights of understanding. But you do not look away for that you believe in the correctness of your doing; the attention is merely surreal - and the response is indifference; and y are famous - sippin’ Jack with us.

...

We are building the literary castle out of wood. Wood is a lovely malleable material that suffers from humanly imperfections. Every single three shines with the spirit and every burnt log turns the spirit into pile of ash.

The tendency to explore, the desire to understand, and the need to sound, predestines you to wonder, to contemplate, and to accept the feeling, for a glass of a whiskey., It is not the glass that makes the whiskey, it is the journey from the field to the bottle., You prepare a fermentation set, out of the nicest and strongest wood, you throw in grounded corn; rye and malted barley, then add some yeast, brown sugar and hot water., The fermentation gives off a strong odour, but you love it., You keep it in the basement, away from the sun., You keep it at 34 C, To favour the yeast., After three days of the fermentation, you separate the pulp from the juice., You assemble your distillation set, distillation flask; burner; condensation pipe, thermometer; collection flask., you got 100 litres of fermented corn; rye; malted barley, you got same sized whiskey barrel, but the volume of the distillation flask, is 2 litres., The distilling is a slow process., The thermometer shows 80 C, ethanol is sliding down the condensation pipe, you watch every drip., First batch is ready, your chest is tingling., You pick the shiniest glass, give it the unnecessary wipe, include a few ice cubes, and pour it in., You feel the connection with the glass, with the basement, and yourself., You are in a sacred place, your whiskey is on the table, you take it in your palm, you smell it., It is the finest drink, thirty seconds old., It tastes like distilled port wine, just super strong, emphasized with a subtle flavour of the brown sugar., The Drink with The Journey., ** The End **



The Times

2019, Edinburgh
On Separation

Speaking of objects, separation as the event itself stands for creating more parts out of less parts.

Events in the world of objects matter not since they are not acted upon by emotions.

Emotions mean alive. Imagine two beings that are engaged in an emotional relationship and one decides to leave.

It is not just you there and the other there. The relationship has changed and so the conditions in its environment.

Imagine, two stars colliding into each other. Both objects have gravity; and gravity is emotions. Should the objects collide, the gravity of the two objects merge. The gravity of the collided objects determines the movements of the passing objects.

Should you separate those objects, the gravity changes and so its surrounding environment taking on a new unique form.

Should you leave a relationship based on assumptions, unclear or immoral convictions, the message you send out into the world is not only the act of separation but also a count-down to a uniqeuq environment generated for the wrong reasons.

On What Decides

Does the cover make the book? The statistics say that most readers buy random-pick books based on the design of the cover.

If the title and the colour of the book resonates with the readers taste; and the book has either hardcover or softcover version, it is the hardcover that is most likely to go.

It is understandable because it is a better cover by all means. The content is more dignified by the hard cover. Should the soft cover be cheaper than the hard cover, though, the decision making reaches plateau and the dignity of the hard cover becomes negotiable as the soft cover turns to be efficient enough to hold the papers together and the content is the same in both of those versions anyways.

On When It Rolls Out

A nice chunk of a horse meat, that looks like an attractive human leg, immersed in some marinade. Some marinade made of oranges, some garlic, a few spoons of pepper and a great amount of salt. The meat spends 10 hours in it. Last rub and then it goes in the oven. It already gives off a nice smell. The guests start gathering and she sits them around the table. Their host runs around, and they notice her enthusiasm in what she is doing. She grabs a deep spoon. Opens the oven. Spoon up some sauce that has collected on the bottom of the baking tray and pours it over the top of the meat. The time is pressing. She takes the meat out worried that she rushed it; and it might be true, notwithstanding that, when she makes a little cut, the meat is perfect.

Adding some green, she serves the dishes with great expectations. Everyone is waiting with their polished cutlery in their hands. When all the dishes are served, she takes the last chair at the table.

“The most laughable chunk I have ever eaten. Goodly art.” “You put the roofs ablaze with that dish.” ”The skin is splendidly and skilfully varnished that it shines like crystal.” “Genuinely extraordinary.” “Unmatched by any other modern chef.” “Brilliant”. “The most influential intellectual piece of meat.” “Recipe for Salvation” “Eclectic and stimulating, fearless and impassioned” “A spoon of that sauce acts in the mouth as a terrifying roller coaster which rapidly goes out of control.”

On Being Strong

You got to stand straight pushing your shin backwards to be able to emulate as lowest possible pitch as you can. It is the dept of the voice that makes a person strong.

You got to state the obvious things. If you see that someone is about to stretch, you tell the one to stretch.

You got to make the person, walking against you on the pavement, going off your way. The pavement is yours. It is a personal fight.

If someone tells you a story, and you want to be strong, just interrupt midway and start a story of your own.

Card image
On Being The Illegitimate King

There has been many men that have considered themselves to be above the crowds for whatever reasons but mostly for their knowledge, personality traits, physical superiority. This individual conviction has led them to stand out as they have acted in the way adequate to their self-imaginations. They become what they have believed they have always been. They have gone further than the ordinary people not because they have played the dirty game but because they have recognised a way to go at places where others have always seen a border line.

It has been the diligence and the relentless effort put-in learning that has guided their way up to the throne; and for many this path has been the only path; to sit on the throne has been more of their destiny than anything else.

Not for all those kings, though, the time on the throne has been easy. The time has put the kings through a sieve that separates the kings into by nature legitimate or illegitimate.

Sometimes those kings turn up to be tyrants with great sense of rationality but no sense of understanding of human nature. They do have the feeling for coins and know how to do the business, but they do not have the feeling for maintenance. They leave the thread of being good to slip-off their hands walking towards their great self-image rather than the great image of their realm.

But the good kings have always carried the heavy burden on their backs that pushed them, from the heights, down to earth. They have never been the detached heroes. They have been humble and have always worked for the people, for the environment, not for themselves and their castles as they have always been fully aware of the castles, they live in, to be standing on the nice green ground cherished by the ordinary people.

On Plasticity

Stones and all those materials are rather fragile then plastic and have very limited ability to change their shape. Take for example clay. It can be squeezed into any shape with little effort. If you consider making a particular shape, an interesting point is that different hands make different form of the same shape. The more the clay is used the warmer it becomes and eventually adopts even more malleable properties. If you leave the clay on a side for too long it dries out and turns into a chunk of irreshapable mass.

..but still if you ever decide to get a hand on it again you give it some water and start working it you still nearly reach the original malleability.

On Ambiguity

Shin up, I am sitting in a National library in Edinburgh, drinking like 20th cup of coffee.

The waitresses probably haven’t seen a good-looking man reading a book before, at least that’s how I am explaining to myself why the waitresses cannot take their eyes off me.

I am seen to read The Magician, which is a chapter in a book called King, Warrior, Magician, Lover. It is a book about masculine archetypes. A good read if you want to learn something about personalities.

One of those waitresses goes for a round to collect the used-up crockery. She walks around me peaking at what I am reading about. Her walk exposes her nervousness. I can sense her shaky hands; the extra awareness she puts in when gathering the dirts; the difficult walk and the increase attention to self-control to avoid stumbling over nothing.

She glances at me and I give her a long-long look and while she is gathering the dirts, she is aware of me still looking at her. She collects all but my table. And she is walking the difficult walk towards the counter and one of her shoes scratches the shiny flat floor with her soles and it sounds. When she reaches the counter, I am just flipping a page filled with info on how to be a better person and hear her exhale saying: ”He is reading something about magic.” with an unusual enthusiasm to share the information.

On Being A Special Chicken

...before we get to the point a story about my favourite chicken must be told. This chicken was a part of a flock of about 50 chicks. She was specific by her colour. While she was white-grey the others were gray. They all acted the same way but the white-grey one caught more attention compare to the gray ones. They all gave delicious eggs though. Notwithstanding that, it seemed like the white-grey chick was pushed away from the centre of the flock to the outside.

But the colour, her walk style was the other differentiating fact which made her run slower compare to the others and so she was always forced to stand her ground and fight back with all she had. Even though she delivered some nice speeches and won the confrontations, she couldn’t conform to the rules of the flock and on the long run she was destined to lose.

When the chicks were fed, they would all jump on the crumbs and be smashing their heads against the ground in an insane rhythm they would all do it but the white-grey one. I tried to feed that one with different crumbs, but she would just pick a few drops and then go to the side of the group herself and look through the fence. Once I came along with Charles Bukowski’s poems and read them out laud and the chick suddenly woke up. She ran through the flock and back to the fence and looked at me and I carried on reading.

I knew that she could fly the best of all those chicks. And even though I wanted, I couldn’t let her out but I wished she would fly over the fence and I would not find her in the garden on the following day.

And I read Roll The Dice, The Strange, The Almost Made Up Poem, My Madness; and other; the most insightful and the most motivating pieces. And when I returned on the following day she was gone. Yeah, she was gone! She flew over the fence and she was happy because I saved her life.

… I believed that I saved her life with those poems up until the point when I saw the white-grey feathers scattered over the garden. And on that very day I ate a soup with the chick in it and I loved it saying myself it was her destiny anyways.

Discussion about environmental issues: Global warming, pollution and beer

2019, Edinburgh

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Animated version

Fluffy Duck and Iron Heart

2019, Edinburgh

The mornings around this place are often miserable. It usually rains and when it does not the beauty of the grass carpets, the calm surface of the passing river, the falling leaves of by standing trees, is hidden in mist. But that is so much unlike today. If someone took a magnifying glass and placed it between the sun and the earth to focus all the sunshine to some place, the place would turn in ash but do not get me wrong we have here nice 25 degrees. It is just the unusual weather difference that makes it feel like the day is on fire.

I am in my mind contemplating about the Origins of life and the Adventures in human beings. Then, yeah, I stumble over a flat surface: “One of my legs must be longer than the other.” I infer, do a step more and see an Iron heart. There’s also a duck that is jumping around having fluffy fashionable features on. She is being genuinely happy. At least the style of the jumps seems to be somewhat energic. Her jumping is more like dancing with no shame, with no fear. It is the source of the contagious joy of the squirrels, the dogs, the cats, the birdies and all the other beings around. It probably sounds pretty familiar to Marianne Williamson: ‘And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others.’ And that’s how the Iron heart feels about it too. A subtle smile appears in his face as the duck ends her show.

Normally, the Iron heart is focused on being iron. Shiny mirror-like surface, neither happy nor sad but something between. The smile, no matter how subtle, means that his emotional neutrality has been disturbed. The Iron heart identifies as masculine while the duck is a feminine being. The contemporary society expects men to approach woman and initiate the first contact. It’s one of the great challenges out there for many men. It requires courage and completeness of the person. The price for the courage is very inner personal empowerment. However, if the first contact is initiated by women the conventional society perceives it negatively which sounds like: women can be objectified but not to objectify. Simone de Beauvoir wrote many pages to report on this topic, but it has gone by unread and unheard by many; and still while men are socially rewarded, women are stripped of their ‘virginity’ and labelled as crack-ass whores.

While the Iron heart is fully aware of the presence of the cute Duck. The duck does not seem to pay attention to the Iron heart apart from a few flaps of her wings directed to him. The flaps produce quite powerful air flow that leans against his body and makes his legs shaking. She is trying to scare him off. As a result, the iron heart feels a little bit unsettled, maybe not quite enough for her, by the kind of attention he has received. He goes to metal shop to change his rather neutral colour to one that would be more attractive. “Not that easy bro, do not let her go that easy.” He thinks for himself. On the way back to the duck he buys some breadcrumbs. He gets back to the duck’s place. A wonderful riverbank washed with a slow stream of the moving water followed along with high trees and the sighs of the last spring days. The heart throws some breadcrumbs towards her. The falling crumbs catch her eyes and she goes all ‘kvak, kvak’ about it. Once the crumbs are finished, she is waiting for another load to come, and it does.

I have to say that the Iron heart quite smashes it when he throws her the breadcrumbs. It is really good idea. It has not only caught her attention, it also fills her mouth. As a spectator you can see an arising affection between these two.

When the heart runs out of the crumbs, he goes away but the duck follows him. He turns around and, to entertain her, paraphrase one of the adventures in human beings:

A guy comes to a doctor. ‘Oh, doc I feel so embarrassed, but I have a bottle of ketchup in my ass and cannot get it out. ‘

’Well, okay, lie down here and we’ll take a look.’

‘Well, that’s pretty deep inside there. I now try to get a grip of it.’ He pushes two of his fingers in the ass of the guy but cannot quite reach it.

‘Well, we’ll have to use some ointments to relax the entry. ‘ The doctor tries again. As he goes deeper in him, he stretches the anal sphincter until his wrist is all in and finally gets a two-finger grip on the bottle. He squeezes it and pulls. As he does that the bottle slips and gets even deeper inside the intestines.

‘Well, I am gonna need some extra hands here.’ He sends this guy for x-ray.

The doctor hangs it on light emitting x-ray table and as he is checking it up it gathers quite a crowd. He leaves it hanging for a few minutes and goes few steps back to the guy and when he returns to place the x-ray to his patient’s folder, the x-ray of bottle of ketchup in an asshole is gone. Someone has stolen it.

The joke is finished. The Iron heart keeps staring at the duck with great expectation for a few seconds until the duck realises the joke has just finished and stretches her wonderful orange beak crafted by centuries of evolution with a flat smile. The Iron heart then jumps in sheer happiness making laud noises. That scares the duck and she flies away back to her riverbank.

Another day the heart brings some more breadcrumbs. The duck notices his presence. She looks at him, then at the furthest turning of the river and then at the iron heart.

Since the iron heart had scared the duck with his laud noises, she doesn’t feel comfortable to fly to him. Instead she keeps looking at him and then you hear the engines and she takes off with the unshakable confidence of double decker commercial aircraft having a really cocky expression in her face and then you hear her last: “kvak” and she’s gone.

Watering the letters

2018, Paris

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The troubles with the manhood

2018, Brige of Allan

It was a Friday afternoon. I was in a diner drinking a cup of coffee and having a bite with my girlfriend. At some point I left the table to visit restrooms. The restrooms had just three pissoirs and I took the middle one. Before I finished a random guy, about a foot taller than me, took the pissoir on my left hand. Although there was music playing in the background, every movement of our bodies sounded. He unzipped. I heard the friction of his hand pressing against his jeans and then I heard a click-like sound reminding me of triggered solenoid or two magnets pushed close together. How could he make such sound with his dick? I wondered and looked down there. This guy was not ordinary type. He was strong and superior to most men but when I looked down the direction where the magnetic sound came from I saw a thumb-like shape with a yellowish tube leading out of it. My heart pumped weirdly. I looked down there again and then I followed his superior body up until I reached his eyes. His stand was unshakeably confident. It felt even threatening to me. When our sights met I saw all his suffering through the face expression that was supposed to cover it and I felt it deeply because that was the real juggle of life that bites with no compassion and I could not beat it.

Back at the table with my girlfriend we carried on with our normal discussion. The topic of the moment was the Skinner’s box. She as a psychology student had a lot to say about this and I listened. In brief, she said that the box is also called an operant conditioning chamber and is used to teach animals some certain behaviour patterns by exposing them to a stimulus. If the animal reacts to it as intended, then the animal is rewarded and so the behaviour pattern reinforced. For a moment it sounded like describing our human society that in fact works on the same principle. Regarding work, school, or just any sort of official institution, we are constantly being put to our places. Every step that is socially correct is rewarded and reinforced but what about the people who do not exactly fit into the conventional trails? The Skinner’s Box features conductive cage that can temporarily electrify itself to deliver negative reinforcement to the animals inside. The human social box has got many tools but the most efficient seems to be the one that involves psychological tyranny that is often imposed on people of too different cultural backgrounds or on brilliant people in ordinary groups. It might be a way how to sustain life as a successful group that comes from our nature. Would then being an outsider be selfish? These outsiders often suffer tyranny for seeing life their own way, but doesn’t it make them foolish? There are many Indi people coming to richer countries. They are often being laughed at for their way of clothing, their accent they are often shorter than the European’s and yet they rarely step away from their commons and earns university degrees. Are these people foolish or high achievers? We all live live in Skinner’s Box but these guys are being constantly electrified and they are standing lonely against the crowd of laughers and won’t move, so who are these people?

A fish is glittering around me. A small one. I am in a deep sea. The water presses on me. My heart beats fast and strong, shooting into my toes and finger tips. The consistency of the dark blue water thickens. The fish is suddenly gone and a dark spot in the distance starts quickly approaching and I close my eyes and wake up looking for my dick.

I kept thinking about that dream for the entire day and I was aware of it being related to the event from the diner that had happened. ‘The guy will never have sex in his entire life’ I thought. ‘How does the knowledge of that feel like?’ The inability of having sex came in my mind first but the psychological boundaries might have been more severe. The idea of asking a woman out with a hope for an intimate relationship with no penis sounds bizarre. So, this guy was condemned to life of loneliness, an absolutely empty darkness of his own thoughts and never satisfied sexual desire.

Few nice words were said, and I appeared in the middle of having sex. It was a nice sweaty summer sex as good as it could have got after four years of daily practising. I am not a good judge though. A good sex, in my opinion, occurs when noise produced gets the neighbours disturbed but the traffic in the street won’t stop. That was how it went that day. I loved it and I hoped she loved it too. Shower followed. Washing my treasure, I started questioning him: ‘what I would do without you (said with a sigh). How my life would be different? Would I become a bitter pedant addicted to getting to work on time?’ These thoughts were floating in my mind as a single story of Hemingway’s iceberg. The contemplating about the dickless man’s destiny somehow integrated into my mind. I started seeing myself in his position with his sufferings and no dick. I had that bad dreams that did not feel intense but made me wake up with the conviction that my dick was snatched by a dark spot, just like a cookie from a table.

Furthermore, the realization of me overthinking came besides of all these events and I tried to push them away out of my head by recalling the square numbers between one and twenty when I was alone or by coming up with new topics to talk about when there were some counterparts available. The more I used this technique to suppress these thoughts the more it felt like my own dick was about to fell off and that’s when the Hemingway’s iceberg started swinging from side to side showing its underwater surface. The upcoming days were fearful signs of me going delusional. My dick was changing colors, it varied in shape and size. He felt heavier than normally.

The deep-sea dream happened again but there was no fish, no light, no dark spot. It was just me swimming toward the sandy bottom as freely as a mermaid, with no dick.

It was a nice morning that happened once upon a time, but it was no fairy tale. I sat a coffee on the table, read through the world news and went to the local sex health clinic for a sexual health check. The doctor sat me down and started questioning:

‘Are you in a relationship?’ - ‘Yes’
‘How long?’ - ‘Four years’
‘Have you done vaginal sex? ’ - ‘yes’
‘Have you done oral sex?’ - ‘yes’
‘Have you done anal sex?’ - ‘yes’
‘Have you ever had sex health check before’ - ‘nope’

The questionnaire was quite extensive and took a few minutes to finish.

‘Do you have any specific problems down there? Any rashes, blisters anything that is not normal?’

I explained my situation. I told him about the guy with no penis, about the overthinking and the dickless dreams and that it really felt like there had been something wrong with my penis and that the feeling had been chasing me for a few weeks. While I was explaining what my troubles were, the doctor’s eyes occasionally moved slightly upwards just like eyes do when one laughs. I think he had a little silent giggle for himself and I noticed it, which allowed me to realise that I did some overthinking that had gone beyond the boundaries of the universe; and then the story of mine gave me a little private giggle too. We were both too polite to me to express the amusement out laud and so we sat next to each other in silence privately giggling inside our heads until he said: ‘You’ll pee into this container. The toilet is on left hand side in the corridor. When you’re back we’ll take some swabs and I’ll examine you; before you leave, my health assistant will take a blood sample from you, so you have the screen complete and don’t need to worry.’

‘Take you trousers off and lie down on the table.’ The doctor said.
‘Now I examine your stomach.’
‘Now, roll your boxers off and I’ll examine your testicles.’

I just followed the instructions and took my trousers back on within a couple of minutes.

‘Well, everything feels to be normal. It looks okay too. You don’t have to be worried.’ And then he said it: ‘In my opinion, you have been just thinking too much about the misfortune of the other guy.’

‘We are finished here. You just need to wait till my health assistant calls you for taking the blood sample. And don’t forget to call in for the results. But I think it is going to be all negative.’

The reassurance that the dick did not look ill cheered me up and on top of that my balls got cuddled. I could not get the smile off my face. Every sound was amplified, food tasted better and I felt the presence of love everywhere. That day was the one of the happiest times of my life.

The visit of the doctor calmed me down a lot, yet the ill-thoughts weren’t over. Even though the doctor said that there was nothing wrong with my dick, I couldn’t just accept it. However, what the visit gave me was a different perspective that occurred to me while I was reading The Second Sex by Simone de Beauvoir; that book was for feminists what On The Road was for hippies. She described in the historical context why women were the Others.

Nowadays the social differences between men and women are not as distinguishing as they used to be and while women in some places has eliminated themselves being labelled as the Others, groups of people living at the same places gained that label. These are the immigrants, refugees who can barely speak the native language. These people are always the evil for the native inhabitants and that makes the foreigners inferior which places them in the same position in which women used to be. In my opinion, The Second Sex is a great book that speaks about position of women in society over time but can also answer, to some extent, the modern question of a person in a foreign country who is today looked at and called the Other. Interesting fact is that the hatred comes mostly from men, and the discussion exists in society and is always negative and the media, the independent sources, call it the immigration problem which is a confirmation and typical behavioural positive reinforcement just like in the Skinner’s box.

It was somewhere between page one and two hundred where I realised that one of the Skinner’s box techniques was applied on me by myself. I lied the demon down on the table and it spread its legs in front of me as if I overdosed myself with a coffee and my daily dose of nootropics. The man, toilet, no dick, tube, me back at the table, admitting that shit happens, not sharing that experience, bad dreams, my dick falling off, doctor. It was sequential, instant and realising.

I saw another man suffering. I admitted that bad things happen. I did not tell anyone. I started suffering myself and I accepted it by the admittance that such things happen I got the positive reinforcement from my dreams, thoughts from everywhere and that led me to building new behavioural pattern which eventually the media called the dick problem which is a confirmation and typical behavioural positive reinforcement just like in the Skinner’s box. I eventually visited a doctor because I recognised my own ill-thinking.