The Famous Literary Group

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This website is written by diverse community of people.

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, Allegories, Satire
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 end it and separate. The relationship changes and so the conditions in its environment.

+ Imagine, two stars colliding into each other. Both of those objects have gravity as a property; and gravity is emotions. Should the objects collide, the gravity of the objects merge. The new gravitational field of the collided objects determines the movements of the passing objects. Should you pull them apart i.e. separate them, 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 unique 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 the lowest possible pitch 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, to go 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.

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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.