I am thinking over the words holy Gregory used to describe us poor men, “great in our littleness”, or something to that effect. He was on to something of course, not least in the fact that we are often very, very terrible in our greatness. We shaved and senseless apes have a charm to our inabilities and a terrifying murderous bent to our abilities.
What this has to do with whiskey of course (let the reader understand) is supremely clear to those of illumined mind, and hopelessly obscure to those whose thoughts are still bound to dark and heavier things.
After drinking a godawful amount of the worst beer man has ever cursed the earth with (and I shan’t even speak its name here, no, some wicked sounds are better left unarticulated) I turn happily to Bulleit (pronounced as any good American would say “Bullet”). Two fingers, one cube. I sit on the couch next to the lady. Her mind is in middle-earth. Mine, in Cappadocia. It is the likely that the two shall never meet on this earth, yet we religious folk are supposed to me marked by our hope. Well, I hope.
I must admit that I am well aware of a certain fasting season soon approaching (its drums –heard now faintly from the distance- are as the drums of doom). I’ll have to choose between my religion and my drink. What a pitiful test of a pitiful taste. Some He asked to be crucified, others he asked to be outcasts. What is being asked of me now? The occasional cessation of a pleasant habit? But is it more than this? Has my life so lost any bearing that it is now drifting around in the absurd oceans of meaning which drink alone has undergirded?
Only the Lord knows and he’s not saying a word. Perhaps he’s saving me the embarrassment.
What this has to do with whiskey of course (let the reader understand) is supremely clear to those of illumined mind, and hopelessly obscure to those whose thoughts are still bound to dark and heavier things.
After drinking a godawful amount of the worst beer man has ever cursed the earth with (and I shan’t even speak its name here, no, some wicked sounds are better left unarticulated) I turn happily to Bulleit (pronounced as any good American would say “Bullet”). Two fingers, one cube. I sit on the couch next to the lady. Her mind is in middle-earth. Mine, in Cappadocia. It is the likely that the two shall never meet on this earth, yet we religious folk are supposed to me marked by our hope. Well, I hope.
I must admit that I am well aware of a certain fasting season soon approaching (its drums –heard now faintly from the distance- are as the drums of doom). I’ll have to choose between my religion and my drink. What a pitiful test of a pitiful taste. Some He asked to be crucified, others he asked to be outcasts. What is being asked of me now? The occasional cessation of a pleasant habit? But is it more than this? Has my life so lost any bearing that it is now drifting around in the absurd oceans of meaning which drink alone has undergirded?
Only the Lord knows and he’s not saying a word. Perhaps he’s saving me the embarrassment.
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