A human spirit bottled at wrong proof

Спирты и спириты. Что нас питает. Как нас разливают.
_________

They would always say…
“Can I help you with anything?”
Some would ask a question in return. Some would shake their heads. Some may just pretend, they don’t listen. Me? I take a tour through human spirit by dis-balancing the core.
Show me your spirit.
The BEST of your SPIRIT, at BEST.

Which one do you choose? A lighter beer or stout, or cider, crispy and unfiltered, doux or brut. A sparkling wine, with dizzy fizziness it brings, uncorked and drank in volumes, hard to follow. A special red or white, original Rioja or Veneto, some mourvedre for a spicy foulbrood, or chenin blanc to let the fruitiness inside you. Sweet, porto, sherry, masala? You know, you can take as many as you like to fill the spirit and fulfill to be unique. Then, there’s a harder stuff, from bitters to tequilas, aquavits, grain, scotch, fruit distillates. Who are you then? What is your spirit spirited with, anyway?
No wonder, many are confused, just like you now, to answer the question directly. When you’re given the whole pattern, with plenty of spirits you have never tasted or heard yet, the original pattern you told anyone doesn’t add any value to the spirit you hold, anymore. Leaving behind the prohibited and potentially venomous stuff, which many tribes of filth and grim perversions mended to the very opposite of perfection drink to bring the wraith; there are spirits that may be the ones of your core, and you are not complete until tried them.
Some, however, might stick to their pattern. Their spirit is POOR.   

Shall we take you, yes, you, the guy with blonde hair, fancy cut, badly shaved though, fine jacket, probably, a lawyer, with a slightly twinkling left eye and a two-year old Swatch on the right wrist, which hand is firmly placed over a suitcase with the work of his life, which are papers and accuses, mostly. He’s not very friendly, not harsh, though, browsing chaotically through the shelves stuffed with brandy, apparently the fundamental spirit of himself. What could be the others?

“A sip of brandy after hard day’s job would never hurt, I reckon.” That’ll be me.
“Ah… yeaahh…” At least he said something, he knows I’m here.
“Is there anything else that could please your palate?”
“Oh… well… I drink wine sometimes…”
“Let me guess. White, mostly dry and Italian. Riesling. And classics, of course. Sauvignon.”
“That is right!” He was looking at me, now the dialogue started. “Can you guess anything else about me?”
“See, you’re not a fan of scotch, but you never tried one that you would like. Also, there’s a tiny chance of you being accustomed to the Belgian cherry ale, and fruit spirits, like grappa. Not a fan of grain, am I correct?” I was on fire.
“Correct! But, what about that scotch which I could like?” The fish got on the hook.
“Please, let me show.”

His name was Colin. He had two children and divorced; ironically to a lawyer, his wife humped to another lawyer, who – more ironically – led the divorce process. Since then, Colin got a habit of everyday brandy, a half of a bottle or less. He couldn’t drink more than a half, had some physical issues of just not being able to cross that line. And more, he wouldn’t drink another half the next day. The half-brandy bottles were just resting in his improvised bar-shelf, and only when the shelf was over-crowded, he would pour one half into another, finish but the half, throw the empty one away. I believe, you wonder, yes, he drank the same brand all the time, name Capa Negro. He told, he loved the mysterious figure in cape, the image of brand, dreamed he could have been like that. Which is obvious for a desperate person, who lived alone, broken after the love is gone, and seen his children only for some weekends. A hero or a dreamer one becomes, like this, or finishes himself to the wrong finish.

The word spirit is either a DRINK or a SPIRIT. Spirits we, the spirits, drink.

“There you are.” I handed him over the bottle of a winy single malt, a womanly bottle with elegant waist and a graceful neck one’d love to hold to. I could see in his eyes, it reminded him his wife and all those passions he lived through, when lost her.
The spirit he managed to balance, yet noticeably hardly, got dis-balanced and revealed the core of fading man, who may just weeks or months later just vanish, with no purpose, to the soil. That I couldn’t let.
“Glenmorangie Lasanta. Aged in Oloroso sherry casks. A fruity scotch with dried grapes on the mouth and the scent of cherry hope on the nose. An aftertaste of chocolate fondue licked off the lips of your perfection.”
“The lips?” My last phrase grappled his attention. “The lips of my perfection…”


A body with a spirit don’t just drink.
But craves for a SPIRITUAL CONNECTION to the drink. 

Colin revealed the core of fading man, who may just weeks or months later just vanish, with no purpose, to the soil. That I couldn’t let. If brandy was his fundamental spirit, that just got him standing on the ground, and wine was something he’d agree to in the company of clients or what-so, the spirit that could bring him back to the picturesque connection to the passion, love, have not been found, yet. Until he came to me. The light within his eyes made his three essential spirits complete, which made just the right time for being bottled.

Unfortunately, many and many of men roam the world (or whatever they feel to believe) at wrong proof. Un-aged, lousy bottled, the wrong shapes. They try their skins off to bring themselves into the right: clothe, bathe, booze, wed, fuck. They rise with great ambitions, but an hour since they bog down to self-pity and despair, which resonates in once again crusade for the right: dresses, resorts, liquors, rituals, screw-ups. Before they even know, everyone has got its pattern, which, eventually, is the same for all. The distillery of heaven ‘ve gotten reckless. I don’t savour their brands anymore.

Colin, he will be spirited soon enough to loosen the cork and let him climb out of his spirited passion, renewed with a finish of fruitiness he lacked to be happy in life. Another Colin might need him right then, on the edge of disaster. There are so many Colins out there. Some day they will be one with their Spirit. Yet, there many more SPIRITS to find.   

The individual body doesn’t mean the sole spirit.
WE ARE SPIRITED MANY a part.

_________

He aged to the right proof in that bottle.
On the 29th day of the moon.

29\23/09/14