“Through the performance process itself, what is normally sealed up, inaccessible to everyday observation and reasoning, in the depth of sociocultural life, is drawn forth” as Victor Turner writes in From Ritual To Theater. Purchased this particular Laphroaig Càirdeas at the distillery and I’ve been looking forward to opening canister and bottle and exploring its … Continue reading Laphroaig Càirdeas 15 With The Right Amount Of Ritual And Discipline.
You could read the words of Simone Veil from Gravity and Grace, Let the soul of the man take the whole universe for its body. Let its relation to the whole universe be like that of a collector to his collection, or one of the soldiers who died crying out “Long live the Emperor!” to … Continue reading “I/Thou” Walking Into The World As Such With Simone Weil, Aldo Leopold, Wendell Berry And Thales While Listening to Sviatoslav Richter, Jeremy Denk And Igneous Rocks.
A walk up a hill on Islay to the Kilbride Reservoir, the source of water for Laphroaig’s mash tuns and washbacks. Water scooped into a glass that already looks like a pour of Laphroaig with all the light brown sediment and small dark bits and pieces swimming and churning in peat-flavored H2O. But for now … Continue reading Walking Up A Hill On Islay To A Standing Stone With A Requiem On Earth And On The Moon.
As I write this the Stromboli volcano off the coast of Sicily has been spewing smoke, gas, bits of the inner earth, molten material overall into the air and sea. Columns and plumes of smoke, mushrooms and horses’ heads speak primal warnings to us that something from below has risen. Reminders that under the appearances … Continue reading Some Thoughts About Volcanoes, Emily Dickinson, Peat And Burning-Places, Martin Heidegger At Home With Tools, And William Blake’s Marriage While Tool Breathes.
Let’s begin with Andrew Jefford’s words at the opening of his chapter on Laphroaig in his wondrous tome Peat Smoke And Spirit. LAPHROAIG (pronounced ‘La-froig‘) is both savage and pretty. Yes, that’s it. He goes on, of course. Savage, for its malt encapsulates better than any other the aerial boisterousness of this edge of the … Continue reading The Hollow Of Broadbay With Claude Debussy Dreaming About Black Stuff And Marija Gimbutas While Watching Barley Raked Across A Room Dance With Arnold Schoenberg In An Analog World By The Sea. So Let’s Make It Real With A Deep Drink Of Miles Davis’ Sanctuary.
We’re told where we’ll end up. In the warehouse surrounded by oak barrels aging smoked, fermented and distilled barley. We’ll gather in a half circle facing our tour guide as she tells us what’s about to pass our lips. Crossing through doorways, entering rooms and worlds we usually don’t see, usually don’t walk into and … Continue reading Turning And Turning In The Ardbeg Labyrinth, While Mulling Over Psychoanalysis And Alchemy, Distillation And Nuages, Yeast And An Equation, Pacific Northwest Forests And Weird Sisters, W.B. Yeats’ Visions, Haggis And Neeps, And Finally A Snake Devouring Its Own Tail Grooving To Funkadelic.
Though James Joyce’s Ulysses properly begins with, Stately, plump Buck Mulligan came from the stairhead, bearing a bowl of lather on which a mirror and a razor lay crossed. A yellow dressinggown, ungirdled, was sustained gently behind him on the mild morning air. He held the bowl aloft and intoned: —Introibo ad altare Dei . (3) … Continue reading Eating Ulysses. Bloom Balls.