Whiskey for the Funky

Then you hafta write, there's not an excuse, in fact it's what's best; and it's better for you, and for us. For you must do it here for all to see and read and concur or reply.

Prescribed by the best before you or I, involves a short fat glass, and some crushed ice from the door. It must be crushed for the magic to work; must be made to melt quickly. It has to calm the burning whiskey that you pour among the loose rocks of ice.

Look close and see the bourbon melt the ice in filament thin strands of water coiling around the chunks like clear worms dropping, dodging the light and your sight, for the darkening depth of the glass. Yes, cover the ice, and stop.

Now, watch the glass sweat, wait for the ice to melt and mellow the liquor. This summer's air is wet enough to freeze on the outside of the glass yet perhaps not for you up north.

Wait and look at your blank page or screen or what ever you have to write with and think. Let the Ice do its work then grab your glass and put them to your lips, your ice and water and bourbon, but smell them too; close your eyes and touch the cold and draw them in, and taste them burn.

Now, you can start to put pen to paper, soft fingers to gentle keyboard, and bang out a chord, like music, like water it will come. And we'll be there to gather and read and feel like you do if for only a minute or two.