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| Glenfarclas 1990 |
The moon
rises, night is settling over life, into the glass viscously flows the precious
oil even darker, spreads into your heart and thoughts. In the background Amy
Winehouse whispers 'Blaaack, Black,
black. This is what I live for, that is
what I’m looking for, this is what I give the shirt off my back for, I'm
addicted to this dark mysterious potion. To get excited about it ---is a
loosing game. Should I go to Rehab But I say nooo, no, no...The ritual must
begin, let go of all thoughts. Inhale, exhale, the price! Okey - that's
seppuku, doing it later. As Amy performs in top form, the GF1990 S22 calms down
in the glass, watching humbly and knowingly. Preparing my palate with the
GF1991 S22, an incredibly elegant malt, but the GF1990 is a completely different
world, speaking of my astral journey is about to begin. How quickly 3 hours can
pass, but I can't think of any terms for this. From a rating beyond 96, my
olfactory cortex refuses to connect with the honourable cognitive lobes. Neocortex, amygdala, striatum in top form,
but the cerebral cortex is awash with Wittgensteinian neurotransmitters, which
I can't talk about, shall I keep quiet. There's enough dopamine - if it weren't
for seppuku, which brings tears
to my eyes and makes my D-level drop. The nose:
a haiku, incomprehensible yet beautiful, mysterious and captivating. Today I
could die - I will, later. What's keeping me in this world, anyway? Amy did
everything right. Wait! A drop of this heavenly drink holds me, says: Stay!
Mouth: When Bodhisattvas declare enlightenment - a koan. The finish is sweet
poison, eternally long, every millisecond a universe passes, the Almighty
touches your heart - all will be well. The closer you get to the magic mark of
100, everything dissolves into blurriness, Heisenberg sends his regards,
Schrödinger drinks with his cat. Causality no longer exists; I name dried
porcini mushrooms, dark fruit, but these are just letters - don't come close to
reflecting what I feel. I write toffee and tobacco in the nose, dark chocolate
in the mouth and espresso in the finish. But I couldn't 
have found more irrelevant
words. How do you describe a symphony in A minor and D major at the same time,
piano and forte, largo and presto? Filigree strings despite timpani and
trumpets, melancholy oboe accompanied by sad clarinets, double basses massive,
violin gossamer and a timidly plucked guitar and harp complete the picture.
Every day different, every day a new page. Now and then a soprano belts out an
aria. Amy is quiet now. The glass is empty. Somewhere in the house, Einaudi Una
Mattina. Life, sometimes sad, goes on after all. "I don't ever wanna drink
again I just, ooh, I just need a friend." - Amy Winehouse
97 ( - 98)/ 100