goin’ for the gold. no Olympic sports involved.

Rye whiskey to the rescue.

Well, not entirely.

I, however, can be found this moment sitting at my writing table with a fresh bottle of Old Overholt on the right corner and a large shot glass bearing the Deschutes Brewery logo in my right hand. When I'm not typing.

Damn, I gots to get me some straws!

Not that I need an occasion to drink whiskey.Today, however, I have one. Two, actually, if you count the repair-rebirth of my laptop.

I've completed, and dispatched through the cyberspace airwaves, a letter of introduction, accompanied by materials of a writing nature, to the career opportunity that's been dangling before me like the carrot to the horse this past week. The carrot I couldn't get to because — tada, thump — the hard drive turned toast.

I'd attempted drafts through the laptop/life chaos. Each time I thought I'd written something decent, I'd return to it the next day finding that it sucked.

Okay. Maybe not totally suck. I am though a perfectionist and my own worst critic. Bar none. Plus my bar is at an insanely high level. And because this particular work opportunity is so aligned with the direction I'm seeking and desiring, giving voice in my words was paramount.

And, after an entire afternoon of attentive yet relaxed writing, that's been achieved, I reckon.

Thus the rye. In celebration of the flowing laptop and flowing words and, I daresay, a voice, my voice, carried within them. Like the air on the feathers of a bird in flight. Like the water washing over the gills of a fish. Like, well, you gather the analogy.

I raise a toast.
To me, for a happy and peaceful completion of today's work.
To helpers above.
To Mark, who restored life to the laptop and by default also to me.
To my good readers.
As well as to Abraham Overholt, who, with his brother Christian, in 1810 birthed an elixir of sorts.
Here then too to magic potions.

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