The information receptacle that is the gray matter between yer ears can get turn into a boggy wasteland when trying to digest dense arrays of knowledge. The acidic seep that mushes and absorbs experience and then relates the outside world to yer inner self is a porous gauze that often needs re-bandaging.
There would appear then, to be some wild and destructive relationship between Foucault and what is colloquially known as, SuperJubel. Each labyrinthine sentence (ahem, paragraph) the Frenchman composes ushers your free hand closer and closer to that dark void of liquid inside yer growler.
Once you cross that threshold, there’s no turning back. The sheriff’s posse is hot on yer tail and even neighborly Natives’ bows and arrows can’t buy you the time you need before succumbing to yer fate.
Resign without fear because your head muscle’s knots will erode and untie as you bathe your insides with SuperJubel. But don’t try to overanalyze the flavors and smells you encounter or you’ll ruin the relaxing massage as this beer coats your receptors. It’s like learning to take a punch: the only way to feel anything after practice is moderation.
Muffled explosions will occur in places you least expect as you sip this one in gracefully. The ability to order your thoughts will evaporate—leaving you only to realize yer already dehydrating.
Each tastes is revelatory and gives cause to cautious pondering like skipping stones across a glassy lake. In the mountains. In December. Somehow.
-Pedro Wooly
- 12.18.10
