For those of you who take your salvation in liquid form, allow me to say this: the Elixir of Life is a crystalline concoction, served over ice, often arriving in a tall cylindrical container. It can be ordered from the old man at the Guang Hua Duong ginseng house, an establishment of ill-repute in Beijing’s Xiang Do district. It has been known to exist at the club Extinction, in West Hollywood, but you must ask for it by an alias that won’t be repeated here. In Tunis, it’s used to ward off the evil eye; in San Cristobal, it’s administered by Gnostics. And Camus consumed it in the tiny Bar Le Chiropractic, in Paris’ grimy Arabic quarter, about halfway down an alley named Rue Kerouac.Here’s what you must do if you come across it: you must cradle it. You must feel its coldness. You must consider the drink’s infinitesimal bubbles as they helix their way up, slipping past the ice as they ascend. And when the moment of inspiration arrives: drink. You will instantly feel every fiber of your body repaired, the zest of your spirit restored. You will be more refreshed than you’ve been in years.
String theory physicists have yet to explain the phenomenon. (Some of the more subversive ones have participated in it.) I happen to believe that the task of comprehending the Elixir’s nature is better undertaken by witch doctors and voodoo priests. But for someone like me -- a guy who doesn’t believe much in explication -- the Elixir is, quite simply, the sheet music to a rhythm tapped out by the liver.
This is the knowledge I impart to you.
Kindly,
Mr. Gavins
