We all make mistakes. Verbal miscues. We just don’t all admit to making them. I have made a few in the past weeks and I’m just now beginning to realize that under the circumstances they weren’t that major. The world didn’t end, split open, and spew out hot splashes of fiery retribution by the other party. Life went on. It always seems to. The papers are filed with the atrocities of mass murder and mayhem and then on the next page there are stories of new electronic gizmos that will again take our minds away from the next splatter of homicidal horror.
And so it is with the gravitational circulation of cigars and how they enter and leave the world. What seems to be a tragedy one moment is overshadowed by the birth of another blend that will surely cover over the ersatz notoriety of the first. It’s life and death. Of everything. A smidgen of this and a scatter of that and with it a swirl of the moisture of life’s blood and you have a situation that will last for a brief moment and then dissipate into the darkness only to be brightened by the next wave of “new.”
Are they mistakes? No they are attempts by homo sapiens to get into their inner selves. And at times we do what might be termed the right way and other times we do what others may consider the wrong way. But the fact remains, we are all trying to be who we are. To be able to get up in the morning and realize we have chinks in our armor and that we are not ashamed of the blemishes.
Sales is the greatest reflection of how a man or a woman handle themselves. And if he or she is honest, gut honest to the core – they will be the most sincere individuals you will ever meet. If they are bathed in self-honesty. Sales is what everyone does everyday. Oh, you may think you’re above others being a doctor, a lawyer, a professor, or a banker. But in every one of the latter professions the work gets done by selling.
The doctor sells personality and knowledge, the lawyer, his experience, a professor his mastery of a subject, and the banker his prowess with numbers. The recipient of these notions is either a believer or not. The gray sale is made up of billions of shades of truth.
That’s why the cigar broker is so much like the Chinese Century egg or Pidan. He has broken down the complexity of the presentation creating a conversation of the variety of observations and information allowing insight into some of the more intricate flavors of the blend. He has little to do with regards to the sale. Oh, sure he or she (now I bring them together) can be all of the above, and spit-polished in every characteristic. But the cigar? It just sits there. It waits to be put ablaze, drawn upon – and this is where sales means absolutely nothing – it’s neither good nor bad. No hazy blurs, no snide-looking sneers glancing the other way. It’s bitters or it’s chocolates. The cigar is the one thing the broker has that cannot be misconstrued – or mistaken. It is certitude. The broker may make a human error, but the cigar reveals its authenticity – its truth.
And, as is said in John 8:32 “Then you will know the truth and the truth will set you free.”
Ah, life is good. Even when mixed up with the negative, asinine, preposterous pusillanimous bullshit that’s shoddily shmeared over each and every day by men and women. A slip of the tongue. As long as we have an azimuth of direction (our soul?) that orientation will take us higher than any now legal joint or illegally, chopped granulated street drug ever will. It’s the cigar that shows us the way – right through all those so-called catholic mistakes.
I’m going to light up a cigar right now and, ahem, prove my point. Again. Perfection does not exist. Forgive me.
(An extended period of time has passed.)
I’m back. Quite a pleasure. That.