Some years and months ago, spirit was distilled and reckoned good enough to be put into an oak cask with heavy char. It would sit and breathe in the goings-on around it and would record the disturbances and actions taking place in its vicinity; imbuing those perturbations into the liquid held inside.
Some disturbances reach further with their ripples than others. An oversized truck barreling down a road adjacent to the rick-house would send its vibrations into the spirit coaxing the precious liquid further into the oak. A particularly cold winter that out-does the heating capacity of the building will force the wood to contract and expel some of its saturation, slowing the hard-won progress until warmth returns to the cockles of the stout 200 liter barrel, allowing absorption like the embrace of a long not seen friend.
The maturation process also keeps secrets. A late night tryst between distiller and visitor. A juxtaposition of senses: for the distiller the visitor is all long blonde hair and blue eyes to see and rough much pocked hands running over intoxicating smoothness to touch. The barrel becomes party to them as much needed support, the aroma of the visitor permanently etched into the rough surface as the slow inhalation of its surroundings continues. Muted are the complaints in reaction to a small travesty as an errant thrust dislodges the bung from its hole, irrevocably changing the course of the whisky’s history by prematurely exposing it to the open air. Its revenge, though not malicious in nature, is to lose a greater percentage of its volume, that is greater appeasement of the angels that continuously take their share. It will be noted on a spreadsheet in some years time by the distiller and the tax man. The visitor who languished so sensuously and briefly on the barrel will have long since removed the dust and soot inherent to aging casks and the offense of it long forgotten. The distiller filed in the visitors memory under the heading, interesting-setting-but-mediocre-lover.
Some years even further from that time someone might comment that that particular batch of whisky had some hint of longing, sweet misery, and playful boyishness. Perhaps, a combination of extra oxidization and a spike in evaporation, but really it is the maturation process’ secret laid bare for all to see.
Once finally emptied, the cask would still remember its liquid mate. Bathed in it for many years it would be hard to forget. Some time later after sitting and slowly expelling the memories it would be sent somewhere else. A new mate, but with different purpose. New disturbances and once again the bonding and percolation of history into the new spirit. A more focused distiller to be sure, but missed are the late night visits and feelings of uniqueness that it had once enjoyed. Before, one of a hundred, now; one of thousands and thousands. No more touches, slaps, or caresses. A more modern facility and so too are absent the vibrations from nearby trundling trucks, or cold winters to weather, or impromptu use as a lover’s surface.
Instead, many years of the same. Temperature controlled and visits few and far in-between. Solitude and pensiveness as spirit and oak mingle, still too the old spirit echoing forward in the future. Much longer this time until the barrel spear comes. The whisky this time does not raise any eyebrows from distiller or tax man. Gone are the notes of longing and playfulness; replaced instead, by notes of measured fortitude, patience, and as one drinker would note a by-the-numbers-whisky that pleases and reassures.
Once again shipped to parts unknown. This time a small cooperage. A fire built for a viking funeral. The farm hands, the pall bearers, are not gentle and with rough hands and rough tools they bring the barrel, bereft of its heads, to the fire’s edge. They scour the inside with sanders and plannars and the cask marvels as it feels the layers of char stripped away to reveal heretofore oak not touched by the light of day or the wetness of whisky. Then unto the pyre tossed to sit for some long seconds. Heavy char. But where there should be excruciating pain there is instead a renewed sense of usefulness. Removed from the flame and heads restored, a gleaming question forms in the barrel’s mind: “What next could I be?”
The Lunar Speakeasy 