A thirst

or, a brief description of a whisky

Well, that makes no real sense, but neither does me making a substack, but here I am, probably like a million others, hoping to pen some words, write some non-wisdom, muse over something or just simply dissolve into a desire to escape a kind of vapid apathy and resort to thinking It’s January, so fuck it! But it’s essentially February now, and Feb’s the shortest month and so we might as well say we’re two twelths through the year already and maybe summer is dwindling or—if you’re lucky to be a North-hemi in the Northern hemisphere by March—perhaps you’re staring at trees and asking them just how soon their blossom can arrive so you can cling to the notion that winter might be over and spring is coming or oh yes it’s already here and I can taste it.

That’s me, normally, come September in Melbourne, treating the months like they’re days of the week. Summer becomes the Sunday, lamenting the proximity of winter’s Monday. Idiot.

That’s all digression. A passage in for the wary reader, one cautious of just what they’re queuing for—I’ve no idea, sorry. There’s no sign. I’ve just opened a window and wondered what it would be like to do this, so I’m going to do it, even if just for me. And by do it, I mean penning:

• thoughts on stuff, probably mostly books and my dreams; there’s always been lot of weird dreams and this year I’m determined to capture them as they vie for freedom

• writing, sometimes serious; a drip-feed of chapters from a larger narrative, or a short story, or a grander idea, or a place for me to dump ideas if only to soundboard against the clik-clak of my keys and the in-all-honesty-rather-nice typeface and layout that this editor has

• happenings, the passage of time and season and place, maybe a picture or a thing, I dunno… we’ll see

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I’ve been reading Bret Easton Ellis’ new book, The Shards. I’m not ready to talk about that yet—mostly because I haven’t finished it—but I’m reminded of how much I love Bret’s writing, even if he pushes boundaries into graphic detail of scenes that I’ve never needed graphic detail on. But often it’s the details of the minutiae that pull me in. Clothes. Music. Drinks. Things that don’t really matter, but do, because that’s the whole of the world that his characters reside in.

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The whisky is a Taketsuru pure malt, named after Nikka’s founder Masataka Taketsuru. It tastes like someone has taken a scoop of fine honey, lightly roasted it and then melted that honey down into a more liquidy-liquid, lacing it with a subtle overtone of flame caught on the wisp of dawn.

Could I attempt writing about a whisky like Bret? Is that what this substack is destined to become? A place where I take a thing and I try to ape some of my favourite authors?

The rest of that evening was spent idly sipping my way through a bottle of Taketsuru whisky my wife had bought me for a birthday several years ago. A playlist of Ultravox, R.E.M and The Clash piped its way out of my speakers in the open lounge, a soundtrack I’d never been able to let go of and one that always reminded me of those nights as a late-stage teenager. The whisky had been in the cupboard next to a range of others, including an expensive single malt that somehow hadn’t ever been opened. I selected the Taketsuru out of preference, but was annoyed at how little was left and I found couldn’t focus, instead just staring at the keys whilst I drank, replaying what I’d said last night over again in my mind. In between, I was savouring the smooth honeyed flavour and extensive, refined finish. Taketsuru is a rare whisky—I was never really a fan of it before travelling to Japan but there I realised others tried to imitate its flavour, its nuance, its ability to create a specific mouthfeel. Once I did realise, I came to understand the art and precision that Masataka and the Nikka company have created. It’s truly a great whisky.

A whisky bar we visited in Kyoto, Japan, exactly 1395 days ago. You can just about make out the bottles on the shelf.