August 10 2011
I’m not even 40. Yet, every year (and since the recession more than once a year), I get a stroke of contemplative melancholy that lasts as little as a day and often longer than that.
It’s not depression, nor is it even a crisis in the, “Buy a two-door red car and a pair of hip jeans” kind of way, but, more importantly it’s about, “What the hell am I doing with my life?”
Sometimes it’s precipitated by the absolute inanity of work and office politics – people that would rather look good then be good or the office drone that views the world so narrowly and rigidly through her own rose-colored glasses that she can’t possibly empathize with another’s viewpoint.
I have a rough go of it sometimes with these white knucklers who cling so desperately to a false truth of right or wrong and perceived security.
Then, I go online for some mental respite and I hit the wine blogosphere and see the same goddamn conversation going on (and on…) about scores and points or Parker and suddenly what brings me joy turns into déjà vu all over again.
What this leads me to is a desire to channel my inner Buddhist and chuck the trappings of a material life, head out to a cabin in the woods with a laptop, a stash of wine and a vegetable garden in order to create something new, unique and powerful; something real: a piece of art as I know it, words on figurative paper. I want to create something that’s not a critique of something or somebody that has already created their own value, nor a piece of work that is dependent on somebody else’s expectations. Something that just…is…
Through this, I think I understand the affinity people feel for natural wine. In a world in which our inherent truth is a derivative of the expectations others have of us and, by proxy, the expectations we’ve subsumed for our own life, the rootedness, the anchor that we can find is in rejoicing in the simple beauty of something that is principally unadultered, a respite from the hair shirt that is life – wine that is barely shepherded from vine to glass and an idle idyll.
Or, this might be just me.