Sifting Through the Fine Red Dust

So far, 2011 has become an extended road trip. Work related events have taken me on the road most of the year. Italy, New Orleans, New York, Dallas, Baton Rouge, Friuli, Austin, Aubrey, Berkeley, Napa, Veneto, Arkansas, Paris, Bordeaux, the Langhe, Buffalo Gap, Texas. It just keeps getting better.

I know there are those out there who tire of the constant barking of the poodles, the bloggers, whether it be about wine or the next great meal one just had. For me too, sometimes, it does seem like one long tome in self aggrandizement. Remember, it is a (b)log. And it is voluntary reading. But from the traffic spikes, it seems someone out there likes these on-the-road rants.

I’m home. Setting up in my bed. Comfortable. Stillness. Still Spring in Texas, although the wind outside is doing its best to propel Summer into the scenario. Have at it Pazuzu, bring Nusku with you. Give it your best shot.

What can we do? Time is limited. 97 years isn’t enough, according to my mom. So ultimately, we lose. In the meantime, are we here to be a door stop? To live in fear from the banking and bureaucratic overlords who seek immortality in a spread sheet? They have the drawn the same card, whether they know how to divine the meaning or not. That’s their problem.

On the long drive home from a dusty, windy, smoky West Texas, I thought about the rest of my life. There is less of it than there was 20 years ago. But it still is now. As it always has been. The hair is thinner and greyer, the eyesight is weaker. The face has more wrinkles. The knees are sorer. But what can you do? Pretend the last 20-40-60 years didn’t happen?

I observed a woman at one of the events over the weekend. She was in her 60’s. Wearing a push up bra and a short skirt. An ample woman. A woman of many passions. A woman for whom time has been just but not kind. But I don’t think she sees that in the mirror. I don’t know what she sees, but I rather imagine her glancing quickly into her magic mirror and seeing a 20 year old. Blond, tall, lean, with a great body and a flashy smile with red painted lips. All God given. And that is where she has set the dial and kept it. Who knows, maybe that’s her survival mechanism?

I see it more with women than with men, although I think men have their ways of avoiding the tally. A little dye here, a tuck in there. Get a new young (blond) wife, a black Lamborghini speedster, and a thick exotic leather wallet to buy all the shiny new things to distract one from the abyss. I get it. The Cheshire cat maneuver.

Where are we going? Who knows? Words like the red West Texas dust, swirling little fine particles, floating and sinking into crevices. A century or two later, someone pokes a vine stick into the earth, and grapes spring forth. Someone gets the idea to crush those grapes and make them into some tasty juice with a kick. And then the music starts up and the dance floor starts revolving and babies get conceived and rabbits die and all from the dusty residue of a million words scattered across earth by the mighty wind.

Ain’t life grand?

written and photographed by Alfonso Cevola limited rights reserved On the Wine Trail in Italy