Certain things happen on cathartic stormy nights, when drying out from hours of walking in warm, soaking rains...cheeks and shoes saturated. Clothing is pilloried on the tub and a bottle of Clos Roche Blanche 2004 Cot is uncorked. Add to it all, the Scorsese documentary, No Direction Home, and there you have it: a recipe for brilliant sentimental melancholy.
You were old enough to remember the 60’s but not old enough to have left home to swim in them, way past the point of safety. This can only be a good thing. Yet, there are the memories like some boy singing Mr. Tambourine Man and Just Like A Woman to you. Of course, too young to be a woman, you fell hopelessly in love, yet feeling forever as if your nose was (and will be) pressed to the window of history and longing for a long, long time. Realizing in youth, you wrote prose to that music --felt each word as if it would rip the arteries from your heart, painted your finest watercolors with Dylan's warbles in the willowy distance, as you questioned…..why?
Here you are decades later and there are more and more ‘whys’ including this one: "This you write about?" Mother asked, incredulous as she drank her weekly thimble full of Matuk Rouge, (soft, naturally sweet, her favorite) on a shabbos afternoon.
"Wine?" She repeats. "Wine? This is important? This is a life?"
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