It’s strangely compelling how ready we are as a collective human race to embrace the idea of crisis. My social media feeds are clogged up with an outpouring of quaint platitudes about the joys of staying in, slowing down and looking inward. As though we can’t do those things until the forests are on fire or huge swathes of people start dropping dead from a deadly contagious virus.
I’ve also seen some very cute memes about kindness and singing and balconies — oh the humanity of it all! — but the standout content was a story about drunk elephants that turned out to be fake.
In times like these, my farming friends’ wares suddenly increase in value. For a little while, everyone will be an expert on the fragility of our industrial farming system (hint: it’s fragile) and start showing up at the farmers market.
Let’s go!, they say. Everyone is planting a veggie garden while also stripping the shelves bare of those shitty pre-made pasta sauces and toilet paper.
It’s a reset!, they say, utterly convinced that they will continue to tend to their veggie garden and bake pies once they must haul their macbooks back to their city offices.
What a wonderful time to rearrange the closet, they say. I’ve always wanted to make a quilt/make a milk jug out of clay/build a dog house/watch paint dry.
Please forgive me, but all I can think is, pass me the wine and leave me alone on the couch to sink into oblivion. While I am usually very much up for a cathartic collective renewal, rebirth theme I just can’t seem to get into it this time. I think I’m just too tired to buy in.
In my workplace each and every surface is sanitised over and over and over again. Casual staff are wandering about wondering how much longer they will be able to do so. Restaurants are shutting their doors as we speak, hospitality and small business owners pushed to their wits end in a mere matter of days. There’s no job to work anymore, no work from home for them.
Business as usual for all, but particularly the hospitality and tourism industry, is cancelled for now and perhaps for longer than we expect. Bars and restaurants, the essential and most suitable setting in which to experience the end of the world, are not able to offer their usual safe harbour for weary hearts and minds.
If we cannot cry into our negronis and stuff beautifully crafted food into our mouths while the world crumbles around us, what is the point of another crisis-inducing life-time defining crucial apocalyse?
It’s the end of the world as we know and I am not feeling fine or like engaging in any sort of constructive hobby. Pass the orange wine please, I’ll be on the couch staring at my phone and waiting for your whassap message.
I’ll even suggest some wine and reading pairings on request x