Weightless, but for the Heavy Heart Which Waits.

The leaves outside are bustling in the wind. They are caught up in air traps and left to swirl endlessly around themselves. I am lying in bed; it's late. I am listening to the sounds of a mostly silent city. I am stretching inside my skin, wishing that I was in some other circumstance, that the night was not so close to dawn, that work was not imminent on the horizon.

This month has moved past me, motionless. I have been a specter, a silent witness to my own life. I have been staring, barely expressing a life which I am letting live itself. The leaves have almost fallen; the winter is steadily approaching. I wish I was in the mountains, the smoke of a freshly lit fire flowing above my head, the little flames popping and snapping at my feet. I wish I was walking through a beautiful vineyard, sipping wine and smiling.

I've barely begun to live a life which stretches out before me. I feel that things just move through me, sometimes. That they roll by weightless but for the heavy heart which waits. I remember many things which mostly go forgotten.

I think of specific people, of many people, and I wonder if they think of me. I compose letters to the ghosts of people I haven't seen in years, to the ancient image of them which I've fastened to myself. I know that this is read by at least one of those ethereal apparitions and I wonder if he knows me, if this blog is enough of who I am to let him know me. I suppose that the answer is yes and no. I don't talk much about Cahors or Gigondas or the deep, dark earth of France that I am knowing so intimately. I don't talk about Abbaye de Bellocq or Epoisses or any of the other cheeses which taste just like the sheep and cows and goats which eat the earth of France which I have come to know so well. I don't speak in facts or in faces. I don't speak of Confits or Cassoulets. I don't speak of the sunny Burgundian hillsides or the meaty foie gras from Bordeaux and I suppose it's just because I've never seen them. I only know them in theory and in representations. I love the Loire Valley, the stony minerality that echoes sharp and clean. I can practically imagine myself leaping across a bubbling brook.

I suppose I don't even speak of what I've learned, only what I feel. But, I have learned so much about poise and character and an actual fact rooted understanding of something most people consider so subjective.

Ah, how I love food and wine. I say as I sip my Gigondas.

I can't wait till Thursday.