I've been dipping into this wonderful wine blog that makes me rue my current beeraciousness and finely fuels my growing desire to do that thing.
Y'know, that thing - in which my world reverts back to the rhythm of windy vineyard springs and the crush and the release and the burst of tipsy weddings over a few dizzy months. Summer days spent in the cool womb of an oaky cellar, listening to the slap of my sandals against the stone floor as I smell the inexorable push of the wine on the old wood. Everyone loves cheese; everyone cooks; everyone wants to come with us to the grass under the big oak tree, pluck at a bottomless basket of treats, and tell stories - 'cause we use real glass on picnics here, and there's this great new bottle from the fella up the road.
What if everything changed? What if I really wanted it to? What if I didn't stop it?
I'm sad about the persistence of rain. Actually, I'm bummed that I'm sad about it. Wasn't there a point when I was one of those people who loved rain?
Oh, yeah. That was in Panama. And it was warm.
I miss you, tropical thunderstorms. And coatis. And ferry trips.
I'm a war of head versus heart. It's always this way: my head is weak; my heart always speaks before I know what it will say.