High on the mountain

Some days there is nothing to do here. Or at least nothing gets done. It’s profitable to remember your myth and carry on even if that means climbing up the road to Roqueronde to score some high grade local product. You know it’s not the best thing to be doing with your scarce resources and borderline state of mental health. You persuade yourself that at least it gets you out of the house and into the exterior world. It does. The road that climbs up the mountainside is only less dizzying in relation to the descent, but there is almost no one else on the road and the views down into the cirque below are spectacular in all senses.

They said in the provinces, on the out lining edges of the empire, that the land was sunny and cheap. The way of living was easy and one could eat from a table of plenty. In a way that was all true. But there are other truths they didn’t talk about. They didn’t talk about the solitude and despair of distance, and so neither will I, but only because they both seem best out-fitted in silence. It’s just to say that whether your going from JFK to Charles de Gaule on air france or from Rome to le Gaul on the via Dominitia, your home is a long way away.

The ride up the hill was a success. We met on a road above the forest. We talked, smoked, then hunted down some mushrooms. Cepe du chataigne, not the top, but not too bad either, and they were plentiful, lightly toasted brown colors, sometimes with streaks the color of dried blood red. The ride down was like a private carnival ride of grand scale. There are moments when we forget ourselves, and the petite psychological pains we nourish.