Flashback

May 27, 2005. My sister just into town, skipping out on the last of the tutorial sessions on International Dispute Settlement, I found myself with added moments to spare at an email station near the Oxford Tube station, and so indulged in an email ahead, to the worker destined to begin repayment of those bills being accumulated:

8 minutes left... in the taught course of the Oxford degree, and as Kath strolls through Christ Church we sit here at the computer while grand topics such as Security Council Reform get discussed in your absence at the last IDS tutorial. Following hard on the heels of an extremely lackluster and to-be-ridiculed mock exam for old Adrian Briggs, of Spiliada fame, it is time for a month of cramming. In a few days anyway.

Back in Halifax, hunched over your MC cubicle, I want you to remember this moment though, this past half-hour at the terminal here near Gloucester Green station. Basking in the glow of Liverpool's greatest performance, the happy uncertainties that accompany thoughts of an abiding Beatles tune, anticipation of yet another encounter with the Ahab counterpart in the grandest of cities - this time armed with the good time guide. just after emailing the lovely Anna in Sweden. Oh, for more days like these.

But you are paying for them, and now owe on the return. Abdication from responsibilities must be called home at some point, and if you are reading this back on the Atlantic waterfront, that time is now. The vow is as follows: never go legally unprepared again. to a client meeting. to a partner's office. to the bar exam. and certainly, certainly to court. Strive mightily.

When you are down, dream of the future and of the past. Close your eyes and see the Cliffs of Moher, or Nelson in Trafalgar, or Dudek on the line, or Feste's house. And then the further completed Sagrada, and the canals of Venice, and the graduation ceremony of randoms in Latin many years hence. Dream of the Camino. Life needs its unfinished business. And dreams are just goals with deadlines. I'm thinking of you.

Heh. That bastard. Don't know why thoughts of this email - one sent rather obnoxiously to a future self - struck me to retrieve it this lazy afternoon. But here it is. The whole blogging indulgence remains rewarding even if its only achievement is in allowing similar frames of mind to be so freshly captured and dated for posterity. With the double meanings buried in cryptic postings sure to be forgotten in the shifting haze of time.

Ah, sweet nostalgia. But time to turn forward from the funk, toward the new adventures. This Friday sees the return of the annual Nova Scotia Liquor Commission's absurdly priced Ceilidh, or the "Scotch testing" as dad insists on calling it. A night to savour indeed, and a grand start. Then the Liberal convention at month's end and the fruition of so much of the political musings at the previous address. The delight of Montreal.

Oh, and where to run to then? The joy is in the ability and the uncertainty. Just pick, and say the word.