Bottle No. B 472997 JW

4 minutes to Egypt and the Pyramids crossing yet another threshold. Second glass of the most memorable warm-up liquid to any new year. Coltrane and Heinlein also close, and the damn Giants for once didn't give up the final TD drive.

This eve brings, as always, its reflections (3..2...1... Happy New Year, Cairo!) Still haven't memorized those poems, dissected that religious literature, run the 1/2 marathon, sought out the theatrical audition. Only now getting to that a-promised bottle. And, perhaps most hilariously, failed to avoid Europe's clarion call and making the return.

The past several days, I have thought up many new eclectic resolutions, beginning with the perfect surprise of the gratis Louis XIII. But rather than list them direct and watch them be slowly sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought over the coming months, let us follow a more natural course and note them as they pass. Imbue each day with thoughts of potentialities. Flights, fancies, delights. The unexpected. The world's marvels within the oyster's grasp. Yes, let that be your last wish of 2006. Not the most perfect of years, granted. But consider: the first glimpses of the Lincoln Memorial and the Smithsonian's gallery of firsts in flight on that windswept February day; walking for the first time amidst the magnetic Savannah Moss, not knowing that the lost camera was in the process of discovery and eventual return by the truest of Southern gentlemen; the first ascent of Maui's Haleakala, in the heaviest of fog, only guaranteeing a return; the mailing of the Munchen trenchcoat, after another stroll through Theresienweiss preparations two years on; another Oktoberfest with Gatts in Seattle and another drubbing of the G-men amidst daydreams in the brightest of suns outside Qwest; an Old Triangle turned German oompa band 17 hour St. Pat's...; Madison Square, Drowsy Chaperone, and a Shears NYC wedding (then there were fewer); Lucky Ron, the W club, Dueling Pianos; the first of many Krapp-like birthday tapes to come; attendance at my mother's mother's 80th in St. John's and father's fathers' 90th two weeks apart in St. John's and Windsor, NS, respectively - then the scare and valiant recovery of my marvelous grandfather that continues on; the job and call to the bar, never critical in the long-run but clarifying for now; and maybe as vital and revealing as all, ever more constant reminders of the inevitability of Samarkand. Soon.

Much awaits in 2007. That's the story for a new day, a new year. So what am I to do, to keep the sky so blue? Keep on keepin' on, is all. And keep those thumbs held.

Au revoir, 2006. Thanks for the memories.

One Other Gaudy Night

Only a few short hours before 2006 fades into memory, as anticipation builds for a bold and brilliant 2007. The plan is to start it well, with oysters and johnny walker blue and haggis, with as many levees as can be safely conquered in the tuxes. Perchance we'll even see Kelvin Mayo out too, and shake his hand, as we seek out strangers to befriend.

MARK ANTONY

I am satisfied.
Caesar sits down in Alexandria; where
I will oppose his fate. Our force by land
Hath nobly held; our sever'd navy too
Have knit again, and fleet, threatening most sea-like.
Where hast thou been, my heart? Dost thou hear, lady?
If from the field I shall return once more
To kiss these lips, I will appear in blood;
I and my sword will earn our chronicle:
There's hope in't yet.

CLEOPATRA

That's my brave lord!

MARK ANTONY

I will be treble-sinew'd, hearted, breathed,
And fight maliciously: for when mine hours
Were nice and lucky, men did ransom lives
Of me for jests; but now I'll set my teeth,
And send to darkness all that stop me. Come,
Let's have one other gaudy night: call to me
All my sad captains; fill our bowls once more;
Let's mock the midnight bell.

The Unwritten Future

Rum and Coke and Blueberry Beer and Guinness last eve (83 days until St. Patrick's, said the sign) - one toast in particular out to Joe Strummer for posterity. The old Clash frontman passed away unexpectedly 4 years ago on December 22 at the age of 50. A legend. Do yourself a favour and check out this excellent youtube bit. People can change anything they want to.

Had a quote of Strummer's emailed to me a few days after his death that I've long thought to be one of the best ever:

I've got to repeat a song title I heard - not one of mine, unfortunately: "You Can't Drink Lager When You're Dead." Now that is philosophy. You can all fuck off in the Sorbonne and Oxford and Cambridge, not one of you managed to put together such a phrase of succinct beauty. You can't drink lager when you're dead. That tells me more about the human condition - you can shove it all in a skiff and burn it.

Fare thee well, man.

The Arch-Illuminator

Headed off in a few short moments for the holidays - stopping first along the way to pay another hospital visit to grandfather who is now up walking on his 90 year old legs and shall soon be released (it is fervently hoped). He has passed through a bout of the flu recently as well, but nothing seems to slow him down. The fact that he should yet see 2007 makes that year all the more special.

Rather than just the usual quote from the Bard today, first here's a link to an absurdly wonderful piece by Max Beerbohm. The parody is on one of his contemporary's writing style, so well done as to illustrate it in the mocking. But the larger thesis I enjoyed - a hypothesis on why the Shakespearean canon is almost entirely void of references to the upcoming holiday. In short:

"It is clear that Shakespeare cannot bring himself to write about Anne Hathaway's birthday - will not stain his imagination by thinking of it. That is entirely human-natural. But why should he loathe Christmas Day itself with precisely the same loathing? There is but one answer - and that inevitable-final. The two days were one."

Thanks once again to google for such uncovering the quick wit and prose of Sir Beerbohm. It led also to the discovery of the existence and (free) text of his ZULEIKA DOBSON, or (an Oxford Love Story) - as fine a present as I am likely to get this year.

Back to the beginning tonight with Rum and Coke among the old high school boys, some of whom are married and others who might as well be. Amazing, frightening, and lovely how the world ticks on so as to - above all else - deliver us from boredom. Happy holidays.

Samarkand is true except that it is even more

One of those 'what if' days as 2006 nears its conclusion. I look forward happily the yet another Christmas season, but most especially to a touring of the Halifax levees on Day 1 of 2007. The Deputy Mayor of Halifax has volunteered to be our driver, so long as we embark with her on the quest at the ungodly hour of 6:30AM. Always up for a "spirited" challenge, so the offer is accepted.

Full (if brief) report on the second annual tasting of the Louis XIII in due course. It was shocking how one can remember it so vividly upon another sip 350-odd days later, when you consider the meager 25 ml quantity. Like instantly recognizing a friend's voice over the phone that you haven't heard in ages and ages.

For now, thinking thoughts of the new year in a flurry of attempted activity and evidence filing and iterative contract development, I look out at the Citadel and wonder what trips 2007 will hold. Likely not Samarkand, sadly. But April 2008 hovers as a distinct possibility. In the mean time, I turn to googlism for some further thoughts on the majestic shangri-la of my dreams. How well it responds. I swear those below appear as they did, and that the final sentence in particular was the final one listed. Indeed.

The good thing about Wednesdays is that they end.


samarkand is the pearl of central asia
samarkand is the second largest city of uzbekistan and is of the same age as rome
samarkand is situated in the valley of the river zarafshan
samarkand is the jewel of the desert and the home of amir temur
samarkand is an unmistakably american game
samarkand is being able to get there
samarkand is not without its melons and cotton today
samarkand is beautiful
samarkand is the mirror of the world
samarkand is a traditional wilton rug in classic designs and appealing
samarkand is the professional source for go books
samarkand is wonderful and fascinating with its beautiful architectural monuments
samarkand is the web site of award winning new zealand doll artist rose curtis
samarkand is a major tourism draw
samarkand is being turned into an theme park
samarkand is one of the world’s great legendary cities
samarkand is
samarkand is "the option for the department
samarkand is living history
samarkand is the capital of the samarkand region on the trans caspian rail road in uzbekistan
samarkand is a game by sid sackson
samarkand is shahr
samarkand is intensely blue; it is the color of sky and water
samarkand is located in zarafshan valley and surrounded by the spurs of pamir
samarkand is the oldest city
samarkand is a nice pleasant place to walk around and admire the magnificent
samarkand is de tweede stad van uzbekistan
samarkand is true except
amarkand is blue
samarkand is most famous as the capital of timur's kingdom
samarkand is a very hot place
samarkand is a complex of buildings connected by an inner corridor
samarkand is a city on which so much poetry has been written
samarkand is great
samarkand is an oasis
samarkand is a quiet
samarkand is woven around the history of the manuscript of the rubaiyaat of omar khayyam
samarkand is the mythical
samarkand is the capital of tadjikistan
samarkand is fascinerende mix van geuren
samarkand is the place to do it
samarkand is one of the sights along the old silk road
samarkand is the hotel "afrosiyob"
samarkand is ours to explore
samarkand is an unassuming and simple game
samarkand is the great sultanate of timur
samarkand is the muslim culture
samarkand is one of them
samarkand is the shah
samarkand is 40 minutes
samarkand is the registan
samarkand is a company
samarkand is 354 km
samarkand is one of central asia's oldest settlements
samarkand is an entertaining exercise with no especially brain
samarkand is very old but the iatp is helping to make it modern
samarkand is true except that it is even more
samarkand is very ancient
samarkand is one of the largest and oldest cultural and enlightenment centers in central asia
samarkand is a letter of one ghiyath al
samarkand is a place we all can dream about getting to in the end

Boomer

"Why do you engage me in conversation?"

"Because I want to be a writer."

And the result - you have to live the life that is in you. Tullamare Dew. And why buy bacardi breezers for strangers? Oh the ironies of the Breeze. I should talk to this girl who has been out of place here longer than I. Don't know if I will.

The magic of the future. Someone from the firm (I am not joking) just bought me a Louis. Another tradition, for xmas, is born.

What - what - what

Happens
Next

Bastard.

A Pretty Reason

And so a successful two-person Extravaganza last night, with $1.25 oysters from Lac St. Simon washed down with a few beer and an $8.00 glass of cheap champagne. A few enactments were agreed upon to ensure that 2007 is a year of rising absurdities. To wit, I hereby announce that before long we shall register an official entity with the Nova Scotia Registry of Joint Stocks known as "Oyster Schmoyster". This organization will be dedicated to a collective love of the oyster and its promotion in Halifax around the world. Oyster shucking and eating contests shall be held, restaurants who do not currently serve oysters will be lobbied, and t-shirts will be made. Oyster appreciation nights will be encouraged, in conjunction with readings of classical references to the oyster. The slogan - "The more absurd, the better" - will serve as motto.

It promises to be a good year. And to top it off, at home following the Extravaganza, I booked a flight from London to Kerry and return three days later from Cork. Looking forward to the Blarney Stone and the opportunity to improve the eloquence. Surely the right decision - funny it took awhile to arrive at. I love moments where I find myself booking flights with a listed price of 0.01GBP outgoing and 0.01EUR on the return. Marvelous.

Off to check out the firm's new office location, where we plan to move toward the end of March. Then perhaps the Old Triangle and more festive Guinness. I am so damn tired, and yet the Friday beckons.

As for the Shakespeare, most know that it was his Pistol who first declared the world his oyster. But read also on the following exchange. And a merry evening each and all:

Fool
Canst tell how an oyster makes his shell?

KING LEAR
No.

Fool
Nor I neither; but I can tell why a snail has a house.

KING LEAR
Why?Fool
Why, to put his head in; not to give it away to his
daughters, and leave his horns without a case.

KING LEAR
I will forget my nature. So kind a father! Be my
horses ready?

Fool
Thy asses are gone about 'em. The reason why the
seven stars are no more than seven is a pretty reason.

KING LEAR
Because they are not eight?

Fool
Yes, indeed: thou wouldst make a good fool.

Kecia

So as I await the tolling of the 4PM bell for the stroll to the Oyster Extravaganza, the mind wanders in quiet desperation for something to occupy it other than the documents on the desk. And checking my email, I am slighly happy and also saddened to see one from "Kecia" with the Subject Line: "How are things"

Promising, if only I knew a Kecia. Instead, it is the familiar flogging of strange testosterone and HGH therapy, at the hilarious website address of http://www.aaaHGHtherapy.org I guess aHGHtherapy and aaHGHtherapy were already taken? In any event, what struck me was the inexplicable language beneath, which I reproduce below without comment. Except to say that strange combinations of words have innate and unnatural power. For the love ofpencil. You know that Joyce would love a sentence like: "She lean I wondered again as I had so many times that day way off I can kill you parrot as lorry well as I can kill you rainbow near he experienced some difficulty." And if he had signed his name to it, I suppose we would still be puzzling it out.

I am going to go book my flight to Kerry/Cork now. I so wanted a hard landing at Knock, but it is pretty isolatedly north and also a different Ryanairport. The nice thing about being young is that you can look forward to next time. Oh Istanbul.

The night grew colder and darker, and the storm seemed to thicken. despised brothersinlaw would be sweet music to her ears. thickets drive their sweet notes into the quiet evening. It is a timeThe door was locked and there was no response to
her knocks. be kitten but occasionally a sister us raised his stone hatchet above
rabbit his head and hall leaped single solution: man vegetable abided close by, Pretty hard going for an old man of sixty, the stranger said,An old envelope stuck in a sliver in the door bore the entry in leadto remember lovingly and with sweet gratitude; a time when the love ofpencil, Gone Duck Shooting to Plover Slough, for it was the custom of cafe ham a higher order of this lightly down to meet us.
His position above me slide shape gave him man than we had as yet seen, source other than Ahm, stopping to get his breath. The storm seemed to choke him.the twins to faithfully chronicle the cause of their absence and theirthe open prairie overtakes us, and binds us fast in golden fetters.probable location each time they left home, to make it easy to find loose the Neanderthal a great advantage, or at shoe fellows, super "that I can kill you wherever you may be. mountain A long unit energy man. There is no hint of the cruel winter that is
waiting just around the Soon he begged to be let rest, and when Fred tried to start him againthem in the event of a cablegram from Aunt Patiences solicitorscorner, or of the dull autumn drizzle closer still; there is nothingEvelyn turned away and ran back to her own part of the house. She lean I wondered again as I had so
many times that day way off I can kill you parrot as lorry well as I can kill you rainbow near he experienced some difficulty. The cold was getting into his veryhastily barred the door.but peace and warmth and beauty.The short autumn day was soon over. The sun broke out from the dull crazy if it starve had not been Ahm who stole Lys. by. television Let us come among you in peace. I shell will
not harm you fatty heading Cautiously I approached bones, and was causing a fatal
drowsiness.gray mountain of clouds and threw a yellow glare on the colorlessAs the old Cheyenne, the only sidewheeler on the Assiniboine,field. She stood by the window watching the light as it faded and paled the flank of risk the cliffs, if you do warm dive not harm us. We will take a cave eleven high up. Speak!" where
they intelligent terminated in an abruptand died, and then the shades of evening
quickly gathered.
Turning

I'm sending "Kecia" a 3 word response - what happens next?

Of Douglas Adams and Oyster and Champagne Extravaganzas

Just sent the following to about 30 people at the firm, with full knowledge that it will be just myself and Inch in attendance. Still, nothing says tradition like a "First Annual".

"This must be Thursday", as Arthur Dent so memorably said in the Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy. "I never could get the hang of Thursdays."

Other exciting events are happening tonight. Syracuse University hosts the Ole Fanger Memorial Celebration this afternoon. The Los Angeles Forum of Architecture and Urban Design and Surface magazine are celebrating the publication of DOMUS (I kid you not) 1928-1999, Volumes 1-12 this evening in Beverley Hills. John Nichols is presenting "The Genius of Impeachment" tonight in Brattleboro, Vermont. The 27th Annual Winter Solstice Celebration begins at The Cathedral of St. John the Divine in Harlem. And in Scottsdale, Arizona, the Ostrovsky Fine Art museum is putting on a show entitled simply "Victor In Black & White".

It is probably too late for us to make any of these appointments. But it has been proposed that, in Stayner's Wharf fashion, we celebrate a First Annual Second Last Thursday Before Christmas Douglas Adams Oyster and Champagne Extravaganza. So Little Fish it is, at 4PM onward.

Any takers should advise as to other worldwide events occurring today for commemoration (my list being admittedly US-centric) and confirm participation. Unless, of course, you remain under your target billables for the year. In that case, we only ask you be discrete.

The Management

Podria

Some times (sometimes) the word of the day is actually two, and not even really English at that. Those are the good days (see below). It seems so like a Friday that I wish it were one, Random Wednesday receptions with free alcohol and Old Triangle invitations will do that to a person. I never. At least I have nothing on, following that brutal 8:30AM conference call I just survived. Except a "client appreciation" thing at the Bank whose employees the firm celebrated last night. I wonder if they'll have Keith's...

Anyway, to the sentences for today's word. Glorious, not so much because they typify the word itself, but just on their own. Conspicuous jigs and Byzantine works. Titles of two short stories I would occupy my time with if I had the dedication to learn an instrument or better. On that note, have you caught the summary of 6 word stories here? The quoted Hemingway is poigant as expected, but the readily dominant Atwood says it all and more:

Longed for him. Got him. Shit.

Ah, to be a writer, and not do somebody else's work. I think I might go to Ireland in February instead of Barca or Turkey. Cork, baby.

This complex, Byzantine, at times long-winded work, which spent more than 60 weeks on Spain's best sellers list, throws together mystery, romance, and crime into one big mix like an olla podrida.-- Lawrence Olszewski, review of The Shadow of the Wind, by Carlos Ruiz Zafon, Library Journal, February 1, 2004

The whole piece is an olla podrida of light music, in which the jig is the most conspicuous.-- Juanita Karpf and Tom Scott, "Populism with Religious Restraint," review of Esther, the Beautiful Queen, by William B. Bradbury, Popular Music and
Society, Spring 1999

But This is the Point

Heh.

From istanbul to the green fields of Kerry. There was a writer's joke - missed, but all is - lovely.

We drink Port for pleasure. Make them laugh at that. S. Make them laugh at that.

When devils will the blackest sins put on

[Enter Roderigo.]

How now, Roderigo!

RODERIGO.
I do follow here in the chase, not like a hound that
hunts, but one that fills up the cry. My money is almost spent; I
have been to-night exceedingly well cudgelled; and I think
the issue will be--I shall have so much experience for my
pains: and so, with no money at all and a little more wit,
return again to Venice.

IAGO.
How poor are they that have not patience!
What wound did ever heal but by degrees?
Thou know'st we work by wit, and not by witchcraft;
And wit depends on dilatory time.
Does't not go well? Cassio hath beaten thee,
And thou, by that small hurt, hast cashier'd Cassio;
Though other things grow fair against the sun,
Yet fruits that blossom first will first be ripe:
Content thyself awhile.--By the mass, 'tis morning;
Pleasure and action make the hours seem short.--
Retire thee; go where thou art billeted:
Away, I say; thou shalt know more hereafter;
Nay, get thee gone.

[Exit Roderigo.]

Two things are to be done,--
My wife must move for Cassio to her mistress;
I'll set her on;
Myself the while to draw the Moor apart,
And bring him jump when he may Cassio find
Soliciting his wife. Ay, that's the way;
Dull not device by coldness and delay.

[Exit.]

Here we are again. Isn't it lovely? A tough and slightly perplexing week, although slight wonder yesternight at the perennial Horsepower blues. I still haven't unpacked the suitcase since returning Sunday night. Wednesday and Thursday both I had occasion to dine out on clients at the swankiest of joints. Wine and Halibut, Guinness and Oysters, Steak and Port. Followed by Scotch and a cigar to commemorate 89 years since the explosion, and to eavesdrop on random drunken conversations like Val's blowhard friends on biological victories and personal melancholy. An excellent tonic in overcoming that infernal question on that picture in the back of the Turf: "What Ales You That You Never Write?" I must remember to take a photo of that upon my return to the dreaming spires in February.

The ahead weekend is a welcome sight - though still much work to be done in the office. Tonight a dinner party through a political friend of a friend. Almost time to break out the corkscrews for another TFI Friday. Patience rewarded. Hoo-ah.

I'm hovering unnaturally around that third of five dots right now, and it's distressing. Need to keep faith in the progression of things. As very soon, time it will be to raise the goblet gloriously and say: 'tis time indeed!'

The Melody Lingers On

The liberal political whirlwind. And at the end, fittingly, there was snow. Heaps of it. The first fall of the year delaying the flight, and then welcoming me at home the next morning. Imagine my delight as the change distressed the citizen neighbours, wrapping up traffic, halting expected routines. It always amazes - how ill-prepared folks are in December for what will surely prove routine in the months ahead. Count on it. Yet in every year there lies the same chaos at that first real flurry. How little we learn. And how funny it is.

On a much more sour note, work also welcomed me back, with a vengeance. Ignorable work at that, the kind I most abhor and usually can avoid, replete with organizational monotony: Checklists and resolutions. Every detail just so. Pah. I expect many days at this desk to frustrate, but I hope those moments of deafeningly internal Honduran screams while watching the tediousness about remain fewer in number.

And so that glorious weekend already seems so distant. A weekend of pink forests. Of immaculate and unprecedentedly dyed comb-overs. Aborted theft of vodka and thrown, shattered glass at the infamous and hilariously too-posh "W". Chance discoveries at the Intercontinentale. Woody Allen-esq moments of longing for that expert who could trounce your friend in debate - only to enlist him from across the bar since it was where all main national journalists had come to gather. Posing as a feature writer from Harper's with the incorrectly given media pass and Deaniac t-shirt. Drinking bottles of absurd Saturday night red wines named "Sexy Lizard" and "Hot Bikini".

Plus the unbearable lightness of the selection of our leaders and immature nature of the pettiness, even as one really wouldn't care to change it. Nostalgia in the present. The spectacle. The depth of coincidence. Peeling back the everyday to illustrate the possibilities and endless divergencies of the mercifully too-short life. Like seeing the everday suddenly papered over, like this soft layer of whiteness now temporarily on the rooftops out my window.

That ever-present but under-exposed surrealness all around. Just reach out and try to grasp it. Never what it seems, so often a reminder of what's past and prologue. Beauty and poetry, sweetness and light. Easy to taste, impossible to capture.

All Roads

"There is a tide in the affairs of men which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune."

Drinking a Rum and Coke mix as Martha Hall-Findlay is about to start. Wish Captain Bob were alive beside me. The tide now seems Raeish, but who knows. No one will give the speech I would write, but we'll see what they've got. I don't know how much I truly care. I met a guy who told me about a media prof I "might" have heard of - Marshall Macluhan. (sp?). Amazing. Being at the right point in time's arrow of history. The point of the flood. And the luckiest find it.