Monks and Monkeys

Another interesting evening this past Thursday with random middle-aged Newf, who has been to Rio for Carnivale, and now sometimes regrets marriage. All of which is fine, of course, but stuff like that, combined with hungover Fridays in which work seems ridiculous amidst the sketchy haze of thoughts and props left on your floor and 12 hours of rest are required and everything screams escape while the hours tick by via Cantona highlights and KFC.

Already, too. Two months since the return, it seems so long since the travels, but that's because two months is a long time. You know?

Time to roll out, with dreams of orange-clad monks and ping pong beer and what a real departure might feel like...

Dauntless minds v. Fortune's yoke

Friday, oh Friday, and what to do. The fog of earlier rolling in and out in deep whites and blues have left the day for a night of neon yellows and dark black. The car lights move along the highway and the reflections shimmer in the harbour below. Yet the hour that often holds such inspiration, inspires not.

A strange melancholy, then. The growing recognition of the past catching up. The Camino already walked and countries long pursued already backpacked, and yet the search continues. Wherefore? There is, at least, a strange Fu Manchu mask that stares back out from the window, a questioning/smirking reflection. There is, at least, the 4-faced Buddha and hand along the steel edge of the pane. Reminders.

KING LEWIS XI
Why, say, fair queen, whence springs this deep despair?

QUEEN MARGARET
From such a cause as fills mine eyes with tears
And stops my tongue, while heart is drown'd in cares.

KING LEWIS XI
Whate'er it be, be thou still like thyself,
And sit thee by our side:
Yield not thy neck
To fortune's yoke, but let thy dauntless mind
Still ride in triumph over all mischance.
Be plain, Queen Margaret, and tell thy grief;
It shall be eased, if France can yield relief.

Not such deep despair, exactly. But a nostlagic, creeping lament. That the brief time must yield to work as well as fun. And you cannot fly off whene'er you wish.

Alas. And yet, no doubt time's wheel will pull you back out onto the right side of things, and soon. Already looking forward to it.

196

Calories in a pint of Guinness, or so says the sign. You wonder why you are here, or anywhere. Who these people are and why they follow such customs to amuse themselves so.

Trying to write, in such contexts, for these others seems obtuse. Yet there is Bruce Guthro, putting words to song about the ridiculous "Come to life" slogan. How he pulls off "where wild meets serene" I don't know. And yet.

As the ruby-lipped St. John's mother walks by, to straighten your tie, as the band sets up to begin again. As you ponder your eternal question, which is simply: why? Take what you have learned. But then what, the suit with the Guinness at the Old Triangle asks, as the music begins to play.

I still don't know. I have better ideas. But I don't yet know.

Bachelor Day

Or so Remembrance Day is called in China - 11/11, and fitting given the extra 16.97 million lads v. lassies in that strangely magnificent place.

Back from the last trip of 2009, fantastic little jaunt to old New York. Ideas for 2010 still bouncing around. These are the years, not just the years but perhaps some of the best. Lots to figure out, but as mentioned to Martha at Mickey's, there is a comfort in having time.

En route now to see Mr. Inch and spend the afternoon over drinks with Nick the Greek. Then later drinks with mystery woman Laura as you explore ways to best bide the time until the next encounter with Flemm.

It feels like Friday, a bit. Great little holiday, this. Thanks Grandad. As once again we look forward to what happens, next.