The Water that is Past (and that which is to come)

Time continues its silent forward creeping. Trips of the summer that was 2010 now past, and left you are with memories of the English countryside at dawn, setting out from the Swan at Grasmere, of the Church on a Sunday for England v. Germany and a bizarre ramble down an unknown section of the Thames, of a courtyard palace hostel in Madrid and glimpse of San Sebastian's beaches, of wine and coke fused drunken tango in the wee hours in the Pamplona bars, of Pepe and Gaudi and Ramblas and Iniesta heroics, of self-timer cannonballs and scaring another family away from the pool, of Alabama Jacks and the No Name Pub, of navy guys at the drag show and no snivelling, of biking in awful heat to see where Hemingway wrote and the pleasure of a sunset cruise, of $5 bills found miraculously in a hotel room bible after the previous night's discussions, of midnight Atlantic ocean swimming, and the Park Central robes. And such.

Now toying with the idea of locking in another trip, one more purchase with this valuable of VISAs. It has been an inevitable sword hanging over this day, waiting to fall, ever since the "unavailable" comment and the confirmation (as if it were needed) that your presence would be welcome. Indeed, you had decided pretty well at the cottage over the weekend, that 6 months would be too long to wait, and that another trip to look forward to is required. Taking the bus out to pick up the guide book only served to further the commitment, as the printout of the reservation will serve as a nice bookmark. And keep you in memory.

For what else is there - you could maybe spend the money on something else, but what? You enjoy her company and the next 10 weeks will be a slog anyway without the carrot of Lima. You need to take the measure of things if truly you are going to make the long-anticipated clean break from all this in 365 days, now a mere 12 months, all in this very room where 5 months have passed so rapidly. Almost as if things are speeding up, and that itself dictates action. Go and do these things while there is time, and means. At the worst you can check out the Nazca lines and ponder the imponderable. Or surf some sanddunes.

So there you go. Some more words scattered in the past. For as the Guardian writer nicely quoted in the random Man City v. Liverpool mbm: "a mill cannot grind with the water that is past." I like that. As I like being reminded of Glasgow gravestones, and the discovery of psalm 103:15/16: "As for man, his days are as grass: as a flower of the field so he flourisheth, For the wind passeth over it, and it is gone, and the place thereof shall know it no more." Not necessarily the same message, but it leaves me with the same taste in my mouth. So off to that continental site and another keying in of the correct numbers. You have done well, fair piece of plastic. May your replacement serve as true. At least you can look back upon these words, remember the sentiments, and judge retroactively whether the course chosen was a wise one. Something tells me that trips to Peru must always be just so.

And so the wheel spins again...