"...a sort of loneliness induced by a buzz of information"

Lazy Sunday watching the last throes of the 10/11 premiership season via the ups-and-downs of Blackpool at the Theatre of Dreams, and hearing news of an overdue engagement. Now to the office, where work awaits. I do not care for it, alas, though certain interim things must be done.

Having spent the first months of the year diligentlyl casting about for new angles from which to approach the world, coming close in just one particular instance, I am left waiting through the next few weeks on the last remaining chances - confronted at the same time by the overwhelming volume of potential hours ahead along the camino of the status quo. It is maddening, the inability to break out of old habits and routines within familiar surroundings.

The solution continues to be to just trundle along, as the lethargy looms so powerfully that the mere idea of organizing the two rooms in this city in which your life resides is ever so wearisome. Without something on the horizon to look toward, that is truly just the word. No longer is it enough, it would seem, to soothe the rising anxst with weeks of escape here and there to exotic locales. Something more permanent is obviously needed.

So we keep thumbs held for either Birgitte or Suzanne to work some magic. If not, it may be time for some serious thinking come the end of June. But more on that when more is known. Until then there is but work, and dreams. And hope of getting back out in the open in pursuit of those "paradoxes that have to be seen to be believed."

Time for fetching up...

Back from five of the best days in one of the superb places of the hemisphere, clearly. Gracias, Habana, por todo. I have some words written out on scraps of paper, the best I could glean from the fabulously exhausting five days. Exhausting except, of course, for each day's splendid symposium sunset with cigar and rum.

How distant it seems from these boardrooms and repetitive meetings. Lots of work to be done from now until September, more so than I would have even thought a few days ago. Almost to the point that having banked the hours to this point, and with a bleak summer ahead, the option to once again work for the bonus as last year.

But where does that end? Two things are clear: Time is ticking (it is always later than you think) yet it costs money to trot the globe. One further thing as well: that you need a fresh start in a new place where you have a chance to settle in.

The 32nd is quickly approaching, so hopefully there is some ocean-side mountain top to mull the real options. It remains murky, the future. Through the glass darkly, and all that. Should get the mind back to this meeting. But it remains the case that the present is unsustainable. The power to choose between options. Just need to find the right one...

Foggy Mountain Dhu

Remember this bus ride, to and fro the windy rolling mountain tops of Pictou county, following the hilarious convergence of paths with Yensen. The weather a tonic for the upcoming flight south to la habana (more on the hopes for that jaunt tomorrow I hope) and again the Irish influence overwhelming in its soothing presence. The Dock a pub of good Guinness paraphanelia and more, and another Behan quote ("Take your hour, and have another.")

It is so very hard, to see the days like these through jaded eyes. Respectful of accomplishments that seemed so unlikely, and yet distant on the date of the occurrence. Not quite the right words there, but the meaning should be easy enough to recollect. In essence, the heart is just now fully in it. Maybe because it is so local, or maybe for other lethargic reasons, but the thought persists. Onward, toward wider horizons.

And so here you sit, pondering the endless rains of the day through the whiteness of this May sky, all around those who seem to have come to peace with their current station, while you harbour the knowledge of secretive applications within. Let it be Ireland, at this point I think, under whatever guise. Until then, let the immediate dreams be of Cuba, cigars, rum, and the malecon. Yes, baby, yes.

Blood wine and Trevellyen's corn

The fog on the harbour is so beautiful, and will be missed. In this last May in Halifax (he hopes), it is just that kind of enveloping weather that convinces you to hit the ancient/modern ferry. As Larsen studies and Clarke works and you scheme about escape and June 8.

"My blood sings like wine..." and "low lie the fields of Athenry". The lonely trek across the harboring Atlantic always warms the heart.

And the imponderable questions. The Cooper lunch and the Wallace atheism and pseudo effort around the divine right of kings and true lies. Mentioned here only so not to forget. Eh?

As slow as you drink this Guinness, it still seems so long between boats. But with Mcguinty, I think the OT calls, so let us have another Guinness back on the Halifax side.

There needs at some point, to be a frank sit-down about post-August, whether alone or with a sounding board. But. It is there, and I think you need to celebrate this Christmas far afield from 207. But at least say this, the idea of a return to Sydney on June 8 seems a good one. Rental car at least. And in that, an instinctive blue sky thought makes this a day worth remembering.

Perhaps there will be more. For now I return to the boat for a return crossing. Where darkness has descended with its water, but the fiddle is beautiful.