Notes on Christmas Eve

"How insignificant this will appear a twelve-month hence."

The clock has just turned. Of all the specific dates in the year, this perhaps the most reflective of all, symbolic and full of memories and nostalgia and... Mom above, returning from up the street, still cleaning up further to make the place spotless for the arrivals; the girls gone to get them, the traditional spats over with, running slightly behind and yet so content in their reunions; Dad asleep after a frustrating day of forgettable football from a weakened league, but satisfied with the lobster and roast and stories of last May amidst the jokes; and you... Alone on the couch made up for you, with an atlas and book of quotes.

"Gone yesterday... Two golden hours... No reward is offered, for they are gone forever."

This old Carnegie book, gifted to Granddad, put back in your hands tonight as you wait, with all its emphasis on time, and happiness. Eery to see the handwritten page notations on the back and try to guess the focus. Page 100, in particular: "Into the closed mind, the fly does not get." And the insistence on creating a philosophy of life, above exercise and kindness and hobbies and order and nature and beauty (but those too).

A few hours sleep, and then a few gifts, and then the annual hour of silence at church, and into the comfort of the traditional party. The same questions, and various misdirected answers. And ever the thought - perhaps this year, truly, the last.

So much happens in a year. Think of London and the 12 days, the games, the plays, and Ireland, the Connemara hiking, SE Asia, quitting, Indy, South America, really learning to sail, a place of your own, two massive files, St. John's, and assorted randomness. It was eventful, and the next holds plenty more.

But the core is the same. I guess that is a question that gets asked each time, what fundamentally has changed. And again there comes no answer. More to chew on, as the year yields to its non-apocalyptic conclusion, but anticipating whether this next one might hold that is worth a lengthier symposium...
 

Don't Not Do It

"These are the things you need to do. If you purge these mental roadblocks, you will benefit yourself. You will never be “better than the rest” if you don’t allow yourself to complete something because of worry or risk – you will be the rest. Don’t be the rest. Don’t not do it."

Ah yes, the calling of the Horsepower.  A decent one-pint night out.  It is time for the year-end boozy lunch, another in the line of great festive traditions.  The head still in a bit of whirl following the extended stay in SJS, where all transpired well in the end, even the inevitable hike up the long-stared-at mountain in the soft December snow and just in time for the Mummer's customer appreciation.  Quite the day, that one.

And where might it go from here, I wonder.  There are a variety of possibilities, all of which might work, most of which should not be explored, but time will show.  Recollections of the pint at the Royal Oak with Ms. B after that ridiculous May Bop, in terms of the uncertainty of possibilities.  Good timing though, a chance to reflect on what might be to come and potential voyages that could be taken.  I could go anywhich way. 

Time for a few Keith's it is then.  Roll on, winter, roll on.  Only 5 short months until the Southern Cross...

Nine Years

Nine.  Sounds like a long time.  And it is.  Think on the events since that last trek on Signal Hill, looking out at the Atlantic and the future.  The same relatives that time has changed and made... older.  Full of new moments and experiences, and in some cases circumstances, but not different.  Combined with the eery, fleeing similarities that haunt the memories.  The Subway and the Rose and Crown.  The streets and houses and living rooms.  The laughter.  The ocean.  And the first viewing of the Matrix Reloaded, on TV again, the second film before the finale first seen on these shores:

"Because you didn't come here to make the choice, you've already made it.  You are here to understand why you made it.  I thought you'd have figured that out by now."

A terribly crazy and rewarding 14 days, with the ridicularity of the Scotch indulgence thrown in the middle like the proverbial lightning bolt.  The last two days have been devoted to restful, necessary recovery.  A rebooting of sorts.  Hard to imagine even two weeks ago, landing in the midst of the historic as you did, worked to the point of exhaustion, patience, and ability.  Topped off with the confederation foyer announcement, and Bianca's tomorrow. 

"There are some things in this world that will never change. Some things do change."

Relax and enjoy it, especially the wind and views out into the abyss tomorrow.  The holiday season is upon us, and as always the changing of the year is time to reflect - on the why, and on what's next.  Amazing how quickly the time goes, N. said tonight, I can't keep up with it anymore.  And, later, in reference to past leveeing days of her own, that those days are gone forever...  Still, there is some time left.  How may it yet be used, I (continue to) wonder.  "Let's see where this goes."

UPDATE: How could I have ever forgotten Lottie's and its white russians??  Too much.

Into (and out of) the Narrows (and back)

What a crazy little treat these past few weeks have been?  Despite the intensity and the long hours and the unconsciously suicide-esq Scotch tasting, what a window into the characters behind historical Canadian efforts...  nation-building and all.  As the quotes and moments build up.  The bizarreness of the strategies and dynamics and such.  How sweet the view out of Signal Hill on these crisp clear days.  Fun to be working toward concrete things.  Fascinating and incomprehensible, at times, but without question an experience.  A bit of a shame that it occurs amidst the scepticism, amidst the same well-worn comments, so predictable at times, about the certain way of doing things, of old habits and personality clashes, assumptions about the professionalism of others, and lack of enjoyment of the file.  The sense of tiredness and superiority rather than enthusiasm.  The obviously being phased even while stating the opposite.

Always the Douglas Adams - Don't Panic.  Always the Killers - Open up your eager eyes... It is superior to the PhD path, that's for certain.  But it is something else, the window into the career path of the lawyer as forever in the thrall of the client, forever the service provider, forever doing (quite literally) someone else's work.  The incessant, "relentless" chase, watching bemused at the powerlessness of the powerful over their own destiny.  I have never seen it lasting, and not sure I do now, but for the moment there is a comfort in having the next big project, and time to settle in.  Still need to change the old impossible routines.  Never a better time for resolutions, although isn't it just like that to be the case.  Only to go back through the years on the blogs and see the same thoughts and dreams and sighs and take solace in them. 

Can you make a change?  Or mock the inevitable?  There are so many sides to this MFP story.  So happy that fortune again provides the ability to slide in at the right time, at a point where the tedium is not so overwhelming and yet the stage is set for the start of a new and intriguing act.  Ready to start, eh?  For a few months.  Until I find some conspirators for the road again.  Seek them out, my boy.  Seek them out...  That - that - is the change you need.  Along with glorious pilgrimages back to places where you can stare away the blue-sky afternoons at sights like Signal Hill, of course. 

...Stung Up the Spine

"Where are you going tonight?"

Monday.  Start of a long week, or is it just the continuation of the night before...  in the midst of craziness associated with the recent file, the long hours, the lack of sleep, the unhealthy lack of attention (to everything), the tiredness and unpredictability, the uncertainty and ridiculousness of things done, due to fate or other baser reasons and the like.  Such a confluence of things that led back to another shambolic night on the water.  Inevitable, too, if you think on the past, and the parallels.  You could see the disaster coming so clearly and yet in you rushed, anxious no doubt for the obliviousness...

"How come? What's it like? What's it like?"

Unknown.  Ah, the disdain in that unexpected call.  The hilarious mystery in whether you or someone else led to the incrimination.  Could it have been you, meant as a reminder to return?  And what about that "crap" in the corner?  Can it be cleaned up in the early hours of this morning, before a flight to St. John's?  Did our friends from the street play a part in that, how much did they enjoy the brief respite of the warmth and taste of fine Scotch?  And what of the various conversations and allusions that will swirl around later, unbeknownst to you, darkness having fallen so resolutely over sections of the night?  Nothing, perhaps, in addition to the current rumours.  Another story for JA to tell the fresh clerks.  No need to wonder further about it.  Move on, as the song says.  I just have such a hard time caring.  

"I don't really think about it.  It just feels good."

And yet.  Dangerousness in the recent tendencies to assume a greater clarity of ability than you might have imagined.  Breaking time-honoured vows, then turning around and failing again, and falling.  And not really better.  Despite the ease in which accidents have thus far been avoided, two precedents set within a fortnight, most worrying and not to be repeated.  Or else the embedded song title might prove too eerily apt.  And all-too conclusive.

"I'm just so, mean and wild..."

Think back to Achill.  Funny how it was a similar moment in kind that led to the decision to bolt.  That was always the right call, and no saying that it won't be the right call again here in 22 months or so, but be aware of forming the next decisions too strongly on such basis.  The desire to flee borne out of sameness, shame, and solitude.  Of frustration with the service nature of the work, at times.  Of course I know that's not how negotiations proceed.  But my haste and deference and unwillingness to be unreasonable is why I am such a bad one.

Oh oh.  The end is in the beginning, and yet we go on.  Another humbling, apologetic call tomorrow.  But first to head home for laundry and homeland and then a return to have a closer look at some carpet in the wee hours.  Then, happily, to pack.  And fly to island shores to lift the spirits.

You can't complain about the lack of stories.  If only the fickle memory did not disappoint.

UPDATE: Maybe you do remember, the Woolite Oxy Deep Power Shot.  Only to find that the cleaning had already been done...  What more might you hear of that?  Therein lies more randomness.  It is 2AM on the nose, and at least the door was not locked so that you could confirm the job had been magically accomplished.  Funny world, 'tis.  Last time I walk in there for awhile, I imagine.  Ay me.

All (but not less than all)

"We need to get it done by tomorrow morning."

Oh my.  The Master Negotiators.

The art of the possible, or the really scary?  Everyone was looking around like each other is an idiot, when really we are all idiots, no?  Ah, I love the sceptical disdain toward this way of moving along.  And the contrast of different cases, the opportunity to see such things all from deep behind the curtain and down the rabbithole.

How will it turn out, how will it?  Who can say?  All these characters, this as their day job, nights apart from various families back home, working toward an idea.  The decisions being made, the second guessing and the things overlooked, both before and after.  The fine line between proper drafting and throwing words on the page.  And never really covering off all contingencies.

Waiting around, clocking time.  Compare that to the brief moment admiring the de Garthe display, quite the contrast of lasting works, of different ways to spend your days.  And so.  The need for a journal to document the rest.  Or at least until morning.  Except it already is...  So much later than you think...