21 trees in Samana

I meant to write a post for St. Patrick.  But it got away from me, in a whirlwind sleepless night before into the usual Old Triangle morning magic, and then the return after escaping the oompa band and the true randomness of FS and the "company" from less than two weeks before.  Oh how that rest on the couch is to laugh, even as the embarrassment at it fades.  As time helps make it, always.

Grand night with Nasser and more, the Twitter account should be started.  But also the magic of the weekend that followed, the young boys in the pool and wandering the halls with their distinctive walks.  Important to check in with them as they grow.  How strange, to think how many people knew you in the same way, and how little their comments about it relate.

DR in two days magically, after you blast out another round of work in the next short span of hours.  From there it is nose down mostly until France, but for the boat and the small chance of a new real estate purchase.  It has been coming and for so long that the April 1st visit is absolutely in order.  And why not?  It is what's next.  June 1st as move in day baby.  As Costanza might say, I would love it!

April as a dry month as well, I'm thinking.  Best to get prepared for the Euros properly.  Every time I plan on the bottle of wine with work, not much gets done, unsurprisingly.  4 hours of rest before the new start on the ticking clock.  I'm looking forward to the real Dominican Republic experience and the drive out to Rincon and the palms on the eastern coast.  Need to think about the creative non-fiction ideas.  Along with Tancook, it is the likely future that has been hovering over like a cloud for some time now.  Call it legacy or what not, but it is how I see things playing themselves out.  Not 19 anymore.  Rob Ford dead at 46, which is shockingly closer than I would have guessed.  Later than you think.  Brussels and Turkey recent reminders of that.

So go and write up the final notes and do it.

At least 41 years (and counting)

Another 4 point loss, and such parallels with the running out of stones in the last after one huge, crucial miss that ended things earlier.  As you wonder if the Gush might ever win it at this point, so long have been the struggles.  Funny to see the last failure noted here, back in 2007.  Pre-Chicago St. Pat's, when there was so much travel and excitement and freshness on the mind.  You had just met C. at Oxford weeks before, it was the first time meeting the new legal neighbour across the street, and a move into the first proper legal office beckoned.  Nine years on, and still striving after wind, to quote the good book from The Standing Order in Edinburgh.

So much meaningless law on the plate now, so much striving in circular arguments these months.  How to phrase them just so, and wondering what word or turn of phrase or slide will serve as the ultimate convincer, as other procedural arguments play out.  All so foolhardy, and uninspiring.  Which leads in its turn through the depressing phase of winter, the difficulty in rising, the dirty piles of clothing and uncleaned floors a sign of the troubled and saddened and unmotivated mind.  It is for this that I think and hope that T-cook could act as saviour, a last best chance, if only to force the hand to action, and compel a more vigorous confrontation with the wonder of the natural world. 

The time to sort things draws ever closer.  The Ides of March and then the Fool of April.  Take it, I think.  And if the lasting result is that you end up with an expensive shack of a place that has fallen down around you, then not to worry, of course, for it is within you to pick up the pieces and build again amidst the existing and ancient shelter. 

There have been many promised spaces for writing, and none have met the test.  Make 803 the one.

Two-Fourteen Million Barrels

Sad news from Newfoundland. 

Both times I said that today I broke into the kind of involuntary tears and gasps that emerge only in times of potent grief.  Trying to find some words, as I sit here in the glow of the first sips of a $98.98 bottle of 2012 Chablis Grand Cru Les Preuses Domaine William Fevre.  Last time I had this type of wine (albeit of somewhat inferior quality) was in Bermuda at that hotel I never ended up paying for, en route to the Sheraton in Toronto.

Quite the whirlwind that.  FS not convinced by then, but would be for other island sunsets.  The first and likely last chance with MM.  And a glimpse into the world of top-flight arbitration chambers alongside a true pleasure of a colleague.  He knew life and loved it, enjoyed fine drink and utilized it, and laughed, oh how he was always laughing, with such a sparkle in his eyes.

I loved how he used to draw those imaginary rectangles in working through logic out loud.  He would have so relished this upcoming fight that will suffer without his involvement.  These arguments over wording and intent and money that seem so meaningless by comparison.  Whereas the importance of indulging in ridiculous adventures seems all the more relevant, appropriate, and necessary now.

This was a file that led in part to the first Arsenal trip to Wembley that ended in triumph.  So thanks be for that.  And for all the little bits of wit and insight and marvel and joy shared along the while with the fine wine.  The glass is raised.  In the last days and hours, as anger turned to fear (even possibly then to acceptance?) and thoughts turned to physics and to writing, I wonder if it was comforting or maddening, how little we know of where we have been or what is to come.  How little we know of the nature of things or the cause of things or the consequence. 

No answers.  Only memories.  The best kind too, which inspire the making of new ones.  And help strengthen the focus on enjoyment of the time that is now.  It is later than we think.