Rejuvenation, says the Whale

The most fitting of finales to this year, I think.  A free concert in Halifax, the setting for the levee revels tomorrow, of a band that scripted one of the favoured Antarctica songs.  On the original list to see, and here they are a few hours out, arrived in town just for ye.  Will be listening for Goodnight to the Moon, but if it doesn't come it will be played and treasured on the walk home.  And I will think of New Bedford, and the orcas, and the trips down Long Island, and what might be in store on the cow ledge in 2019.

Funny to be in the office, will I still have one come next year?  Even money, as they say, although the house always wins.  A quiet time to put the marking to bed, hopefully the last time for that, and write up a random invitation letter and send it by photo to the south of Africa.  What a world.  Will anything come of it.  The future is an inscrutable marvel.

Sounds like a storm tomorrow, perfect for the leveeing and the dip, and which should clear in time for your brief and ridiculous secret escapade.  The new ad captures it - and perhaps going solo will allow you to truly focus on the choices ahead, and the magic of randomness pursued at your own initiative and no other.  A shame, in many respects, but maybe it is the needed chance to look ahead.

So long 2018, you've been rich.  Time to obey tradition and all its wonders.  What next for the Globe, for the Arsenal, for the MFA, for the list of undiscovered countries?  Happenstance is out there.  Time to shape up for it.  Put aside the phone and other childish things, from this moment forward, as long as you are able.  Start the 7 min streak tomorrow, and let the dreams for this shiny new year begin.

Where are we going to?

From the Texas playlist, after some let downs today... LM silence, room cleaned for AM yesterday, long expected bullshit from Indy this morning.  All known more or less from the start, and correct, and still disappointing.  But do they point the way to 2019, a letter to write and send, among the papers?  After the Inch scheming below over NYD and Greek 40th’s?  Sweet MM.  You seem the ... well, let’s see.  21.5 hours left in this year, and shit to do in the next 10 first before a few days of creativity.  Get ‘er done, McMahon.  Remind Dad about the sailboat print.

Trullo

Such a funny life, time the flat circle, etc.  I’ll drive because the drunk walking will be too icy, foiling the plans for the best.  Even as it serves a good excuse for the laundry and the semi-clean, in case the follower arrives.  The best was being sat at the exact spot, which hopefully wasn’t lost on her either.  Such ridiculousness, and grand to be able to see it in such a light, since any further outreach would have been regrettable.

The clock ticks nearer to the end of another one.  The 5-1 loss as TC slams back Tequila an unsurprising if disheartening afternoon.  But good excuse to rally the boys for a discussion about the 40th, as the Greek musings continue.  Looking the likeliest, with hopes for a Baku/Globe intro and Ithaka finish.  Pourquoi pas?  The unfolding of the next days - when you still have not marked the papers and still do not know the status of the ladies of the coming nights... it is to laugh.  If all solo, it may be a sign to focus (more scarily?) on Z.  I wonder.  But let’s see where we are next week first.  Oh my.

Last Continents and Such

A Merry Xmas from this old couch once again, made hectic by the kids and the like, but fun all in all.  Traditions.  Including Jumanji, which is wonderfully hilarious.

More to follow, but the thought after reading this dollar store book, rekindling memories of time well spent earlier this year... how deep seated (sp?) memory is, and how many little lies we tell each other and which make life tolerable.  The buried 2014 card from Eva in the wine gift box.  So much to write about.

The idea that the best way to explain yourself, and the travels, is by simply writing it down.  When asked about Antarctica and Kili and the like.  I hope 2019 can be a year for that.  Meanwhile, as we wait for news about the weather and company for next week.  An unbelievable world, to think of checking into the Luxor by then...

BIR @ 2.80

No Wemberley in February after a poor Carabao performance last eve.  And down fall the stocks further today, as we careen toward a US shutdown and Brexit.  Lavena has picked this day to put the cow ledge up for sale again at the familiar price, as news from the automated RPL account arrives rejecting your application at the first hurdle.  A bit of a surprise, that, but no matter.  The time to dip into (jump off?) the birchcliff arrived inevitably at hopefully its lowest point.

Last minute christmas cheer arrives in the form of some caroling and a reading on Oxford street to come, a jello-buried Minion, and some scrambling regarding the implementation of cap/trade on the petroleum side.  There is always something.  Rolling into the new year, wondering about the Raquelette (11+ years on) and MOBA memories, and what is to come these next weeks...

Recreating the celebrations of old even as you age.  Strange, unsettled days.  The Canticle and Station Eleven proved excellent recently, need to pick up more along those lines.  And write yourself.  The winding roads of other options spiraling perhaps toward the one true, inescapable future...

The Kind My Brother Would Tie

Told that classic McNab invasion story tonight to Dick tonight, to laughter.  He is headed to Young Island in St Vincent, a place you’ll have to cross in your day.  A great aborted Xmas party, the Top Gun theme, the memories of the ghosts of parties past, Stanhope, Domus saviour GMac, Victoria street, pregnancies, homeless, scotch and carpet, and last year’s white suit.  Time goes by.  Mueller night.  The early ferry home to a half-empty bottle of vino.  And dreams.  Always dreams.

Idea of the milk expiry as a measure of time.  There were other similar items that escaped me.  If they are good, they’ll return.  Trust in that.

And the frontier not yet arrived... confirmation there.  But time lining up okay.  Why the delay always inspires fear of something else is curious, but so be it.  Will now be able to sort for sure next week at this time.  Listening to Buzzcocks, and Velvet’s Sister Ray in the mean.  A world.  Mueller slowly dropping, fallout from SM continuing, and... and... getting old but the need to write emerges.  Maybe that was it, Shelley epitaph, you can listen to his youth in the very moment of his demise.  Something to aspire to?

Vegas, flash.  Must be done.

As Ellis, on his 3rd, exhales that huge surprised sigh sound, in response to the video.  Mink indeed.

A Curious Fellow

Long weekend of nothing, although actually sort of production.  Famous NLD win, boat tarped for the season, further editing, and the acknowledged return of the journals/photo.  Curious indeed, but so is the manner of the world.  In which you see in things some magic of the past to be captured and seek to hold it.  The chronicles of the swells and the epic storms to be chased.  Lessons and dreams of 10 years ago.  The scratchings filling the pages just so, with history.  Embarrassed upon the repercussions of such actions upon waking, but the making of shambolic memories in the process worth - perhaps - the awkward, unsettling feeling of judgments by unknowns from afar.  So it goes.

And so you choose to download Time Trap instead of doing the work on any of three separate files that needed doing.  Instead, the speed chess finals and now the rain.  The letter to Walnut also still to find its destination, what will be the fall-out reaction to that, I wonder.  Fun to imagine.  Exactly a month tonight, it shall be the Downtowner.  How many months ago was it, for the one reading this now? 

Imagine/Remember that.