Shakes 455

"To me, fair friend, you never can be old
 For as you were when first your eye I eyed,
 Such seems your beauty still."

Happy birthday old man.  A day of rain, SWG, continued frustration on the heritage front, awaiting news on filings and emission reduction efforts.  Ever the same, old.  Plans made for a drive to the Hawk and two nights in the wifi-enabled hotel.  Nice not to have to be the driver, and that should serve well as the NFL draft gets underway.  But oh for the freedom of the road and a one-way ticket to Cape Town. 

These repetitive office days delight not me.  What holds the future?  How brave can you be to just say enough?

Rising and Waiting

Lazy Easter Sunday.  The condo reflective of the state of malaise.  The Shear dinner a smashing success - from the Brooklyn cocktails to the expensive wines to the reminiscing thank you emails.  All to the very good, even as it ends with the lost Alehouse consciousness.  (In fairness, it had been awhile, and the bones are intact despite the odd scratch.)  Disaster to the phone and in the hangover, both barely recovered in time, but at least the struggle was not total unresponsiveness, as per the planned AG bachelor party for last eve.  A good excuse to escape back here by bus even so.

The arbitrary date given for acceptance of the MFA position provided time to think it over through the holiday.  I am game.  It must be done to open up a new avenue.  The March sale of Lav’s all the more reinforcing, and it is the proper call for the time.  The structure of the program suggests sticking to Halifax through until next sailing season and that 10th anniversary, so the thought to put the place up next Spring seems the rational choice.  Even as I wonder about this Fall, I would prefer a longer lead time.  The decision just now made to place the max pre-payment down with hopes of re-couping it soon enough...

What is next to be done?  Writing.  India, Tanzania, Havana, Greece, South Georgia.  Moose encounter also an option.  All first drafts that could be knocked off in the next months with some diligence.  You need to put fingers to keyboard to start uncovering the book’s future shape.  Peeling it away bit by bit.  Reading assignments for the 40th symposiums?

And hold on to 2020 as the flight year.  Whether in the summer or afterward, what is needed is the shelving of possessions, as per the conversation with Morrow just before the car was lost.  I have made such claims falsely so often, but it finally has a ring of truth to it with this new challenge.  It will be a shame to miss Rodos, but there will be a chance to return.  Trust in that.  And in the signs that these cancelled flights cannot continue.

Fairytales, Old and New

Time ticks by.  The annoyance of the work struggles and the apathy toward the home continue.  But there are little victories.  News of an old play to be staged as a lock-in amidst its current setting on the day of the scheduled arrival in London.  The possibility of Christy Moore or the Strokes or a tribute to the Buena Vista pianist just before, followed up by the Globe and a Barbican 9th the day after... so a plan is hatched for the opening weekend in London that should work no matter the outcome of the DSM electric incentive choice.  Hope the performer can live up to this legend's effort.  To be watched on the return.  Now if only I could find a production of Krapp's last...

Or maybe instead, gather the gents around a computer in Greece for a watch of the John Hurt version.  Yes, that seems the way.

In other news, lunchtime concerns about Happiness Index ratings and the like allow the mind to wander.  As it did late on the weekend when inspiration struck and prompted the drafting of a fairytale bedtime story for the African on her way to Windhoek.  It is fun to spin words and create.  Less than 4 months now until the first meeting.  Let us have some writing by then.

And keep up the efforts to get this New Construction puppy settled.  Aye.

Kokomo

Call It Serendipity.

Call It Randomness.

Call me Kokomo.  Kokomo Kid.

It was fortuitous, no doubt: the wait list, the timing of the phone call, the interest, the Morgan opener with the cigar box, the Zambian messages just before, even as the 3% held like a beauty, just long enough.  In a week that makes you think.  A nice yesternight with the Islander, but no text tonight after book club, and as much as I love the crazy, not the traveler of your dreams.  No, Ronaldo does not play for Arsenal, heh.  And to see the Taj in such opulence, without going early?  Nope. 

I wish I hadn’t stayed away so long... getting old, etc.  Funny the way the thoughts run.  Alobar Anderson.  Or Kundra.  I really don’t know, man.  But I know that there is something that lingers that is inexplicable.  The more so after the TO weekend, the Lot 6.  As our old lady of SBTS says, life is only so long.  Or did she say that?  I don’t think so.  But that catch-up was a fair lead into the night.  Those same issues that others have been left to deal with.  And of them all, so far, how is this post-Europa encounter the one that has you running through Europe for... there must be something...

The end tonight was the thing.  The walk past the Old T.  The girl with streaks of white locked out of Stayners.  The wind of the day from early on, so strong, I should have known.  Like thirty dollars into the air.  Fortunately, the photo was taken for remembrance.  Best the smack of it, into the face, before it went right into the sea in three pieces.  Symbolizing what?  That tangible things are transitory?  Life has a sense of humour?  It is later than you think?  Listening to the extent of harmonica, it is annoying to have lost it.  But it puts in context what is not yet lost...

The night of official Dal acceptance.  The day of the Toth random call, and Club level as well.  A good ADC rate meeting, worth celebrating.  And the purely wondrous Davis “brothers” magic.  To get that call from the waitlist just at the perfect moment.  Memorable.

Oh, Indy for the 4th of July, with MM after that?  Ah, I wonder.  Wondering.  My favourite thing.

Foolery, sir, doth...

A superb Fool’s day - the MFA news, an Indy update, Arsenal win, and Tilley waterfront encounter.  All before the conclusion of the Jitterbug, a truly satisfying piece of work.  The finish just in time for tomorrow’s cocktails, which themselves fall on the heels of the stolen weekend in the center of the universe.  Scalp massages, the mirrored closet, the walk through the park and along the lake shore.  A pilgrimage to an arena that will hopefully hold future memories, if only many years hence.  Time, like the fool, will reveal itself eventually.