Debates, Manifestos, and General Certificates

So the examination council report is in, and plans for NSCC on hold.  Just as well, given the additional hurdles and hoops of that route.  Shame the registration fee has jumped, but it still might be the best way in.  First transfer of USD has been sent, surely another to follow, and the plan in place to apply from Zambia.

Ticking over into October with some gorgeous final few sailing voyages, into the Presidential debate and another day closer to the (hopeful) ouster of Trump.  Fun night of catching up on Purcells Cove Road, definitely starting to feel the years.  The Post-Office a prime spot for the debate watching and another spot that exudes memories of drunken revels past.

Speaking of which, having faced down the exhaustion of the evening and the cloudy morning of Envigour, APEC, and POD calls, it feels time to ring in the changes in advance of another African departure.  The pandemic living has spiralled downhill since the loss of the wallet, and there’s a need to get back on track in a hard way.  Hence a new Manifesto, clean and dry living through the month of October.  Can it be done?  Let’s aim to celebrate with a drink in Peggys Cove on Halloween night.  As things come together.

Secret Spey

Glorious night - the sail, the Scotch, the Horsepower headache.  Good conversation with the old guys, and enjoyable nectars.  Big Jay McNeeley to end it, along with some enjoyable texting across the seas.

So long since Dan Ackroyd, since Latvia, since the accusation of coke in the bathroom.  Time flows.  At last it is time for the overdue teeth cleaning.  Blood on the gums ahead.

The Future of Another Timeline proved an immensely enjoyable read.  All the different ways.  I still see next August as the path forward, Visas and vaccines all that stand in the way.  Surely.

PS.  "Long term destruction"  O in C7, etc.  The jargon is intense, the inflammation concerns intensifying.  Bodies falling apart in middle age, as Clarke finds as well.  Numbness in Wayne Kirk's hands.  The randomness of those encounters.  Nick failing to make the Black Tot Redux.  Who would want to hang around too long and overstay the welcome.  But for love of others, I guess.  Appointment set for the return post-Zambia.  Oh my.   

70 Rounds

Celebrating 1/2 way to St. Patrick’s Day, 6 months since the start of my lockdown, heading back to Moncton tomorrow in the endless cycle of strangeness that is 2020.  But Guinness is half-price, the guy wearing a Domus Legis sponsored green t-shirt (I’ve seen that gut on Paddys of olde) who “knows just enough to get the gig, just not the rebel songs” is on guitar early.

An upside down year, every which way you look.  Stuck around this week for the Stone’s Throw articling event, just to show the face among the increasingly distant crew of co-workers.  Slicked back hair on Proctor, fit-to-burst McIsaac, mesmerizing smile of McInnes, hellos via Aucoin from Landry and MacPhee.  Visions of a ghostly past, to be fair.  The ex-Managing Partner who approved the Antarctica sail, then never asked once how it went.  This morning the long-bearded homeless guy was waiting on the work side of the ferry, and this eve there was Johnny K, whose Scotch we drank, looking the same as he does in my mind from back in 2002.  How many rounds since?  70 this summer, he said, and with no improvement.  Heh.

Tell me Ma, Dirty Old Town, Galway Girl.  Shivers, still.  Nine years later after Eire.  Black Velvet Band, Marie Ellen Carter, Feel the Same Way Too, all the good stuff.

There comes a change.  Brought on by age in recent years, accelerated by this pandemic.  Ready for what shall roll on next.  Differences in taste, motivation, desire, expectation... but - and most importantly - even as the essential standards of this one pure Life remain.

Amazing how one individual can spark such emotion, such joy, such magic for that right other, when perfectly met.  But so say we all.  Or most of us.  At one point or another.  

Behind me in this booth is a poster, instinct says take it, and so I started.  But.  The cheap hat is enough.  I’ll remember this one time I closed my eyes, and decided to remember the fun of this random, unexpected celebration, perfectly opposite to the firm-sponsored welcome event you fled across the way.

I feel it coming.  It’s later than you think.

PS.  I can’t believe the Spirit of the West song he’s closing this out is not Home for a Rest but something else (Venice is Sinking!)  And remember this qantas-flight-nowhere article that made sense and actually brought a smile.  Four Strong Winds, then home.

What to Write

I find myself still caught in the quarantine funk, trapped by inertia, creeping feelings of claustrophobia and paralysis, unable to take the next creative steps.  Work - as easy and part-time and comfortable as it is - offers no outlet, and can only be strung out in advance so long.  What to replace it with that holds redeeming value, with the Brier Island reverie in tatters (fortunately!) and little by way of other ideas?

The MFA sits as a natural outlet starting next June, a path to the publication of a non-fiction book.  But what is that book? What...  How to actually come up with a popular title that can be pitched and sold that is not simply about you as a lawyer vagabond?  How to find topics and tales that will above all get published?  Or is there another path instead?

Let’s dream further.  It is time to write up the Zanzibar story.  First draft effort at least. See what it looks like.  Go from there.

PS.  🐸 Pond Found tonight, as well as the Octagon on North Mountain.  Idea?  Idea?

Lost

 Out of quarantine with a bang, police congratulations call taken at the backside dock, as the old man went on about the history and wondered when we would depart.  Camping and the fort, as seen through young eyes.  Best man offer accepted, and further musings on Paris as the right choice.  Lubono and Visa and Covid dependent, so we’ll see.

Two days of not being able to make the office, and a lost wallet at that, after an invigorating sail up and down the harbour with the old standbys from Jordan and Saudi, jealous of your success in love.  But the lack of showers and meaningless Netflix and constant social media refreshing should now come to an end, starting tomorrow.

Two years on from the moose.  Much has happened since, to say the least.  Much seen and much decided.  More to come.  Let’s see where it leads...  away and back again to this meditation spot at King’s Wharf, surely.

0.5 seconds

That’s all OG needed.  The pass from Lowry sailing through the air, recalling the 0.8 seconds used by James Forrest for Tech in 1992.  Junior High.  Holy Mackerel.

Night #11 of quarantine and it grows tiresome, and yet.  Keep the phone on and the sailing Saturday is imminent.  Having drunk the old stuff here dry, I’m ready for it.  Sad I didn’t read or write, but I’ll be better prepared next time.  Fun to consider the idea of faking a test, but needs must, and as military seems to turn against el Presidente, maybe it will be a good return to somewhat of normality after all.

We’ll see.  Thanks for the Partnership sparkly MC.  Only took me a bit over 5 years to crack it.