Day 12

The last of the wine.  Diablo.

The go ahead for a few more hours this week to listen into the UARB on another hearing in a passive role just granted.  Funny to think of the before-days, where that might have meant donning a suit to revisit Summit Place, and blog again surreptitiously from there.  Instead, the same shirt and underwear worn for days, waiting for time to expire, the hangover-like punishment/payment for such wondrous events and memories of November.

How else to pitch it?  The dreams pursued, and conquered (the last pronounced in that Shakespearean way, three syllables instead of two).  The 910 square feet of 601 a reliable refuge, at last for wifi, at least for a time.  Perhaps it will lapse after the third quarantine charm.  

When shall the walks begin again, the gambols.  When shall we welcome our lady - your wife! - to the wonders of these here surroundings.  Fun call with Flint today, the ancient banter with McDonough, always recalled, the warnings placed on files that you are privy to based on the most random of Pearson phone calls.  Dad’s ring resting nicely.  

And of course the 5th year celebration of the Mink-Hippo man, all these many years later it is almost as if a year has been skipped.  So much time.  To make a two week quarantine inconsequential.  Which is why you trade it, of course, for the broader experiences required.  The ability to move and yet be paid with no questions.  

I would I had more wine.  I fear the Scotch be next.  Pray you the headache not be much.  Two days.  Then we do the serious work and get this Application to Sydney and start the clock.

“The hips and bosom outside.”  At Avani tonight.  How lucky I am, to have that knowledge of space in past time.  Can’t wait to share the same on the reverse leg.