Basement Orders

You remember that?  I still think it was Griffin, if it proves so, although the way the young man slept silently through the latest shenanigans this aft, perhaps it will never be sorted for certain if we don’t see signs of blood early in ‘23…

I would be happy with him, enthralled, ensorcelled, yet the fates and the winding road and the uncertainty.  If it be not now yet it will come?  Maybe.  What is excellent is inevitable, it seems.  

I must sleep off this wine.  Wanted to record the strange majesty of another torrid few days of memories, relaxing and yet incredibly odd, living through a fever dream rather than experiencing each moment for what it is.  Imagine watching a shell game, flash picture sequence of these nights over the course of the memory.  From Bedford to Alexander.  Was strange to be back at Mount Royal and see the Caseley photo of 1989-2001, realizing he was basically it for you at that place.  And he, like so many, gone.  Memories of spankings and the like, never exactly what they seem.

Yet these traditions carry on in their way.  Check in on Mr. Double Dubonnet tomorrow.  The past is prologue and so much lies there and so much is sad and wonderful.  Up the Arsenal, as well.  It was Boxing Day, babe.  In the North Bank…