Youth’s a Stuff

Leaving Stratford.  Restful and satisfied, the church service and unexpected plays and Rioja by the gravesite all as you like it.  Enjoying the book about the First Folio so randomly acquired at Woodside.  All seems well on the home front, with one week left before the return to a Halifax summer.

This pilgrimage has all the makings of what you hoped for, the stomping through memory’s grounds, a sequel to the trip taken during the second trimester for AA.  As the last post notes, it has a greater sense of a conclusion about it.  Although maybe this time next year is another for consideration, in the long line of escapades imagined for 2024.

What is clear is the need for an updated manifesto, with the same commitments of old.  Limits on the drinking and the phone obsession.  Healthier eating and increased exercise.  Organization of the house and decluttering of the offices home and downtown.

It can be done, particularly if you can align it with the creative burst needed to complete the first draft of the story now in outline.  The foundations are there and I feel good about the trajectory, the marketing, the conclusion.  

I wanted to write about the trees in the countryside, the branches like the baobab.  About the legacy of creation, the theatre as a form particularly ephemeral in nature.   The black ink as a means of fixing on a way to partake in the literary conference circuit.  Because why not.

Leamington Spa approaching, so much seems the same and the differences are yet vast.  What will another few years bring?  Before your next trip back to Blighty?  Time alone will show.