Hieronymous the Anonymous

Biblical times

We live in Biblical times: drought, bushfires and floods, and that's just Gippsland. All we lack is pestilence and the odd locust plague, but given all the poor farmers have had to deal with in recent years that's the last thing you'd wish on them.

These are strange times though, distinctly so. Forget about all the international intrigue and drama for a moment, that's strange enough in it's own right. Right here at home we have been subject to the whims of nature for these last few years. The worst recorded drought since this country was settled by caucasians, crippling much of the eastern seaboard and extending towards the west. A week ago Melbourne was down to 28% of water capacity - Brisbane even worse. The drought has continued for years, ruining the lives of many rural Australians dependent upon the land for their living.

Then we had bushfire. Bushfires are to some degree a constant on the Australian calendar. A bone dry bush because of the lack of rain certainly helps the spread of these fires, until, like last summer, we saw these mega-fires erupt out of control over a vast expanse of territory, leaving everything in it's wake devastated. I wrote over the summer of how a pall of smoke hung over the city from the distant fires, while we sweltered through an hotter than usual summer season. It was surreal and ominous, like something that may have been written of in the Old Testament.

Now we have flood. Does this mean the drought is over? It flooded first north of Sydney, through the Hunter Valley and to the coast. A huge cargo ship was cast up on the shore. People died, swept away in gushing waters or victim to freak accident. Now it is Victoria's turn, with Gippsland floods the worse for generations, roads and homes swamped, the threat of king tides, and even the sight of a portable home uprooting and floating out to sea.

For years there has been so little rain that when it has fallen it has been cause for comment, and even wonder. People that once would have complained at wet weather now rejoice at it. We have become used to living in an alien environment, and as I write there feels a sense of a strange and distant outpost that we reside in. This is our world - what next?

Like I say, strange times. Is it global warming? Or simply coincidence?

How things change

There’s a New York state of mind apparently, though I’m not sure exactly what that means. Right now I’m in a different state of mind, distinct and self-induced, which sees me gazing out the window between busily working, looking at but not quite seeing all the activity on the river and across it. I guess I have what they call the thousand yard stare, turned inwards, contemplative.

This started last night, that much is clear by what I wrote then. I dreamt through the night, ordinary dreams of no great significance seemingly, except for the cast of characters in them. In one long series for example there was Fred, alive but very sick, and on the verge of the death that in real life took him. In one dream I am driving behind him when he has a minor prang, a silly prang really, especially for a driver like him – a bull at a gate perhaps, but not inclined to anything sloppy. His accident roused the ire of others. I was desperate to get to him, but couldn’t find a parking spot in the narrow street. I felt like his caretaker, certain in my mind that his accident was indicative of a further critical decline – but I could not get to him to help.

The other dreams were in a work environment, really quite uneventful and everyday, but within them a sense of something more. Well, that’s like real life sometimes. They were other times though, not the times I live through now but times that are now gone, not to return. Where did this come from? I am involved in building a new finance team, and so doing I consider the people I know and have worked with who may be suitable, so perhaps that is it. Though perhaps not.

Today I am different and the girls know it. It’s not so bad, though I can’t explain why not, or maybe more likely am unwilling to. I can’t open myself up too far, not here. And so I go away from people, to my private place in the corner of my own mind. There are those who would happily listen to me and offer comfort, though that is one thing I don’t want. And maybe that is a reason I don’t share these things. It is a long time since I’ve been in this state of mind, but it’s not so long ago that most days were like this – how things change.

I figure I’ll contemplate a little longer then move on. I’m a busy boy, no good standing still, have to go forward.

Old things that never go

Have been out. It's a rainy night - this is the wintriest winter we've had for years. Had a few drinks, saw a movie. Knocked back the offer of more drinks, and stood at a tram stop fighting off the cold.

It's simple. I stood there pacing up and down. I thought about a few things. Things I'd thought about many times before, but from within a different context. God knows I like women. I'm a good boy for now but things flow my way. Flick the switch and I think it's ready to go again. Then I stood on the tram hanging onto a pole. I looked at the others. This stuff was happening in my head, new context and all, it was overshadowed. I'd put things to the back of my mind, put away like things you don't want to toss out but hardly ever use. Here I was rummaging again.

I don't know what to think. There are warm things. You feel them best when it's wintry, and not just the weather. I stood and hung onto the bar. I felt pretty fierce, then I looked out the window. The river flows, water passes by on its way somewhere else. I looked by the bank of the river going by, knowing what I saw would never come my way again. So. I looked back. Q: Is that your nature to accept that? A: Well, you can't turn back nature. R: Mmm, maybe.

The tram rumbled on. I remembered the warm things, and hoped for them again. Tomorrow I'll put these things away again.

This good

I walked out the front door this morning to find it blustery and cold. The road was wet and the trees dripped with rain that had fallen shortly before. Even as the wind whipped up there were fine drops of sleet driven before it. I was without coat but had wound around my neck a thick woollen scarf that I had knotted at my throat. My shoes clacked on the bluestone paving as I turned into Abbotsford Street, looking for the tram to show in the distance, the beam of its lights giving it away in the grey morning.

I love this sort of weather. I love the elements at play, love to see the possibility and sometimes the power. I love that we have no control over any of it, that it capriciously does what it wants. I love the feeling I have then of being a small part of something much bigger. And I love the raw sensuality of it, the wind pushing at me, the rain scudding down forcing me to hasten, love the sheer feeling of being alive. Always, always, it envibes me – a word I’ve just made up, but which fits exactly.

I stood on the tram. Some music by Ryuchi Sakamoto came onto my iPod. It was quiet music, music that slowly built towards a point before inverting, this repeated a number of times and each time taking it further. I looked out the window enclosed in this world the music had created, the ideal soundtrack to all that I saw and felt. I sat down. Opposite me was a bloke in his early twenties, a tuft of hair under his lip, reading a thick fantasy novel. Next to him sat a dark haired girl of around the same age, grey leggings under her skirt, reading a book on economics. They read quietly until he had to get off, whereupon he turned to the girl and kissed her goodbye – the first indication they were together.

It’s easy on the train or tram to work to be in a mildly comatose state, robotically reading their book or listening to their music, oblivious to much happening outside of them. I’ve been that way myself, though it’s more uncommon for me. Once I’m up and about I like to see things, to observe and process. There was a girl on the tram wearing a long black skirt with lacy strips around it. It may sound strange but it was sort of Eastern influenced, or so it seemed to me, and I was on the verge of saying something to her: like your skirt. But then I anticipated the response, rousing her from her stupor to face a strange man commenting on her skirt. Wot’s ‘is game then? I could imagine her thinking. And so I left her undisturbed.

I got off at the usual stop and crossed the road at the usual spot. In the city the wind funnelled down Collins street, strong enough to invert umbrellas. He pushed at me too, swaying me off my course, but invigorating at the same time, how good’s this?

On the streets

After work tonight I walked through the city. I stopped once to chat with a Hari Krishna who looked nothing like a Hari Krishna used to look, blonde and ripe looking in a plain hand knitted jumper. She gave me a book. “That’s a book”, she said.

“I’m familiar with them”, I said, “it has words inside it.”

“Ah, so you’ve seen them before”, she said. To this point the conversation is sassy and pleasantly tart, unlike any conversation I expected to have with a Hari Krishna woman. Then it righted itself. “Have you read Sanskrit?” she asked, opening a page at random.

“Nooo”, I had to admit, “I’ve never read Sanskrit.” At which point she offered me the book and asked for a donation to ‘cover the printing costs’ – a reasonable request given her glib assessment of me as being a ‘rich and successful businessman’. I was rueful at that. “Appearances can be deceptive, you know?” Oh, she knew, she told me. And that was that.

I walked on. A Peruvian flautist, a middle aged man in a patterned woollen poncho, played on the cold street as everyone started for home. I don’t know much about Peru except they make wine and have some handy skiing (and is that where llamas come from?), but I figured as I walked by their biggest net export must be Peruvian musicians – perhaps they’re expelled? There’s a lot of them around, can’t poke a stick, as they say, which makes me think it must be Peruvian busker season, and then I think what a strange journey they make. Someone should implant them with tracking devices, like humpback whales and dolphins. I’ve seen these guys everywhere I’ve ever gone.

I browsed some stores and then stopped by Whisky to pick up a voucher he had promised me. There I met the girl he had found in Colombia, and who had come out on a holiday to visit him. She was nice. We had some wine and conversed in an amalgam of English and Spanish. Everything was bueno, though sometimes I was loco – though in a nice way.

It had been raining out by the time I left. The road was just wet enough to be slick. It was cold and as I waited for the tram to arrive it started to rain again. Then the tram came. It was full, as it often is at this time of night – around 8. I stood and watched everything go by. Many of the passengers seemed to be students from other countries – that’s pretty common too. I listened to my music and looked forward to home – to the warmth, to dinner and to sitting down to watch something decent on the telly, to everything simple and down to earth.

I got in the door and it started to rain again. It sounded great. It fell heavily then softly then heavily again. There have been many nights like that recently, nights where I’ve lain in bed and listened or woken up to hear it falling and felt comforted by it. Downstairs it smelt of burned toast. Still. On impulse I had got out of bed the night before and made myself some toast from the left over olive loaf, burning the first batch. I had lain in bed afterwards and the smell from the burnt toast had been pungent, unbelievably so. I wondered if something was still burning. I wondered if when I slept I would be overcome by the fumes of the burnt toast – a new one on me. I couldn’t sleep though, and laying there smelling the toast I thought you don’t know how something is so simple and good until it is neither simple nor good any longer. I think I fell asleep after that.

I watched an old DVD tonight – The Fisher King. Moons ago I liked it, but watching it again I wondered if I would still. It was different to what I remembered, but then my life is different too. I liked it again, in a different way. It made me feel good, and afterwards I was singing too, I like New York...

Caffeine and bubbles

Last night I stayed in and watched The Departed on DVD. It was excellent. It was tense and taut, and the performances excellent, especially Leonardo Di Caprio, who can be a patchy performer. It was nice to stay home and lounge.

The night before I’d been out with a couple of girls from work, with Whisky joining us. We drank bubbles, our excuse being that I had finally become permanent on the Monday, and Whisky had found a job through the week himself. And so the girls and I had a quick beer at The Deanery, before making our way to the Golden Monkey, where Whisky joined us.

I was at the Golden Monkey a few weeks back and enjoyed it. It’s described as being like an opium den from an Indiana Jones movie. Maybe. It’s a subterranean place, in the basement of a building on McKillop street, red Oriental furnishings and a great drinks list full of funky cocktails, pages of wine and spirits, as well as an interesting selection of Chinese tapas to nibble on.

We had a few bottles of Cloudy Bay bubbles and then a bottle of Pinot. The food came and went, the conversation flowed while all around us the bar simmered with activity, packed with people doing the Friday night thing, kicking back, having fun. We got out of there at around 10.30, when we went to Chilli Padi for some dinner. Got home a bit after 12, no complaints on the night.

Yesterday I was up early to catch up with Cheeseboy. We had arranged to do a barista course together in the city. I showered and dressed and then set off, walking through the cold early morning towards the looming city buildings.

Met up with Cheeseboy and while everything was being sorted out we chatted and laughed like a couple of teenage kids in the same footy team. There was that lively, jock quality to it, explosive laughter, playful gibes. We’d had lunch together the day before but that didn’t stop the banter.

The course itself was pretty good, learned plenty I think that I will put into effect. I’m pretty serious about my coffee, as are most of my friends, so it was good to learn and to understand and then to try my own hand at the job.

Course done he set off and I wandered over towards the market to get the necessary. My fridge karked it the other week, and I had a shiny new stainless steel model delivered last week – now I had to fill it.

It was the time of day at the market when they start to make deals, yelling them out to the passing crowd, competing with each other to be heard – “$12 a kilo porterhouse, $12 a kilo...” I bought my vegies, my meat, got something to eat, wandering through the thronging crowds, thinking that the rudest people come to the market, but not too concerned, cool, happy to be out and about and free to do as I pleased.

This morning it was brunch again, like every Sunday, and this afternoon lost in sorting out my playlists, hours slipping by while I fiddle with them, a boyish and irresistible pleasure in playing with them. Where does the time go? It goes in trivial things.

Every man

The last week I’ve been making my way into and from work listening to the latest Phillip Roth novel, Everyman, on my iPod. I looked forward to the experience each time I slipped on my headphones. Sitting on my tram or shivering as I walked down the wintry streets I would be happily transported to this alternate world made live in the warm voice of the narrator, piped into my head, my ears warm in the felt of the headphones, the world around me moving, active, but strangely mute as instead I was privy to the intimate details of this man’s life – the everyman – of the title.

The story line is pretty simple, but compelling. The novel starts at the graveside of the everyman, he is dead, his brother speaks movingly of him, his daughter grieves, his estranged sons make token gestures, and then the soil by the side of the grave is dropped upon his coffin, buried as he is in the same cemetery as his parents. So the novel starts at the end – and then moves backwards.

We are introduced to this everyman – a person who is meant to be representative of many of us, a man who if he is in any way extraordinary is so in ordinary ways. He is a man thrice married, with children from two of the marriages. He has led a relatively successfully career in an advertising agency, has had a few affairs along the way, and made his mistakes. He is human, flawed, good in most ways, intelligent, and reasonably perceptive, if only after the fact sometimes. The story ranges backwards and forwards, from his childhood, through episodes of his adult life, the important moments, the important people, to his health problems and the years of his retirement. Bit by bit a picture builds of this person, rich and true. He is a real character, someone you can imagine, that encapsulated in that world contained in your headphones you can hear. I grew to like him, to care for him, even as I knew where it was going.

I went for a walk Thursday night. It was very cold, as most of the days and all of the nights have been lately. The cold stung on the bare skin of my cheeks. Walking I bumped into the wife of an acquaintance of mine, a woman I like, and so chatted to her. And then I plugged the iPod back in and listened to this story as it wound to its end.

I was due at the hairdressers but I paused on a street corner in the dark to hear the end of the story. The trams went by disgorging commuters late home from work. A man in a third floor apartment appeared in a lighted window before pulling the blind. A woman walked by as I leaned against a pole. I listened and looked at these things, thinking even as I listened, this is now, the knowledge of that deepened by what I was listening to, the last innocent moments of a man not knowing these were his last moments, but aware but one day he would join his parents. This is the transient reality.

Then it ended. He went into an operating theatre and never came out. I switched off my iPod and went into the salon.

One of the reasons I was so captured by this book was the sheer depressing reality of it. We’re all going to die, probably, and this is what it boils down to, near enough – about 5 hours worth of prose. There's more to life to that in the living, but when all is said and done, how much more?

It was a question I asked myself in between polite conversation with the hairdresser. We do these things, we do that. We have our routines, our habits by which we recognise ourselves and others. We see our friends, we have drinks, share meals, fun while they last but gone soon enough. We may travel, and there might be an extra half hour of life in the telling. We fall in love and out of it, we have dramas - some of us more than others - and often that is when we most feel alive. It all moves forward though, the clock ticks, things fall behind us, done, complete, over, while things ahead of us come forward to meet us - before they too fall behind. Then one day there is nothing ahead of us, it is all behind.

That's where the book started, that's what hooked me, because by starting with his death everything else that was described in the book was framed by the knowledge that it was all heading to one terminal point. Phillip Roth is a great writer. He managed to make this journey meaningful because in the character of the everyman he created someone I could recognise from my own experience, and to see in him qualities I know in others.

In his descriptions of the slow breaking down of the everyman’s body, the operations year after year to repair some defect or malfunction, there is a bleak foretelling of what lies ahead of most of us in some way or form. Simpler than that there is the more prosaic decline in function, the aches, the pains, the inability to do what was once simply done.

There is a moment in the book where he reflects not just on his physical decline but also of his growing irrelevance now that he is retired. There was, he thinks, some power not just in being youthful, but in carrying within himself the potential of much more simply by being a productive member of society. The meaning was not limited by the work he did, but rather in the act of working, of doing, of being, of striving, of the potential it contained in unlocking purpose, and by extension, some kind of personal definition. This seems to me particularly masculine, and it resonated strongly with me as I read it. He was successful always, in modest ways, had loved women, been attracted to and attractive all of his life, but now in his decline he realises he has nothing to offer – nothing they want in any case – there is nothing inside him still to unveil, no magic, no mystery, no strength, there has been a loss in essence, in some manly virtue now cast aside.

Reading this I recalled a moment a few years ago now from my own life. I was at a birthday party of a friend at a restaurant in Chapel Street. Looking back I went into the night a little out of sorts for whatever reason, so that soon after eating I excused myself and went for a walk outside.

Chapel Street is an ugly place on a Saturday night, bright and clattering, thick traffic and loud music and people you don’t want to know going by, dressed up or dressed down, either way but in any case vacant and looking to be filled, filled by the lights and noise, by the sensation of being amongst all that is bright and clattering and without meaning. Or at least that’s how I saw it as I walked out that night and moved amongst them.

I had no purpose either – I just wanted to get out of where I had been. By habit I entered the large Borders store on the corner. It was bright and busy. I moved between the shelves of books and the tables with the latest best sellers. I picked up a book or two and put them down: I love book stores, but my heart was not in this either. I wandered out, then went to the toilet. There were a few guys in their early twenties there, self-consciously tough, and an older guy who seemed visibly afraid of what these loud and posturing kids might do. I took it in, did my business, and left. I felt terrible.

Nothing happened to that guy, chances are that nothing would, but his fear made him an easy target for the type of bullies that prowl places like that. Ironic it is that it is this fear that makes him more vulnerable to attack. I had no fear. I cast a look at the tough kids and they ignored me or looked away. I knew they would never take me on and knew that knowledge made me safe. It is the way of men, the sub-conscious sizing up that occurs, that assesses risk and type and pecking order. I knew that I had that look in my eye and in the way I carried myself that said stay clear. I’d always had it to the point I took it for granted. I had no reason to fear, and confidence that should anything happen then I could handle it. I knew – and they knew it to. It protected me, just as the other man’s fear made him vulnerable.

I stood outside in the concourse and surveyed the scene. It looked ugly to me, meaningless. What did it matter, I wondered, that I felt this way now? Seeing the other man had shaken me, I had felt like turning to him, pull yourself together, but in the end even that was beyond me. I felt a kind of disgust – and then I felt a kind of fear.

I’m safe now, I thought. But what about in years to come? Will I always have this aura, or will it fade? What about when I’m older, less robust, possibly less certain? Will I become vulnerable then? Will I become a likely victim? It was like I understood how things can change suddenly, how there is no guarantee that you will always have – or be – what you have and are now.

So far so good. Much of this is attitude, it shows no sign of fading, I feel as safe as I ever have, and expect for that to continue. Attitude I can control to a large degree. I can’t stop myself aging though. Like I read of this everyman, I realise that much of who I am inside myself is in those things I project, and in the promise of things I can be, or can create. They are inside me, that potential – to be attractive, to love and be loved, to create and to be engaged, part of something – it is that potential that makes up a large part of who I am.

So what happens when most of it is behind you? Perhaps there is acceptance. Perhaps you sit back and reflect and enjoy what the journey tells you. I cannot imagine that, but then I am still young and in the middle of things. I don’t want it though either. It's unsettling to think that the robust character you are now, both physically and otherwise, could one day be a thing of the distant past. What happens when things are no longer vital and breathing? What happens when you feel that diminishment and carry it with you every day? Can the mind hold it off by itself? Be mighty in the here and now, that's all you can be, all you can do. Be here now.

There are many books and other media that go over the same territory as Everyman, though in different ways (I have written myself on it previously). I remember when I was young my Mum used to play an album by Charles Aznavour. There was a song on it, a great song called Yesterday When I was Young, where the singer ruefully sings of his lost youth, wondering where it has gone, and looking back on the mistakes he made, and the unending future he always felt he had in front of him, only to find now that it does end. It's a melancholy song, but even as a kid, with years and years in front of me, I found some fascination in the solemn sentiments expressed.

It's been a few years since then, since I was a kid and went to school with all this ahead of me. I know of a few people from school who are now dead from accidents, disease, and likely there are more still that are no longer here that I am unaware of. You’d have never guessed when we were at school together but then it was always going to be, the moving finger stops and beckons, that’s the way of it. Having got this far the chances are that I’ll live to a reasonable old age, the averages say that I’ll do so much and then one day fall off the twig.

And then what happens? What do they say at my graveside? How long do they remember?

That’s for me to dictate I guess, and though I sound maudlin I don’t feel it. Listening to this book made me think about my life as if it was a tale being told, midway through. There are always frights, that won’t stop. I remember once B watching Ghost with me and the scene where the demons come from hell to claim some unfortunate soul. It is a shocking scene and B clung to me, muttering, I’ll never be bad to you again H. And even a few weeks ago watching All That Jazz I watched the prolonged death scene and it made me keenly consider what I have done, where I have mis-stepped, the wrongs I have done to others. I wondered if there was an accounting how I would measure up – I was worried.

Still, I came from the salon the other night, it was dark and cold. I got some take-away Nepalese and then walked home through the quiet streets. It seemed beautiful. This is now, I thought again. The now is good. Just have to make the now forever, and make it worth something. That’s as much as I can do, and that’s okay.

Be careful what you wish for...

I’m feeling pretty cool right now, which is why I haven’t been writing. When you’re happy there’s not really much to report on, and not much inclination in any case. It’s a pretty telling fact. It’s one of the reasons that I think happiness is overrated. That sounds like a big call, and given a choice I’d rather be happy myself, than not. It’s just that I think happiness can seduce you into an almost stupefied acceptance of the status quo. What reason is there to strive for anything if what you have already is perfectly adequate? And so you tend to blithely sail along, the minutes, hours, days going by, without anything to rub against to make you understand things are happening. It’s like travelling in a capsule without any sensation of actually moving. Me, I like to feel the wind in my hair, I want to occasionally go off on a tangent, and on balance I don’t mind the odd obstacle in my path because that’s when I know most that I’m alive and kicking, in the contrast between what is good and bad, in the different shades, the different speeds, in the different everything; the difference between what I am made to feel and what I never do when everything sails along safely and predictably. It is at the extremes we live most keenly I think; it’s the extremes I am drawn to and am fascinated by. It’s why I write.

No complaints from me – it’s good to be happy, nice to feel the world at my fingertips. I just don’t want to lose awareness, or take anything for granted. It’s best when every moment has a weight to it, even if there is some pain in it. That’s part of the journey, part of the learning and maybe one day part of the understanding.

Anyway, here I am, writing. I’m forcing myself but it will flow again, no doubt. And hell, you gotta reckon something’s going to turn sour at some point – there’ll be plenty to write about, and much reason to. I should enjoy what I got – I’ve tempted fate now, you never know what’s around the corner…

Running the gauntlet

I couldn’t get out of bed this morning, or at least didn’t want to, so that when I finally roused myself and got myself ready I was running late for work. Now, depending on how much time I have up my sleeve I go to work by one of two routes. If I have time to spare I’ll walk for 15 minutes odd before catching a tram in William Street. When I’m pushing it – more often than not – I’ll catch the tram that runs almost directly outside my door, which goes down Elizabeth Street.

Today I caught the second tram, and as usual got off at the corner of Collins Street. As I began to walk to the office there was the scream of an ambulance siren going, which we had to make way for as it turned into Collins Street and careered down the road. At the same time a police car coming the other way drove down the tram tracks with siren blaring. This is unusual.

I got into work and switched on my PC, had a quick chat, before going out again, around the corner to buy my regular morning coffee. While I’m waiting my phone rings. It’s Jennie from the office, my offsider, telling me to watch out – there’s a gunman loose in William Street she said, and an email had just gone around the office telling us to stay in, and that the front doors will be locked. Take care she said, while I made a joke of it.

I made my way back to the office. I considered that if I had left home a little earlier and so caught my William Street tram then most likely I’d have been in the middle of all the action as it happened. So it goes. That was strange enough, but stranger things were to occur.

At about 10.30 we noticed a crowd of police and news cameramen gathered around the building next door, a construction site. Turns out the gunman had passed this way, tossing his pistol and denim jacket into the site. That seemed surreal, particularly as it seemed likely – after doing my sums – that he had probably passed by around the time I was out getting my coffee. I walk past that site every morning, both coming and going.

As I write this the gunman is still on the loose. One person is confirmed dead, three others wounded. There are news helicopters criss-crossing the sky outside, their cameras trained on the buildings here, a police boat patrols the river. Strange. I’m escorting the girls to lunch today, just to make sure they’re safe, but I can’t help feeling a mild thrill at the days events. It’s livened up a dreary Monday, that’s for sure.

This weeks black run

Since my post of the other day I've sorted things out in my mind. As I inferred at the time I'm going for it, and feel confident with that decision. I do not know which way things will go, nor what the outcome will be, but ultimately you have to be true to yourself. You may flirt with other options, but if you want any sort of peace then you must go with what feels true for you. I've done this, and I feel fine.

Once I had resolved my course of action much of the angst slipped away. There may be things worth worrying about in time to come, but there is little future in worrying about it yet. And so I shrugged that off, and went about my business, empowered by the call I had made.

It's like when you're perched on top of a mountain with your skis on, looking down upon the black run you must traverse if you want to get back. From where you stand it looks damn spooky. It's steep and narrow and dotted with mogully bumps. Your eyes are wide contemplating this, wondering first how in the world can you possibly ski it, and then beginning to map out the course ahead, afraid still, nervous, but coming to understand that while it's not certain it's probably not going to kill you. And then you take the plunge. You push off and feel the cold air whipping at your face as your pace gathers, you turn, and turn again, trying to minimise your speed at first, skiing on the edge of your skis, barely in control on the icy snow, everything, all of you, in this effort, your eyes scanning ahead, your mind assessing, and your body, balanced, hunched, your quads beginning to burn, your calf muscles tight. And as you continue a feeling of mild exhilaration infests you, building with every moment. You may come a cropper, what the heck, but at least you're going for it and damn if it aint fun after all. That's how it is. If you've got to take the plunge you may as well enjoy the ride.

And that's where I am. Committed. Life is all about commitment. Commit hard things happen, go half hearted and you tumble. And so if it comes to something I'll look them in the eye, unapologetic, here I am, your call, but I'm not going to take a backward step. I'll bet on them blinking first.

Regardless, life continues.