A new Lieutenant.

Oh what am I to do now? - I've been promoted. For the first time, I actually have a reason to legitimately ring the bell in the Officers' Mess. The shiny brass bell which hangs so serenely under a frail slip of wood, barely connecting it to the 70-year old building that is the armoury.

The Passchdaele Dinner on Saturday night went reasonalbly well - even if I had to endure the constant stream of questions and concerns from Captain Malcom, who found his namecard removed from the space which I'd allocated him. At first, I'd suspected that the other junior officer were playing a prank; which they are perfectly capable of doing if they'd ever even think on those lines. As things are, we were all too busy to be thinking of too many pranks - at least one managed to get underway. The guys were surreptitiously buying poor old Vlad drink after drink, undoubtedly hoping for a repeat of his very forgettable delivery of the Burns' Supper toast to the Regiment. That debacle did not repeat itself - to the CO's lasting thankfulness. At any rate, Captain Malcom spent the evening seating adjacent to me, and spent his time enquiring why things were being done this way or that, and why we had so far veered off course from traditions in both actions and on the printed menu program. Now there are something things which I consider as should-be-kept-as-inviolate, the printing of the dinner menu and program are very far and nearer to the bottom of the list. He is self-dignify-edly proud of being "old army" with it's virtues and its vices. It's acceptance of drunken orgies and "necessary abuse". He likes harkening back to a misty-memoried past and reminding us how far we have fallen from the track of living up to traditions. In some things, he is right - the Army today is simply not as used to privations, in the person, in the group and in field conditions as we had been 30 years ago. There are, however, things to be said for progress and the advent of new materials. Why be cold and wet when one doesn't have to be. Doesn't it make for a more efficient soldier if he or she (another chagrin-producing fact) is comfortable and better-rested? At any rate, he was certainly busy commenting and making endless notes on his copy of the menu-program. At one point, I could hardly wait for the usual round toasts and speeches to start so that I had a reason to tear myself away.

Rad won the Subaltern's Sword this year, with little surprise, and if it were possible - swelled his head a little more. I do think that it whouls be sufficient for now, and his should be well-mollified, for his head has been so swelled of late that on Saturday night, it seems to be causing his eyes to swell, redden and water. Perhaps he was overcome with emotion - he is, afterall, Polish.

The usual last-minute, seating reshuffles, usual dinner kerfuffles, and usual dinner slip-ups didn't mar the evening and the band played rather well. Roland was initiated into the mess and the CO caused a bit of a bad-taste-in-the-mouth when he closed the bar at 3, or was it 2 - sometime apparently way too early for everyone else there regardless of the time change. He is, afterall, the CO and can make these decisions. It was a good night and I mixed around a little more than usual it seems and will relish the thought of the subbies doing this on their own with my input next year - but I may be tempted to offer one or two tidbits of "help".

What does a Lieutenant do again?

What a sad way to cap an otherwise busy and interesting day.

Rad was being his wannabe-lawyer obtuse best this evening when we had a tiring discussion about what dress was in order for the Passchendaele Dinner. The tradition has long been that trews (tartan pants) are worn at men only or (de facto) officers only dinners whereas kilted order is worn when mixed company is present. Why? Hey, it's a tradition and I can speculate on why, but whence time immemorial we had always done so - Rad, who finds himself bereft of trews, insists that he is going to wear the kilted order of mess kit because he doesn't have trews and his DEU jacket is away at the dry cleaners. Which to my mind, would have been argument enough, but he decides to call it unconstitutional (mess constitution) when we have seen fit to draw a tangent in the purchase of a different parting gift for Rick, who is leaving the mess, than the usual pewter mug. This is named as a precedent for his being allowed to essential wear whatever he desires. I see this as a slippery slope, and he really should know better - having been there for almost as long as I have, and comissioned before me. He is, however, young and headstrong and it seems little said unless it comes directly from the CO, and he would even argue with the CO, would settle his hash. IT seems that Rob has become less weasely and oily and Rad has picked up the persona of he-whom-he-hated-most then - Rob. Rad has more interest in the letter of the law than its spirit and I don't imagine that coming in top of his course has not done a little in blowing up his head to biblical proportions. He is not by any measure become, or will I accord any more respect tthan neccessary and only where it lies - he is a force to be reckoned with on the battlefielf. He is. How he is to lead troops is another matter if, God forbid, do not measure up to the expectaions that he has set for himself and them. At least he sets them. I have been around for too long, and been a defender of traditions in the mess when they were seen as an annoyance and a trifle, to let it go so easily and especially to one whom all things are expected to yield simply because he does not. That is the very essence of arrogant presumption. We have certainly suffered, if not retarded, as a mess and as the leadership that is the officer corps of the Regiment in not having a cadre of senior leaders to rein in the feisty spirits of the junior subalterns, and to point out traditions and a respect for what is right for the sake of something more important than we ourselves are - the traditions, spirit and essence of a highland Regiment. When we act and feel as if all must bend to our vaccilating will, then the Regiment must fall for no man is an island...

I do not weep but am angry that he has chosen this time to flaunt this new-found confidence, which he was so lacking in when he returned. I understand his need for a modicum of respect, and his dire straits in having only half of the proper dress required - and that he not be treated like some new officer cadet, green behind the ears and young in the ways of the Regiment, but he acts thus and with an overblown confidence of someone who knows how to argue based upon the letter of words. If he does become a lawyer, he will be good at trying to find loopholes and holding the rules and regulations in your face, but I doubt if he will find an arguement for the human spirit and the moral honour that it takes to defend a thought if it is not in his favour or one that he thought indefensible.

If the old hands go, I shall be left alone in a sea of Rad-flavoured cronies who are too new to know better. I tshall be a tough fight but one that I think I shall relish. I am tired of all this pettiness when we have worked so hard to get where we are. I remember days when we could count the number of officers on one hand. When we were donning and doffing multiple hats and happy in our work - as Colonel Saito would have put it, and we didn't have the luxury of basking in the spares hands that we have now. What will matter is that people that have the fight in them to stand up for what they think is right - to do so, and not shrink and run away at the thought of battle - wither in the flesh or in the mind. The battlefields of the spirit are many, as are the formless and lifeless remains of all those who have come and gone. What is life if not worth the struggle for right and truth? This is where we must shine as man - to make a point, an equitable and fair arguement based on facts and truth and not might.

forsan et haec olim meminisse juvabit

Tiresome sameness.

I have written of doldrums before - that ho-hum dreary existence that seems to the stuff that is the heavy sponge of life. Why are we, that oft-said nobliest of creatures, so imbued with the potential for greatness and a fire of desire, ambition and a wont to be of some account while we are alive upon this beautiful Earth, so bedraggled and burdened with that which quenches the spirit? Boredom. Routine. Mediocrity. Worse yet - to be at a mirthless job that, were I keener of senses, would foreswear that it sucks the very life-essence from me. A job whereupon I should do very well to keep it until I am too old, by simply keeping my mouth zipped and my mind unburdened by thought and care. An automaton, albeit an organised one, would do well and, God forbid, be happy. I think that Gord my yet regret to have decided to take me on, instead of keeping Larissa. I am too careless with my thought and worse-still, my tongue. It wags and whinges - of no real account, really. My mind accept that Gord would have been happier if he had someone more malleable. I do not extend this line of reasoning that Larissa is neccessarily of that sort either - but without doubt, being Canadian, is still willing to be nice. I think I've grown tired of the little petty games that are played so often as to remind me of a smoky room and the incessant sound of laughter, and chink of poker chips.

What a waste is this wonderful mind - hampered and grave as it may be sometimes. I believe there to be some gift there - some tiny measure of why I am here but for the want of an outlet. Yet it is wasted in the work that I do - and my spirit wonders fretfully, occasionally shaking the bars of its gaol - this body; in anger and frustration. The seething, brooding being that lives within makes me wonders what all this existence is for if not for greatness. Why should so much energy, and let's say it - money, be spent in fruitless adventure? It would have been better if ... or would it. I have touched some lives - and many others have touched mine. I am grateful for all these experiences, but they settle me not and the fire within screams with anguish as the fuel runs out. My mind is ever increasingly upon the number of my days. I know that men are most given to inspiring greatness or producing greatness in the latter half of their lives - I just want to make sure that I am not in the wrong place at the wrong time and fail to do my bit.

Then again, let's not cock it up when you are given the chance to do something if you really apply yourself and work hard and work smart.

aut inveniam viam aut faciam - I hope.

Some things never change - again.

Well, it's been 2 very busy weeks around here - both at work and at home. Trish finally left after I'd told her to get out. She left somewhat indignantly last Friday night. Have I learnt my lesson in trying to help others? Perhaps. Will I be as quick to invite someone to share my hom ewith me? I don't know - maybe not. I may be too nice afterall.

Everytime that I talk to myself as I walk and convince myself that I'm really not going to get all taken with the idea of women, along comes an interesting thing, or in today's case, a whole series of interesting things. Actually the main interesting thing was from yesterday. E McTaggart walked into the office looking for her U-Pass, since we are now squatting in Freda Pagani's old office' across the space from Gord's office. Anyway, she was wearing a plain, brown or blue - I think it was light blue pant and jacket combination and while not the stunner that was aboard the 99 this morning as I trudged through the biting cold to buy Gord's birthday cake from the Safeway, she had interesting brown eyes. They reminded me of Larissa's eyes except that they were brown and I found my speech slurring and losing my train of thought as I starred intently into her eyes. In any other position (what does that mean? If she wasn't there for her U-Pass, I probably wouldn't have met her) I would have asked her out, but instantly thought of the old stand-bys, (1) she's probably married or seeing someone already, or (2) this probably isn't the professional thing to do. So nothing ever comes of it and since the few times that I've actually ventured to ask, my fears are confirmed - there really isn't very much encouraging me to initiate the line of questioning. But where's the harm really? Except to my own little world and the finicky and delicate raw twines that make up my ego. This is definately not healthy for morale - but nothing ventures, nothing ventures, as a ditzy Jennifer Tilly once said.

More nect time. I am tired of cleaning this room in the aftermath of hurricane Trish and there is more to be done tomorrow morning before I get to do some work. The shaw serviceman is due tomorrow 10-12 to install the basic cable and the cable modem - and I hope that he's on time as I have to leave at 1pm to get to the armoury. I will not be going on the exercise this weekend it seems - pity, since I could definately use the money, as I need to be at work on Saturday to catch up on the load of things which Priya left for me without my knowledge. This whole U-Pass has been very disruptive for everyone, including me.

I really need to be finding a new job soon. Gord is getting a little grumpy about , well, everything and I really don't blame him. How would your morale be if your assistant was openly looking for a job and they are beginning to be somewhat frantic about it? He says that he understands, but in reality, I seriously doubt if he knows just how much he expects out of the position there and that things aren't quite so easy to do and aren't dealth with in a matter of seconds or small minutes. At any rate, I can only hold out and pray that I may be given real responsibility and commensurate respect and pay. The question - after all this time languishing, am I actually ready for much else? The brain needs exercise as well.

Jiminez. How could she possibly be hung over at 4:30pm on a Wednesday afternoon? At least she said that she loved me. Unfortunately, that was due to my staying open later than usual to accomodate her getting a photo taken for her UBC card. No fear - other people showed up late as well, expecting service. The hours aren't really condusive for the students who need the operation hours to be early or later than regular business hours for the simple fact that they are in class during those same buiness hours!

The hope of finding work suitable in New York wanes with every passing day and I am beginning to wish that I had better focus or direction during my undergrad days - I probably would have chosen something else to major in. Had better start saving up for the trip to Chicago next year.

Something heavy, large and looming portends, and I sense its presence, nagging me like a hand holding my forehead. Where is it? What is it? I don't know, but I fear, loathe and look forward to it's arrival. What new adventure or ignominy awaits around the next corner, which needs but a small error in judgement or a door opened to herald it in. I feel that it is as small children who have done something which they should not have and hide and move about restlessly in dreaded knowledge of the return of father from work. We know who our father is and are we so naive and lost in ourselves as to go along with our delusions about our existence? If so, then woe indeed to the Earth and woe to us ourselves, for we now know not when father returns home to view our handiwork and cast judgement. There will be no lying then.

It is indeed a curse to be living in interesting times.

O Happiness thou art a taste of tea in the morning.

Woke up feeling, well strange. Then again, when don't I? Is it meet that we should awaken wondering about our day and what new adventures, trials, joys or sorows should visit us in their appointed course? I stumbled out of the bus at UBC to find that I had somehow gained 10 minutes on my commute - thanks to the driver who must have done 80km/h down Broadway in the "Special" service. I popped in to the SUB to get a tea and muffins, and met Erin in the line there - she wasn't attired in "hoody" and jeans for once and looked almost respectable in her cream pleated skirt and corduroy jacket. Being the other half of the terrible two-some, Erin, like Allyson, is ever smiling and chipper and I would be horrified to find her unsmiling and downcast. May that day never come.

So here I am again, wasting my day in the bowels of the Koerner library. Nancy from SS is here as well, but I understand from overhearing the conversation that some other people are sick in their office and she may not stay the day. Definately less busy than the same period yesterday.

Dawn is off on her way up North. This nasty thing called hope, combined with my lower brain and derailed trains of thought, is cauing me to be decidedly less-than-annoyed that she hasn't replied to my last mail to her. Perhaps she is pulling back with fear of leading me to far on with no hope or chance, or else, unlike my continuous fear, simply has been too busy in the last day packing and dealing with her own things. Besides, I am somewhat resigned that there is more lust there considering that I really haven't spent a lot of time with her. Enough on that for now. What will be will be and I am content to let it go.