Game On

"Save us from the time of trial."

-The Lord's Prayer, BCP (Modern)

Dark and gloomy out there, even for Corning in December.

Certainly a little more wintery than the photo I snapped exactly a year ago.

Jim turns 33 today. We spoke for a few minutes yesterday when I took a break from my studies. It sounds like he may be by himself for Christmas, which bothers me enormously.

The inside of my head keeps playing Fool If You Think It's Over, Chris Rea's 1978 FM radio hit. Some days I feel like I'm trapped in a 70s fern bar that still exists between my ears.

The first exam is in an hour and twenty. I've been over and over and over the outline, trying to distill what I've learned into some simple tools and checklists that are, with any luck, sufficient for a passing grade.

Outwardly, I've gotten strangely calm in the face of all this, even as my GI tract registers the stress in its own insistent and unpleasant way. The same thing happened during the war, always happens when I've been wringing my hands for weeks about a moment that finally arrives. I told P the other day that I'm a ball of worry with a trial on the horizon, but all that effaces when I stand up for the first time in jury selection. Same here.

Time to shower, take a quick look at some model answers the prof posted online, and dig into this thing.