If it's Thursday night, it must be Clonakilty

To think that life goes on in an altered state all around the world. 

I've thought a lot about what this pandemic has done, and apart from the obvious death and illness, it has given me a taste of what it must be like to be incarcerated. Of course, I fantasize about being incarcerated for a diamond heist (won't be long till I break free boys) rather than a long-term care facility (as we tactfully call old-people's homes here in Canada, but the overarching sentiments are probably the same.

Life goes on. Without you.

Early on I was thrilled to find musicians doing concerts from their living rooms. Ian Prowse was the first to do them (that I saw), then there was Ger Wolfe and John Spillane, Christy Moore from his kitchen... as the days have passed, and I was dragged into an unmitigated hell of work, my opportunities to watch have been reduced. Yet here, this afternoon, I had the chance to catch John Spillane, live in a bar, in Co. Cork.

In fairness, it was just him, two musicians and a barman, but it felt nice to watch the bard of Passage West work his way through a live rendition of his "Will We Be Brilliant Or What?" album.

But the downside is, of course, that it sets you thinking. And remembering. And realizing that time is passing and the opportunities to get over to Ireland to see JS and visit friends and live life to the full once again and slowly ebbing away.

This is why the most hated cell in Alcatraz was the one with a view of Fisherman's Wharf in San Francisco. 

Because life goes on. With or without you.