Not every day is a holiday.  Not every day a weekend.  And – contrary to what my late father repeatedly posited – not every day is Christmas. Some days – like today – are just for mucking about. And that is precisely what I have been doing since arising from the lair at the unimpressive hour of 9:40 am this morning. Secretly I knew the weather today was forecast to be cloudy and cool. So I hadn’t that stock stimulus of wishful thinking that comes with sunny skies to rattle and revive me in my prolonged slumber.

I am perhaps feeling more frivolous than usual on the heels of an animated conversation we had last evening with my sister and brother-in-law.  They regularly do us the favour of telephoning and gabbing with us, dutifully catching up with their country cousins. We four have always ample dialogue and pleasantries to share, invariably punctuated by foreseeable side cracks and summary joking observations.

It was in this spirit of buoyancy earlier this morning, after an uncommonly toothsome breakfast prepared by my beloved partner, that I undertook a fleeting ride about the neighbourhood upon my Pronto tricycle.  Undoubtedly the design and motive were to accommodate my predominant feature of indolence. It worked. As mentioned though the air was on the coolish side. I hadn’t yet donned the blue Van Heusen sweater my brother-in-law had purchased for me at Costco several weeks ago. It always pleases me to rejoice upon the acquisition of something new – that is, to conjoin the application with success. It is by contrast a decided defeat to discover something doesn’t fulfill its projected utility. This is particularly so for one such as me who routinely denigrates materialism in spite of uninhibited commercial indulgence. Polarity – with its singular duality of contradiction – has forever highlighted my otherwise indecisive philosophic posture.

Yet throughout the day I have managed to escape both compromise and limitation. The threat of inclement weather never advanced beyond grey skies and momentary breeziness. I got the car washed and restored to the subterranean garage with indifference. I then indulged myself by fancifully playing with artificial intelligence and technology, involving myself unabashedly in photography and literature, the two resources of personal expression upon which I chiefly rely. The underlying restraint is a mere detachment from the broader image of oneself in a pool of water.

The “broader image of oneself in a pool of water” typically refers to the psychological and philosophical concept of self-reflection, often tied to the classic myth of Narcissus. In this context, looking into the water represents looking inward to examine your own identity, thoughts, and emotions, rather than just seeing a physical reflection. Wikipedia

Identity is seldom fully conveyed by either pictures or words though the two indisputably form the basis of artistic expression. Psychiatrists warn against the ripples on the water, disturbing the uniformity of the surface, inviting metaphors of anxiety or anger. For my part, the mere adherence to the allure of self-examination is controversial. I am forever bound by the reported barrier that we unwittingly endure in the process; namely, that others see us differently than we see ourselves. And supposedly the distinction is remarkable.

Parenthetically I had a brief confab with a neighbour during my morning cycle. It was a complicated encounter. I haven’t yet fully diagnosed the matter. She vividly portrayed to me a venture to a hospital with family members to see their ill and failing father. Don’t ask me how we managed to approach such a delicate subject in the wake of sharing a standard “Good morning!”. Clearly her recollection of the event had not completely evaporated. Nor seemingly had her “elder sister” bearing escaped the moment.  The mere fact that these emotions survive for a lengthy period of time interests me. Things have obviously been unrequited or unresolved. Wherein lies the solution? Is my involvement merely orbital? What conclusion, if any, does one draw from the narrative?

From this knotty, tangled and puzzling enterprise I was summarily removed when first, one, then a second ambulance rounded the corner followed by two police cars. Instant speculation by sudden congregations of neighbours was that an elderly gentleman was in difficulty. Rather than enlarge the difficulty, I moved along. I left behind the shimmering mirror of the hospital account.

In its stead I have invigorated my own unexpressed rendition. Some of it privately endowed as I watch the slanted late afternoon sunshine upon the fields, flocks of Canada geese magically arising from the cultivation then, aligned in flight, sailing atop shoreline trees along the river; some of it manifested in edits and alterations of photographs; or watching a single-engine floatplane.