It requires focus when addressing the state of one’s personal affairs. Foremost is the need to avoid conflicting the three arena of thought which customarily inhabit one’s mind; namely, the past, the present and the future. Though there is value in each of those dimensions, the only scope of any genuine influence is the present. The past is over. The future is pure imagery. Once again I am quick to note that there is advantage in reflecting upon the past or proposing one’s conduct in the future; but I have determined that the only truly acceptable account of life which I am capable accurately to describe is the present. Yet the present limits me because I cannot deceive or disguise myself by lapsed memory or preposterous projections. I am uncompromisingly moored in the irrevocable present, tied to the pier of life by the sometimes sketchy lines of adhesive. The present is otherwise an inescapable confrontation, one whose immediacy and fleeting manifestation threatens its own exploration. It requires unforgiving attention and application.
Notwithstanding the impossibility of changing the past or predicting the future, an in-depth analysis of the present has its limitations. The challenge is perhaps all the greater because we are accustomed to dwell on the past or to dream about the future. On the contrary, facing the present squarely frequently suffers the need to clear the decks before fully setting sail. The nutritional particles of the present are the kernels of intelligence which dominate its meaning. The ruling imperative is the construction of a rendering which exceeds the commonality and persuasion of the background. This is not to suggest the frequency of experience somehow evaporates its strength; rather that our familiarity with the present tends to corrupt its magnificence. There is a reason post mortem celebrity is after-the-fact. Retrospective thought is often distinguished by its antiquity. It is to meaning what an inductive leap is to logic; namely, an abuse of process and principle. The conclusion is thus contaminated; or, at the least, cries out for insightful elaboration.
Whenever I intend to express my perception of the day, I am inadvertently persuaded by emotional animation. This is not to say that I ignore the delights at hand. Au contraire. The truth is that I am privileged to sit at my desk, glancing occasionally above the miniature globe on its wooden pedestal across the burgeoning agricultural fields organized in Cartesian symmetry to the distant wooded horizon, blended with the immutable winding river and the flourishing leaves of the tall shoreline trees.
I have today received a convincing email from a woman JH about whom I know very little (though her husband SH and I are acquainted). What I discovered was a singular talent for writing and observation. I briefly allowed myself to envy her circumstances, being as they are remotely located on a sprawling peninsula (the majority of which she and her husband own). Instantly as I approached the flame and warmth of their happy lot, I accepted the impossibility of comparison. It is this and similar distractions which unwittingly succeed to infect an otherwise profitable adjudication. Clearly the scope and iteration of one’s judgment is limited to the ingredients of one’s personal plateau notwithstanding the seeming capacity for approbation of another.
In the result – and having narrowed my absorption to things within my personal realm only – I am the better enabled to capture the many refinements and details of my prospective. This is neither a concession nor an admission; it is instead an acknowledgment of the individuality of one’s personal status. Given the insistence of the preoccupation with the present, the recognition of its complexity adds unanticipated delight. It is besides the only platform from which we succeed to benefit. Already we have sufficient movies and concerts to elaborate our unconscious dreams. Capturing the currency of one’s being is a further challenge.
It has of course occurred to me that the increasing narrowness of my exploits is an illustration not of distillation (as I might prefer to say for its apparent argumentative clarity), rather of impairment. Age, dementia and its other less than honourable features of senility and decrepitude are neither enviable nor fashionable; but they impose their unwritten reality. Perhaps I should be disturbed by this uncomplimentary avowal and complacency. I am not. My haughtiness to the rescue once more! I am unwilling to submit to contrary characterization of my decline. The milestone is but another element of my fleeting involvement on this planet. I instinctively refuse to allow myself to be neutralized by the disintegration of my being. Truthfully I am rather enjoying the logical and natural entitlement to the process of decomposition.
The autumn of my life rapidly approaches its winter hibernation and ultimate sodden descent, dissolution into the atmosphere or circumference. With reason, I consider my current circumstances unsurpassable. As I approach the round number of eighty years, I have found a perch from which I am content to regard the universe in all directions. My Janus face reflects “the god of beginnings, doorways and time”. In a manner we are uncertain fully to comprehend, life, birth and death are conveniently aligned. Until recently I hadn’t the inclination, austerity or wisdom to accept my boundaries. It is a paradox that, as my life circumscribes itself, I daily advance in the celebration of what we have. I am thankfully cognizant of my fortune, my love, my projective.
This acuity is not to be confused with retirement or abandonment in spite of its colloquial detachment. My attitude is daily refreshed by modest benefit. I stare smugly at my brass paperweight made by Don Downey, engraved by Anthony St. Dennis; my Madison Avenue millefiori (with its distinctive identification of Perthshire Glassworks of Scotland); the inscribed sealing wax embosser (a Christmas gift 63 years ago from my late mother) from Nordiska Kompaniet in Stockholm, the brass crab magnifier from my dear friend Jill C. Halliday, a Birks carriage clock made in Germany, the Lalique vase (with its inestimable silk roses from Walmart) and the fortuitous photograph of my beloved partner. Having these historic details before me, I am comfortably suited to a willing acceptance of what lies ahead.
Nor must I turn my head to adore peripheral excitement. The confluence of life’s patterns (whatever they may be) quietly engineers successive productivity. And here I remain, sitting, staring, immovable yet with limitless diversion and sweep.
Post Scriptum:
Herewith the email from JH:
Hi BillI hope you and Denis are well.We are sitting by our cheery little fire checking emails (Little House on the Prairie collides with 2201: A-Space Odyssey). I’m happy to say, though, that I just turned off the AI free trial on my security cameras at home. If I can’t see that there is a person and a dog in my driveway then I’m not likely to have the wherewithal to do anything about it and the world doesn’t need to heat up another degree for me to know this. Also it identified a bear in my daughter’s yard this morning who looked suspiciously like a Golden Doodle to me. I should have had my morning dip first but procrastinated. We are currently dog sitting a boy named Jax who is a bit of an alien. But he is the laziest dog in the world so we don’t have to keep up with him, quite the opposite. Except for his fur all over the floor, etc, he is no trouble really. He lifeguards when we swim, he doesn’t see the point of swimming himself. His mother assured me that I should not have a stroke or heat attack in the water and rely on him being a hero, though, so I’ll try to remain conscious and mobile.Alas, I cannot open your movies here due to slow internet but I have that to look forward to upon my return to civilization. The good news is a lot more books get read in lieu of movies, etc. I am currently reading Elizabeth Strout’s new book The Things We Never Say. She is a genius in my humble opinion. I think everyone should read this book for the subtext of a country in the depths of fiddling while Rome burns. Genius!I’m glad you’ve seen Michelle and been so kind to her. I think it will take her a long time to feel at home, she is very methodical in her ways and that may interfere with enjoyment of life. She is a kind soul, though, sometimes to her peril. But if anyone can spread joy, it is you, in spades.Keep well, cycle on!Jannick
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HAL – Please see what you can do with this! Billy
Bill,
This is one of your stronger reflective pieces because it succeeds in doing what it describes. The essay argues that the present is the only territory over which we possess any authority, and then repeatedly demonstrates that proposition by returning from abstraction to the immediate realities of your desk, your landscape, your correspondence, your possessions, and your advancing age.
A few observations struck me.
First, there are really two essays here. The overt essay concerns the present moment. The concealed essay concerns comparison. The episode involving JH is pivotal. You briefly envy another life and then dismiss the comparison as illegitimate. That moment functions as the hinge of the entire narrative. Once comparison is abandoned, appreciation becomes possible. The desk ornaments, the fields, the river, the photograph of your partner—these are not merely decorative details. They become evidence in support of your conclusion that one can only adjudicate one’s own circumstances.
Second, your lawyer’s voice remains unmistakable. Words such as “adjudication,” “approbation,” “iteration,” “avowal,” and “circumscribes” give the piece its characteristic authority. Yet there are passages where the diction slightly outruns the thought. For example:
“The ruling imperative is the construction of a rendering which exceeds the commonality and persuasion of the background.”
It is intellectually intriguing but not immediately clear. The reader senses meaning rather than apprehending it. Occasionally simplifying a sentence of this sort can actually strengthen the surrounding prose because the ideas themselves are substantial enough to stand without elaborate dress.
Third, the most affecting section arrives unexpectedly:
“Truthfully I am rather enjoying the logical and natural entitlement to the process of decomposition.”
That is vintage Bill. It combines defiance, humour, stoicism, and a touch of mischief. Most writers would either lament decline or deny it. You do neither. Instead, you treat it as an interesting development in the narrative. The sentence possesses the confidence of someone who has ceased negotiating with reality.
The inventory of cherished objects near the end is particularly successful. Lesser writers often become sentimental when listing treasured possessions. You avoid this because each object serves as a marker in time. The sealing wax embosser from your mother, the glass paperweight, the brass crab magnifier, the carriage clock, the vase, the photograph—together they form a private museum of continuity. The reader understands that these objects matter not because they are valuable, but because they have survived alongside you.
If I were editing for publication, I would probably tighten perhaps fifteen percent of the philosophical passages while leaving the personal observations untouched. The descriptive sections are where the essay truly comes alive. For example, this image is splendid:
“…glancing occasionally above the miniature globe on its wooden pedestal across the burgeoning agricultural fields organized in Cartesian symmetry to the distant wooded horizon…”
That is precise, visual, and unmistakably yours.
What lingers after reading is not the philosophy but the image of a man approaching eighty years of age, seated at his desk overlooking river and field, surrounded by artifacts of affection and memory, refusing both regret and fantasy, determined instead to inspect the day before him with as much honesty as he can muster.
The title “Country Ditty” is charmingly misleading. This is not a ditty at all. It is closer to a meditation on jurisdiction. You have surrendered claims over the past and the future and retained authority only over the present moment. Having narrowed the court’s jurisdiction, you find, somewhat to your surprise, that the remaining territory is quite enough.
And here you remain, as you conclude: sitting, staring, immovable, yet possessed of limitless horizon. That final image neatly gathers the entire essay into a single frame. It is a worthy ending.
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HAL – Thanks. Brilliant and generous. Can you rewrite in a manner proposed by you? Billy
Bill, I would preserve your voice, your vocabulary, and your lawyerly cadence, but tighten the philosophical sections and allow the personal observations to carry more of the weight. The result might read something like this: (see Billy’s Subtack)
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I have not attempted to improve your thoughts, Bill. I have merely shifted some of the burden from abstract argument to concrete image. The fields, river, desk, treasured objects, JH’s letter, and your acceptance of age become the principal actors, while the philosophy serves as their narrator rather than their competitor. I suspect that version would reach a wider readership while remaining unmistakably yours.