Caught in the web of dismay. Although the day began profitably – that is, I tore back the duvet prior to nine o’clock this morning – and then gratifyingly I set upon my red Pronto tricycle for the customary jaunt about the neighbourhood (joined by my partner to boot), things afterwards began to dissolve and disquiet rather steeply.
Life is a complicated undertaking. Make no mistake. It is, in plain terms, serious business. And one should only reluctantly be persuaded otherwise howsoever intriguing the affecting posture. Interpretation – though regularly tangled by elucidation or simplification – is the action of explaining the meaning of something. Whether knowingly or not we direct ourselves differently. It’s an unwitting product of our upbringing and education – whether critically expounded (by university studies or technical training) or institutionalized (by habit and custom). The derivative corollary – how we see things – reflects multiple factors. The broader the prescription, the more varied the perspective. For example, consider the axiom, “You cannot do indirectly what you cannot do directly.” This is an all-encompassing adage which putatively strikes at the most inspired intellectual accomplishments. What however is equally significant and cautionary is that the specific rule in question may itself be subject to identical qualification; that is, its periphery may require further analysis before concluding and applying its interpretation. Therefore without careful assessment one should never presume to defeat or triumph any particular option. Nonetheless the energized appeal of interpretation lingers, perhaps as an unintended description of one’s personal nature.
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.
Permit me, dear Reader, the luxury of sharing with you my erstwhile acquaintance with Louis de la Chesnaye Audette QC OC (April 7, 1907 – April 2, 1995). I say “luxury” because, while it would be an unwarranted extension to say that we were anything other than casual confrères, nonetheless our relatively brief companionship is memorable and, for me at least, intellectually profitable. Audette was a skilled wordsmith, in addition to being perfectly (and unidentifiably) bilingual (English/French) – that is, except when using words like “Pakenham” (which he pronounced “Pāk/en/ham”) thus disclosing his British bias (which I have every reason to believe was quite deliberate though he would as readily have denied the partisanship). He rather insisted upon having the last word so I seldom contradicted him with my colloquial intelligence, being as I am an unrepentant and undignified rural conveyancer (as he was regularly wont to dismiss me).
Though not universally true – some things are just too singular to inhabit the world of change – it is generally true that there is always an alternative. Often the characteristic identifies the alternative as compensation for defeat of the original purpose. This is an unjust label. Change – whether adjustment, conversion or adaptation – is as often “up” as it is “down”. While I won’t suggest that chance and change are in any way etymologically related, I call your attention to the derivation of the word “change”; that is, “from late Latin cambiare, from Latin cambire ‘barter’, probably of Celtic origin (Wikipedia)”. As the word suggests, trade, traffic and exchange are part of the bargain.
It’s June 17th. We’ve now surpassed the middle of the year. Both my Driver’s Licence and my Health Card expire about six months hence on my December birthday. This proximity enabled me this morning to renew my Driver’s Licence on-line (it’s being mailed to me); however the Health card requires a new photo (the Health Card had been issued a year before the Driver’s Licence so the former threatened to outdistance the 5-year limit). We dipped into Service Ontario in Carleton Place. The office was busy but the awaiting clients were being handled quickly. The clerk who looked into my needs was efficient. And exceedingly polite. After having my photo summarily taken I was given a printed temporary Health Card, the original is being mailed to me. We’ve noted it on my diary.
Thanks to Professor Daniel Laprès of Paris, France I learned today of articles from the Institute for China-America Studies (ICA). While Professor Laprès extolled the articles as “worthy of interest, one on the law governing the Strait of Hormuz and the other on an Arctic régime based less on presence than on capabilities in which all stakeholders participate”, its efforts have been described as “a channel for propaganda” skewed towards the policies of the People’s Republic of China.
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.
Customarily Sunday is devoted to a drive about the countryside, a reflection of the effulgence of rural residence. We have unwittingly adopted the idée fixe of the parochial mind. Though rainy weather is not an encouragement, neither does a trace of splatter impede the constitutional endeavour. In any event, for me the imperative is simply being behind the wheel, streaming along the smooth open highways, privately relishing the click of the mechanics, the squish of the parallel tires upon the shiny black road, and the interior impressions of the radio, the windshield wipers and multiple other operative functions illustrated on the dashboard.
”Is life worth so much?” or “Is it worth living?”, Michel Eyquem de Montaigne (28 February 1533 – 13 September 1592) widely regarded as the originator of the modern essay. He prominently featured and meditated on this exact question in his magnum opus, Essays (Book III, Chapter 13: On Experience”). In fact however this poignant existential inquiry comes from the Roman poet Maximianus (Elegies, I, 155).