…but you can only live in one place at a time. And your own life, while it’s happening to you, never has any atmosphere until it’s a memory.
Andy Wharhol (1928 – 1987)
This famous quote is by artist Andy Warhol often cited from his book The Philosophy of Andy Warhol: From A to B and Back Again. It reflects on the limitation of experiencing life in the present moment versus the retrospective, emotional “atmosphere” that memories create.
My car ride today wasn’t entirely vicarious. I did leave the garage. And I did get a car wash at nearby Circle K (thankfully it was operating). But a hurried glance up the Appleton Side Road was bleak. I rely solely on All Season tires (it is doubtful that I shall ever get winter tires). And I don’t trust the drivers coming in the opposite direction. Many of them in my opinion are recklessly bent upon undue speed in the circumstances. There were only narrow tracks to follow to avoid jumping the parallel lines of packed snow. The conditions invited disaster. My final resolve was to heed the peril.
Two days ago while lunching with my sister and her husband in the city (nearby where they live in Ottawa South along the Rideau Canal), we met two women – a mother and daughter – seated at table next to us. Coincidentally the mother was from Smiths Falls and the daughter from the Perth area (both in the County of Lanark where we also live). By further coincidence the daughter’s lawyer was a lawyer whom I had met about 50 years ago when we had both begun practicing law in Lanark County. He and I went skiing together at Mont Tremblant, went to the lounge in the afternoon, dined in the main lodge that evening and stayed overnight before returning to our respective digs in Smiths Falls (where he was from) and Almonte.
A get together over an espresso is my idea of an agreeable afternoon meeting. I have my friend js to thank for today’s impromptu caffeinated outing. He is as unassuming as his sobriquet is succinct; but he is, may I caution, no less decisive and, I suspect, similarly anchored. Apart from that broad stroke I shall not assume the privilege to project further analysis or insight into his character. Indeed it is a reluctance with which I have increasingly versed myself incrementally as I age. In short I haven’t a clue what makes another man tick – as fond as I or any others for that matter may be of estimating people for whatever apologetic purpose.
The world – that is, my world – today is a frozen spectacle of sunshine. And I haven’t any outstanding duties. Getting up early – in spite of having retired at 2:00 am this morning – wasn’t a challenge. Lingering mournfully in bed like Samuel Beckett reputedly did in his Paris apartment was no contribution or obstruction to my awakening. While I won’t pretend that my energy is like this every day, it was today. In fact to have behaved otherwise would, I am certain, have been a greater defiance. Once again Nature teaches us not only how to die but equally importantly how to live. Whether we must take a further step beyond the obvious to search for meaning is doubtful.
My career as a country lawyer is marked with many wonderful memories. My greatest recollection is not the good times or the happy times; instead it is the recall that, when I didn’t understand something, I focused on it until I did. The outcome of my pursuit wasn’t always the way I originally imagined it; but I was never disappointed to have followed my dare to know. This I learned over 50 years ago at an early age and in spite of a senior lawyer having said to me when I dared to question, “That’s not the way we practice law in Lanark County.”
The global political scene is hard to escape (as much as many of us would prefer to do so – not only for obscure intellectual reasons but also for our personal health). Instead of highlighting our differences – whether democratic or socialist or communist – why not spend more time devoted to giving people what they want?
It is an advantage of living in the country to drive about at whim on relaxed dry roads, aimlessly directed either north or south, east or west, uninhibited by the pursuit of others or traffic lights or delays. The mission is more liberal on a sunny workday when one’s retirement is rewarded, as though the capital of the world were open to private indulgence.
Every cloud must have a silver liningWait until the sun shines throughSmile, my honey dear, while I kiss away each tearOr else I shall be melancholy too
My Melancholy Baby by Bing Crosby
As we inaugurate the tail end of January, those of us destined by fate or pre-existing health conditions to remain shivering in Canada are nestling in for the upcoming critical period of winter including what we all hope will be a forgiving short month of February before launching into what is commonly the wistful though unpredictable month of March. But inspiration is in the offing – albeit 8 weeks remote. Under the circumstances – that is, unless one is a cross-country skier or other avid outdoorsman – the most favourable resort is one’s drawing room. That abstraction translates to books, podcasts and movies.
My time-honoured friend Fiona from Toronto mentioned in an email to me on this cold winter day that she was having to go outside on an errand which she said was less troublesome for two reasons. One, she said, was the convenient proximity of the TTC which overcame the hurdle provoked by mountains of snow inhibiting car parking. The second encouragement was her new winter coat. I have asked her to send me a photo. In the meantime I discovered that her intelligence has sparked my own interest in the subject.