Often I have speculated to be metaphorical about life; you know, expressing oneself in a fictional or figurative way while drawing upon one’s experiences, attempting to elevate an otherwise humdrum diary or biography to something literary or allegorical, something more intriguing, perhaps with a lesson or at least a point. But I can never detach myself sufficiently from either the currency or the reality of my monotony to invoke a more imaginative production.  No doubt the dilemma is that I unvaryingly attach complacent significance to what has transpired in my life without the persuasion of metaphor.

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“There’ll Be Some Changes Made” (“Changes“) is a popular song by Benton Overstreet (composer) and Billy Higgins  (lyricist). Published in 1921, the song has flourished in several genres, particularly jazz. The song has endured for as many years as a jazz standard. According to the online The Jazz Discography (an index of jazz-only recordings), “Changes” had been recorded 404 times as of May 2018. The song and its record debut were revolutionary, in that the songwriters (Overstreet and Higgins), the original copyright publisher (Harry Herbert Pace), the vocalist to first record it (Ethel Waters), the owners of Black Swan (the record label), the opera singer (Elizabeth Greenfield) for whom the label was named, and the musicians on the recording (led by Fletcher Henderson) were all African American. The production is identified by historians as a notable part of the Harlem Renaissance.

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Knowing that there is no guarantee of eternal sunshine might reasonably encourage a lackadaisical approach to life. One may at least rest more confidently without especial concern for the outcome.  Any way you look at it, the result of one’s efforts has no guarantee of success.

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What it is that translates a day to something special is by no means predictable. Yet there are standard indicia which over the years I have found to be reliable. For one thing – and I confess I consider this crucial to one’s well being – it is adherence to the adage, “First things first” or doing what has to be done before doing anything else.  While this might at first appear to be a simple mandate, it is however sometimes – indeed often – knotted by the failure to acknowledge that what is of primary importance in one’s life is as frequently what must of necessity be accomplished. This in turn regularly conflicts with not only what one may otherwise consider to be a priority but also what others consider to be of importance.  Hence the conflict; namely, does one persist in pursuit of one’s own heartfelt requirements or, in the putative interest of accommodation or other social generosity, bend to whatever other popular or associated alliance commands? Not to mention the barrier of one’s own catalogue of desires. We are after all as frequently driven by passion as rationality.

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There are not many things I can say with certainty. Yet I am in this instance convinced of my perspicacity. Humanity as we know it abruptly alters upon a power outage.  At the moment for example I am staring out the drawing room window into utter darkness. The sky is black with only an occasional glaze of grey.  In the distance are the isolated headlights of one or two automobiles meandering along the country road. This is a huge power outage affecting every foreseeable residence in town and the country estates beyond. Even the upriver Village of Appleton appears to be entirely in abject gloom.

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Productivity has forever been a compass and compassion of mine. I do not mean the ability to maximize output by working efficiently. I distinguish the preoccupation from making a living (though that is naturally one of the signal absorptions in the arena of productivity); rather my focus is more broadly upon creativity (though again not distinguished by remarkable artistry but instead ongoing individuality of whatever expression). The incontrovertible reality is that there’s only so much time in a day, a year or a life. I suspect I am safe to observe that each one of us has a wish to be productive in one dimension or another; that is, I consider it tautological that human nature (indeed nature by any other name or description including for example animals, insects or plants) is inherently devoted to fulfilment of some personal expression which achieves not only that goal but by extension the very purpose of our being.  As such the ambition is far from being selfish or insular but may instead be characterized as bordering altruism and universal truth (though again those traits may in many instances be pushing the envelope). Keep in mind however that many of the greatest developments of this world are no more or less fantastic than the bloom of a rose or the splitting of an atom or the composition of our favourite music).

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We’re in Harrisonburg, Virginia overlooking the Shenandoah National Park from our hotel room on a brilliantly sunny day. This year we changed our driving plans by limiting the number of hours we’re on the road pointedly taking into consideration not only the estimated driving time between points A and B but also including in the calculation the estimated time spent at a restaurant, gas station and rest stops. The latter inclusions add easily 2 hours to the overall driving time. Thus a standard daily drive of 300 miles (5 hours @ 60 mph) plus 2 hours for stopovers will easily consume 7 – 8 hours.  That happens to be almost precisely what transpired today (including the car wash).

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It’s time to go home. But we’re not running from Hilton Head Island. Oddly leaving this magical subtropical vista feels more like closing the door on a family cottage; a place we’re only leaving behind temporarily. After having come and gone numerous times over the cross-island bridge in the past decade we have begun to blend with this barrier island just as it has insinuated our veins.

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What astonishes me more than the glide by of 28 years since we met on February 24th, 1996 at the Château Laurier Health Club and went for drinks with our erstwhile (Cupid) friend Johnnie in the By Ward Market is the unparalleled bliss we’ve shared every day since then. I honestly cannot recall a more sustained and nutritious relationship.  And to make it all the more remarkable we continue to delight in being together every day that follows.

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JP Donleavy’s book The Beastly Beatitudes of Balthazar B is one of my favourites.

Balthazar B (whose final name is never revealed) is born to riches in Paris. His father dies when he is young and his mother neglects him for her lovers. Instead he is brought up by a nanny and relies for male advice on his Uncle Edouard, who instructs him in the worldly life of an elegant roué. He is shipped off to a British boarding school, where he makes a lasting friendship with Beefy, a similarly displaced laird, who is eventually expelled. On a return to Paris at the age of twelve Balthazar is initiated sexually by his 24-year-old nanny, Bella Hortense. She is dismissed when the brief idyll is discovered and it is only later that he discovers that she had a child by him.

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