Though I felt less than heavenly upon awakening this morning (following a night of irksome recollections, ineffable dreams and fitful neuropathy) it wasn’t long before I regained my spiritual wonder. It is quite impossible not to react favourably to the day, almost any day, on Key Largo. Everything about our presence here is manifestly agreeable; viz., the weather, the temperature, the turquoise sea, the azure sky and the aimless ambition. Effulgent balminess. It all bears repeating only because it is by nature so superbly topical and immediate, so incomparably transcendental. And memorable. I am determined to jot a note of these daily inspirations. For the time may yet come when I am no longer capable to relish them in the identical context; though I may at least preserve a colourful souvenir of the day.

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Since E. M. Forster’s novel (1908)  “A Room with a View” people have questioned the significance of a yearning for a view.

The novel opens in Florence with the women complaining about their rooms at the Pensione Bertolini. They were promised rooms with a view of the River Arno but instead have ones overlooking a drab courtyard. Another guest, Mr Emerson, interrupts their “peevish wrangling” by spontaneously offering to swap rooms. He and his son, George, both have rooms with views of the Arno, and he argues, “Women like looking at a view; men don’t.” Charlotte rejects the offer, partly because she looks down on the Emersons’ unconventional behaviour and because she fears it would place them under an “unseemly obligation”. However, another guest, Mr Beebe, an Anglican clergyman, persuades Charlotte to accept the offer; Charlotte suggests that the Emersons are socialists.

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Can’t recall precisely when I began having my nails professionally attended. It was not something I particularly warmed to, given the environment normally involved women only. I accordingly felt to be an odd interloper; and those hanging colour palettes were always a drawback. That vernacular has changed somewhat over the past decade but a nail salon is still predominantly filled with women. Now I go because I have to; so the issue of being compatible with the salon is irrelevant.  For me it is no longer comfortable having to deal with either my fingernails or toenails on my own at home because I am obstructed by the prescriptions of acuity of vision and physical prowess; that is, I have trouble seeing what I am doing or getting where I am going. Like many other declensions of old age I now happily accommodate them without embarrassment or apology. A regular visit to the nail salon for a mani/pedi is on my routine to-do list.

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With the arrival of the March Break students I have had to investigate my preferred resorts with greater diligence. Many of the young people, understandably anxious to acquaint themselves with the benefits of Key Largo’s endless sunshine, have taken up their position by the pool from an early morning start.  Their preparedness defeated me in my objectives this morning because we first went grocery shopping.  In any event I am pleased to relinquish my dog-like habits to those who haven’t the privilege to linger here as long as I. Furthermore I remind myself that the occasional deprivation of radiancy may in fact be a good idea.

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The offensive part of any constitution is that it amounts to little more than the rules developed by a group of children playing a game in the back yard on a sunny day. Certainly we have dignified those rules with so-called spiritual ornaments but even those are pure fabrications by whomever is making the law. To pretend that these concoctions deserve perpetual existence is nothing short of devious. Again, just another creation of someone’s mind, not exactly written on Moses’ stone (itself yet another deceit) though I acknowledge that everybody loves a good fairy tale.

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Last evening after having re-watched several riveting episodes of the House of Cards (Francis and Claire Underwood) on Netflix I worked at my computer. Writing continues for me to be a mandatory daily deliverance, one which I combine with Modern Era music by Roberto Cacciapaglia from Milan, Italy. Possibly because I hadn’t pulled down the cover of my laptop computer until after one o’clock this morning, I was overcome all morning by an uncommon and profound lethargy. I felt utterly inert, as though I were ordained to inexorable exhaustion. It actually felt good to be so uncompromisingly overwhelmed. Indeed if it were not for my native impatience (or perhaps more charitably my constant yearning for activity and performance) I would still be lingering beneath the sheets, staring at the ceiling fan, pondering the wallpaper, wondering whether I was slowly dropping off or just on the verge of closing my eyes once again to contemplate an eternity of abstraction and disparate remove.

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A lot of things were cleaned up at the pool today.  For starters, even before leaving the townhouse early this morning, I had removed all the band aids covering the scrapes and bruises from my recent fall into the sea at the north end of the property. As I had anticipated the damage on my wrist and shin had nicely healed. Yet another profit of clean living! With my carcass thus restored to cosmetic vitality I resolved to spend my day by the pool instead of floating in the sea and contemplating the possibility of acquaintance with either the 8′ alligator or the shark lately reported to have been sighted in the area.

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Touch wood, the car I now drive (a Lincoln Aviator) is exceedingly gratifying! The engine just hums; everything works as it should. There are no conspicuous faults or rarities. I have no tolerance for mechanical difficulties or fitting abuses.  I am no stranger to the possibility of lemons in the automotive industry. On occasion I have been obliged to confront the dilemma with less than auspicious result. The baseless anxiety is however destined to be short-lived for two reasons. One, we only have to make it home (which I don’t anticipate for any reason to be an issue); two, this year’s replacement model was ordered months ago and will no doubt  await upon our return.

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We today fulfilled the ceremony of an early morning grocery shopping expedition to Publix. From our previous years at Daytona Beach Shores and Longboat Key we’re already connected to the store (both generally for payment and specifically for aisle designation of products) with an on-line App that we use for self-checkout service and expedient payment and email receipts. The store is on the central Overseas Highway about 6 miles directly north of Buttonwood Bay. I enjoy the drive itself because otherwise I seldom have reason to use the car and it gives me the opportunity to have it washed (which we ritually did this morning as well). Like many places in Key West (curiously including the Casa Marina Hotel), the treed parking lot surrounding Publix here on Key Largo resonates with the sound of crowing roosters. Although I have seen these colourful roosters on Key West in such unforeseen places as gas stations, it is only at Publix that I’ve seen them on Key Largo. For reasons I do not know, the roosters and their hens preserve their domain within the confines of the parking lot. They are seemingly unperturbed by the endless traffic, sometimes boldly strutting in front of an oncoming vehicle without hesitation. They are of course respected from a distance.

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Billy –
Thank you for your kind comments about my writing style.  Though at times I’ve felt like ‘unsubscribing’ (from Substack) as I gnash my teeth at the storms raging outside while you endure your tropical indulgences, I realize that so often you have been the inspiration to writing down my own thoughts and/or reactions to the day.  My yin to your yang so to speak.  And, like all exercises, good for the brain in this instance as well as the soul.  I shall persevere, if you can stand it!
Fi

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