Initially – that is, from the moment of our birth – we stare at the world about us. This is an obvious state.

from Latin obvius “that is in the way, presenting itself readily, open, exposed, commonplace,” from obviam (adv.) “in the way,” from ob “in front of, against”

This predominantly absorptive characteristic is later combined with and manifested in an expressive way of looking at the world about us; for example, musically, theatrically, comically, scientifically, naturally, arithmetically, legally, artistically, etc. When a particular manner of regarding the world overtakes us (as it normally does no matter how eclectic we may imagine ourselves to be) we develop what becomes identified as our peculiar perspective of the world. This in turn traditionally translates to what is an algorithmic identity; that is, a step-by-step procedure for solving a problem or accomplishing some end.

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Today was another run-of-the-mill day in the local borough; viz., morning ablutions, breakfast, poring over the overnight email, grocery shopping, cycling, sunbathing and swimming. When one such as I has a finite daily syllabus it is at times discomfiting to have nothing remarkable to report. It was however notable today that my tricycle added a moment of rarity to an otherwise mundane curriculum. By way of introduction to this novel circumstance, thanks to my brother-in-law Edward Marion Hladkowicz – aka, Keeper of the Family Antiquities – I coincidentally received from him the attached faded photograph of my late father C. G. William Chapman DSO giving his best shot at the propulsion of an equally dim tricycle. Then by happenstance this afternoon when I was fulfilling my statutory 5.13 Kms about the parish, I was approached by a woman of an age who said, pointing to my tricycle, “Do you mind if I ask where you got that?”

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“Observe, however, that of man’s whole terrestrial possessions and attainments, unspeakably the noblest are his Symbols, divine or divine-seeming; under which he marches and fights, with victorious assurance, in this life-battle: what we can call his Realised Ideals.”

Excerpt From
The French Revolution
Thomas Carlyle

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Not every day on Key Largo is abuzz with fieriness. Today was one such day. It was instead characterized by an uncertain platitude if I may call it that. Yet it would be misleading to propose that today ought to have been otherwise or that the day was in any material respect wanting. Most certainly it was not. I liken the day instead to a commonplace work day; that is, attending to business, getting things done. Granted this is a small compliment given my present circumstances which on the face oblige me to no more employment than slicing my apple for breakfast and afterwards deciding whether to swim in the pool or in the sea, whether to float face up or face down, whether to cycle 4 or 8 Kms (I actually did 6.86 Kms) and whether to have a half or a whole squeezed lemon with my afternoon chilled tea.

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WISHY-WASHY
Any beverage too weak. Over-watered spirits.

“His food the land-crab, lizard, or the frog;
His drink a wish-wash of six-water grog.”

Excerpt From
The Sailor’s Word-Book: An alphabetical digest of nautical terms, including some more especially military and scientific, but useful to seamen; as well as archaisms of early voyagers, etc.

By the late
Admiral W. H. Smyth, K.S.F., D.C.L., &c.
Revised for the press by Vice-Admiral Sir Edward Belcher, K.C.B., &c. &c.

LONDON:
BLACKIE AND SON, PATERNOSTER ROW;
AND GLASGOW AND EDINBURGH
1867

Lucem Libris Disseminamus

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For reasons I do not fully understand (except bluntly to control those who may surreptitiously infiltrate the gated community) we have been told by the estate agency to have any delivery directed to the office of the estate agent rather than directly to ourselves at the townhouse. It is both an inconvenience and a convenience because while having to persistently track the delivery to the estate agency we are spared the insufferable obligation to remain in the townhouse all day awaiting the doorbell to ring (assuming one must sign for receipt).

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Forgive me if you will the reporting of what is nothing but trifling details. It would please me rather to engage in the account of something of moment and interest. And while I don’t personally think that apart from Donald J. Trump and Thomas Babington Macaulay’s History of England from the Accession of James II there is anything which so intrinsically captures the mind of those who are innately inquisitive I accept that my biographical tedium is unlikely competition. Having said that the dreary enterprise evokes within me what is the substantive function of this amateur literary medium; that is, to fulfill my obligation to do so. Now I know that is turning the conversation on its head – rather like what my dear late mother sometimes said, “Because I say so!” – but quite honestly it abbreviates any other more dynamic explanation.

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While lying in bed this morning following an uncommonly profitable overnight sleep and while listening to the equally uncommon rain upon the roof of the townhouse, I fashioned a new elucidation of the quip “Why did the chicken cross the road?”  I am that chicken, the coward, the one without the nerve to undertake a dangerous situation.

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We briefly ventured off the property this morning. I felt an urgency to determine the precise location of Cindy’s Hair Place. Yesterday afternoon I had made an on-line appointment for a “Short Haircut – Unisex” with “Cindy D (organizer)” or so the Message I subsequently received indicates. The venue we discovered is 0.3 miles (7 min walk) from here.  We drove.  Basically we crossed the road. At this southern end of Key Largo the frequency of commercial establishments is much diminished. Instead there are hotels, resorts and gated communities. Predominantly throughout Key Largo the businesses – except standard grocery stores and big box stores – appear to be sole proprietorships or mom-and-pop styles of trade. As a former rural business owner I am accustomed to that medium of commerce; and, in fact I prefer it in many ways especially for personal goods or services. Plus the parking on these obscure business sites has not the congested traffic one encounters in season at the malls.

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Charles Reginald Gamble (known to his friends and clients as “Reg”) was one of the first people whom I met when I arrived in Almonte in June of 1976.  He visited his close friend and my new employer, Michael J. Galligan QC, at the latter’s home on Church Street not far on the same street from where Reg and his wife Gail lived atop the funeral home then called Gamble & Comba in the erstwhile Galbraith mansion.

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