It is a spectacular autumn day in the country, a Saturday bejewled with gleaming sunshine, blue sky and dry air. The fields are clothed in precise rows of burgeoning emerald and mustard coloured crops. We bicycled earlier this morning then recovered briefly on the garden patio in the warmth of the midday sun. I am perched at my drawing board, sipping chilled espresso, listening to what I suspect Apple Music had a hand in, another of Decca Records Releases called a “Classical Crossover” no doubt a conscious inexactness for schmaltz. It is the Royal Philharmonic Orchestra playing Bond 25 with Dolby Atmos and Hi-Res Lossless (whatever they are). But, oh my, the memories! Hollywood (or its British or Welsh equivalent) deserves applause.

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It is an odd mixture of bloodymindedness and certitude that propels me unrestrained in these trifling narratives.  For some writers the source of achievement is the “write what you know” dictum.  For others (like Ernest Hemingway) it’s about getting your butt out of bed and putting pen to paper; viz., writing from 5 o’clock in the morning – while standing up no less – until you’ve written something, anything.  And that brings one to the ultimate persuasion; namely, just write for crying out loud!  And stop thinking about it!

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To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven.
Ecclesiastes 3:1

There was a time I had a lot of p&v.  I am nonetheless pleased to report that that time has passed. I am rather enjoying my current state of torpidity. Perhaps I am doing myself a disfavour to suggest I haven’t any longer any p&v, that I have lapsed into a state of disrepair. Indeed my instant reaction to the initial criticism is that, while I no longer pursue many things with the same fervour as I may formerly have done, I certainly haven’t abandoned my delight in and preference for many other things, things which I confess are shamefully removed from the stoic flavour of industry and enterprise. In short, I have transitioned from method to mode; that is, from procedure to pattern. It is the alteration of primacy from what is done to how it is done.

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Mutiny is a singular event in the management of power. It stakes the proponent as the real enemy. The Marie Antoinette image of widespread unpopularity is not entirely irrelevant.

Mutiny is a revolt among a group of people (typically of a military, of a crew or of a crew of pirates) to oppose, change, or overthrow an organization to which they were previously loyal. The term is commonly used for a rebellion among members of the military against an internal force, but it can also sometimes mean any type of rebellion against any force. Mutiny does not necessarily need to refer to a military force and can describe a political, economic, or power structure in which there is a change of power.

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Technically the autumnal equinox arrives on Thursday, September 22, 2022 at 9:04 P.M.EDT in the Northern Hemisphere. Reportedly the equinox occurs at the same moment worldwide. For my purposes however today is the first day of autumn. I’ve always associated the first day of autumn with the 21st of the month.  Besides the breeze and the balmy air are today unsurpassable. Following this morning’s constitutional bicycle ride throughout the neighbourhood and along the former B&O railway line to Carss Street and back, I positioned myself in a comfortable but admittedly lifeless metal armchair on the garden patio facing directly into the midday sun. There I sunbathed and dozed uninterrupted (except by the commotion of the grounds keepers going about their duties) for an half hour. Continue reading →

After an early morning oil change, a midday donut splurge and a late afternoon series of on-line address changes that perfectly wore me to the ground, a thoroughly unanticipated result has ensued. It was I suppose a full-circle project because it began and ended on a similar note. To be specific the morning started early today at Lincoln Heights car dealership in order to have my Aviator’s oil changed; and all that that entails. The day’s activity primarily ended late this afternoon with unpredicted research of a new (but related) automobile called the Corsair. In fairness, I was prompted unwittingly to pursue this particular line of retail “investment” only because one of the leading sales representatives of the dealership highlighted to me the vast improvement of this entry level model (the Corsair), one of the Lincoln line-up of SUVs.

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I first heard of the Masonic Lodge from a member of the Ottawa police force in 1973 while I was articling on Sparks Street, Ottawa at Messrs. Macdonald, Afffleck Barristers &c. upon my recent graduation from Dalhousie law school. He and I had chatted somewhat sparsely in the steam room of the health club of the Château Laurier Hotel about his upcoming initiation to membership.  Apart from the overall obscurity of the subject he knew little more than I about the matter. It was at the time a fraternity shrouded in secrecy.

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Sherlock Holmes is a fictional detective created by British author Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Referring to himself as a “consulting detective” in the stories, Holmes is known for his proficiency with observation, deduction, forensic science and logical reasoning that borders on the fantastic which he employs when investigating cases for a wide variety of clients including Scotland Yard.

Although I cannot recall precisely when or where I read it – though most certainly it was before I imagined owning a computer much less relying upon the internet for intelligence –  I have this image of Sherlock Holmes as an addict of nefarious combustibles specifically laudanum of which I believe opium is the active ingredient. This in turn left me with a very pleasing though no doubt erroneous visual impression of vermillion flowers tossing about in a breeze upon a lush hillside perhaps somewhere far, far away.

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To our pleasing astonishment my erstwhile physician turned up today at the golf club for breakfast with his son.  Only a week ago the two of them (and their respective ladies) had returned from a jaunt to northern Italy. The four of us assembled outdoors under an enormous umbrella on the flagstone patio overlooking the first tee and awaited arrival of our coffee. We quickly began a review of the highlights of their recent voyage which included my erstwhile physician’s daughter, her husband and their newborn daughter from Australia. In fairness my erstwhile physician and his family are all so well traveled that they speak of the Greek isles or the Swiss summits with but casual reflection. Nonetheless we together celebrated the latest of northern Italy’s topographical and nutritious splendours including truffles and a variety of tartare.

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Having had the questionable notoriety of maintaining a line of credit contemporaneously with every chartered bank in Canada, I am openly convinced of the utility and therefore the propriety of money lending. Life to me is all about capital and the use and expression of it.  It is a conviction applied equally to matters temporal and otherwise. It’s all about using what is at hand. And enjoying it!

Lest there are those of you who are inclined to bemoan the fate of the borrower, be assured that I for one would never qualify any of the three imperatives; viz., principal, rate or time. To me they are merely features of the product, the acquisition of which is akin to buying a car or house.  Indeed that is precisely what I did with the money among other things! If there is anyone for whom I cradle the slightest regret it is for the money lender himself. What an abuse having repeatedly to count and account such a taxingly minute digestion called money! It is most certainly an appetite of the select few, people devoted constantly to the elongation of their primary source of nutrition. And what guarantee have they!  King Louis VIII of France died of dysentery on 8 November 1226 in the Château de Montpensier, Auvergne. It is but a doleful reminder than none of us is spared; or, speaking more proximately and pragmatically, “Don’t save it for the funeral!” As such the business matter is but a game of roulette for the initiated.

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