Weekly attendance at church, temple, synagogue or mosques is a welcome occasion to remind oneself and others of one’s superb elevation from the putrid slop of the gutter wherein persists the waste of humanity. And if I might add – though naturally concealed out of the side of my mouth – the fortifications and castellated tops of the Church of England and its derivative Christian mystics – far surpass the allure of the culturally toxic Eastern spires and turrets which are but more evidence of the infiltration from afar designed to cloud and disturb the atmospheric clarity of our own Star from the East.

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The Queen of England was not dead but a moment before the circus surrounding her was trumpeted into action. These are propitious moments! The funeral and the ascension of her son Charles are the so-called “pomp and ceremony” that is the latest entertainment act since Donald J. Trump to adorn the world stage. And like Trump its amusement factor is critical to its survival. The Vatican must be burning with envy!  No doubt the Pope – assuming he skirts (pardon the pun) the would-be king’s promotion of the Church of England and the inescapable derivative innuendo about the Papists – will somehow ensure that the event will profit the cash boxes of the Roman Catholic enterprise worldwide. Everyone adores a day at the circus, especially now as they have stopped retailing dancing bears trained on hotplates to jump for their lives. The British powers-that-be shall no doubt make a far more gripping arena for its audience by promoting an array of vintage automobiles, preposterous tiny hats, exposure to the sanctum sanctorum of cathedrals and castles and naturally lachrymose musical compositions.

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There is one historical date almost any Canadian student will recall in a flash.  ​​A federation of colonies in British North America – New Brunswick, Nova Scotia, Quebec and Ontario – joined together to become the Dominion of Canada on July 1, 1867. Only months before that date R. Tait McKenzie RCA was born. I live in the municipality in which he was born; and, I am acquainted with the homes in which he lived in nearby Ramsay Township and the Mill of Kintail.

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Philology is derived from the Greek terms φίλος (love) and λόγος (word, reason) and literally means a love of words. It is the study of language in literary sources and is a combination of literary studies, history and linguistics. Philology is generally associated with Greek and Classical Latin in which it is termed philologia. The study of philology originated in European Renaissance Humanism in regards to Classical Philology but this has since been combined to include in its definition the study of both European and non-European languages. The idea of philology has been carried through the Greek and Latin literature into the English language around the sixteenth century through the French term philologie meaning a ‘love of literature’.

Generally philology has a focus on historical development. It helps establish the authenticity of literary texts and their original form and with this the determination of their meaning. It is a branch of knowledge that deals with the structure, historical development and relationships of a language or languages.

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Capitulation, as I am sure you will appreciate, is one of those words which, while not so much a “double-edged sword”, is nonetheless replete with both soft and sharp innuendo. It may suggest discreditable behaviour; or, it may suggest willingness to cooperate. Capitulation is not merely the action of surrendering. Significantly it is also ceasing to resist an opponent or demand. I further think it is fair to observe that most of us in this spicy affair called life have encountered both people and emotions which constitute opponents or demands. While it appears to infect the veneer to say as much, I believe there are times when ceasing to resist (or giving into) an opponent or demand is an intelligent choice.  It is to my mind more favourable than the action of surrendering because the latter concedes defeat while the former invites community. And until they invent a better method of living than sociability, I’ll place my bets on “ceasing to resist” as a palatable capitulation. I feel it amounts to more than throwing in the towel when things become uncomfortable.

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It’s easy to disparage change, to mock or belittle its worth as either unlikely or so predictable or repetitive as to be wholly unmerited. Yet as scornful as some may be about the prospect of change, it nonetheless inhabits an imperturbable strain of our personality. I acknowledge the adage, “there ain’t no ship to take you away from yourself, you travel the suburbs of your own mind“. But that penetrating insight does not succeed to impugn the elevation and excitement of impending movement and discovery.

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Imagination – so I have heard – is not a particularly bad thing. That is, if it doesn’t overtake one’s daily enterprise like a high school student’s first gushing love affair which these days is further complicated by a list of multiple abbreviated sexual preferences. I guess I have always associated imagination with some kind of removal from reality, a wistful hope for something different, an anxious yearning for transition, denial or alteration. Yet there are many things about which I have employed my imagination without in my opinion compromising connection with the world or the state of things as they actually exist, as opposed to an idealistic or notional idea of them.

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My late father was an aircraft pilot. He belonged to the Royal Canadian Air Force throughout much of his career (starting as Commanding Officer of CFB Greenwood in Nova Scotia) before becoming a military attaché to the Canadian Embassies in Washington DC, Stockholm, Sweden and Helsinki, Finland. While it can undoubtedly be postulated that the diplomatic missions were considered perquisites within Canadian government circles,  I am equally certain my father never lost sight of the incredible rush of adrenaline, composition and docility associated with the management of such a massive machine as an airplane. I am guessing as well that in later life he translated that sudden thrill to the lift-off of a fine motor vehicle.

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Often I have amusingly pondered what constitutes the difference between gentlemen of this era and gentlemen of another; what, that is, distinguishes men in the so-called evolution of humanity? Surely, for example, if one were to peel back whatever it is that now marks our elemental character we are predominantly the same as we perhaps always were. I can’t imagine that proper dental care, a modern haircut or a new suit of clothes (with or without buckled high-heel shoes and pointy toes) are going to make anything but a cosmetic distinction.

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We’ve now surpassed the 1st day of September. The weather has turned cool. In the chilly morning air, cotton sweaters are de rigueur. The sharp squawk of the Bluejays and the shrill scream of the cicadas regularly punctuate the atmosphere. The vast green corn fields stand high, golden tassel crowns gleaming in the sunshine row on row. No doubt youngsters are planning whatever peculiar devotions they naturally have as they contemplate another year of studies and companionship, perhaps at a high school. Though I delight in their zeal, nothing however persuades me to repeat the exigencies of youth. I am shamefully complacent.

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