There are things we prefer not to talk about. Or if we do talk about them, it is in ways calculated to soothe or obstruct the details. Asking someone whom we know the casual question “How are things!” seldom provokes anything approaching an expansive composition. Ask them instead, “What’s the news?” and you’ll get a very different response. Guaranteed. Maybe even one you hadn’t expected. Or worse, one you didn’t want to know. More often than not however the news can be compelling. Not because it is bizarre or absurd but because it is usually meaningful and personal. Getting people to talk about themselves rarely requires more than listening. But you need an introduction to the intelligence more vital than a stock blurb which long ago lost its depth or authenticity.

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Watching life drift by is neither uninventive nor unrewarding. Nor is it for the pusillanimous. It requires application. I am gripped to this day by a quip I overheard many years ago from a stodgy bearded intellect in undergraduate studies at Glendon Hall. If I recall correctly the portly chap said something to the affect that the hardest thing to do is nothing. I’ve learned to accept the witty remark. Yet too often we mistakenly subsume ourselves beneath needless preoccupation at the expense of warranted diversion. And, yes, we do need occasional diversion from our many worldly preoccupations. In the summertime especially when the balmy air and fleeting white clouds invite life’s tranquil and muted pace, it behooves us to reckon with Nature, the buzz of the bees, the chirping of the birds, the perfume of the wild flowers, the hint of a breeze and the solitude of a waterway.

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Americans – not unlike Canadians – have their deep seated differences. In Canada the central root of disturbance is between Upper and Lower Canada or what today is conveniently recognized as the provinces of Ontario and Quebec, more fundamentally, English and French occasionally extending to competition between Protestant and Catholic. Then there is the battle between east and west, amplified to anything east or west of the Toronto-Dominion Centre at King and Bay Streets in the heart of Old Toronto’s financial district.  The western provinces have their wheat and oil. Central Canada is banking and retail trade. The Maritime provinces maintain their historic plurality of British blood and United Empire Loyalists (fleeing American revolutionaries) and the French speaking Acadians (a colony of New France).

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In the blend of balmy summer air and the equally seasonal and thoroughly natural decomposition of old age it is not infrequently that one becomes provoked to sentimentality. I’ve heard it said by one whom I trust that old age promotes bleary eyes. Given the absence of those to whom we so often tearfully allude, one has to question for whom indeed the bell really tolls. Is it for the loss of someone dear? Or is it rather the distress of our abandonment which propels the grievous alert?

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We’re a long way from Flip Wilson’s comedy show but religion remains very much a part of government. This in spite of numerous attempts worldwide over a succession of centuries to separate the two. I cannot fabricate a more intolerant, illogical and un-Christian way of forcing one’s bald magic upon others. The political scene remains infested with the likes of Geraldine most recently manifested by the erstwhile twice impeached insurrectionist and comedy show magnate Trump. This is a strange and malicious way to make America great again.

When asked whether he feels he played a role in the reversal of Roe v. Wade, after having appointed three conservative justices to the high court, the former president told Fox News: “God made the decision.”

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The effluxion of time is very often the palliative to anxiety. But to a point. The primary cure is not the passage of time, rather it is the knowledge that comes with it. No matter how one prefers to characterise distress, the hurdle is overcome only by win or defeat. Clarity. Never ignorance or neglect. Wisdom. Real problems don’t disappear.

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It occurred to me early this afternoon while dawdling on the patio of the golf club leisurely perusing the latest accomplishments of artist Kenneth Emig of the Village of Clayton in the County of Lanark and Province of Ontario that he like most successful artists is a member of a preferred class. Though this may resound of “nose in the air” culture, I mean it instead as a frank and purely deductive observation. Permit me to explain.

Years ago when I began practicing law my burgeoning focus upon the material world ascended quite literally from the ground up. I moved progressively from real estate to Persian rugs to mahogany furniture to silverware, porcelain and stemware. Finally after having sated my interest in the rudimentary hardware of accommodation and household provisions I began frequenting art galleries for expression more evocative and scintillating. Not that I didn’t adore my Chelsea Ship’s Bell!

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Shaye Moss and her mom Ruby Freeman had their lives turned upside down when then-President Donald Trump and Rudy Giuliani singled them out in an increasingly unhinged effort to overturn the election. Giuliani accused the two election workers from Fulton County, Georgia, of pulling out suitcases of fake votes and passing a suspicious USB stick to each other while counting election results. But the “USB stick”—which Giuliani later suggested might be dope—was a ginger mint, Moss told the January 6 committee in stunning, emotional testimony Tuesday.

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It felt almost offensive to be returning from an urban weekend when the weather prescribed the ideal summer day; viz., azure sky with fluffy white cumulus, blazing temperature and balmy air. Late this afternoon I drove to the grocery store to replenish our provisions.  Everything about the day screamed summer! There was very little traffic for a business day of the week. I imagined that masses of people had launched their summertime resort and vanished into the interior. The grocery store echoed the abandonment of drivers. Once again It was though I were violating an unwritten summertime loyalty, that I should have instead been on a deck overlooking a pool, sipping a coloured drink and chortling with disregard.

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Following breakfast this morning at the trough on the 18th floor of the hotel we checked out electronically and descended with our luggage from the suite in the sky overlooking Toronto harbour to the commotion of the lobby below. The city was alive with Monday morning vigour. We’re currently situated adjacent Front Street directly across from the Royal York hotel in Union Station at the lounge waiting to board the eastbound train to bring us home.

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