Alliances – as much as we occasionally feel the necessity to preserve certain of them – are seldom fruitfully controlled by ambition. This seemingly self-evident truth is however often confuted by a personal miscalculation; that is, we are more than likely deceived by ourselves than others in what at first appears to be a public demonstration. What drives the internal mechanism is not judged by what we or others fashion as either normal or predictable. We are driven by the inexplicable and frequently magical ardour of our very complicated nature. It’s what unites Prince Hal and Sir John Falstaff – not what they know but what they feel.

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Without a word of a lie, when I bicycled out of the garage this morning into the open air, the first thing I heard was the shrill whine of a cicada. It was then I knew that August was upon us. Say what you will about June and July, when it comes to the identity of summer it is for me the month of August and the sound of the cicada. The mounting emerald corn fields on either side of the Appleton Side Road yesterday created the illusion of a shady canyon to the Village. The flowers about the condominium are at their peak. The honey bees are like drunken waifs.

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Shortly after I got out of bed at seven o’clock this morning – and before the atonement of physical activity – breakfast was by contrast a gooey sweet butter tart from Beckwith Bakery and a squirt of THC/CBD from the Lieutenant Governor in right-of-the Province of Ontario.  Terribly reminiscent of Sherlock Holmes and laudanum. Devoting oneself so critically to one’s addictions. It was not only a brilliant start to the day but also a stimulating way to embark upon my morning bicycle ride.

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Whenever there has been (such as now prevails) national tumult surrounding something as marketable as public health, it is to be expected that opinions will foment. The metropolitan appetite for both specificity and vengeance contemporaneously floods the stage. Nor is the scope of the aggression limited; everything and everyone is exposed to censure and punishment. It is the perfect battleground for lawyers because it involves that most fundamental notion of modern freedom; namely, the habeas corpus. And maybe even more deeply it evokes a constitutional right as ancient as the Magna Carta itself. Addressing a modern challenge through the eyes of something so fundamental promises to afford some very basic repercussions. In times of distress the room for obfuscation is narrow. I believe we have to set ourselves to endure some blunt conclusions.

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When we (that is, the government) wanted to stop people drinking alcohol, neither destruction of the product nor Biblical verse persuaded any of them to do so. It was a scene which decades later was unconvincingly repeated with nefarious combustibles.  Now both alcohol and marijuana are legal.  The government that once denounced the products now sells them. Government is like parenting (“Do as I say not as I do“); that is, well intentioned but always a titch out of the loop.

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In an atmosphere of perpetual retirement it seems hardly befitting to squawk about taking a break.  From anything.  I mean to say, I’m already broken! The chain that once linked me to productive employment long ago disintegrated. Apart from what appears to be a revolving list of dental and medical appointments, there is otherwise little if anything on the horizon which remotely touches the character of work. Yet today it was time for a break.

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Mary I (18 February 1516 – 17 November 1558), also known as Mary Tudor, and as “Bloody Mary” by her Protestant opponents, was Queen of England and Ireland from July 1553 until her death in 1558. She is best known for her vigorous attempt to reverse the English Reformation, which had begun during the reign of her father, Henry VIII. Her attempt to restore to the church the property confiscated in the previous two reigns was largely thwarted by parliament, but during her five-year reign, Mary had over 280 religious dissenters burned at the stake in the Marian persecutions.

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It comes as no surprise that a man with the middle name “Natchbull” is related to Jane Austen’s best friend. Today is Mr. Justice James Knatchbull Hugessen’s 88th birthday (July 26, 1933). When we spoke on the telephone a moment ago he was evidently in fine form and ready for a fight!

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It is hardly possible that I can evoke a colourless affection for plunder when I recall the familiar association of it with matters nautical of which I am generally exceedingly fond. Nonetheless I will say it had in fact occurred to me that plunder may indeed have a less than marauding implication; say for example, the ill-gotten gains of life – those peculiarly rough but always welcome insights that come from mistake, silliness, misadventure, loss or failure. Apart however from that twist or manipulation, I don’t suppose plunder has an altogether favourable caste.  Blackbeard the Pirate may have infused the word with the same popular fervour enjoyed by Robin Hood and his merry men.

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The expediency of my nightly slumber is forever incalculable.  Specifically, the reason why I do or don’t sleep well is untold. Whenever I have a good night’s sleep – such as I did last night – I marvel at what might have been the stimulating cause. It may be nothing more than Nature’s soporific but I preserve the idle projection that it may have been something I ate or drank including the handful of prescription drugs I take routinely throughout the day and to which I add some of the Government of Ontario’s THC/CBD combo. No matter.  What’s important – like everything else these days – is that whatever it is, it works; and, that is the sole measure of profit.

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