Today marks the fulfillment of an agenda of objectives, three things I’ve had on my mind for the past many weeks. They are in truth things, no more than that, not ideas or plans or meetings, just things, things no more dignified than any others. Forgive me for appearing to be coy about what in particular the things are. The thesis and consequence that arises from the attainment of the objectives is the lesson, not the objectives (or things) themselves.  What after all does it matter in any event what the things are?  If I were to say one thing or another, the credibility is likely no different; and the magnetism of one thing or another is highly unlikely at least universally.  In any event, as I say, what matters is the outcrop of the so-called seeds that were planted. Clearly the episode has affected me both intellectually and emotionally. As someone who considers it is the little things that so often matter, I am provoked to analyze this tertiary dénouement.

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I am reminded today of the huge importance of certain relationships in my lifetime.  While I am tempted in a moment of gushing enthusiasm to embrace everyone with whom I’ve participated on any level (on the theory that it’s all good), my corresponding level of gin is thankfully not as high and I shall therefore sidestep the “I love you, Man!” proclamation for the entire universe for the time being. Instead I am presently mindful of those singular and refined associations which continue to percolate in my memory notwithstanding sometimes long periods of absence and silence.

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Yesterday morning when bicycling I became aware of what sounded like a flat back tyre. By the time I was returning home on Country Street it was more than a merely “noticeable” impediment.  Accordingly I stopped at the first corner and got off the bike to examine it closely.  It was indeed going flat but there was yet some air in it. I remounted the bike and attempted to cycle a further distance.  It was no use ignoring the dilemma any longer.  I walked the rest of the way home, clinging to the handlebars as I did so, thankful at least that I had the bike to hang onto.  Walking I knew was not my favourite exercise. This however was not the end of my punishment.

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Although it is flippantly posited that neither the past nor the future exists, that is a frightfully discreditable proposition during a pandemic when both the past and the future are very much alive in one’s mind. Everywhere around the globe people have been talking about this period (actually it’s March 11th) as the anniversary of the declaration of a global pandemic by the World Health Organization. After what for most of us has been a year of motionless endurance, a deeper question is beginning to surface from the usual slam of the past and hope for the future; namely, people are starting to question, “What if things don’t get back to normal soon?”

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As I am certain you know, it is often said that breakfast is the most important meal of the day. I quite agree though perhaps not for the nutritional or medical reasons that are as regularly recited. Mine is rather a preference which combines social, psychological and cosmetic elements. Breakfast has for me the equivalence of a religious ceremony, an amalgam of zealousness, fastidiousness, piety and tradition. Its celestial nature is captured in its recognizable purification and overall uplifting character. He or she who is well and properly fed at the start of the day is ready to undertake the challenges of a devoted aspirant!

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The putative reason for going to Montréal was always something lofty like taking in the latest collection of an art show at the Musée des Beaux Arts on Sherbrooke St W.  The real reason was far more iniquitous; namely, eating, drinking and generally gallivanting. We assembled ourselves throughout the city. The younger members of our conventicle reunited with friends who fortuitously lived in central Montréal close to all the action, perhaps Westmount or Outremont; while we older members opted instead for the caretaking of the Four Seasons or the Ritz-Carlton on Sherbrooke St W where we were assured in addition proximity to our primary targets – other that is than the night clubs which always entailed a cab there and back. We preserved the time-honoured tradition of propriety during the day but rapidly dissolved into darkness at night!

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Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart’s Mass in C Minor (“Grosse Messe“) performed by the Bavarian Radio Symphony Orchestra under the baton of Leonard Bernstein is the stimulating ecclesiastical background to this morning’s gratifying breakfast of crisp green apple slices, creamy Suisse Normande ripened cheese on a toasted “Everything” baguette bagel and double-thick bacon. The music is the reward for our earlier brave and decidedly unique venture on bicycles along Country Street and back around the subdivision, in all 8.53 km over a space of 1 hour and 5 minutes. The temperature was about -10°C and a wind NW 14 km/hr. What better way to stoke an appetite and legitimize the indulgence of fat! Perhaps a smattering of maple butter too!

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Fine art has attracted me throughout my life. I confess I use the expression somewhat broadly – and deliberately – to embrace not only what is commonly considered the more famous or expensive renditions (such as one commonly sees in museums) but also specifically what is produced by local artists. No doubt my affection for local fine art springs measurably from its affordability (though not always) but equally from my personal acquaintance with the artist and the connection I see between the artist and his or her creation.

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To the Lighthouse
by Virginia Woolf

“The Window” opens just before the start of World War I. Mr. Ramsay and Mrs. Ramsay bring their eight children to their summer home in the Hebrides (a group of islands west of Scotland). Across the bay from their house stands a large lighthouse. Six-year-old James Ramsay wants desperately to go to the lighthouse, and Mrs. Ramsay tells him that they will go the next day if the weather permits. James reacts gleefully, but Mr. Ramsay tells him coldly that the weather looks to be foul. James resents his father and believes that he enjoys being cruel to James and his siblings.

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My dearest Mrs. Holloway,

On the subject of writing – “to absorb how it is done” (as your Ladyship so cryptically encapsulated the topic in this morning’s email) – I am inspired to enlist my own resources to address the mystery. This I acknowledge is a purely investigative pursuit, not anything you’ve requested – though I hope my thoughts are of some utility in the formulation of your own. Let me begin by saying that writing has proven to be a hobby of boundless delight. For that reason alone I encourage its adoption as a recreational activity. It is something which can be done anywhere, anytime – whether at a desk (on your computer or even a Smith Corona typewriter or by longhand on fine parchment paper with a Diplomat Mont Blanc pen), while watching TV (on your iPhone), in the drawing room (on your iPad), in the middle of night in bed (again, on the iPhone) and – dare I say so vulgar a thing – even on the throne (in lieu of a book or magazine) if the urgency compels you!

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