As convenient as it is to mock the keenness which surrounds Christmas, there is no denying the gusto that precedes the day.  Something there is that ignites sentimentality and often unparalleled generosity. That the eagerness begins to soar in early December is perfectly tolerable because once Christmas Day arrives, it’s a speedy downhill ride! Though I dislike those hard-bitten observations that the kick of Christmas is its wishful hopefulness, the child-like conjectures and dreamy visions of a tinselled tree and roaring fireplace, it is precisely those intangibles that enflame the event.

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When one’s life is foretold by medical appointments, visits from the housekeeper, birthdays, income tax instalments and dividend payments, there isn’t much of consequence to report when being casually asked, “What’s the news?”  Quite simply there isn’t any news. Though I’ve always acknowledged my repetitious lifestyle (frankly a feature I consider relieving by virtue of its simplicity and legitimacy) it doesn’t market well as either topical or intriguing. Yet from this inconsequence I derive subtle – dare I say, smug – pleasure. Indeed it is an irrelevance upon which I actively thrive. For the other reality of my being is the inherent affection for dichotomy, what I characterize as the binary nature of things. The division of the world into two parts is a global separation of what at first appears to be competing ideas though in fact they are likely no more than two arguments – or what may more delicately be described in the computer vernacular as “two possible values for each pixel“.

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Often at the start of our constitutional bicycle outings – such as we took this wintry morning in early December – we jokingly announce the intended direction of our ride by trumpeting, “La route précise!” It’s our vernacular for whatever passage we normally take when bicycling – something we’ve traditionally done throughout the year. Habit has succeeded to insinuate everything we do. This year however has afforded two exceptions to that once favourable rule. First because we’re in Canada this winter, it is reasonably assured that we may be unable to bicycle throughout the season.  So far we’ve escaped the intolerance of snow – having only to endure the decidedly fresh air – but I suspect that today’s novelty will soon subside. Second the so-called “route précise” faces a further complication because our path is the Ottawa Valley Trail upon the erstwhile railway right-of-way. Because the trail is intended to accommodate snowmobilers in the winter – and because few in their right mind would prefer to walk or cycle upon heavy snow – we rightfully expect to be unable to pursue that path for much longer. So much for la route précise!

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It’s Saturday morning.  Outside it’s not especially cheery.  The sky is dull and grey, crystals of snow softly falling under a still dome upon the stubble in the  brown fields beyond. There is just enough sunlight to luminate the overwhelming grey to a dull yellow tint. Thanks to Apple Music© I am listening to Fauré’s Requiem, Charles Dutoit conducting l’Orchestre Symphonique de Montréal. It is part of what Apple labels my “Station“, an algorithm of my favourite composers from the library. Yet another example of the sorcery of technology!

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Until I have had my morning shower, brushed my hair and applied the requisite skin cream, I live in fear of what lies before me. So accustomed am I to duty and obligation – contaminated as it is by the Protestant Work Ethic – that until I set myself in gear for the perfunctory performances of the day there lingers a distant remorse. The ruefulness is however speedily ditched upon fulfilling the native obligations of breakfast and coffee. Cleanliness and food are the minimalistic ingredients of accomplishment.

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Perhaps I am still tottering from yesterday’s unanticipated – though hugely uplifting – brush with coincidence. After struggling for the past week or maybe the last ten days to accommodate within myself the misfortune of an icy communication with another resident, we appear to have fully recovered.  It was more an act of strong-will and mutual ignorance which preserved us both from a wasteful re-enactment of the event. Instead we have continued our restful paddle down life’s winding river, suffering as we must by nature the consequence at once as demanding and as glorious as passage to the City of Prague along Bedrich Smetana’s Má Vlast: Vltava “Die Moldau“.

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Slipping without warning into a moment of supreme satisfaction is – except perhaps for the spoils of gambling – normally beyond fortuity! It is similarly utter gall to pretend that one’s calculated handiwork has contributed to the chance occurrence. Such at least was my immediate response to the encounter late this afternoon with another resident on the elevator. The plain truth is that several weeks ago – on the occasion of our last communication with one another – she and I had elapsed into a discombobulated state. Yet so unwilling were either of us to acknowledge the disconcerted conclusion of our meeting – the trifling reasons for which hardly matter – that we succeeded until now to ignore the conflict.

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If I understand the process correctly the hibernating beast customarily gorges itself then retires to an underground den to sleep it off. We’ve succeeded today to accomplish the pre-requisite. No doubt the soporific consequence shall soon enforce its natural withdrawal from society. Until then I am practicing sitting high jumps and wall ping pong from the effect of two cups of some very strong coffee. And – more importantly – we’ve begun the “Season“, a festivity now more apt as a strictly social event than a religious one.

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The triumph of reason is not normally what one thinks of when listening to the news. Instead we’re punished with repeated circular obfuscations by partisan politicians seemingly greedy to preserve their employment. While it is difficult if not impossible to contradict their ambition, their thesis imposes disruption and inconstancy. The global pandemic has reduced many to impossible recovery. The plight is especially topical in the United States of America because its lame duck president, instead of focusing upon health improvement as an economic device, persists to enflame unsubstantiated claims of voter fraud as the reason for his recent defeat. Meanwhile the exhausted public – including even the pundits – recoil in dismay and resignation. These plain emotions have been captured by Rocci Fisch.

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When I left the apartment mid-afternoon to begin my routine – though astonishingly never humdrum – drive to the car wash and back I succumbed to my burgeoning curiosity about the Sailing Club in Ottawa West. The investigative theme today was propelled by an equally flourishing admission that barring the purchase of a snowmobile I’d best devote my attention to alternate winter outing. I knew from a previous visit last summer to nearby Andrew Haydon Park that if there were winter access it might afford not only a desirable view of the Ottawa River but also an opportunity for moderate exercise. Nor was I disappointed in my ambition. To my delight both the Club and the Park were open for public access in strategic places along Carling Avenue. Though the white canvass isosceles no longer adorned the horizon there remained ample fodder for distraction and marvel.

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