Today is the 8th day of May, 2020.  It snowed last night.  Just a skiff.  It lingers on the lawns but melts on the pavement. We’ve temporarily abandoned our cycling ambition – at least until the roadways are dry. Meanwhile the novelty of the snow succeeds to insulate us indoors with impunity and a degree of legitimacy. The manifest restraint thankfully inspires the consumption of cranberry/pumpkin seed bread lathered in gobs of Becel butter! Naturally I shall have the decency to precede the indulgence with a slimming plate of sliced apple, a bunch of red grapes and a modest wedge of subtle Brie cheese.  My customary strong, black coffee also awaits. And did I mention the steel cut oats?  It’s a wonder I so agreeably maintain my racehorse figure!

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With everything on one’s diary being cancelled, delayed or put-off interminably, it is impossible to escape the similarity of one’s current affairs to any of the other traditional and more familiar alterations of life – prolonged illness or death, being fired or retirement, moving or breaking up. The one theme which insinuates each of these often catastrophic events is the overwhelming reduction to incapacity – and change. Once one has evaporated the elemental features of health, employment, social alliance or life as we know it, what remains is unsettling and uncharted territory. The possibility of impenetrability also exists – a modern plague which we are reluctant to verbalize.

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We’ve just about reached the pinnacle of endurance of this tarsome pandemic business.  I fear we’re on the cusp of either a major alteration or the sequel of a subduing reality. With curious regularity I am hearing the same story from friends all over the world; namely, “Enough, already!” Whatever spunk we may have had initially is on the verge of expiry. Granted a thread of the initial stamina continues to prevail – but tolerance is rapidly waning.  The challenge is not our doggedness; rather the utter boredom of it all! As an abstract generality, la condition humaine has expanded far beyond the conflict of socialist insurrectionists. The revolutionaries most certainly wouldn’t be permitted to rally publicly! The greater looming threat is a combination of complete inutility and lack of imagination for anything compensatory in the meantime.

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The Jurassic geological period spanned 56 million years from the end of the Triassic Period 201.3 million years ago to the beginning of the Cretaceous Period 145 million years ago. The Jurassic constitutes the middle period of the Mesozoic Era known as the Age of Reptiles. Pointedly the start of the period was maked by the major Triassic-Jurassic extinction event.

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Our instinctive unanimity (that native harmony that presumably propels us) reveals itself in the oddest manner of expression! Of one accord this morning we cut short our bicycle ride.  It was cloudy, chilly and we hadn’t the energy to surmount the obstacles. His Lordship retired to his study to observe self-isolation. Not surprisingly I contented myself instead to go for a long drive into the southern hinterland approaching the St. Lawrence River. There are times like today when even the fulfillment of my obsessions does little to stimulate my gusto. Perhaps that was the advantage of working for a living – namely, that you’re so preoccupied with handling other people’s stuff that by the time you get to your own it is uplifting for that reason alone.  I’m guessing.  Alternatively maybe today was so unusually free of corruption of any level that it made the purity of what flowed less noticeable. I did however remark with glee that the grass – especially when bordering remnant collections of water in the fields – is getting surprisingly green. The colour resembled a neon verdancy – a glistening emerald.

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In the midst of this supremely wearing pandemic – and just in time for a much-needed boost – the first Sunday in May has fortuitously begun with considerable enthusiasm. There was talk on an American news channel this morning about shopping malls reopening for business. The persuasive economic anxiety underlying this venture does however compete noticeably with the more popular though cautious reluctance of the medical community which continues to urge social distancing to prevent a sudden wave of reinfection. People generally have no way of assessing the plausibility of recovery in any manner or degree, and certainly without the benefit of scientific analysis. Considering nature’s diminishing example of purely visceral instinct from the imperilled bison it is impractical to assume we know better when faced with the possible catastrophe of hurtling over the edge.

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It’s Saturday. The sun shines.  The temperature is currently 70°F. The redoubtable ingredients of springtime enliven the day! My being hesitantly awakens and manifests itself as I ride upon my bicycle seat, pedalling cheerfully by the old town hall across the ancient stone bridge above the roaring waterfalls, clad in a lightweight burnoose, my gold rings and heavy knotted bracelet reminding me of my elemental materialism, the uncommon gentleness of the gravel pathway soothing the adventure.  Everyone has suddenly transformed their insolation to cautious publicity.

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So preoccupied are we by the pandemic (and its seemingly unrelieved fortunes) that the monthly alteration of the calendar almost went unnoticed today. But the awakening of springtime with the progress of the season is determined to render its own evolution in spite of the ignorance. Though no one dares predict what is to come it is impossible not to succumb to nature’s timetable and at least hope for a customary turn-around from a harsh though insidious winter. The universality of the virus contamination heightens what for some is traditionally little more than a poetic eclipse. Will we indeed have anything other by which to remember springtime this year?

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Years ago I read the autobiography of British actor Sir Alec Guinness. His story was a marvel for the peculiar reason that unlike the other autobiographies I had read (that of Vladimir Horowitz for example) it was less about him and more about those with whom he mingled. One of the many entertaining accounts involved the singular adventure of flying in a small plane which because it encountered a strong head wind was propelled backwards. The plane had a difficult landing but all were safe. Presumably the passengers were protected by their chrysalis – that is, the fuselage of the plane.  By no coincidence the word fuselage derives from the French fuselé “spindle-shaped”, the main body section to which the wings are attached.

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At six o’clock this morning I was startled from my soothing lair. The preposterous theme of the alarm was “By the Seaside“. The alarm would normally not have been so persuasive but today involved a quest, a tête-à-tête with my automobile dealership. I wanted an explanation of the carbon-coloured drippings discovered on the garage floor beneath the engine and middle of the car. This was not to my thinking normal. Nor did it strike me an especially happy acquaintance with a new vehicle.  It was exactly two weeks ago that I took delivery of the Aviator. Since then I have driven it 2,198 kms.

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