It has been said that we are the last person to know ourself. Apparently our judgement is clouded. I do however have what I believe are some fairly accurate details about certain of my characteristics. In particular I know that I abhor personal conflict and that my instinctive reaction to it is first, anger; and second, flight. Allow me to explain.
“It was a neat little mansion, and every thing about it seemed, as Nancy said, in such grand apple-pie order, that it gave Rosella a strong idea of that extreme attention to cleanliness and form, which usually excludes ease and rest.”
Rosella, or Modern Occurrences, 1799, by Mary Charlton
If asked whether it were possible or desirable to put anything in perfect order – assuming the question were taken at all seriously – the inquiry would commonly elicit a hearty guffaw or a dismissive wave of the hand! The meticulous pursuit of orderliness, though for some of the herd a solemn and sempiternal agitation, inspires philosophical condescension from pragmatists who regard the contemplation of rigid absolutes with their nose well in the air. The ideal of perfection may besides trigger disapproval from the groundlings who caste it as superlative and showy, even an insufferable expression of elitism.
Though it reverberates as a small compliment, my disfavour towards certain people happily continues to thrive. For too long I have stunted the growth of this relieving and rewarding enterprise on the basis of false notions, among them that everyone deserves to be treated well even if I am inclined to think otherwise; or that it is my own stubbornness or inadequacy which promotes such enmity; or that life will always be fraught with acrimony and it does no one any good to cultivate it. I am overthrowing that namby-pamby gibberish. Instead I intend to capitalize upon the privilege of curmudgeonly behaviour afforded relics such as myself. No longer will I be bamboozled! I have decided to side-step annoying people and to avoid them whenever possible.
Many factors combined today to make for a perfectly splendid summer day! The broad outline of my day was a trip to Manotick to meet with my Hair Architect (Warren), then a pleasant visit to my mother at her retirement residence, followed by a late afternoon bicycle ride and the exceeding pleasure of the fine weather and blossoming lilac bushes.
“For now, feeling as though my own brain were unhinged or as if the shock had come which must end in its undoing, I turn to my diary for repose. The habit of entering accurately must help to soothe me.”
Excerpt From: Bram Stoker. “Dracula.”
The distinct moment I began to write a diary is hardened upon my memory. I was fourteen years of age in Fourth Form at boarding school, St. Andrew’s College in Aurora, Ontario. My parents and only sibling were several thousands of miles away in Stockholm, Sweden where my father had been commissioned as Attaché to the Canadian Embassy. As Her Majesty had earlier that summer generously paid to ship our entire family from Montréal, Quebec to Le Havre, France by first class service on the S.S. Arcadia I did not return home for Christmas that year but instead visited my maternal grandparents in Northeastern Ontario in the small, remote Town of Mattawa at the confluence of the Mattawa and Ottawa Rivers.
My medical experiment began on May 10th. The object was to test the hypothesis that my medical condition (which I then characterized as heart disease, arthritis and spinal deterioration reflected mostly in numbness in my lower limbs and feet) might actually improve without drugs.
It is the Friday afternoon of the Victoria Day Weekend and the surge of energy is everywhere apparent! The excitement is happily fuelled by warm temperatures and brilliant sunshine. All infused elements have serendipitously combined for a favourable holiday weekend.
Every two weeks on Thursday afternoon our cleaning lady attends to clean our apartment. We make a point of absenting ourselves and use the occasion to go abroad for a day of leisure. By design the perambulation includes a meal which, because we seldom get going until shortly after mid-day, means a late lunch or an early dinner depending how far we travel. Our compass most frequently includes Cedar Cove Resort on White Lake, Ivy Lea Club on the St. Lawrence Seaway, the Town of Gananoque and the City of Kingston. Each has its appeal, variously promoted by the weather, our appetite or the geography.
It was one month ago we returned home to our beloved Almonte from our winter retreat on the Atlantic barrier island in South Carolina. The transition has been virtually effortless and generally gratifying. We have accomplished what we planned to do during this initial period; namely, income tax filings, financial planning, reuniting with family and friends, medical, eye and dental appointments and extending our residential apartment lease. Only once have we conducted the ceremony of an afternoon drive to the St. Lawrence Seaway but that will shortly become part of our weekly routine now that the gears of habit are re-engaged. Our global objective here is parochial when compared to the ambitions of most during the summer months but we rejoice in this small-town vernacular.
Mine is a placid life, an admittedly parochial, routine affair with little probability of discomposure. Each day of my life – even when examined abstractly over a period of a year or more – is by any stretch largely the same; namely, a sober existence marked by such affirmative traditions as early rising, regular exercise, improving private study, responsive communications with family and friends and a healthful diet. The wallpaper to this harmonious dalliance is classic music, jazz and the exotic accents of the BBC hosts and their array of worldwide reporters. Yet occasionally there develops a discombobulation, the infrequency of which exponentially increases its agitation. A case in point is paradoxically the very vehicle which supports my current narrative. I speak of my web site.