The field of brownish dry cornstalks rustles in the wind. Waves of uniform rolling movement. The river responds correspondingly – rippled plateaux flying across the surface of the water like the reflection of a fugitive cloud above. This morning when asked, “What’s the news?”, I hadn’t much to say. We’ve nothing planned. There’s been nothing of import lately. But privately I’m getting a grip on life.
Though I have been variously occupied throughout the day since awakening shortly before eight o’clock this morning, the occupations have certainly been of my own necessity – that is, doing what I prefer to do rather than what I am obliged to do. Lately I am less and less resilient to obligation. I quickly tire of appointments (whether medical, dental or merely renewing a passport). And obligations requiring immediate attention (most often those involving mechanical functions and disfunctions) push me to the edge of tolerance. Having at the moment a lull in the proceedings is a welcome state of being. It is an infrequent spectacle; and one guaranteed soon to exchange for the alternative. Hence its propitious feature.
In the modern world, people throughout the globe – from North America to Africa to Asia – are more likely to own an iPhone than to go to church or temple. It may appear a small compliment; and an even more outrageous accommodation. But the replacement of the probity of religion by technology is real. The entrancement is similarly overwhelming.The mechanism of the fantastic and the unbelievable has not commensurately altered. Instead we’re facing a new demon with like obscurity. The advent of AI (Artificial Intelligence) has provoked among the masses a seemingly epic change and intrigue in the world of commerce including in particular everyday sales mantras and successes at the base of the economy. The scrambling is notable for its unprecedented gusto – possibly an insight into the legitimacy of the fluster. Historically however my experience is that Nature of whatever character is governed less by hysteria than practicality – that is, discernible and digestible logic. Maintaining a clear mind and balance – especially in the realm of the unknown – is imperative to avoid being swept away and deceived by what in retrospect is a far less disquieting alarm with a far more obvious solution.
When I was a child it was not uncommon to remark upon the sudden appearance of large earthworms after a heavy rainfall. The worms seemingly sought to escape the underground deluge of water. The metaphor: a change of circumstance provokes a change of behaviour; the flooding of one is the reveal of another; the aeration and draining process is universal; when one goes down the other comes up, and so on.
The term self-expression is one which at first glance is a pursuit patently absorbed in what is dangerously close to – and nothing more than – navel gazing. On the other hand it signifies what is merely the flat and inescapable truth or axiom that one’s expression – or one’s pronouncement or articulation of the universe – is ultimately personal. Allowed this broader and more forgiving nature, the perilous preoccupation becomes a less introverted exposition of the outside world.
We’ve been to see a one-man play performed this afternoon at the MERA (McDonalds Corners & Elfin Recreation & Arts) Schoolhouse theatre in rural Lanark Highlands. The thespian event satisfied every credential of the ideal rural outing: perfect weather, easy parking, plates of homemade cookies and coffee in the waiting room upon arrival, audible theatre and visible stage, singular performance, old friends, new acquaintances and dinner afterwards at the golf club.
My dear Fiona,
Professor Friedrich Icklebohm (Part III)
The Consolation of Thought
Evening had settled. The lamps burned low, their amber glow mellowing the sharp corners of the room. Outside, the wind moved softly through the birches, whispering against the windowpanes like the murmur of an old language. Between them, on the low table, stood a bottle of whiskey and two heavy tumblers — each half-filled, each slightly clouded by the room’s warmth.
Professor Friedrich Icklebohm lived in a small cottage behind a white wooden fence not far from the village monument. His father and his grandfather had lived there before him; and soon, or so the Professor suspected, his own name would be added to the list of ancestors denoted on the brass plaque mounted by the front door. For the present though he lived predominantly in the moment, preferring to ignore what, by frank account, was an inevitable and impending reality, unfriendly as it is unpredictable.
Once again today it was impossible to wallow beneath the duvet. The blue sky and yellow sunshine were already appearing brightly behind the window coverings. The magic of another perfect day beaconed. Before eight o’clock this morning I was stationed in the shower and subsequently performed my customary ablutions at the bathroom counter.