Apart from telling someone to go fly a kite (which I think you’ll agree hardly qualifies as instructive narrative), telling someone what to do with their life is generally mere surplusage.  One need only examine the success which others have had telling you what to do with your life. The hard fact persists that each of us is bound to decide for ourselves what and when we’ll do something, whatever it may be and howsoever probative.  It matters not how insightful or even accurate the improving observations are, until they are promulgated by the reputed delinquent as his or her own all the wisdom in the world is wasted breath.

I have however discovered certain irksome qualifications to this otherwise incontrovertible laissez-faire policy.  The most obvious objection to its universality is in the realm of the parent-child relationship.  One is reluctant to suggest that a parent should not take an active role in the direction of a child (though I understand there are schools of thought which in fact promote such a choice, incorrectly in my view).  I would go so far as to say that a parent has a palpable duty to share with the child whatever wisdom the parent may possess regarding the conduct of the child; to do otherwise is in my opinion abandonment of human obligation (which I regard on the broad scale of ethics and the positive office which elders have towards children).  It may mollify the strength of parental responsibility to recall that instruction might be more forcefully conveyed as reflection upon the matter rather than a mandated code of behaviour.  This however is quibbling semantics.

In relationships between adults the matter of promoting self-improvement is far more delicate if for no other reason than that it is more difficult to break bad habits than it is to enlist them.  Once again even this cautionary note is subject to modification.  There are two factors at play on this score.  First, there is the risk that one’s silence, notwithstanding the appearance of minding one’s own business, is really either pusillanimity in the face of distress or blatant disregard for the needs of another.  Second, there is the equally compelling risk that one avoids the opportunity to speak one’s mind about displeasing conduct, the result of which may be the false and uninformed impression that the discreditable conduct is somehow either acceptable or tolerable.  I believe that both features require attention; calculated intervention and open frankness.  After all when it comes to the depth of communication between adults it can only be achieved if some effort is made.  Staring at a blank canvass or ignoring it altogether will hardly bring about a work of art.  This disposition might well require some adjustment in one’s thinking, as well it should.  I for one have no intention of going to my grave without having shared what little I know of the world and without having done or said what I knew or ought to have known should have been done or said.  What after all is more important than our relationships with others?  What are we saving it for?  Time is running out, let’s face it.

Many people in spite of their inappropriate conduct command a degree of “respect” which unfortunately is little more than unwilling tolerance from others.  To their face such personages are treated with apparent deference but behind their back it is frequently a different story.  Why we continue to prostrate ourselves before intolerable people is of course a good question.  I suspect we simply become conditioned to low-level behaviour and therefore dismiss it as effectively meaningless or inconsequential.  But for those on the receiving end of these misguided predators the sense is considerably different.  Granted there are some victims whose magnanimity is unsurpassed but even then I have trouble turning a blind eye to deplorable exploits.

It should of course be understood that when one takes it upon oneself to “share” with another what he or she ought to do, the ambit is confined to those associations which exist between family or friends.  Beyond that I am not so enthusiastic mostly because I think manners trump even legibility.  Besides we simply cannot be the keeper of every brother.  It doesn’t for a moment taint my sense of responsibility to restrict my personal opinions to those by whom I am most immediately affected and towards whom I have some duty or accountability.  For all others it is sufficient to tell them to go fly a kite!

I’m having difficulty resolving in my own mind precisely what happened today.  It isn’t as though we were terribly busy or that we engaged in anything especially excitable or inordinately distracting, but nonetheless I find myself reeling.  I’ve apparently lost my balance.  Something has broadsided me and I’m not quite certain what.

By way of explanation it would I suppose be safe to say we hadn’t an agenda in mind for today other than ensuring the vacation of our residence before the cleaning lady materialized. This is standard protocol. When therefore we collected ourselves sufficiently to withdraw from the apartment and install ourselves in the automobile for departure everything to that point was in customary order.

Quickly however matters began to deteriorate.  It may have been that the weather was partly to blame. The morning sunshine was giving way to what we casually characterized as an ominous sky.  The external map was clouding our collective mind at the same tempo.  In an instant our enthusiasm for wandering abroad carefree on a brilliant day altered to a greatly tempered reconsideration of the distance and anticipated delay before we might put on the luncheon nosebag.  Granted our adventure was temporarily detoured by a functional visit to the local pharmacy for our annual flu shot but that couldn’t have been the sole source of our maturing consternation.  A radical element had insinuated itself into our otherwise implacable affairs.

Having regained the automobile after complimenting ourselves for accomplishing the flu shot (which in truth was an item on our electronic calendar and therefore of some measurable importance), the authority of the gathering clouds increased.  By now we had determined to shorten our excursion to something closer to home. The idea of settling alongside the St. Lawrence Seaway no longer held its previous sway in light of the grey skies.  We quickly determined instead to go to a another but closer regular haunt in Old Chelsea, PQ.

Somehow even that brilliant suggestion quickly lost its appeal.  Perhaps the dwindling competition of the weather gave way to the increasing sense of appetite.  We further decided to compromise our expectations by going to a local emporium where we knew we could secure an acceptable sandwich and a tasty sweet.  When it turned out that our latest destination was in the same mall as another Vietnamese place we had previously frequented we again summarily altered our plans to switch to the Asian cuisine.  There we happily landed at last and were not in the least disappointed.

Because we had circumscribed our original plans so manifestly, we were in the result at loose ends to kill time before we could return to the apartment.  No doubt as a consequence of our earlier mercurial deliberations I had somewhere in that process ignited my interest in Almond Butter Squares which I knew were retailed at a nearby gluten-free bakery off Hunt Club Road.  As a concession to the need to dissolve some time we accordingly directed ourselves hither.

Our researches were not without profit!  We met the proprietor of the bakery and by force of our desire to contribute to local commerce and to engender the appearance of engagement we found ourselves ordering substantially more than originally planned.  The bakery has several small tables with chairs. After ordering a black coffee we perched ourselves at one of these installations and began the consumption of several of the goodies we had just purchased, including (in addition to the aforementioned Almond Butter Square), a Nanaimo Square, Caramel Slice Coconut cake with Caramel fudge on top and a Butter Tart (with the “best ever” pastry).  Exquisite!  The Nec Plus Ultra!

The utter satisfaction of such a serendipitous sojourn is likely the reason for my current disorientation.  Sixty-six years of programming were suddenly jolted by a new and thoroughly rewarding escapade.  If ever there were a case to be made for acting silly and behaving without calculation, this is it!  The experience was reminiscent of all the magical things I have heard about chocolate.  I opined to the proprietor that she had  discovered some secret ingredient which stirred the very synapses of my brain.

The Joy of Gluten Free

The overthrow is complete! Tonight marked the last of my official commitments!  This evening’s meeting of the Committee of Adjustment of the Corporation of the Town of Mississippi Mills was the final meeting which I shall ever attend.  I had already submitted my resignation effective October 27th next (by design the same day as the upcoming municipal election) and because of minimum public notice periods it is impossible that there will be another meeting of our Committee before then.  Even if the Committee were not functus officio after October 27th next (on the basis of some theory of prolonged longevity until the new Committee is properly constituted), my earlier resignation would in any event trump my involvement.  I’m done! And I willingly capitulate!  This is the proverbial last nail in the coffin.  The event complements the proceedings of September 30th last when I rounded out and resigned from my fourteen years as a Director of the Mississippi River Power Corporation.  Now in addition to the refinements of our municipal zoning by-laws I no longer cast my mind upon the turbulent waters of power generation in the Town of Mississippi Mills (Almonte Ward).

Naturally I am delighted to have been afforded the opportunity to serve on both these boards in addition to the others which have ornamented my 38-year career in the Town of Almonte.  But at last I can rest!  I simply couldn’t imagine having to step back into harness.  It is serendipitous that my complete retirement should be about to begin as our planned four-month hibernation on Hilton Head Island, SC is a mere three weeks hence.  One year ago when the prospect of the sale of my heritage office building was imminent on November 29th, 2013 it was then my objective to retire on November 30th, 2014.  While my retirement from the practice of law was accelerated to either March 31st or April 30th (I have forgotten on which date I finally alighted though I suspect it was the latter), I was nonetheless still shackled to my duties as an unwitting executor to a former deceased client, in addition to my duties as a Director of the Mississippi River Power Corporation and a Member of the Committee of Adjustment.  Those functions were not especially onerous but neither could they be ignored; it was still work.  It was  with a buoyant heart this evening that I proffered a cheery wave adieu to my fellow Members, Stacey Blair and Patricia McCann-MacMillan, on the steps of the Town Hall.  Only weeks ago it was a round of glad-handing about the Board table of the Power Corporation.

Honestly I could not be happier to have it all behind me. As peculiar as it may sound this is the first time in 38 years that I have really commenced anew.  Having new clients and serving on different committees, boards, foundations, clubs and fraternities does not qualify as beginning afresh, rather it was just more of the same.  I have at last put all of that behind me and I have no intention whatever of repeating the choreography.  I frankly highly doubt I would have the energy to do so.  Whatever one may say about drawing upon one’s “years of experience” it is nonetheless labour.  Even my admitted vanity doesn’t palliate the anticipated drudge of it all.

It is too trite to repeat it, but allow me at least to observe that three other events unfolded today which while trivial conclude prior ambitions and connections and therefore nicely dovetail with the other salient details of my life.  At last I feel poised to embrace my fresh vernacular, to cast myself adrift from former moorings and to set sail for unfamiliar horizons.  I particularly relish the nautical theme as we head for the Atlantic Ocean, a heartfelt enterprise I have harboured my entire life.

Normally I wouldn’t profess especial curiosity about the outcome of a local municipal election. In Almonte Ward of Mississippi Mills the upcoming municipal election (October 27, 2014) has however been a matter of much interest and a source of even greater amusement in our local e-newspaper, The Millstone News. The advent of The Millstone News in the Spring of 2011 has unquestionably changed the face of conversation in the Town. In addition to being a “Speaker’s Corner” (reminiscent of the original and most noted in the northeast corner of Hyde Park in London, United Kingdom, the site that the Tyburn gallows used for public executions) it is considered the “go to” forum for many local constituents.  I am anxious about the election result to the point of  betting on the outcome.  It would be a stretch to suggest that I am a political pundit because I haven’t anything but my instincts cultivated over the past 38 years in Almonte to guide me in this wager, but I am not so confident as some apparently are about what the electorate will do on Election Day.

The galvanizing election issue in The Millstone News has been the proposed “Enerdu Project” a development championed by local rich kid Jeff Cavanagh whose father operates the well-known construction business Thomas Cavanagh Construction Limited.  While there has been in addition to the press public demonstration opposing the Enerdu Project there lingers in the minds of some constituents the relevance of the debate notwithstanding the compelling environmental case being advanced so adamantly by the opponents of the Project.  Its significance spills onto the mayoral race since the issue has polarized that contest in particular.  It is safe to say that the candidates for councillor have fallen in line with the vocal public opinion against the project.  Only one candidate (Jane Torrance) has publicly stated that she is still “in the middle of the river” on the discussion.  All the other candidates have sought to insulate themselves from popular displeasure by camouflaging their lack of forthright decision with a need for more information while at the same time covering their flanks by opposing the project “in its current form” (which of course is classic political codswallop). To fly in the face of the self-righteous opponents who make repeated appearances on The Millstone News is understandably considered political suicide.

In The Millstone News the mayoral race reads like a Shakespearean play with the primary actors and mayoral candidates John Levi and Shaun McLaughlin being metaphorically echoed by their front-seat groundlings Tracy Stimpson and Nathan Rudyk.  While Stimpson and Rudyk begin their sword-crossing by allusion to fact, the simmered result of their altercations is usually nothing more than robust name calling (albeit terribly entertaining reading). Stimpson (like Levi) portrays himself as the fighter for the “silent majority”, long-time residents and generally seeks to appeal to the more pragmatic and less purely highbrow elements.  Rudyk presents himself as speaking for the publicly spirited majority, the swell of local people who have risen up against corporate greed and political pandering.  Because Rudyk has aligned himself with ethical thinkers such as Al Seaman and Cliff Bennett and with such notables as Maude Barlow, Bruce Cochran OC and Robert Bateman, he has the appearance of elevating his position to that of ineffable propriety.  It was however a telling point during the recent Almonte All-Candidates Night that the Enerdu Project issue wasn’t raised by the audience until well into the proceedings.  There persists among the electorate a concern for standard municipal matters such as realty taxes, water rates, sidewalks and traffic lights.  Meanwhile Rudyk, clearly the self-appointed apostle, continues to battle fervently in favour of his thesis and some are left wondering whether he hasn’t his own money riding on the outcome of the election particularly as his mandate is so inextricably entwined with his career as a promoter (President & CEO of Market2World Communications Inc., “Nathan is the founder and CEO of market2world communications and an award-winning marketer, author, teacher and broadcaster. He is passionate about client success, has worked for start-ups, multi-nationals and marcom agencies across Canada, and has led winning campaigns for many emerging companies as well as tech giants including Microsoft, EDS, IBM, Industry Canada, and Xerox“). Buttressing Levi and his adherents are the likes of Brian Gallagher and Bill Gomme, both veterans of the Public Utilities Commission and unquestionable stalwarts of Almonte’s Old Boys network.  Their straight-forward, clinical reviews and support of the Enerdu Project have fostered much in the way of temperate thinking and persuasive argument for the uncommitted masses.

Focusing on the contentious mayoral race, it is conceivable that the vote between front-run contenders Levi and McLaughlin will be split by middle-of-the-road candidate Garry Dalgity who enjoys the restricted though enviable reputation for being hard-working and honest yet far less colourful and controversial. Levi and McLaughlin nonetheless maintain the strongest magnetism by virtue of their diametrically opposed views.  While McLaughlin appears to have the support of the vocal opponents of the Enerdu Project as well as the more “artistic” elements of the community, one mustn’t discount the vigorous support which Levi will likely garner from his long-time Pakenham antecedents, local hard-nose business colleagues and blue-collar workers who are unimpressed by thirty-dollar words and outsiders generally. Like it or not, Levi is “one of our own” in the minds of many and McLaughlin’s credentials are far less convincing.  Both have to be admired for their stubborn commitment; and it would be a milquetoast constituent who didn’t relish the sometimes raw exchanges between the candidates.  On the balance however Levi has successfully capitalized upon the ulterior political motives of both McLaughlin and his purported lackey Rudyk.  So blindly dedicated is Rudyk to his professed cause that some have questioned whether McLaughlin might do well to distance himself from Rudyk.  Meanwhile Levi continues seemingly unperturbed by the combined vilification of Rudyk and his cronies.

As for the role of The Millstone News in these proceedings, it is impossible to avoid the perception that the paper has become the platform of a selected few whose repeated and often inconsequential contributions have translated this political debate into something in the nature of a personal blog.  It is disheartening for example to read the collateral assertions of some of the more vocal commentators regarding the number of “likes” they have garnered as though the resolution turned upon a mere personality contest.  Perhaps they’re right!

Synthesis: combination or composition, in particular in Hegelian philosophy the final stage in the process of dialectical reasoning in which a new idea resolves the conflict between thesis and antithesis.

Metamorphosis: a change of the form or nature of a thing or person into a completely different one, by natural or supernatural means.

While I have probably mistakenly united two ideas – synthesis and metamorphosis –  what I mean to describe is my absorption of change.  I can’t escape two compelling features of my life:  1) I am constantly tired; and, 2) I recognize that I am on the brink of discovery.

My seeming perpetual fatigue is clearly not a malignancy. I know precisely what it is – I am recovering from years of exhaustion.  Now that I can afford the privilege of listening to my body (though there is nothing particularly rational about the process) I just give in.  The sensation is overwhelming. Better to succumb and afterwards begin afresh.  I am simply burned out after years of getting there.

Abruptly there is now so little that needs doing.  I haven’t any excuse to avoid doing nothing.  There is no reason not to sleep.  My sleep at nights is plagued by two factors:  one, my left shoulder tendons have been damaged in a fall and it annoys me during the night; and, two, I suffer the same insomnia from constant worry which I have suffered all my life.  I am a worry-wart.  Historically I have only surmounted my obsession by keeping myself awake until I practically fell into bed and then passed out for four or five hours.  Now late night television or Netflix movies are inadequate as a vehicle of exhaustion; I need something more compelling than a mere soporific, something more highly developed.

I am determined to comprehend my repeated anxieties and to vanquish them. I continue to have dreams.  Only last night I dreamt I was in a grand, modern hotel, going down long hallways, transitioning from one conference room to another.  There was some urgency about what I was doing and I even began smoking cigarettes again (something I haven’t done since I was 50 years of age and which bothered me even in my dream because I knew it contaminated my life insurance policy). I visited my nieces who were in a tower suite in the hotel and I was intent upon organizing something for them.  The colours were mainly bright silver or white with a hint of pale blue though the corridors of the hotel were burnt orange and darker, the floors covered in Oriental style carpet.

While tiresome abstract worries continue to nip at my heels, it is significant that at this stage of my life I have virtually nothing tangible about which to trouble myself. I have none of the customary worries of life such as business, property management or health issues. Even my family concerns are limited to normal problems dealing with my elderly mother who after all has the benefit of a long and comfortable life.  I admit that I fret about my evolving disposition.  For example I have begun to take a hard look at my personal relationships; I regularly corner myself on what I understand about life; I am teaching myself to live meaningfully without  hedonic palliatives (jewelry, cars, furnishings, art and travel).  These philosophical dalliances aren’t worthy of any particular merit though they succeed to satisfy my curiosity.  If I am to be truthful they put distance between me and the rest of the world.  I need time to discover things on my own without commitment or obligation.

In my present condition I can see that I have an extraordinary opportunity, one which until recently was unimaginable.  I have likened our upcoming 4-month hibernation to a notable travel adventure.  It certainly will be the first of its kind for us. The combination of getting out of business and withdrawing from the municipal election has contributed to my aloofness.  As the former life-lines dissolve the connection with the past floats away.  I am still however in a recuperative stage, still getting off the couch, still dealing with those haunting demons.

We have maintained the tradition of a cocktail hour for many years, say about the past twenty years.  Things do change though.  For one thing, I no longer have a cocktail poised to my right, just a plastic bottle of Perrier “carbonated natural spring water”.  My hors d’oeuvres are perhaps a bit more cumbersome than I would have preferred years ago when reading To the Lighthouse by Virginia Woolf (poor dear drowned herself in 1941 at the age of 59, bipolar disorder apparently).  Rather than snapping up crackers and smoked oysters or cheese from the mahogany side table, I have instead an ample bowl of pickled herring in sour cream under which are hidden halves of cherry tomatoes and pieces of fresh red radish all topped with Tabasco sauce.  A small spoon is of course required and the entire affair is conveniently suspended upon the oak dining room table where I sit in front of my MacBook Pro computer.  Gone is the blazing hearth.  But in view of my industry the accommodations are quite appropriate.  I have swapped the CD player for a Bose SoundLink mini speaker to which I now pipe downloaded music wirelessly from my iPhone.  The dominion I have over my immediate environment is quite magnificent!

Although I seldom tire of writing in favour of other more improving artistic endeavours, I regularly oblige myself to read important authors, writers who because of their antiquity are beyond the grasp of copyright and whose works are therefore available without cost from the internet (even though I can’t imagine why they are there in the first place without the prospect of compensation for somebody).  Nonetheless this unexplained privilege affords me access to some of the most celebrated writers of all time including for example Plato 347 BC and Aristotle 322 BC and as well as those modern upstarts Edward Gibbon 1794, John Keats 1821, Anthony Trollope 1882 and Mark Twain 1910.  Of course the device which I use to read these downloaded electronic books is either an iPad or Amazon Kindle.  Hard covered books – once my exclusive literary vehicle – now fill the ignored shelves of the old oak bookcase which I expropriated from my former law office.  My how the cocktail hour has changed!

My model for the cocktail hour derives from Louis de la Chesnaye Audette, QC, OC. Louis had the cocktail hour down to a fine art as was especially evident in the summer when he switched from his winter highball of whiskey and soda to the more glamorous Tom Collins prepared in an adjoining room at a small table on which was displayed a silver platter outfitted with sugar in a silver bowl with a silver spoon, a small crystal pitcher of lemon juice and of course gin and carbonated water.  Louis never asked or permitted his steward Jeffrey to mix the drinks; and when entertaining others, Louis only mixed the first drink for you (thereafter you were on your own and at complete liberty to pour away to your heart’s content).  When alone at his home, Louis could be guaranteed to be found at precisely six o’clock every evening in his withdrawing room seated in a comfortable armchair below a Henri Masson painting, side table to his right (on which was perched a drink and usually salty peanuts adorned with green olives) and a stack of books piled in a column on the floor.  At one time Louis had a Steinway piano but apparently he abandoned it when his elderly widowed mother died and Louis gave up their Sandy Hill residence (formerly the Bishop’s Palace) for relatively smaller digs on Besserer Street.  When not editing law journals his past-time was booze and books.  I once discovered in a cluttered corner of the drawing room a relic sound system but its obvious incongruity with the Victorian furnishings spelled its demise.

There is little that irritates more than being told what to do.  This is especially so if you are on the receiving end of a pointed directive from someone you imagine has no entitlement to throw the javelin in the first place.  While frank reply about what you intend to do in any event is both reasonable and proper, be warned that anything else by way of rejoinder is doomed. In an atmosphere of bubbling emotions, this is particularly so if your purpose is to denounce the affront based on anything approaching mere logic.  More likely than not your comeback will be lost on the proponent. Spelling out the reasons for your objection is destined to defeat and is therefore best avoided as it will only compound the dilemma.

Though guided by a sense of entitlement people plainly take their liberties when instructing others how to conduct their lives.  It is first of all the height of presumption.  Equally importantly it is a device which overlooks the capacity of others to fulfill their own ambitions.  As well-deserved as it may be to punish the unwanted intruder, any rebuttal probably succeeds only to wither the already soured relationship.  Assuming that the offender is by virtue of his or her disrespectful latitude lacking in the appreciation of refined social behaviour (and I’ll wager it is not difficult to accumulate other examples of the offence), any pretence to correct the folly is redundant. What is more certainly at risk is wounding one’s own psyche.  In these uniquely binary compositions there is inevitably one party who, for lack of a better word, is more mature than the other.  Maturity embraces such seemingly tedious qualities as patience and understanding, virtues which I suspect are valued by most people at least theoretically but which are regrettably not shared by all.

The division between proper and improper conduct is frequently heightened by surrounding grating circumstances, events which upon subsequent, cooler reflection usually disclose something approaching an excuse for the initial discreditable conduct.  It is but one more reminder that people remarkably have some understandable motive for their otherwise annoying behaviour. Getting to this point of comprehension is of course not effortless and normally requires an inordinate dose of intellectualism aided by supporting factual material, all of which requires more of those precious commodities, time and patience.

In the result the prudent course of conduct is to attempt to appreciate the position of the other person.  If this, because of one’s general humanity and attendant weakness, is not possible then at least try to avoid cementing the difficulty by piling words of admonishment or derision upon the other.  This will only increase the load on the other end when it comes time to try to unravel the disappointment and hostility.

Even if one is reluctant to engage is so-called namby-pamby discussion of improper conduct, it is wise to keep in mind that in the scheme of things it is highly unlikely that anything you say will matter.  Look at it this way, when did the opinions of others ever make any particular difference to you?  So why would you assume yours matter to them?  Forget it!  Just put it aside and move along!

Being adjudged by one’s appearance is nothing new. Nor is it something which most people would hasten to contradict, as shallow and distasteful as the observation may initially appear. Mark Twain supportively opined: “Clothes make the man. Naked people have little or no influence on society.” Nevertheless there is a fervent element of the social order which prefers the dictum, “You cannot judge a person solely by his appearance” (the male attribute is no accident by the way though I haven’t a clue why, perhaps because men need more help than women). Likely the adage is a play upon the equally well known phrase, “You cannot judge a book by its cover”. Consider however your own reaction upon seeing your physician clad in a white coat. Or not. Any difference? I’m guessing there is. And not only in your eyes but likely in the eyes of the physician too. As such the “book” analogy, in spite of its scholarly intimation, borders on being trite.

It is common knowledge that apparel portrays an image – anything from rigorous conservatism to outlandish fashion. Whatever the choice, the projected doppelgänger can send a number of messages – some implying reliability, others individuality, others positive wackiness. Although it may be thought to be somewhere in the middle, a uniform can be as unique as either end of the clothes rack though the general consensus is that uniforms portray control. Uniforms might also convey status or at the very least distinguish one from others.

Quite aside from appearances, there is scientific evidence that we think not only with our brains but also with our physical experiences, including it seems the clothes we wear. That is why, for example, the doctors wearing white coats performed to higher standards than others who did not. The same study found that in order for clothes to influence our psyche we must “experience” our clothes. I imagine the difference would be a mere dress-up occasion like Hallowe’en. Debate about the effect of clothing lingers upon the issue of constancy; namely, do the cognitive influences eventually wear off? My guess is that even if we habituate, the effect will last.

Clothes are a trademark of status, position and occupation. We have come to expect that certain people will only appear particular clothing – airline pilots for example, judges, nurses, firemen and police officers, to name but a few. On the other end of the scale are those who snap their fingers at sartorial apprehension – the retired and the elderly, for example – people who cultivate a wardrobe of track pants and fleeces, inexpensive, comfortable and easily laundered. My personal source of amusement is the cowboy look, a label first brought home to me by J. R. Ewing of Dallas fame. I will never recover from the knowledge that businessmen actually wear ten-gallon hats to work – with a suit! It is a preposterous image which is only made remotely plausible by the accompanying sound of a Texas accent.

In truth there are plenty of outrageous outfits in one’s own back yard; viz., young men who wear exceedingly low-rise pants which drag upon the ground and which purposefully expose the flamboyant colours of their smalls. Again my fashion sensibilities are challenged to understand the value or attraction of having to walk as though transporting school books in the rear of one’s pants. Even if there were something toxic about the revealing couture, any advantage quickly disappears with the sight of the model having perpetually to haul up his trousers to avoid stumbling upon his own clothes.

On the subject of young people, the “hoodie” is iconic as popularized by the blockbuster Rocky film. While I suspect many youth sport the fashion especially for its element of instant anonymity and mystery, it may also appeal to others with criminal intent and for that reason alone many find it off-putting. Still others seemingly employ the hooded sweatshirt like a cowl attached to a monk’s robe though the religious connotation seldom has any legitimacy. The hoodie has even been likened to a Ku Klux Klan outfit (“not an appropriate article of clothing”). We can nonetheless be thankful for its utilitarianism. It is our own Canadian models in Saskatchewan who so often wear a hoodie under a coat or jacket to provide an extra layer of clothing in the winter. There, hoodies are often referred to as “Bunny-hugs”.

Androgynous fashion is not common, the distinction between feminine (expressive) and masculine (instrumental) traits. If it happens at all, it is mostly women wearing pant suits which are considered an imitation of men’s standard business attire, catering to the forum which demands action and assertiveness. Some research indicates that women so attired have a better chance of getting a job in traditional male occupations. Just as a reminder that fashion repeats, the pant suit was introduced in the 1920s even though it wasn’t until much later that it became acceptable business wear for women, culminating in the Hilary Clinton look when she became a U.S. Senator. Women who have out-of-doors jobs frequently wear the same traditional clothing as men – flannel shirts, jeans and work boots – but this is considered more practical than anything else, unless of course it figures as part of a nightclub scene.

A strict definition of fashion might not normally include jewelry but the custom has lately taken on such dimension that its ignorance is impossible. Many of the successful rappers equate large, ostentatious jewelry with automobiles of like standards. Given that fashion has now come to include broadly not only clothing and footwear but also makeup and body piercings, it is small wonder that accessories have a role to play. The role is far beyond the usual concept of fashion accessory such as hats and handbags (what formerly included hand fans, parasols and umbrellas, canes and ceremonial swords) and now includes hair sticks, barrettes, headbands, cufflinks, tie tacks, even sunglasses, smartphones and earplugs (a realm only exceeded by the Scottish sporran and sgian-dubh). Jewelry is a classic beacon of status frequently heralded by its trade name (Cartier, Bulgari, Tiffany, Rolex, etc.) although size and glitter (“bling-bling”) trumps all in the end.

If one hasn’t the energy or enthusiasm to afford endless attention to fashion it’s nice to know that the little black dress (for women) and jeans and a T-shirt (for men) still work.

Although the garment can be traced back to the monks who wore a robe with an attached cowl, it is Sylvester Stallone as Rocky Balboa in the boxing saga films who popularized the hooded sweatshirt (or “hoodie”) with the large pocket or muff sewn in the front.  The first hoodie I bought is one which I still have (I’m wearing it now), a heavy bright orange production of cotton and polyester commissioned by Roots Canada and made in China.  I have worn it so often and it has been washed so many times that the sleeve cuffs have developed holes. It is perpetually shrinking (or perhaps I am continuously enlarging) and is destined for the recycle bin very soon. Earlier this Spring I discovered Roots Canada made lightweight models of the same apparel (marketed as “Authentic Sporting Goods – Quality & Integrity” though this time with a higher polyester content) and I bought three of different colours, soft hues reminiscent of my leisure days on Cape Cod.  These hoodies alternate as my clothes of choice, not just for bicycling (which I could happily do for an hour every day for the rest of my life) but generally for lounging.  I’d wear the hoodie all the time if I could get away with it, and I pretty much do now that I am no longer working for a living and contemporaneously avoiding social functions like the installation ceremony for a Federal Court Judge to which we were invited in Toronto. When I was studying Philosophy as an undergraduate at Glendon Hall there was a peculiar Professor there who even on warm September days wore about three layers of clothes, a shirt, tweed vest and tweed sport coat.  The speculation was that he sought to insulate himself from the world.  There may have been some truth to that. Although I only employ the hood feature when I am taking a nap on the couch (to shelter my eyes from the streaming afternoon sunlight), I otherwise appreciate having the material about my neck (I oddly feel less vulnerable as I have always imagined women must feel in low-cut dresses).  I buy the largest size to avoid constraint.  “Built for comfort not speed”, I defensively quip, the unparalleled comedian that I am.  Even when I was thin I preferred baggy clothes.  Tight anything bothers the hell out of me.

Onto another subject. Music decidedly has its place.  I’ve been known to make my share of it when I played the piano, venting my pent-up anxieties or dragging out some doleful piece sometimes bringing myself to tears just crying for no reason in particular moved by the pathos of life whatever that is.  It’s impossible for me to feel sad about life.  I’ve hardly suffered!  Tears don’t mean I am sad.  I can for example be hopelessly hung over and hear Luciano Pavarotti sing Nessun Dorma from Pucini’s opera Turandot and begin to wail uncontrollably.  I recall when I bought my first stereo system one hundred years ago I persisted in playing it loudly to display its capacity but more to drown myself in the strength of the music.  In my drinking days I would resort to the “American Songbook” to annoint the cocktail hour though I preferred classical music when it came to consummating my ceremony of martinis and Jane Austen.  I reckoned she merited something more elegant than popular music.  My aging mother reminds me constantly that she wants Ave Maria played at her funeral.  She has long ago abandoned her ritual Catholic habits but like most Catholics she clings to the end to the religious connotations even in instances where atheism or neglect might be closer to the current creed.  I recollect an elderly friend who never went to Church during the entire twenty-five years I knew him but he nonetheless orchestrated a traditional religious ceremony for his funeral.  The priest was so obviously miffed by the last minute affront that he refused to attend the burial ceremony at the grave site though he had glad-handed the congregation and supervised the circulation of the collection plate at the church.  At least the priest didn’t have the impudence to show up at the deceased’s private dining club for the celebratory luncheon afterwards. The rest of us while sipping our midday bracers openly marvelled at his indignity.

Let’s take a gander at the more temporal subject of automobiles which are a North American ideology of sorts. While I might convincingly argue that Lincolns (my conveyance of choice) are extremely comfortable for the drive to Hilton Head Island I admit that automobiles are a pretence, a fictitious bubble of imaginary immunity. I am not proud of the confession but neither am I about to relinquish the absorption. It frightens me to think I might otherwise be mediocre and uninteresting.  Small wonder I dote upon the object. The only way to rationalize having an expensive automobile would be if it were for speed or performance.  My cars are about neither; they are metaphors for social superiority and isolation.  They are specious islands of distinction like the former coach-and-four with its blazing brass, gilded ornaments and haughty occupants, the historical targets of popular disdain.  My late teetotal father explained his addiction to “fine automobiles” by saying he decided early in life that he couldn’t afford drink and costly cars. Somehow his predilection was therefore excusable and never smacked of arrogance.  His father used to drive seven-passenger Packards with sixteen cylinders and a chandelier in the back.  Likely automobiles are a manifestation of my personal insecurity but I am too old to rebel or reform. Besides I’ve already given up Rolex watches and sterling silver flatware.

Reasoning and thought while not painful for me are nonetheless work.  For most of my life I sought to ride upon my education and what I managed to harvest from the shared intelligence of others.  I’ve now hit that wall which reminds me that the universe is ultimately personal. I’m sailing in my own little skiff upon the vast open waters of life. In what time remains I intend to be part of history howsoever insignificantly.  All that I have recorded is in digital form only suspended in cybernetics.  One has to wonder how boundless that domain is, will it ever run out of space, will everything get erased either by necessity or by accident?  I’ve long ago given up printing anything I record.  I  trashed forty years of handwritten and typed diaries when we downsized.

The paintings of Katherine McNenly have recently come to my attention. Although I won’t pretend for a moment to be an authority on the subject of art, based upon frequent visits over the past forty years to the National Gallery I instantly recognized in her work what I perceived to be the influence of the Dutch Masters. Of equal importance to me is the recognition that the universe continues to produce artists of such refined talent.  There is naturally no logical reason to assume that there shouldn’t be emerging talent but it nonetheless perks me up to rediscover the platitude.

Perhaps as an accident of old age I am increasingly aware of the strength of creative forces in my life.  Until lately I hadn’t the time to indulge in the pleasure of creativity.  I was too busy creating.  By which I mean I was too occupied managing my own business affairs (as creatively as possible in my own small way) that I hadn’t the luxury to savour the potency and robustness of the creativity which was always swirling about me.  When talent is compartmentalized (such as it is of necessity in galleries) we tend to overlook the constant stream of creativity.  And when one’s life is dedicated to the accomplishment of specific goals, targets and agenda, it is seemingly pointless to look at things merely for what they are rather than what they can achieve.

Within the myriad of ways in which talent manifests itself it is useful to confine one’s focus to those elements which are of especial interest.  My personal interests are architecture, visual arts (paintings, sculpture and photography) and industrial design, the latter being particularly consuming as it melds with my insatiable appetite for ever-evolving technology.  I have pointedly excluded from this list two other formidable art forms; namely, writing and music.  This is odd for me because I would customarily observe about myself that writing and music are essential to my well-being.  For example I have been writing almost daily since the age of thirteen years; and until very recently I played the piano every day since the same age.  Now my preference is to read what others have written and to listen to the music which others have composed and performed.  This may appear to be a small divergence from my earlier literary and musical inclinations but for me the posture is both evolutionary and revolutionary.  In my mind it speaks to my maturity (perhaps in the sense of an agèd cheese) that I am now more interested in harvesting the products of civilization rather than preposterously trying to contribute to them.  I no longer harbour the shame of defeat upon this issue; and in my more charitable moments I even consider that whatever I have accomplished in life to this point is worthy of some note at least in the broadest comparative terms.

It is common knowledge that the appreciation of the arts is considered by many as a mark of social status.  I confess that my delectation is far more visceral.  Indeed I do not hesitate to go so far as to say that my artistic appetites are as elemental and overwhelming as any other human appetite. And happily my artistic appetite, unlike at least one primordial desire, has increased with age. I will grant that creativity feeds the mind and enhances one’s spirits by contributing to a sense of intrigue and inspiration.  But in the same breath I am anxious to reaffirm the tactile delight (even if at times only metaphorical) I derive from industrial design for example.  Just looking at the iPhone 6 or the Bose SoundLink Bluetooth mini speaker cheers me.

In times of seemingly endless political upheaval and universal wars and hardship it is heartening to reflect upon the continuing accomplishments of humanity.  In this respect alone perpetual emerging talent is elevating.  When it is so easy to dampen the enthusiasm for life it is uplifting to observe the budding of new energy and expression.  In the case of industrial design it is the use of both applied art and applied science to improve the aesthetics, design, ergonomics, functionality, and/or usability of a product, and it may also be used to improve the product’s marketability and even production.