If ever you’ve had an acquaintance in the past which though fervent at the time eventually dwindled into nothing, you may be tempted to renew it. I am not suggesting that you write a sequel to the event, just a step into the past for the sake of interest, catching up as it were. Whether the temptation is serendipitous or by design, it is a high-risk business. Primarily the risk is that what you recall is greatly removed from what now exists. Cold water doesn’t begin the describe the sensation. Alarm and disillusionment may be the unwelcome and unanticipated results. Even if the the ramifications are not ill-fated there is also the gamble that you’ll entirely forfeit all those cherished memories some of which may even have strengthened with the effluxion of time. Nonetheless if the initial zeal were genuine it is hardly dishonest to reawaken the once heartfelt enthusiasm. Besides every good love story contains an element of intrigue.

Turning back the clock – offensive as it is to both logic and nature – is for most people generally unexplored territory. Special forensic talents are required and mastery of the effects of time demands exceptional philosophical resource (essentially the avid use of charitable rationalization). It would of course be injudicious at best to imagine that the evolution of the atomic world has not wrought its metamorphosis upon all that once was. Knowing this one must be alert to the original motivations of the acquaintance. It is exoteric that youthful romantic ardour is an unreliable thermometer of commitment clouded as it no doubt was by erstwhile elemental urges. If however you can get over that provocative hump there may well have been a more profound nexus between you two and perhaps that constitutional strain can be rediscovered in the relationship.

As odd as it may sound, when it comes to people to whom we were once attracted, we often fail to take into account that in spite of the lapse of decades they may have actually had other relationships and involvements. Strangely they did not remain inert upon the dissolution of the former connection. Becoming alive to this redundancy can astonishingly spark a degree of jealousy or may at least be off-putting in spite of its illegitimacy. Such a reaction makes as much sense as suffering disappointment when attempting to fit into a dusty tuxedo that fit you twenty years ago – not going to happen! – as marvellous as it may have once appeared. What is more likely than not is that the other person has moved on to a more complicated relationship and one which is bound by years of experience and interdependence. Throwing yourself unprepared into that web may have some sticky consequences!

There is also the fundamental threat that the co-conspirator no longer harbours the same cheerful view of the former liaison. As improbable as we may imagine it to be, people are not always as captivated by us as we might prefer to believe. For this reason alone one should be cautious when reigniting the flame to portray the semblance of mere dalliance lest the perceived motivation precipitates immediate and unrequited rebuttal. Such a casual approach to the affair enables you to extricate yourself with limited exposure not to mention the avoidance of total embarrassment.

Even if you manage to make it through all those obstacles the proof of your determination lies in the reception of that hackneyed line, “You must come and visit” failing which you have hit a dead end. All the prior assurances about how wonderful it was to hear from you are for naught if those follow-up words are missing. Indeed their omission is the height of social rejection. It is an austere conclusion to a hapless adventure.

In the end you may consider it best to ignore the urge to relive the past in any respect. Why tarnish the glow? Why risk translating the experience from memorable to forgettable? Why magnify to the point of harshness the disparities that initially caused the separation? Why suffer the sanctity of your memories to follow the same course of erosion as the rest of you (remember, you’ve changed too)? Renewing acquaintances is a treacherous path and perhaps even unnatural. To fly in the face of the ordinary course of things is not only uncommon but also laboured. It may be best to wall your eyes and sigh, a private reminiscence of no consequence.

Whatever people may think about politicians and the political process, there is little that gets them talking more volubly than an election. Many constituents take an avid interest in what is about to transpire in the public affairs of our Province. Awakening one morning to the overnight proliferation of election signs at every public corner is the first taste of the bloodsport that is politics. We may be sadly reminded of the nastiness of the business when we witness the first of successive sign mutilations, spawning a debate whether the attack is that of youthful vandals without an agenda or whether there is indeed something shifty about the foot soldiers of competing delegations. Whatever the conclusion the activity lays bare the raw side of humanity, a trumpet to the battle that is to ensue.

With equal gravity and polarization the division of parties, candidates and interests follows. The normal wishy-washy discussion of one’s health and the weather is instantly replaced by adamant and uncompromising statements as plain as the teeth of an angry dog when encroaching upon its bowl of food. There is plenty of jealous nourishment here for the voter no matter how involved he or she was only days before in the machinations of the Province’s elected officials. Some electors are even prompted to display their brazen armour, sword and spear by a proclamation of intractable bias in the form of a lawn sign. Gossip is rife with innuendo about party politics, corporate bagmen and general self-interest. Social niceities quickly give way to elemental and sometimes base causes of every description. Marginal differences on issues become epic idealogical disagreements.

Frequently the political stew is spiced by the candidacy of a new face, often a younger one. This natural concession to the evolution of society nonetheless raises the spectre of stock prejudices which in their most charitable form are characterized as the conflict between energy and experience. The over-riding party mantra ensures the disparity is seldom about initiative and tradition but the creeping favour for dark hair and a clear compexion is compelling. Only occasionally is there the novelty and humour of the likes of the Rhinoceros Party; politics is largely a serious business and the erstwhile mockery of our elected representatives gives way instead to grim-faced pronouncements.

It is the privilege of the masses, much like the former Roman citizens at the Flavian Amphitheatre, to watch with greedy and sometimes barbarous delight the unfolding campaign tactics of the unctuous candidates. The spectacle is at times circus-like with particularly enthusiastic contenders taking to the street to wave like a puppet at on-coming traffic or to pretend to be your long-lost friend in front of the local hardware or grocery store on a Saturday morning. Others confine their election operations to the somewhat less contentious custom of door-to-door confrontations, a model which historically has received mixed reviews but which for some voters is the deciding factor one way or the other. In our riding we have the singular advantage of being able to attend an “All Candidates” evening which – even if you’re not dedicated to hearing the details of each political plank – is rather like the annual country fair, an opportunity for mild amusement and communion with one’s neighbours. The opportunity also affords the rank and file the chance to demonstrate its interest and determination in the political process, one to be crowned eventually with the hard-won right to cast a vote.

Until voting day however there are likely to be far more intrusions upon our private life about the pundits’ predictable results than we would prefer. The media is thrown the proverbial bone upon which to gnaw to its heart’s content. Some members of the pubic have satisfactorily aligned themselves with the process to guarantee modest employment at polling stations. When election day is at last upon us there are few who can resist the temptation to learn the results. It is the public lottery in which we all have a stake and a ticket.

I don’t imagine the phrase “semi-retirement” is a term of art having a specialized industry connotation. It is however a step up from jargon and shop talk. No doubt the expression was spawned by the business culture generally, so for example it isn’t what you’d expect to hear from a housewife in her late fifties. Apart from that limitation the scope of the observation is fairly broad, dignifying everything from the former cop who works three days a week in the local hardware store to the 90 year old former CEO of a gasoline distribution company who insists on regularly checking the washrooms of its various outlets for cleanliness. Some might argue that even those who continue on full salary and who make an appearance five days a week are already semi-retired, a more flattering description than being called redundant.

It might offend certain industrial leaders and business entrepreneurs to think about semi-retirement either because they are currently too busy even to contemplate the subject or because they consider it an affront to their capacity for productive output. The truth is that there really are people whose sole source of meaning in life is making money, which at first appears to speak to the hardness of their very soul but which in fact is probably little more than an indication of their general shallowness. Hobbies (as these often serious cerebral diversions are euphemistically called) are not developed overnight. It is much safer for the unimaginative to refrain from such adventure and to prolong the monotony of what they already know, having practiced it tirelessly since the age of fourteen when they made their first two dollars selling lemonade on weekends at the hockey rink.

For others anything approaching the description of retirement is something to be ardently desired. This after all is the foundation of the “Freedom 55” mantra which until recently plagued the work force to the point of intimidation and embarrassment, making early retirement the object of idolatry, couched in images of smiling grey-haired couples on white sailing yachts in turquoise waters off remote Caribbean islands. This is an image which hardly coincides with the reality of a deteriorating house requiring long overdue maintenance, accompanied by a crumbling and rusting motor vehicle, while the proprietors are clothed in nothing more fashionable than sweat pants and polyester. The determination to race to early retirement suffered a global shift when the sub-prime asset-backed securities began to fail in the United States. All that cheap money came at an extraordinary cost to the ambitious investors who, like the NASA officials counting the seconds after lift-off of its latest shuttle, were oblivious to the fact that it had already blown up in mid-air. It is no surprise we haven’t heard from London Life recently and that its annoying refrain is no longer universally touted on overhead signs and the internet.

Somewhere between these two extremes lies the true meaning of semi-retirement. If one removes the whimsical image of Freedom 55 from the landscape the reality is that many of Canada’s work force, whether employees, sole proprietors, directors, managers or others, are quite prepared to work until what was once considered the respectable age of 65 years or even longer. In the context of sole proprietorships, closely-held partnerships and private corporations, it is not uncommon to see the owners working into their early eighties, as seldom as one hears of it. The attrition of workers in those environments is the natural product of physical decline and the very real need to structure a transfer of both wealth and management from one generation to another before it is too late to do anything about it. Given some realistic planning the process can become a thoroughly pleasant venture, vitalized by new, foreseeable and achievable objectives. Semi-retirement becomes merely a new way of doing business, not necessarily withdrawal from it. It is less about giving up than giving in. Let’s face it, after a certain point in one’s career it is no longer fun to do anything hard. Fortunately for us when we were young, we were incapable of distinguishing what was hard from what was new, so both challenges were treated with equal magnanimity. But the generosity of one’s spirit understandably wanes with time, and there is even prudence adopting a more restrictive scope to one’s undertakings if it translates into greater efficiency. The only reason we’re inclined to trivialize our own talents in later years is because we’ve performed them so often and learned so much by doing so. Likewise casting off the complicated undertakings to others more experienced is nothing more than admission of practiced skill, not one’s own inability.

To the dedicated industrialists and money-makers semi-retirement offers a sophisticated approach to what might otherwise be viewed as mere defeat. Keeping a paddle in the water is far from putting oneself in dry dock. Most of us lack the ability to see ourselves as anything other than the robust individual we’ve always known ourselves to be; however, assuming the years have not been entirely kind, a small concession to limitation is likely not a bad idea. The enthusiasm of middle-age must eventually give way to the modification of time and maturity. Besides, how much more elegant it is to leave the room on one’s own two feet rather than upon a stretcher!

The decision to entertain semi-retirement commands as much thought and planning as it did to open one’s business in the first place which paradoxically can mean either a great deal or nothing at all. In either case it may amount to a leap of faith, which is to say there are undoubtedly adjustments to be made along the way. The former business models will no longer sustain an alteration. Whether the conviction and confidence required is any more or less than in one’s early years of business is unclear, though my personal belief is that reliance upon one’s instincts is a safer bet now than then. It must of course be admitted that current fortunes tend to buoy our more arrogant views of the future and what it has in store for us, although such prospects are really quite extraneous to the altered and pressing demands of aging. In the end semi-retirement may be only a new way of looking at an old thing. It does however have such a nice ring to it!

Evan (who hated his name even though there really wasn’t much offensive about it) sat outside the large downtown hotel on a damp concrete wall with his small leather suitcase beside him, waiting for the bus to the airport. Meanwhile he intently scratched at a piece of rampant fingernail on his right index finger. If anyone chanced to notice him as they passed by, they would have taken him for someone enjoying much the same preoccupation which attends picking one’s nose. At last he was able to catch the shard of nail and dislodge it quickly, but painfully, leaving a bubble of blood behind. He instinctively stuck his finger in his mouth to soothe the throbbing.

Looking up from his erstwhile duties, with his finger still stuck in his mouth, Evan scanned the geography about him through squinted eyes. It was a sunny July day, and it promised to be hot, though at 7:30 a.m. it was still pleasantly cool. He had already had his breakfast at the small and uninspiring restaurant in the hotel, and a good bowel movement afterwards. Because he had nothing but the prospect of the flight back to Nova Scotia, he really didn’t care much about the weather. What did it matter? He wouldn’t be here to enjoy it anyway. And once you’re on a plane and above the clouds, the weather is always sunny. Evan finally withdrew his finger from his mouth and examined the damaged keratin. Even with his finger in his mouth, Evan could never look preposterous. His incredibly thick and perpetually messy yellow hair, off-set by a summer tan which he acquired from being out-of-doors constantly or sailing, immediately distracted everyone from anything but his handsome features. His legs were unusually long, making his narrow torso seem rather wispy. There was almost something sylph-like about Evan, as masculine as he was in every other way.

It had been a short and speedy weekend as usual. He wasn’t sure how many more times he could convince himself to make what were fast becoming expensive monthly jaunts to be with his girl friend, Pippa. It didn’t help that they had had a disagreement last evening, walking back from the Gallery. It was one of those stupid arguments which are more the product of sleep deprivation than anything else, where one’s body is just screaming to be let alone and to retire. But, given enough lubricant (they had each had too much to drink at dinner), the irksomeness assumed a dimension far beyond what was merited, and before long they were blowing their stacks. He knew that. He had called her this morning (she refused to stay at the hotel last night) to apologize. She said she was sorry, too, but both of them lacked the energy to bring the matter full circle. They were drifting apart, and they knew that too.

As Evan pondered these matters, he stared blankly across the boulevard at the water fountain in the park beyond. He hardly blinked, so mesmerized was he. All his life Evan had been more visceral than cerebral, responding to life’s messages more out of instinct than rationality, much as an animal would do. Something was telling him now to flee the territory, for good. It did, however, break his heart to think that he was being so harsh with Pippa, who by all accounts was an extremely generous person and someone whom many considered to be the best thing that had happened to Evan in years. For all his charms, Evan was essentially a selfish person, and the older he grew, the more he reluctantly accepted his faults, though he knew not how to overcome them. It could nonetheless be said of Evan that he was no free-loader, and he had no intention whatever of riding on Pippa’s coat tails to redeem himself. His independence simply wouldn’t allow such a concession, no matter how useful it might be.

Indeed there had been other instances in Evan’s life when he had turned away from paths which, on the face of it at least, offered calculable rewards of the kind to which most aspire, having chosen instead something which was not only more personally digestible but certainly less “driven” by the mere prospect of monetary or social gain. The effect of such decisions was partly to distance him from society, but also to cultivate a burning and generally uncompromising individuality, sharpened by his commitment to detail in all that he did. He knew that it was that and that alone which distinguished him, so he clung to it.

Because Evan had moved about so much during his life, from one educational institution to another, his private world was oddly like a patchwork or collage, colourful but lacking in continuity. As a result, even the people in his life, as close as they may appear to have been, were for Evan easily estranged when the utility or meaning of the relationship was exhausted. It bothered Evan that he could be so seemingly callous about people, but at the same time he cushioned the sting of the observation by satisfying himself that it was best for all concerned. Evan became attached to very few things in his life, preferring to view everything (things and people) as temporary delights at best. It was perhaps for this reason that he particularly enjoyed small, expensive items, things which were possibly portable if need be, though he acknowledged he had never been compelled to put the theory to the test. Yet he often found himself interested to hear about what people removed from their burning dwelling, or how the persecuted Jews secreted some of their objets d’art or fine jewellery. This all further exemplified that, apart from very few items, everything in Evan’s world was replaceable, a concept which at once disturbed and pacified him. In one respect, it made little sense to become needlessly attached to anyone or anything, although he wasn’t entirely convinced of the propriety of such philosophy.

Even unpremeditated consideration of life in mid-January in Canada must inevitably include an allusion to the misery of the weather, the sodden grey clouds, dirty yellow light and blackened urban snow. I supplemented the trial by visiting my aging father at his “retirement” institution on Sunday morning. It is of course ridiculous to label the singular feature of his residence as one of retirement. He is almost 96 years of age and has been retired for over 30 years. His room (hardly up to the elevated nomination of a “residence”) is in the Alzheimer wing of the hospital. It is impossible to escape the babbling and occasional wails of the surrounding “residents” (another nicety). The drably clad nurses and service staff perform their duties with practiced distance from the disheartening surroundings. It is useless to glamourize the scene. It’s not a home or a residence; it’s an asylum, a last stop, a safe haven for the frail and failing from the methods of the outside world.

Remarkably I am not persuaded by the gloom of the place. In fact I make an effort to look into the eyes of the people whom I pass in the hallway. The ones who still have life in their eyes are eager for communication even if it is nothing more than a silent regard accompanied perhaps by a polite “Good morning!” They have something to say, I know; they have a story to tell if only I had a moment to enquire. But I have my own relative to attend upon and I mustn’t erode the few moments allotted for the weekly visit before my father falls asleep mid-conversation.

On my way back from collecting a parking pass from the Commissionaire’s desk – a lengthy walk down exceptionally wide corridors flanked by empty rooms with chairs and a chapel set up for what might in any other circumstance be a wedding – I spy a piano in the dining room where some downcast residents have already set their wheelchairs at small square tables in preparation for the mid-day meal. I cannot resist a piano, it begs to be played. I redirect my objective and march with purpose into the dining room, past the several people waiting at their tables, tossing a careless Hello! They can’t imagine what I am about.

As usual the piano (which bears a sticker proclaiming who donated it) is hopelessly out of tune and many of the keys do not function properly. Nonetheless I play on. Even without turning around to examine my audience I can tell they are captive, awakening to the private sentiments which a chord here and a chord there has struck within their weary souls. Music always does that, lifting people from their forlorn thoughts. I know too the congregation is increasing, not just because it is lunch time but because I am the Pied Piper leading them to fields they haven’t contemplated for a long time. Because I have played these ancient pianos in similar circumstances more than once I even have a repertoire with a crescendo. I know the introductory pieces which pull on their heart strings. I know the violence of the last piece which will lay before them the power they no longer have in themselves but which they still can feel in the music.

With a flourish I hit the last bass note to punctuate the finale of the piece and stand up from the bench, nourished by immediate applause from the people in the room. The performance is at an end. As I prepare to leave the room I greet my humble admirers, discovering as so often is the case that more than one of them once played the piano or taught it. There is always one gentleman sitting alone who refuses to look at me as I search his face. He doesn’t want to admit to sentimentality, nothing will improve his day. It is for him a bleak winter day.

While it may astound young people to hear it, many older people are still adjusting to the presence and use of the internet. Likely it is the combination of the advent of “word processing” and the “information highway” that causes the bewidlerment. These were astounding technological advances at the time;  the two were so overwhelming that they became melded into one gigantic change. It requires refinement of thinking to distinguish the “processing” element of the internet from the “information” aspect of the internet. It is for example one thing to be able to compose and send a text message or email to someone; it is quite another to know that depending upon the forum used the entire world may be able to share it. The disorderly jumble of course arises from the very public way in which much of our otherwise private information is now paraded on the internet, social media being the paradigm.

Once one embraces popular technology it is difficult to resist the inclination that the communication of information of almost any description is within the public sphere. This however is rather like assuming that if you drive your automobile in public you are open to a running exchange of communication between you and any others on the highway. Of course this is absurd unless one were in an open landau and traveling at very low speed through a highly populated area in which case your indiscrete display virtually invites public participation.

Similarly within the vernacular of the internet, preservation of privacy is easily clouded by having an ostensibly public presence. This is especially true of individuals who maintain private web sites. The private web site is to be distinquished from the commercial web site maintained by a retail enterprise. Oddly though the more personal the web site the more inclined people are to presume public participation. Involvement in commercial web sites is generally restricted to ordering products and possibly “sharing” what are usually highly monitored testimonials. Private web sites on the other hand seem to invite nothing but public opinion. The reaction is not entirely unappreciated; after all the author of the site is proclaiming himself or herself on the new world’s stage. Further it is one of the standard features of any web site to include a “Contact” page which must be taken to have some meaning. Compared to the automobile metaphor, the contact information is quite different from the licence plate; one invites communiciation; the other merely identifies the proprietor.

Increasingly there is disparagement about social media. More and more people have less than positive things to say about social media. Even when the concept is translated from what has historically been the playground of youth such as Facebook and Twitter to more “adult” forums such as LinkedIn, the condemnations persist that the information is little more than self-serving and not highly informative or dependable. It makes one wonder therefore what advantage there is to the maintenance of a private web site if it is touted as a reliable resource but one is yet so wary of involvement of the public.

The driving force of technology, while it may see its initial public manifestation as mere amusement (recall Pacman for example), will invariably be productivity and utility. I expect that one day a private web site will be as common as any other household appliance but for the time being its novelty and lack of understandable purpose work to assure the ambivalence of its expression. This mustn’t however deter the engagement with technology. It takes many hours of experience to discover the personal devices and applications within the larger framework; and as long as the technology is driven by utility it will eventually be molded in such a way to satisfy that career. Cultivating the individuality and uniqueness of a private web site will hopefully raise the character and quality of the private web site above the inanity of what one sees so regularly on social media. The tenor of conversation on a private web site must distinguish it from other public forums. It is after all a private conveyance not a bus.

Strong word, hate, implying as it does odium, disgust and revulsion. Charged too it is with a respectable portion of malice, far more heavy-duty for example than mere dislike. Nevertheless hate is the very expression I have in mind. And lest there appear to be any indecision in my usage of it, I employ the word in the context of people I really hate.

For the longest time throughout my life I have struggled to ignore the reprehensible conduct of others not so much as an effort to dilute my perturbation rather as an attempt to divert myself from the nasty subject. In doing so however I comprehended that the effect was ultimately to mollify the irritation those people have caused me, an object which was clearly not intended. It is one thing to overlook discreditable behaviour, it is quite another to improve its character unwittingly and without any merit whatsoever. Better to stay the course and reignite the horror whenever possible.

The hatred I have for some people is not the result of trivial bias. It is a studied process of vilification. I hardly flatter myself to say that long ago I learned to tolerate the eccentricities of family, friends and associates, their often trying idiosyncrasies which cause little more than minor astonishment but seldom abhorrence. Hatred is instead the product of critical violation of social probity, usually striking at the essence of the human congress – things like lying, cheating, baseness, breach of trust or other fundamental desecration.

You needn’t scold me for flying in the face of the Christian directive for forgiveness. Too often such action achieves nothing more than an unintentional and undeserved camouflage for the culprit. There are certainly no thanks for having turned the other cheek, a metaphor more aptly suited to turning a blind eye. The violator is more likely than not mistakenly inclined to distort your oblivion as a sanction of his reprehensible actions. No, ignorance of culpability does nothing to strengthen the community as a whole much less to conciliate one’s instinctive loathing of it.

Learning to accommodate one’s hatred can lamentably cause unwelcome repercussions. It is safely assured that you will ransom at least some of your contentment to the focus of having to cultivate the virulence that is hatred. Hatred, like any other mental predisposition, exacts its own demands; it is a garden which needs tending. In our natural state we are I believe more inclined to avoid uneasiness whatever its source and prefer instead to harbour that which is agreeable and comforting. On the contrary, merely recalling the details of defilement is an unending struggle. This is especially true after a suitable distance has been wedged between us and those unpleasant details. The danger here is that by shying from the commitment to keep the hatred alive one surrenders his principles to the forum of the unrestrained nemesis. Still, bearing in mind the goal of personal satisfaction, capitulation may be tolerable in the end.

Perhaps the repugnance of others may turn out to be but a temporary luxury afforded only when the constraints of our many other private avocations permit. It is yet an indulgence to be cherished. Dwelling upon the inadequacies of others, upon their cumulative shortcomings and failures is after all uplifting in the result. Even if one hasn’t the opportunity to enlarge at length upon the many details of shortfall you are nonetheless assured of abundant reward for the most meager effort. The going becomes a bit thick when the initial cause of the animosity begins to dwindle in intensity, say after several months or a year or so or more. Hopefully however one can cling as long as possible to the fomenting source of enmity though admittedly it does require determination. Heaven forbid we should ever forget who it is we really hate!

No doubt there are those for whom the business of thinking comes effortlessly. For me, not so. I find thinking equivalent to any other form of exercise – hard and generally intrusive. I mean to say, it’s all about rigidly aligning one’s thoughts, ironing out wrinkles in a puzzle of bewildering details and having to shackle one’s natural buoyancy to arrive at some kind of pointed conclusion, hopefully one that coincides with the original mission of the ordeal. What a great deal of trouble! So unlike reading an alleviating book or listening to improving music, almost anything other than straining one’s mental bandwidth.

Thinking is such a letter-perfect undertaking. It is as uncompromising as Christianity. If one even dares to border on imprecision the entire point of the process is a lost cause. You might as well not think at all as to think sloppily. It is this hounding subjugation to detail that is so wearing. You wouldn’t for example suggest that something was well thought out if it lacked a discussion of its anticipated execution. Clear thinking demands preciseness and particularity. None of that global estimate or stab-in-the-dark stuff! One must unavoidably get down to it.

For me to do any credit whatsoever to the task of thinking I must first sort out the landscape of the problem. I say the “problem” because normally when I am called upon to exercise the little grey cells it is in response to a dilemma. Thinking is quite superfluous if there is no problem, one simply reacts to the native visceral instincts and thereby avoids the cerebral painfulness. Anyway, after having hesitatingly resigned myself to the anticipated toil I first dissect the constituent elements of the quagmire. This is the metaphorical procedure of spreading out the situation before one’s self, the hope being to penetrate the thickness of it all and highlight the separate pieces (rather like the “divide and conquer” motif adopted by a successful military general). Inevitably the various features of the now diffused landscape admit to connections or associations. I am a firm believer in the proposition that nothing happens by accident. Given sufficient examination one shall eventually discern the theory behind the otherwise mystical and ostensibly random affiliation of facts.

Here the path bifurcates. It might usefully be said that at this juncture the professionals are separated from the amateurs. What I am getting at is this: Although one might know the facts, the application of intelligence to those facts may nonetheless depend upon experience and training. Certainly there is room for anyone who is clever enough to assess the situation sufficiently to know that there is an issue, but the resolution of it may require that further advancement which derives only from instruction and tuition. This is the intellectual exertion of thinking;viz., applying the abstract to the particular aimed at finding an answer to a question or the solution to a problem. It is a performance which is taxing and one which flies in the face of everything intuitive. Consider how utterly unnatural it is to assess the merits of one course of action on the basis of entirely theoretical analysis! Small wonder thinking is hard! We’re required to make inductive leaps from the physical to the metaphysical, from grounded experience to complex imagery. How quickly one becomes tangled in this burdensome occupation that is thinking! Once engaged there is little hope of extricating one’s self from the complicated circumstances. The mere taste of mental refinement has the nasty tendency to trivialize one’s erstwhile innocent hobbies. And then the real application begins – seeing it to its ultimate end! More work! How preferable it is to avoid thinking altogether!

To countenance the expenditure of money naturally calls for some justification especially when the recommendation is conjoined with extravagance. Even the profligate spender harbours the shadow of concern for primary economic theory (though of course he seldom dilutes the strength of his initial devotion). By contrast the close-fisted penny-pincher buoys his preferred fiscal modesty with psychology, likening materialism to Philistinism. Between these two extremes of pecuniary dissolution and worldly deprivation resides the body of people who from time to time have what I believe to be a quite understandable need or desire to reward themselves. Nonetheless with all this talk of late about the incredible amount of debt being serviced by Canadians the idea of spending even funny money may be considered foolhardy. I think however that this is a proposition which needs to be re-examined in a context broader than mere economic principles or the loaded comparison of intemperance and frugality. It is my thesis that spending some money on yourself can be a very good thing indeed.

The place to start this re-examination is not with the value of ministering to one’s needs or desires, rather with the value of money itself. As trite as it may be to say it, money is only worth what we say it is. It has been my experience that the elemental and distinguishing feature of money and things is that you can’t have both, at least not if you’re other than among the very rich. It is for this reason that quirky monied people often appear to be penniless. We simply cannot see their material indicia of wealth – they don’t wear it, they don’t drive it, they don’t drink or eat it and they don’t live in it. And even if we were capable of seeing their balance sheet, it likely wouldn’t appear very interesting at all, other than containing a great many zeros at the tail end of numbers and referring to tiresome descriptions of Class ‘A’ and ‘B’ common or preferred shares. The assiduity with which these misers devote themselves to making and accumulating money is all about translating capital into more capital, assets available for use in the production of further assets. They really have a positive disdain for the perceived vulgar and trivial preoccupation of consumers with things. Having said that, I have known at least one avowed capitalist who did in fact know more than the “price of everything and the value of nothing” (Oscar Wilde’s famous definition of a cynic). Yet as much as he valued the painting in question (a typical wintry March morning scene of a horse-drawn sleigh painted by Frederick Coburn) he gave it to me because he knew his own son would merely sell it for the money. The painting held no particular importance for the capitalist but he didn’t dismiss its possible worth for others who would not equate its value with mere money.

If indeed I am correct in this admittedly simple rendition of the capitalist (the saver) and the materialist (the spender) then it is easy to see the reason for the divergence between the two species. Capitalists simply haven’t an appetite for expenditure, only reinvestment. Any materialism which might surround them is probably driven more by their family than themselves. Yet in an odd twist the spender and the saver are identical because neither of them is interested in money per se but rather only with what money can do for them, and each of them subscribes a different value to or purpose of the money they have. On the face of it, both spend money to acquire something else. By an odd paradox the investor sees only the value of the expected material return; the spender sees only the value of the anticipated emotional return. While the saver can see the predictable return of interest; the spender imagines the immeasurable pleasure of the thing acquired. In the result the entire matter is turned on its head. Both need money to get where they’re going and both have translated money into something else. Just as it is true that “money doesn’t disappear, it just changes hands”, so is it true that money is constantly transforming itself from one nature to another. In the hands of one consumer the diamond ring is a source of intense pleasure; in the hands of the younger woman who inherits it from her mother it is the seed money for capital investment. And so the cycle continues endlessly.

To really appreciate the preposterous value of money one need only consider the recent auction of British artist Francis Bacon’s triptych of close friend and fellow artist, Lucian Freud which sold for £90 million paid by a New York dealer on behalf of an anonymous buyer at Christie’s in Manhattan on Tuesday, November 12, 2013. As one reporter commented:

The prices paid for works of art at this level are, of course, beyond rationality, bearing no relation to inflation, the value of the components or even the concrete notion of investment – or certainly not in the short term. This kind of art buying has no relation to anything other than itself. But if you did have bottomless coffers and the desire to dispense some of their contents on a single object, why wouldn’t you go for something that embodies a chunk of what we sometimes still call “civilisation”, which sums up some of the things we think of as ennobling humankind as a species?

With respect I think this is pushing the interpretation of such lavish spending rather further than merited. What has melded in this instance is the very concept of money and things. The lines between the two have become entirely blurred and blended, and certainly the value of either is unascertainable.