Driving into the city on a weekday after 7 o’clock in the morning is generally manageable. Typically – that is, for old folks – I have a medical appointment of sorts this afternoon. Specifically  the meeting is with that very esoteric breed of professionals called ophthalmologists.  About a week ago I received an unexpected email from their office – Focus Eye Centre, 1105 Carling Avenue – inviting me to participate in a post-operative review of my current state of vision. I had had cataract surgery from them several years ago.  Predominantly my vision has since been Okay though I have on numerous – but not persistent – occasions found my sight to be obstructed by fleeting clouds. As a result – and maintaining as I do that technology is always improving at a rapid rate – I happily agreed to undertake the examination.  After the office had called and booked the appointment they subsequently asked me to bring my Health Card and a list of medications – plus they interjected that the meeting could last up to 2 hours.

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Once again today, dear Reader, I was reminded of the ineffable natural beauty of Lanark County (our local seat) and nearby Renfrew County (the erstwhile lumber towns which many years go indirectly afforded Almonte the facility of the national railway connection for its own thriving woollen industry).  On my way out of Almonte today to Arnprior I passed along a roadway which easily competes with my beloved Appleton Side Road about which I have so often expatiated.

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Unless you’re one of those fellows with an inexhaustible – and frankly acidulous – resource of gusto, one of those chaps who heroically prefers to start his day with pushups and a cold shower, I have found by contrast that starting a day is never easy. Often it is not only difficult to know when exactly to begin but also how to begin.  For example, does one preserve the Stoic profile and get up at seven o’clock? Or adopt instead the vulgar urban model and linger beneath the duvet until at least eight o’clock?  Or (as Samuel Beckett might ask) does it really matter when one gets out of bed on a rainy day?  And then there’s the matter of what one should do?  Or what must one do?  Is there an appointment to keep?  Or a place to go?  Or something important to be done? And in the full scheme of things, what is the point of it all in any event?

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The lush green cornstalks dart motionlessly into the air, resembling now the empyrean architectural projections of Dubai, an expansive formation of uniformity on a murky Sunday morning across the rolling fields. Another week has concluded and another week begins. Does it mark a lifetime or an eternity? Or was it only a day? The unmoving river perfectly reflects the undulating shoreline trees. The world is on pause. A wondrous insect moves unsusupiciously along the drawing room window. A Netherlands choir Vox Luminis mournfully sings on CBC Sunday morning radio.

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For most of us change is moderately disturbing. We often like things the way they are. But when we feel differently about the way things are, change is not unwelcome. Yesterday – while reading an article sent to me by Prof. Daniel A. Laprès from Paris, France – I noted in particular the following blunt observation:

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Social standing has the least significance or attraction at the beginning or at the end of life. When one is young there are simply too many competing alternatives; and when one is old nothing matters except what already exists. Accordingly social standing is a mid-life crisis.  I say crisis – not because social standing is for everyone a crisis – but because for those for whom it is a concern it can definitely become a project of enormous devotion, complication, legal consequence and financial determination.

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Would that I had something of moment to report, dear Reader. But I do not.  Mine has been a catalogue of tedium today. In fact my entire week has been a record of mundane and clinical devotion – passport renewal, teeth cleaning, prescription modification, root canal inquiry and an oil change for my car. While I mustn’t complain about having to fulfill these passing necessities of life, nonetheless I am provoked that as a result I haven’t anything of distinction to relate. The most intriguing events today were a haircut and a brief review of the latest on-line boating course (the conclusion of which by the way is that I am never going to own a boat). Aside from this latter convincing resolution – arising from the disclosure of the rude fundamentals of boating ownership – I find myself staring at the wavering cornstalks, marvelling at the speedily changing atmosphere, while curiously reeling from the sensation of having being poked by dishwasher and refrigerator mechanical faults (further matters now under investigation and discussion).

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The nautical theme has been part of my life since having attended Dalhousie Law School in 1970 in Halifax, Nova Scotia along the North Atlantic Ocean.  My memories there are marked by images of Saturday mornings walking on Point Pleasant Park, clam digging in Peggy’s Cove, social outings to Hubbards and Chester, and spectacular ocean vistas from Lawrencetown outside Halifax and Melmerby Beach in Pictou County.  The one opportunity I had to board a sailing ship for a late summer venture at sea was regrettably conflicted with and bypassed in preference for a week-long wedding convention which nonetheless invoked certain of the traditional sailors’ indulgences.

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Though it did not mark the end of my day, the afternoon swim in the country pool of my erstwhile physician enhanced my disposition immeasurably.  It was exactly the relief for which I have been yearning – especially today after having stood erect for 20 minutes – in a state of swelling decomposition – waiting in line for Service Canada to open its doors at 8:30 am when I was scheduled to renew my passport. It is of course no surprise to me that our rule-bound enterprise at Service Canada today was replicated by my erstwhile physician’s partner who serendipitously materialized and reported glowingly upon their recent New York to South Hampton voyage and subsequent trek on electric bicycles through the vineyards of Champagne-Ardenne in northeastern France.

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It may seem to be a far reach from the armchair philosopher to the political activist but history says otherwise.  Recall too that “man is emphatically a proselytizing creature”, the acknowledgement of which is more than a paltry assertion given the imagination of those behind the ensuing narrative. The examples illustrate a terrifying truth: synthetic deception isn’t just possible – it’s effective.

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