I’m taking a holiday today.  It’s Easter Monday – so that qualifies as a legitimate holiday to my thinking. I know I haven’t a particular need to declare a holiday, given my unobstructed state of retirement and general indolence.  Nonetheless I have duties, daily obligations from which from time to time I prefer to distance myself.  Foremost of those commitments is my daily cycle.  But I am now awaiting the production of a replacement tricycle of my current defective model. The retail agent advised the day before last that I might expect something by Tuesday (tomorrow) – though regrettably I’m inclined to think it may be later in light of the agent’s expressed staff illnesses.  For today however I prefer not to contaminate the existing trike, leaving it under lock and key so to speak (it’s a padlock) until its removal.

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Music, as you know, Dear Reader, can stir the soul. When entwined with long-forgotten, heady visual memories, its effect is impassioned—almost anthemic. While sitting on a deck chair in the brilliant morning sunshine this Easter Sunday, spirited by the singing of Requiem by Rebecca Noelle, I drifted in my absent-thinking mind to another bright day.

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The day began with an uplifting beat.  Derand Motorsports advised they will replace my new (defective) electric tricycle with an entirely new trike. I have yet to discover the proof of the pudding but I am hopeful that they are men of their word. The prospect of having to endure repair was diminishing.

Derand Motorsports

As much by accident shortly after my breakfast, we ventured together once again this morning to the Advance Polling station in Carleton Place where yesterday I had abandoned my civic duty in the face of inordinately long line-ups. Reportedly the attendance yesterday was universally high across Canada (and the majority of voters of every historic party affiliation were behind Carney because he can deal with Trump).

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Nothing today of our intended purpose has ripened. The tricycle examination was an overall failure (though at least we know now what seems to be wrong); the venture to Carleton Place Arena to participate in early voting muffed because of the extraordinary line-ups (which my decomposed spine cannot accommodate); and – frightful peril – I didn’t make it to the car wash (it’s been raining on and off all day).

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When I was practicing law I hadn’t much opportunity for vacation. In addition to the expected weight of my professional calling, I also was a sole proprietor – which meant I handled every other imaginable detail related to the conduct of the business from staffing issues to emptying the ashtrays and cleaning the brass plaque. I also owned the office building (which meant endless property management); and, I was a landlord of three additional units (with all that that entails).  Accordingly my time away from the office was infrequent and generally confined to statutory holidays to allow me to escape behind the facade of commercial suspension. When these holiday opportunities arose I took deliberate advantage of them.

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This morning upon arising from the lair I was immediately gripped with interest by an email from a friend about his disappointing escapade with a passenger automobile. To begin, almost anything about automobiles intrigues me.  I have had many throughout my past, starting with a Ford Mustang and then moving through the catalogue of passenger vehicles offered by both the Ford Motor Company and General Motors. Nor have all those experiences been entirely satisfactory – which is the second topic of engrossment; namely, the record of mechanical travails or even endurance of the so-called “lemon”. I won’t repeat my friend’s narrative except to say that, after having participated in a Class Action suit against the manufacturer, he surfaced scathed but in tact.

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It was only days ago that I was “green and carefree”; that “Time held me green and dying Though I sang in my chains like the sea” (Dylan Thomas, Fern Hill, “a poignant and evocative portrayal of childhood memories and the bittersweet realization of time’s fleeting nature”). I knew at the time that the elation would not last; though naturally I did not imagine mournfully that the transition would be catastrophic or horrible for any reason.  But I knew it would not last; that things would change. Forever there has been the adjustment from good to bad, from up to down, from happy to sad. And, in fairness, I recognize that it works the other way too; that is, from bad to good and so on. It’s just the way life is.  We haven’t the capacity to maintain the ideal picture interminably. Nor I suppose would we wish to do so anymore than we’d wish for perpetual sunshine or rain. Life itself doesn’t cling to one direction or brilliance only. Sometimes the shift is mercurial; but most often it is merely a reflection of the two alternatives, a veneer upon which we skate freely and at times capriciously.

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Since I was fourteen years old at boarding school, I have been keeping a record of events. It began with a small diary—blank pages gradually filled with accounts of what I believed to be true or what others had done or told me. I never had a taste for fiction; instead, I’ve always preferred the unembellished reality of experience.

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I’ll be frank: I find TikTok entertaining.  It may however surprise you to know that the reason is not because of idle amusement.  Aside from platforms promoting some very helpful intellectual habits (such as the simple value of focussing on the good not the bad), there are medical, dental, political and economic platforms by highly qualified speakers. I find TikTok a great way to get succinct and in-depth analysis without having to skip over obviously sensational reporting common to the regular news outlets such as CBC, BBC, CNN, MSNBC and of course Fox News.

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For me the governing feature of asceticism is not chastity, self-discipline, frugality, fasting, puritanism or self-mortification.  “The adjective ascetic derives from the ancient Greek term áskēsis, which means training or exercise. The original usage did not refer to self-denial, but to the physical training required for athletic events.” Rather it is the monkish denial of things that I find to be of paramount influence.  Solitude from indulgence of the material world would in my opinion – at least historically – have been a recognizable deprivation. But there is an even more pernicious element to materialism; and that is its predictable cadence with decomposition. Paradoxically this ruination is aligned with the psychological benefits of asceticism.

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