The British weekly magazine Country Life has a regular feature called Country Mouse and Town Mouse. They are binary reflections upon rural and urban themes. Notwithstanding notable similarities there remain indisputable distinctions between the two. Not all of the differences are without an element of sharpness – the summary of which tends to favour one or the other. While it is perhaps more sustainable to have an urban haughtiness, the rural residents are not entirely spared a thread of arrogance. I have always dismissed the rivalry as a purely competitive enterprise, the type common among schools clans (the character of which amounts to a distinction without a difference). Yet the parallel tracks of both maintain a formidable direction, one that preserves the close but separate nature of each.

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Whenever I hear – as I did today – the forceful sound of wind blustering and buffeting, whether out-of-doors or through a screen door or a partially opened window, I recall the eerie high-pitched sound of wind in the movie Satyricon by Federico Fellini. The plaintive sound captured the pre-Christian Roman world of debauchery during the reign of Emperor Nero. But its universal appeal is its unforgiving mournfulness, a poetic background to the tableaux of life both ancient and modern.

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Though I no longer make a point of getting up early, there was this morning the unwitting advantage of seeing the sunrise shortly before 6:00 am. The brilliant dawn highlighted the artistic collage of clouds with a crayon book of colours. An hour later – and 40 kms afield (after a requisite pit stop at the local car wash) – I was seated in a correspondingly bright waiting area at the Queensway Carleton hospital. My partner was having a scheduled MRI scan.

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The astronauts have returned to earth from a circle about the moon – our nearest gravitational companion. Reportedly the precipitous re-entry to earth – when 80,000 kms above landing – was like falling backwards off the Empire State building. Neither was it overlooked by the astronauts that everything depended upon efficiency of the “device” in which they were encapsulated. They spoke of mechanical glitches when in space; they spoke of the automated features (such as control of ventilation) which arose upon recognition of a fire alarm; they spoke of the importance of communication with family (and a father’s delight at having worn a bracelet made by one of his daughters); they spoke of sleeping together while 8′ apart – and longing for greater proximity.

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Pacem in terris (lit. ‘Peace on Earth‘) is a papal encyclical issued by Pope John XXIII on 11 April 1963, on the rights and obligations of people and their states, as well as proper interstate relations. It emphasizes human dignity and human equality in endorsing women’s rights, nuclear nonproliferation and the United Nations.

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It’s a dreary day today.  While listlessly motoring about the County in the rain, I listened to the radio news, five or more channels, all of which focussed upon the identical headline (although FOX NEWS was the most vocal). Seemingly the allegations of sexual misconduct affect only representatives of congress or the senate, not the president of the United States of America.  It is a peculiar result in similar episodes of political grandstanding. My only conclusion is that, the closer one is to power, the less is the influence of human conduct howsoever lewd. By contrast, the defeat of perfection in anything but the upper tiers of governance is a lethal wound from which few if any recover.  Once the dissolution has begun, the decline is precipitous – remorsefully affecting not only the candidate but also his family.

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The earliest proclamation of springtime was the arrival of flocks of geese along the river.  Their boisterous honking, combined with massive flight patterns, identified them and the season. At the outset the river was bordered by snow-covered ice that afforded the geese a riparian platform on which to settle until the moment they precipitously abandoned the haunt and miraculously sailed into the distance to an undetermined landing. Occasionally they would fly close to the drawing room windows, providing a defined contrasting view of their white undercarriage.

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Having just returned from a slap-happy drive through three counties (Lanark, United Leeds and Grenville and Carleton) and a succession of hamlets (Rideau Ferry, Lombardy, Portland, Crosby, Elgin, Seely’s Bay, Gananoque, Halstead’s Bay, Ivy Lea, Mallorytown Landing, Maitland and Wexford) leading to the St. Lawrence Seaway, we have nicely recovered our weekend stability notwithstanding the blustery weather.

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The precedents to my day today were as usual 1) an exceedingly agreeable breakfast of two eggs fried in avocado oil sprinkled with Maldon salt followed by steel cut oats blended with kéfir topped with 3 luscious dates; 2) a 4 Kms tricycle ride throughout the neighbourhood amidst an unmistakably cool breeze; and, 3) lounging and dozing on a balcony chair in the morning sunshine in order to capture the relieving Vitamin D which is as much an allure to my face as it is to the face of plants.

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It was my younger sister’s 76th birthday a couple of days ago.  We – my sister, her husband, their junior daughter (who flew in from California), my partner and I – arranged to meet for a celebratory luncheon today at Pelican Seafood Market & Grill on Bank Street in Ottawa South. The restaurant is a favourite of my sister who regularly frequents the place – both for dining in and when ordering bespoke take-out platters. Replete with chowder, ceviche, oysters, tuna tartare, PEI mussels, Arctic Char fillet, tiramisu and crème brûlée it wasn’t until a respectable 3-hours later that we concluded our confab and said a cheery au revoir.

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