Anyone such as I, so willfully devoted to accounting what are by even the most generous regard trifling personal relations and sometimes recondite frictionless events, is by force of that self-absorption alone tolerably introverted. There are more vigorous adjuncts; words such as selfish, heedless and egotistical. Or the perfunctory appendage, boring, which obviously I prefer not to embrace. What however in my opinion squares the tarsome conceit is that 1) I have nothing else to say; and, 2) it is only about those whom I know that I write. If I were to have opted for fiction as the vernacular of choice, there might reasonably be quite a different slant upon the productions (though even then I imagine it impossible to create tales that haven’t some link to real life). As it is, aside from what I quip are “literary licence”, my focus is upon that which and those whom I know.

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Sunday (by email)
August 11th, 2024

Hi there,

Are you up for dinner at the Pelican on Aug 19 at 5pm?

Jay and I are driving to Halifax right now. We will be back in Ottawa on Thursday. We are bringing a trailer full of belongings for our storage unit. We will also be viewing two homes. We want to find something to buy instead of paying rent while we build.

Let me know if the 19th works for you and I’ll make a reservation.

Big hugs,
Alana

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This idyllic Saturday afternoon in early August, with flamboyant flowers flourishing in the lazy windswept fields, delighting in the supreme satisfaction of nothing to do and nowhere to go, having vacated the apartment with Chef engaged in this evening’s culinary enterprise (assured to be a hit judging by the mouthwatering whiffs from the oven), the sun blazing brilliantly and highlighting the distant fluffy white clouds, my car windows open and the wind buffeting throughout whilst listening to a curious album called Fisherman’s Friends One-and-All by Rupert Christie, I saw on my GPS screen the name of one of the compositions, “What we overcome”. Without listening to the meditative music, the title alone intrigued me.

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One of the advantages of living in Riverfront apartments along the Mississippi River is that at any time of the night or day I may position myself on the balcony in a deck chair overlooking the meadows and river beyond. If the moment is propitious, I am certain to doze. During the morning and early afternoon (say until 2:30 pm in the summer at the height of the season before the sun wraps itself around the southerly corner of the building), if the day is clear as it is today, the sunshine is indescribable. It pours upon the entire prospect with sometimes relentless commitment. It is not an enterprise which, in such ideal conditions, one is wont to prolong. The heat can become utterly intolerable.  But before it does, its implications are both perceptible and desirable.

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Shopping is not by normal account a risqué subject. It is after all a corollary of food and shelter, the two basics of existence. When however it entangles itself with psychosis it becomes another matter.  Shopping is then by equal candour known to animate a good deal more than the soul. From the Greek psykhosis meant “a giving of life; animation; principle of life.” As you might expect the popular rendition of the mental state surrounding shopping as a gleefully intended fixation is less forgiving than the functional norm.

Psychosis is a condition of the mind or psyche that results in difficulties determining what is real and what is not real. Symptoms may include delusions and hallucinations, among other features.

Portrayed in that manner, shopping attracts inviting hypotheses. Not the least of these conjectures is perhaps that arising upon completion of the event; namely, that shopping paradoxically defeats its own purpose. To be blunt, the shopping experience is frequently afterwards salted and corrupted by the act of having accomplished the goal. In truth, things seldom acquit themselves sufficiently to accommodate the full force and gusto of the initial enterprise.  It is frequently the act of shopping, not the object of shopping, which generates the amusement, preoccupation and suspense.  Shopping is the act of going shopping, buying and procuring. What emanates from that activity and purchase is entirely something else.

Notwithstanding this bipolar experience of hunting and gathering (notably two of humanity’s primary ventures) this is not to say that one cannot achieve enormous satisfaction from the thing itself (in spite of having taken all the fun out of the adventure). But the stomach is not yet full.

There is though a prolusion to shopping no matter the level, whether nutritional, domestic or artistic; that of course is need.  Or want.  Or wish. Shopping is by any enquiry first propelled by investigation for satisfaction of a requirement, whether palpable or allegorical. Certainly there are moments when retail shopping is merely diversionary, something to do in a mall on a rainy day.  Today for example is a rainy day.  In fact it is at times horrendously rainy, forming dynamic sheets of rain.

This morning after we had completed a site-specific shopping expedition (that is, buying required household goods and culinary provisions at the grocery store) we thought to entertain ourselves by driving in the pouring rain along a sodden country road to the wool shop in Carleton Place to see whether there were any additions to their collection of plastic farm animals. For some time now I have sought to buy a swan which they formerly carried but which I have been unable to rediscover. The two which I had previously purchased were given as gifts. Once again today I was out of luck. It remains a pending consideration, a source of further outstanding imminence. Though I may excuse my obsession by repeating a website description (below) investing the acquisition as a proper gift idea, I confess a moderate stimulation deriving from the collection process. The stuff is well made. And, yes, I did purchase several new models (including my favourite, the small pink pig). There are an astonishing number of companies which produce almost identical products, all of which proclaim their venerable manufacture using advanced vinyl and painting schemes (and in one instance, hand painted).

These animals toys are great for birthday gift, Christmas, new year, thanksgiving and other holidays, harvest theme party gifts, school classrooms rewards/prize or party supplies.

In 1935, Friedrich Schleich (1900–1978) founded Schleich in Stuttgart as a supplier of plastic parts. In the 1950s, the company became known as Schleich Figuren, producing bendable plastic figurines for the first time. In the 1960s, the company focused on producing licensed toy figurines (merchandising). This included the development, production and marketing of comic figurines such as Snoopy, Maya the Bee, Mickey Mouse and the Smurfs. Especially with their Smurfs figurines, the company became widely recognised as a toy supplier.

This trifling exploit speaks to the greater submersion; and that is the now diminished state of my retail interest. This unfortunate state of affairs is the consequence not only of aging but also of changing. Not only have I now in my possession virtually everything I could ever wish to have; but also have I little or no remaining interest in acquiring anything else. To remind myself of this pennywise pledge I investigated my two most recent purchases, things about which I have lately pined and for which by luck I was able to fulfil. It is so easy to store things away from sight. But vigilance is required to avoid a taint of hoarding. If something is beyond employment, then out it goes!  I mean, why bother keeping it? Unless of course it affords occasional use, ornament or enjoyment.

It may surprise you to learn that mechanism is a theory that all social phenomena can be explained by the existence of deterministic mechanism. It is the philosophical doctrine that human actions are ultimately determined by causes regarded as external to the will.

Some philosophers have taken determinism to imply that individual human beings have no free will and cannot be held morally responsible for their actions.

This in my opinion is a conclusion far surpassing the gears and apparatus of conventional social interaction. It is however illustrative of the wealth of philosophic rubbish surrounding the thesis. It is an ideal debating resolution, permitting as it does incalculable theorems impossible to affirm or deny contrived on multiple levels of dispute.

Nomological determinism is the most common form of causal determinism and is generally synonymous with physical determinism. This is the notion that the past and the present dictate the future entirely and necessarily by rigid natural laws and that every occurrence inevitably results from prior events.

This latter proposition admittedly has a hint of appeal.  Nonetheless I cling to the pretence that each of us has limitless capacity to control or “determine” the direction we shall pursue. Oddly enough it was this contemplation which arose during a social gathering we enjoyed last evening with another resident of our apartment building.

Based upon the terms of the invitation, the foregathering was putatively to enjoy a summer evening’s prospect of the nearby river and the intervening meadow.  As it turned out the weather was not favourable, somewhat damp and drizzly, so we hadn’t the anticipated advantage of the setting sun glancing its yellow rays along the river’s path.  While we lingered momentarily on the balcony overlooking the upriver domaine, we soon retired to the drawing room where ensued our further conversation.

Amusingly to me the conversation from beginning to end was replete with factual depth and intellectual prosperity. Not once did we lapse into the vernacular of either the weather or one’s health, both of which were patently irrelevant to the more gripping communication surrounding important events in our respective lives. It isn’t often that one is treated to the benefit of a stimulating dialogue. Whether the details rendered for our collective contemplation were sufficient to characterize the inevitable results is a matter of some interest only.  In the meantime the components of one’s past do not fail to spread upon the whole a detectable film of colour.

During this morning’s tricycle outing (exercise is far too generous a term for it), I was hailed alongside the road.  The eager correspondent apologized for interrupting my labour then abruptly asked about the apartment building where we’re living. She clearly had intentions in mind. When she inquired specifically whether we regretted not having a meeting room, I replied that my preferred socializing is doing precisely what I was doing; namely, zipping about the neighbourhood and chatting with people along the way. The bitter truth of course is that I don’t get out much. Socializing diminishes incrementally with advancing age. People’s interests and associations quickly fade. And sadly in the process some have died. I confess to having succumbed to my primary interests only which, as I say, foremost include tricycling (walking and bicycling are right out), reading and writing, and driving my faithful automobile. It is a perishingly limited agenda. Though honestly I can’t imagine doing anything further in my current state of retirement and ambivalence.

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When I entered undergraduate studies at Glendon Hall, Toronto in 1967 I was invited that Christmas to join friends in Kingston, Jamaica.  I went there with my newly acquainted colleague Bill Rutledge from Lakefield College School. One day that Christmas while driving to the home of Rolf Grant (the father of David Grant, one of my acquaintances from St. Andrew’s College) I saw that he was tending his garden. At the same time walking along the street at the front of the property was a Rastafarian gentleman.  Reportedly (as we were later told by Mr. Grant in his drawing room) the Rastafarian gentleman gestured to Mr. Grant and (in a distinctive native dialect and sound) said, “K’eer it good, Boss, fo’ soon it will be mine!”

Rastafari relating to a religious movement of Jamaican origin holding that Black people are the chosen people, that Emperor Haile Selassie of Ethiopia was the Messiah, and that Black people will eventually return to their Africa.

Communal meetings are known as “groundations”, and are typified by music, chanting, discussions, and the smoking of cannabis, the latter regarded as a sacrament with beneficial properties. Rastas emphasise what they regard as living “naturally”, adhering to dietary requirements, wearing their hair in dreadlocks, and following patriarchal gender roles. In the 1960s and 1970s, it gained increased respectability within Jamaica and greater visibility abroad through the popularity of Rastafari-inspired reggae musicians, most notably Bob Marley.

Today – 57 years later – I have the undeniable privilege to account (by virtue of my age alone) that this morning while tricycling my rudimentary 4Kms up and down along the river, I encountered an elderly woman caring for her garden. In fact only recently I was told by her that her garden is flourishing following the removal of a large hedge immediately adjacent. This morning the brilliant sunshine streamed upon her garden and I invited her to pose for a deserving photograph which she gleefully (in her truly inimitable way) agreed to do.

Hearkening back for a moment (if I may) to the Rastafarian gentleman’s articulation, firstly it’s a bit gruff. I mean to say, it’s not as though the message were not loud and clear. Paradoxically I believe that in spite of its poetic and prophetic flavour, I find it offensive for the very reason I have read the Rastafarian religion emerged; viz., the British and the Church of England. British colonialism for all its value nonetheless rent a dreadful legacy. And these rising religious fictions of so-called improving merit are likewise disturbing. This is not to say there isn’t work to be done ; but diaspora (such as the emigration of Anglo-Saxons primarily to the Byzantine Empire after the Norman Conquest of England) is not in my opinion the goal.

The Norman Conquest (or the Conquest) was the 11th-century invasion and occupation of England by an army made up of thousands of Norman, French, Flemish, and Breton troops, all led by the Duke of Normandy, later styled William the Conqueror.

As chance would have it, Lakefield College School has this upon its website:

We respectfully acknowledge that Lakefield College School is located on the Treaty 20 Michi Saagiig territory and in the traditional territory of the Michi Saagiig and Chippewa Nations, collectively known as the Williams Treaties First Nations, which include: Curve Lake, Hiawatha, Alderville, Scugog Island, Rama, Beausoleil, and Georgina Island First Nations. Lakefield College School respectfully acknowledges that the Williams Treaties First Nations are the stewards and caretakers of these lands and waters in perpetuity and that they continue to maintain this responsibility to ensure their health and integrity for generations to come.

I do of course acknowledge the convenience of diaspora; but its seeming facility does not convince me of its utility. A more potent assembly of reasons for the collection of people would in my opinion by the upset of resilience and the promotion of collaboration.  I mean, what are we saving it for? Noah’s Ark? Pardon the pun, but that ship has sailed!

Meanwhile in my admitted state of indolence and smug satisfaction I am content to collect these trivia to animate myself and my reckless memories.  The bald truth is that, of late, I have been the happiest I can recall for years. Certainly it helps, as today, to have a dome of unblemished azure sky, a temperature reminiscent of the warmest childhood summer’s, the benefit of regular rainfall, cornstalk to the sky, fields of green soya bean leaves forming a wavering carpet to the riverbank; the view of the shimmering river in the distance; and the comfort of a chilled afternoon espresso coffee with slices of the most aged cheddar cheese from St. Albert.

Let’s be frank. Conflicts arise. And when they do and it comes to resolutions, it’s a marshy water out there!  But as remarked by an extraordinarily cultivated gentleman whom I knew, “Manners are there for when you need them (and amusingly he added, only then).” And while it has been observed that “manners maketh the man“, I contend we already have within us the requisite knowledge.

To my thinking when it comes to the Rules of Conduct there is no better or more convenient leader than oneself. This is so because the governance of one’s personal conduct is rooted not in alternative fuzzy external behaviour codes (such as that promoted by legends of reprisal, righteousness, contradiction, posturing, popularity or even religion) rather one’s actions and responses are controlled by elemental nutritions that foment clearly and often with an astonishing propriety within oneself. In short we know what we should do in spite of what we might wish to do. The irony is that if we do what we’d like to do instead of what we know we should do, we end being hopelessly displeased with ourselves and may even regret our misconduct. That despondent complication then leads to further disruption quite apart from the original complaint. It is thus that a minor bruise or a graze becomes an open wound or a suppurate cut.  The key to success is to act properly from the outset and before the onset. It will spare both you and others unnecessary grief.

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Heraldry has forever intrigued me. The colour. The majesty. My nostalgic passion is so intense I cannot but fear it is dangerous or illicit. I suspect no matter who you are, there is a heraldic symbol for the family name. Early in my life – though pointedly most likely following the advent of technology enabling internet searches – I discovered a heraldic symbol of my own. It was not something to have painfully pursued in a real book or encyclopedia. I employed the discovery when commissioning a signet ring through Birks, Ottawa.  To my entire astonishment I subsequently learned that the engraving of the crest was done by Chapman Bros. Ltd., Jewellers, 261 Yonge St (downtown Yonge east), Toronto. The building (now a listed heritage building) was constructed in 1910. The architect was Benjamin Chapman; the builder W. F. Lewis.  The jewellery business began in 1874. To my knowledge I have no affiliation with that branch of the family. Nonetheless I succeed to extract familial worth from the name alone.

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