Coincidentally – sipping my “quad” espresso this morning at Equator Café whilst in conversation with Denis Secundus (recently nominated for a Deputy Minister’s Award of Honour) and Joy and Gary B.Sc., EE, MBA – I touched upon my current literary replenishment “The Diary of Samuel Pepys, ESQ., F.R.S.” by Samuel Pepys from 1659 to 1669 with memoir edited by Lord Braybrooke, wherein the author frequently mentions the “great confluence of gentlemen” at the coffee-house.  We at table, slumped in generous lounge chairs, concurred that the unbeaten historic status of the coffee-house is revived. Instantly I formulated in my private catalogue that the coffee-house (accompanied by a similarly restorative and redeeming tricycle ride thereto) shall hereafter constitute an indispensable ingredient of my sphere.

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It never occurred to me years ago during my frantic working days that shopping would prove to be so enviable a detour. Now retired since 2014, no longer venturing to the beach for six months annually, having exchanged the bicycle for the tricycle and having confessed the implausibility of 20 Km hikes, it cannot be ignored that the once mundane enterprise of shopping is an unrivalled diversion.

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I am in a state of euphoria today.

There are different ways to narrate euphoria. The manner of doing so depends first upon the nature of the ecstasy itself; then upon the candidate making the proclamation. For example, there is a difference between the elevation of a new car and the joyousness of a new born child. My rhapsody is a mixture of those palpable extremes. It is partly a new substantive thing and partly an organic addition; that is, a dental implant. What however I find to be more persuasive than the implant is the settlement of the frustration surrounding its arrival. I like getting things organized, my affairs in apple pie order.

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There are few things I would readily imagine to be of any material (as in retail) interest to me. This is not because I am either above or below the mooring.  Indeed I delight to recall what a devoted profligate I continue to be (though admittedly now with a degree of restraint and reasonableness); and, there are few things in life which surpass the pleasure I derive from the things I already own (which I hasten to add is a daily venture on my part – that is, I relive the moment regularly).

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Contemplating the performance or completion of what is noted on my calendar; or anticipating the fulfillment of all that is buzzing about in my head, I stopped to ask myself, “Then what?” This is not to say that there is no value in planning or organization – most certainly we need objectives to ensure direction and achievement of purpose. Yet there remains the haunting consideration about whether the success of reaching the goals entirely refreshes one’s state of mind or whether it merely advances one’s interminable edification.

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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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