Before the construction of the lighthouse, the rock had caused many shipwrecks because, except for a few hours a day at low tide, it lies just below the surface of the sea. By the turn of the 19th century, it was estimated that, in a typical winter, as many as six ships were wrecked on the rock. (In one storm, seventy ships had been lost off the east coast of Scotland.)
For this old fogey a busy day means going to the grocery store or having an early morning medical appointment in the city. Beyond that it’s weighing one’s worth, recollecting the past and pondering the future. Not exactly an ambitious enterprise. Indeed these idle conventions are more attuned to what to ignore than to what one wishes to capture or to be captured by. A succinct though by no means differential acknowledgement. In brief, I have given up convincing others or myself about what to think or do. The mere utility of doing otherwise is questionable for innumerable reasons. No longer have I the devoted self-interest of the tiny sparrow announcing itself from atop a springtime fence with its familiar melody.
Human relationships are complex. Leaving aside the labyrinth features of international relationships and the surreptitious character of nefarious or scandalous intent, those relationships which involve personal alliances are especially fraught with many different and connected parts. Normally one considers the duration of relationships of any description to be inexact and limited. But importantly it has as often been said of friendship that if it were legitimate from the start, it will last forever. Basically, true friends are forever aligned. I believe that to be true. Categorically. Even if there were an intervening disparity between the friends, I nonetheless believe that the authenticity of the initial relationship will survive any kerfuffle – although I accept that the recovery from the imbalance may provoke a prolonged period of distance and separation. But, as I say, foremost is my belief that true friends never lose that initial glue which brought them together. It is frequently echoed in the observation, “We picked up exactly where we left off!”
Today is one of those grey, rainy disconsolate days sustaining myriad excuses to do nothing but snooze and drift into afternoon melancholy. It’s Wednesday, nothing special about that. Just the middle of the week. The uncommon lack of traffic certified that vacuous detail. And yet…having said that…we were anxious to get our scheduled booster today from the pharmacy where the pharmacist was as anxious to inform us that we had received at her hand a Pfizer-BioNTech Comirnaty XBB.1.5 COVID-19. Whatever all that means. I had by contrast a more revealing confab with her about her studies at Dalhousie University and all the related matters which subsequently flowed from the opening of that unanticipated floodgate.
Coffee is best for me when served strong and chilled (not simply with added ice cubes). The strong feature I find is best captured by espresso, at the very least a “double” ( though I am never certain that it or anything beyond is propitious given the brewing method).
Espresso Italian: is a coffee brewing method in which a small amount of nearly boiling water is forced under pressure through finely ground coffee beans. From Italian caffè espresso (literally pressed out coffee).
This time I fell from my tricycle, my EVO tricycle, not from my bicycle as I did last year. Apparently the issue is more than balance; the three wheels of the tricycle were profitless on this occasion. I was briefly on the sidewalk, attempting to regain the roadway after avoiding the construction crew, but I tipped onto the pavement. As you might expect the fall was not entirely precipitous. But it was withal undignified. I had been barely moving. But the curb of the sidewalk afforded just enough elevation from the road that I lost balance. I probably would have spared myself the embarrassment and injury if I had been moving more quickly. But I wasn’t. The trike tipped. And I fell. In the result I made a bloody mess. Banged the left 4th finger (which I suppose was a welcome sacrifice in favour of the bloodstone pinky ring); uplifted the top layer of skin on my left-hand palm; blunted my knee (the new replacement knee so I hardly felt a thing); and finally damaged my left shin (though I have no recollection what I hit, whether the pavement or an interfering particle of the tricycle).
If there were a singular word to be said of old age, it is the word “admission”. The uncomplimentary thrust of the word must not defeat its liberalism or scope. Being free to acknowledge the realities of life is for me a welcome change. Nor is the reality one which somehow contaminates the whole. Nor one which I regret saying in the first place. The admission is not that life is bad; rather that life is indeed short, that we should endeavour to enjoy every minute of it and that nobody needs to hear your medical history once again.
Thankfully I awoke this morning before ten o’clock. I glanced at my watch and muttered that I had spared myself two extra hours today. Yesterday by contrast I had slept into the eleventh hour. It was noon before I made any headway. Yet both nights before I had retired at a sensible hour, say 11:00 pm two nights ago, then 10:00 pm last night. So it isn’t that I am going to bed late. It appears to a congenital affliction of old age. Sleeping. My father was always snoozing on the garden deck in the summer. I remember wondering how he warmed to the custom so easily. Now I know. I regularly fall asleep for a short while after breakfast. And I feel better for it afterwards. Just a short absence.
There isn’t one news channel I prefer. In fact overall I have to say I don’t particularly like any one of them. Apart from the tolerable retail angle (making money), the news channels are no different from any writer. They all want to be heard. For the time being we’ve generally got what is called the news media (to which all broadcasters belong, feigning to be factual and unbiased). And then there is FOX NEWS which is blatantly fulfilling a purpose beyond reporting the news. It seems that adoption of opinion is a safer ground for cultivating one’s audience than relating the facts.
It was Henry VIII who first proved the irrelevance of religion (except for personal gain). He didn’t care about theology. He just wanted what the Protestant monarchs had – freedom to act without approval from the Church. From the beginning, Anglicanism was all about the king. His supporters converted straight away. Those who opposed him remained Catholic. For those in power the independence of church and state became a classic example of, “Keep your friends close but keep your enemies closer.” I suspect the barons and earls who controlled parliament felt much the same way.
Henry VIII (1491–1547), son of Henry VII; reigned 1509–47. Henry had six wives (Catherine of Aragon, Anne Boleyn, Jane Seymour, Anne of Cleves, Catherine Howard, Katherine Parr) and three children (Mary I, with Catherine of Aragon; Elizabeth I, with Anne Boleyn; and Edward VI, with Jane Seymour). His first divorce, from Catherine of Aragon, was opposed by the Pope, leading to England’s break with the Roman Catholic Church.