Quitting one’s current environment on such perfunctory words as “I’m outta here!” is normally indicative of one of two more penetrating circumstances. Either you’re reluctantly in a hurry to depart from an otherwise fruitful coalition; or you’re making haste to escape a predominantly disquieting communion. As in the case of most alternatives the message is seldom “mixed” so to speak; rather, the departure on one of those bipolar terms usually leaves an unequivocal and evincible conclusion.
The past several days have felt like diving for pearls, up and down, in and out. The strategy of refinement is daily corrupted. I suppose it isn’t an uncommon pursuit. Perfection. Nor entirely an unanticipated outcome. Tumult. Surely perfection is an unattainable ideal, a fabrication of the mind when nothing else beckons or distracts; or maybe it is merely the leaver to pull to restrict the flow. I had thought there might be more settlement of the bottom disturbances. Yet I linger on commotion instead. In present circumstances it hardly matters not to subdue the dust completely. The atmosphere above the multiple ingredients of collywobbles is otherwise singularly inviting, a cool but unquestionably moderate air, a profitable mix of sunshine and blue sky; and of course the perpetual squawking of the Canada geese in the nearby remnant corn fields or their ineffable arrows of flight descending upon the glassy mirror of the Mississippi River whence the plateaux of ice and snow are now gone.
Before we quit we must submit. That at least is our plan. In an unanticipated move this morning we suddenly began discussing a new way of doing things; specifically, flying (instead of driving) to Hilton Head Island next year. The thesis is that my progressive decline is undermining my driving. Even if it were not categorically true at the moment, it is a prediction we feel should be addressed judiciously. Not only for the obvious safety reasons; but also to adopt a more simplified way of doing things without the burden of worry. Besides – as we have also reasoned – it might constitute a welcome change. Frankly, drivng back and forth to and from South Carolina and Florida for over the past decade has lost some of its allure. We’ve seen the Blue Mountains and the Shenandoah Valley, as well as the A1A from top (Jacksonville Beach) to bottom (Key West) and a good deal on the Gulf coast as well (though admittedly we have yet to accomplish Route 66).
Who hasn’t spoken too forthrightly about someone or something? It’s an enterprise able or likely to cause harm or bad consequences. The danger lies not only in its directness but its immediacy, the one being without deflection, the other being too urgent. Very often the result of such straightforward honesty is remorse, either because one spoke too bluntly or mistakenly. Being outspoken may also offend one’s view of oneself; that is, one may prefer to “speak with music in your voice” as opposed to speaking more brashly. This particular bent may arise from cultural discipline; or, it may be the consequence of a dissuading psychological conviction that “we see in others what we see in ourselves”.
Whig | historical noun
1 a member of the British reforming and constitutional party that sought the supremacy of Parliament and was eventually succeeded in the 19th century by the Liberal Party.
2 an American colonist who supported the American Revolution • a member of an American political party in the 19th century succeeded by the Republicans.
3 a 17th-century Scottish Presbyterian.
4 [as modifier] denoting a historian who interprets history as the continuing and inevitable victory of progress over reaction.
DERIVATIVES Whiggery | noun Whiggish | adjective Whiggism | noun ORIGIN mid 17th century (in Whig sense 3 of the noun): probably a shortening of Scots whiggamore, the nickname of 17th-century Scottish rebels, from whig ‘to drive’ + mare Old English mearh ‘horse’, mere ‘mare’, from a Germanic base with cognates in Celtic languages meaning ‘stallion’
It puts me beyond distraction to miss a fulsome morning! And thankfully it is an abbreviation I have scarcely had to endure. Sleeping late is excusable only if it were mandatory – as when suffering an illness. Otherwise there isn’t a supportable reason to allow the best part of the day to slip away unheeded. Even when I chance to remain awake the night before until as late as two o’clock in the morning (puttering, reading, writing or watching reruns of late night television) I resist that anomaly to justify sleeping late. There are so many effusive things about morning coffee and all that it entails.
From Stephen Colbert to Jonathan Antoine to this, “Caruso”, written by Lucio Dalla. What more needs to be told? I first heard this performed on the album “DallAmeriCaruso” akmost 30 years ago when we regularly spent our weekends together at our condo in the By Ward Market, Ottawa sipping martinis by the fireplace. It still brings tears to my eyes. It speaks to the eternal magic of music for me.
“Caruso” is a song written by Italian singer-songwriter Lucio Dalla in 1986. It is dedicated to Enrico Caruso, an Italian tenor. Following Lucio Dalla’s death, the song entered the Italian Singles Chart, peaking at number two for two consecutive weeks. The single was also certified platinum by the Federation of the Italian Music Industry.
The song simply tells about the pain and longings of a man who is about to die while he is looking into the eyes of a girl who was very dear to him. The lyrics contain various subtle references to people and places in Caruso’s life.
Lucio Dalla told the origin and the meaning of the song in an interview to one of the main Italian newspapers, the Corriere della Sera. He stopped by the coastal town of Sorrento and stayed in the Excelsior Vittoria Hotel, coincidentally in the very same room where many years earlier the tenor Enrico Caruso spent some time shortly before dying. Dalla was inspired to write the song after the owners told him about the last days of Caruso and in particular the latter’s passion for one of his young female students.
Solicitors in Scotland were previously known as “writers”; Writers to the Signet were the solicitors entitled to supervise use of the King’s Signet, the private seal of the early Kings of Scots. Records of that use date back to 1369. In 1532, the Writers to the Signet were included as Members in the newly established College of Justice, along with the Faculty of Advocates and the Clerks of the Court of Session. The Society was established in 1594, when the King’s Secretary, as Keeper of the Signet, gave commissions to a Deputy Keeper and 18 other writers.
Writers to the Signet began as clerks to the Keeper of the Signet, and were afforded the privileges of freedom from taxation by the Burgh of Edinburgh, exemption from military duty, and rights of audience (to appear as lawyer on behalf of another) before the bar of the College of Justice. Writers were involved in drawing up summonses to the Court of Session (civil trial and appeal court). Writers were, however, de jure prohibited from acting as procurators (barristers/lawyers) but de facto this was often ignored.
Often I have speculated to be metaphorical about life; you know, expressing oneself in a fictional or figurative way while drawing upon one’s experiences, attempting to elevate an otherwise humdrum diary or biography to something literary or allegorical, something more intriguing, perhaps with a lesson or at least a point. But I can never detach myself sufficiently from either the currency or the reality of my monotony to invoke a more imaginative production. No doubt the dilemma is that I unvaryingly attach complacent significance to what has transpired in my life without the persuasion of metaphor.
“There’ll Be Some Changes Made” (“Changes“) is a popular song by Benton Overstreet (composer) and Billy Higgins (lyricist). Published in 1921, the song has flourished in several genres, particularly jazz. The song has endured for as many years as a jazz standard. According to the online The Jazz Discography (an index of jazz-only recordings), “Changes” had been recorded 404 times as of May 2018. The song and its record debut were revolutionary, in that the songwriters (Overstreet and Higgins), the original copyright publisher (Harry Herbert Pace), the vocalist to first record it (Ethel Waters), the owners of Black Swan (the record label), the opera singer (Elizabeth Greenfield) for whom the label was named, and the musicians on the recording (led by Fletcher Henderson) were all African American. The production is identified by historians as a notable part of the Harlem Renaissance.