There are not many things I can say with certainty. Yet I am in this instance convinced of my perspicacity. Humanity as we know it abruptly alters upon a power outage.  At the moment for example I am staring out the drawing room window into utter darkness. The sky is black with only an occasional glaze of grey.  In the distance are the isolated headlights of one or two automobiles meandering along the country road. This is a huge power outage affecting every foreseeable residence in town and the country estates beyond. Even the upriver Village of Appleton appears to be entirely in abject gloom.

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Productivity has forever been a compass and compassion of mine. I do not mean the ability to maximize output by working efficiently. I distinguish the preoccupation from making a living (though that is naturally one of the signal absorptions in the arena of productivity); rather my focus is more broadly upon creativity (though again not distinguished by remarkable artistry but instead ongoing individuality of whatever expression). The incontrovertible reality is that there’s only so much time in a day, a year or a life. I suspect I am safe to observe that each one of us has a wish to be productive in one dimension or another; that is, I consider it tautological that human nature (indeed nature by any other name or description including for example animals, insects or plants) is inherently devoted to fulfilment of some personal expression which achieves not only that goal but by extension the very purpose of our being.  As such the ambition is far from being selfish or insular but may instead be characterized as bordering altruism and universal truth (though again those traits may in many instances be pushing the envelope). Keep in mind however that many of the greatest developments of this world are no more or less fantastic than the bloom of a rose or the splitting of an atom or the composition of our favourite music).

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We’re in Harrisonburg, Virginia overlooking the Shenandoah National Park from our hotel room on a brilliantly sunny day. This year we changed our driving plans by limiting the number of hours we’re on the road pointedly taking into consideration not only the estimated driving time between points A and B but also including in the calculation the estimated time spent at a restaurant, gas station and rest stops. The latter inclusions add easily 2 hours to the overall driving time. Thus a standard daily drive of 300 miles (5 hours @ 60 mph) plus 2 hours for stopovers will easily consume 7 – 8 hours.  That happens to be almost precisely what transpired today (including the car wash).

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It’s time to go home. But we’re not running from Hilton Head Island. Oddly leaving this magical subtropical vista feels more like closing the door on a family cottage; a place we’re only leaving behind temporarily. After having come and gone numerous times over the cross-island bridge in the past decade we have begun to blend with this barrier island just as it has insinuated our veins.

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What astonishes me more than the glide by of 28 years since we met on February 24th, 1996 at the Château Laurier Health Club and went for drinks with our erstwhile (Cupid) friend Johnnie in the By Ward Market is the unparalleled bliss we’ve shared every day since then. I honestly cannot recall a more sustained and nutritious relationship.  And to make it all the more remarkable we continue to delight in being together every day that follows.

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JP Donleavy’s book The Beastly Beatitudes of Balthazar B is one of my favourites.

Balthazar B (whose final name is never revealed) is born to riches in Paris. His father dies when he is young and his mother neglects him for her lovers. Instead he is brought up by a nanny and relies for male advice on his Uncle Edouard, who instructs him in the worldly life of an elegant roué. He is shipped off to a British boarding school, where he makes a lasting friendship with Beefy, a similarly displaced laird, who is eventually expelled. On a return to Paris at the age of twelve Balthazar is initiated sexually by his 24-year-old nanny, Bella Hortense. She is dismissed when the brief idyll is discovered and it is only later that he discovers that she had a child by him.

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The number of things we have is astonishing.  It unimaginable what we’d do without them. I’m reminded how animals live so independently and without electric toothbrushes, sterling silver flatware, automobiles, hair dryers, jewelry, clothing, cosmetics, tables and chairs, pianos, umbrellas, artwork and luggage – to name but a few things!

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Already I am back to my old habits, drinking far too much coffee, staying awake until the middle of the night, then – after having taken my pills and dissipated the caffeine – sleeping unrepentingly late until after ten o’clock the next morning.  It is unquestionably an unfavourable modus operandi but one from which I was happily able to recover this morning without difficulty or collateral remorse. In the result, by four o’clcock this afternoon we were both shamelessly lanquishing upon the balcony overlooking the sea, meaninglessly chatting and reminiscing about our passage upon Hilton Head Island since our first encounter here on Christmas Eve in 2012.

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Long ago I recognized the deceit of euphoria; namely, it is but an intoxication. And like any other fuel, its effects are limited. Barring perpetual enhancement (elation, ecstacy or rhapsody) the cloud-9 effect is predominantly short-lived.

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Lying back this afternoon in a deck chair on the balcony with my feet on a footrest while overlooking the glistening sea constituted a sizeable recovery from my early morning angst.  I was still feeling the effect of yesterday’s pedal upon the beach. My legs and knees hadn’t yet returned to passable praxis. But seeing the shimmering sunshine upon the sea pines and ocean it burned me up to contemplate spending the day in utter idleness. Yet from the smallest attempt at mobility I could tell it was a day to set aside the usual cycling ambition. I would only end doing more harm than good in spite of the putative psychological advantage of doing so.

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