It is with scuples that I relate what has transpired throughout our lives since six o’clock this morning.  On the one hand, the facts are there, austere but true. There is no deceit attached to any particle of the chronicle which follows.  On the other hand, there are sometimes things about which one should not chatter (as I confess I am wont to do). But sparsity of thought and words is not a character for which I am rightfully known. And rather pretend I can wittingly change the tide of either myself or history, I prefer to cling to what I have instinctively enacted in the hopes at least of avoiding any derivative clamour which might otherwise arise upon the rendition of an adulterated version (howsoever it may have been inspired by propitious social delicacy).

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Unquestionably it has become an unabated engrossment of mine as I sit by my desk to stare at the meadow by the river. And for reasons of accident, fortuity and the consequences of the natural expiration of time (all of which I shall spare you), the situation in which I now find myself is by my standard highly brookable and one for which I am smugly grateful. I suspect all my life I’ve been rather smug, succeeding as I regularly do to calibrate without qualification my inconsequential performance. And why not?  One cannot rely upon others to buoy the passage through life. And what value might there be in outright condemnation of a failed attempt? It’s merely the bluster of the effort!  Stirring the wind! Making a mess!

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Today we collected from my sister and her husband two unwanted Driade chairs which they had recently inherited among others (two of which they’ve kept for themselves).  My brother-in-law generously took upon himself the task of preparing the furniture by meticulously cleaning the chairs top-to-bottom to remove the taint of the passage of time. We have since managed to get the chairs safely home from the city and into our apartment. They are a decided hit in our modern digs. And relaxing too.  Make no mistake, the bijou size requires no accommodation.

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A firm alarm is never a welcome interruption (except I suppose when there really is a fire). A fire alarm is especially offensive in the middle of the night when one is sleeping. This morning for example we were unexpectedly awakened at 4:45 AM by a fire alarm. Earlier in the evening while dining at table we had endured a similar impetuous fire alarm. There was fortunately no readily apparent reason for the fire alarm on either occasion, either inside or outside the apartment in the hallway.  We have three fire detectors each of which has its own voice warning of “FIre Alarm” in addition to a screeching sound. When one device gets going, the others follow suit similarly (though thankfully not in unison). I suspect the customary early morning tranquillity enhanced today’s irritation.

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What a marvellous inducement to tranquillity and thoughtfulness it is to call upon one’s favourite pieces of music on command. Just part of the Apple Music catalogue which from the beginning has inspired me. To date I have 297 songs from which to choose; some I have deleted (not because I didn’t like them but because I was listening to the same song too often). Now I find many of the selections I have never heard entirely.

This is an eclectic selection of music derived from Apple Music “Listen Now”. It figures coincidentally many pieces which have been notable to me throughout my life. Otherwise there is no theme intended apart from what the algorithms betray. L. G. William Chapman, B.A., LL.B., Key Largo, Florida, Winter 2022 – 2023

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When arising each morning either of us tries to remember to lower the middle blind of the floor-to-ceiling front windows immediately adjoining my Gibbard mahogany desk whence I overlook the green meadow and flowing river. We face 120°SE 45°13’22” N76°10’41″W, Missisippi Mills, ON 130m Elevation. The sunshine is only obstructive through the centre window from which the radiant light is cast upon my MacBook Pro. By late afternoon – when I resume my literary endeavours and when I am accustomed to the support of a chilled triple espresso and 2.0 mL THC – I am obliged to raise the middle blind to get the full picture.

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For many years – as I have only lately come to realize – I have unwittingly disparaged those among us who are “homebodies”; that is, a person who likes to stay at home, especially one who is perceived to be unadventurous. Very often the proclivity is engendered by marriage, child birth or some other commonly recognized domestic situation which translates the erstwhile vagabond or brassy socialite to stay-at-home mom or dad. Within this newly acquired corralling there is regularly sustained at least some feature of the wayfarer, whether tobacco, alcohol or legal cannabis.

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People talk. We all do it. It isn’t however until you hear of them talking about you that the smarting topic purchases any particular weight. Talking about you behind your back adds all the more kindling to the ignition. How an aspirate loves an audience! Lord it over the down-trodden fellow!

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Let us say you have for whatever reason a vast amount of land. Before England’s thriving development of the woollen industry (involving as it did the taxation of exports in the hands of foreign merchants), land ownership was the predominant feudal source of income for the Crown (that is, the current king). As a result limitations upon ownership were of interest and consequence. Whether the device were to extend the period of real or “vested” entitlement (against which the Rule against Perpetuities applies) or to promote the legal fiction of what we now call a “corporation” that is, a legal person that has perpetual existence and never dies (against which the law of mortmain applies), the conclusion is that ownership of land can never be forever undetermined; and, that violation of that status cannot by any interpretation limit the Crown’s privilege of taxation or, in the event of indeterminable ownership, the Crown’s privilege of escheat (reversion to the crown where prior owner dies without heirs).

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It feels as though it has been a long day. I was awake with my feet on the hardwood at eight o’clock this morning. Denis is always up and at it by that time. Indeed far earlier. For me it represents an early morning moral imperative. I should add that we turned off all the lights last night not much later than ten o’clock.  I never sleep well because of my neuropathy and whatever else is currently affecting me. On occasion I have attempted spuriously to quell my paranoia about staying in bed beyond the recommended 8 hours/night by arguing that it is a privilege of age. Nonetheless the Protestant Work Ethic always wins in the end!  As a result I rather applaud myself for my purity this morning!

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