“But I must explain to you how all this mistaken idea of denouncing pleasure and praising pain was born and I will give you a complete account of the system, and expound the actual teachings of the great explorer of the truth, the master-builder of human happiness. No one rejects, dislikes, or avoids pleasure itself, because it is pleasure, but because those who do not know how to pursue pleasure rationally encounter consequences that are extremely painful. Nor again is there anyone who loves or pursues or desires to obtain pain of itself, because it is pain, but because occasionally circumstances occur in which toil and pain can procure him some great pleasure. To take a trivial example, which of us ever undertakes laborious physical exercise, except to obtain some advantage from it? But who has any right to find fault with a man who chooses to enjoy a pleasure that has no annoying consequences, or one who avoids a pain that produces no resultant pleasure?”

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The act of rotating has many connotations, the most signal of which is turning one side for another. It may also define succession, sequence or cycle. In the extant context of sunbathing by the pool the paramount definition of rotating is the alteration of one platform of radiance for another; specifically front to back or vice versa. It is slight acclaim to poolside athleticism but nonetheless imperative if one were to approach the undertaking diligently. And be assured there are those who do.

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In this era of the “Big Lie” and the rampant political and ethical righteousness pertaining thereto, there has curiously survived a debate surrounding the propriety of telling the truth. This apparently for a myriad of reasons. Initially however this resounds a peculiar observation as one would normally react almost instinctively by asserting that telling the truth is foremost imperative without equivocation.

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Though I felt less than heavenly upon awakening this morning (following a night of irksome recollections, ineffable dreams and fitful neuropathy) it wasn’t long before I regained my spiritual wonder. It is quite impossible not to react favourably to the day, almost any day, on Key Largo. Everything about our presence here is manifestly agreeable; viz., the weather, the temperature, the turquoise sea, the azure sky and the aimless ambition. Effulgent balminess. It all bears repeating only because it is by nature so superbly topical and immediate, so incomparably transcendental. And memorable. I am determined to jot a note of these daily inspirations. For the time may yet come when I am no longer capable to relish them in the identical context; though I may at least preserve a colourful souvenir of the day.

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Since E. M. Forster’s novel (1908)  “A Room with a View” people have questioned the significance of a yearning for a view.

The novel opens in Florence with the women complaining about their rooms at the Pensione Bertolini. They were promised rooms with a view of the River Arno but instead have ones overlooking a drab courtyard. Another guest, Mr Emerson, interrupts their “peevish wrangling” by spontaneously offering to swap rooms. He and his son, George, both have rooms with views of the Arno, and he argues, “Women like looking at a view; men don’t.” Charlotte rejects the offer, partly because she looks down on the Emersons’ unconventional behaviour and because she fears it would place them under an “unseemly obligation”. However, another guest, Mr Beebe, an Anglican clergyman, persuades Charlotte to accept the offer; Charlotte suggests that the Emersons are socialists.

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Can’t recall precisely when I began having my nails professionally attended. It was not something I particularly warmed to, given the environment normally involved women only. I accordingly felt to be an odd interloper; and those hanging colour palettes were always a drawback. That vernacular has changed somewhat over the past decade but a nail salon is still predominantly filled with women. Now I go because I have to; so the issue of being compatible with the salon is irrelevant.  For me it is no longer comfortable having to deal with either my fingernails or toenails on my own at home because I am obstructed by the prescriptions of acuity of vision and physical prowess; that is, I have trouble seeing what I am doing or getting where I am going. Like many other declensions of old age I now happily accommodate them without embarrassment or apology. A regular visit to the nail salon for a mani/pedi is on my routine to-do list.

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With the arrival of the March Break students I have had to investigate my preferred resorts with greater diligence. Many of the young people, understandably anxious to acquaint themselves with the benefits of Key Largo’s endless sunshine, have taken up their position by the pool from an early morning start.  Their preparedness defeated me in my objectives this morning because we first went grocery shopping.  In any event I am pleased to relinquish my dog-like habits to those who haven’t the privilege to linger here as long as I. Furthermore I remind myself that the occasional deprivation of radiancy may in fact be a good idea.

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The offensive part of any constitution is that it amounts to little more than the rules developed by a group of children playing a game in the back yard on a sunny day. Certainly we have dignified those rules with so-called spiritual ornaments but even those are pure fabrications by whomever is making the law. To pretend that these concoctions deserve perpetual existence is nothing short of devious. Again, just another creation of someone’s mind, not exactly written on Moses’ stone (itself yet another deceit) though I acknowledge that everybody loves a good fairy tale.

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Last evening after having re-watched several riveting episodes of the House of Cards (Francis and Claire Underwood) on Netflix I worked at my computer. Writing continues for me to be a mandatory daily deliverance, one which I combine with Modern Era music by Roberto Cacciapaglia from Milan, Italy. Possibly because I hadn’t pulled down the cover of my laptop computer until after one o’clock this morning, I was overcome all morning by an uncommon and profound lethargy. I felt utterly inert, as though I were ordained to inexorable exhaustion. It actually felt good to be so uncompromisingly overwhelmed. Indeed if it were not for my native impatience (or perhaps more charitably my constant yearning for activity and performance) I would still be lingering beneath the sheets, staring at the ceiling fan, pondering the wallpaper, wondering whether I was slowly dropping off or just on the verge of closing my eyes once again to contemplate an eternity of abstraction and disparate remove.

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A lot of things were cleaned up at the pool today.  For starters, even before leaving the townhouse early this morning, I had removed all the band aids covering the scrapes and bruises from my recent fall into the sea at the north end of the property. As I had anticipated the damage on my wrist and shin had nicely healed. Yet another profit of clean living! With my carcass thus restored to cosmetic vitality I resolved to spend my day by the pool instead of floating in the sea and contemplating the possibility of acquaintance with either the 8′ alligator or the shark lately reported to have been sighted in the area.

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