It is an accident of my early arising this morning – at eight o’clock to be precise – that, having completed my plodding meanderings by noon, the remainder of my worthwhile performance has necessitated squinting my eyes to overcome at least some of the radiance whilst seated at my desk looking upriver. Many times I have contemplated the usefulness of repositioning my desk so it is not directly facing the floor-to-ceiling windows; but always I readapt my original scheme in spite of the temporary exposure to brilliance.

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This morning, mid-week and in the middle of the still frozen month of February in Canada, while breaking the fast with our friends Bruce and Graham in a lively restaurant in nearby Smiths Falls – and celebrating Bruce’s upcoming 73rd birthday, we stumbled upon a visit to Hilton Head Island.

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Increasingly it has become the norm to lay in bed until after nine o’clock in the morning – and often later. I find this disturbing for two reasons. One, I now routinely retire promptly at ten o’clock in the evening so it is not as though I am deprived of a reasonable sleep if I were to awaken at 7:00 am or 8:00 am at the outside. Two, the regularity of these prolonged sleeps (and frequent contemporaneous afternoon naps, slumped at my desk, head abandonly bowed to the carpet) appear to predict a common model for the elderly (which naturally punctuates an unflattering decomposition). Overall the effect of this somniferous template is one of universal drowsiness or lack of clarity.  In short, dull.  Or boring. Perhaps even flat.

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February 16, 2026
Wakefield, QC

Hello, Bill!

I’m not sure but pretty sure that you entertained us by playing the piano at the Ottawa New Edinburg sailing and tennis club. The year was 1974. We all met you through Jane Davis I seem to remember. After hours at the club we would close the doors and you would start banging away on the piano found in the great room upstairs. If this is in fact you, I wish to thank you for many late night hours of entertainment. I know you moved to Almonte, and had a very successful practice.

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AI capabilities in recent months have leapt in bounds, and many theoretical risks that were associated with it before, such as whether it could be used for cyberattacks or to generate pathogens, have happened in the past year, Yoshua Bengio, scientific director at the Mila Quebec AI Institute, told Al Jazeera.

Reading the news today I was introduced to the name Claude, a “large language model developed by Anthropic” in the business of Artificial Intelligence (AI). I am assuming Claude is a friend of my acquaintance Hal at ChatGPT.

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On a day such as this when the sky is an unobstructed azure dome, the sunshine is dazzling, the white layer of snow is a shining desert, the temperature is bordering freezing, a Saturday, Valentine’s Day, the weekend preceding the third Monday in February (Family Day for AB, BC, NB, ON, SK, Islander Day for PEI, Louis Riel Day for MB and Nova Scotia Heritage Day for NS), there is little to be done to improve the appeal of the moment; other, that is, than to enjoy the small pleasures of life.

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Sansculottism refers to the extreme republican principles, practices, and radical ideology of the sans-culottes, the working-class revolutionaries in the French Revolution. Characterized by advocacy for social equality, direct democracy, and price controls, it embodied a, “without breeches” radicalism aimed at destroying the influence of the monarchy and aristocracy.

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There are so many oddities today that I wondered whether I may have inadvertently consumed some drug which – not unlike the romanticized addiction of Sherlock Holmes – had transferred me to another atmosphere of unqualified pleasure and comfort. Even, for example, a piece I happily listened to on CBC FM radio perfectly finalized the recording precisely as I was obliged to stop at a traffic light when adjoining March Road. Chance? Of course! But nonetheless a notable one, and a pleasing fortuity whatever you may say.

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Every day is a creation, more often than not an unintentional but nonetheless unquestionable rendition of what we see and feel. The Universe is ultimately personal. Philosophically it is our day. Each of us – as an individual – will create his own eclectic museum of art. If we choose not to portray the fabrication with oil paint, words, music or dance – or through any other model  – we are nevertheless our own artistic vehicle of delivery, the blank canvas on which we portray our singular though unwitting depiction of the day.  And every day is a creation, an inescapable alignment with newness and discovery.  We prepare ourselves in the morning not unlike an actor seated before a mirror in his dressing room. Then apply the costume. And finally execute the performance. Even without design or formation there is conception, spawning thought and reaction into the Universe.

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There’s a narrow thread between wisdom and sharpness in everyday business matters. Yet as priggish as they are, curiously we learn the guiding rules at a young age.  Probably because a prepubescent softball game harbours the identical rivalry and native depravity that unwittingly invades and threatens adulthood. The equally unsatisfactory conclusion is that age is not of itself a limitation or improvement of one’s childish behaviour. Frankly I am inclined instead to presume that the character of a man is made from those early days on the pitch. The transition of time only perfects or modifies the initial allure.

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