Today we received welcome news from our dear friend Bunny on the east coast of South Africa in Simon’s Town. I marvel at the brilliance of such exotic travel! The venture to the area illustrates one-quarter of her life. The memories – both good and bad – stimulated by this compelling recall are no doubt unsurpassable. I suspect much has changed no matter where one goes, but the antiquity of Simon’s Town likely preserves much of what has always been there.
There are good and bad knots. The good knots secure your shoes upon your feet; or, straighten a silk about your neck. The bad knots are the events which obstruct a purpose. Very often the bad knots are merely the uncomfortable consequence of living. No matter how the knots are portrayed, tying them up is an alleviation.
For some reason whenever things go particularly well in my life, I find myself thanking a mysterious creation of my mind, sometimes called Lord, sometimes God. If it were imperative to have a specific religion associated with the nouns of address, it is Christian because of my adolescent indoctrination. Otherwise my reference is oblique at best; it could as easily have been a Star Wars reference to a Hollywood fiction, just something distant and beneficent to which attribute thanks. I simply felt the need to render thanks – beyond an implausible gratitude to fortuity or myself though I often conjoined my parents in the same breath (but always subordinately to the principal or primary recipient – the Unknown).
Hughie Whitten – sadly no longer whinnying among us (having fallen victim at a young age to a car accident on the edge of town) – famously said, “The first thing you do with a new car is beat it with a baseball bat then drive it through a barbed wire fence. Get it over with!”
When he was 11 or 12 years old, while living in Western Canada among the farmers who harvested vast sections of land that stretched flat and endless from the outbuildings to the horizon, when the setting sun was an eternal majesty, when Dr. MacGregor Parsons lived in a mansion on the hill overlooking the village below, he met Kenneth, a dairy farmer’s son, who was in his class at school and who inspired him to perfection.
…but you can only live in one place at a time. And your own life, while it’s happening to you, never has any atmosphere until it’s a memory.
Andy Wharhol (1928 – 1987)
This famous quote is by artist Andy Warhol often cited from his book The Philosophy of Andy Warhol: From A to B and Back Again. It reflects on the limitation of experiencing life in the present moment versus the retrospective, emotional “atmosphere” that memories create.
My car ride today wasn’t entirely vicarious. I did leave the garage. And I did get a car wash at nearby Circle K (thankfully it was operating). But a hurried glance up the Appleton Side Road was bleak. I rely solely on All Season tires (it is doubtful that I shall ever get winter tires). And I don’t trust the drivers coming in the opposite direction. Many of them in my opinion are recklessly bent upon undue speed in the circumstances. There were only narrow tracks to follow to avoid jumping the parallel lines of packed snow. The conditions invited disaster. My final resolve was to heed the peril.
Two days ago while lunching with my sister and her husband in the city (nearby where they live in Ottawa South along the Rideau Canal), we met two women – a mother and daughter – seated at table next to us. Coincidentally the mother was from Smiths Falls and the daughter from the Perth area (both in the County of Lanark where we also live). By further coincidence the daughter’s lawyer was a lawyer whom I had met about 50 years ago when we had both begun practicing law in Lanark County. He and I went skiing together at Mont Tremblant, went to the lounge in the afternoon, dined in the main lodge that evening and stayed overnight before returning to our respective digs in Smiths Falls (where he was from) and Almonte.
A get together over an espresso is my idea of an agreeable afternoon meeting. I have my friend js to thank for today’s impromptu caffeinated outing. He is as unassuming as his sobriquet is succinct; but he is, may I caution, no less decisive and, I suspect, similarly anchored. Apart from that broad stroke I shall not assume the privilege to project further analysis or insight into his character. Indeed it is a reluctance with which I have increasingly versed myself incrementally as I age. In short I haven’t a clue what makes another man tick – as fond as I or any others for that matter may be of estimating people for whatever apologetic purpose.
The world – that is, my world – today is a frozen spectacle of sunshine. And I haven’t any outstanding duties. Getting up early – in spite of having retired at 2:00 am this morning – wasn’t a challenge. Lingering mournfully in bed like Samuel Beckett reputedly did in his Paris apartment was no contribution or obstruction to my awakening. While I won’t pretend that my energy is like this every day, it was today. In fact to have behaved otherwise would, I am certain, have been a greater defiance. Once again Nature teaches us not only how to die but equally importantly how to live. Whether we must take a further step beyond the obvious to search for meaning is doubtful.