In spite of relentlessly climbing the mountain we never make it to the top. Or if we do, it’s either the end of the road or it’s downhill thereafter. The summit is the allure. It is the point from which all else is perceived. And from every angle, unshielded by no more than temporary cloud. It represents the acme of one’s effort; the sudden but expansive perspective enabling one to summarize a lifetime of effort and devotion to production.
Reportedly the Russians are having a hard time of it lately. The economic sanctions are said to be extraordinarily punishing. Naturally the infection is likely most vivid among the common people not the oligarchs and criminals in the background from the perspective of their mountainous palaces or their vulgar marine floatations. I can’t imagine any amount of vodka sufficient to assuage the penalty. Just knowing that their so-called leader has intentionally caused the mutilation and death of thousands and the dissatisfaction of almost the entire world is I suspect sufficient to contaminate any feeling of national pride one might otherwise have. War is such an archaic and unforgivably childish resolve. While I acknowledge the artistic contribution of Russian writers and musicians to global improvement I am ignorant of any superiority of everyday life in Russia. Granted we most often hear only the abuses of a peculiar leader with a nefarious background in the KGB; and his offensive preoccupation with being shirtless while wrangling a fishing rod or riding a horse bareback.
The clan led by Trump presents to Americans the same marauders and robbers as their chief and his dogs. Sustained by ignorance and perceived abuse, they are reminiscent of the Celtic brand that once inhabited the uncivilized Scottish highlands (of which I have little doubt Trump’s raw lineage descends in notable measure). Nor yet have we “forgotten that the ancient Gaelic polity had been found to be incompatible with the authority of law, had obstructed the progress of civilisation, had more than once brought on the empire the curse of civil war”.
Shortly after I arrived in Almonte on a hot summer day in June of 1976 at the age of twenty-eight years I soon recaptured my passion for bicycling. It wasn’t however the idyllic outing I was accustomed to on the paved pathway along the Ottawa River in Ottawa or on the parkway through the Gatineaux Hills in Québec on the other side of the river. It was though as lonely a time as I had spent in Ottawa after my arrival there from law school in 1973 when I first accelerated my sporting enthusiasm for bicycling by buying (upon the recommendation of an aficionado whom I knew from undergraduate studies and who was then dating my sister) a Garlatti 18-speed racing bicycle with thin tyres and matching seat. If I hadn’t lost fifty pounds within months after graduation from law school I would never have sustained either my cycling ambition or application. Whether performing my articles or first year of practice at MacDonald, Affleck on Sparks Street I would not have perpetuated my bicycling routine without the contributing advantage of social isolation.
We’re showing our age at every turn! We’re down to eating just two meals each day. I view this as a material aberration of the standard social behaviour in the western world. It plainly conflicts not only with ideal dietary recommendation but further contaminates the ageless business luncheon (which I readily admit was often propelled by an overriding ambition for a martini or similar midday analgesic). I recall as a young lawyer attending a noon hour meeting with senior lawyers at a downtown Toronto restaurant. I arrived mere seconds after noon. When I told the mâitre d’ for whom I was waiting, he informed me with a smirk that they were already at table. Enjoying their morning eye opener!
It pains me to hear politicians and others with a public platform and some kind of exclusive agenda speak about equality and inclusion as though they were saving the world from something toxic. The notion that “You too can be like me if you try “ is for me not compelling. For one thing there are too many artists from Matisse and Mozart to Frank Lloyd Wright who once offended popular culture and who are now considered classics that I hardly feel moved to adopt current themes as entirely persuasive.
There are things we prefer not to talk about. Or if we do talk about them, it is in ways calculated to soothe or obstruct the details. Asking someone whom we know the casual question “How are things!” seldom provokes anything approaching an expansive composition. Ask them instead, “What’s the news?” and you’ll get a very different response. Guaranteed. Maybe even one you hadn’t expected. Or worse, one you didn’t want to know. More often than not however the news can be compelling. Not because it is bizarre or absurd but because it is usually meaningful and personal. Getting people to talk about themselves rarely requires more than listening. But you need an introduction to the intelligence more vital than a stock blurb which long ago lost its depth or authenticity.
Watching life drift by is neither uninventive nor unrewarding. Nor is it for the pusillanimous. It requires application. I am gripped to this day by a quip I overheard many years ago from a stodgy bearded intellect in undergraduate studies at Glendon Hall. If I recall correctly the portly chap said something to the affect that the hardest thing to do is nothing. I’ve learned to accept the witty remark. Yet too often we mistakenly subsume ourselves beneath needless preoccupation at the expense of warranted diversion. And, yes, we do need occasional diversion from our many worldly preoccupations. In the summertime especially when the balmy air and fleeting white clouds invite life’s tranquil and muted pace, it behooves us to reckon with Nature, the buzz of the bees, the chirping of the birds, the perfume of the wild flowers, the hint of a breeze and the solitude of a waterway.
Americans – not unlike Canadians – have their deep seated differences. In Canada the central root of disturbance is between Upper and Lower Canada or what today is conveniently recognized as the provinces of Ontario and Quebec, more fundamentally, English and French occasionally extending to competition between Protestant and Catholic. Then there is the battle between east and west, amplified to anything east or west of the Toronto-Dominion Centre at King and Bay Streets in the heart of Old Toronto’s financial district. The western provinces have their wheat and oil. Central Canada is banking and retail trade. The Maritime provinces maintain their historic plurality of British blood and United Empire Loyalists (fleeing American revolutionaries) and the French speaking Acadians (a colony of New France).
In the blend of balmy summer air and the equally seasonal and thoroughly natural decomposition of old age it is not infrequently that one becomes provoked to sentimentality. I’ve heard it said by one whom I trust that old age promotes bleary eyes. Given the absence of those to whom we so often tearfully allude, one has to question for whom indeed the bell really tolls. Is it for the loss of someone dear? Or is it rather the distress of our abandonment which propels the grievous alert?