Until I have had my morning shower, brushed my hair and applied the requisite skin cream, I live in fear of what lies before me. So accustomed am I to duty and obligation – contaminated as it is by the Protestant Work Ethic – that until I set myself in gear for the perfunctory performances of the day there lingers a distant remorse. The ruefulness is however speedily ditched upon fulfilling the native obligations of breakfast and coffee. Cleanliness and food are the minimalistic ingredients of accomplishment.

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Perhaps I am still tottering from yesterday’s unanticipated – though hugely uplifting – brush with coincidence. After struggling for the past week or maybe the last ten days to accommodate within myself the misfortune of an icy communication with another resident, we appear to have fully recovered.  It was more an act of strong-will and mutual ignorance which preserved us both from a wasteful re-enactment of the event. Instead we have continued our restful paddle down life’s winding river, suffering as we must by nature the consequence at once as demanding and as glorious as passage to the City of Prague along Bedrich Smetana’s Má Vlast: Vltava “Die Moldau“.

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Slipping without warning into a moment of supreme satisfaction is – except perhaps for the spoils of gambling – normally beyond fortuity! It is similarly utter gall to pretend that one’s calculated handiwork has contributed to the chance occurrence. Such at least was my immediate response to the encounter late this afternoon with another resident on the elevator. The plain truth is that several weeks ago – on the occasion of our last communication with one another – she and I had elapsed into a discombobulated state. Yet so unwilling were either of us to acknowledge the disconcerted conclusion of our meeting – the trifling reasons for which hardly matter – that we succeeded until now to ignore the conflict.

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If I understand the process correctly the hibernating beast customarily gorges itself then retires to an underground den to sleep it off. We’ve succeeded today to accomplish the pre-requisite. No doubt the soporific consequence shall soon enforce its natural withdrawal from society. Until then I am practicing sitting high jumps and wall ping pong from the effect of two cups of some very strong coffee. And – more importantly – we’ve begun the “Season“, a festivity now more apt as a strictly social event than a religious one.

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The triumph of reason is not normally what one thinks of when listening to the news. Instead we’re punished with repeated circular obfuscations by partisan politicians seemingly greedy to preserve their employment. While it is difficult if not impossible to contradict their ambition, their thesis imposes disruption and inconstancy. The global pandemic has reduced many to impossible recovery. The plight is especially topical in the United States of America because its lame duck president, instead of focusing upon health improvement as an economic device, persists to enflame unsubstantiated claims of voter fraud as the reason for his recent defeat. Meanwhile the exhausted public – including even the pundits – recoil in dismay and resignation. These plain emotions have been captured by Rocci Fisch.

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When I left the apartment mid-afternoon to begin my routine – though astonishingly never humdrum – drive to the car wash and back I succumbed to my burgeoning curiosity about the Sailing Club in Ottawa West. The investigative theme today was propelled by an equally flourishing admission that barring the purchase of a snowmobile I’d best devote my attention to alternate winter outing. I knew from a previous visit last summer to nearby Andrew Haydon Park that if there were winter access it might afford not only a desirable view of the Ottawa River but also an opportunity for moderate exercise. Nor was I disappointed in my ambition. To my delight both the Club and the Park were open for public access in strategic places along Carling Avenue. Though the white canvass isosceles no longer adorned the horizon there remained ample fodder for distraction and marvel.

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In the bleak mid-winter
Frosty wind made moan;
Earth stood hard as iron,
Water like a stone;
Snow had fallen, snow on snow,
Snow on snow,
In the bleak mid-winter
Long ago.

English poet Christina Rossetti. The poem was published, under the title “A Christmas Carol”, in the January 1872 issue of Scribner’s Monthly

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In 1963 when I was thirteen years old in my first year in boarding school at St. Andrew’s College outside Toronto I received from my sister (who lived with our parents in Stockholm, Sweden) a small, green plastic bound diary with a lock and key for a Christmas gift. I used it consistently and hauled it about with me for quite some time before I abandoned it for a larger writing format. When I began studying and practicing law I initially wrote by hand with a fountain pen in large hardback volumes with blank, lined pages; then graduated to smaller tomes of a similar nature.  Eventually I began typing on blank pages which I housed in a custom-made leather bound three-ring binder with my name emboldened in gold lettering on the front.  Finally just before retiring from the practice of law in 2014 I translated my ramblings to the internet, initially a Google blog then this more private web site (which I had intended for use if I pursued my election and career as a municipal councillor). When I retired all the historic handwritten and typed diaries were sent to the shredder with the mass of old files inherited by me from my predecessor R. A. Jamieson QC. What remains as a written account of my life is captured in my blogs and this web site.

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After listening to Trump, CNN and FOX NEWS for the past four years I cling to my belief that Trump and his administration are perverted. Knowing what I do about New York City I am not a stranger to pretence and fraud. I am however less than persuaded by my native instincts when it comes to an assessment of Trump supporters. I am far from having a marketable picture of them.

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The glassy, frozen sky early this morning ensured that what remained of the ploughed snow on the blacktop was slick ice. Our cycling threatened to become a chance encounter with misfortune.  Nonetheless by adhering to the dry portions of the road – some of which patches were only on the left side – we escaped injury while at the same time engulfing the crystal fresh air and capturing rays of warmth from the brilliant sunshine. By the time we rounded the corner on Church Street and headed to the library it was evident that our erstwhile railway right-of-way was covered in snow. We turned back.

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