While I haven’t any way of knowing for sure, I’m guessing that most of us have things we’d prefer to forget.  My speculation is based on what little I know of humanity.  Among the standard human truths is this: notwithstanding our indisputable individuality we’re basically doing the same thing.  And that includes making mistakes.

It is relatively easy to accept the logic of letting it go, where the “it” is something or someone unpleasant to us.  It makes no sense to cling to a sinking ship, to remind ourselves remorselessly of the sadness we’ve endured because of some relationship or some event. The task is however significantly less logical and considerably more emotional when the topic extends beyond mere fact and circumstance and encompasses the thorny matter of conscience.  Conscience is the wild card in an otherwise strictly empirical situation.  Once conscience has insinuated itself into the assessment of the topic it is virtually impossible to ignore it.  Conscience introduces scruples.

The slippery aspect of scruples isn’t the  characterization of right or wrong but whether we submit to our inner voice or let it go.  Nobody likes to be wrong.  Sometimes there are ways of avoiding the condemnation.  Rationalization sometimes affords leeway in these matters.  Conscience is however so insidious that even if one were successful in disproving a wrong, the very real risk persists that you will never sleep until you have listened to your conscience and removed the weight from your mind.

Giving vent to our sense of right and wrong comes with consequences just as avoiding it does. My experience from childhood (when I first lied to my mother but later confessed) is that ignorance of one’s conscience is a perpetual plague and the result of repentance is far preferable to the possible advantage of undetected deceit.  This flies in the face of the facetious adage that honesty is the best policy as long as you’re not in trouble.  Juxtaposed to the counsel of perfection is the pragmatic angle that there just happen to be certain events in life which are best left uncovered where at all possible.  This may entail some active participation in a cover-up, a risky business at best but one which on a balance of considerations may be preferred.

With time even a conscience can be placated, not so much because it is ever really appeased but more because it just gets buried and smothered like the details that we covered in the first place.  Once again however there is the possibility that the tomb will be discovered.  This is a regrettable torment to have looking over one’s shoulder.

The good thing about the popularity of being wrong is that there is also the equally common virtue of humanity to forgive.  In the legal context there are specific judicial pronouncements which allow for an admission of guilt without the penalty of sentence, the so-called “Absolute Discharge”.  To gain such a privilege however the accused must normally plead “guilty”.  It is the very act of contrition which affords the compensatory escape hatch.  The decision about whether or not to plead guilty is obviously a highly charged tactical choice in a forum where one party has an obligation to prove the case against the accused beyond a reasonable doubt.  Where however the context is less formal the choice reverts to strictly personal inclinations.  It comes down to compunction and qualms whether to let it go.

What must Christopher Columbus have been thinking after he slipped his moorings and slid out into the Atlantic?  Probably the same thing kids think when they’re going on vacation – “Are we there yet?”  It’s a persistent concern whatever your future. The simple answer is that we’ll eventually get there.  But the question still remains, “Are we there yet?”

There are some for whom the journey of life is never complete.  This is unnecessarily poetic in my view.  I prefer a dénouement to an abrupt end. It is a popular myth that the journey of life is more important than getting there. Letting oneself down gently from the stimulating tensions of life is the last round and it is a pleasure not to be denied or diminished.  That’s what it means to be there, accepting that you’ve taken care of business and are entitled to relish it.  Sound easy?  Well, it is and it isn’t.  It is easy to draw the line on your current objectives.  Sometimes it is just the most convenient way to jettison one’s self from the hubbub.  But interestingly, once you’ve jumped ship, you’re left wondering, “Are we there yet?”  The problem isn’t the journey, the problem is knowing when it’s ended.  It is in some respects the same conundrum which regularly hounds the profligate spender – “When will I finally have all that I require?”  Assuming we eventually have enough, there is still the time to enjoy it.  But when have we had enough?

The active pursuit of something is considerably different from the passive delight of it.  Fortunately we are assisted in this necessary transition because we will exhaust the aggressive urges peculiar to acquisition. We are then set to relish the benefit.  Then it is time to think about where we have been in life and what we have done.  Astoundingly the recapitulation of life in these broad terms is the work of a moment.  The most casual retrospection will paint the strokes.  Decades of detail vanish with the simplest review.  There may be an inclination to belittle a lifetime of effort when summarily portrayed.  That however is not desirable and it is most certainly not germane to “getting there”.  The goal is to throw up one’s hands and enjoy the view.

It is odd what we recall about the past.  More often than not, it is not the so-called important things that happened.  Rather it is the moments we remember that paint a picture in our mind, a stand of trees, the coldness of a day at school, a pet, a first love, a friend’s distress, the drudge of studies and work.  How often have we afforded ourselves the chance to think of life in such terms?  It is a certain luxury.

Eventually we die.  We all know that.  And, just to be clear, we’re going to do it alone.  Make no mistake, it is a confrontation which no amount of hand-holding will eliminate or assuage. What however we may not fully appreciate in addition to these two certainties – that we will die and that we will be alone – is that everything we do in life is a preparation for that final moment.  Each act and event leading to that fateful day draws us incrementally closer to it. It isn’t merely axiomatic, it is empirical. This calamity does not however render absurd whatever we do until then, nor does it mean that the life that we have is without ultimate significance, value or purpose.  What it does mean is that we cannot escape having to consider our own being.  Alone.

For a social person such as I, the intensity of daily living not only enlivens me but may in fact also sustain me.  The diminution of that intensity likewise has at least initially the reverse effect.  As one’s occupation in life declines for whatever reason the potential arises that self-expression subsides as well and that fact once again brings us closer to the lonely contemplation of who we are.  Eventually there is nothing else to do.

The drying up of the sap of our being is not altogether inconvenient.  For one thing, we  tire.  It is impossible that we will go on doing what we’ve always done forever.  In any event even if one is determined to continue “being productive” it is inescapable that Nature will teach us how to die.  This does not imply that the process will be rushed (other than in the sense that Time slips away inexplicably).  Until the moment comes when we must die and bear death alone, we can begin to welcome the isolation.  All life’s former congregations, communications, couplings and coordinations will dissolve in the face of our ultimate singularity.  If we’re lucky we’ll have time to contemplate that loneliness.

When I rejoined my side-kick after having had my car washed and detailed this morning, he facetiously asked, “Feel better?”  And you know what?  I did!  You see the thing is that getting my car washed, as much as I have endured considerable raillery about the trifling subject, is nonetheless a matter very dear to my heart.  And – I suppose I must confess – it is no small obsession.  I won’t say that I am in the grip of it, but it certainly is true that I devote serious attention to the undertaking and it is a project never far off my regular agenda.  I am keenly aware of the potential for allegations of hopeless materialism, shallowness and annoying fastidiousness.  All true, I have no doubt.  But it does not for a tick diminish my enthusiasm.

The late Hughie Whitten observed, “All you need is a clean windshield and a full tank of gas!”  It is admittedly a compelling adage.  I’m sorry but I’m unable to make that blithely spiritual capitulation.  There’s a reason they call it “detailing”.  It isn’t the equivalent of “Don’t worry, be happy”.  It’s about being picky not abstract generalities.  Like it or not, a car is more than just getting from here to there.

When Petro-Canada began offering a 90-day Season Pass card for once-a-day automatic car washes, I was thrilled.  And when I subsequently discovered that one of their stations was open 24 hours a day, I began getting my car washed at 4:00 a.m. each morning.  Only once did I have to suffer the indignity of waiting in line for another car which was ahead of me!  Granted this particular custom was popular when I was a working stiff and couldn’t afford the time during the day to indulge my obsession.  It was an added and compensating intellectual benefit that I could take in the BBC World News Service while ferrying myself to and fro.

It might surprise you to learn that for me one of the brighter lights of Hilton Head Island is Island Car Wash on the William Hilton Parkway. In anticipation of our journey here each year I ruminate regularly upon the anticipated delight of getting the car detailed there.  The staff do a superb job, including washing the mats and squeezing the water from them through a specialized wringer.  They also use a buffing machine to polish the exterior sheet metal.  And you can be assured that the plate glass is clean when they have finished the job!  The emporium is reminiscent of a spa, well appointed, attractive and comfortable.

 A car wash, like a good meal, is not just about the main course.  There are appetizers to the delectation. I make a point of having the gas tank filled whenever it is down a quarter of a tank or more.  This is something I ensure is done before the wash in the event a drop of gasoline is dripped onto the car when withdrawing the nozzle. It is a faultless indiscretion which can be remedied in the wash.  Additionally, if I am getting the car detailed (which means cleaning the inside as well as the outside) I always take the precaution of removing any surplus items from the cabin.  An umbrella for example is relocated to the trunk.  Superfluous paper work is either stored in a compartment or entirely removed from the car.  This experience is very much about the tabula rasa, a daily ritual catharsis.

When I put the car through an automatic wash I have a tiresome ceremony upon completion.  The complex arose because I once discovered that some moulding had been removed during the wash.  Ever since that event I am fixated upon inspecting the car from stem to stern.  I punctuate the phobia by twisting the caps on the air nozzles of the tyres to satisfy myself they are secure.  It may of course be necessary to adjust the rearview mirrors and to remove some surplus water, a procedure conducted according to strict practice.  A collateral scan of the whole car for possible nicks and scratches is the final part of the checklist. After a personalized detailing I also conduct a general inspection.  The Island Car Wash inevitably exceeds the service of any other institution.  The competitors fall far short of the absolution bestowed by Island Car Wash.

In the result I have a clean windshield and a full tank of gas.  And a whole lot more!  It is partly defensible to observe that I am taking care of my “investment” (though I use the term with measured caution).  The car wash is an act of purification as much as that denomination may offend the sensibilities of some.  It is an experience which uplifts.  And yes I DO feel better!

If I could just locate the telephone I’d say we’d done a pretty good job of getting ourselves settled in this new place, what is to be our home for the next three months. The only oddity is that the stemware and dishes have seemingly consumed every bit of usable cupboard space in the kitchen. There is without a word of a lie absolutely no room for alimentary provisions!  Nothing!  Judging by the contents of the kitchen cupboards, you’d think the only thing people here ever did was drink!  There are glasses upon glasses!  We’ll have to rearrange things in the morning.  Other than that, however, all is well.  Our nocturnal digs are in order, the location of the loos has been mapped out, the computing devices (MacBook Pros, iPads, Bose SoundLinks and Neat scanner) have all been connected to WiFi and we’ve each established our respective perches for typing and surfing the internet.  Of course traditional furniture does not lend itself conveniently to typing on a computer (the antique-style desks are too high) so I pilfered two flat-ish pillows from the living area to prop myself up on the equally preposterous swivel leather chair in front of the desk.  I am thinking it will work out quite favourably!

Before locking the front door for the evening we detoured to Harris Teeter to stock the larder. In addition to all the required provisions for breakfast, lunch and dinner, including a healthful balance of fruit and vegetables, we also collected the standard household items required to sustain a home.  Getting comfortable here for the winter feels rather like an artist commencing a new painting, laying the primary foundation before indulging in the fine strokes of the project.  The bikes were relocated here from our former haunt.  We have our own parking on the private driveway in front of the house so access is immediate and unimpeded.  The tennis court and swimming pool (with chaises longues for lounging in the afternoon sun) are located across the street in this secluded enclave.

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We have now passed our first night here.  My bed was satisfactory though it initially appeared to be soft.  The bed is high off the floor; one must literally climb into bed.  As is my custom I stole extra pillows from the third bedroom. During the night on a visit to the loo I stubbed my toe on the entrance to bathroom.  There is a strip of marble between the bathroom and the hallway.  The little details to which one must adjust!

The spacious living area is a bit of a goldfish bowl as there are no curtains on the four patio doors which lead onto the deck overlooking the lagoon.  At this time of year (off-season) it really matters very little in any event though I find it strange not to be able to draw draperies at night.  I have happily discovered this morning that I needn’t close the French doors on my upstairs bedroom as there is no possibility of seeing the room from outside.  From the little balcony I can see the nearby lagoon.

When I awoke this morning I unpacked and put away my clothing.  The suitcases have been set aside for hibernation in the large walk-in closet.  I also rearranged a couple of pieces of furniture to accommodate a more utilitarian approach to interior decorating.

This morning we have both been puttering with our SoundLink devices.  It is a sign of the times that we have so many devices to connect to complete our installation.  This would have been unheard of years ago.  The only thing I carried then was a pack of cigarettes and a lighter.  Something like creative writing was put on hold in those days.

Today we’ll have to discover the most expedient route from here to the beach, organizing the necessary pit stops along the way.  I want to investigate the pool as well to determine whether it catches the afternoon light for sun bathing.

This is the last day of November.  I attach some significance to tomorrow’s date, December 1st, because it will mark the beginning of our scheduled three months on Hilton Head Island before we depart for Jekyll Island.  I am anxious to produce during the upcoming period something in the nature of a “work” which characterizes the time spent here.  I have thought about creating a character “Spin A. Kerr” to play upon the nautical theme I enjoy but I concede I haven’t enough knowledge about sailing or any other Maritime matters to make the account authentic.  I keep coming back to a less flattering decision to relate my own humble thoughts about the Island rather than attempting to manufacture fictional reports.  It should make the task at least theoretically easier.

For breakfast this morning I prepared two eggs over easy, smoked salmon, black berries and some hard cheese, complemented by an English muffin with salted butter, Harris Teeter peanut butter and organic honey.

We’re about to inaugurate our first day here!  Off we go!  After checking the outdoor temperature I have swapped my track pants for shorts.  It promises to be warm!

When it comes to fear, I have quite enough to occupy me with the very real fear I know. I haven’t any need to embellish it by phantasmagoric imaginations. In a nutshell, my fear is “to make the dinner-hour the nucleus of the day, and to spend the rest of it, as an old dog spends it, asleep in the sunshine or in the shade”.  This portends a dreary and lifeless prospect, hardly what is the desire of a man “who felt it to be the best definition of happiness to live throughout the whole range of his faculties and sensibilities” (The Scarlet Letter, Nathaniel Hawthorne). Providence has hopefully contemplated better things for me.  Until then I have accepted that I am on my own to do what I can to overcome my fear.

To be sure the dread is not universal.  Many people are content to fulfill their appetites, no more.  Granted it is arguable that discovering one’s faculties and sensibilities is an appetite of sorts and therefore the distinction may amount to one without a difference. It matters not. My object is not the appeasement of some preferred social standard, rather the satisfaction of my hardwired desires. Mine happen to involve creation not merely consumption. If there are those who are pleased to spend their time and energy and the hours of the day one way or another, even if it lacks a hint of inventiveness, perhaps they are blessed. I concede it may be a plague to pine for something apparently more esteemed, possibly out of reach.

Capitulation is neither the answer nor the alternative.  The morning alarm is the call of the sentry for proof of identity.  From the very moment of awakening the test is to fulfill one’s talents. There is of course Biblical strength to the admonition, assuming that matters, though my personal generation is from within rather than from without.

I have considered whether after a certain age it may be more advisable to avoid attempts at novelty and growth and to dwell instead upon fermentation, the sedentary hallmark of many a fine concoction.  My objection to that particular tact is that it is passive in spite of its assertion of the unquestionable value of reading, for example.  Once again my preference is to draw from within rather than from without.  The corollary is that perhaps there is nothing left upon which to draw, an empty well so to speak.  This really puts the “old dog asleep in the shade” metaphor in context;  it is more than just a condition, it’s a sentence.

It is tempting to manufacture reasons for the fading of one’s creative amplitude.  One could blame the absence of ingenuity upon a supposed want of opportunity.  If one’s erstwhile career were spent in the resolution of problems, it is at least logically possibly that there can be no answer without a question.  This is a misguided channel of investigation as it addresses the symptom not the cause.  It must be admitted that the time has passed to return to the forum of one’s former agitation where the dying embers have all but been extinguished.

Everything I know about capitalism leads me to conclude that one must first identify one’s resources then exploit them.  There are so many examples of those who have elevated themselves from what may have been a rubbish pit in the minds of others.  It certainly requires application and diligence.  This isn’t going to happen on its own.  It will likely help to be driven by fateful need or burning desire.  In any event personal expression means getting involved, not merely sleeping in the sunshine.

South Beach in the Sea Pines Resort on Hilton Head Island, South Carolina is located as the name implies at the southern most point of the Island.  It is in texture very much like the predominantly upscale residential character of the rest of Sea Pines Resort though it distinguishes itself by being in addition about as close as one comes to the Coney Island experience on the Island.  There are certainly no Sideshows by the Seashore, ferris wheels, roller coasters or Stuff Yourself Silly restaurants.  There is only the very quaint and respectable Salty Dog Café and T-shirt Factory, a Happy Hour Music Cruise and the Land’s End Tavern.  Located nearby are a number of tennis courts and seaside residential developments which include some private homes but mostly condominiums, some in the character of townhouses, the remainder in the nature of traditional apartment buildings.  The Island’s strict urban planning guidelines have maintained the elevated sensibilities so pronounced throughout the entire Resort area.

Our residence here for the last two weeks of November is in one of the apartment-style buildings on the fifth (top) floor overlooking the sound which connects immediately to the Atlantic Ocean only one hundred yards easterly.  The extensive property features delightful gardens and vegetation.  It is secluded by a winding private drive from South Sea Pines Drive (which by the time it reaches South Beach is akin to a rustic pathway). We selected this place as a last minute thought when we determined to extend our planned three-month trip here.  The estate agent recommended it to us and by and large it has not disappointed.  Having said that we concur that our removal on Friday next to our more permanent freehold townhouse will be welcomed if for no other reason than that we will not thereafter be obliged to deal with an elevator when transporting our personal possessions, household provisions and groceries.  The lift is currently a minor inconvenience only but a prolonged commitment would unquestionably become tedious.  The development is complete with manicured surrounding parkland where we have seen deer wandering and a very attractive swimming pool (perpetually maintained and convenient for afternoon sunbathing though otherwise perfectly useless at this time of year).  The fact that the property adjoins the sound is somewhat meaningless other than for the view because it is not a location where one would prefer to access the beach for purposes of bicycling (our primary outdoor occupation).  Being removed slightly from the direct effect of the Ocean tides, the beach of the sound does not drain of water as readily as the main beach when the tide is out and hence is most often unsuitable for bike travel though entirely fine for healthy walks and leisurely perambulations.  Accordingly we have made the habit of connecting to the beach at the Beach Club further north on the Atlantic shore where we can normally be assured of dry sand for bicycling.  Otherwise the view has afforded us welcome diversions in the nature of passing yachts, dolphins, sea birds and sunsets.  The apartment has two commodious balconies from which to take in the sights or through the patio doors of which merely to relish the salty air and the sound of the sea.

The interior of the condominium apartment is generally what one would describe as traditional.  There has been no attempt to cultivate the singular tropical flavour so common to many Florida residences.  Indeed if there were any bent it is toward a Parisian goût.  Many of the wall hangings reflect references to French sidewalk cafés, théâtre and opéra and some pictures are decidedly feminine (extraordinarily fashionable high-heeled shoes).  There are portrayals of gambolling waiters and chefs, distinguished ladies walking their equally precious small dogs and door frames reminiscent of hillside homes in the South of France.  The only concession of the furniture to the Maritime feature of the environment is the incorporation of wicker.  Otherwise the furnishings are of substantial wood construction, as is the cabinetry of the kitchen and the two ensuite bathrooms.  The walls and accessories are coloured in muted hues.  While the floors of the two bedrooms are covered in broadloom the living area has a tiled floor over which is splayed an Oriental-style rug.  The only obvious error in the outfitting of the unit is that there is track lighting above the dining table when it should have been positioned in the kitchen where it was needed.  The reversed lighting creates an absurd juxtaposition of the kitchen and the dining area and preserves a constant minor though palpable annoyance.

The estate agent has exemplified its superior management skill by having responded immediately to our every comment.  For example the mere mention of a damaged seal around the inside of the stove door resulted in the replacement of the entire stove with a new one; likewise a complaint about the coffee maker brought about the provision of a replacement.  The other appliances include in-sink waste disposal, double-door refrigerator, dishwasher, blender, single-cup and multiple-cup coffee makers, four-slice toaster, hand-held mixer, washer, dryer, three flat-screen TVs, Blue-ray disc player, iPod/CD/radio system and DVD player.  The property management is diligent as evident from the daily presence of staff cultivating the gardens and cleaning the walkways, hallways and elevators.  There is ample parking and of course bicycle racks.