You can bet the Ivy League crowd won’t tolerate more jewellery on a man than a watch and a signet ring. Men and jewellery are considered incongruous in the more traditional circles. Yet within prescribed limits men’s jewellery portrays powerful status symbols. The signet ring for example with its engraved escutcheon is the upper middle class translation of what was once the reserve of a feudal lord to authenticate legal documents. The feudal lord being primarily an agrarian had far too robust a character to admit to literacy (an effeminate trait peculiar to the clergy and lawyers). Even the deportment of the jewellery was significant. The signet ring was normally worn upon the left pinky on the theory that the right hand was dedicated to the manly business of unencumbered hand shaking. Pocket watches (often adorned with expensive gold fobs) enjoyed the same blazing pronouncement as the bejewelled sgian-dubh of Scottish Highland dress.

In the minds of some people jewellery on men says as much about them as tattoos which is often a small compliment. The more vulgar display of large and expensive jewellery is frequently associated with disadvantaged people who have nonetheless acquired the trappings of wealth through suspected nefarious means. Even if the cost of the items inspires secret admiration, its prominent exhibition is viewed as lower class. This distortion has undergone main-stream modification at the hands of celebrities who often sport exceedingly large and preposterous watches.

The diamond ring is normally associated with the engagement of women for marriage; however it has come to be an important feature of men’s jewellery symbolizing success and wealth. In such conventional but hedonistic venues as the Empress Hotel, Victoria it is nothing to see a parade of usually elderly men sporting a diamond pinky ring. The once refined and utilitarian signet ring has made its mercantile jump to static symbolism.

As office attire has relaxed so too has the jewellery standard for men. The most common articles of fashion for men are now necklaces and bracelets. When gold was still affordable most jewellery was made of it; however, it is not uncommon to see the same pieces made of silver and even leather or other base metals which are embellished with gaudy stones or synthetic crystals. Wearing more than one necklace or bracelet at the same time has become both routine and fashionable, a habit cultivated in particular by popular musicians.

For the serious man wrist watches remain the domain of important and exclusive jewellery. Here a man can indulge in virtually limitless expense while maintaining the deceit of modesty. Additionally the complicated watches satisfy the aficionado’s appetite for mechanical intrigue not to mention the consumption spin-offs of engraving, automatic watch winders and jewellery boxes.

There is a set of men who get an honest thrill from metallic substances. For those with trained sensibilities the feel of different metals can be very appealing. Items made of platinum for example provide the indisputable reward of weight and inherent durability. The luscious appearance of 24K gold is equally moving. The buttery feel of .925 silver is likewise appealing. And because jewellery is always an accent, one mustn’t discount the combined effect of the colour of different jewellery against the skin of the wearer. Platinum though generally less sparkly than silver imparts a very rich flavour when worn against the darker skin of a Latino. The import of a clear diamond against the milky skin of a Protestant octogenarian is an indisputable statement.

While most men’s jewellery is worn about the fingers, neck or wrist there is an evolving realm of jewellery worn about the waist. The incremental return of clothes resembling the zoot suit has brought with it the featured watch chain dangling from the belt to the knee or below, then back to a side pocket. Until the complete absorption of that fashion, some men are hanging from a belt loop an expensive and highly artistic key chain manufactured for example by Mont Blanc.

Men’s jewellery formerly associated with evening dress (shirt studs and cuff links) has taken a hit because of the downgrading of formal wear generally. Meanwhile there is a culture of jewellery for men of every class and station. Inevitably there are gross distortions of what were once subtle adornments. Sometimes the evolution is clever such as the large battery-powered watches which synthesize the sweep hand of a manual automatic watch. It is hard to argue with the ingenuity of such jewellery which has a stand-alone attraction apart from its affordable price.

As with almost everything else the purchase of men’s jewellery has undergone significant change as the result of internet on-line retailing. The whimsical appeal of jewellery is quickly satisfied with a mere click. The web-based merchants have tapped into the resources of off-shore manufacturers who drastically lower the price of even once prohibitively expensive items. Niche marketing to men is common (for example the appeal of skull and bones jewellery for bikers).

Whatever the choice or cost of jewellery the fact remains that men and jewellery are all about appearances. And I think the imputation of an underlying psychological function is also warranted. The symbol portrayed by individual choices is as unique as the person who wears the jewellery.

I have dominion over my affairs.  I wear whatever I want, my shirt-tails dangling, my hair disheveled, the spectacles of my choice. I am beholden to no one. I have disengaged from the bonds of servitude, the yoke of drudgery. The promises, representations and covenants of my indenture are now those of my own doing and of my own concern.  I walk unbent by the burden of obligation.

My realm stretches before me across the hardwood floors, the six rooms of my castle in the sky, my paintings and my books, the corridor along which I tread to collect the morning mail, the underground vault where I store my black and shiny coach.  We are recluse. The view from the turret beyond is unobstructed and bucolic.  If I were so disposed I could stand upon the balcony and gaze into the distance for as long as I might wish, immersing myself in unrestrained absorption of fleeting sensibilities.  The sheers billow in the zephyr.

My industry is the management of our resources. The estate agent is our financial advisor.  When not planning the society of friends for a sail upon the River we content ourselves to lunch or dine.  I can sleep whenever I wish.  Or I might twirl my ring upon my finger and read Thomas Babington Macauley.

Occasionally a situation takes us to the City to visit the dowager mother or my sister.  On a whim we might institute an aimless ramble on the Ivy Lea Parkway or to Cedar Cove or White Lake or Burnstown for coffee and a sweet. We plot our hibernation from salt and snow and slush to free ourselves from the anticipated chalky residue and howling cold winds.  We needn’t live in dread of the coming darkness, enforced remission.  There isn’t a particle of apprehension upon the horizon.  I can bicycle everyday, any day.

Such a contented lot have I as laird of the manor!  I wonder if I mustn’t awaken from a dream.

I am ready to explode. My pent-up ambition is going nowhere. It heightens my anxiety  that I have exhausted all devices by which to put off the reckoning.

My needs are ostensibly few. Indeed my needs have never been fewer. While this is fortunate it oddly depletes my resolve. All my life I have responded to need, sometimes admittedly of my own creation. The possibility of being animated by other than need is therefore foreign to me.  I am a workhorse by nature, happiest in my yoke.

Perhaps I must redefine need.  It occurs to me for example that I should read more.  That at least has the air of civilized industry. Maybe my problem is that I only respond to need rather than behave proactively (though I haven’t a plan to save the world).  Certainly a change of tact is evocative if for no other reason than novelty.

Or has the time come to relish indolent seclusion? The allure of passivity persists.  I am rationalizing it as a challenge, fortified for example by the adage that “There is nothing harder to do than nothing” and supplemented by the fiction that I am training myself to observe.  For the time being however these philosophical renditions afford little if any modification.  In the result I am  immobilized.

How happy I would have been to retire to my book and my bottle!  But such is not to be.  Instead I must confront my sober dilemma.  I have never been diverted by television or theatre.  Mere travel for the sake of it is not within my scope.  Meanwhile I have nothing better to do than my morning bicycle ride (I can’t even sit on a beach without going for a swim) and to prepare for lunch.

The weight of my concern nonetheless commands me to reflect further. Through practice of implementation I have learned to trust my instincts.  I must allow myself at least a year before jumping ship.  I shall wait.

Although there is a difference in the meaning of councillor (from Latin “concilium” meaning “convocation, assembly”  from “con” – ‘together’ + “calare” -‘summon’) and counsellor (from Latin “consilium”  meaning “consultation or advice”), the two are nonetheless similar in that those elected to govern are called upon to give guidance and direction.  What however is singular about a councillor is that he or she is inextricably involved in the administration of laws; that is, the councillor is constrained to act upon legal authority in the conduct of his or her office.   If the issue about which a councillor is consulted is beyond the scope of governing legislation, the councillor is without jurisdiction and inevitably any assertion is without weight and therefore either irrelevant or misleading.

Setting aside the debate about how this country was wrested from the native inhabitants in the first place – whether by force or treaty – the government of Canada is founded upon The British North America Act, 1867 from which all subsequent legal authority flows.  Sections 91 and 92 outline the rights of the federal and provincial governments respectively to make laws for our country. Section 92 gives to the provincial governments power to legislate with respect to “property and civil rights”.  There have been a myriad of laws enacted by the Province of Ontario.  Many of these laws – for example, the Municipal Act and the Planning Act –  come within the purview of council for administration.  The scope of  provincial legislation is as broad as the subject of property and civil rights admits; but in every case the legislation is the governing document, the primary source of authority pursuant to which councillors act.  These laws can now be readily viewed on the internet through elaws Ontario:

http://www.e-laws.gov.on.ca/navigation?file=home

The primary legislation often includes the Regulations which are detailed refinement upon the general legislation. Other laws flow from the enactment of provincial legislation, including for example municipal zoning by-laws which in turn can be viewed at:

http://www.mississippimills.ca/en/townhall/buildingplanning.asp

The interpretation of laws is governed by rules of construction which have at times been enunciated by the Courts where a challenge was mounted to one interpretation or another.  This is generally called “judge made law” or the “common law”.  There may in limited circumstances be reference to the Interpretation Act for further advice of general application to other legislation.

An acknowledgment of the authority by which a councillor acts affects not only what constituents are entitled to do but also what councillors are expected to do. Reference to the primary source of authority (that is, the particular Act, Regulation or Zoning By-law) will direct the councillor to the determination of what the Question is before attempting to state what the Answer is.  Narrowing the focus will facilitate hitting the target.

I have difficulty reconciling myself to discount stores. Primarily the reason is that I have long harboured the view that you get what you pay for.  Even if the assertion in support of discount stores is that there is so much there which is the same quality but at a higher price somewhere else, I nonetheless cling to the further belief that people are persuaded to spend money on stuff they don’t need only because it is cheap.  I am well aware that my scruples will hardly be of any interest to or effect upon those who are dedicated regulars at discount stores.  But I’d nonetheless prefer to continue my rant.

The other objection I have to discount stores – an objection which is really just a refinement of the objection to lack of quality – is that the items being flogged are “seconds” which occasionally matters in only the smallest details but regularly means there are indeed serious imperfections which in the result make the product quite useless or so far from the intended purchase as to be much mistaken.

Many discount stores are undeniably a collection of junk.  This is not only a variation on the earlier theme of being cheap; it is a stand-alone criticism. The material is not only inexpensive but poorly made and destined to be rubbish within a short time.  We are contributing to a culture of hoarders.

Recently as a result of fires in Asian factories it has come to the attention of the North American consumer that the low priced clothing now appearing in grocery store aisles is made at considerable risk to the poorly paid workers. Additionally we are made aware that these same factories are putting our own people out of work and out of business.  Again the question is, “At what price cheap?”  Where once we may have assuaged our conscience by complimenting ourselves on satisfying our needs with humble textiles, we now see in the plainest of terms that large commercial interests are profiting on the backs of the most vulnerable members of humanity – and we’re helping them do it.  It is no accident that the names of stores on the lips of many are those belonging to the barons of today’s commerce – Walmart, Costco, Giant Tiger, Target, etc.

I acknowledge that I have the privilege to scoff at cheap goods and that there are those who of necessity cannot.  This is a hard one to contradict.  But I think it is part of a more serious erosion of our general expectations.  First, by virtue of the so-called affordable prices, we are led to expect we can have almost anything we want at a price we want.  Second, we are lulled into a state of dullness by the inherent mediocrity of what we buy.  Growing up I recall the reputation of entire countries such as Switzerland and Germany for quality goods.  To a lesser extent the Americans have encroached upon this distinction.  But for the most part it is an advantage of which few people speak these days.  The notable exception is the Japanese automobile, a peculiarity which couldn’t have been imagined fifty years ago.

We’ve all heard it said, “If you’ve got it, you don’t talk about it”.  It is a comment usually applied to people with money.  And from what I can tell, it’s true.  Upsettlingly true I find. Modesty was never my strong point and I admit to begrudge it in others.  Especially when it comes to money.  Artistic talent is something I can tolerate, but people who have money outdistance every other virtue as far as I’m concerned.  Which isn’t to suggest I couldn’t care a fig for the real virtues of living, I do of course.  It’s just that on the social scene money is the trump card.  It’s such a patently measurable quality, so readily discernible, so capable of quick assessment.  It is for example all you need to know about someone whom you’ve just met.  The other more complicated details about the person’s character and philosophies of life can follow in due course and will be the result of a fluid and natural evolution.  Besides it’s hard to imagine someone going on about being a philanthropist or any other long-suffering altruist.  It rather defeats the point.

There are as many levels of financial comfort as there are people who enjoy it.  For those who have vast amounts of the stuff, I hardly need bother myself.  They are of no more than statistical interest. The vicarious pleasures of the wealthy are easily achieved through books and the movies.  If however one wants to keep their feet on the ground, a dose of common sense is required. What I prefer are those with a small private income.  It is a level of distinction which while clearly self-sustaining never robs the person of his humanity.  I’m afraid I can’t say the same about the very rich.  Likely based on purely anecdotal stories I have decided that people who are excessively rich are the most precarious and least to be envied.  All that business about people jumping out of windows on Wall Street in the 1930s for example.

Though we know we shouldn’t do it, we attribute a great deal more pleasantness to wealth than we should.  Primarily the objection isn’t that money isn’t a nice thing, rather it’s that we incorrectly imagine how different we’d be if we had it ourselves.  That’s the myth of lotteries of course, all that hype about what an exciting person you’d become with millions of dollars. What little I know about people who have won lotteries (from many thousands to several million dollars) I can only conclude that little changes.  The sobering truth is that we’re the same person the next morning and for that reason alone the modification is disappointing even disheartening.  Nothing propels us faster to an examination of our inner reality than the admission that the material world is merely an extension of the decay that is the fate of every one of us. I’m sorry but I’m not terribly moved by the prospect of a private jet or an island in the sun.

But a small private income is hardly objectionable.  It has besides such a gracious ring to it.  It’s like an old Harris tweed jacket, a statement without being a pronouncement.  It further has the advantage of being on the right side of outright Bolshevism.  It wouldn’t likely attract much attention in the Revolution.

I enjoy writing. It’s unfortunate my productions are resounding nothings. Writing isn’t a labour for me.  It’s instinctive. Like my piano playing. Though that isn’t saying much either.  It’s an appetite whose measure is its own satisfaction whatever the insipid result.

It’s all very well to say there are limitless choices about what to write. That never makes the task a breeze.  Sticking to hard facts is no easier a path than creating a fantasy.  I do however steer clear of vulgar details. At least those calculated to attract prurient interest.  I’ll leave that to others.  I’m still not comfortable sacrificing any possible literary skill to the accommodation of mere amusement.

The edict to write about what you know is far more effort than implied.  I guess it’s because what we know and what we say we know are not always the same thing.  And we seldom express it in the same way we think it.  Opening the doors to the private rooms of our mind requires the same trust and enthusiasm as entertaining others in one’s own home.  I admit I’ve always been bedevilled by the need to put on a good show when entertaining others. But of course the preoccupation can render an otherwise pleasant communion stilted.

So you’re back to being yourself.  I accept that the prescription is valid even though swallowing it isn’t a snap.  Somehow I understand that as dull as any one of us thinks he or she is, we’re really quite singular. Our stories are far more unique and intriguing than we may give them credit.  It’s a challenge to resist the temptation to make the account more than an historical record. But that immediately defeats the purpose.  Designing what one says is destined to be dull.

Reading improving books is motivating. But listening to a great concert pianist will not impart the same talent. One has to accept the inherent limitations upon talent.  Some writers have brilliant minds and a vast personal experience.  To say we’re not that person is not helpful.  In nature there are some flowers which are more glorious than others but each of them shines in their own way.  And not one of them will transform themselves into anything different.  I guess it’s just disappointing to be a roadside weed instead of an orchid if you see what I mean.

Original Version 1
Jack and Jill went up the hill
To fetch a pail of water.
Jack fell down and broke his crown,
And Jill came tumbling after.

Thesaurus Version 2
John and his sweetheart betook themselves onto a naturally raised area of land
To bring back a bucket of one of the four elements in medieval philosophy.
John toppled and fractured the top part of his head
And the young woman came headlong afterwards.

Thesaurus Version 3
The former king of England and his lover went to an elevated position of the earth’s surface not covered by water
To find the essence of life.
His Lordship was overthrown and split the government in the process
And his mistress was beheaded.

Thesaurus Version 4
The Crown and his junkie went where there was no life
In search of it.
The Supreme Power was unseated and divided the upper administration.
She who was particularly skilled was separated from her intentions.

Thesaurus Version 5
The government and its bureaucracy sought in desolation
For strength.
God was disturbed and apportioned control
With experienced calculation.

“While the true origins of the rhyme are unknown there are several theories. As is common with nursery rhyme exegesis, complicated metaphors are often said to exist within the lyrics of Jack and Jill. Most explanations post-date the first publication of the rhyme and have no corroborating evidence. These include the suggestion by S. Baring-Gould in the 19th century that the events were a version of the story told in the 13th-century Prose Edda Gylfaginning written by Icelandic historian Snorri Sturluson, who stated that in Norse mythology, Hjúki and Bil, brother and sister (respectively), were taken up from the earth by the moon (personified as the god Máni) as they were fetching water from the well called Byrgir, bearing on their shoulders the cask called Saegr and the pole called Simul.  Around 1835 John Bellenden Ker suggested that Jack and Jill were two priests, and this was enlarged by Katherine Elwes in 1930 to indicate that Jack represented Cardinal Wolsey (c.1471–1530); and Jill was Bishop Tarbes, who negotiated the marriage of Mary Tudor to the French king in 1514.

It has also been suggested that the rhyme records the attempt by King Charles I to reform the taxes on liquid measures. He was blocked by Parliament, so subsequently ordered that the volume of a Jack (1/2 pint) be reduced, but the tax remained the same. This meant that he still received more tax, despite Parliament’s veto. Hence “Jack fell down and broke his crown” (many pint glasses in the UK still have a line marking the 1/2 pint level with a crown above it) “and Jill came tumbling after”. The reference to “Jill”, (actually a “gill”, or 1/4 pint) is said to reflect that the gill dropped in volume as a consequence.

The suggestion has also been made that Jack and Jill represent Louis XVI of France, who was deposed and beheaded in 1793 (lost his crown), and his Queen, Marie Antoinette (who came tumbling after), a theory made difficult by the fact that the earliest printing of the rhyme pre-dates those events. There is also a local belief that the rhyme records events in the village of Kilmersdon in Somerset in 1697. When a local spinster became pregnant, the putative father is said to have died from a rock fall and the woman died in childbirth soon after.”

The days for wearing short pants are numbered.  I felt the first cool breath of autumn this morning.  We threw open the windows of the apartment and turned off the air conditioner which had been humming ceaselessly for weeks. The real air in the apartment smelled good, the floors were naturally cool. The sky was no longer sultry.  I caught a glance of the red Hudson’s Bay blanket on the top shelf of the closet as I removed a fleece to wear.

Capitalizing upon the morning sunshine we went to the Golf Club for breakfast. There is a rush of the patrons to golf as much as possible. The catering staff is already planning its seasonal demise, the frost of change upon their minds.  The cook wonders whether she can do this another year, work seven days a week to choreograph luncheons and dinners; the servers need a job for the winter (but will ensure their reapplication is on record just in case, hopefully it won’t be needed but the cooks knows the strategy so she’s in limbo). There’s always change.

We passively chew upon our breakfast, glancing at the burgeoning River after yesterday’s downpour, contemplating only whether to bring the emergency radio to South Carolina when we leave in November.  We’ll bring the shorts. We know winter’s coming but we don’t care at least not for the usual reasons but we keep it to ourselves.  Younger people have important things on their mind and they don’t include old people with no hair or grey hair and protuberant bellies going south for three months.

This afternoon on my routine and lonely bike ride along the rural fields I hear the cicadas buzzing furiously in the late summer heat.  Do they mate at this time of year? The sun isn’t so high anymore at this hour of the day. The children are back to school.  The roads are quiet.  The open deck at Cedar Cove would have been pleasant today and likely not crowded.  We will have time yet to relish it, the changing leaves on the other side of White Lake, maybe even a fire in the dining room.

O, it offends me to the soul to hear a robustious
periwig-pated fellow tear a passion to tatters, to
very rags, to split the ears of the groundlings, who
for the most part are capable of nothing but
inexplicable dumbshows and noise.
(Hamlet, 3.2)

Lately I spoke on the street with someone who had recently retired. She told me that as a consequence of her retirement – or at least in step with it – she had developed an interest in politics, something she said was for her a new endeavour. I concluded that the leisure of retirement had afforded her the privilege of dwelling upon what for my entire life has been the inescapable though frequently negligible babbling of political pundits who chatter with about as much interest as the drone of a television advertisement. It may however be that the cultivation of a curiosity in politics is less the product of indolence and more the result of refined absorption, the sort of vaporization which one expects might only come with age and maturity. Even if I am wrong in attributing any sophistication to the dalliance, it would appear that politics is at the very least mildly more entertaining than staring at wallpaper. My companion in fact led me to believe that there was some intellectual value in the undertaking.

Whether the political arena is federal, provincial or municipal (a succession which is normally trotted out in order of diminishing interest and credibility) it is inevitable that the events precipitated by the respective actors are destined to provide considerable fodder for something approaching a stage production. Indeed in many instances the drama incorporates traditional theatrical themes of influence, greed, bias, comedic relief and, on a good day, maybe even scandal. In spite of their commercial attraction, it is undeniable that those same politicians are regularly held up to ridicule by the very observers who fuel their notoriety (and who are even likely to have voted for them in the first place). It would be a truly vain candidate for public office who imagined that he or she should not at some time or another suffer vilification. Alas this is part and parcel of the gory detail of show business.

It is too platitudinous to acknowledge the well-deserved pleasure of the populace in the diminishment of those who hold themselves out as potential leaders. The abuse is almost a rite of passage and anyone who pretends to have what it takes to act on the political stage must be prepared for the repercussions of any recruit before an audience.

I understand that in the good old days the enactment of a Shakespearean play was characterized by far more than today’s standard of polite involvement of the audience. Apparently the spectators of yore consisted of classes which on the one hand echoed the wealth of its patrons but on the other were metaphorical for the closeness of the observers and the pretenders. The “groundlings” (as those closest to the stage were called) were boisterous, loud and hot-tempered. Those who were removed by complacency from the fray of this association were nonetheless equally delighted by the activity when viewed from afar. If nothing else politics has such a wide and indiscriminate appeal and is so completely ambivalent that it enables almost anyone of whatever qualification to weigh in upon its merits. Politics is at once harmless and venomous but always gripping as any good show must be.