Apart from geography and its potent enterprising images, the cruise industry is foremost abuzz with the pledge of unparalleled luxury. Nor is the epicurean extravagance just for romantic old fogeys. They encourage singles too. And the introductory video shows a suite with a Steinway & Sons grand piano (which once on board I have every intention of seeking out). I have no doubt too that the stimulation of the gastric and neurological sensibilities forms a vital part of this overall picture.
Not everything at this time of year is about the blitheness of springtime. Though by contrast to that withering overture, I had an effervescent moment this afternoon at Walmart. I cleaned out their entire stock of synthetic long-stem roses both red and white. They’re for my precious Lalique vase. While waiting at the checkout counter I privately mused whether this bit of retail might qualify as springtime gardening. To be frank the quip is less than poetic. I don’t recall ever having done anything approaching productivity in a garden. Unless perhaps when I planted those real red roses which the sun promptly detroyed because I foolishly put them against an unobstructed southwesterly wall. And I as perishingly overlooked the business of watering.
It is unquestionably a small compliment that an old fogey such as I suddenly feels as though he were picking up speed. Frankly since retirement precisely a decade ago, the majority of my time has been devoted to lethargy not vigor. And by design. To my mind it constitutes the ultimate flattery (and muted satisfaction) to have nothing to do, nowhere to go. But guilt has overtaken me. The perception of time running out is equally incremental to the prepossessing hurry to run before I get there! To me that sounds like dividing a distance in half perpetually as though it were a logical formula to compete with finality. Which of course it is not. Hence I settle for the camouflage of excitement. A convenient deceit.
Thankfully in my current state of catholic indolence, even a dismal day is now too relevant and important to bypass. Relevant because I have nothing other I would prefer to do than ponder and write about the subject (call it a hobby). And important because I know that time is running out and that there will be nothing other than these trifling ruminations to enlarge my library of accomplishment upon my death.
Being in the sphere of old age means removal from another world. Increasingly I am haunted by the impression that what I see from my ancient perspective is likely quite different from what young people are looking at notwithstanding the philosophic import of universality.
Jim Hugessen died on April 21st, 2024. He was 90 years old. Aside from having had a distinguished career as a Federal Court Judge he was a great guy. Neither my partner nor I can precisely recall when we first met Jim. At the time he was living in the grand stone home along the Mississippi River adjacent the Maclan Bridge that goes through the middle of town. The home (purchased by Rob Prior and refashioned as the “Almonte RIverside Inn”) is immediately adjacent St. Paul’s Anglican Church whence derives considerable history bearing upon Jim’s erstwhile spousal connection to the Rosamonds, the wool gatherers of eminent distinction in town.
Before AI was part of the daily chatter there were algorithms. What little I have detected about algorithms is that they’re a collection of one’s own thoughts or preferences; that is, the prescription is both predictable and familiar. Put another way, you get out of it what you put into it. Not entirely an unimaginable leap from the typewriter or gramophone.
Indeed, Dionysodorus agrees that “there is no such thing as false opinion … there is no such thing as ignorance”, and demands of Socrates to “Refute me.” Socrates responds “But how can I refute you, if, as you say, to tell a falsehood is impossible?”
There were rumours this morning as we departed the apartment to drive to the golf club for breakfast that it was snowing. I had earlier seen suggestions of same on the weather App but was undeterred. Nothing had yet materialized. I was set upon wearing my exceedingly comfortable Dillard’s Roundtree & Yorke vanilla Bermuda shorts with the expandable waistline. Snow showers in April be damn! They quickly pass. Besides the temperature was predicted to rise above freezing; and the late morning and afternoon forecast was for high winds (northerly of course) and sunshine. In any event we were going to the golf club. Our housekeeper was due to arrive within the hour. We prefer (as no doubt does she) that we’re out of the way.
Sitting at my desk this evening after another of my partner’s incomparably gratifying and balanced meals, overlooking the endlessly magificient view of the burgeoning country fields and placid upriver aspect, I am complascently reminded of the tolerable straits. Apart from the personal patina of ¾ a century, it constitutes an exceedingly pretty picture.