From the crow’s nest

This misty Sunday morning – threatened as it is by freezing rain – proves to be an ideal stage for languorous expression.  And the romantic sentimentalism of Gustav Mahler. I awoke mid-morning after a prolonged sleep fostered by Melatonin (the naturopathic sedative heralded by the wife of my dentist).  With the aid of Tylenol 650 mg I struggled as a consequence to restore a semblance of manipulation to my recovering and now arthritic broken ribs, deteriorating lower spine and neuropathic limbs and feet. Just saying. Likewise the elements prevailed. Gone for the moment at least is the urgency to cycle to restore one’s psychic balance and physical decorum. The diminished temperatures and already alarmingly low sun on the distant horizon contribute naturally to the clime of wintry isolation. I too intend to sink to provincialism.

What shall we do when the snow flies?

Mine is a life of unqualified minority. Perched as we are upon the eastern corner of the building overlooking the distant agricultural lands of nearby Ramsay Township we succeed to gaze rampantly upon our surroundings with a measure of complacency. The cable news media have reluctantly proven their own less than ethereal ambitions by evaporating their allure in step with the flinching president of the United States of America.

What shall we do when Trump is gone?

Though I’ve negotiated a tentative deal with Cadillac I fully expect to pursue an earlier commitment to Lincoln for its “second generation” Aviator. The automobile is the best I’ve owned. When the President of the Lincoln dealership introduced me to the mid-size SUV last year I was unimpressed.  I merely opened the driver’s door, positioned myself on the front seat, hurriedly glanced about then as summarily exited.  Hardly a thorough examination of the product. Subsequently I acknowledged the unfolding agenda of both Ford and GM to abandon sedans in favour of SUVs. It was no mistake. This vehicle is far more artistic than the initial truck-based models. The alignment of the wheels and sturdiness of the carriage are a positive delight at any speed – and I’ve sped up to 165 kms per hour as a test. The car is quiet throughout. Even with all four windows open and the landau roof pushed back its full length, the experience is invigorating. Nor is its ponderous weight an impediment to sudden speed – enabling for example the departure from approaching BMWs, Audis and Mercedes in the rearview mirror when feeding onto the freeway.

What shall I do when no longer able to drive?

The imperative to accept declension is not logically conjoined with total evaporation. As Dolly Parton only recently observed, “I haven’t time to be old!” I might prefer to say, “I haven’t lost my dedication to pleasure”. If, as I have willingly noted previously, there is the need for assistance along the way, so be it! Roving about the countryside is an undoubted luxury; but the reduction to less regulated mobility is not necessarily limiting. Just as we incrementally eat less – not because of health consciousness but rather pared down appetite – I have unwittingly adjusted to the prospect of alternative old fogey traffic.

What shall we do in the meantime?

Restoring society to its historic features of commonality and frequency is as much in question. It may arise to no more than a distinction without a difference as people learn to communicate and barter in less perilous ways. My lingering addictions to gold, silk, mahogany and oils on canvass will survive without further substance.  And my amateur participation in music and literature will no doubt likewise prevail. Wherein I derive my constancy and devotion is the submission to fact. And the percolating attraction of both utility and capacity.