The weather forecast for the next week and beyond is positively illuminating! I have even wondered when we might have a break from this Nirvana, when there might be a moment of cloud to balance the scales, to permit one to apply oneself to something other than pure enjoyment.
Within the context of idealism there remain the perfections of routine. Something as mundane as a tricycle ride or a chilled coffee succeed to laminate an otherwise unproductive day. Indeed I do not hesitate to proclaim the advantage of those trite passages of preoccupation. Nor, let me assure you, do I have any regret about having nothing further to legitimize my participation. It is no accident that it is the domaine of the elderly to ponder the present and perhaps to capture the past. Were it otherwise there would be no opportunity for the vacuity. The energy of youth is in fact an obstruction upon reflection. Not that youth has ever paid particular attention to the ramblings of a septuagenarian. Nor should they. Long ago I learned that it is focus upon the present which equates to breadth of the future. Most certainly it was never wistfully regarding the past that levered the advancement. At best youthful consideration of aged wisdom is a matter of options.
I do however feel at times that I am a bird in a cage. Without the threat of defeat, without the novelty of adventure, without the burden of change or the peril of deprivation, there is little more than swinging back and forth upon one’s perch (albeit a profitable engagement of its own). It is still a paradox of emotions because neither have I the urge to translate my Tweedie Bird existence to that of antagonism with Sylvestre the Cat.
Nonetheless the ripples of acrimony and malevolence do occasionally surface for the oddest of reasons. It is the nature of humanity to acquaint itself with argument no matter how excusable the proliferation may be. Modification renders itself in a multitude of fashions none of which is eternally admired or sustained. No doubt it is for this reason that I acknowledge my passion for the change of seasons, for the contrast between sedation and vacation, mildly tolerating the ups and downs of life, the ins and outs of achievement and distress.
In the end, no matter the weather or the consequence of change, it’s up to us individually to arrange the daily cosmetics, to remove ourselves from the lair, to prepare the face to meet the world, hopefully refreshed and enthusiastically. Life is an undeterred companion to which we’re unwittingly attached at times like a rebellious child being hauled forward while digging in his heels. But nothing will deter the procession across the panorama, whether a picturesque vista or a muddy field. No matter that one stands fast upon the ground, there is notwithstanding movement, the unbridled and irrepressible ticking of time, a resource as profitable as it is unquenchable. What it is that one detracts from that conveyor is one’s choice. But I am reminded in this cavern of anxiety that nothing surpasses the relevance of nowhere to go, nothing to do. It is not my custom to submit to the dread of Huis Clos.
No Exit (French: Huis clos) is a 1944 existentialist French play by Jean-Paul Sartre. The play was first performed at the Théâtre du Vieux-Colombier in May 1944.[1] The play begins with three characters who find themselves waiting in a mysterious room. It is a depiction of the afterlife in which three deceased characters are punished by being locked into a room together for eternity. It is the source of Sartre’s especially famous phrase “L’enfer, c’est les autres” or “Hell is other people”, a reference to Sartre’s ideas about the look and the perpetual ontological struggle of being caused to see oneself as an object from the view of another consciousness.
Though parallels and definition are not always assured, the application to certain boundaries is not without its reward, Merely proposing a scheme of performance is sufficient acquiescence to the instinct to live. Whatever one plans is guaranteed to be rendered complete not by our own abbreviations or installations but rather by the insinuation of that complex web of capital which surrounds us. Through the mist of exertion and complication shines the promise of the day. We are but tiny gnats randomly circulating the atomosphere, occasionally touching upon a fertile resource whence we derive unanticipated congruity, sometimes familiarity, always nutrition, maybe luck, maybe development. The book is not written already; it is a narrative of continuity. And sometimes it’s just a pleasant day.