Pacific day

In an instant everything has returned to normal.  The snow has melted, the streets are bare, the traffic is its usual controlled flow, there’s nothing left to do or to plan. It’s a pacific day.

In the basement of the apartment building I withdrew my tricycle from its corner station where I leave it near the entrance to the lift. I sat upon it, secured the stationary brake holder, set my watch (to time the requisite 30 minutes of exercise), released the brake then pushed off, one end of the garage to the other and back again. Over and over again. It too was a peaceful passage. Uninterrupted by invasive obligation or pesky commitment. I had slept late this morning, at last tranquillized by the 3:00 am collection of pain killers I unhesitatingly consume as the lesser of the evils of spinal decomposition and arthritis.

I lubricated the course of my tricycling by casually pondering the past and the future, what I had once done and what was about to transpire. The look back and ahead was pleasing. In keeping with the mediatory nature of the day I made a point to behave diplomatically when conversing with the people who on occasion came and went from the parking garage. The hours of frivolity had given way to earnestness. There was Rita – who was visiting Elaine for coffee – whom I interrupted first to express my condolences upon her recent loss, and then to chat at some length (and with open curiosity) about her new and former residences about which I had some commensurate acquaintance through her daughter Val and formerly from personal knowledge going back many, many years.  Rita spoke glowingly of the people at Orchard View who had afforded a private communal area for a recent family gathering; and about her new townhouse for which I believe Val had assisted upon the intial move.

Then I met with Stuart.  He and I have previously gabbed with one another on several occasions, each time the intelligence enlarges and flavours the lingering character of one another. His dislodgement from Dungarvon is almost complete and he has that air of confidence and assurance which strengthens his current resort here on Johanna Street.

Subsequently I exchanged pleasantries with another resident, a lady who was in and out then back again. We quipped about her parking skill. Meanwhile I accomplished my 30-minute purgatory.  Thus cleansed and reinvigorated I parked the tricycle and in exchange took my seat in the XT4.  Off to the usual as well!  It was as I say an uncommonly waveless day.  The countryside though somewhat gloomy beneath the mist and fog was nonetheless inspiring for its bit of warmth in spite of its jaundiced appearance. As I rolled along the Appleton Side Road past the farms and horses and then upon the undulating ribbon of highway from Carleton Place to Stittsville I amused myself to listen to my personal collection of musical favourites all of which succeeded to insinuate the already equable nature of the day.

At the car wash I saturated my obsessive devotion to the front mats of the car by putting each of them through the mechanical wash then vacuuming the underlying carpet.  My resolution and squaring were thus complete, capping the pathetic fallacy mounted by the surrounding scenery.  I now eagerly pursued my return to home where I predicted that a chilled coffee awaited in the ‘fridge; and perhaps some sliced green apple and 5-year old cheddar cheese as a snack while addressing my duties at my desk.