It has lately occurred to me that I have failed to fulfill a purpose of monumental acclaim; and that reason, to speak frankly, is the perpetuation of the species.
The idea is that despite the fact that an individual’s lifespan is short and organisms die, they reproduce offspring for the next generations to come; life is therefore perpetuated as long as organisms reproduce.
Nothing illuminates a room more definably than the yellow light of a proper lamp. The manufacture may be of endless material and varied expression but whatever it is made of and however it is exhibited it is certain to lend its dynamic to the room. My preference is the subdued color of yellow light. It perhaps reflects a waning era of book reading and instead allegiance to the iPad or other technological wonder for transporting electronic copies of literature upon a whim to the visible computer screens of diverse range.
I’ve got a lot of favourites. But I hadn’t counted on relishing so many of them at once. Within the past 24 hours I have been unexpectedly overtaken by a collection of everything imaginable, things which by coincidence I happen to include in my list of personal favourites. Now I don’t really have a list of favourites. Well, actually I do, but the formalized list is limited to what I have fulfilled as my favourite music. Upon examination of that particular list I discovered this small insertion:
A chronicle of the present turns almost instantly into a record of the past. The narrative soon becomes an archive. Yet whatever the account, it is always a description of a person, object or event; and more frequently than not, a description of moderate amusement and as regularly of forgotten detail. It is partly for this reason alone that I hesitate to erase any of the written past; there is a risk of removing a diary of what might one day prove to be both entertaining and even valuable. The little I recall of the past has taught me as well that the evolution of amendment is far greater than we’re inclined to credit other than casually or superciliously. That is, there persists an unspecified value in the record of the past.
Quitting one’s current environment on such perfunctory words as “I’m outta here!” is normally indicative of one of two more penetrating circumstances. Either you’re reluctantly in a hurry to depart from an otherwise fruitful coalition; or you’re making haste to escape a predominantly disquieting communion. As in the case of most alternatives the message is seldom “mixed” so to speak; rather, the departure on one of those bipolar terms usually leaves an unequivocal and evincible conclusion.
The past several days have felt like diving for pearls, up and down, in and out. The strategy of refinement is daily corrupted. I suppose it isn’t an uncommon pursuit. Perfection. Nor entirely an unanticipated outcome. Tumult. Surely perfection is an unattainable ideal, a fabrication of the mind when nothing else beckons or distracts; or maybe it is merely the leaver to pull to restrict the flow. I had thought there might be more settlement of the bottom disturbances. Yet I linger on commotion instead. In present circumstances it hardly matters not to subdue the dust completely. The atmosphere above the multiple ingredients of collywobbles is otherwise singularly inviting, a cool but unquestionably moderate air, a profitable mix of sunshine and blue sky; and of course the perpetual squawking of the Canada geese in the nearby remnant corn fields or their ineffable arrows of flight descending upon the glassy mirror of the Mississippi River whence the plateaux of ice and snow are now gone.
Before we quit we must submit. That at least is our plan. In an unanticipated move this morning we suddenly began discussing a new way of doing things; specifically, flying (instead of driving) to Hilton Head Island next year. The thesis is that my progressive decline is undermining my driving. Even if it were not categorically true at the moment, it is a prediction we feel should be addressed judiciously. Not only for the obvious safety reasons; but also to adopt a more simplified way of doing things without the burden of worry. Besides – as we have also reasoned – it might constitute a welcome change. Frankly, drivng back and forth to and from South Carolina and Florida for over the past decade has lost some of its allure. We’ve seen the Blue Mountains and the Shenandoah Valley, as well as the A1A from top (Jacksonville Beach) to bottom (Key West) and a good deal on the Gulf coast as well (though admittedly we have yet to accomplish Route 66).
Who hasn’t spoken too forthrightly about someone or something? It’s an enterprise able or likely to cause harm or bad consequences. The danger lies not only in its directness but its immediacy, the one being without deflection, the other being too urgent. Very often the result of such straightforward honesty is remorse, either because one spoke too bluntly or mistakenly. Being outspoken may also offend one’s view of oneself; that is, one may prefer to “speak with music in your voice” as opposed to speaking more brashly. This particular bent may arise from cultural discipline; or, it may be the consequence of a dissuading psychological conviction that “we see in others what we see in ourselves”.
Whig | historical noun
1 a member of the British reforming and constitutional party that sought the supremacy of Parliament and was eventually succeeded in the 19th century by the Liberal Party.
2 an American colonist who supported the American Revolution • a member of an American political party in the 19th century succeeded by the Republicans.
3 a 17th-century Scottish Presbyterian.
4 [as modifier] denoting a historian who interprets history as the continuing and inevitable victory of progress over reaction.
DERIVATIVES Whiggery | noun Whiggish | adjective Whiggism | noun ORIGIN mid 17th century (in Whig sense 3 of the noun): probably a shortening of Scots whiggamore, the nickname of 17th-century Scottish rebels, from whig ‘to drive’ + mare Old English mearh ‘horse’, mere ‘mare’, from a Germanic base with cognates in Celtic languages meaning ‘stallion’
It puts me beyond distraction to miss a fulsome morning! And thankfully it is an abbreviation I have scarcely had to endure. Sleeping late is excusable only if it were mandatory – as when suffering an illness. Otherwise there isn’t a supportable reason to allow the best part of the day to slip away unheeded. Even when I chance to remain awake the night before until as late as two o’clock in the morning (puttering, reading, writing or watching reruns of late night television) I resist that anomaly to justify sleeping late. There are so many effusive things about morning coffee and all that it entails.