Focussing in

Though my humdrum daily customs are the norm, things began more diversely this morning. Perhaps it was alterness to the approaching Winter Solstice or the advent of Christmas (a festivity I routinely indulge from November 25th so that I may partake a full month of seasonal choral music by Handel or schmaltz by Mantovani and Bing Crosby before confessing mutual exhaustion). Or it may have been the squaring of an early morning cycle about the neighbourhood when the air was chilly and clear. Exercise even of this modest portion (6.26 Km) is distinctly part of my every day ceremony. Inexplicably today I had strength to venture to higher ground than usual.

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Evaporation

While my prevailing personal sensations are closer to decomposition than evaporation, the latter is more descriptive of the surrounding than the inner peril. The noticeable penalty is therefore minimally less acute though similarly imposing. At least I haven’t yet vanished from sight in spite of my deterioration. Nonetheless every day I am reminded of the progressive declension in all that I now do or may otherwise wish to do. I am plagued by recollection of the existential dilemma: because we are free, we are also inherently responsible. It’s the proverbial “you are what you do” theory of things. I find it helpful in these existential constructs to recall that, as eagerly as one may pine for the animation of the past, a subdued present is upon analysis sufficient. Clearly the collateral of decay is the removal of oneself from involvement; or, as comically observed in a cartoon in Country Life magazine, removal from the necessity to put on a brassiere.

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Have a blessed day!

Whoever passes in Germany from a Roman Catholic to a Protestant principality, in Switzerland from a Roman Catholic to a Protestant canton, in Ireland from a Roman Catholic to a Protestant county, finds that he has passed from a lower to a higher grade of civilisation. On the other side of the Atlantic the same law prevails. The Protestants of the United States have left far behind them the Roman Catholics of Mexico, Peru, and Brazil. The Roman Catholics of Lower Canada remain inert, while the whole continent round them is in a ferment with Protestant activity and enterprise.

The sixteenth century was comparatively a time of light. Yet even in the sixteenth century a considerable number of those who quitted the old religion followed the first confident and plausible guide who offered himself, and were soon led into errors far more serious than those which they had renounced. Thus Matthias and Kniperdoling, apostles of lust, robbery, and murder, were able for a time to rule great cities. In a darker age such false prophets might have founded empires; and Christianity might have been distorted into a cruel and licentious superstition, more noxious, not only than Popery, but even than Islamism.

Excerpt From
Thomas Babington Macaulay
1st Baron (1800–59), English historian, essayist, and philanthropist. Notable works: The Lays of Ancient Rome (1842) and History of England (1849–61).
“The History of England, from the Accession of James II — Volume 1”

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Boundaries

Boundaries are both barriers and frontiers. Even the singularly minded geese poised in flocks upon the icy surface of the river have respectfully maintained a distance between themselves. The anticipatory flight southward naturally preserves their coopertive ambition but always with a delicate barrier between them. There is little of the most compelling unanimity which defeats inveterate division.

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A brisk day!

Early this morning upon awakening and before my constitutional ablutions and gruel I casually intimated I would not be tricycling today. The carefree announcement was recognition of what I understood to be a popular scheme for balanced exercise; that is, one day on, one day off.  The off-hand dispatch had for the moment anyway the sustainable allure of moderation. I should have known it was an unworkable alliance. This not only because I traditionally haven’t any truck with avoidance of excess (a well-documented limitation, I regret to say). Rather in my defence the ineffable blue sky and clear dry air trumped my plan. I am easily persuaded by fine weather! This however was before I had opened the garage door and relocated outside. It was a brisk day!  I should have known to expect the uncommonly cold air after having previously seen ice patches on the balcony. But the clarity of the sky distracted me from the indiscernible temperature of minus 9° Centigrade or 16° Fahrenheit. Afterwards when I hadn’t been pedalling on my tricycle mere moments (though admittedly riding directly into the wind along the river) I regretted not having worn my beaver fur hat instead of a modest tartan cap.

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O Tannenbaum

The weather though tolerable today was nonetheless evocative of coming wintry conditions. Primarily for the exercise – but also as an undaunted way to distance myself from defeat at the hands of looming disruption – I tricycled 6.89 Km about the neighbourhood. The roads were clear except for remnants of snow plowed onto the side adjacent the sidewalk. As I passed along the river I easily saw to the other side. The obstructions of summer and autumn have vanished. A not unpleasant starkness has overtaken the landscape. It is a verancular to which I must readjust.  Though as I am wont to advance whenever asked, I am not in the least dispairing about the predictions. It has inspired collateral moments of reflection regarding the extent and necessity of isolation from one’s Northern sphere.

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Looking back

Yesterday a large flock of Canada geese piloted their way onto the Mississippi River. What made their congregation noticeable was the icy surface of the river upon which they landed. While I cannot say for certain that the river – or part of it – was indeed covered by ice it came across from my withdrawing room window to be the case. I kept searching to see whether the geese were skating. Today as I look upon the river it is buried in a soft grey fog. How soon the clarity of yesterday dissolves into a mist.

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In the news

I’ll be frank, I don’t read a lot of news. I accept it is a small compliment. I’d prefer to say I am well-informed. But the burdensome truth is whenever I begin reading BBC, CBC, CNN, MSNBC or Fox News invariably I find myself pursing my lips, shaking my head and muttering inadequacies about retail vulgarity. As quickly as possible I return to whatever I was doing previously. Very often this is reading the similarly disturbing – though more illuminating – “History of England from the Accession of James II” by Thomas Babington Macaulay which registers dismally like an account of current affairs. We appear to have improved very little in the past 500 years as far as human relationships are concerned; specifically, regarding capital, power and religion.

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Sacramental Sunday

Today is Sunday, observed by Christians as a day of rest and religious worship. Whatever I may think or believe about religion (what usefully for purposes of this monologue I might distinguish as “organized” in order to avoid eclipsing the purely metaphysical nature and possible intellectual digestibility of the subject), the inescapable truth is that, whether by lineage, habit, education, culture, indoctrination or divine mystery, I am addicted to sacramental music.

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