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I feel certain the medical community would support me in the uneducated opinion that dying is as much a process as living, though obviously the motives are reversed.  Living is awakening to possibilities; dying is succumbing to limitations. Both are perfectly, infinitely and incomparably real. There is no doubt whatsoever about their separate manifestations particularly when it comes to dying which hasn’t normally the attraction of living.  Nonetheless we’ll all admit that mortification (by any composition whether discomposure or subjugation) is indisputable and universal. Or, more poetically from Masonic ritual (as I am frequently wont to observe), “Nature teaches us how to die.”

Well, the idea of death in religions and spiritual traditions is founded on their dogmas; hence all dogma, by presenting its idea about death as an unquestionable truth, leads to obscurantism and ignorance about an inevitable process and natural as death is.

Reason by observing nature teaches us that the universal order – hitherto known – is cyclical; everything in life is cyclical from birth to death.

Things and phenomena have always existed and only the way of looking at them, interpreting and understanding them is changing, according to the endless succession of the evolution of human thought.

The human being biologically destroys himself when he dies and his death is part of an evolutionary cycle, of multiple and varied vital transformations, with loss of form and transformation of energy.

From what I have randomly read it is not uncommon for those of us approaching death (whether merely because we are elderly or because we feel less enthusiastic) to weigh in upon the subject with evident curiosity or intrigue. It is at least moderately excusable as a burgeoning preoccupation because it affords a degree of understanding (even mollification) of the impending decomposition. There are admittedly those of identical milestones who violently persist to ignore limitation of any description and continue metaphorically careering their hot air balloon over the vast countryside, seemingly unperturbed by the inevitability of whatever. While I haven’t the buoyancy to sustain such a posture, I nonetheless admire those who do.

Biologically however I am uncertain whether such metaphoric gusto will succeed or not to alter life’s odd pathway. I find it peculiar that we convince ourselves we have greater dominion over death than we have over life. For what it is worth, the two in my opinion are axiomatic; that is, unquestionable.  Yet mankind is forever disposed to clarify the subsequent as being an improvement of the precedent. The only foreseeable improvement is to quell the vitality of death, to remove its critical nature and replace it with unimportance.

I have no truck with birth, living or dying because they are all stations in the equation I have endured (and by design I employed that tone of survival because neither was experienced without challenges). As for the peerless nature of death, I can only speculate. I am not about to engage in useless arrangements of thought surrounding the meaning of death; that is, apart from asserting in the strongest of terms that any of the popular models of religion on the subject are rubbish. I would find it to be far more complimentary to adopt a proclamation of ignorance upon the subject than otherwise. We encourage our children to be unafraid of the dark, not to imagine ghosts in the darkened hallways, to overcome the false obstructions of ignorance and idle speculation. By contrast I haven’t a clue where certain people obtain their capital for the creation of imaginary circumstances either a thousand years before or into the unfathomable ether of the universe. This is merely replacing one ignorance with another while continuing to sidestep the more favourable acknowledgment of incomprehensibility. Why one should be embarrassed to confess subordination to what is impossible to understand I shall never know.

In fact I would think it more effusive and palatable to confront the imperceptible with the humiliation it deserves (not the preposterous trappings we have manufactured to satisfy the currency of appetites of one particular nomadic tribe or another).  Really!  Who were these fiction writers!  By what account or authority did they presume to alter my vision of the inconceivable! Nor, by the way, have I any intention of tolerating these convenient rearrangements of truth.  They amount to little more than a day at the circus; that is, a singular, intentional representation for purpose of entertainment only.  And, just in the event that you are so inclined, be careful not to contradict what I have said by importing deductive distortions.  To be specific, the contamination of the core does not of necessity contaminate the outlying spheres. It remains equally reliable that there are communal advantages to be acquired within the context of these otherwise questionable terms. Mine is not a dispute of social networks; rather, my objection is to the formalized clarity of what is an impenetrable proposition.

On a snowy, bitterly cold Saturday morning mid-winter 1977, I drove into the city from Almonte to go for a skate on the frozen Rideau Canal. I parked my automobile south of the National Arts Centre and north of Patterson Creek along Queen Elizabeth Drive stationed safely within the quiet residential neighbourhood not far from the Canal. Removing my backpack with my ice skates inside and opening the car door to allow Lanny my Yellow Labrador to jump into the snow, we trudged to the wooden change hut erected on sleds at the edge of the Canal. With an effort which today would exhaust me to perform, I doffed my winter boots then put on and laced up my hockey skates.  Lanny waited patiently by the heater.

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December 27th – a Friday – and a warmer day to boot is oddly serene given the manic nature of the past several days surrounding the traditional Christmas holiday. There is missing an element of both need and urgency.  The tranquillity lends an air of abandonment and secretive absent preparation. It is maybe best described as a lull before the recurring storm on New Year’s Eve. I hear in the distance a child’s voice proclaiming some pursuit or entitlement on this bright chilly day nearing the end of 2024. Perhaps the youngster is yet enthused by a gift from Santa Claus, the annual exuberance and product of months of hope and fear.

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Having had earlier today the undeniable reward of an improving article from the London Times (grâce à my erstwhile physician) and thereafter along the wintry roadway a surpassing podcast on the BBC (thanks to Car Play), and not inconsequentially as a prelude thereto a wholesome luncheon (prepared by my inexpressible partner) of homemade tourtière and relish with boiled small potatoes, I now gloatingly reposition myself at my heavy mahogany desk with its inlaid brass handles reminiscent of matters nautical, listening on my Bose® headphones to my own very gratifying collection of “favourites” (now numbering 125 songs 8 hours 40 minutes). I have succeeded to transcend the strictly Christmas theme and to replace it instead – no doubt in preparation for the New Year – with the buoyancy of classic cocktail lounge singers, schmaltz American broadway productions and British mood music.  Bing Crosby has been set aside for another year, replaced by the likes of Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin and Frank Chacksfield and His Orchestra.

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As planned (subject naturally to inclement weather conditions which thankfully did not materialize) we shot ourselves from the lair and the apartment in good order approaching ten o’clock this morning en route to Sea King Seafood Restaurant on Merivale Road in Nepean for dim sum. We figured by getting there early enough we’d have the benefit of the handicap parking spot immediately at the front of the restaurant. It was a leisurely and predominantly private drive along the sometimes squishy (but mostly clean) roadways now fully restored from yesterday’s wintry storm. The snow on the fields was recent enough to maintain that veneer of perfection so suitable for the conjoint imaginations surrounding Christmas morning (especially of the young children whom the young parents no doubt equally delight to see transfixed by anticipation and gleeful want). Optimism is a vicarious pleasure!

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ISAIAH 53:3 (King James Version)

He is despised and rejected of men, a Man of sorrows, and acquainted with grief. And we hid as it were our faces from Him; He was despised, and we esteemed Him not.

What memory I have of Christmases past does not illuminate any image in particular of Christmas Eve other than as a child, late in the evening, lying under the Christmas tree and staring into the shiny bulbs and other ornaments hanging upon the boughs.  But apart from that, my recollection of the weather on Christmas Eve is entirely lacking.  I mention the failure because today by contrast was such a magnificently brilliant day on the 24th day of December, 2024 that it would in my opinion constitute slackness to ignore it and not to record it as such. This is especially so because last evening and overnight it snowed incessantly contributing naturally to the pure white blanket of snow upon the distant fields and the river (now a muted winding trail into the horizon where it turns and vanishes).

Meanwhile by further dissimilarity we have received an email communication from our neighbour Bunny who is currently travelling in Morocco. Last we heard from her she was reeling from the fumes of exhaust in the urban landscape of Marrakech and marvelling at the allure of palm trees.  And now this!  She is quite impossible to keep either in sight or inactive.

Merry Christmas Billy and Denis!

Having an incredible time. Every day something new. The past few days we’ve been in the Sahara meeting Bedouin musicians, riding camels, “camping “ in the desert . Here are some pictures to give you a glimpse of the experiences. Think of you when I see Moroccan sweets on display in the souks! Hugs and kisses til the next time.

Have a wonderful Christmas!

It is inescapable that much of the emotion surrounding Christmas is that of despondency and remorse. A mere glance at Dickens tells one as much.  Clearly however there are exceptions; but I am inclined to observe that a good deal of life is unpleasant for many notwithstanding the literary turn for the better. Preserving either fervency or melancholy in a manner uninhibited or unbridled is not the answer no matter what the circumstances.  Whether one can reach a balance of pessimism and cheerfulness is questionable; they are after all rude companions. And while for the purposes of retailing fictional writing it matters what is the outcome, I prefer to contain my margin of liquidity to what for me is logical and recognizable. This means for example that invention of dolefulness is as unpalatable as the creation of illusion or sham.

The limited hours of Christmas Eve always quickly evaporate.  The unanticipated knock upon the apartment door from a cheerful neighbour wishing us a Merry Christmas; or the voice of another in the hallway sharing equally sparkling address; the fizzy time upon the road in the late afternoon sunshine; the dissolving sky of hued colours; and, of course, the lean time before Santa Claus appears!

We performed a hurried domestic duty in town this morning at the grocery store. There were things we needed to cover us during the upcoming several days surrounding the Christmas holiday. The supermarket was packed with people. The festive activity was evident. Judging by the anxiety of the drivers in the parking lot and the sound of car horns, tempers had elevated as well. It was thus a contrasting pleasure to return home to our riparian digs and nestle in for the afternoon.  The weather forecast was Heavy Snow.  Already it had started to snow.  My hibernation was soon sanctioned and confirmed.

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The Canadian Broadcasting Corporation (CBC) can be relied upon to deliver meaningful music for a Sunday. At this time of year, it is not necessarily religious but certainly something along the empyrean line is always welcome.  Especially on a brilliantly sunny day such as today. The flat river is covered in swirls of white powder and bluish coloured mirrors bordering the sunlit shoreline. It’s cold outside and everything bespeaks ice-bound and crisp. The ribs of small trees are firmly erect against the limitless sky, a peerless azure dome.

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The Winter Solstice happened today, Saturday, December 21st, 2024 @ 4:21 a.m. Eastern Time.  Not sure who they get to measure the tilt of the earth’s axis. It is certain I was still in bed at the time notwithstanding the confusion surrounding Eastern Standard Time and Eastern Daylight Time. Accounting more liberally for the difference between standard time and Greenwich Mean Time (and, more profitably still, using my Apple Watch to override it all and to tell me at this instant the precise time in Los Angeles, California) the difference between Eastern Time and us here (whatever we may be called) is the difference between 2:00 pm (here) and 11:00 am (there), so a 3-hour difference. Less than I had anticipated.  I was thinking 4 or 5 hours. Not quite as much as the overnight from Montréal to Paris; that is, between 6 and 8 hours. No matter.  What is certain – that is, for those of us in the Northern Hemisphere (above the equator) – is that we’ve passed the critical low point of the sun’s axis. Now the light begins once again to augment its delivery. The midwinter character now officially abides.

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