Provenance of the fonds

Looking back on things can sometimes reveal hidden treasures. Not that everything that ever happened is recorded.  But stories of endeavour and accomplishment are always scintillating. No doubt one day someone will ask, “How did they manage to do it?”  We take so much of our present for granted as though it were customary, expected and unusual. But it never is. There’s a lot going on in the present that is just as intriguing; that is, if we can bring ourselves to slow down long enough to take a look at it.

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Ship Wreck

Many, many years ago I met a gentleman in the financial district of downtown Toronto. He told me he practiced maritime law. I believe he worked as in-house counsel for an insurance company. I don’t recall the particular circumstances of the impromptu acquaintance (though it may have been in a bar at the King Edward Hotel) but I do recall being impressed by his uncommon undertaking. The practice of maritime law was to me a rarefied and puzzling avocation. In keeping with my general interest in matters nautical – and residing as I have from time to time adjacent the emerald waters of the Gulf of Mexico or the churning waters of the North Atlantic Ocean – the relevance of maritime law has on occasion surfaced. My particular inquisitiveness revolves around shipwreck, a sphere not unpopular for example in Key West which has an unfortunate history of such occurrences due to its proximity to coral reefs lying only meters below the sparkling surface. While I don’t intend to engage in an examination of the applicable maritime law regarding shipwreck (and the entitlement to its trove), I felt a modest familiarity with the topic might prove informative if not merely an enlargement of the customary vocabulary. What by the way had prompted the original enquiry was a comment one evening from a woman that she had noticed some flotsam and jetsam in the tide. Her observation arose in connection with the recurrence of what is called “Red Tide“.

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“Well, I got my money’s worth!”

Once having succumbed to any indulgence (and I regret to say my past is sotted with more than a few) it was not uncommon for me to proclaim perhaps apologetically but always energetically, “Well, I got my money’s worth!” I flatter myself to recognize quality. My sense however is that not everyone is as cavalier about expenditure. My vulgar activity was unquestionably driven by appetite not insouciance. Whether the object of my devotion was things or people, I was shamelessly propelled by immediacy (oddly without a hint of regard for impending doom or theoretical loss). No, there was no philosophic restraint or extraneous fuel; rather the operation was strictly visceral.  This may seem a small compliment but it echoes another popular yet singularly insightful adage, “The best sauce for any meal is an appetite!”  The conviction is driven not by rapacity or lasciviousness; it is just plain ardour, an answer to a call, as indefinable as pain.  And like pain the ephemeral appetite evaporates when the matter is addressed. An appetite is a time-sensitive project both in and out I’d say.

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A grand day!

The grandfather clock in the hallway chimed precisely seven times. I had been awake for hours though probably only since I had heard six chimes then relapsed into my disjointed overnight echoes and reflections, seeking to summarize the present, to eclipse the past, to manage and contain the wealth of memories, information and detail, to put it all in apple pie order.  From beneath a corner of my sleep mask I could see sunlight greedily bordering the window blinds, impressing its metallic white colour with uncompromising sharpness. The impression of the day was by any account brighter than normal.

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A mixture of thoughts

As I gazed out the balcony window from my desk early this morning a tiny bird propelled itself not far from where I sat directly outward across the open field, swooping and sailing up then plunging down to a large wavering tree on the far edge of the tilled soil where it disappeared into the mass of towering greenery. It was a cloudy day, the rising sun disrupted by a mixture of grey and white bundles, fluffy streaks and hints of clear blue patterns among the beshevelled curtains. A cock crew, birds chirped and sang. The sun, unblotted, suddenly glistened hot then vanished cool again.

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Repetition

Whether it’s Pablo Picasso, Claude Monet or Salvador Dali, I’m sorry, but, “You’ve seen one, you’ve seen them all!”  Same applies to Johann Sebastian Bach, Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, Ludvig van Beethoven or Ludovico Einaudi. Their style, their singular character, their resonance, the product of each of them is invariably the same. And without overstating the obvious (that is, that they’re all fabulous in their own right), I too am the same as they in that whatever I am, whatever it is that distinguishes me, however moderately I may express myself – and more specifically – whatever it is about which I express myself in my highly qualified manner – is (in my case certainly) sadly repetitious.  I need for example only repeat (as I have so often done before) that I am placated in this unshackled admission of limitation by the majesty of the view from my desk as I type these words upon the face of my MacBook Pro and glance ever so casually (and ever so thankfully and ever so gleefully) upon the wind-blown face of the sapphire river and the underside of the windswept jade-coloured leaves of the silent bountiful trees in the distance across the burgeoning farmers’ fields. This is my Paradise!

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Summarily wandering

Sitting in my car by the grocery store. Waiting for things to be done. It’s been a while since I’ve done anything. But sitting there, waiting, in my mind I traveled back and forth across the North Atlantic, up and down the coast of the Ocean from here to Key Largo and briefly onto the South Pacific. Reminiscing about where we have been and what we have done and where we might go one day. All the while asking, what‘s the difference being here or there? Does one ever escape the inner circles and thoughts, the deathless yearnings and limitations, the need to expatiate and promulgate and exasperate? What do I need to buy, a house, a car or a costume of clothes; a ring perhaps, another gold ring to compete with a bishop or a football player, an accessory or an article of solid hardwood furniture with a polished veneer, maybe another ship’s bell? Precision for me is my French leave (filer à l’anglaise). Have I already been there? Have I already done that? Was it ever any different, then or now? Is it too late? Does it even matter? Will I only pine to come home again? Home to watch the plateau of the dreamy river magically flow upstream with its circular twists of shiny calm? And the streaked fields of burgeoning green and yellow and magnificent flourishing trees diminished by the immense azure dome above?

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Hey Jude by The Beatles

While driving home from Stittsville today along the Appleton Side Road I told Siri to play “Hey Jude”.  Instantly the audio of my car produced the famous song by The Beatles. I’m listening to it again now on my headphones as I write this account.  I searched for the song on Apple Music which immediately produced a selection of 21 albums from which to choose, including a piano instrumental that reminded me of my own expression of the piece not long after first hearing it. In addition to playlists there were a number of videos of Paul McCartney, one recorded live at Hyde Park in London and another at the Estadio Unico de la Plata in Buenos Aires. There is also a Spanish rendition by the Brazilian country duo brothers Zezé Di Camargo & Luciano.  In the end however I prefer the original recording (with the orchestral involvement notably beginning at the 4th repetition of the refrain).

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