Circumscribed and stimulated as I am today by the least fanciful resources – nothing more enchanting than a lonely morning tricycle ride about the neighbourhood buffeted by a fresh northerly wind clapping upon the face of the river, or a prosaic drive along a dry country road beneath a chalky bluish sky, or dreamily listening to the soothing sounds of Artie Shaw, Water Music Suite Alla Hornpipe and Henry Purcell, or the unvaried delectation of a crisp green apple and a sharp cheddar cheese – the imaginative expedients and vitality are nonetheless remarkable!

It is an existential insult to deny this ungrudging backdrop a comprehensiveness notwithstanding its straightforward appearance, even the ominous billowing clouds of grey on the horizon. In Canada mid-March it’s accounted early for springtime blooms and colour. The pastures, meadows and grasslands are tawny and not yet stirring any emotion least that which we can see. The miracle of the flourishing season has yet to awaken and materialize. Meanwhile my mind is fertile with the seeds of abstraction prompted by germinating memories, ancient and peculiar acquaintances, my sweet French bulldog Monroe, the Steinway piano, long forgotten venues, thoughts of places I’ll never return to see again, people whom I’ve met and known, wistful ingredients of the past.

And within this implausible sphere there percolates the endmost question which by virtue of its outstanding imperative threatens to diminish the immediacy, “Where is the meaning?” I dismiss the cryptic inquisition out-of-hand.  Mine is not the philosophic admiration of the pedant in spite of my precisionist faults. I can see through the facade of brown and tan the burgeoning shades of emerald and gold.  Even while the fallible crystals of white tumble from the sky and seek to obscure the view of the fading fields and river.

I am encouraged once again to the point of astronomic flight. It is more embarrassment than idle indulgence which distinguishes this effervescence.The consuming vivacity and enthusiasm have again boosted me from ground to the stratosphere. At times I confess my diagnosis of this transparent hedonism is the unbecoming prediction of an abrupt and final explosion like a firecracker at the end of its useful life. I am admittedly a sucker for the sensibilities of life though I haven’t an explanation. Am I easily satisfied? Have I escaped reality? Is mine the imperception of shrinking sight, suppressed scent, muffled hearing, tainted palate or senseless touch? It matters not!  For today I embrace the category howsoever soaringl as one of the a priori conceptions applied by the mind to sense impressions. It is for me a painting perfectly composed, an insoluable rendition, a dimension of artistic applause, a heavenly sky of limitless interpretation and amusement.