Whether the potion is a drug to induce love or a powder to dry a wound or a concoction to turn metal to gold, we all have our extraordinary elixirs. And given the opportunity, we know when and how to use them. The elixirs are our personal concentrates with which we stimulate ourselves. What delights me in particular about the assembly of elixirs before me is exactly their convenience and accessibility. The detection of the brews is a matter only of reasonable clarity of thought and willingness to translate and transform. In essence the tools and tonics are not only at hand but are capable of endless rhythm and alteration. Some may prefer to call it imagination.  It is thought with an eye and inventiveness.

Yet what, you ask, is the elixir? Is it a syntactic question of turning things on their head, fabricating images that do not otherwise exist, pretending that things are not what they are? The creativity is first passion then resourcefulness. There is no mendacity. The passion may be only that you like nice things. Abbreviating one’s fervour and zealousness thus succinctly is itself an accomplishment of perception, capturing the strength of a distilled concept in a communicable and digestible size.

Insinuating the fabric of a day is no mean maneuver. Merely elevating from the mattress can work a disfavour and possible resulting wistfulness. The riliable shell of routine may however be employed judiciously to set a favourable tone of the day; embracing ideally a decision to aim for moderate success without vast boundaries. And certain trifling obsessions may today at least be ignored. Regard instead the wind that is so strong upon the face of the water that the river appears headed in the wrong direction.

But not everything is backwards.  The vast horizon is bluish white from the mess of pleasing white clouds which themselves are blown beyond recognition by the wind. So with the water going upstream and the clouds tousled throughout the atmosphere, and the music of Stravinsky, all is in an instant rendered magical and artistic. Springtime is upon us. I have already seen people preparing their gardens. I nonetheless maintain my complacency by excusing my indolence with devotion to the written word, the inexpressible view from my desk, the luck of health and a very agreeable cup of chilled coffee. In the interest of transparency, might I also be excused to add to my list of elixirs the vicarious pleasure I derive from the operation and driving of my Cadillac XT4.  As vulgar as it may seem, it is notwithstanding a noticeable surrogate who perfects the arcane matters of internal mechanism.

The slanted sunshine from the western afternoon light is upon the river and awakening farmland, the horizon is a canvass dome of blue sky and white clouds. Paradoxically I am listening to Sérénité Etioilée which I can safely say is the creation of a terribly modern composer perhaps “La Réveuse”. But it’s the serendipity of these artistic introductions that instantly entertain, dare I say, galvanize!.