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!

I am further spared the indignity of repetition by acknowledging that it is seemingly an inescapable feature of life, not just me. Granted, the distinction is in my circumstance a small compliment; nonetheless it applies.  It is as irrevocable and irreversible as that of any other creature on the planet, whether the weed in the field, the frog on the shore, the fish in the river or whatever hovers high above in the sky among the clouds. Repetition.

Strangely perhaps, what has prompted this particular rant is not the artistic thrill of the willowing wisps of tall green grass in the meadow or the sacrament of the vivid gemstone colours that abound, nor the requital of my late morning tricycle ride and the subsequent purgation of a car wash, but rather the solemn recollection that there are within my subconscious subliminal ambitions of revenge. May I first interject by way of parenthetical observation – and to enlarge this otherwise risqué theme of repetition – that I approach the subject of revenge with the same appetite as the food I regularly consume; that is, with undeniable voraciousness, application, eagerness and gratification. Revenge for me is both visceral and instinctive though I have many times in the past also repeated such insightful and instructive beneficence as the proverb “before you embark on a journey of revenge, first dig two graves”. Yet as profound and timeless a message as it may be, revenge is nonetheless not an uncommon element of life (and pointedly as often with good reason). Some for example seek to overcome the predilection by recalling, “Revenge is a dish best served cold”; that is, vengeance may be more satisfying if it is not inflicted immediately.

Revenge has been a popular literary theme historically and continues to play a role in contemporary works. Examples of literature that feature revenge as a theme include the plays Hamlet and Othello by William Shakespeare, the novel The Count of Monte Cristo by Alexandre Dumas, and the short story “The Cask of Amontillado” by Edgar Allan Poe. More modern examples include the novels Carrie by Stephen King, Gone Girl by Gillian Flynn, and The Princess Bride by William Goldman. Although revenge is a theme in itself, it is also considered to be a genre.

By way of further absolution,

Humans are not the only species known to take revenge. There are several species such as camels, elephants, fish, lions, coots, crows, and many species of primates (chimpanzees, macaques, baboons, etc.) that have been recognized to seek revenge. Primatologists Frans de Waal and Lesleigh Luttrellave conducted numerous studies that provide evidence of revenge in many species of primates.

Revenge is a project which historically I have avoided.  This is so, not because of any Christian endorsement, rather because it is an enterprise without profit. Gone is the day of satisfaction from repercussion. I find I derive more gratification from the intellectual success of logic which, among other advantages, diminishes the hope of altering the past by any means, nurtured perhaps by the additional truths that we see in others what we see in ourselves; or, more assuredly, that we haven’t a clue about what it is that prompts others to act as they do.

This reasoned conclusion is more consistent with my latest absorption; namely, what is right before my eyes. This afternoon as I drove along my beloved Appleton Side Road among the magnificent fields of yellow and green, I sterilized my thinking to eliminate whatever was not straight ahead, within my immediate vision and appreciation. Of a sudden the world before me expanded and fulfilled the prophesy to which I have unwittingly forever subscribed; namely, this is my heaven. Certainly I know there are so many other spots upon the face of the planet about which the same may or may not be said; but this does not dilute my present.  Nor does it contaminate my life. Indeed the reality of tangible improvement on my part is, among other things, to abandon revenge for starters. And perhaps my apology to Beethoven et al.

Ode on Solitude
by Alexander Pope.

Happy the man, whose wish and care
A few paternal acres bound,
Content to breathe his native air,
In his own ground.

Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread,
Whose flocks supply him with attire,
Whose trees in summer yield him shade,
In winter fire.

Blest, who can unconcernedly find
Hours, days, and years slide soft away,
In health of body, peace of mind,
Quiet by day,

Sound sleep by night; study and ease,
Together mixed; sweet recreation;
And innocence, which most does please,
With meditation.

Thus let me live, unseen, unknown;
Thus unlamented let me die;
Steal from the world, and not a stone
Tell where I lie.