To the city and back

My native impatience conspires more often than not to defeat what are Life's boundless prospects; which is to say, I mistakenly succumb to disappointment instead of imagining hopefulness. It requires a stern jolt to reposition myself. The awakening is invariably uplifting and encouraging. Yet through grim conviction to Protestantism or similar psychological perversion, I persist in cultivating wariness about the future - as though by some skilful manipulation of the mind I shall overcome untold possibilities. Luckily for me I am regularly defeated in this dour project.  It is however the sole domain of serendipity - or, if you prefer a more spiritual rendition thereof, providence.

When I awoke with a start at the sound of the alarm at precisely six o'clock this morning I did not hesitate for a second to tear back the covers and commence my day of duty. The only thing more annoying than having to fulfill an obligation is to ignore doing so. I set myself in motion immediately. It was an afterthought to collect a Granny Smith apple as I left the apartment door at 7:15 am en route to the city for my biometric appointment with the ophthalmologist's office on Carling Avenue.  Preparing for my upcoming eye surgery is one more of the critical features of what has been an unparalleled medical agenda following our return to Canada in April.  As I said to the clerk this morning when she asked whether I had completed such-and-such a form already, "I don't know; I've seen so many doctors lately - all of whom have similar enquiries - that I cannot recall!" Which is not to betray frustration; rather it punctuates that today's venture was but one more on the list, one more item to check off, one day closer to the end that possibly never comes but to which I am nonetheless perpetually aspiring.

This afternoon marked yet another on the list, the formal collection of my new hearing aid.  At least the clerk and I had the benefit of some entertainment while discussing the delight of a Secrid "iconic wallet made in Holland".

I hinted to the woman that she had unwittingly betrayed herself to me. By expressing her enthusiasm for the miniature device she effectively disclosed that she honours quality foremost - though pointedly she subsequently qualified that broad thesis by limiting the affection for expensive stuff to that which "counts", stuff that matters (which in her case included purses and shoes) but not things which are purely functional and clinically satisfied.  We mystically concurred without elaboration.  Some things are seemingly sous entendu!

What I hadn't anticipated in this unfolding Nirvana was the precipitous reunion which transpired almost within minutes of my receipt of a broadcasted email about an upcoming vernissage. Turns out one of the featured artists is an ancient acquaintance of mine.  His name is George Horan and it pleases me to report that his work is nonpareil! He has in addition the very un-negligible distinction of hailing from Newfoundland (a place which in the Sivarulrasa Gallery web site - by no accident I am certain - is included along with France and Ontario as one of the countries in which his works are exhibited). This possibly unintended distinction captures the predominant view (which may be only apocryphal) in Eastern Canada that Upper Canada (basically Ontario) is miles and miles apart from Newfoundland - this so notwithstanding for example that one of their celebrities (John Crosbie) and I attended the same school (St. Andrew's College).

Sivarulrasa Gallery

George Horan Art

There is no one on the face of this earth who has visited Newfoundland who does not instantly relate to the majesty and soul of Horan's paintings. My enthusiasm today was treated to the Sacrament of Heaven!