05 March 2008
Increasingly, in these ominous days, I find immense joy in slight pleasures. The exquisite curve of a hand-rolled lapel. The rich antiquing on a pair of old brogues. The self-annhilating blast of California sun in my face. The endlessly thumping, churning surf, which is almost provocative in its insistence. And the spicy flavours of tea, wine, and tobacco. It is the tang of tea and tobacco to which I am often drawn in the evening. Settling down with a pot of Earl Grey or a glass of chardonnay, or occasionally an Avo robusto, sporting an OCBD, a pair of khakis, and velvet slippers, I muse on the day's proceedings and indulge in cheerfully inane conversation. It may be perceived as a mundane way of being, and perhaps to some—those who rely on unending distraction—it is. But I think it is important to infuse every minute of the day with ritual and order, meaning and significance. It is necessary, I think, to face life in a direct manner, to accept fate on its own terms—and to sip tea while doing so. A life of sublime implication; this is the objective.