Reach Out

I arrived at the Den of the Secret Nine before any of the other members of the Organization. I wasn't surprised because traffic can be formidable in the Renaissance during the season of commercial orgy. I sat at the regular table and before I'd disconnected myself from iPhone life support, the Duck Man entered and sat next to me.

"I will tell you my story," he said. "I will tell you my story and you will sympathize because I can tell by looking at your face that your are sympathetic. You have a sympathetic face. My story is the story of a man's tragedy. It is the story of a blighted life. It is the story of a woman who would not forgive. It is the story..."

"I have to leave at 8:30," I said, "and if it's the story about the monkey and the nuts, I've heard it and it's vulgar."

"Sympathy," he said. "A man who has suffered the tragedy that I have suffered, requires sympathy."

"Let your days be full of joy. Love the child that holds your hand. Let you wife delight in your embrace. For these are the concerns of man," I said, taking liberties with the Epic of Gilgamesh.

"I have no wife and I have lost the woman who means all the world to me," he said.

"Listen," I said.

"Sure," he said taking a sip of his coffee.

"I walk the face of the earth like an ant walks on the surface of water," I began.

"Do ants walk on water," he asked?

I raised a hand as this was no time for side issues.

"As if the slightest misstep might send me straight through the surface and into the depths below. Not the depths of the ocean but the inner-most depths of the mind. It's scary down there."

"What's so scary about it?"

"Well," I said, "just yesterday when I was thinking about the rising tide of heinous skulduggery and political weasel-osity in the adjoining kingdom of the United States and how much the people need compassion and good will, I cleared my throat to sound the call to sanity when a cargo-van of fear, grief and anger came careening around a corner of my mind and plowed through a row of garbage cans. The driver came out flailing and swinging and shouting."

"You don't see that everyday," he said.

"No you don't," I said.

"But so what?"

"Well," the driver was me," I said.

"Ah," he said. "I gotta go."

"Have a nice Mayan apocalypse," I called after him because I had not meant to offend.

Work In Progress

My mother keeps the Big Book of Death. When I say she keeps it, I mean that she maintains it by entering the names of the recently departed and the dates of their death. The 49 days of Bardo begin with the date she enters in the book.

I was first introduced to Death in 1964 when my sister Delores died. I didn't realize then that I would come to have a personal relationship with him but our paths have crossed several times since then. The last time I saw Death was a little over three years ago when I was driving through the intersection of Woodcroft and Fayetteville and my car was struck full-on by a car rushing through a red traffic light.

"GOOD MORNING," he said, in a friendly enough though slightly raspy and very heavy voice, like a lead anchor, dragged across a cement driveway.

"Do you think this is funny?" I demanded and yes I meant it to sting. I have known this Death for many years but he is not a friend.

"IT'S MY JOB," he said, "AND IT'S THE ONLY THING THAT GIVES ME PURPOSE." Then in a slightly different tone, as though he were a next-door neighbor, he asked, "ARE YOU WELL?"

"Well? Am I well? I may have been well until a tenth of a second ago when that DART bus decided that 'twere well I was smacked into."

"YOU MEAN, IF 'TWERE DONE, 'TWERE WELL IT 'TWERE DONE QUICKLY," he said as though he liked to get it right. And then, still seeming to look for the lighter side, he rephrased, "IF 'TWERE SMACKED INTO, 'TWERE WELL IT 'TWERE SMACKED INTO WITH NOBS ON." He didn't laugh but he did grin, although he really doesn't have a choice about grinning.

"Not impressed," I said. "Not impressed with your knowledge of Shakespeare and not impressed with your humor." Remember, I was not shying away from stinging. When you're face to face with death, you have little to lose.

"IT WAS A FORD ECLIPSE," he said, "NOT AN AUTOBUS."

That's what he said. Autobus. I remember thinking how odd it was. I let it go because things were progressing rapidly and suddenly I was standing before a pair of very large, very solid-looking doors--I'm sure they were oaken, not oak, but oaken--with a pair of brass rings large enough for basketballs to fit through.

"What's that?" I said.

"I THINK YOU KNOW," he said.

"Death's doors," I said. "I'm not opening them," and I said it emphatically.

"BUT ONCE YOU ASKED TO ENTER," he protested.

"That was a long time ago. A lot has happened since then."

"IT'S INTERESTING," he said, "HOW HUMAN BEINGS HOLD ONTO THE SILLY IDEA OF OVERCOMING ADVERSITY WHEN THEY KNOW FULL WELL THAT THEY ARE SKIDDING DOWN A SLIPPERY SLOPE TOWARD AN OPEN MANHOLE. YET THEY CONTINUE TO LIVE THEIR LIVES LAUGHING AT THEIR OWN TRAGEDIES. IMMENSELY INTERESTING."

"That amuses you, does it?" I asked.

"I DON'T HAVE EMOTIONS," he said.

At that moment, my car stopped spinning and I began to slip back into consciousness.

"THE FUTURE HAS CHANGED FOR YOU AGAIN," Death said, "BUT WE WILL MEET AGAIN SOON ENOUGH."

"Are you alright?" the Parkwood EMS guy asked and when my eyes focused he was looking into the broken window of my car.

It was a couple of days later that I remembered meeting Death in that second and a half that my car spun around the intersection. My life hasn't been the same by a long shot. Sometimes good and sometimes not. But always a welcome gift of Time and Place on the right side of the grass.

Life comes fast and hard. So does Death. Be ready for anything. Fierce Qigong!

Take a Walk on the South Side

Mornings, I walk. After an early caffeine binge with the enforcers, I pace out the southend of the city one step at a time moving as quickly as my back will allow. I tell people the walk was recommended by my therapist, and there is that, but I really walk to get a feel for what it's going to be like to be the Genome for the day. The walk is quick but it's mindful.

I like the people I see out and about in the early morning. They are people with a purpose and I wonder what it would be like to be a purposeful person. I try to have purpose but no matter how hard I try, it seems that I am living just to be here. Time and Place. That's the stuff I see as important. I'd like to think that what I do is important but, there again, it seems the universe has it's own agenda. I'm just suppose to do something, almost anything, and that seems to be enough. More than that, it seems to be everything.

I don't expect you to agree. I'm not a fool. I know that everyone else in the entire world lives life with the idea that it has meaning and that they have purpose. I'm happy for them. I admire them.

I watch the barista from Trinidad who makes the little faces and hearts and fern leaves in the lattes and I wonder if it would be possible for someone without purpose in their life to do that. Even though I feel that I don't know what I'm doing, it feels somehow, and this is the salient point, that I have been chosen for the role. I am chosen to blunder through life hoping that something meaningful will happen.

This morning, pacing the south side mindfully and feeling the anger--and the pain in the upper back--I stopped on the sidewalk and began doing Swimming Dragon, followed by Parting the Clouds and then finishing with Embracing Heaven and Earth.

I was near a storm drain, and that mundane piece of municipal infrastructure became a metaphor for the neural networks in the shadowy region of my brain that support my depression. My qigong moves became fierce--my way of shouting down the storm drain of the mind, "I'm chosen! So don't mess with me, Amy!"

When I stood up a dozen people were moving around me doing whatever they do at this hour. Upper-dressed young women going to work at Nordstrom's; corporate ID-tag bearers heading to Panera's for coffee and bagels; cargo pant-ed leaf blowers. All looking at me.

"Had to be done," I said.

They all nodded and continued on their way because they all know what it's like to be messed with. And they instinctively knew that I was yelling in the right direction. Down the storm drain.

Every Day Should Be Just So

Joy cometh in the morning, or so the  psalmist tells us. But all things are relative. It wasn't a bad morning so long as I lay enquilted, if that's the word I want, in a mother's hand-sewn comfort, with a couple of cats and the remnants of my dreams.

"Poopsie, what's it like out?" I asked and immediately learned that I was right to assume that sounds of running water meant Ms Wonder was enjoying a dunk in a Volga tributary.

"Overcast and blustery," she said and I nodded--useless of course, as she was in the next room.

                                                           Zen garden at Straw Valley

No, not a bad little morning, but life doesn't loiter underneath the coverlets. It moves fast and eventually one must face the reality of gray skies and coolish breezes. 

The morning's meditation class was making it's last call before raising the curtain on today's performance. To drape myself in something loose and comfortable and flash from east to west along the southern corridor of Durham was for me the work of minutes.

Straw Valley was quiet. It was not expected to be a large class and expectations proved correct. I'd been notified by text and voicemail that about half the regular crew was otherwise engaged. No, not a large class but I didn't expect to be the only one there. 

Now, as you know well, I have no sympathy for those who whine. I brook no thought of surrender and my motto, well you know my motto, "Life comes fast and hard--be ready for anything."

Still, I don't want to mislead you. I hate as much as anyone the sock behind the ear that Fate delivers when I'm not looking. I may howl and chew the carpet when alone but the Genome is eternally bright and cheerful in public. 

When the light dims, I practice the three deep breaths, and with mindful clarity I am able to see reality. This mindful awareness has taught me that the most important gift in life is not enlightenment, nor is it joyful exuberance, and whatnot.

The most important gifts in life are Time and Place. And so, here was I with time for Fierce QiGong and a place for Fierce QiGong. 

I entered the Zen garden and performed Wuji Swimming Dragon. Under the arbor, I did Parting the Clouds. In front of the art wall--Embracing Heaven and Earth. It was in the middle of this that a young man and woman entered the courtyard with laptops and coffee.

                                        Entrance to bamboo grove

"Are you with the meditation class?" she said.

I admitted that I was the meditation class because she had caught me waving my arms around my head and it seem futile to deny it.

"Is that 'ki gong?' she said.

"Chi gung," I said because I always like to get it right.

"We were wondering about that," said the male half of the sketch.

"Wonder no more," I said, "just do what I do."

"Want to?" she said to him with eyes that sparkled like fireworks after a Durham Bull's game. Her smile to him was like the sun and he was her Chanticleer, ready to flap his wings and strut his stuff. 

They joined me and we worked our way around the courtyard until we came to the cabanas where another couple, friends of the first, joined in our party.

"This isn't what I expected meditation to be," said the new woman.

"Ah," I said, for the Genome is quick and I knew exactly where she was headed with this comment. "We have a few minutes left. Let's go inside and I'll introduce you to zazen." 

                                 Pulled Orange Blue-Andy Fleishman

No sooner had we entered the back room of Sanderson House when I realized that the room was not as empty as I'd left it. Another couple was enjoying coffee and scones was surprised to see us. After a few pour parlers, they had joined us on the floor in front of one of the paintings, Pulled Orange Blue, by Andy Fleishman.'

And so with a little acceptance and willingness to live life on life's terms, we not only bucked up the immune systems and improved the cognitive abilities, we had a great Sunday morning in the Courtyard. Every day should be just so.

Ho! The Emperor of Woodcroft!

It was early morning, if you remember that early is a relative thing, and I was enjoying a steaming cup of holiday blend when a figure appeared in the doorway of Dulce Cafe wearing a hat that only one in the South End would consider sporting. 

It was the Emperor of Woodcroft, as beneficent a tyrant as you can find nowadays. I joined him in line feeling that if one cup was good then a refill would be better.

"Ho!" he said and I didn't like it. All wrong the tone. "Swilling cocktails, eh?"

I could make nothing of this. "I fail to understand you," I said. "Correct me if I'm wrong but isn't this the hour one might expect to hear, 'Good morning?"

"Out to all hours last night?" he said.

I bridled at the accusation, at least I think I bridled. I'm not sure the meaning of the word but it sounds good.

"You will have to provide more detail," I said, "and I'm sure the explanation will hold me spellbound."

"I mean you were probably out until all hours last night coming in just before dawn and waking the entire neighborhood."

"It could scarcely have been later that 2:30 a.m. when I got home and I was seeing an old friend off to the spend the holiday in the Catskills." I said it with a good deal of hauteur, if hauteur is the word I want.

"Did you have a cold shower this morning?" he asked giving me the full effect of one eye.

"I have hot water," I said.

"Did you do Swedish exercises before breakfast?"

"I'm Danish. We don't indulge in such excess. At least my grandfather was Danish but I believe that entitles me to make the same claim."

"Then why do you look like something in the chorus of a touring revue?" he said.

"Ah," I said, "that's easy enough to answer. I just need a second cup of Jah's mercy this morning."

He seemed to consider this but after a few seconds his inward gaze turned out to settle in vicinity of the lower portions of my map. His expression was one generally found on someone who has just found caterpillars in the salad.

"Ho!" he said, "what's that?"

"Ah, you mean my goatee," I said. "It's just a kitten now, of course, but in time it will grow into something that adds a bit of espieglerie and I need all the espieglerie I can get. Do you like it?"

"No, it looks like a soup stain."

"Well, I like it," I said and I was now aware that others were listening and I felt that this conversation was becoming a bit sticky. I was ready to change the subject.

"What does Ms Wonder think of it?" he asked.

"Does it matter what others think?" I said with all the hatuer I could muster remembering that other bit of hauteur.

"That's good. She doesn't like it. You'll have to shave."

"I will not shave. I'm growing this bit of facial joy for the FHI fancy dress ball in January and it's going to be with me through the holidays. J'y suis, j'y reste about sums it up for me.

He shrugged his shoulders. "Up to you, of course, if you want to be an eyesore."

"An eyesore!"

"Eyesore is what I said."

I suddenly felt the need to practice the three deep breaths. First breath, power and balance to be ready for whatever life bungs my way. Second breath to remind me that I am enough for the present circumstances. Third breath to recognize that there is more good than bad in this moment.

"Ho!" he said a third time, "what's that on your chin?"

But this is where you came in I believe.

She Was Perfectly Correct

"What a beautiful day!" I said to Ms. Wonder who waded knee-deep in suitcases and socks, like a goddess of the sea cavorting on the rocky shore. "Packing?" I asked as if the ritual was unfamiliar to me. 

"Un-packing," she said for we keep no secrets between us. And it was at that moment that the dirty work of yesterday raised its ugly head and smirked at the joy that had greeted me when I woke. 

Every year, starting about the middle of October, there is a good deal of anxiety and apprehension among owners of the better-class country houses throughout coastal Carolina waiting to hear which one will get the Genome’s patronage for the holidays.

This year we had decided early, and a sigh of relief went up from a dozen stately homes, all listed on the Historic Register, as it became known that the short straw had been drawn by The Summerville Inn outside Charleston. 

And yet, scarcely 10 hours earlier, this daughter of the Russian revolution and I sat at William's Gourmet Kitchen—"It’s not fast food; it’s awesome food fast" —and we agreed that the outing was off.

Once again, Shakespeare has put the finger on the nub when he said, it's when you're feeling really good about the way things are going that Fate sneaks up behind you with a blunt instrument. Not a direct quote but it conveys the sentiment nicely. 

As if waking from a dreamless sleep, I gradually became aware that Ms. Wonder was looking at me as though waiting for an answer. 

"Hmm?" I said. 

"Did I hear you say something about aunts?" she said. 

"Did I say that out loud?" I asked. She nodded. 

"I was thinking about how the Aunts like to ambush and blackmail," I said. 

What I didn't say was that I felt like Count Orlov must have felt after Katherine the Great told him she never wanted to see him again in this world or the next and then opening the cupboards he found there was no more vodka.

We had originally come to the decision to give the Summerville Inn our custom for several reasons, not the least of which is the fact that we have visited and photographed the place for a number of travel articles back in the day when travel magazines paid for our vacations. 

We knew the browsing and sluicing would be above criticism and I was pleased that the owner speaks native French because, as I’m sure you know, les Francais pensent aussi admirablement qu’ils parlent. It translates to "the French think like they speak. I suppose the same can be said for most of us, now that I think about it.

All this, along with the assurance that no matter how close to the holidays we get, there will be no pressure to join a party of strangers and tramp around the village singing, 'Oh Come All Ye Faithful.' 

A deep silence ruled the next several moments after my crack about the aunts and blackmail. Then Ms. Wonder spoke. "Are you going to stand there all morning?" 

"There are times, Poopsie," I said, with a small tremble in the voice, "when one asks oneself if there is any point in making an effort." 

"The mood will pass," she said and I had to admit that she was probably right. 

I nodded in response but it had no chirpiness to it. It was the nod that Napoleon might have given in the Paris coffee shop on a morning in 1812 when someone said, Back from Moscow so soon?

"You know how it is," I said, "I'm in agreement with the general principle but I seem to be in neutral gear and having a little difficulty following through.

"I understand," she said, "it was much the same with Hamlet."

"I mean it's no use telling me," I said, "that there are good aunts and bad aunts. At the core, they're all alike. Sooner or later out pops the poisoned apple."

"Can't blame Fate," she said.

"Maybe not but I can blame Princess Amy," I countered. 

"Don't be a victim, abused by Amy," she said. "We may not be able to go out of town but we still have the time off and we can use it to refresh, rebuild, and reinvigorate."

"Poopsie," I said, "don't allow yourself to be lulled into dropping your guard. That's just what the Aunts want. Having a few days off isn't a gift, it's not a…."

"Amende honorable?" she said in the way this Russian spinoff has of wrapping things up in pretty packages with a French quote.

"I was going to say olive branch," I said.

"That works too," she said. "Virtually the same thing although the French expression may be slightly more exact since it carries the idea of remorse and restitution. But you can use olive branch if you prefer."

"Thank you," I said.

"Not at all," she said.

"I suppose you know that you made me forget what I was saying," I said.

"Oh, so sorry. I shouldn't have interrupted you."

"No worries," I said. "Because, whether an olive branch or whatever, it’s neither here nor there and doesn't matter a single, solitary damn."

"Still," she said, "there it is." And I had to admit that once again she was perfectly correct.

Joy Cometh in the Morning

"You know, the longer I live, the more I feel that the great wheeze in life is to be jolly well sure of what you want."
                                                                       -- Bertie Wooster

I wonder if you are familiar with the works of the poet Browning. It is his words that I remember each morning in my attempt to put the proper English on the day. The lark is on the wing, the snail, the thorn; God is in his Heaven and the bluebird is strutting her stuff. Or words to that effect.

If you've no time for poets, Browning or otherwise, then you might string along with the psalmist who said, "Joy cometh in the morning." That about sums it up for me. No matter how active the slings, no matter how thick the air with arrows, when the new day arrives, it frees us from the limitations of yesterday.

But I confess this was not my mood as I upholstered the outer crust for meditation in the courtyard at Straw Valley this past weekend. It was a somber morning full of thoughts on what life was to be like without Lucy in the house. Somber yes but the Genome does not eat pine needles and he maintains zero tolerance for the activities of Princess Amy, as I'm sure I don't have to remind you.

I was more or less a thing of fire and steel as I drove through the streets of the Renaissance District and blew into the doors of Dulce Cafe. I don't suppose I've been this close in years to shouting the ancient battle cry of the Jarls but just as the the mouth opened to vent, I spotted a familiar form in the shadows.

"Morning, Vinnie," I cried to The Enforcer causing him to miss the lips and dribble coffee down the chin. His reaction was much like the warhorse upon hearing the bugles, not that I've seen them first hand mind you, but I'm told that they start, they quiver, they paw the field and rejoice in their strength saying, "Ha ha" among the trumpets. Well, give or take a "Ha" or two, that was pretty much Vinnie.

I took my seat with Ms Wonder on one side and The Enforcer on the other with the feeling that these two had been ordained from the beginning to be with me on this morning. As the storm raged in the soul, I was seated at a table with the civilian equivalent of the United States Marines. All would be well is the thought that filled the coconut.

After a few minutes talking of this and that, something caught my attention coming through the door.  "What's wrong?" asked the Wonder, looking at me with concern. "You look like a startled cat." Then she said something about it being very becoming on me. But I barely heard the words.

There are times, to be sure, when one with a burden of woe is happy to welcome any acquaintance to the table, even a disambiguated one with a marked resemblance to a barnyard fowl, but this morning wasn't one of them. What I found particularly irksome in the Duck Man was the look he wore of owning the world and having paid cash for it, avoiding finance charges.

When he took his seat, he opened a discourse on a subject of interest only to him and he refused to relinquish the floor even when vigorously opposed. In fact, he seemed to relish the opportunity to offend. 

Even when Mary arrived--the good and deserving Mary who always has something of interest to say and who always leaves us feeling encouraged and optimistic, even this Mary was buffeted by the Duck Man's insistence on attention.

"Please join us," I said to Mary hoping against hope that we could turn the tide of avian impersonators and save the morning. "I'm sorry," she said, "I need to hurry home and get ready for church." As she walked away, Vinnie gave the Duck Man a quick glance and then called out to Mary, "Pray for us, Mary."

That having been accomplished, I pushed off and got on with meditation in the courtyard. Live comes hard and fast--accept any help that comes your way, no matter the source.

I Love Lucy!

I bobbed to the surface from the depths of a dream, having been roused by a sound like that of distant thunder. Clearing away the mists of tired nature's sweet restorer, I was able to trace this rumbling to its source. It was the cat, Beignet.

The super-sized Beignet has never seen eye-to-eye with me on the subject of early rising. I like to sleep to the last possible moment and then leap out onto the day, taking full advantage of the element of surprise. I'm told Napoleon did the same. But this long-haired, ginger and white is absolutely up and about with the larks every morning.

Having bounded onto the bed, he licked me in the right eye, then curled up and settled in with his head on my arm.

"Isn't that sweet?" said the Wonder who had shimmered into the room. I could not fully subscribe to this point of view. What is sweet about getting out of bed before God wakes, only to go back to sleep again? Silly, it struck me as.

I extricated myself from the cat and brought myself to a fully upright position, the better to slosh a half-cup of tissue restorer into the abyss. It was only then that I realized Ms Wonder was knee-deep in boxes, looking like a sea-goddess walking on the rocky shore.

"Unpacking?" I asked.

"Getting the Halloween stuff out. I thought it might help to keep busy today."

"Then unpack 'till your ribs squeak," I said, "and let me help."

It seems nothing applies the healing balm like anticipation of the holidays and our hearts were in need of healing. Lucy, that little princess of sweetness and light has been adopted by another and is even now getting used to her new surroundings. 

It's an excellent situation for her, of course, being the absolute center of attention and becoming a member of a permanent family. Still, it leaves a void for us left behind. When Lucy left, it seems the sunshine and bluebirds followed her.

We love you, Lucy, and we miss you terribly and if history is any indication, we always will.  I will always remember being wakened by your tiny, cold, wet nose.

Be happy and healthy little girl.

Splitting Time

Space-time is one not two dimensions, as I'm sure I don't need to tell you, what with Google and Wikipedia and whatnot. You can think of it as God's fanny pack where he keeps all his stuff. You don't have to think of it that way, of course, I'm just saying that you can if you like.

What few realize--few outside the Brothers of Cool and the followers of Wen the Eternally Surprised--is that space and time are not an integrated whole but more of a smash-up. Most importantly, space and time have an inverse relationship and it's that relationship that allows for all the fun.

If you slow down time, not that you would, but if you did, then space becomes much larger. Compress space and time speeds up but, be very, very careful, because when space is mushed together even a little, it begins to hot up.

In my tenure as an acolyte of Wen, I was introduced to many techniques for taking advantage of this inverse R but the only one I mastered, if it is mastered, is the technique of splitting time. Don't let the term mislead you, splitting time is nothing like splitting the atom. It merely refers to stepping outside the present moment into the interstitial spaces between moments.

It may be helpful to think of space-time like a big jar of marbles, except that for it to be really accurate, the jar has no walls and there are an infinite number of marbles. Your life, if you call it a life, moves from moment to moment--marble to marble--at the point where the marbles touch.

To split time, you step outside the present moment into the space between, which is also infinite, and you move around the moments until you come to one you like the look of and then step back into time. From your perspective--you may want to remember what you've read of Einstein--you are in the future but to those around you, the time is now and you're the weird guy wearing outdated fashion.

I teach this technique in my Fierce Qigong classes but you don't need the classes to play around. If you get in trouble just step into any moment and look for the people wearing the purple jackets and the Bofo masks. They can help you get where you want to go.

That's all there is to it. Have fun. No need to thank me, it's the least I can do. By the way, you can move into the past just as easily but I don't recommend it. The past is a much more dangerous country than the future. 

That Familiar Feeling of Impending Doom

I woke this morning with an unusually large sea of cats around me. I don't know how many cats are the recommended maximum dose for an adult but I'm sure as hell that it's not all of them. I began levering them out of the way and as I did so I became increasingly aware of a feeling of impending doom.

I know you're thinking that the Genome is jumping the rails. But I'm not actually saying that the cats are responsible for the feeling of foreboding. Not even a brindled cat can bring that much damage in a single morning. The feeling I had was undoubtedly the work of Princess Amy, that bad apple of the limbic system.

If you've been following along, you will be familiar with this princess and her dirty work. She has a tendency to stir things up from time to time by pushing the thalamus around causing an imbalance in naturally occurring brain chemicals called feel-good hormones. If left unchecked, civilization staggers and Hell's foundations are shaken.

"Not today, Amy," I said to myself and then, "Poopsie, I have a feeling of impending doom." This last statement arose at the sound of soft footsteps coming down the hall. When those footsteps entered the room, she looked my way and burst into laughter on the magnitude of a steam boiler explosion. Sometimes I wonder if cossack blood runs in the veins of this descendent of the Russian Enlightenment.

"Not funny," I said.

"But, Beignet is stretched across you like you're a moose that he's just brought down, and Uma is on your pillow looking like the hat Daniel Boone wore." She said as though she felt it excused her laughter.

"A moose?" I said, offended not a little. And neither would you be only a little offended if the woman you loved described you that way.

"No, not a moose," she said. "Boone, as in Daniel, and why do you think you won't enjoy yourself today?"

"Well you know how it is," I said, "some mornings shine with promise of a day that will be the merriest of all the glad new year and others not so much."

She gave me a look that included a moue. It is called a moue I believe, when someone shoves out the puckered lips and then pulls them back to starting position?

After a moment of silence, which by the way is always to be avoided, I said, "In many ways, life at the moment has its drawbacks."

On this solemn note, the phone on my beside suddenly tootled, causing me to skip to the high hills, which dislodged Beignet somewhere into the surrounding air. Glancing at the screen on the phone, I saw that some species of Aunt was on the other end of the call.

"This might be a good time to order the lilies," I said to Ms Wonder but it was too late. She'd disappeared into the salle de bains.

You Can't Go Wrong With a Full Moon

I moved a few cats from the bedside table to make room for the strengthening cup of ginger tea that Ms Wonder had just delivered. "Good morning, Ms Poopsie," I said, "am I correct to assume that it's morning."

"It's a beautiful day," she said opening the curtains to let the sun-smile in and then she gave me a peculiar look, which led me to wondering just what she meant by that remark.

We will soon be celebrating our 31st Halloween together and I must say that it's been more good than bad, just like each individual moment is more g than b. But then I suppose that 31 years is just a bunch of individual moments all bunged together until they make one big mountain of time.

We first met when this daughter of the Russian Enlightenment provided pumpkin-shaped cookies and apple cider for the inmates of the 2010 Nasa Road One in Clear Lake City, Texas. 

On that day, so many Halloween parties ago, I was on friendly terms with her facilities engineer, Enrique. By that I mean that we had downed a good number of Dos Equis together. 

But I knew this Wonder Woman not at all. I wanted to know her for she had a profile that would have the sultans and pashas clamoring to win her consent to join the quality harem. And that hasn't changed.

When I asked Enrique, that deserving son of Monterrey, about her status, he informed me that she was affianced and soon to walk the center aisle while the customers remove their hats and the organ plays "The Voice that Breathed O'er Eden."

I don't know if you've had the experience, perhaps not, but in my school years, I once blocked traffic underneath the basketball net to allow Mitchell Chambers elbow room for the lay-up. 

Pay close attention because I am coming to the salient point. Being more mindful than I of the options in the moment, Mitchell made a choice that I had overlooked as being a possibility and passed the ball directly to me.

Well, I don't need to tell you the aftermath of passing a basketball at close quarters to a teammate who is not expecting it--ruin and damnation ensues, that's what. 

It was an equally disastrous R and D that ensued upon learning that Wonder had so recently been taken out of circulation. I took it hard. The tremors reverberated, if that's the word, from brilliantined top knot to shoe sole. But what can the preux chevalier do in these circs?

One is either preux or one isn't, of course, and the only option for a parfait knight, like the Genome, is to accept the situation and get on with life. Live life on life's terms, is the way I've heard it said.

And so the long winter wore on until the day my office door opened and a face like a Mexican leprechaun peeked round to say, "She came in looking sour this morning and when I asked her about it, she said, I'll tell you what the problem is. That pig-headed, tyranical, uncompromising, jack-in-office that I have the good fortune to no longer be engaged to, that's the problem."

Do I need to say that two minutes later I was in her office with the rent check and a suggestion that what might cheer her up was the new romantic comedy opening on Friday at the Bijou? She accepted the offer. It surprised me no less than it surprised you to learn of it. 

Perhaps for her it was merely something do to pass the time, but for me, it was like hearing you'd been chosen for a second interview in heaven. And what of it if on that Friday, when we parked at the theatre, I tried to get out of the car before unbuckling? I think you understand.

This woman is the brightest star in my firmament and I am so grateful for so many things that went right--that Enrique was on my side, that the movie was about a loser who is transformed when he falls in love with one of the quality, and, oh yeah, I'm grateful that the movie was about a great big, full moon too. One can't go wrong with a full moon.

Take a Line Through Napoleon

Uma enjoys nothing more than sneaking beneath the duvet in the early morning hours, but on this morning, inches away from her entrance to the underworld, she was confronted with the head of the youngest poppet, Lucy. 

It was not a welcome sight for Uma, who returned Lucy's gaze with the look that Amy Vanderbilt reserved for guests who used the fish fork with the salad.

I sympathized with her distress. The situation was her equivalent, all things being relative, to having an aunt arrive on the scene at the worst possible moment.

Napoleon by Ortizvlasich

Now, it is generally recognized by those who know me best, that I am a resilient sort of bimbo and where others fear to tread I can be found rising on stepping stones of my dead self to higher things. This is what I'm told and I see no reason to doubt it.

Look in on the regulars at Dulce Cafe and ask anyone if the Genome spirit can be crushed and they will tell you that no matter how dense the slings and arrows, the Genome will not eat pine needles. (There it is again. I must tell you the story one day soon. I promise.)

Take yesterday morning, after leaving those two young hearts in springtime, Jenny and Bill, I was tootling down the highway, with the daughter of the Russian steppes beside me, on my way to River's baseball game. 

You remember this River as the god-grandson, who achieved Near Earth Orbit on the occasion of his last birthday. River is now playing kid-pitch baseball in the Autumn League.

There we were, Wonder and I, basking in the love of good friends, the morning sunshine and the joy of Car Talk on the raido, and yet something unmistakable in the air spoke to me of the shape of things to come, and I didn't like it. 

Although the village was quiet with the normal Saturday morning doings--the farmer's market, the Jordan Lake wind surfers, the down-dogging yoga classes--the portent was dark. 

Suddenly, turning the metaphorical corner, I looked toward the horizon into a surging sea of aunts. There were tall aunts, short aunts, stout aunts, thin aunts, and one aunt who left a voicemail telling me that I was late to a business meeting--on a Saturday morning, of all things.

I immediately thought of Napoleon, having just captured Cairo, walking around town rubbing his hands together and thinking about tomorrow's headlines in the French newspapers that would compare him to Alexander. 

Then grabbing the extra edition of the Cairo Observer he learns that Nelson has sailed the British fleet into the harbor and burned all the French ships. I'm sure you don't need me to describe the aftermath. You could read those headlines from here.

Well, you can do worse than learn from Napoleon, of course. When faced with these unfavorable odds, he declared his work done, knotted the sheets together for a quick escape, and didn't take time to pack. 

Even though the lesson of the Cairo Campaign was clear, here we were in the stands urging the Red Hawks on to near victory in an exciting 11-9 game on a beautiful Autumn morning in South Durham.

I would be deceiving my public if I said that happy endings were flowing freely all round but the spirit was mildly effervescent. Go Red Hawks!

Ransacking a Castle in France is Not My Idea of Fun

The rainbow at our house was spectacular last evening. It reminded me of the Blessed Damoselle leaning o'er the vaulted bar of Heaven, and it also reminded me of a mixed berry swirl from Ellie's favorite yogurt shop in League City.

You probably didn't see that rainbow unless you live south of the City, east of Woodlake, and north of Parkwood. We have a unique natural environment in Chatsford you see, possibly due to the FedEx air traffic from RDU. That plus the Air Force seeding the clouds with crystals, which I'm told by reliable sources happens regularly.

When I saw that rainbow, I expected a most clement morning to follow and I'll be a wet smack and a miss if a most clement morning was just what we didn't get anything but. Sunshine, blue skies, birds singing on key, and hot and cold running water was the order of the day. But beauty, and mark my words very carefully, beauty isn't everything.

No beauty isn't the end all. I woke this morning to the sensation of something like an aardvark licking the top of my coconut. When I say aardvark, I mean something with a tongue like sandpaper. A quick glimpse told me it was a brindled cat of uncertain parentage--part tabby, part tortoiseshell-calico. It was Uma, Queen of Cats. 

This Uma, you may already know is addicted to the Genome, following me from room to room and insinuating herself between me and anything that has my attention. She thinks she can stop anytime she wants but the truth is that the Genome bouquet is far too strong for her willpower.

Immediately upon waking and feeling that tongue, I sat up in bed. The feeling that greeted me on sitting up was the one you sometimes have after a late evening on the tiles. The one where you feel you may die in about two minutes. The sharp pain between the eyes was surely the same as that felt by Sisera, when Jael, the wife of Heber, used a handy spike and hammer to deliver the Hebrews from their oppressors. 

"Poopsie," I called out when I heard the sound of running water coming from the bath. I had rightly concluded that the daughter of the Russian steppes was performing her morning ablutions. Don't tell her I called her the daughter of etc. She doesn't like it. I'll tell you why in another post.

"Good morning," she said and I toyed for a moment with the idea of mentioning to her that mindfulness requires non-judgment, but after careful consideration let it pass.

"Do you have one of those concoctions of yours in the ice box?" I said.

"Mango and pineapple," she said.

"With the secret ingredient," I asked.

"Blenheim ginger ale," she said and my heart leapt with joy.

I made my way carefully out of the bedroom and down the staircase taking great care to avoid the feline traffic. At the fridge, I retrieved the elixir, bunged it down the hatch, and then waited for the magic to begin. 

Something there was that drew my attention upward where I saw Abbie Hoffman, surely you remember A. Hoffman, the tuxedo kitty, had taken up his favorite position atop the kitchen cabinets. 

For a moment we were eye to eye and although I couldn't know exactly what he was thinking, the expression he wore on his whiskered map said, "There but for the grace of God go I."

Then the curative properties of the elixir kicked in with the force of Judgment Day and the top of my head flew off and my eyeballs ricocheted off the walls. When I picked myself up from the kitchen floor, Ms. Wonder shimmered in. And now Abbie H was nowhere in sight. The proceedings were probably too much for his delicate constitution.

"Take a look at this," said The Wonder whle shoving a brochure toward me.

After reassembling the remains, I took the sheet and gave it a cursory glance. It was a travel brochure for something called a Viking River Cruise.

"Let's go next year," she said.

There was a brief silence. We have not shared the same thoughts on travel since that Saturday morning drive to the state farmer's market, which I'm sure you remember well. And I didn't want to go into the subject when I knew in my heart that I must vote no.

"Poopsie," I said, "I appreciate your attempt to appeal to the Viking blood of the Genome ancestors. The Jarls having sailed to Britain with Canute and whatnot, and I'm fully aware that it is the Viking strain in me that appeals to the Slavic strain in you, but ransacking a few castles in France and then returning to Denmark to party is not my idea of a fun weekend."

"It will be educational," she said.

Well, I don't know about you but I was full of education years ago. No more room. Before I can take in anything new I have to throw something out. Why bother? is the way I sum it up. 

I realized that if things were different from what they were, not that they ever are, I could simply shake the bean and hand the brochure back. But things being what they were, I made a decision, which in the future will surely be seen as a major turning point. I chose my words very carefully.

"OK," I said.

Beginning the Day

The sun was high in the heavens, or fairly high, when I awoke this morning. I had taken bed at a late hour and needed an extra bit of tired Nature's sweet restorer. I shooed the cats out of my footer bags and with the outer crust upholstered, set out for the caffeine den. I had no more than shoved the nose past the front gate before I was hailed by Vinnie, aka the Enforcer and Auditor Larry.

The people who frequent the Renaissance Cafe and Bean Bar are the types who appreciate beginning the day in the lap of luxury, which is easy to accomplish when your definition of luxury is a steaming cup of bohea made just the way you want, without having to ask. It's amazing to experience even though I'm sure it's accomplished with false bottoms and mirrors.

"On your left," said the Duck Man, who had sneaked in behind me, and I moved aside to give him free access to the smartphone scanner.

Those outside the Inner Circle consider the leader of our group to be the Enforcer, due possibly to his size and vocality and whatnot. But a true democracy exists in our gathering with everyone providing opinions and suggestions and no one paying attention. 

The Enforcer is one of three that can usually be found in the tightest clump of the outer fringe of this spiral of people dust. He is most often found in the company of Sideways Carl, who walks in a sort of oblique fashion as though trying to insinuate his way through the world. Carl has the gift of seeming to disappear when he stops talking causing him to flash in and out of sight during conversation.

The third personality is Auditor Larry, who is actually a collection of personalities, with a mind for many things and a voice for each one. In his recurring restful state, there is only a flicker across his features to indicate the presence of Tiny Artie, Fremont Jones, and Irv the Islander.

The Duck Man, already mentioned, could possibly pass without attention due to the unfortunate hallucination that he is actually sane, but the duck that sits on his baseball cap gives him away. This is not a plush toy but an actual merganser that acts as a sort of GPS guide to get him past innocent bystanders without attracting the police.

I can't discuss my coffee klatch without mentioning the other important regulars: Lady Hermione, Princess Amy, Sri Rama Hotchacha, and Nobody Johnson, who generally sits on the bench outside the front door and favors a drink called the Arnold Palmer. Look it up.

It's a diverse group who are united in single accord, at least between the hours of 7:00 and 8:30 AM. The tie that binds them has three knots: A shared social outlook that includes equal and compassionate treatment for all, without judgment, and with special dispensation to those in need; a disdain for anything that can be defined as work; and a firm conviction that dogs really can talk and that they often have something very important to teach us.

Well, you must begin somewhere, of course. So each morning, as soon as I get the cats fed and distribute assurances that when I walk out the door I am not leaving forever but will return in time for the next feeding, I navigate to a spot where someone who knows what I like will write, "Have a great day, Gene!" on the lid of my coffee cup.

Why would anyone do less?

Find Bill

While I could not go so far as to describe the heart as leaden, it was definitely short of chirpiness. This can be expected when friends gather at a favorite oasis to browse and sluice, enjoying rain on the roof and warmth in the hearts, and then the time comes to say a biento. You just don't want the good times to end.

                                        Copyright Bill Rasor 2012

This describes perfectly the morning when Ms Wonder and I met Jenny at William's Gourmet Kitchen in the South End. We came together to exchange notes on the status of the upcoming wedding that will irrevocably link Jenny with the affianced Bill. 

You will understand the importance placed on these wedding plans when I tell you that this is not one of those light-weight, flit and sip, summer flirtations but the real forever-after thing. They love!

You may be saying to yourself if you are one of the more observant readers, that I am overlooking the elephant in the kitchen--the absence of any Bill in the proceedings. Where is Wild Bill Hillsborough you might be asking yourself but, if you are one of the Inner Circle, you know that the missing person is spending the weekend in Emerald Isle on the Crystal Coast, just down the Atlantic Ocean a bit from Beaufort, where Ms Wonder and I dealt with the aunts last weekend.

The aunts will not figure largely in Bill's stay because it's not aunts themselves that matter so much as the courage one brings to them and this Wild B.H. takes a line through Napoleon.

It turns out that my lack of chirpiness was not due to the habit Bill has of materializing everywhere in the state of North Carolina where I am not. No, the disturbance that led to the v-shaped depressions, if disturbances do lead anywhere, was the appearance in the footlights of Princess Amy, that holdover from the Paleolithic who has the habit of making an ass of herself when she stops going to meetings and gets off her meds.

Not to worry, however, this Amy is not the menace she once was. Fierce QiGong has given me the necessary cosh for whacking her like a game of whack-a-mole every time she pops up for another go. And so I say, "Not today, Amy." Today I will be free from the limitations of yesterday.

That brunch was a good example of the principle that there is more good than bad in each moment. There was, in fact, more Wonder and Jenny present than there was absence of Bills. But he was still missed sorely! Hurry home, Bill.

Joy Reigns Supreme

Another morning that dawned bright and clear, at least I suppose it did, I wasn't actually among those present at the time. But when I did come to life all nature was smiling. 

Uma, Queen of Cats, who had been working on her twelve hours of shut-eye on the night table next to me, did a sitting high jump onto my lap so as to miss nothing that I might do. Her arrival caused me to sit upright in the bed, mindful of a profound serenity.

"Poopsie," I said, "I'm mindful of a profound serenity." The words were wasted because she was already in the salle de bains.

I remember thinking how odd it was that everything seemed so oojah-cum-spiff. Just this past weekend, we visited my favorite spot on the NC coast, where the wind-bent maritime forest comes right down to the sea, and the wild ponies run free, with absolutely nothing between you, as you stand in the breakers, and the Gold Coast of Africa. 

As I was saying, despite being in that perfect locale, I was deep in the soup and it was about to close over my head. It was that damned tiger/goat thing, and if you didn't happen to read that one, don't worry about it, these postings are not cumulative.

The short of it is that I visited my favorite place at the coast in order to build my confidence for the showdown with the aunts. Useless of course. It's pointless to argue with someone who was at your side all through your childhood because they know what a priceless ass you were then and will have no intention of listening to anything you may say.

Consequently, it was with heart bowed down with weight of woe that I drove back to Durham from Beaufort, that's bow-furt in North Carolina. Bew-furt lies in our southern sister state. 

I remember Ms Wonder saying to me once something about the heavy and the weary weight of this unintelligible world. It was some drivel written by a bird named Wordsworth, if that's his real name. Anyway, the quote seemed to me a good description of the depression I felt coming on.

When all else fails, I fall back on my luck star, or guardian angel if you prefer, or even totem spirit. I've lost count of the number of times I've been walking toward the tumbrel, like all those aristocrats in the French désagrément, when a governor's reprieve arrived, releasing me without a stain.

"Wonder!" I said, when she shimmered back into the room, "I'm mindful of a profound serenity."

"Joy reigns supreme?" she said.

"Very well put," I said, "but I don't understand how it could be. A few days ago, hell's foundations were doing the adagio and this morning--all bluebirds and rainbows."

"Fate's happenstance may oft win more than toil," she said.

"Oh, that's good," I said, "Shakespeare?"

"No," she said with a smile not unlike the one nature wore, "Bertie Wooster."

"Nunnh-uhh," I said, but it was uttered too late for she reentered the bath and left me alone with my tea and Uma the Queen of Cats. Given the circumstances, I decided my best course of action was to accept her word for it and get on with my day.