In these rare moments between depression and mania, the Genome is a dapper guy on whose gray and thinly haired head the weight of a consistently misspent life rests lightly. It is a mystery to those who know me best that one who has enjoyed life right down to the worm should, especially when reaching that certain age when most are paying for it, remain so superbly robust. It's the wildness that does it, if you want my opinion. We are born wild and the wise and the reckless remain that way. Domestication is unnatural.
On this morning, the brightest and merriest of the glad new year, upholstered in the costume of a qigong coach, Thai fisherman's pants hanging loosely from the hips and a baseball-style shirt bearing the strange device of two tigers arranged in the taijitu symbol, I was just getting busy separating earth and sky when Ms. Wonder blew in like a cossack of discontent.
No matter how balmy the day, when Wonder stamps a petulant foot and shakes a finger in the mind's direction, one can feel the chilly air of the Winter Palace blowing around the ankles. Her arrival coincided with the feeling that Greek fellow must have had with the axe suspended by a hair over his neck. I immediately sensed a twang of regret for I knew not what but expected to hear about in the next two minutes.
"The worst has happened," she ejaculated. Yes, I've searched the mental thesaurus and I'm sure that's the mot juste.
"Oh, yes?" I said for we Genomes are quick and I realized that her ire was not directed toward me this time.
"Buffy has struck," she said.
I mused for a moment, taking a deep breath and perhaps making a moue or two before replying, "The vampire slayer?"
Now she seemed to muse. Two musings in less than a minute. It seemed possible that this could turn out to be a big morning for musing. Then she gave me the eye and the eye she gave caused me to feel that coolness around the feet once more.
"Buffy my hair dresser, you goose. He's gummed the machinery," she said. "He's doing nothing about the music. For a week or two I thought he was just busy or waiting for inspiration but now I realize that he doesn't intend to do anything. He's going to dawdle and put the kibosh on the works."
I understood her concern now and I'm sure it is as clear to you that her words are the latest update on progress of her new line dance. She's creating one and she's enlisted allies in the cause--one to do the choreography and one to write the music. The lyrics are her own. I don't know where she gets her inspiration, perhaps it's the Russian blood. The people of the Volga seem compelled to compose music. She takes a line through Tchaikovsky and Rachmaninoff.
I removed the mental monocle and polished it metaphorically. "Buffy the Frizzy Slayer?" I said, "I remember him well, nice boy. Not at all the sort of fellow to intentionally noble dogs just before the big fetch contest. No, I think you can dismiss Buffy as a carrier of malevolence. Too manic to do anything on the assignment is my guess. Put it out of your mind."
These words seemed like a good thing at the time and I expressed them with reserve fully expecting that she would see the wisdom of them and take a deep breath. Peace of mind is what I aimed for but not what I got. She seemed even more hotted up if anything.
"What are you driveling about?" she said with a slow shake of the head.
"Would you call it drivel?" I said. "Well, if it is, then it certainly isn't perfect drivel. I'm talking about people who may be expected to do the dirt, like Johnny Holiday, and people who may not, like your Buffy. You see it was nothing to the above Holiday to feed my cocker spaniel left-over steak and onions, without my knowledge of course, just before our contest to see who was the better retriever of tennis balls. When I threw the ball, Pluto just lay there, spread-spaniel with his ears unfurled and his eyes half closed. He was the perfect image of a fully contented dog."
"So you're saying that Buffy isn't..."
"Coming down like the wolf on the fold, and his cohorts gleaming in purple and gold? Not on the board. He's just pre-occupied, is my opinion. I have a suggestion."
She raised the eyebrows about a quarter inch but spoke not a word. I took it to be an invitation to continue. "Tell him that you've lost interest in the project. Seemed like a good idea at the time but now, life is coming hard and fast. Time to move on. Thank him for his efforts and recommend that he spend no more time on it. Then you simply get on with the project and he never knows the difference."
"Do you really think it would work?" she said.
"Works for me all the time. I call it the Genome Method."
"I'll think about it," she said. "Thanks."
"Not at all," I said.
She turned and started to move back across the terrace to the Hall but stopped as though her spring had wound down.
"Hello," I said.
"I was just thinking," she said, "that something about our conversation seems strange."
"Mysterious, you mean," I said. "Nothing mysterious really. It's just that you are usually coming up with the formula for my shortcomings and in the above dialogue, I was the balm that soothed your fevered brow."
"Oh, yeah," she said, "that must be it. Well, thanks again."
"Happy to have been of service," I said. "If we Genomes live for anything, it is to be of service. And this little bit of usefulness has made all the difference. Happy Birthday to me!"