Princess Amy Again

Princess Amy is the personification of a little group of gray cells in brain, called the limbic system. Sometimes it's called that. At other times, it's called the lizard brain. It's made up of the hippocampus, the amygdala, and a few other odds and ends, but we won't let that stop us.

This limbic system is responsible for extreme emotions. The amygdala in the Genome's brain--my brain--is a species of drama queen. She has a mercurial temperament. Ekaterina, who knows the Genome best, describes metaphorically, but she it's a derogatory reference to the mental ability of bats, which I consider to be pejorative and will give a miss.

This Princess Amy gets steamed up anytime things don't go her way and she can escalate from tepid to incandescent in an instant. Since she is my amygdala, it follows that when she goes ballistic then I'm not far behind. If I pay close attention, I can interrupt her tantrums before they reach the tipping point. When left unchecked, she makes me feel a toy rat in the jaws of a her labrador puppy.

Yesterday Ekaterina, that daughter of the Winter Palace, suggested that I confront Princess Amy about her latest vexation. You will recall, the princess was showcasing an old movie-in-the-mind staring that damned sweater I received at the corporate Christmas party in 2008 when I was expecting--no, when I deserved--a big bonus check.

"Tax her heavily," were her words.

"Tax her?" I said, and I thought it weak of the Wonder to use the common speech just because April 15 is coming soon.

"Yes," she said, "look her squarely in the eye and tax her with her crime."

"Ah," I said, suddenly getting the gist of her words, "I'll do it right now."

"I'll come with you," she said.

"Where's my hat?" I said.

"You don't need a hat to tax a fiend about cashmere sweaters," she said. This Ekaterina is well versed in the manners and rules of good society. I was surprised, though, to hear the cashmere motif in her comments and I remember wondering where she could have learned about it. I usually leave that unnecessary detail out of the story for I feel that it unreasonably weakens the justification for my resentment.

I felt that resentment rising now. as I drew myself up and stared haughtily into a passing mirror, which proved to be the very place to direct the gaze when addressing a little group of brain cells in the middle of my head.

"Amy," I said, "your sins have found you out and don't pretend you don't know what I'm talking about. You have guilt written all over your face."

"If it is a face," said Ekaterina.

"Think before you speak, Amy," I said, "choose your words very, very carefully."

"Why think? Why careful?" asked Ekaterina.

"You have me there," I admitted, "it's something that a policeman once said to me and it affected me deeply. I thought it might have that same effect on Amy."

"Tax her about that sweater," Ekaterina said.

"Amy!" I said, "you almond headed, gargoyle from hell, what about that sweater?"

"Don't overdo it," advised Ekaterina.

"I've always known you were mad as a coot," I said getting into the rhythm of the thing and feeling that it was going very well.

"Coot?" said Ekaterina.

"Sort of duck," I said not wanting to take the time to fully explain for fear of losing momentum.

"Up until now I've tried to be respectful of your feelings," I said taking the high moral ground, which I strongly recommend as it makes all the difference in these confrontations.

"I have, up till now, skipped over the more embarrassing stories of our shared past. But if you insist on bringing up uncomfortable memories for the purpose of driving me manic when I'm trying to finish my book, then I will divulge all the sordid details to the world."

This seemed to be a good place to illustrate the text with a visual and so I added, "You will remember getting thrown out of Cafe' Dulce for trying to raise the price of a gelato by auctioning your boots? That and more will be exposed for the readers of my book, Out of the Blue. "

A sharp cry erupted from somewhere nearby and for a moment I thought it was Amy but quickly realized the sound escaped from Ekaterina's lips. She seemed on the verge of apoplexy as though she'd been stung on the leg by a hornet. I stared fixedly at her waiting to see if she had something to say. She did.

"Come on, let's get out of this bathroom before it's struck by lightning."

She was right, of course. She often is. Not that thunderbolts suddenly appeared but Amy had collapsed in a heap and it was clear to me that my work was done. I followed Ekaterina down to breakfast on the screened porch, as far away from that mirror as it's possible to be in Chatsford Hall.

Life comes hard and fast but not today, Amy! No not today!

Fields of Mars

The sun rose on the other side of the bed this morning, no doubt having checked the calendar and finding that we are well into September--season of mists and mellow fruitfulness--and, so close to the equinox, time to move another degree to the east. Rising on the left side, he naturally took NC 54 to Chadsford Hall, giving Interstate 40 a complete miss, which is always best.

Not generally noticeable, this eastward drift of the sun, because we're riding on the Earth as it spins around and because the sun wobbles around a bit. You'd wobble too if you got up so early every day. And don't forget the ecliptic path of the sun is coplanar with the orbit of the Earth--talk about a reason to wobble! The only reason I was aware of the drift is that I met the sun coming my way on this side of Woodcroft Parkway as I tootled toward Native Grounds.

Watching that golden wave coming to meet me, I was reminded that summer isn't long for this world and Autumn will soon be here. A lot of difference between early September and late. Already we have the cooler temperatures and coffee that tastes curiously like pumpkin pie. Soon we will have corn in the shock, whatever that is...Ms Wonder might know... and scarecrow orgies, but that's mostly in October.

It was a quiet morning in Native Grounds due to the thinner crowd of regulars, if a crowd can be thin. It's normal for the regulars to rise late on a Sunday and caffeinate themselves in the privacy of their own homes and the tourists don't normally arrive until after 10 when they're checked out of the hotel and ready to buzz off to the next destination. We do have tourists in Durham. They come for the performance arts center, the American Dance Festival, and the Fields of Mars--the god, not the planet. No doubt many are camping out for the next appearance of the Fields at the Motorco Music Hall on September 18, the last chance to hear them before the equinox.

As I was saying, Native Grounds was mindful and in the present moment when I arrived. At least the Secret Nine were mindful and they made up the majority of those present at the moment. What they were mindful of was the question of the day and the question was written on the board behind the coffee bar.

"Who was it that wanted to go home?" the Enforcer asked as I sat down.

"I know who can't go home again," I said.

"Who?" said Island Irv.

"Amelia Earhart," said the Enforcer.

"She was lost," said Sister Mary.

"Still is," said Irv.

"D. B. Cooper is still lost too," said the Enforcer.

"I think he wants it that way," said Mary.

"Who can't go home again?" asked Irv.

"You," I said.

"Why?"

"Well, for one thing," I said trying to quickly come up with something quirky, "every time Brahman blinks, the world is destroyed and recreated so the home you left doesn't exist anymore."

"Oh, no!" said the Enforcer, "Somebody stop him quick, please!"

"Brahman?"

"No, the Genome. Don't let him get started."

"Greta Garbo?" said Pickles.

"Nah, she wanted to be alone," said Mary, "not home."

"If you ask me, everybody should stay home," said the Enforcer, "especially people who take extended vacations."

"Travel is good for the soul," said Irv. "Expands the mind."

 "What's the mind got to do with the soul?" said the Enforcer, "Besides, all that travel burns fossils and that adds to global warming."

"What I want to know," said Pickles, "is why do so many holidays fall on Monday? Does it just work out that way or is it a conspiracy?"

"Thanksgiving isn't on a Monday," said Mary. "I know cause I cook it every year."

"Christmas and Easter don't come on a Monday," said the Enforcer and then added, "Well, I remember Christmas coming on Monday once but it threw everything out of whack and they don't do it any more."

And so you can clearly see, dear reader, that the one thing you can always depend on at Native Grounds Coffee and Gelato Bar is a dose of sparkling conversation, and so it continued for the rest of the hour. I left before the bagel throwing began.