Nothing Remains the Same

I woke this morning to that old familiar feeling of fingers walking up the thigh. You know the feeling I mean. My first thought was that if fingers are ankling up the leg, then the hand doing the walking belongs to the ghost that resides on the third floor of the Inn of the Three Sisters in the Genome's ancestral home of Crystal Cove that lies beside the Blue Ridge Parkway.

Gene Jirlds Copyright 2001 - 2004

To face this ghost requires a steeled resolve if that's the term. Resolve has been in short supply in recent days so I took a moment to muster the will. Be still, I said to Princess Amy. You remember her. She's that almond-shaped cluster of gray cells that sits on her throne in the middle of my brain.

Remembering an old saw I heard somewhere--it may be one of Ms. Wonder's--I gathered what resolve I had. The gag I mention goes something like this (I paraphrase, of course): There is a tide in the affairs of men, which taken at the flood, leads on to fortune. I took the tide at the flood and, with a burst of resolve, threw back the duvet ready to claim the promised pot of gold or whatever it was the man said.

Not a pot of gold and not a ghost. It was Abbie Hoffman, the white-gloved assassin, my very own American shorthair tuxedo. I wasn't in Crystal Cove at all but home in Chatsford Hall! And it is a good place to be.

Remembering an old saw I heard somewhere--it may be one of Ms. Wonder's--I gathered what resolve I had. The gag I mention goes something like this (I paraphrase, of course): There is a tide in the affairs of men, which taken at the flood, leads on to fortune. I took the tide at the flood and, with a burst of resolve, threw back the duvet ready to claim the promised pot of gold or whatever it was the man said.

Not a pot of gold and not a ghost. It was Abbie Hoffman, the white-gloved assassin, my very own American shorthair tuxedo. I wasn't in Crystal Cove at all but home in Chatsford Hall! And it is a good place to be.

Remembering an old saw I heard somewhere--it may be one of Ms. Wonder's--I gathered what resolve I had. The gag I mention goes something like this (I paraphrase, of course): There is a tide in the affairs of men, which taken at the flood, leads on to fortune. I took the tide at the flood and, with a burst of resolve, threw back the duvet ready to claim the promised pot of gold or whatever it was the man said.

Not a pot of gold and not a ghost. It was Abbie Hoffman, the white-gloved assassin, my very own American shorthair tuxedo. I wasn't in Crystal Cove at all but home in Chatsford Hall! And it is a good place to be.

Remembering an old saw I heard somewhere--it may be one of Ms. Wonder's--I gathered what resolve I had. The gag I mention goes something like this (I paraphrase, of course): There is a tide in the affairs of men, which taken at the flood, leads on to fortune. I took the tide at the flood and, with a burst of resolve, threw back the duvet ready to claim the promised pot of gold or whatever it was the man said.

Not a pot of gold and not a ghost. It was Abbie Hoffman, the white-gloved assassin, my very own American shorthair tuxedo. I wasn't in Crystal Cove at all but home in Chatsford Hall! And it is a good place to be.

I would be misleading my public if I said that the prospects of late have been more than bleak. The birds sang out of tune for a while and I'm pretty sure I overheard the bluebird talking about cashing in and retiring to Miami. But nothing is permanent, as the man said. Was it the Buddha? Shakespeare? One or the other of them seems to say just about everything worth saying. Have you noticed?

The turning point for me came last weekend while attending the sixth-grade performance of The Wizard of Oz, at Carrboro Elementary School. My grandson, River, was one of the production crew and I admit, when the play began, I was prepared to be bored. It didn't happen. No boredom. I could have been in the audience of a Broadway theater. Excellent performance. I highly recommend it if it comes to your neighborhood. It was the beginning of a different way of seeing the world.

Where once the birds seemed to be in an unending argument, today they sing as though Spring were around the corner. Actually, Spring is just around the corner but you know what I mean. I read somewhere that birds bid over the best building sites with their songs. Their little heads are filled with thoughts of homemaking and raising a family. It's a positive outlook and it's contagious. I too have a positive outlook and it's due in no little part to paying attention to birdsong.

Wen, the Eternally Surprised, my once and future martial arts master, taught me that life comes hard and fast and that the prudent person is ready for anything. How to be ready he never said exactly but I gathered that it required acceptance rather than resistance.

Though things came within a toucher of falling apart over the last few weeks, the flame of fierce qigong never died and I was able to extricate myself from the looney bin without a stain on my character. Almost no stain. Very little stain. No stains that won't come out in the wash.

The details of the affair, which my biographers will probably call, "Down the Waterspout at Midnight" are quite involved and need not detain us here. Suffice it to say that knotted sheets did not enter into it. Memories played a big part. That's all I'm going to say about it. Memories of sunshine and blue skies and birdsong. Sometimes memories are all we have.

It's good to be home again. There's no place like it.

In Between Like the Dickens

I believe it may have been Aunt Cynthia who used to say, "Full many a glorious morning have I seen flatter the mountain tops with sovereign eye," and then she would say something about kissing the meadows--all very good stuff--but then things would take a nasty turn and end with the sun getting the hell out of Dodge.

If you follow these little musings of mine from time to time, you will be aware that I insist on living "Happy, joyous and free" but, damn, if it doesn't sometimes seem that the odds are against it with all this impermanence and whatnot. Be happy if you can for as long as you can is my motto. Sooner or later, right in the middle of telling your best story to a rapt audience, you're going to glance down and see that you've gotten your elbow in the butter.

Take this morning, for instance. It had gotten off to an alright start and I had nothing in my heart but bluebirds and happy endings for everyone. Still, though immersed in sunshine, I was all in between. I was not feeling mettlesome, like a charger on hearing the trumpet call. Neither was the heart bowed down by weight of woe. I was feeling not too hot but not too cold, and I'll tell you why. I was faced with a weighty decision. I needed to choose one and let the other go--and go forever. You see the predicament? I didn't know which way to turn.

If you are not a member of the inner circle, then perhaps I can sum the thing up quickly without losing the long-time readership. Pay very close attention because I shall stick to the salient points and avoid the color commentary.

Ms. Wonder and I are launching an online travel magazine. I know! Me too! It seems that for some reason, your guess is as good as mine, we have done magazine work for 15 years. I write the articles and she makes the photos to illustrate my stories. And so we've decided to take the next step and launch our own digital travel magazine.

It will be called Carolina Roads and it will focus on road trips throughout the Carolinas and neighboring states. I think it will be pippin and so do most of my advisors. "So," you may be asking, "if it's so topping, what's the struggle about?" I'll tell you that too.

I don't know if you've had the experience of getting caught bending and having to listen to a character witness who takes your inventory and points out all your defects. Well, you remember Princess Amy, of course, that little almond-shaped cluster of brain cells that bears a striking resemblance to the Red Queen. She's been taking inventory recently and thinks as much of me publishing a magazine as Moses thought of the Children of Israel when he walked in on them worshipping the golden calf.

Her invectives leave me in a heap. Even my sleep is troubled. In last evening's dream installment, I was in a workshop at the local community college and my workshop buddy was T. Chuffler, also referenced in that link in the above paragraph.

The instructor in the dream was about to review our work when I noticed that Chuffler was not among those present and being present was a requirement for the review. When I realized that the classroom was completely empty of Chufflers, I panicked and began running around, waving arms and dancing from one leg to another. I seemed to need nothing more in life than one standard-issue Tiger Chuffler.

My search took me to her house. Instead of going to her front door the way I would if I were awake, I went instead to the cellar door and climbed up to look in the window. Dreams! I know! Do you suppose I saw Tiger sitting at her kitchen table? Of course not. I saw instead the Wild Bill and he gave me a look that left me rooted to the spot because of this patented look of his, to quote Shakespeare, if it was Shakespeare and not the Duke of Orange or the Earl of Bacon, this look "made my knotted and combined locks to part and each particular hair to stand on end like quills upon the fretful porcupine."

A thing I've always noticed is that it's difficult to know exactly what to say when the house owner catches you peaking in a window. I was searching for the right words when I noticed a decanter of tissue restorer in the Wild One's hands and motioned to say that I'd like a cup. He opened the window.

"Help yourself," he said.

"Thank you," I said.

"Although I'm surprised that even you have temerity enough to drink my wine after ignoring me for so long."

"Sorry," I said. "I was away longer than intended."

"What have you been doing with your time?" he asked.

"Well, for one thing, I'm in a workshop with your princess and a solid cosh behind the ears is coming from our instructor if we don't make it back immediately."

"Your photography instructor?"

"That's the one."

"He's about to cosh you?"

"To the core," I said.

"Ahhh," he said, brightening a goodish amount, "Fine man. Good stuff in those Durham Tech instructors."

"Is this my old pal talking," I demanded. "Is this the man who has signed a blood pact to come to my aid whenever I call? Because if it is that man, then he should know that I am sore in spirit and calling for help like the dickens."

He softened perceptibly.

"Tell Bill all about it."

"It's a long story," I said.

"Well, for Heaven's sake, don't go into it now, just give me the salient points."

"I'm in a heap," I said.

"I'll need just a little bit more detail."

So I explained the entire sad story. The lack of moral support as a child; the feeling of emptiness that requires constant staunching; and now the ordeal of taking a photography class with a group of total strangers the day after being deflated like a two-week-old mylar, birthday balloon. He listened attentively and I was relieved to read compassion in his gaze.

"There is a way out of your predicament," he said.

"That's your opinion is it?" I asked.

"The solution is very simple, really."

"And you're going to add, 'simple, but not easy'."

"If it were easy, it wouldn't strengthen the character," he said.

"To hell, with strengthening the c," I said, "I just want out of this with enough of the Genome to be getting on with. What's the solution?"

"Can't tell you," he said, "you'll screw it up."

"I won't."

"Yes, you will. I know these things. Your only option is to keep plodding forward and cross any bridges you come to without looking down."

"How do I know it won't end in a spoiler."

"You don't."

"I know what this is," I said. "I've been this way before.  You're suggesting that I abandon myself to the universe. Live life on life's terms and all that rot. Well, I'm tired of abandoning and whatnot. I want action. I want miracles or magic--I don't care which--and the method has to provide some assurance. Where's the assurance?"

I must have been speaking very, very loudly because when I stopped it seemed particularly quiet and Wild Bill was all smiling.

"You must have me confused with that other higher power," he said.

I understood all. The message was the same one the Amazon mother gave her daughter when handing her the shield and spear and pushing her into the fray. Nevertheless, the temperature near the feet remained coolish and I continued hesitant. I'm not saying that I didn't approve of the general principle, but I wasn't at all keen to act on it.

"Your lack of resolve is understandable. Between acting on a dreadful thing and the first motion..."

I raised a hand. "Not Shakespeare, please, I can't take anymore Shakespeare."

"That state of man, like to a little kingdom, suffers then the nature of an insurrection."

"Oh, all right!" I said. "Hand me the damned spear."

He gave me an inquisitive eye and I said no more, thinking, and I'm sure I was correct in this, that I had said enough. Life comes fast and hard and we must be ready for anything and all that rot. 

I knew of course, as I'm sure you too know, that we were not speaking of a photography class. Not really. What we were actually discussing was the online travel magazine that Ms. Wonder and I are publishing.

I apologized for the interruption and thanked him for his support, although the heart really wasn't in it. Still, I had my marching orders. It was a plan and it was a plan that I could follow. Is there any more to life than that?

Cat Zen

"Poopsie," I said and if I was taking liberties with the familiar form, what of it? I was in a stir and needed soothing. And that soothing I needed immediately. Nothing like that cat in the adage stuff--the one that let 'I dare not' wait upon 'I would.'

"Poopsie," I said, "it's another morning. Can you believe it? Consider the odds, I mean. Wouldn't you think that any day now we should begin without a morning. Otherwise, it's just one damn thing after another. Whatever are we to do?"

"Speaking for me," she said, "I'm on my way into the office and you, if you will follow my suggestion, will complete some of the things on that list I gave you."

"Forget lists," I said, "this is no time to be thinking of lists. Hell's foundations are shaking."

She gave me a look, not thoroughly compassionate but not totally lacking either. Then she said, "What are you talking about?"

"Ms. Wonder," I said, with some topspin, "have you not been paying attention? The world has jumped the rails. We're off the path. Last week, if it could go wrong, it did and now the same is happening this week. Consider Uma for example. She disappears."

"She has found a new hiding place that we don't know about," she said with a sanguine smile, "but she hasn't disappeared into thin air."

"I beg your pardon," I said. "Thin air is exactly what she has disappeared into. She takes a few steps toward the hallway each morning and then poof--gone."

"Not poof--gone," she said.

"Yes, poof--gone," I said.

We stood there for a moment or two, giving each other the eye and sizing each other up. You know how it is when two strong personalities are in close juxtaposition, if that's the word. The atmosphere can somethings get thick.

"Maybe you should try meditating, like Eddy here," she said reaching to stroke the back of the cat who sat on the toilet seat staring into the trash-can, as he does every morning.

"I meditate!" I said. "I teach others to meditate too. That's what I do. I immerse myself in meditation."

"Yes, but Eddy meditates first thing every morning right after breakfast."

"He's just lethargic from eating so much food," I said.

"He contemplates the void," she said still stroking the back of that cat.

"Are you implying that the trash-can and the void are the same?" I asked.

"Think about it," she said. "Everything that goes into the trash-can is considered to be worthless--it amounts to nothing. No matter how much you put in, the contents are always worthless. So the trash-can in that respect represents nothing. Then when you consider that everything is eventually used up or loses it's value and is thrown away, you realize that everything ends up in the trash. Everything becomes nothing. The trash-can, like the void, represents everything and nothing."

I was non-plussed. Wouldn't you have been in the same situation? I mused on this observation for a long moment. This Poopsie Wonder, as I've always said, and as you have certainly found by reading these missives, this Ms. Wonder is amazing. She knows all.

"Do you suppose that Eddy actually contemplates the void intentionally?" I said.

"Probably not," she said, "but do we actually have to be aware that we are meditating?"

"Actually, the essence of meditation of to be aware of nothing but existence," I said.

"Well, there you go then," she said.

"Truth!" I said. And I immediately trained the focus of my attention on trash-cans. I still practice the contemplation of trash cans and their contents. It's not too much different from my former preoccupation of goals and bucket-lists and other such nonsense.