What's Your Atlantis?

"Well, here we are again, Ms Wonder" I said, and I said it with not a little topspin.

"Where is that?" she asked while doing something to an eyebrow.

"Don't do that," I said. "Don't start that again, as though you don't know what I'm talking about."

"You mean the solstice?"

"I'm not talking about the solstice. It has nothing to do with longer nights and colder weather, although emotionally it does feel like the long, dark, teatime of the soul."

"Please tell me it's not about Straw Valley."

"Well, it is about Straw Valley affair and why not?

"I'm not familiar with the straw valley affair," she said.

"It's capitalized," I said. "and you are perfectly familiar with it."

"You're talking about the Straw Valley complex in the Commons," she said. "I thought it was closed."

"Oh no, no, no," I said. "Reopened some months ago and under new management. You wouldn't recognize the place. Well, you would, of course, but it's even better is what I mean. There's a wellness center in the Blake House and the restaurant has undergone a complete renovation to become the  Korean Vegan Palace."

"I doubt that but why are you telling me this?"

"Because," I said and then paused for theatrical breath, "the wellness center is talking to me about offering meditation and qigong classes in the courtyard again."

"Not that again," she said. Now, I know what you're thinking if you follow the ups and downs of Genome here on this slab of digital granite. You're probably thinking that the last bit of dialogue had the wrong tone. You're thinking that it lacked the rally-round element. And you're probably thinking that the Genome took it big. Well, you're right. I did.

"What do you mean, not that again?" I said raising my voice. "Bringing sweetness and light to the over-burdened hearts of the world is my calling. The courtyard of Straw Valley is my Atlantis. I'm going to teach meditation and qigong until my eyes bubble."

"That's the spirit!" she exclaimed.

"Yes, well I'm happy to know I have your approval."

"Always," she said.

"Thank you, Poopsie."

"Not at all," she said, and then giving me a questioning look she added, "You're not wearing khaki pants again?"

"Wonder Woman," I said.

"Yes?"

"Let's not spoil the moment, shall we?"

"Suit yourself," she said.

"That's what I've done," I said. And with that I wished her a tinkerty-tonk and was out the door like a spinnaker under full sail.

One Thing After Another

I woke with a light heart and with the words of that old saw running through my mind. How does it go, 'Let us then be up and doing, with a heart for any fate; still achieving...', something, something, blah, blah, blah, and then it ends with some guff about laboring and waiting but let's not allow the thing to bring us down, I just thought I'd mention it.

Woolly Bull at the Durham Bulls baseball field

As I say, I was in good mood but, as we all know, just because the day begins well is no reason to think it will continue that way. I didn't fall for it. I maintained a heart for any fate.

I had business with the Center for Integrative Medicine at Duke and the day being so fine, I decided to cruise in that direction. I counted cats and then ankled toward the door but before I opened it, the phone tootled.

"Can you please bring a box of those felted soaps to my office, please?" said a familiar voice. 

"No problem, Poopsie, for I am just now on my way to Duke and when I leave there, I will drop by your place on Blackwell Street with the goods."

See how pleasant it all was? But don't let that fool you. No, no, no, you just wait. As soon as the car left the garage, the sky opened and forty days and nights of rain began falling.

Well, everything looks different in the rain, of course, and I made a wrong turn. You expected that, didn't you? But I'll bet you didn't expect this: as soon as I made the turn I was stopped by police cars and fire trucks. That's right, but they weren't interested in me and I can't say that I had much interest in them. I instructed the car to phone Wonder.

"Poopsie, I'm going to be a little late with the soaps and whatnot."

"That's OK," she said, unfazed as always. "Take your time."

"Oh, I will surely be taking my time, all right" I said. "I'm stuck in traffic. Someone's set fire to the road."

"Set fire to what?"

"The road, Poopsie, someone's lit up Fayetteville Street."

"But, I don't understand you. Why would someone set fire to a road? You mean there's been a traffic accident?"

"I don't see any accident," I said. "I only see the road ahead and it's blazing like the dickens. You ask a good question though. Why torch a road? Just a passing whim, do you think?"

She said no more but signed off rather abruptly. Probably some emergency in operations management. Eventually I was able to extricate myself from squad cars and fire hoses, and I began to drive Durham-ward. But it was still raining and I made another wrong turn. 

No fire trucks this time and I reasoned the best course of action was a u-turn. It took very little effort to make the turn because some traffic engineer had thoughtfully built a convenient spot for doing just that. Effortless but interesting anyway. I phoned the Wonder Woman.

"Poopsie," I said, "I wish you were here. I just made a u-turn, in one of those specially prepared places in the road where one is encouraged to make a u-turn, and you will hardly credit it, but there was a sign warning "Do Not Enter." I would have photographed it but, as I say, I was u-turning."

"Probably just an extra piece of road signage that was lying about. I wouldn't concern myself with it if I were you. I'm amazed that they spend good tax-payer money on signs like those," she said.

"But the entertainment value alone justifies them, don't you think?" I said. She rang off again.

I was now headed in the right direction and had found just the road to get me there when I was stopped by traffic again. You will be happy to know that the road wasn't burning and there were no emergency vehicles. There was, however, a yellow ribbon of the type you see strung across the roadways when people are raising money for some charity or other. The sign said, Iron Duke.

I know a thing or two about these Iron Dukes. For one thing, they take no guff from the locals. Don't mess with the Iron Duke is the word that goes round town, so I don't. Now, I'm not sure how it happened, but I was able, eventually, to find a detour that brought me to the gates where they sell tickets to the Greatest Show on Dirt. 

No Durham Bulls ball games scheduled for November, of course, so plenty of parking and I could walk to Wonder's office. Without further mishap, I arrived at the back door, underneath the Woolly Bull in left field.

"Thank you, Genome. You're one in a million," she said.

"I know," I said. "Don't mention it. It was quite exciting actually. Let's do it again tomorrow, shall we?"

Beware October Nights!

It was a cool and windy morning with leaves blowing around and that peculiar electric feeling you have when magic is in the air. I wasted no time in getting to Native Grounds and, wrangling a cup of the hot and steaming, I seated myself in the Den of the Secret Nine near the corner next to the English phone booth. Bob was there and greeted me with, "October is my favorite year of the month of the year."

"I couldn't agree more on both accounts," I said and I meant every word. October is the month when the blustery winds from the Bad Lands spread all across the continent; the rain falls like it's trying to break the old 40-day-and-night record; and the nights are black as the inside of a cat. It makes waking up in the morning an exciting prospect.

Just last night the wind howled and lightning stabbed the grounds of Chatsford Hall like a blind assassin, and thunder rolled around the hills like troll laughter. This was a little storm as maelstroms go but it had rolled up its sleeves and was getting down to it. It had no doubt been hanging around the rural areas for some time, getting practice with a few summer squalls, making contacts and getting ready for the big time. Now an opportunity had opened up late in the year and it was doing everything it could to get recognized by one of the major weather patterns.

Looking out my bedroom window, I thought I could see three stooped and hooded figures in the glare of the thunderbolts on the knoll behind the apple orchard. They were gathered around the embers of a small fire that gleamed like the madness in a weasel's eye. Above the Crash! Boom! Bang!, I thought I heard a voice shriek, "When shall we three meet again?" Could have been my imagination.

The Egyptians believed that magic held the world together and kept everything working smoothly. A  matter of opinion if you ask me. One thing I do know about magic is that it gathers in the mountains in the western regions of North Carolina and is stored in the quartz crystal that form the foundations of the Blue Ridge. Geologists say that quartz granules washed down from the mountains and carried by the rivers and waterways to the sea are the reason for the whiteness of the Crystal Coast beaches. It follows then, that North Carolina is a magical place.

And now it's October and we're on our way to Halloween--season of the witch. I love this time of year because it makes me feel really alive. Well, we're all living of course, but the act of being alive requires active participation. Simply living, on the other hand, is a passive experience.

I've had two experiences in my life that catapulted me into the dimension of being alive. One of those experiences was a traffic accident that brought me to the Doors of Death and allowed a short conversation with the Master of the House. The second was a screaming match with the Thirteenth Ghost. It's not in these annals now. Perhaps later. Still, I can't think of Halloween and not think of these two experiences.

My responses to the both sets of events were apparently the correct ones because I was left with an exhilaration--an ecstasy--of living life fully engaged. Both contributed greatly to the development of the principles of Fierce Qigong. Live comes hard and fast--be ready for anything. And in case, if I don't speak to you before the magical night--Happy Halloween!

Go On Then!

I enjoy long road trips, as a general rule, but we all have our limit. Mine is a high threshold--perhaps higher than yours-- but still. Life can be enjoyable outside the front seat of a touring vehicle. You may have to look for it, but it can be found.

For those of us who crave the experience of hands on the wheel and the open road before us, the realization that we've had enough comes when we're usually about 20 miles or more from civilization.

So it was after many miles of driving from Natchez, Mississippi to Alexandria, Louisiana that I discovered I didn't like blue sky, green fields and puffy white clouds as much as when I started out. I'd had enough. I tried to apply the healing balm of music to the tired spirit and it did help for a while.

Now, when I'm listening to music in my car, I'm not simply singing along with the lead singer, I become the lead singer. First I was Mick Jaeger and after that George Harrison. I was getting into the role of Graham Nash when suddenly, out of the blue, I was struck with that feeling one sometimes gets that I was going to die in about five minutes if I didn't get out of that car.

It was at that very moment I saw him, or her, lying on his or her back by the side of the road, legs all wiggly and neck craning to make sense of an upside world. It was a familiar sight, one that makes you question intelligent design, if you follow my meaning. A home on your back is all well and good but if you can't right yourself when overturned, well, I'll risk getting wet in the rain thank you.

I whisked by at high speed and was at least a mile or two away when all the details fell into place in my mind, if any, and I turned round and drove back slowly. I found him again about 50 yards from a country church with empty parking lot. Serendipitous, if that's the word. I parked Wind Horse in the church parking lot and took a bottle of water out of my pack, for it was a hot day and no way to know how long this tortoise, if that's what he was, had been lying there viewing the world upside down. Or she.

When I arrived, she pulled his head in, which any turtle rescuer knows is a good sign. I turned him over and his head retreated completely into the recreational vehicle he/she wore. I picked him up carefully and crossed the highway, knowing that he was intent on moving in the direction that his head was pointing. If I hadn't helped her cross the road, she would have continued from where I found her, which meant she would end up like all the others of her kind that lay on the shoulders of the highway in a more or less smashed condition. I placed her, right side up, in a drainage ditch and gave her a dousing with the bottled water.

Having performed my spiritual duty, I headed down the shoulder of the road back to my car and I found that this Good Samaritan effort had energized me. The spirit soared. I am not allowed to actually run anymore due to a silly misunderstanding between my immune system and my spine, but I think it's fair to say that I jogged back to my car with head high and a tra la la on my lips.

It was at about that time, after commending my soul to God and preparing to slip back into the car and out onto the highway that I heard a voice coming from the vicinity of the church.

"Hey," said the voice and I turned to see a rather unfriendly looking man, about the tonnage of Willie Robertson and wearing a beaver on his face very much like the one Willie sports. He must be a member of the Duck community, I said to myself. I watched him scurry toward me from across the parking lot and realized, not without a little dread, that he was carrying, which I believe is the term for being armed with a lethal weapon.

His weapon, if that's what it was, wasn't concealed in the manner of the responsible family man, as I believe these gun-slingers like to phrase it, but revealed openly in a way that said this fellow chose to live and die by the second commandment. No, not commandment, I mean to say second amendment.

As it turned out, his concern was that I could possibly be the perpetrator of vandalism that visited the church a few days prior. I suppose it was my out-of-state license plates that stirred him up so. These rural inhabitants are distrustful of anyone of unknown parentage. It seems outsiders are always roving into the community and causing trouble. I'm sure you've noticed that yourself.

At any rate, even though the fellow questioned me while sucking on the muzzle of his pistol, it was just a slight distraction for the Genome and having shown him my ID to confirm that I was neither undocumented nor blacklisted, I proceeded on to Houston.

It was amazing how much bluer the sky and fluffier the clouds after that little encounter. Not because I'd been able to slip away without the need to talk to the local constabulary but because I knew that somewhere in the marsh a tortoise was telling his buddies about the good Samaritan that happened by at just the right time. And that made all the difference.

Makes All the Difference

Do you remember that I spent all last week looking for signs of the monster of Jordan Lake? Well, I did, and you might want to pay a little more attention in the future. Just because you can't spend the middle of summer at the seashore is no reason to let the mind drift.

Lake Jordan looking west toward Crystal Cove

It was hot last week. And humid. I don't remember when I've experienced a hotter and humid-er. Even worse, after all the driving, hiking, and photographing, I was rewarded with nada. Nothing to support Lupe's claim of the monster. 

In all fairness to the young geezer, I should say that she doesn't like the word monster. She prefers to say creature and believes the animal to be a mother whose only concern is taking care of her offspring.

I did get a nice shot of the lake in the early morning. I'll post some pics for you to enjoy later. Where was I? Oh, Lupe's monster.

Please tell me that you haven't forgotten Lupe. Twelve years old. Short dark hair. Wears her clothes like a bench in a department store dressing room. Looks like a cross between a tall pixie and one of the Morrigan sisters. Oh, don't make that face. I'm not being harsh. It's the look she's going for.

As I was saying, she's proven the existence of the lake monster mathematically, so the thing's got to be hiding there somewhere. Lupe is seldom wrong when it comes to numbers.

I have pressing concerns in Crystal Cove this week and I arrived at the Inn of the Three Sisters yesterday afternoon. I thought I might as well check in with the aunts before meeting with the old ancestor, Uncle Gus.

It was mid-afternoon when I arrived and there's no time like 2:00 to 4:00 on a Tuesday afternoon to find nothing going on in Crystal Cove. I entered the front parlor to find Lupe practicing qigong. She was wearing the baggiest pants I've ever seen and a fedora. A fedora! What's that about?

"Good, lord," I said. "Where'd you get those pants?"

"Hello, sir," she said in the middle of the movement that she assures me is called White Swan Spreads Her Wings. And in case you're wondering if I'm having a go at you, let me assure you, she said those exact words. I know! I thought it strange too.

"Where'd you get those pants?" I said again.

"They're Thai fishermen's pants," she said. "Don't you like them?"

"Very becoming," I said. I'm sure you would have thought of something better but that's the best I could do on short notice.

"Did you find signs of the creature?" she said. I told you she doesn't like the term monster. She plans to make a pet of it, I'm certain.

"No, I did not. And I'm exhausted from the effort. I'm here to see Uncle Gus and have a good long rest. No drama, please. Don't start any of your stuff."

She stopped the qigong routine and gave me a look with cocked eyebrows and a pout.

"Have you seen Gwyn lately?" I said.

"Yes, sir. Lady Gwyn is out on the grounds looking for Constable Mason."

I'm sure you've noticed the formal bent in her conversation by now, and if not, then pay attention for heaven's sake. I'm not writing this for my own amusement. I noticed the formal motif right away and I didn't like it. I took a breath and prepared myself to pry under the lid even though something told me it would come to no good.

"Alright," I said. "Take five, you little racketeer. Since you insist on pressing the issue, just what is it with all this medieval stuff?"

"Sir?" she said.

"Exactly!" I said. "What's with the sirs and the Lady Gwyns and the Constable Masons. Why not just Genome, Gwyn, and Mason?"

"Oh, that," she said. "My mom, says I need to show more respect for my elders." She said it with a scowl and it all became clear to me in an instant.

"Oh, that's the story, is it?" I said. "Well, we Genomes have lightning-fast brains, Tinker Bell, and I can read between those lines. You've gotten your little blue coat with the brass buttons caught in Farmer McGregor's fence again, haven't you?"

"Have you been out in the sun without a hat?" she said.

She was pushing it, don't you think? I drew myself up to full height and looked down on her with a stern whatisit. I forgot the exact quote but I'm sure you can fill in the blanks. 

"None of that, thank you," I said. "The reference was Peter Rabbit. I'm sure you've heard of him at some point in your career. But that's not important," I said with a wave of the hand.

"I know why you've adopted the lingo. You've given someone some backchat, probably Aunt Maggie, and now you're paying the price. But you're not showing respect, you're being whats-the-word."

"Resistant," she said. "Obstinate," I said.

"Defiant," she said. "Seditious," I said.

"I'm glad you're back," she said. "I've missed our little chats."

Well, I melted of course. I mean she may be the spawn of Satan but she's my favorite inmate here at the Cove. And who among us can keep up the stern exterior when your god-niece is under the rule of three aunts and an uncle for the duration of the summer? It's enough to make the Pope kick a stained-glass window.

"Why is Gwyn looking for Mason anyway?" I said.

"Mason is trying to rehome some of my cats and Gwyn is doing me a favor by sweet-talking Mason, on account of I'm helping her with the high-summer festival."

"You have too many cats?" I said.

"No," she said. "But it's more than the homeowners association will allow."

"How many does the HOA allow?"

"Three."

"How many do you have?"

"Seven or eight," she said, "depending on your point of view."

"Ah," I said as a way of giving myself time to decide which direction I would take. The question I asked myself was, would I do my duty as god-uncle and point out the risk of taking the rebellious path? Or would I be the understanding and compassionate friend?

Then I remembered an incident from my childhood when I was discovered to have more than the allotted number of cats in my bedroom and the proper action became clear to me.

"One purr bucket just leads to another," I said, and then added, "Hemingway."

"We are rewarded in heaven according to the way we treat cats on earth," she said. "Heinlein."

"Don't call me Heinlein," I said. "Don't call me Hemingway," she said.

We laughed. "Enjoying the summer?" I said. "Now that you're here," she said. And that made all the difference.

You Can Do This and More

You will need no explanation of the scene I'm about to describe. You've been there yourself often enough. Only three check-out lanes were open in our local gourmet market on the evening before a long holiday weekend. The lines waiting to pay were backed up to the kombucha coolers.

"Three lanes open for Memorial Day weekend," said the Wonder, and of course you and I both know that she was spot on because I already said that.

After several long minutes that seemed like half the morning, we were next up to be did-you-find-everything-you-needed? I felt the relief that one can only feel when the wait finally ends. I mean I had long since bored myself silly re-visiting old text messages, voice messages, and articles with subject lines like 17 Things Celebrities Do That You Don't.

The teller began ringing up the locally grown and gluten-free and was moving at a satisfactory pace. In, my mind, I was already carting the goods to the car, bunging them into the hatch, and getting on with Friday evening, which as you well know is pizza night at Chatsford Hall. And not just any pizza. It was a Margherita pizza with cauliflower crust.

At some point, I dimly became aware that someone nearby was calling my name. I looked round to search for the name-caller and imagine my surprise when it turned out to be Ms. Wonder and she was standing right beside me. She gave me a peculiar look. Difficult to describe it. And then she began gesturing toward the corner of the shop where they keep the good stuff.

"Sprouted bread!" she said with some urgency in her tone.

Now, this is one of those remarks that leave me without a solid comeback. You may have a ready response for it but not me. It got right over my head. It was my turn to give her a look.

"Squirrely," she said.

If I was flummoxed before, I was lying in a heap on the floor now. How did she learn of my childhood nickname and why did she take this particular moment to start using it?

"Get sprouted bread from the cooler," she said.

We Genomes have minds like steel traps, of course, and I immediately realized that:

1) the teller was ringing up the last half-dozen items...and
2) Ms Wonder was adamant that we would be leaving with a loaf of sprouted bread

We Genomes are men of action, of course, and it was with me the work of an instant to turn, rocket through the vegetable bins, and stand in front of the bread coolers. With thoughts of that precious Wonder enduring the glares of shoppers waiting in line behind her after she'd answered in the affirmative when asked if she'd found everything, I wasted no time making my decision.

I grabbed the first loaf I saw. It was the Big 16. But as I turned to face Ms. Wonder and the teller, who were now 4 vegetable bins and 6 checkout lanes away from me, I saw the pleading look in Wonder's eyes and then felt the universal male urge to be the knight that saves his lady from the dragon. She needed me to live up to my reputation--that of moving in mysterious ways my wonders to perform.

I saw something else when I made that turn at the bread cooler. I saw another loaf of sprouted bread with a label that read, Squirrely. I immediately knew two things, because didn't I say that we Genomes are pretty damned smart?

I knew to put the Big 16 back and grab the Squirrely. It will seem incredible to you but in that instant, I had bandwidth enough to be grateful that Wonder didn't know about my childhood nickname after all. And I'll tell you why I was able to make room for gratitude even though the pressure had hotted up. The reason is that I'd found the solution.

When I'd looked into those green eyes in those last few moments, I felt that the only thing I had to live for, in that present moment, was making her happy. I would be her knight.

"Hurry!" the Wonder called.

I took one longish step toward the cashier and cocked the arm, if that's the word I want, seeming to fall effortlessly back into high-school football form. That's right. I rocketed that loaf of sprouted bread high above the heads of shoppers and up into the stratosphere of the Sprouts market.

Up and up, as dry leaves before the wild hurricane fly, that loaf of bread arched across the dome of the market and every eye in the store followed it. Made me think of the way we watched the space station cross the sky one moonless night last winter.

Having almost reached escape velocity, but failing by a percentage point, the seeded missile paused for a heartbeat near the air conditioning ducts and then began its descent, slowly at first but with increasing velocity. If I didn't know better, I would swear to you that it became incandescent as it reentered the earth's atmosphere.

Small children clutched their mother's Athleta-wear. Women screamed and abandoned their shopping carts. Faint-hearted men clutched the walnut handles of their 2nd amendment rights.

Not to worry; Ms. Wonder was at the receiving end and she's one woman who's forever cool in a crisis. She one-handed that loaf and slid it across the scanner without missing a tic.

It was a perfect ending and the applause from the other shoppers and employees made it a perfect day. You've heard it before and it remains forever true, my friends, life comes hard and fast and it pays to be prepared. Fierce qigong!

No Place Like Home

I woke this morning to that old familiar feeling of fingers walking up the thigh. You probably know the feeling I mean. My first thought, as I lay there underneath the blanket, 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 ancestral home in Pittsboro. 

If you're not familiar with Pittsboro, it's the village that lies beside the Haw River south of Chapel Hill and is not to be confused with Saxapahaw, which also lies beside the Haw River. Easy to tell them apart; they're spelled differently.

Gene Jirlds Copyright 2000 - 2024

But I've jumped the rails again. The topic is the ghost that's tickling my thigh. To face this ghost, as you may recall from an earlier post, requires a steel resolve if that's the term. But resolve isn't always abundant and it's been in short supply in recent days. I took a moment to breathe deeply and to muster the will. 

Be still, I said to Princess Amy, who you probably know as that almond-shaped cluster of gray cells sitting on her throne in the middle of my brain. She's fond of stamping her foot and yelling, Off with their heads! or alternatively, Run for your life! I believe Napoleon had the same temperament.

As I lay in bed, taking my moment, I happened to remember an old saw I heard somewhere--it may belong to Ms. Wonder. 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.

Well, you know how we Genomes are; men of action! I took that tide at the flood and threw back the duvet ready to claim the pot of gold or whatever it was the man had in mind.

Well, imagine my surprise, to discover not a pot of gold and not a ghost. It was Abbie Hoffman, the white-gloved assassin, walking up my leg and I was not in Pittsboro but back home in Durham! And Durham is a good place to be. All's well that ends well and all that.

Now, I would be misleading my public if I said that the prospects of late have been more than bleak. The birds have been singing out of tune and I'm pretty sure I overheard the bluebird talking about cashing in her chips and retiring to Miami. 

But today is different, which isn't surprising because nothing is permanent, as the man said.  Was it the Buddha or Shakespeare? I get them confused. But surely it was one of the other. They seem to be responsible for everything that's worth repeating. Have you noticed?

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

Where once the birds seemed to be in an unending argument, today they sing as though spring were just around the corner. It's a positive frame of mind and it's contagious. I share that positive outlook today and it's due in no small part to paying attention to those birds. Master Wen might say it's due to simply paying attention--period.

Whatever the cause of my new attitude. I'm not questioning it. I'm just happy that knotted sheets didn't enter into it. I must give Ms Wonder credit for helping to clean my mental windows so that I could see more clearly. That's all I'm going to say about it for now.

I will say that it's good to be home again. There's no place like it.

Saying Goodbye to Mom

"As-salamu alaykum," I said to the Music Man who stands at the corner of Highway 55 and Starbucks asking for money and orange juice.

"W'a alaykum assalaam," he replied giving me a big wave of the hand and a bigger grin. There is a good chance we actually used the common tongue in our greeting because someone in the car behind me was insistent on making a left-hand turn and the Music Man and I, as you well know, always strive to spread sweetness and light wherever we may. There was just no time for a miscommunication in Arabic, and as for the French language, as far as I am aware, it isn't on the Music Man's menu.

"How are you making it?" I asked. "Do you have enough water... coffee?"

"I don't drink coffee. What I need is a big orange juice," he said.

I know! Orange juice! But if you are one of the many who hang onto every word I write, which is the minimum requisite for membership in the Inner Circle, then you know all about this Music Man and his fondness for the muck they squeeze from oranges. My father used to say that it takes all kinds to make a world, and I'm thinking he wasn't so far wrong.

"Hang on," I said. "I'll come about." I set the sails on Wind Horse to tack sharply and tied up at the Starbucks in the same slip I'd just left. Taking advantage of the retail systems in place in the Kingdom of the United States, for I lived there many years and am familiar with the procedures, I was able in less than 15 minutes to be sharing the corner once more with the Music Man, and working out the logistics necessary to transfer the tissue restorer, if that orange sludge can be considered a t.r.

The Man, as I'm sure you know, has to bring sharp awareness to the legs to get them moving in the desired direction. He did this now. Then he hooked the walking cane over the arm and reached first for the water, and then for the juice. I pay close attention to his movements because I study the technique of this master of the cane, as I expect to need his skills in the coming years.

"Good move," I said in reference to choosing the water first and my cingulate cortex opened its mouth to say that fruit juice is not a healthy way to get energy. But I decided to give this discussion a miss. Probably not germane to the topic at hand.

"You got to know how to survive in this weather," he said with a great deal of certainty and authority. I nodded as I do each and every time he shares this wisdom with me. I'm grateful to know that he doesn't open up like this to everyone--only the initiated. 

"And the wind chill," I added, noticing that the breeze had gotten up since I left Chatsford Hall only a few minutes before. He nodded and then tilted his head back and poured the contents of the water bottle down the funnel.

"Rem acu tetigisti," he said, although memory tells me that he translated from the Latin in real time. He may actually have said, "You got that right." Then in answer to my unasked question, he said, "I'm doing good." We have the kind of understanding, this Music Man and I, that doesn't always require speech.

"Happy to hear it," I said.

"It takes more than a chilling mist to get me down," he said, "As long as I take my medicine, I can make it--heat, cold, rain, whatever. I came to Durham in 1981 and I worked for many years at Duke Hospital," he said to get things going for this Music Man is practiced at taking advantage of every opportunity to tell a story, "and then I worked in the food-service industry. I'm used to having to work hard. Never had it easy."

Then his face lit up a bit and he asked, "Hey, how's your mom?"

He sees my mom when we come this way to visit the Dollar Tree behind the coffee shop, and he regularly asks about her.

"Thanks for asking," I said and then gave up the bad news that she passed last December. He nodded and was silent for a moment. Then he looked at me with a twinkle in his eye, and that twinkle brought a corresponding twinkle to mine. We began chuckling and then laughed out loud. It wasn't my mom's passing that got us going. It was her often heard lament, brought on by her feeling that she'd lived too long already, that she would, "probably live until Jesus comes back."

After the hearty laugh, we both became silent again. He gave my shoulder a whack, at least I think it was intended to be a whack. It was more of a robust pat, if you get my meaning. His instability, what with the shaky legs and braces and whatnot, prevent him getting in a really good slap.

"I miss my mom," he said. "I was good to her like you were to your mom. I was born Down East and don't know who my real parents were. I was adopted when I was just a baby by a good Christian couple who didn't care about what color a baby's skin was. In those days, most people wanted babies with light complexions. Didn't want babies with dark complexions," he said with a finger pointed toward his cheek."

"I'm glad they found you," I said. "I'd hate to think I'd come here every day without seeing you. Sometimes talking to you is the difference in having a sky filled with clouds or blue skies and sunlight."

He gave me a look and I realized I had not made my meaning clear. "Inside my head," I mean, "cloudy day or sunny day in my head." Then, as if it would clarify things even further, I said, "There's a crazy little princess living in my head and it's her day I'm talking about."

"You better go then," he said, "cause I got enough problems without dealing with no crazy little princess living in somebody's head. Besides, I got music to make."

Oh, Mom, if you're reading this, the Music Man said 'Hello,' and that he will miss seeing you at the Food Lion. I miss seeing you there too. I miss seeing you everywhere. I miss watching Hallmark Christmas movies with you. But just like I promised you, Ms Wonder and I are living happy, joyful and free.

I'm sure we'll be talking more later but right now I have places to go and things to do. In fact, I've got music to make.

Love you, Mom.

Living On a Prayer.

I suppose I should apologize upfront. It's all my fault you see, just like so many other things gone wrong in the world today. Ms. Wonder, of course, is fond of telling me that it isn't all about me, but if she only knew. You see, it's like this...

       

"My friend, Luminita," I said to Ms. Wonder as she packed for the morning commute downtown. You surely remember that this Wonder is one of those savants you're always reading about. She has the answer to any question, the solution to any problem. I think it's all that fish she eats. Brain food. Has to do with the healthy oils. 

I said to Wonder, "My friend, Luminita, sent a link to an article about the future construction of floating cities, and it was that term, floating cities that...well, you can easily guess the thought that came into my mind." 

"This velcro gets caught on everything," she said much to my amazement.

"Did you say velcro?" I asked.

"Yes, see, at the bottom of the shoulder strap," she said as she held the problem strap in her hand for me to see. "Every time I try putting it on or taking it off, it gets caught on something."

"Then simply leave off with it is my suggestion," I said. "Don't wear it."

"That's all you've got?" she said.

"Back to the subject," I said because I remembered in the nick of time that this Wonder, although a fount of ancient wisdom and modern enlightened thought, is also a master of the arts of subterfuge and misdirection. She wasn't going to throw me off track with this velcro motif.

"Floating cities," I said to establish the point d'appui, if that's the term, meaning the main ingredient. "Your first thought I'm sure, when you hear that term, are the floating colonies being proposed for the upper atmosphere of Venus."

"That's not my first thought," she said. 

"Oh, don't be silly," I said. "Of course, it's your first thought." And I added a little chuckle to press it home. "What else?" As soon as these last two words were out of my mouth, I knew I'd passed the kite string to her, and now all I could do was stand and watch her fly the thing.

"Well, my first thought," she said "was of the floating villages in Halong Bay, Viet Nam. You remember. That James Bond flick, Tomorrow Never Dies, was filmed there. At least the boat chase was."

She grew silent for a few seconds and the look on her face told me that she was enjoying a little time travel that included pleasant thoughts of sailing on Halong Bay.

"Remember that little boy and his mother selling bananas boat to boat?" she said.

"It wasn't bananas," I said.

"Yes it was bananas," she said with just a hint of a scowl.

"Yes, I remember now," I said. But you understand it was only because I didn't want to spoil her fond reverie.

"My first thoughts were not of Viet Nam," I said. "My first thoughts are seldom of Viet Nam. It isn't Halong Bay that I associate with that sovereign nation, it's General Westmoreland and President Tricky."

Silence ruled between us as I took a few moments to remember that episode of my life, so long ago and so far away. Then coming back to the surface, I added, 

"They gave me a letter of gratitude."

She gave me a look that said, let's not go into this again, shall we? Let's move on to something more fitting to an early morning chit-chat. It's a lot for a look to convey, I realize, but it's a look that I've come to know well.

"I immediately thought," I said in order to take her by the hand and gently lead her onto the right path, "of the floating colonies of dirigibles that certain visionary minds at NASA have proposed to be established in the skies above the surface of Venus. 

They call it Cloud City. And with that for a first thought, I don't need to tell you, my chakras began vibrating at higher frequencies. I'm tingling with excitement even now."

As my first attempt at this conversation collapsed into a heap on the floor, I really didn't expect much of a reaction from her. I didn't get much.

"Damned velcro," she said.

"Scurge of the 21st century," I said.

"Don't you mean, scourge," she said, "a cause of great affliction--Webster?"

"I mean scurge," I said, "nothing worse; as low as you can go--Urban."

"Ah," she said. 

"You're welcome," I said. She nodded.

"The article in Luminita's link was about French Polynesia planning to build floating islands to escape the ongoing rise in sea level," I said.

"Oh, interesting," she said. "Much like the floating villages on Halong Bay."

"Yes, well, you have a talking point," I said. "But those floating Polynesian islands may work to keep the tourists out of the waves while the sea levels rise, but when the collapsing ice caps generate 30-meter tsunamis, it's going to be the fall of Atlantis all over again."

"Goodness!" she said. "Didn't mean to get you all hotted up. Don't let your knickers get in a wad."

"Knickers in a wad are just what I don't have at present," I said. "I just wonder if the plans for floating cities are living on a prayer. Or perhaps it's wishful thinking." 

And thinking that discretion is the better part of valor, I exited the kitchen before she could reply.

Don't Even Think About It

I woke this morning with that feeling you get sometimes that if the feet don't touch the floor in about 3 seconds, Gabriel will blow his ram's horn and judgement day will set in with uncharacteristic heat! Not that Gabriel was anywhere to be seen or heard. It was Sagi that attracted attention this morning.

Sagi, as you already know, is the caramel-colored tabby who has a way of running back and forth down the hallway at 4:45 AM every morning. He races to the sound of his own music, something that sounds a little like, "Rrrbbbttthh." I have reason to believe that he means to sound like Yellow #46 getting off the starting line in the Grand Prix World Championship.

I heard him coming down the hallway from the laundry room, then he rounded the corner outside the guest bedroom and into Ms Wonder's office where he caroomed off the wall with a Plubberly-whump! Sorry but it's the best approximation I have.

At the sound of his wall-crashing turn-around, I bounded out of bed with a silent Eureka! And I'll tell you why. I'd just had an epiphany, much like the one Archimedes had with the exception that he bounded out of a bath and I out of a bed, and of course he'd discovered the principle of displacement and I hadn't. I'd discovered the key to becoming a successful writer.

Out in the hallway, I became entangled in caramel-colored tabby as he was making his way back down the stretch. "Alright, Rossi!" I called out to him. He's a big fan of Valentino Rossi, having watched all the YouTube videos of his races. "I'm up already! Rilassare, rilassare."

As I approached the boudoir of the resident woman of wonder, I could hear the Whitewater River cascading over 400 feet down the mountainside near Cashiers. My first thought on hearing the sound of that highest fall in the Carolina upcountry is that it's out of earshot here in the Renaissance District of Durham. The sound I heard must be the sound of Ms Wonder's bath. And so it proved to be.

"Poopsie," I said, falling into the familiar at what may have been too early an hour. "I've made a remarkable discovery!"

"You didn't come to bed last night," she said and I thought it a bit cold considering the warmth of my opening remark. "You must have been out 'till all hours with the remains of the writer's conference."

"I was not out 'till all hours," I said. "I got home before 2:00 AM and I was with some old friends of the North Carolina Writers Network. We had a quiet conversation in an all-night coffee house in Raleigh."

"Good," she said. "Now you won't have to bore me talking about it."

"You won't think it boring when I tell you of the realization that came to me while listening to their drivel," I said. "You know how wannabe writers are always asking successful writers what it takes to become a successful writer?"

"I've always wondered what young writers do," she said. Can you believe she said that? She can be irritating sometimes, but still, the upside overwhelms the down.

"Yes, that's what they do," I said. "And it's the sensible thing for them to do. They ask, How does one become a successful writer? And this is the answer they get--from every successful writer: To become a successful writer, one must write."

"Oh, I've heard a variation of that," she said. "I once heard Terri Gross ask that question of a writer she interviewed on Fresh Air. The author said, if I remember correctly,  To become a writer, all you have to do is put pen to paper."

"Excuse me," I said because this had gotten right past me.

"You know, pen to paper," she said, "it's something people used to do before the mid-1980's." At this moment, she rose from the bath like Venus rising from the sea. I assisted with the towel and the guiding hand. "You must get tired of young writers asking that question," she said. "I mean it's such an obvious rule--writing to become a writer."

I didn't answer immediately because a cold hand had taken hold of the heart. Once again I'd approached this woman of mystery and wonder with an exciting subject, one that I was heavily invested in, and what did she do? 

I tell you what she did. Diversion, obfuscation and subterfuge! That's what she did. Pen to paper my sainted aunt! Emerging from the bath without warning! I knew I must act quickly and I delivered the best option I could come up with on short notice.

"Well, if you think that the key to becoming a successful writer is self-evident, as Thomas Jefferson so eloquently put it, then consider this: If it's as easy as all that, then why are we still asked the question?"

I was hoping the reference to the founding father would win some points with her and her momentary silence was taken as a good sign. Would it improve the reviews and give me a boost up in the ratings. A small boost is what we strive for, we mere mortals, when yoked unevenly with those who breathe the rarified air of Mt. Olympus--beings like this Ms Wonder.

"And besides, young writers don't ask me that question," I continued. "Young writers don't want to write for magazines, they want to write  best-selling books."

"But that's not practical is it? Not everyone can write a book. Besides, isn't writing magazine articles a good way to work toward writing a book?"

"Did you say, not everyone can write a book? Who hasn't written a book? I've met a few individuals who aren't in print but even they admit that they would write a book if they could be paid for it."

I was beginning to feel more secure now. I felt that I was on a roll and building momentum, and I wasn't going to stop now.

"The way to become a successful writer, and this is the discovery I told you about, is to forget about writing," I said. "Put writing completely out of mind. If the thought pops into your head, let it fade away, as recommended on the covers of those mindfulness magazines. If you would keep it, let it go."

"But how will that make you a writer?"

"Here's an example for you," I said. "If you become an recognized actor on television or get a co-staring role in a movie, you are assured of writing a New York Times best selling book, complete with photos."

"That's not so easy," she said.

"OK, I'll give you that. But consider this idea. If one goes into politics and becomes mayor of a major city, and there are no qualifications for this that I'm aware of, then a block-buster book follows with movie rights sold."

That's not so easy either," she said.

"OK," I said. "I've saved the best for last. All one needs to do is become a YouTube celebrity. It's easy, it's free, and anyone can do it. People do it all the time and the next thing you know, they have a book publishing deal."

"Let me guess," she said. "You've decided to become a successful writer by starting an Internet TV channel? Genome TV."

"Eureka!" I said. "I hadn't thought of that but it's a great idea. Thank you, Wonder. I'll begin today. I know the perfect theme for it too!"

"I'll just bet you do," she said and I admit that I was quite happy with myself for winning her approval.