Know Your Limits

It is true that I once pitched the idea of an online Qigong for Seniors class to my followers on Instagram, and the suggestion was received warmly. But I didn't do the pitching with any real chirpiness. 

So when Ms. Wonder suggested revisiting the idea as a palliative for losing the Straw Valley opportunity, I opened the door and invited the idea to make itself at home. It's a technique I learned from the Sufi poet, Rumi. No, it's more accurate to say that I learned it from Wonder and she learned it from Rumi.   

The lack of chirpiness continues to hold me back, and it will come as no surprise that it's affecting my sleep. I'm up late, avoiding the thoughts that will fill my mind as soon as I place my head on the pillow. Then I'm up with the dawn and I seem to repeat the day that ended the night before. It's like that movie, Groundhog Day.

When day broke this morning I bunged a half-dozen cats off the bed and entered the master bath to find the tub occupied with a female form covered in bubbles with what seemed like another dozen or so feline accomplices. The female proved to be Ms. Wonder. (Wonder assures me that the house isn't chock-a-block with cats--more or less the normal allotment according to her--but I'm not buying it. You can't find a comfy spot near any window that isn't running over with cats.

"Oh, you startled me," she said.

"Not like you startled me," I said. "The top of my head nearly came off. I mistook you for Gina Lollobrigida."

"Who?"

"Never mind," I said. "Probably before you discovered your toes. What I came here to announce is," I paused here for effect, if that's the word, and then I let it go, "I do what I like now." 

"What are you talking about?" she asked.

"I just don't have enough time to do everything."

"You came to bed late," she said, changing the subject abruptly. I thought of making an issue of it, and I'm sure I'm right on this point, that Napoleon would have made an issue of it. But after second thoughts, I gave it a miss.

"Went for a walk in the garden," I said.

"Good for you," she said, "the garden is at its nicest late in the evening. Soothing."

"That's your view, is it?" I said, meaning it to sting.

"And the stars," she said.

"What about the stars?"

"You know," she said. "Look how the floor of heaven is thick inlaid..."

I waved a hand, realizing that we were dangerously close to poetry and a heightened risk of hearing about young-eyed cherubims and the kind of harmony that exists in immortal souls, and I felt that something must be done quickly to prevent it.

"Ms. Wonder," I said.

"How does it go?" she asked, although I knew it wasn't really a question. She continued without pausing, "the smallest orb in his motion like an angel sings..."

"Wonder Woman!"

"Such harmony is in immortal souls..."

"Poopsie!" 

"What?"

"You couldn't possibly put it aside, could you?"

"Oh, I'm sorry," she said. "Not in the mood for poetry then?"

"Is anyone ever?" I said. "And before we move on, let me point out that here again is another example of Shakespeare simply slapping down any old thing that comes into his head. Cherubims! The man was looney to the eyebrows!'

"It's not Shakespeare," she said.

"Well, I'm surprised it isn't. I'll bet that someone had to get up pretty early in the morning to come up with something that Shakespeare hadn't already written."

"You get up pretty early in the morning," she said.

"What of it?" I said. 

"Just saying," she said. "Have you made any progress on how you hope to spend the next chapter of your life?"

"Yes, I have," I said. "I've ruled out a number of things." And with that, I made a masterful dash for the door.  One thing about the Genomes is that we may be men of cold steel but we know when we're in over our heads, and I may not have the quickest mind in the village but I could tell that Wonder was about to make another of her suggestions that cause the earth to tremble and grown me to cry.

Writing Lesson

I woke this morning with that feeling you sometimes have that in just about 7 seconds the universe is going to come unraveled and someone's going to have to pay for all the excess we enjoyed in the 1980s. I hate that feeling and the reason I hate it is because I missed out on much of the fun provided by that decade of RAD.

I got out of bed and hurried downstairs for a cup of Jah's mercy.  I walked to the cupboard, opened the door, and stood staring at the coffee selection. 

"What's wrong," said Ms. Wonder. "You look like..."

"I look like what?"

"Nothing," she said.

I thought her style to be a bit harsh considering the subject matter and I thought about telling her so but, hoping to keep the spotlight on me, I decided to let it go.

"You know that I'm still downsizing," I said. "Trying to fit 20 years in Durham into 5 months in Brunswick."

"Or something like that," she said.

"So last night when rummaging through the next box in line, I found that unfinished collection."

"You mean that collection of story ideas?"

"You know what I mean," I said. "I need fresh material for the blog and fresh material is just what I don't have a lot of these days. I blame COVID."

I waited for her to respond but she seemed distracted by Sagi who was surfing the countertops.

I had an idea that seemed promising but it wasn't really something that happened to me and as you well know, The Circular Journey demands large doses of truth, and by that I mean, my actual life. 

"What's your idea?" she said.

"Well, all aspiring authors must face a barrage of rejections. At least that's the prevailing thought in writing circles. Steven King tells a story about spiking his rejection letters on a nail driven into his office wall."

"But we didn't get a lot of rejection letters," she said. 

"Right," I said, "but my idea is that a writer decides to give all the rejections a positive twist."

I didn't reply. I just gave her a look that was meant to say, Go easy, Wonder. These are slippery slopes.

"I'm so sorry," she said. "You don't really look like...." She swallowed big. "Never mind."

This may be a good time to explain that when I began writing for periodicals, I received rejection letters, just as everyone else getting started. It was painful, of course. You work hard on a story and are so proud of it when you submit it, thinking that it will win awards and make your name familiar to all. But then the rejection notice comes and you're deflated. It's all you can do to stay away from alcohol, drugs, cigarettes, and chocolate candy.

But one day, by accident really, I realized that I'd received rejection letters from the major newspapers in twelve of the original thirteen states. Getting one more rejection from that last state would make a complete collection. It would allow me to put a positive spin on something that's normally disappointing, hurtful, and an obstacle to overcome.

The newspaper to target was obvious--the Atlanta Constitution. I wasted no time in choosing a subject that would be of little interest to the newspaper's subscribers and consequently of no interest to the editors. I submitted a piece on kayaking the Intracoastal Waterway out of McClellanville, South Carolina. The piece had been popular with the readers in Myrtle Beach but would interest few people living in Atlanta.

I sent the piece off in the mail and waited expectantly for the rejection. To my dismay, the piece was not only published in the Sunday travel section but the editor received several letters from subscribers declaring how much they enjoyed reading it. She asked me to submit more like it.

It was a big disappointment, of course, but the editor's specific request gave me the inside track I needed to win a rejection. All I had to do was write something so different, something totally unlike that little adventure piece, that it would be rejected out-of-hand.

I wrote about the two little churches in the North Carolina mountains where Ben Long painted his first public frescoes. I was so certain of a rejection that I started planning the celebration. 

Nothing doing. It was published. How I wondered could the editors of such a prestigious newspaper have such lackadaisical standards? 

I was getting more than a little concerned. Newspapers were already feeling the bite of a downturn in the general economy and many of them were abandoning regional contributors and printing more free articles from the UPI and AP. Time was running out. But I had one more ace in the hole if that's the term.

Christmas was on its way and that provided an idea that I considered foolproof. No self-respecting editor of any newspaper based in the southern United States would print an article during the holidays with a deviant theme and I had an idea that was deviant as a drug addict.

I wrote a piece on the origins of traditional Christmas customs. I associated the Christmas tree, the custom of gift-giving, and even Santa himself to pre-Christian, pagan Europe. Hallelujah! It's raining rejection notices. Don't you think?

Weeks later a large envelope arrived and I could tell before opening it that it contained my manuscript and the DVD with Ms. Wonder's original photography. It could mean nothing other than standard rejection notice.  I called Wonder to join me for sparkling grape juice and celebrate the final piece of the collection. But when we opened the envelope, it contained only the disc. The message was clear enough. The article had been rejected but there was no rejection letter to complete my collection.

I was crushed. After the appropriate period of mourning, I picked myself up, as we Genomes are want to do, and I submitted no more articles to newspapers. From that day forward, I wrote for magazines only. The story is a good reminder of the Fierce Living motto, Life comes hard and fast. Be ready for anything.

Back In the Village

Well, here I am again, back in the Village of Crystal Cove and staying at the Inn of the Three Sisters. I know what you're thinking. As determined as I am to avoid this place, how is it that I end up here so often? 

Well, I'd like nothing better than to explain but it's a long story and for God's sake, I can't into it now. Right now I want to tell you about the dream I had on my first night here.

In my dream, I was in a hotel restaurant in central Missouri. I know! Central Missouri! Dreams can be so weird. I was eating a bowl of wabi-sabi--I know, I know! The waitress, filling the tall, amber drinking glass with tissue restorer was Susan S. and she looked exactly the same as so many years ago when she was a doctoral candidate at Rice University.

Susan inclined her head, the way the best waitresses do, toward the sidebar and recommended the sauce in the bottle there over the sauce in the bottle on my table. Of course, I walked over to investigate but discovered that the indicated bottle was uncapped and that the mouth of the said bottle was all crusty! When I turned to protest her recommendation, Susan was gone. 

Guess what happened next. Right! I woke up. You will not be surprised to know that my immediate thoughts were of the nature of the dream. What the hell, I thought. 

Now I am well aware, just as I'm sure you are, that many great and wonderful breakthroughs come to people through dreams. I'm sure you remember the story about Albert Einstein unlocking the secrets to general relativity because of a dream in which he rode through space on a sunbeam. Or was it a comet? Don't quote me.

What you don't know is that this Susan S. is the person who taught me to decipher dreams. The technique requires that immediately upon waking, you use guided imagery meditation to put yourself mentally back in the scene of the dream and then you direct your questions to one of the characters in the dream. You can speak to a person, a rabbit, a zombie, it really doesn't matter. Ask a direct question concerning events in the dream and you will get a direct answer. It really works. Try it sometime. I tried it with this dream.

I soon was back at the same table in the restaurant in the middle of Mizzou but, as I'm sure you've guessed already, Susan wasn't there. The waitress was played this time by Amy Normal, Backup Mistress of the Greater Durham Night and part-time barista at Native Ground. 

I considered the change of personnel to be irrelevant, a side issue, and one that I would not let distract me from unlocking the secrets of whatever my higher self was trying to tell me. I decided that this Amy, not to be confused with Princess Amy, although come to think of it they do have a lot in common, would be met with the same respect I show the idle wind, which as Poopsie Wonder tells me…oh forget it. Not important really and I'm in danger of getting derailed. Let's get back to the pertinent details.

I rolled up my sleeves and got into action. She--Amy Normal that is--raised an eyebrow and I saw immediately that she was going to play hardball. I decided to take the direct approach. Always best when the witness is hostile. I'm sure Napoleon would approve.

"Hey, Normal," I said. "What gives?"

She rested her elbow, the one connected to the arm holding the coffee pot, on her hip and gave me a look.

"Simple," she said. "You're wabi-sabi has got stems on."

This got right by me. Stems? As you well know, this Normal and I have our differences and she can often become a thorn in the side but I've always maintained that her IQ is of the highest and brightest. This comment however had me reeling. I was sure she had finally come undone. 

"Look in the bowl, douche-bag," she said.

"Bowl?"

She stomped her foot, just a little, like a horse stamping the ground prior to charging into the fray if fray is the word. She looked toward the ceiling and sighed and for some reason and it immediately dawned on me what she was driveling about. I looked into the wabi-sabi bowl and you will never guess what I found there.

Cherries! The wabi-sabi, whatever the hell that is, had become a bowl of cherries--with stems on.

It was at that precise moment, back in the waking world, that Uma, Empress of Chatsford, began licking the top of my head. I woke but lay motionless thinking about the dream. Uma put an end to the meditation when she began playing Dig-the-Mummy-Out-of-the-Sand. What the hell, I thought. You play the hand you're dealt. 

I rose, moved to the window to salute the sun, and then performed the morning ablutions. This day was going to be filled with more good than bad and I was ready for it. I may not know the meaning of the dream but I have the support of Poopsie, Uma, Susan, and yes, even Amy. And like icing on the cake, I have you, my 1000 real fans, to rely on to get me through the day. What's the worst that could happen?

Coastal Camelot

Morning comes early in Southport. You're probably thinking that it comes early where you live too but let me tell you, there is far more to the morning than you could possibly imagine. 

On a clear day in this small seaside village, the dawning begins with a rosy glow that quickly becomes a golden curtain hanging above the horizon. Then the curtain opens revealing that familiar old ball of gas in his most pleasing aspect of Monarch of the Heavens.

It's very much like something resembling perfection

Soon after sunrise, the morning clouds gather in the east, puffy and white, just as requested to soften the morning light. It's all so very much like Camelot in the way it resembles perfection.

This particular day's beginning was so grand and so majestic that I found myself questioning that story told by Mr. Priddy in sixth grade, about the turning of the earth on its axis being responsible for the sunrise. Surely I think, gazing at this glorious sunrise, that only a goddess driving her divine sun chariot could pull off a show like this.

Come evening, just about the dinner hour, the clouds are on the horizon again but this time in the west. They diminish the heat and make the sea breeze more refreshing. The streets begin to fill with people strolling along the waterfront, some with children, some with dogs, and some with lovers.

The Southport mystique is irresistible

Those little streams of people begin to pool outside popular joints like Fishy Fishy Cafe, Southport Provision Company, and Port City Java. And of course, people gather wherever the daily filming of the current movie or television show is taking place. That's right, the Southport mystique is so alluring that there's always something being filmed here. It's not unusual for six to eight projects, a combination of movies and television shows, to be filmed concurrently in the greater Wilmington area and most of them include scenes shot in Southport.

Ms. Wonder and I came out to Port City Java early for our daily espresso fix, and to beat the crowds to the movie site du jour. We came hoping to catch a glimpse of the filming of The Problem With Providence, starring Lily James and Joseph Gordon-Levitt. 

The movie production company hired local vendors to serve as extras and they've been strewn around the lawn in front of the Southport Maritime Museum in what looks like a festival of sorts. 

Nothing was happening on the set yet so we moved to the edge of the crowd of sightseers to watch a freighter entering the Intracoastal Waterway where it headed upriver toward the Port of Wilmington. Ms. Wonder thinks she recognized a friend standing on the pier along with several other members of the Cape Fear River Watchers.

"Background!" yells the movie wrangler and we turn back in time to see the extras go into action. The customers walk through the set toward the vendors, who begin taking orders and serving Italian ice and hot dogs. 

"This is some serious acting," I heard someone say. "Hmmm," I said to Ms. Wonder and I emphasized the statement with a raised eyebrow. She raised a corresponding eyebrow if that's the term, and with a slight nod, she indicated that we shared the same opinion of the review.

I was looking for the stars of the movie or if not the main stars at least Jim Gaffigan or Himesh Patel, but the wrangler yells, "Scene cut!" before I locate them.  This little scenario repeats every few minutes and I soon give up trying to get a peek at the actors. 

"Cart's here," said Ms. Wonder and we hurried to the loading zone for Southport Fun Tours. We needed a few more photos for the travel piece we're doing for Carolina Roads Magazine. 

Time moves more slowly in Southport

In a world where everything is constantly changing, you can be sure to find a reassuring sameness in Southport. And there's no better way to get a taste of just how dependable the town can be than with Southport Fun Tours. 

Dan Guetschow, known locally as The Rev, conducts the tours and entertains us with stories ranging from local history to local gossip. Dan earned his nickname while playing guitar for Boz Skaggs. I know! Boz Skaggs! Little surprises like this one make Southport seem all that more magical. 

As Ms. Wonder and I stroll along the waterfront on our way to the yacht basin, a line dance of pelicans passes overhead playing follow the leader. The first bird slides to the right and each bird following does the same. The leader then slides back to the left and one by one they all follow. They continue with their dance, doing the Charlie Brown and wobble, wobble, wobble until they're out of sight.

The perfect spot for happily ever after-ing

As we near the marsh walk, we can hear a local entertainer singing Jimmy Buffet ballads at Fishy Fishy Cafe, and we meet a local resident who moves as though she raises Cocker Spaniels but she's actually taking a Scottie for a walk the river basin.

I nod to her when we pass. "Crabs are out," she says.

"Ah," I say, having searched the data banks for just the right response and coming up empty. My mind doesn't work with the speed of someone like Ms. Wonder but it follows the same processes. The subconscious continued working on the mystery until it finally found the solution.

She must have meant that the crabs were searching for their supper along the marsh walk and wanted to prevent us from stepping on one. But the realization came too late to comment and she, realizing that she'd non-plussed me, made another effort.

"Big blow coming," she said nodding over her shoulder toward the evening clouds. I smile to myself with the knowledge that it doesn't rain 'till after sundown in Camelot.

"Stay dry," I said.

"Didn't say rain," she said. "Wind."

"Ah," I say again and remind myself that there's not a more congenial spot for happily ever after-ing than the coastal Camelot that is Southport.