A Nice Day For It

It was a cool morning in early May. A rain shower had passed through the city in the pre-dawn hours. Mist still hung over the Cape Fear River but the sun was beginning to spread a soft light over downtown.

If you're going to get hit by a bus in Wilmington's Castle Street District, you want to go with WAVE number 11 because, when the impact boosts you above the pedestrian traffic, you can count on having a clear view of Memorial Bridge from almost anywhere along the route.

I wasn't planning on being hit by a bus yesterday morning, I was simply getting to Cafe Luna a little early to marshall my thoughts before Lupe and Claudia arrived. I planned to recruit them into my personal support group to help with building the new life that I've written so much about.

As I approached the rendevous spot, I discovered that a new thrift shop had opened across the street and I stopped in to look for a vintage 1990's Hawai'ian shirt, preferably from Cooke Street in Honolulu.

The search was a bust but I did find a little knick-knack. Not something I generally care for. I avoid tchokies and their ilk like I avoid steamed shrimp. But for some reason this one attracted me strangely. Back out on the street, I stopped to admire the little thing in the morning light.

I fumbled it while taking it out of my pocket, a technique that I've mastered of late, and it tumbled off the curb and onto the street. I maneuvered around the few early morning pedestrians and paused to look down Castle Street to make sure there were no buses headed my way.

When I looked back, I noticed a dark shadow growing out of the storm drain. The mind reeled. I stepped closer to get a better look and the shadow became a feathered arm of sorts that grabbed the what-not and pulled it back into the sewer.

I looked around me to see if anyone else witnessed this glitch in 21st Century reality. No one seemed to be aware. I moved closer to the curb and was about to step into the street when something grabed me by the collar and pulled me back to safety.

At that very moment, the WAVE number 11 whooshed by.

I was in shock. No other explanation comes close to describing my reaction. Nothing like this had ever happened to me before although recent experiences seem to have been leading up to it. I immediately felt that someone or something had pushed the reset button and that I was back to square 1 as far as my new life was concerned. 

"Hey, boss," said a familiar voice that had walked into the act from stage left. She was wearing a 50's beehive hairstyle in a pastel lavender. I was feeling very shaky before she arrived and now seeing her I was positively goose flesh. 

"Lupe," I said, "did you see that?"

"I saw you stumble at the curb," she said. "Lucky for you that all-pro Carolina Panthers tackle came by when he did. You really must be more careful, Genome."

"Lupe, I saw an arm come out of the sewer; an arm covered in feathers."

"I'm cutting school to meet you this morning," she said. "I'm going to need a note."

"Are you listening to me?" I said. I was having some trouble breathing by this time.

"I heard you, Genome. You've got to deal with this manic episode. Try taking three deep breathes."

"All I'm doing is deep breathing. I'm beginning to hyperventilate."

"Well, try doing something else then."

"If you have something to suggest, I'd love to hear it," I said.

"I don't know," she said. "How about sticking your finger into an electrical outlet? I've heard that shrinks have a lot of success with that."

"Lupe!," I said. "Get serious. I'm having a hard time here and I need you to pay attention to me."

"So," she said, "to be perfectly clear, you want me to listen to your story, maybe even record it on my phone, so that I can play it back for the big guys in white coats and become personally responsible for having you committed to the looney bin."

A deep silence filled the next few moments as her words sank in.

"Coffee?" I said.

"Let's," she said.

The sunshine and ocean breeze had finally cleared the clouds out of the sky. The day was becoming warmer and it promised to be one that would allow some recovery from the drama generated by the passing of the WAVE number 11.

Still, had I been struck by the bus, I doubt the view of the bridge would have been worth the trouble and I expect that it would have made little difference to me that it was a fine day for it.

Emmy Grammy Oscar Tony

My book agent (the one currently residing in a recovery day spa) is urging me to finish Out Of The Blue because he's working with a playwright to turn it into a stage production. He's telling me that he thinks my book could be the first mental health memoir to win the coveted EGOT.

But I'm having trouble working on it because Ms. Wonder thinks the idea has about as much chance of coming true as an AI machine has of becoming aware of itself. When Ms. Wonder isn't behind me, the motivation that drives great doings is lacking by the bucket load.

To be completely transparent, which is one of the prime directives of this blog, I must confess that I keep being distracted by shiny objects, and by shiny objects I mean things like soap bubbles, or trips to the beach, or hanging out in coffee cafes.

And so, to resolve the main issue and deliver the goods to my agent, I've decided that my only option is to stay at home until I finish the book. 

Wonder doesn't think much of this idea either. She thinks that isolation is a risk to my sanity, my sobriety, and my physical health. And there you have it, just one damned thing to deal with after another.

She encourages me to hang out with friends. The idea is that friends will keep me on the straight and narrow. Hmmm?

Past experience has taught me, and I'm sure you'll agree, that it's always best to consider Wonder's advice. And so this afternoon, I asked a few of the inner circle to meet me in Southport where I could work on the book while they solved the world's problems.

And that's how I ended up here in Ocean Isle writing this blog. I know! But before you jump to the conclusions that you're about to leap to, let me explain. You see the 80's countdown of hits from 1983 was on the radio and I didn't want to miss the top 10. Understandable, don't you agree? Then as soon as the countdown finished, Rick Springfield's show started and the topic of the week was Women in Rock.

When that show ended, I turned around and started back toward Southport, and then, damn it! A new coffee shop that opened in Bolivia and not just a new shop but the one and only craft coffee emporium in Brunswick County.

I think you understand. Not my fault. The Universe operates a vast conspiracy against me. And not any old mundane, run-of-the-mill conspiracy but one of multilevel intricacies and legions of agents. I'm sure of it.

Another day in paradise but another day that fell short of expectations. Will it ever be different? Who knows? Not me. Still, I'll never give up and I hope you don't give up on me. Keep coming back because anything could happen and when something does, I'd like you to be here to enjoy it with me. And don't forget to leave a comment.

Blogging Is Life

Circus life under the big-top world; we all need the clowns to make us smile.

Through space and time, always another show; wonderin' where I am, lost without you.

Faithfully by Journey 

"Wonder," I said stepping into her sanctum, "I'm reborn."

Copyright 2000 - 2024 Gwnfydd Jirlds

"What, if anything, are you going on about?" she said taking her gaze off her computer screen and looking directly into my eyes. It's always a bit of a shock to be suddenly struck by those emerald greens of hers. It's not unlike the experience of having the sun pop out from behind the clouds when you're least expecting it. I took the impact full on. After reeling and rocking around her office for a bit, I finally steadied myself and was able to respond.

"I'm talking about my new life. All the signs point to success, Poopsie. Driving home from The Teeters I was listening to Faithfully, that song by Journey."

"I know the one," she said, "Circus life under the big-top world, but what about it?"

The comment got right by me. Circus life I wondered? The big-top world? What if anything did she mean by it? The only thing I recognized from the song was the title, Faithfully. But I'm familiar with the better half of the sketch and her tactics, and was not to be so easily deterred in my life-changing goals. 

"I heard the song like never before," I said. "It was speaking directly to me, telling me that I will have everything I need to recreate my life as long as I am true to myself. And pay close attention, Poopsie, because here comes the clincher: faithfully." 

I may have exaggerated somewhat. But the spirit of my comment was truthful and accurate. Well, exaggerated, but still truthful.

"You seem to be a tad manic," she said. "Do you need to tell me something? I'll give you five minutes but only if you make more sense than you're making now."

"You know that Will Ferrell film, Stranger Than Fiction? In that movie, his character discovers that the life he's living is being written, in real-time, by a fiction writer."

"I'm with you so far," she said, "and I commend you on becoming clear and succinct."

"My plan is to become the main character in a book, or rather in The Circular Journey, which is written by me of course. That in itself isn't a new idea but what is new is that my story will describe a path to lead me to the life I desire; a new life of purpose and fulfillment. "

"Finally!" she said. "You've decided to open the gate and step out onto the yellow brick road, haven't you?"

"That's the plan," I said. "This new path will lead me to the Emerald City, but unlike Dorothy, I'll never want to go back to Kansas again."

"Alright," she said, "I can see that you're committed to your new plan and to be completely honest, I think it's a sweet idea and if you include the cats in your new life, then I support you."

"Wonder," I said, and I'm not ashamed to say that there was a bit of throat-lumpiness in my voice when I said it, "There is none like you, none."

"But let me be clear," she said, "I don't want to hear anything about sewer harpies and soul vessels. I'll continue to accept Princess Amy but that's as far as I'm willing to go."

She raised an eyebrow and a little smile gave me that metaphorical pat on the head that one sometimes feels when she seems pleased with something I've said or done.

"Deal?" she said.

"Not just a deal, Wonder, it's an Atchafalaya Deal."

"Wha'do you mean? What's Atchafalaya got to do with it?"

"Oh, well, you have me there; nothing really I suppose. I've just always liked the word and it's fun to use now and then."

"One more suggestion," she said. "I think you should get Lupe and Claudia involved in working out the details."

"Just as you say," I replied.

"And why don't you include Princess Amy while you're at it," she said.

"Consider it done," I said but I immediately felt the ending could have used something with more zing like "Make it so, Data. Engage!

I'll try to do better next time. Building a new life takes time, much like making friends takes time. I know that because I often hear versions of the same from Ms. Wonder. And don't forget dear reader that you're an important part of my journey. I will not be successful if you aren't involved. Check back often for updates on my progress.

Atchafalaya!  

It's a Good Day to Die

Do you ever think about the day you'll die? Me too. Not a subject that we think about every day but probably something we should devote some time to prepare. 

Taking personal inventory is the way I've heard it described by my spiritual advisors. And after considering this and that and whatnot, I've come to the conclusion that the key to being prepared to die is to live without regret.

I'm not talking about the current popular idea of not giving a damn. That attitude only adds to the problem. I'm talking about living life in a way that gives no reason for regret. I've been taught that the key is in making amends as soon as possible when I slip up.

But enough of that. What I really want to talk about is my wishes for the day I die. Stay with me. It's not at all what you think.

I like to imagine that the moment I die will be perfect. What I mean by perfect is that in that moment I'll have nothing to regret and I'll be perfectly content.

I don't want to die in bed. I'd rather be mobile and moving when the time comes. I think nighttime would be best. If I meet Death in the daytime, especially on a bright, clear day with lots of birdsong in the air, I might be tempted to resist her and struggle to hold on. I don't want to fight Death; I hope to go willingly.

I can imagine walking along an old stone bridge--like the memorial bridges built after the Great War. The full moon will be reflecting off the river. I might hear soft footsteps behind me and when I look round, I see Death coming to meet me. 

"Nice night," she'll say.

"My night," I'll say.

"Mind if I walk with you a bit?" she'll ask.

"Please do," I'll say. And I hope that I'll be able to honestly say, "You're lovelier than I imagined you'd be, and younger."

"Nice of you to say," she'll reply.

We'll walk together in silence for a while, across the river in the moonlight.

"I know that I'm dying," I'll say to prevent any awkwardness or embarrassment for her.

"I figured," she'll say.

"I'm just out for a walk in the moonlight," I'll say. "I always wondered if I'd have regrets when my time came. I thought the best memories of my life would be playing in my mind. But instead, my mind is calm and I'm just one with the night, one with the river."

I look at her expecting a reply but she doesn't answer and we walk on in silence. In the middle of the bridge, I stop and stare at the full moon. I remember Abbie, the cat who taught me to fully appreciate moonlight. Cat's taught me so very much about appreciating life.

After a few seconds of meditation, I realize that there is nothing left to dream and nothing more to desire. It's a good day to die. When I look at Death again, I see the moon's reflection in her eyes and I realize that my home is no longer in this world by the river but with her wherever she takes me.

"Are you ready?" she'll ask.

"I'm ready," I'll say.

She'll put her arms around me and hold me tight. It's much more comforting than I ever thought it could be. It feels safe and loving. It feels like home.

From somewhere above the bridge, I watch her write my name in the dust which is all that's left on the spot where I stood. It reminds me of the days I used to write my cats' names in the sand on my morning walks through Brunswick Forest. 

And so then I'm with everyone who has gone on before me. My life is complete.

Feel the World Shake?

I looked out my bedroom window at the two cats waiting for breakfast in the meager shelter on my deck below. I wished I could bring them inside but I'm told by reliable sources that bringing feral cats into the house never really ends well. I suppose it might be different if they were kittens but they aren't of course. They're first cousins to Eddy, that miniature panther that gave us the idea for Happy Cats Wellness and he's almost 7 now.

But it wasn't cats that filled my thoughts this morning. It was fine art. I'd recently had a close encounter with the stuff and was still reeling from it. Napoleon must have felt the same way when his aide reported that Nelson had just sailed into Cairo Harbor and set fire to the French fleet. 

Ms Wonder is an artist, of course. You don't need reminding of that. You've been here through the thick and thin of art gallery galas and whatnot, so you're well aware of her photographic talent. I thought she might be able to enlighten me on the reason for a certain motif--one that, so far, had eluded me.

"Poopsie," I said, getting right down to it, which, as you well know, is the Genome way. "Why the reclining nude?"

She stopped splashing and sloshing, an activity she seems to enjoy when submerged in the bath. Her face took on a familiar questioning look, which told me that I'd gotten her attention. So good so far.

"Did you say, nude?" she asked.

"Nude is what I said. Reclining to be exact. It's a common motif in the art world. The first one, I'm told, was done in 1510 by a Venetian painter named Giorgione, although I read yesterday that some scratchings, found on cave walls in Spain, are actually 40,000-year-old reclining nudes. So you see, it's a popular subject for artists. I don't suppose you've ever photographed any? Reclining nudes, I mean."

She frowned at that and shook the noodle as though warding off a swarm of no-see-ums. She has a particular dislike for those. I'm not sure why.

"What about reclining nudes?" she said.

"Exactly!" I said, "Just what I want to know! What about them? We seem to be deeply connected to the unclothed female form lying on a bed."

"And when you say, 'we', you mean men, of course."

"You wouldn't have these shallow views if you were familiar with Fernando Botero's work."

"Who?"

"A painter who spoke out, if I can use that term, against the deplorable human rights conditions in his native Columbia. He was able to paint the most troubling scenes that somehow didn't turn us away but invited us to look and consider."

"And these troubling scenes included reclining nudes?"

"No, no!" I said. "No, the nudes were something different. One of them sneaked up on me yesterday at Dulce Cafe. The owner, Carlos, is a native of Columbia and admirer of Botero and has a print hanging in the cafe. It's a painting called 'The Letter' and that work is surrounded by mystery. Art historians and scholars wonder who the subject was and what the letter was about."

"And the mystery subject is a reclining nude woman?" she asked.

"How many paintings of a reclining nude man have you seen?" I asked. It wasn't one of my better comebacks so I wasn't surprised when she ignored the question. 

"It seems you've researched the subject well," she said. "What are you thinking?"

"Never mind what I'm thinking, Poopsie. What are these art historians and scholars thinking? That's the question I ask myself."

"I'll bet you have a theory," she said, and let me just pause here to say how happy it made me to know that she was allowing me to drive the conversation for a change.

"First of all," I said, "these historians and art scholars are too deep in the status quo. They see a woman in a painting and fall too quickly into the Mona Lisa Syndrome."

"Mona Lisa Syndrome," she repeated.

"That's right," I said, "the MLS is that comfortable niche where they wax eloquent about mystery and whatnot. It allows them to write all sorts of bilge."

I paused to give this opinion more thought because I was impressed that I'd come up with this insightful nugget. It doesn't happen often and on those rare occasions, I like to appreciate the experience fully. For her part, nothing more was said and I was allowed to continue.

"There is no mystery," I said. "It should be clear to the meanest intellect, that the woman represents the nation of Columbia, reclining in spartan surroundings, and saddened because her lover--and by lover I mean the citizens of her country--don't enjoy the comfort of her arms and her bed. Love is absent. Only loneliness and the estrangement of the spirit, which is represented by that mysterious letter."

There was a quiet moment during which I waited again for her reply. Again, there was only silence. But she had a look on her map that caused me to think she'd taken my remarks in a big way. There was something definitely going on behind those eyes. I began to feel like one of those orators who incite mobs to action. Not one like Trump but rather one like Thomas Payne.

"What are you thinking?" I said.

"Just wondering," she said, "if there's something I could do with my photography to speak out in support of people in Ukraine or Palestine. Like the way Botero speaks out about the struggles in his Columbia."

"Many people are struggling in the world," I said. "And we live in the land of opportunity--even though many in this country struggle too. It does seem that we could be doing more to help others."

"The good I would do, I do not," she said. 

"Very well put," I said, "One of your own is it?" 

"Saint Paul," she whispered, which got right over my head but I realized from the whisper that she was deep in meditative thought and not to be disturbed.

"I'll go feed the cats," I said, "they're waiting in the rain." As I walked downstairs, I had the feeling that the world had just changed. And I'm sure Napoleon must have felt the same at one time or another in his career.

Uma's Wet Kiss

A wet kiss woke me from sleep this morning. No, it wasn't the Wonder in my life. That one had been up since dawn making the world safe for executive meetings. No, not her. The wet kisser was Uma, Queen of Cats and Empress of Chatsford Hall. 

I knew it was her right away because, despite her royal titles, her kissing behavior isn't continental--one cheek suffices for her greetings.

As soon as my eyes were open, she left the bed and danced out into the hallway. She slowed only at the bottom of the staircase where she called for me to join her.

When I arrived, she was in mid-squat, the better to sit in my hand and ascend the stairs to her window seat in Wonder's office. 

I apologize to members of the Inner Circle for stopping the narrative here for a bit of station identification. But I feel the newcomers may benefit from a little background.

You see, Uma has season tickets for the box seat overlooking the beginning of another day in Lanvale Forest. She likes to be settled in before the curtain goes up on sunrise, the better to witness the arrival of the big yellow school bus.

Ms. Wonder and I feel we owe her our support in these morning rituals because it's she who taught us that all cats are created equal and endowed by their creator with certain inalienable rights, among these are the rights to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.

Now that's done, let's return to our regularly scheduled programming.

Once Uma was comfortable and ready for the first act in the daily drama, I rushed across town for my weekly mood tuneup. Nothing major, just a change of attitude and the usual 21-point assessment. I was bucked this morning because I had good news to report.

"I'm journaling," I announced to Beach. If you haven't been introduced, Beach is my therapist. I probably should have put that in footnotes but we're not big on procedure here.

"How's that going?" she asked.

"It's good," I said. "I don't know how to quantify the benefits but I'm enjoying it and I think enjoying it is important."

"Of course," she said. "Journaling is an example of an expressive coping method, which is a technique that helps a person overcome negative thoughts, feelings, or experiences by releasing them. When you write about them, they can have less power over you."

"Ahh," I said. "I've also been socializing more."

"Journaling can help you cope with anxious thoughts," she said, "by putting your thoughts into words and then putting them aside rather than letting them become an obsession."

"Right," I said. "I had an interesting experience in a coffee shop on my way here this morning."

"Emotional writing," she went on, "significantly decreases symptoms of depression too. People seem to get greater benefits when they focus on deep feelings and thoughts rather than simply recording daily experiences like a traditional diary."

"Are you writing this down for me," I asked.

"Did you say that you've been socializing more?" she said. "Are you attending more meetings?"

"Oh, no, nothing that drastic," I said. "But let me tell you about my visit to Native Grounds this morning."

"Do," she said, "I'll bet you hold me breathless with the story."

"This morning I was helped by a young barista that I've seen several times behind the counter and this morning after the initial pourparlers, she said, "I really like your shirt."

Well, we all enjoy a good compliment, of course, and I thanked her and said that the shirt was a favorite."

"You always wear the coolest shirts," she said surprising me not a little. 

"Oh," I said, "you've made my day."

"Seeing you in your cool shirts makes my day," she said.

"I was non-plussed. I didn't expect such an encounter with someone taking my drink order. And it didn't stop there. When my bagel popped from the toaster, she brought it over to me."

"I see why you're in a good mood," said Beach, "What a wonderful way to start the day."

"Yes it is," I said. "That one act of kindness made me understand for the first time ever, why God decided against the total holocaust of Sodom or Gomorrah or both or whatever, all for the sake of one person--Lot. One person really can make all the difference."

"Hmmm," said Beach.

"Although I still think it a terrible prank," I said, "to turn Lot's wife into a pillar of salt just because she looked back at the home she was leaving. Don't we all look when someone says, Don't look now but...?"

"I'm afraid that our time is up," Beach said.

"Don't forget the notes," I said. "I'll want to review in case of a pop quiz."