Keep On the Sunny Side

Sunshine stole across the mews from the general direction of the Atlantic Ocean, not that it was remarkable in any way. I mean, I'm damned if I know how it's done--smoke and mirrors probably--but that old sun rises each and every morning and has done so for a good long time if what I read is true. 

Statistically, it has to fail one day soon, of course, but the Genome doesn't plan to be around when it does. If you're smart--and I readily accept that you are smart because you frequent these pages on The Circular Journey--you'll book your getaway with me.

But, as I say, sunshine stole across the mews, and then it oozed its way onto the grounds of Chadsford Hall. It made its way up the outside wall to the second-floor bedroom window, and if you're wondering how such a thing could happen, you won't be surprised to learn that I, too, wonder how. Perhaps it climbs up the waterspout. the gates and o

The morning was a perfect ringer for the one we'd been waiting for, and we had a song in our hearts when we rose and began preparing for our trip. I'm not exaggerating when I say the general mood was bumpsie-daisy.

Twenty years ago this month, Ms. Wonder and I published our first travel article in the Birmingham News. And now we were on our way to those same Eden-like gardens to do yet another article, one that our biographers may refer to as "Brookgreen Gardens: Then and Now."

The Genome that waded through a half-dozen cats and padded across the Persian carpet was not the usual Genome. The spirit was soaring. I may have sung a few lines of "59th Street Bridge Song" and if I didn't sing them, I surely hummed a few bars.

When I reached the sal de bains, I entered a world of mists and fruitful mellowness, and I expected to find Ms. Wonder in attendance. I was not disappointed. She was there, bubble-covered and lilac-scented to the core.

"Good morning," I called into the billows of steam.

"Oh, you startled me," she said.

"Not like you startled me," I said, "I thought you were Venus, rising from the sea."

"You came to bed late," she said.

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

"Good for you," she said, "the garden is nice late in the evening. Very soothing."

"That's your view, is it?"

"And the stars," she said.

"What about the stars?"

"You know," she said, "the floor of heaven is thick inlaid with patens of bright gold."

I immediately realized the conversation was coming dangerously close to saying something about the blessed damozel leaning out from the gold bar of heaven. I decided to take prompt action through the proper channels to prevent it.

"Poopsie," I said.

"How does it go?" she asked, "the smallest orb in his motion like an angel sings..."

"Poopsie."

Such harmony is in immortal souls..."

"Poopsie!" I cried and the sound of my voice dislodged a cat from a bubble cloud at the foot of the tub. It turned out to be Eddy. The cat I mean, I don't have names for bubble clouds.

"What?" said the Blessed Damozel.

"You couldn't possibly put a sock in the floor of heaven, could you?"

"Sorry," she said. "Not in a good mood then?"

"I've been loonier," I said.

"I'll say," she said.

"Pardon me?" I said.

"Looney to the eyebrows," she said.

"I'm in the room," I said. "I can hear you."

"Sorry," she said, "Are you still thinking about the lost opportunity at Straw Valley?"

"Definitely, not," I said. "I work through these little setbacks and then get on with life. Live for today, is my motto."

"Still," she said, "It's a sad thing to lose a gazelle."

"Ms. Wonder," I said, "don't try me too high. I'm not in the mood to discuss losing gazelles."

"Over it then?" she said.

"No doubt about it. Fierce living is the thing you know. Take life just as it's hurled at you." I said.

"Good," she said, holding out a shapely arm with the expectation that the Genome would put a towel in it. "That means it's a good day for a trip to the low country. Let's get ours while the getting's good."

"I'm with you," I said. Sometimes all it takes to turn the tide is being with people who are on your side. Try it now is my suggestion, and if you have trouble finding someone, don't worry; I'm here for you.

Perfectly Correct

"What a beautiful day!" I said to Ms. Wonder who waded knee-deep in suitcases and socks, like a goddess of the sea cavorting on the rocky shore. "Packing?" I asked as if the ritual was unfamiliar to me. 

"Un-packing," she said for we keep no secrets between us. And it was at that moment the dirty work of yesterday raised its ugly head and laughed at the false joy that had greeted me when I woke. 

Every year, starting about the middle of November, there's a flurry of anxiety and apprehension among owners of the better-class country houses throughout coastal Carolina, waiting to hear which one will get the Genome’s patronage for the holidays.

This year we had decided early, and a sigh of relief went up from a dozen stately homes, all listed on the Historic Register, as it was announced that the Garden Inn outside Savannah had drawn the short straw.  

And yet, scarcely 10 hours earlier, this daughter of the Russian steppes and I had lunch at On Thyme Cafe, located a few blocks down Castle Street from the Riverwalk—"it's not fast food; it’s awesome food fast"—and we faced the terrible news that the outing was off.

Shakespeare captured the sentiment perfectly when he said, just when you're feeling really good about the way things are going, Fate sneaks up behind you with a blunt instrument. It's not a direct quote, but it conveys the idea nicely. 

As if waking from a dreamless sleep, I gradually became aware that Ms. Wonder was looking at me as if expecting an answer. 

"Hmm?" I said. 

"Did I hear you say something about the Orlovs?" she said. 

"Did I say that out loud?" I asked. She nodded. 

"I was thinking about how Count Orlov must have felt," I said, "after Katherine the Great told him she never wanted to see him again in this world or the next. Then when he opened the cupboards, he discovered there was no more vodka." 

A deep silence ruled the next several moments after my crack about the Count. Then Ms. Wonder spoke. "Are you going to stand there all morning?" 

"There are times, Poopsie," I said, with a small tremble in the voice, "when one asks oneself if there is any point in making an effort." 

"The mood will pass," she said but I still had my doubts. 

I nodded in response, but it had no chirpiness to it. It was the nod that Napoleon might have given in the Paris coffee shop on a morning in 1812 when a barista asked, Back from Moscow so soon?

"You know how it is," I said, "I'm in agreement with the general principle but I seem to be in neutral gear and having a little difficulty following through.

"I understand," she said, "it was much the same with Hamlet."

I nodded as though she'd put her finger on the nub, but I had no clue as to what she meant. I mention it here only because it may mean something to you.

"Don't play the victim," she said. "We may not be able to visit Savannah, but we can still enjoy the holiday lights in Airlie Gardens. We can use the extra time to refresh, rebuild, and reinvigorate."

"Poopsie," I said, and if there had been a bystander, my mood would have noticeably brightened. "You wrap the whole thing up very neatly," I said. "You make it sound like fun. I'm looking forward to it."

"Good," she said and she raised a glass of pomegranate juice. "Here's to the new year."

"I suppose you know, you have me feeling positively bucked and ready for everything that 2025 has to offer! Thank you." 

"Not at all," she said. "You see, no matter what the Fate sisters have in store for you, there's no need to let them steal your joy."

And I had to admit that, once again, she was perfectly correct.

Thank You, Lucy!

The sun appeared in the sky this morning like a poached egg, bright and warm and wiggly. The mists rose from the lowlands in gray and gold streamers, moist and ragged around the edges like the fading fragments of dreams.

I like to sleep late but never do, and this morning was no exception. I was up at 5:30, wandering around the lower levels of Chadsford Hall. It's a mindfulness technique, really. Walking around with attention focused on nothing—aimless. Still, I could sense the magic filling up the place.

It's nothing new to have magic in the air of the Hall; it's usually full of the stuff, but it's normally the old, comfortable sort of magic that's about as exciting as pilling a cat. The magic I felt rushing underneath the doorjambs was the new stuff, the newly minted variety fresh from the Source.

Not a good thing for me, new magic, that is. I'm allergic. Ms. Wonder says that everyone is allergic to magic. She says that's the point. But it's different for me. The general background magic that supports all thaumaturgic activity is harmless, but the new stuff clings to me like static. It builds to a critical mass, and then BANG! It's not pretty, and it never turns out well.

The distraction from bright, cold drafts of the stuff wafting about the rooms of the Hall, glistening like Empyrian electrum and shimmering with octarine green and blue, was too much for my aimlessness. I needed advice, and I needed it fast. I headed upstairs, where I heard gushing torrents of water filling a bathtub. "Poopsie," I said, "I need your advice. Rally 'round."

"What's up?" she said.

"What's up?" I said, "That's the point, isn't it? You know that new magic is rolling off the press even as we speak and that it's coming from Woodcroft?"

"I noticed," she said. "Are you puissant?"

This went right by me, of course. Puissant? Is that a word? What could she possibly mean by it? Must have something to do with magic. There was no time to muse on this mystery. I felt the need to get right down to it, so I gave her the best response I could.

"Probably not so puissant as you," I said, and I thought it pretty good. Don't you agree?

"That's sweet of you to say," she said, "and probably very true, but what is it you wanted to ask?"

"Well," I said, choosing my words carefully. "You know that Gladdis..."

"Witch of Woodcroft," she interrupted.

"Yes, all that," I said, "but put that out of your mind for the nonce. Let me finish my thought, or I'll wander off the path. We can't afford distractions. You'll be leaving for work shortly, and where will I be then? Lost among the lilies, that's where.

"Lost among the lilies? Is that a saying?"

"Isn't it?"

"One of yours then," she said.

"Ah," I said because I'd lost the thread. "What was it we were talking about?"

"Something about Gladdis," she said.

"That's right. Gladdis has published the seminal installment of Rogue Star. Is seminal a word?"

"Seminal," she said, "or carrying the seeds that will develop into the fruit of the work."

"Wonder," I said.

"Yes?"

"What the hell are we going to do about it?"

"Do about it?"

"You know what I mean. How to stop the overflow of magic and all the strangeness that follows."

"Relax," she said. "I know this is one of Princess Amy's hot buttons, but everything will be OK."

"It will?"

"Of course, it will. Just take a deep breath and let life happen. Don't you remember Lucy once telling you that it's not your job to be in control of everything?"

"She did, yes, that's one wise kitten, Wonder," I said. "Well, she's no longer a kitten, but she was when she told me that. Animals have a certain wisdom, don't they?"

"Humans too," she said.

"Well, some humans," I conceded. "Thank you for reminding me, Poopsie, I feel much better now."

"Don't thank me; thank Lucy," she said. And so I did.

Cafe Culture Nights

I woke up this morning with an intense pang of joy. It hit me in the solar plexus with an inexplicable potency--like I'd mainlined sunshine! Naturally, I did the responsible thing and after a little self-reflection, realized it was only hypomania and not a valid excuse to redecorate the house or revamp the wardrobe.

 

Buoyed by the oojah-com-spiff mood, I floated into the salle de bains only to find Ms. Wonder, already present and lounging like an escapee from the pasha's harem.

Have I told you about the Wonder? Surely I have. What a woman! Those pouty lips, those emerald green eyes, that strawberry blond hair.

When I expressed how happy it made me to see her, she gave me a certain look. It was not the look I'd hoped for, and I considered it quite a slice of fruitcake--dense and hard to swallow. 

I realize that she's recovering from minor surgery feeling some discomfort, I'm sure, but still, I felt a bit let down. Not that I expected unbridled happiness. Her Russian soul is burdened by centuries of angst and is unprepared for such frivolity.

I kissed the top of her head, wished her well, and set off to cross the Cape Fear River and bring me to the heart of the city.

Rarely does the Soda Pop District get the kind of praise lavished on the rest of the city--probably due to the lack of high-end retail glitter. Despite the surface appearance, a rich tapestry of subculture makes the district a great place to be on any given morning. As Tolkien wisely mused, "All that is gold does not glitter."

Out in the bright sunshine, the joy bubbled up once more and I entered the doors of Egret Café with a light heart and a tra-la-la on my lips. 

"Grande dark," said the barista placing my usual on the counter with a tone of indifference one might expect from a Large Language Model chatbot. This was not at all the desired tone. Too cool, too indifferent, too uncaring.

The barista was, no surprise, Hannah Kay, the self-anointed emergency backup mistress of the greater Queen Street night. Her attitude of barely tolerable disdain for the clientele is due to dancing the night away and then applying complex eye makeup and facial hardware each morning. 

Her nights are spent, by the way, in Egret Coffee Café and Dance Bar, which is in the Soda Pop District not Castle Street Arts.

"Good morning, Hannah," I said, in tones so measured they could balance on a high wire, and I meant it to sting.

"It may be good for you," she shot back, "but have you ever had to open this café at 6:00 in the morning after a night of being stalked by a ninja vampire cat hell-bent on ending life as we know it in Wilmawood?"

This new motif presented an interesting diversion, but I didn't want to give her the satisfaction of knowing that just yet. 

"There is that," I said hoping to avoid any further discussion of what I guess was the Halloween night party at the Egret.

"If you only knew how fragile the defenses are that keep the general public from wholesale disaster, you would cry like a baby and wet your pants," she said with a hard-edged eye.

"Oh, I don't know," I replied nonchalantly, "It may not be as bad as all that when you consider that the general public is endlessly annoying with little or no provocation."

She started noticeably, spilling a customer's skinny mocha something, and then stared at me with the look of someone caught feeding Fruit Loops to her goldfish.

"I wish I'd said that," she muttered thoughtfully to no one in particular. Again, for the third time that morning, a feeling of joy surrounded me, and I immediately logged into SuperBetter to award myself 10 points for "meaningful human contact."

Once more a pure heart and perseverance are victorious over the forces of darkness or whatever ails you. Each moment holds more good than bad if we only take a deep breath and look for it. Life is full of...oh, blah, blah, blah. You know the drill. Enjoy the good times and leave the bad behind.

A Marvelous Mystery

"‘In the beginning…’—that’s how the first paragraph kicked into gear, and I remember thinking how strange it sounded. The book, "The Story of Earth," was written by Robert Hazen, a prominent scientist from the Carnegie Institution’s geophysical community. 

What I really want to highlight, though, is that this paragraph contains one of the most fascinating, to me at least, and, in some ways, baffling—scientific observations of the century on the origins of the universe.

The author makes the astonishing claim that all space, energy, and matter came into existence in a single moment from—nothing! Yes, you read that right. According to Hazen, before the Big Bang, there was nothing, and then, in a flash, there was everything needed to create...well, everything we know today.

This is where I raise an eyebrow and give Mr. Hazen (and his astrophysicist colleagues) a skeptical look. Why? Because we’ve all heard a thousand times that scientists only trust ideas backed by evidence. And yet here these guys are, asking us to believe that the entire universe sprang from nothing—no evidence, just… belief.

But that’s not the real point I want to dive into today. I know your time is valuable, and I don’t want to waste a moment of it. The real punchline comes when Hazen drops this gem:

“The concept—nothing one moment, everything the next—is beyond our ability to craft metaphors."

It was after reading that sentence, that I had my own Archimedes moment. You know the story: Archimedes, splashing around in his bath, suddenly shouting "Eureka!" Not that I wouldn’t have done the same. 

In fact, that’s exactly what I did when my mind clicked into place, sorting through the data and finding the perfect metaphor for the very concept Hazen thought was beyond our grasp.

How had I not seen it sooner? The metaphor was right in front of me—actually, it was right in front of the paragraph. Another best-selling book contains the perfect metaphor for explaining how everything in the universe came from nothing in an instant. It too begins with the words: 

“In the beginning…”

Those words, so simple, so familiar, are actually one of the clearest metaphors for the mind-bending concept of creation ex nihilo. 

I can't help but think that Hazen knew this all along—that the metaphor was hiding in plain sight. He wasn’t asking us to understand it but to marvel at the mystery of it all. Maybe that’s the real lesson here.

It's all a marvelous mystery and we will probably never fully understand it.

I Love Lucy!

I bobbed to the surface from the depths of a dream, having been roused by a sound like that of distant thunder. Clearing away the mists of tired nature's sweet restorer, I was able to trace this rumbling to its source. It was the current Cat of the Year, Beignet.

Lucy, The Princess of Sweetness and Light

The super-sized Beignet has never seen eye-to-eye with me on the subject of early rising. I like to sleep to the last possible moment and then leap out into the day, taking full advantage of the element of surprise. I'm told Napoleon did the same. But this long-haired, ginger and white is absolutely up and about with the larks every morning.

Having bounded onto the bed, he licked me in the right eye, then curled up and settled in with his head on my arm.

"Isn't that sweet?" said the Wonder who had shimmered into the room. I could not fully subscribe to this point of view. What is sweet about getting out of bed before God wakes, only to go back to sleep again? Silly, it struck me as.

I extricated myself from the cat and brought myself to a fully upright position, the better to slosh a half-cup of tissue restorer into the abyss. It was only then that I realized Ms Wonder was knee-deep in boxes, looking like a sea goddess walking on the rocky shore.

"Unpacking?" I asked.

"Getting the Halloween stuff out. I thought it might help to keep busy today," she said. "Takes my mind off things I don't want on my mind."

I understood her meaning to the core. 

"Then unpack 'till your ribs squeak," I said, "and let me help."

It seems nothing brings more healing balm like anticipation of the holidays and our hearts were sore in need of healing. Lucy, the recently rescued little princess of sweetness and light has been adopted by another and is even now getting used to her new surroundings. 

It's an excellent situation for her, of course, being the absolute center of attention and becoming a member of a permanent family. Still, it leaves a void in our hearts. It seems that when Lucy left, the sunshine and bluebirds followed her.

We love you, Lucy, and we miss you terribly and if history is any indication, we always will.  I will always remember being wakened by your tiny, cold, wet nose.

Be happy, be healthy, be safe, my little girl.

A Walk on the South Side

Mornings, I walk. After an early caffeine binge with The Enforcer, I pace the south end of the city one step at a time moving as quickly as my back will allow. 

I tell people the walk was recommended by my therapist, and there is that, but I really walk to get a preview of what the day will be like for the Genome. The walk is quick but it's mindful.

I enjoy greeting the people that I see out and about in the early morning. They're people with purpose and I wonder what it would be like to be a purposeful person again. I struggle to find purpose but no matter how hard I try, it seems that I spend my days in Heaven's waiting room. 

Time and Place. That's the stuff I see as important. I'd like to think that what I do is important but, there again, it seems the universe has its own agenda. I'm expected to do something, almost anything I suppose, and that seems to be enough. More than enough really. Doing anything seems to be everything.

I don't expect you to agree. I'm not a fool. Or rather, I may be a fool, but... oh, I don't know. Let's not get derailed by existential philosophy. 

I know most people live with the idea that life has meaning and that they have a purpose. I'm happy for them. I admire them.

I watch a favorite barista from Ethiopia who makes the little faces and hearts and fern leaves in the lattes I drink in Native Grounds and I wonder if it would be possible for someone without purpose in their life to do that.

Even though I don't know what I'm doing, it feels somehow, and this is the salient point, that I have been chosen for the role. I have been chosen by the Enforcers to blunder through life hoping that something meaningful will happen.

This morning, pacing the south side mindfully and feeling the anger--not to mention the pain in the upper back--I began doing a few qigong wudangs. Swimming Dragon, was the first, followed by Parting the Clouds and then finishing with Embracing Heaven and Earth.

I was near a storm drain, and that mundane piece of municipal infrastructure became a metaphor for the neural networks in the shadowy region of my brain that support my depression. 

My qigong moves became fierce--my way of shouting down the storm drain of the mind, "I'm chosen! So don't mess with me, Amy!"

Amy, of course, is that little region of gray cells... No! Sorry, you know all about Princess Amy by now.

When my attention returned to the here and now, I realized that about a dozen people were moving around me doing whatever they were doing at this hour. Upper-dressed young women going to work at Nordstrom's; corporate ID-tag bearers heading to Panera's for coffee and bagels; cargo pant-ed leaf blowers. All looking at me.

"Had to be done," I said.

They all nodded and continued on their way because they all knew what it was like to be messed with. And they instinctively knew that I was yelling in the right direction. Down the storm drain.

Abracadabra, Alakazam!

This morning I woke with the feeling that I was sitting in a blue bird's nest surrounded by a chorus singing of sunshine, blue skies, ocean breezes, and all the fixings. I can honestly say that I was feeling boompsie-daisy. 

"Wonder," I said on my way to the sal de bains, "I'm feeling boompsie-daisy."

I never expect Ms. Wonder to take anything I say big and she didn't surprise me this morning. These descendants of Russian nobility do not let excitement move them from their center, remaining balanced at all times.

She continued to pluck her brows while she expressed her opinion but, I'm happy to say, that her expressed opinion was good. 

Yes, the morning began with a decidedly pro-Genome bias. And yet, you will hardly credit it, but when I emerged from the shower, Princess Amy cast her veil over my eyes. The bright sparkly thoughts that filled my head only a few minutes prior were now "layer'ed o'er with the pale cast of thought." as I've heard Wonder describe it.

Up one minute, down the next, that's the Genome known by most of the Villagers. It's a chemical thing with a lot of technical jargon and a lot of guff about the amygdala, the little organ in the brain that's the center of the limbic system and the source of emotion. 

The species of amygdala that sits behind the control panel of my emotions is a very stubborn little organ and most insistent on getting her way. She reminds me of a spoiled little princess who relies on temper tantrums to make her the center of attention. I call her, Princess Amy.

Who was that Roman guy who wrote about everything being part of the Great Web? He understood that everything in life was interconnected. Wrote books about it I believe. No matter, it will come to me later.

My point is that I see my depression as being part of that Great Web. In my case, the web is one of Serotonin reuptake inhibitors and whatnot. Marcus Aurelius! Yes, that's the perp I was thinking of! 

I knew his name would come to me. That Great Web in my brain is like a personal Internet of ganglia and synapses. Names can be hard to find unless I have the appropriate keywords in the search string.  

Now, where was I? Ah, right, I was about to say that Princess Amy is not the boss of me! I am the chosen one, the hero of my personal life story. I have that on the authority of Joseph Campbell and he should know. And according to C.S. Lewis, all heroes have magic swords. My own magic sword is my fierce intent. And it was fierce intent that pulled me out of the soup this morning.

Having clad the outer crust in the upholstery of the casually employed, I bunged myself into Wind Horse and gave her rein on the open road. But most importantly, I held fiercely to the intention that the open road and whatnot would return the bluebird to her rightful position.

As soon as I set out, I tuned the radio to "60's Gold" where Louis Armstrong sang "What a Wonderful World," which was followed immediately by The Loving Spoonful singing, "It's a Beautiful Morning." 

Alakazam! (The Arabic magical word, not the Pokemon character.) Alakazam is a sort of versatile magical command, along the lines of abracadabra. Regular fans of The Circular Journey will remember our tuxedoed magical feline who was called Abbie Hoffman. His real name, of course, was Abracadabra. But then you knew that already.

But I've jumped the rails again. Let's get back to the story. Alakazam! The effect was immediate. The sky cleared, the sun shone, and the birds began singing on key. Not in the outside world, which remained rainy and gray, but it was inside where the weather cleared.

I may never be completely depression-free and I may have to feel those blue emotions forever, but I don't have to let them steal my song. With sweet memories of the loves of my life, one of them being Abbie Hoffman, I can rise above the clouds of depression on the back of the spirit horse of fierce intent. 

Sweet memories make sweet dreams. And so I say, Abracadabra, Alakazam! Not today, Amy! I eat no pine needles today!

The Sun Popped Out Like a Startled Rabbit

I don't know if you're familiar with the story of Mrs Lot and her rather fantastic finish? If you are familiar, you may want to skip to the next paragraph. If the name doesn't ring a bell, then here's the gist. 

This unfortunate woman was the victim of history's worst practical joke. Told by her companions one day as they were leaving home for a road trip, 'Don't look now...', she did look, of course, don't we all when told not to? And by some odd coincidence, when she did look, she turned into a pillar of salt! I know! Who'd have guessed? I mean, salt of all things!

The reason I mention this here is that a very similar thing happened to me when unable to stop myself after being told by Ms Wonder to let the Straw Valley thing go, I revisited some old email from Robin and found the last missive from her unopened.

Reading from left to right, it said, 'I'd like to set up a day and time to talk.' Well, if you've been following along, you know how much I wanted this gig so it should not surprise that I sat frozen with the phone in my hands like one of those peasants, who talk back to a wizard and--presto!--they turn into a pillar of salt.

And so this very morning I found myself walking into the courtyard of Straw Valley with an appointment to review the space with Robin. At the very moment I entered the coffee bar, a willowy woman walked toward me with a warm and winsome smile. It was Robin.

It's at moments like this that you find the Genome at his best, ice-cold brain working like a Swiss army knife. Nothing creates so unfortunate a first impression as the hesitant utterance and the shifting from one foot to another like a south-side Fred Astaire. But in this encounter, I discovered the middle way.

As soon as Robin began to speak, I realized that this young woman created her own future, a co-creator of the Universe, making things happen by sheer force of will. The conscious observer dissolved and merged with the One bringing absolute balance. 

This woman grants no quarter to the possibility of failure and laughs in the face of the Aunts. We agreed to begin with Sunday morning classes at 10:00 as soon as the new year could get here. I felt that everything was just peachy in the here and now.

I emerged from the void when I heard her say something about making the deadline for the Indy newspaper and then she was gone with the wind. A sharp cry of joy escaped my lips. The Indy newspaper is the rag where everything worth knowing is broadcast to all of Durham.

The sun, once hidden behind a gray veil, came shooting out like a startled rabbit, rolled up his sleeves, and got down to some serious shining. Birds in the shrubbery sang in four-part harmony, five probably, and I saw the world through a pink mist.

My gazelle had come home.

The sun has blessed the earth for many go-arounds since that first day at Straw Valley. Not all those days have been so happy. But recently those blessings seem to have been reborn through the transformative power of bright, blue skies and benevolent sunshine. 

I feel that the lost gazelle has come home once more. Fierce Qigong, ya'll!

Tinkerty-tonk

The sun popped up over Durham this morning, all hot and bright and showing off, and the gibbous moon was still hanging over Chadsford Hall with a smile on her face and a "Back at'cha!" on her lips. 

For some reason, a bit of trivia surfaced in my head. You know how these trivia do surface and the surfacing that arose was that the full moon of December has been known as the Cold Moon, the Yule Moon, the Snow Moon, and the Peach Moon by various members of my ancestors. 

Peach Moon? The thought causes one to pause and scratch the chin, or so it was with me.

Driving through the park--Research Triangle Park, not Duke Forest, not Hope Valley, and not the Cary Auto Park--I was listening to 70's-on-7, not that I chose it but because Ms. Wonder had been in my car on yestereve. I, of course, listen to 80's-on-8 but you know how it is when two people of proud constitution differ in opinion--governments have been known to put the cat out when it happens.

My morning had begun with that uncomfortable feeling I sometimes get that I am expected somewhere and yet there isn't a jot of a clue about where I'm supposed to be. You know the feeling I'm sure. Napoleon, I'm told felt the same when his courier brought the word that Nelson had sailed into Cairo harbor and burned the French fleet. Wouldn't surprise me to learn that Catherine the Great had the feeling just before removing her husband from the throne. 

"Poopsie," I said, "I feel as though I'm supposed to be somewhere today."

"Where?" she said.

"Ah, that's the 64-thousand-dollar question, isn't it? I confess I don't know."

"You'll have to explain that 64-dollar question but not right now. I need to be somewhere soon. Besides, you're probably experiencing a hangover from the manic day you had yesterday."

"Manic?" I said and I put a little topspin on it because I didn't like her choice of words. You wouldn't like them either if you lived in my head.

"I just mean that your day was hectic. It must have been annoying."

"Not really. About normal I'd say."

"If you do have an appointment, I'm sure you'll think of it in time," she said.

"But that's the problem," I said. "I have to get ready for the day as though I have an appointment even if I don't. Otherwise, when I remember where I'm supposed to be, I won't have time to get ready."

"It will be fine," she said. "I've got to hurry to get to the office. We're expecting a delegation from South Africa this morning and I want to make sure we have African coffee rather than Costa Rican."

"Ms. Wonder," I said because we Genomes strive to be useful at all times, "if you visited China would you want a hamburger for lunch rather than Szechuan stir-fry?"

"Gotta run," she said. "Bye."

Now, as you well know, I always look to this Wonder Woman for comfort and advice, and this lack of the rally-round spirit had left me off-balance. I quickly dressed for my appointment, if any, casual and loose to accommodate the morning qigong but clean and neat as required by the Mom code.  

I took Wind Horse out of the stable and hied for the open road but the mind was still looking under the mental carpet for the mislaid appointment. 

Default mode is the name I've heard for this zone where the lazy mind gets lost.This default mode often turns to the negative poles and, if you have a limbic system like mine, Reason may even step down from her throne. Thrones do not remain vacant for long and when Reason departs, Chaos moves in. 

Chaos is the realm of Princess Amy and she was in rare form this morning telling me a story unfit for human consumption and although Bobby Bloom was singing Montego Bay on the radio, I was caught up in the unsavory story. It was like the 5:00 news. 

Still, when Amy got to the part of her story that caused my spine to vibrate like the strings of a mandolin, my state of mind, as Shakespeare might have put it, like a little kingdom suffered the nature of an insurrection. 

I quickly assessed the danger, broke free from Amy's glamor, and told her to shut her pie hole.

Before you tut-tut, let me point out that vinegar, despite popular opinion to the contrary, often gives more satisfying results than honey when dealing with pests. It's true! Wonder will attest to it. And it was just at the moment I was telling Amy what to do with her phantasma or hideous dream that I broke out of default mode and heard Bobby Bloom singing,

"Oh, what a beautiful morning

Oh, what a beautiful day

And I got a beautiful feeling

Everything's going my way."

I was drawn into the feeling. I sang along with Mr. Bloom and if I sang a little too loudly, what of it? With a Peach Moon smiling in the sky and the morning sun in a chirpy mood, I felt that the lark must surely be on the wing and all was right with the world. 

As for my worries, they were nothing more than the idle wind and I gave them a wet smack and a miss. Tinkerty-tonk about sums up the whole affair. I do hope that appointment wasn't my weekly session with Susan Studebaker. 

National Coffee Day

So apparently September 29th is National Coffee Day, a day that means a lot to me as so many of the treasures in my life are directly related to and, in many cases, due to the consumption of infusions of that little, dark, bean. The infusions that I call Jah's Sweet Mercy because that's what it is, of course.

Not only has my life been blessed with the gifts redolent in a steaming cup of bohea, but many of the great men and women of history fueled their success on the shoulders of coffee. I'm certain of it. Probably,

I mean to say people like Catherine the Great couldn't have accomplished so much in so little time without the help of caffeine (and you shouldn't believe half those stories). 

I'm sure that I remember reading somewhere that Napoleon spoke highly of the beverage while exiled on that little island and for my part, I find it incredible that Alexander was able to get out of Macedonia without the stuff.

So you can readily understand that when I learned this morning that I had missed the celebration, I decided to celebrate by imbibing an extra cup or two, which is the only decent thing to do, so if you haven't already, do the right thing and stop by your favorite caffeine slinger's stand and enjoy a cup of bean.

Go Bean Traders!

This post was first published on October 1, 2012! I know! I've updated it on Sep 27, 2023! I know! Who'da thunk? I've added this postscript because this year September 29 will be the date of the Full Super Moon, the third one this year if my reckoning is correct. Just more reason to drink a cup of the steaming. Enjoy!

Urban Kayaking

Those who know me best are fully aware of the Genome's background. In that remote and isolated land that biographers will undoubtedly call my childhood, I was immersed in a world where unchanging sameness was the ideal. And yet, I  stood apart from the local fauna in that I talked and behaved as if I'd had thousands of strange and rare experiences. All from reading books, of course. I traveled through space and time simply by turning the page.

I still do it today.

That childhood of mine fathered a man who is not afraid of poverty of any kind; not financial, not thought, not curiosity. What does frighten me is boredom.

This morning as I completed the usual chores and drove the usual Ocean Highway to get to my usual Globally Grown, Carolina Roasted, I began to feel a little agitated. The day was bright and clear and no appointments were scheduled but that sameness that can sometimes feel comforting didn't feel that way this morning. It felt a little too near boredom.

And so I decided to turn the page. Instead of taking the usual drive-through, I decided to park and ankle into the cafe under my own power. Who could have imagined the excitement waiting inside?

'Good morning,' she said as I neared the stand-here spot. 'The usual?'

'Yes, please,' I said, and then as I pulled at my clinging shirt, 'It's getting hot out there.'

'You want this chilled?' she said.

I waved a hand back and forth to dismiss the suggestion of iced coffee and then, thinking about keeping the pages turning, I said, 'The recent renovations make the cafe look bigger and more inviting. I think I'll sit for a while and write.'

'You're a writer? What do you write fiction or non?'

'Well,' I said and then inserted a theatrical pause to better give the question some thought and determine which direction I wanted the conversation to take. 

'I write travel articles,' I said, 'but only to make my life seem relevant....' I paused again to add just a touch of tension and I raised an eyebrow, which is a French technique intended to spike the other's attention. 

She raised a brace of eyebrows, making me aware that she too was attuned to the French conversational nuances. And she added a slight nod as if to say, I get it. I believe the raising and nodding were done in concert with a moue. Is the word, moue; where one pouts slightly to indicate a thoughtful comparison of possible alternatives?

Then, feeling that I had found an empathetic audience, I delivered the punchline, 'but I blog for fun.'

'Oh,' she said.

I'd hoped for a bit more interest but realized that my intro was to blame--too weak. So I added more explanation.

'I try to find humor in everyday affairs,' I said, 'and then exaggerate the humor to make a more interesting story. Sometimes I throw in a dragon or a few elves if the subject can handle it. I think of it as fictionalizing my life. Makes me feel like the main character in my own novel and helps me to cope with a mood disorder.'

Her face lit up. I mean, it didn't light up like the dawn of a new day; but her eyes twinkled and she smiled as if she'd just had a juicy idea.

'If you're looking for humor in everyday events, have I got something for you,' she said.  Then looking at the male half of the coffee sketch she said, 'Tell Genome about your traffic accident.' And then for clarification, she said, 'He tangled with a kayak in a traffic accident yesterday.'

I stared at her with no little amazement. Had I understood her correctly? Surely not. I searched the database for an automobile with a name that rhymes with kayak. It was a bust. Cadillac came to mind but not close enough. I turned to speak to the star witness.

'Did she say kayak? I said.

'That's right,' he said.

She wasn't by any chance thinking of kayak car rentals or kayak hotel accomodations?

'Nope, it was a kayak alright,' he said. 'Crushed the side of my car and broke all the windows. I have a photo on my phone.'

And he did have a photo on his phone; lots of them; and when he spoke of crushed and broken, he was spot on.

'Holy hell!' That's what I said even though I realize the term makes no sense; still, I'm certain that I've heard others use the expression in similar circumstances and so I keep it in my list of spur-of-the-moment exclamations.

'I'll bet you're going tell me it was one of those whitewater paddlers,' I said. 'I've done my share of kayaking. In fact, I once wrote an article for Carolina Roads Magazine on kayaking the Intracoastal Waterway. And I can assure you, those white-water kayaking addicts will take every unnecessary risk that happens to wander by. And they do it just for the fun of it!'

'No white water,' he said. 'In fact, there was no water anywhere near the accident.'

'Hell's bells!' I said and I'm aware that I did it again; using a term that makes no logical sense but, in my defense, I simply use the language, I don't put this stuff in the writers' guide. 

'Isn't it enough that we must deal with all the cabbage-heads who run red traffic lights on Ocean Highway without having to watch for kayaks on the road too?' I said and I remember shaking my head as if to imply, What is this world coming to?'

'Was he fully insured? Did you get all his info?' I asked.

'He just paddled away,' he said. 'The investigating officer reported it as hit and paddle.' But he had a twinkle in his eye when he said it.

'Wait a minute,' I said, recognizing the twinkle for what it was. 'That's a good line. Wish I'd thought of it. But I'm beginning to feel that I'm missing out on the pertinent details. Before we get too far along with this story, begin with the beginning and spare no detail, no matter how small. I'll bet you hold me spellbound.'

'Actually, the kayak was in the bed of a pickup truck,' he said, 'and the guy was backing out of a parking space.'

'You mean to tell me that he was using that kayak like the rostrum or if you prefer, battering ram, on an ancient Roman war galley? That's surely illegal even in Brunswick County where almost anything goes.'

He shrugged.

'But now I understand how the accident happened. I hope the repairs work out to your satisfaction. But why it's called a truck bed is still a mystery to me. I mean what do beds have to do with trucks anyway?'

And so you see how this page-turning technique can pay off big time, under the right conditions. It's often the only tool you need to avoid boredom. 

Speaking of the right conditions, don't ignore the fact that the above took place near the steaming needful, the frothed best of the roaster's art, the brimming cup of Jah's Mercy. It often happens that way. I believe it has something to do with the Universe looking out for our best interests.

 

 

Never Felt So Alive

"How was your massage?"

The words surprised me because I didn't realize that anyone else was in the house. It was Ms. Wonder, of course, but she's normally not home so early in the afternoon.

"Oh, you're here, are you?" I said. How often do we say things like that and then immediately wish that we'd thought of something better? One day I'm going to memorize a handful of zippy comebacks so that I can be a little more interesting when someone puts me on the spot.

"I take it the massage was unremarkable," she said.

"Not at all," I said. 'It was an incredible massage."

"Incredible? An incredible massage? Do tell, please."

"Oh, you're going to hear more," I said, "and you'll hear it now. It was life-changing."

"A massage? Life-changing!"

I walked to the doorway because I wanted to see her face when I told her about my transformation, and there's no other word for it, it was transformative.

"I am a new man, Poopsie," I said.

"You don't look different," she said.

"But I feel different," I said. "In fact, reborn!"

No reply from the Wonder but both eyebrows raised to full limit and the eyes...oh those green eyes.

"I walked into that massage studio like a man on a wire," I said.

"You mean a bird on a wire," she said.

"I mean like a man walking a high wire," I said. "A man who knows that one little mistake will land him in the soup, and not just any soup, onion soup."

"You hate onion soup," she said. "Got more than enough onion soup in the army."

"One of many things I had too much of while being all that I could be," I said. "But I strode out of that studio...is studio the word?"

"Massage studio or massage parlor," she said. "I believe that either is correct. But you strode out. You didn't walk out on a wire."

"I strode, Poopsie, like a man sure of himself."

"Not full of himself?" she said.

"Sure of himself," I said" And although I was aware of her testing the puppet strings, I decided to give it a miss. "I was the man who needs no safety net," I said. "I never felt so alive."

"You've got my attention," she said. "Enough build-up, let's have the goods."

"Well," I said, "It's like this...

Amber worked her magic beginning at the neck and shoulder," I said.

"Amber isn't her real name," she said.

"Of course not," I said. "These massage therapists never use their real names."

"Like pole dancers never use the name that could be used as proof against them in court," she said.

"I don't know what that means," I said, "but I'm not going to take the bait. Let's get back to the incredible massage."

"As she worked a particularly tight spot in the shoulder, I winced with the pain. It was a hot, searing pain. Then at the lower spine, I winced again. The pain was loud and exploding. At the back of my thigh, I winced so tightly, I thought my eyelids might be stuck permanently. It was a big day for wincing."

"But then we got to the left calf muscle. Oh, that left calf..."

"Not the fatted calf," she said.

"Once again, Wonder, I will not fall for your attempts at misdirection. The pain in that calf muscle was so intense that it served the same purpose as the sacrificial calf, offered up to guarantee the answer to my prayers."

"Did you breathe into the pain," she asked and I was happy to know that she remembered those meditation classes that I taught so many years ago.

"I breathed into it and I breathed through it," I said. "I redirected the focus of the mind to fill up some of the bandwidth and hopefully negate some of the pain."

"And did it help?"

"The pain increased," I said. "I broke out in a cold sweat. My fists were clenched and my knuckles were white. I saw exploding stars!"

"Oh, my goodness!" she said. "Did you make a wish?"

Right about now, dear reader, you're probably wondering how I was able to stay focused when my Number One was offering up these verbal roadblocks, but to my credit, and you would have been proud of me if you'd been there, I ignored her remark and continued with my story.

"Suddenly, I was in a dark tunnel, floating alone in the void. Then a blinding white light appeared in the distance."

"You had a near-death experience," she said. "Did you see the spirits of a dear departed loved one?"

"At that moment, I thought I was a dear departed loved one," I said.

"Did you cry out?" she said.

"A Genome never cries out," Wonder. "We are men of steel. Departed or not. But no, the pain left as suddenly as it came. But one millisecond more and I wouldn't be here to tell the story."

"Now I understand," she said. "You strode out a changed man--a man transformed--because we never feel so alive as when we are face-to-face with death. Incredible!"

"That's what I said. Do you remember the last time I came face to face with D?" I asked. Now it was her turn to ignore me.

"Will you make another appointment with Amber?" she said.

"Not in this life, Poopsie, not in this life; once is enough."

"Wise choice, I think," she said. "Nothing to gain. You've won that contest. Why risk it with a return visit? Thank you for sharing that with me."

"It was a reminder for us all if we choose to accept it, that life comes hard and fast," I said, " and we must always be ready for what comes our way."

"Ain't that the truth!" she said.