Almost Is Not Enough

It was early morning on the day of the first 9:30 am meditation class that I was to lead at Straw Valley. I'd worked hard for this slot and had every reason to be happy with myself but I wasn't. Instead, I was filled with a nameless dread. I feared that the students would object to the earlier starting time and not be there when the class began. 

We Genomes are men of steel, ask anyone, and yet sometimes, strangely, we struggle to maintain the stiff upper lip.

"Poopsie, I'm not the merry old self this morning," I said.

"Really?"

"Nope. Far from it."

"I'm sorry to hear it," she said.

"But why, is what I ask myself," I said.

"I couldn't say," she said and for the first time since the conversation began, I noticed that she was devoting all her attention to Eddy. I began to wonder if this was the time for playing with kittens. A little more of the rally-round spirit would have suited me.

"It could be that Princess Amy is messing around with the lipid cocktail again." I said, "Or it could be that I'm worried about a gang of students showing up at 10:00 and when they learn that I'm halfway through the meditation portion of the program, they begin throwing chairs around and trampling through the bamboo grove."

"You mean to say halfway through the meditation class," she said.

"What did I say?"

"You said meditation portion."

"That's what I meant to say," I said. "I wonder why Princess Amy gives me such a hard time? After all, we're technically one and the same."

"Difficult to say," she said.

This Amy I speak of always has something sinister in mind for me. And it isn't like I stiffen the neck and kick about it. I usually go along with just about everything she asks--living life on life's terms and all that. The only time I balk is when she starts ladling out that not-good-enough nonsense.

She loves to remind me that I was always missing the mark as a kid. I wasn't a very good student, always preferring the outdoors to the classroom. I wasn't a good athlete, always being the last kid chosen for the team. I was smaller than the average and I learned quite early that staying away from the ball was a really good survival technique.

"I have to leave now," said Ms. Wonder, "I've got to hang that art exhibit."

"Yes, I remember," I said, "And when does it come down?"

"End of the year," she said. "It's like you always say."

"What is?"

"The art exhibit," she said, "It's like everything else--it arises, it abides for a moment, and then it passes away. Maybe your feelings of impending doom will be like that too."

It's amazing how prescient, this woman can be if prescient is the word I want, because half an hour into the meditation class, everyone was sitting quietly, listening to the bamboo leaves rustling in the breeze. Not a single chair was bunged about nor a single drop of blood spilled. I remember thinking how odd it was.

After repeating the goodbyes and passing around the happy endings, I remembered something Ms. Wonder often says, "Our anxious anticipation of future events is almost always worse than what actually happens."

I don't know where she gets these things but I'm sure she has a million of them. And like most of them, this particular one is a good thing to keep in mind. Not that it completely calms the anxious mind but it helps. 

The shortcoming of course, which I'm sure you caught right away, is that annoying little word, almost.

No Good Way to Tell You

You probably think there's never been a spot for happily ever-after-ing than here on the Carolina coast. And who could blame you? It seems exactly the spot. Until it isn't, of course. Take yesterday for instance.

"If self-improvement were easy," said Ms. Wonder, "then we'd all be perfect, wouldn't we?" She said it between sips of lemon-ginger tea while sitting near the rhododendron, on the southern side of the screened porch.

"Despite all indications to the contrary, I'm constantly working to become the best me that I can be," I said. "And it's not so simple as Deepak and Oprah would have you believe."

"I know," she said. "But I think you sabotage your efforts with worry about problems that may or may not happen." 

 "Let me tell you something," I said. "I may worry but I don't quit. I keep plugging away at it. Hoping to store up enough points to come back as a cat in my next life."

"But you seem to look for problems that don't exist."

"Well, isn't the anticipation of possible downsides a good thing? It helps to be prepared, doesn't it? Consider Napoleon in Cairo."

"I don't want to consider Napoleon," she said, not in Cairo or anywhere else. You consider Napoleon on your own time."

"I just wanted to point out that Napoleon didn't have to contend with sewer harpies. Harpies aren't Greek pebbles and you can take my word for that."

"Sewer harpies?" she said.

"Sewer harpies," I said.

"Creek pebbles?" she said.

"Oh, for heaven's sake," I said. "You know the reference. I'm talking about that ancient Greek life coach with the stutter."

"Demosthenes?" she said.

"If you insist," I said. 

"He cured his speech impediment by talking with pebbles in his mouth," she said. "And he wasn't a life coach. He was an orator."

"I don't care if he was an orator or a computer programmer," I said. "Bet me that he didn't swallow some of those pebbles from time to time and then think about giving up his dream and becoming a shepherd instead." 

She stared at me in silence for a few and I reckoned that I'd found a talking point.

She said, "As long as people have been trying to improve themselves..."

"How long is that?" I said.

"Never mind how long," she said. "The point is that everyone meets setbacks and failure. The key is to learn from our mistakes and move on."

"Learning from mistakes is like trying to explain a Zen koan," I said, and I was feeling pretty full of myself because it seemed that I was on a roll. You would have thought the same if you were there.

"Alright," she said. "Look... journaling is said to help by forcing us to arrange random events into a coherent story that explains the lesson. Doesn't your writing do that?"

"Have you read my blog?" I said. "My stories aren't coherent. The harpies throw so many detours my way that writing never gets me to where I intended. Most of the time I end up in the ditch"

"Just don't give up," she said. "Do it for me." And she placed her hand on my shoulder to indicate something. I'm not sure what she intended, but it made me feel better because it reminded me that we're on the same team.

"It just never seems to get better," I said. "No matter what I do. It's depressing. It's demoralizing."

"Just keep trying," she said. "And whatever you do, don't stop writing."

"What?" I said. "Do you mean I should forget about becoming a shepherd?"

This Is That

At the end of last year, I decided to publish on Facebook my own little end-of-year wrap-up with a Top 20 Countdown of the most popular Circular Journey blog posts. I'm happy that I did because I realized something for the very first time: The top 3 posts have vastly higher readership numbers than the other 17.

It intrigued me not a little and I decided to get Ms. Wonder's opinion. She has a remarkable brain and I thought it would be good to hear her thoughts. When she came downstairs for breakfast, after her morning workout, I made her coffee, to sweeten her up a bit, and then popped the question.

"Good morning, Wonder. May I ask you something?"

"Sure," she said.

"I noticed something recently about the Circular Journey blog posts and I'd like to run it up your flagpole."

"First I think you should consider rephrasing that sentence before you use it on someone else."

"I'll take it under advisement," I said. "My question is about the three most popular blog posts on Circular Journey. I noticed recently that they have far higher numbers of readers than all the other posts and, since I'd like to increase the readership, I decided to look into what's so special about those three."

"Interesting," she said.

"Good," I said. "So what I've learned so far is that those three posts all include something about Cocker Spaniels."

"Cocker Spaniels?"

"That's right, and I'm wondering if I should include Cocker Spaniels in all my future posts."

"I think you need to look a little deeper," she said.

"Alright," I said. "How about this? The top two posts include, in addition to the dog, something about Napoleon and Catherine the Great."

"Are you serious?"

"Certainly," I said. "I'd never waste your time with frivolity if that's the word. You can read it for yourself. Just go to the front page of the blog and search for Right is Might. You'll soon see what I'm talking about." 

"I'd suggest putting a little more thought into the thing," she said. "In fact, I think you need to reconsider the content of your articles if you've written something about Kate, Nappy, and Cocker Spaniels in the same blog post."

"But you don't have all the pertinent facts. You see when I mention Napoleon, my French readership jumps and when I mention Catherine the Russian visitors increase significantly. I'm considering writing more about all three."

"Do it if it makes you happy but don't let your hopes soar too high; you may crash like Icarus."

"I'm afraid I haven't made his acquaintance. A business associate of yours?"

"Never mind," she said.

"If you have another minute, I'd like to ask you about another something that I discovered recently. Are you aware that the number of fiction books on the shelves at Barnes and Noble differs markedly by the first letter of the last name? For example, more books are written by people whose name begins with an 'M' and the least number of books by people with a name beginning with a 'J'."

"So?"

"Well, I was thinking that maybe I should consider using a penname beginning with the letter 'M'."

"Do you have any aspirin?" she said.

I took that to mean that she had other things on her mind so I found the aspirin for her and decided to think of a subject for today's blog post. This is that.

Can't Stop Us Now

Dawn had swept the stars from the sky and poured a cupful of sunshine onto the lawns of Chatsford Hall by the time Ms. Wonder came breezing into my study. She looked like Marlene Dietrich in the role of Catherine the Great leading her troops to the Winter Palace to deliver the message to Peter that he found so very disappointing. I was happy to see her--Ms. Wonder, of course, not Catherine. If the United States Marines had landed on the lawn outside, I couldn't have been happier. I told her so.

"Good morning, Wonder," I said. "I'm happy to see you."

"Have you been up all night, working on that book?" she said.

"Not that book," I said. "It's called Out of the Blue, and no, I've been wrestling with a decision regarding the end of the world as we know it."

"Right," she said and if she seemed to be less than sympathetic it's because that's exactly what she was less than, and before you judge, let me assure you she has a right. It isn't easy living with The Genome.

I aspire to be a rational, level-headed--if that's the term--adult. I make reasonable plans that outline the proper steps. So far so good, but then when the curtain goes up I forget all my lines. No amount of cajoling can motivate me to leave the wings to strut across the stage playing my part. I don't trust myself to do the right thing and, this is the worst part, I don't trust the advice of anyone else. I don't suppose you've had the experience yourself?

"I want to hand the thing over to my agent," I said, "before I get around to it, I change my mind; I want to publish it myself, keeping all control, you know." I was silent for a moment musing on something I'd heard somewhere. Probably in a song. "It's like that mountain," I said at last.

"Mountain?" she said.

"You know," I said, "First there was a mountain, then there was no mountain, then there was. That mountain."

"Donovan," she said or at least that's what it sounded like to me. I believe it's one of the prehistoric eras but I'm not sure about it. You may be more familiar with the term.

"Between the acting of a dreadful thing and the first notion," she said, "all the interim is like a hideous dream and the state of man like to a little kingdom suffers an insurrection."

"I couldn't have put it better myself," I said "but why are you talking like that?"

"Shakespeare," she said, and then added, "Julius Caesar."

Well, it's always hard to know what to say when someone hands you lines like those. First Donovan and now Shakespeare and Julius Caesar! I began to wonder if she'd taken my meds instead of hers. It's the same problem I have trying to respond to the Muse and the Saint pre-coffee. But I responded in the best way I knew how on the spur of the moment.

"Your first guess is usually the correct one," I said, "so I'd guess Shakespeare. Sounds more like his stuff than something Caesar would say."

"In Hamlet, he described it as like the poor cat in the adage."

"Then I'm sure it was Shakespeare," I said, "we read Hamlet in Norbert Kier's class in high school and I'm pretty certain he wrote it. Shakespeare I mean, not Mr. Kier."

"I know who wrote it," she said. "It was in the play Julius Caesar."

I mused through a few moments of silence, wondering why she kept referring to me as Julius Caesar. I finally decided to go with this, "You know, Wonder, I think you're on to something. I seem to remember someone else saying something similar. Something about the spirit being willing but the feet were cold."

"Jesus Christ," she said.

"Ms. Wonder!" I said. "Language!. You may have ancestors who dumped palace waste into the Winter Canal and polluted the River Neva but my ears are not garbage cans."

"May I make a suggestion?" she said and I'm sure you can imagine the relief I felt that she was about to offer help.

"Do," I said.

"You might consider writing an email to yourself with a detailed explanation of your logical and reasonable thought processes. Then, in the future, when you feel unsure of your next step, you can refer to the email and know that you are getting sound advice."

"Send an email into the future addressed to me?" I said.

"Precisely," she said.

"Ms. Wonder!" I said with not a little enthusiasm. "You are one of a kind. You do know everything no matter how much you deny it."

"Not at all," she said. "I'm happy to help in any way I can."

"You know at least as much as Shakespeare," I said, "and he seemed to hear all the gossip. Thank you immensely."

"Not at all," she said.

Free Fallin'

" I have seen it all now, Ms Wonder," I said with conviction as I entered the salle de bains.

"What now," she said.

"Just now, on my return trip from Native Ground, I saw a guy on a skateboard standing in the middle of the street, looking at his phone."

"Hmm," she said, "in the middle of the street?"

"In the turning lane, just gazing at his text messages," I said. "Cars whizzing all around."

"I've always been drawn to skateboard culture--Free Falling, and all that, but not in the middle of Highway 55 during morning rush hour.

"Free Falling isn't about skateboarding," she said," and besides Happy Cats Wellness needs you right now. You can't afford to break any bones."

You are aware, I'm sure, that she referred to our new digital enterprise, the authoritative source of all things that improve health and elevate the happiness of the household mouser.

"You and Island Irv," I said.

"What about me and Island Irv?"

"Irv tells me I'm too old to skateboard, but I say consider the facts. I've already exceeded all expectations for the Genome's demise and I'm not so certain that I don't have another decade of extravagance in me."

I paused here to give the words time to sink in and get the fullest effect. As I watched Ms. Wonder, busy with her eyebrows, I began to wonder if the words had any effect at all. I decided to press the point.

"It's like Galileo and the Jesuits all over again," And I meant it to sting a bit.

"What?" she said.

"You know what I mean, Kepler happened to notice one day that Mars circled the sun and he even mentioned it in one of his New York Times best-selling books."

I waited for her to nod or indicate in some other way that she was following me. It didn't happen. She shrugged instead.

"Well," I said, just a little disappointed, "Galileo ignored Kepler's observation even though he was, at the time, defending himself from Vatican censorship because his very own views suggested that the Earth was not the center of things. You see what I mean?"

"No," she said.

"Ms Wonder! Do put on your thinking cap. The Vatican was telling Galileo to stop spreading nonsense even though it was common knowledge that the Jesuits had made the same observations and that Copernicus had written extensively about them.

"You're driveling," she said, and I didn't like her attitude one bit. Neither did Princess Amy like it and don't make me have to stop here to explain Princess Amy.

"Galileo ignored Copernicus too," I said."

"Did you sleep well last night?" she asked, but once more I pressed on, refusing to be derailed by her questions.

"It's Olber's Paradox, Ekaterina," and you may notice that I used her formal name to emphasize that I was serious and had enough of her attempts to muddle my thoughts. "When you look into the night sky it seems full of stars because that's what you're focusing on. But look again and you see that it is essentially dark. It's a simple observation and yet it has so much meaning, missed by most observers."

I paused again, to look into those emerald-green eyes for a sign that my words were having the desired effect. Nope! Bust again! I didn't like the look in her eye either, and I didn't want to be like Galileo and ignore the evidence that had been placed before me like ripe fruit.

"Will you consider discussing a simple mood stabilizer with your doctor?" she said.

"No, Poopsie, not drugs. Too twentieth century. Gamma-ray bursts are the current thing."

"Gamma-rays is it?" she said.

"Looking into the center of most galaxies is a monster black hole," I said. I don't know why I said it. It may have been anxiety causing me to think that the time was right to say something. Then again, it may have been a whim. The look she now wore is one that I very familiar with. She was looking at me the way a mother might look at a child who just turned the cereal bowl upside down on the dog's head.

"We are doomed," I said, having decided that the time was right for closing remarks. "The end is right around the corner."

After several moments of uncomfortable quiet, she spoke.

"The universe is full of infinite prospects," she said. I mused for a moment or two and nodded in agreement. She went on to say, "And there is limitless time, is there not?"

I nodded again because when Ms. Wonder speaks in a certain tone of voice, one gets quiet and pays attention if one desires to stay out of the quarantine room. I once more mused on her observations and, in the twinkling of an eye, it struck me.

"Nothing to worry about?" I said.

"Nothing," she said. Then she patted me on the shoulder and walked into the other room. I looked into the mirror to see how Amy was taking it. I expected she would take it big and that's just the way she was taking it. She had collapsed into a heap on the floor.

"Everything is going to be alright, Amy," I said trying to reassure her. "You heard Ms Wonder, nothing to worry about."

"There's always something to worry about," Amy said.

"True," I said, "but there's infinite possibilities and limitless time. If only Napoleon had known, things might have turned out differently for him."

It's amazing isn't it, how things that seem to herald the end of the world may turn out to be just what the doctor ordered. I returned to work on Crystal Cove without a single care. Oh, but you probably haven't heard about Crystal Cove. I can't go into it now but it's my new book and you're going to love it. And yes, I know that Wonder suggested I should work on Happy Cats but let it go, dear reader. Put it completely out of your mind. I've got this. Really I do.

Where's Napoleon Now?

The morning was one of those sparkling ones like that effervescent orange juice they sell in the food courts in Union Station in the District of Columbia. You know the stuff I mean. They make you smile just to think of drinking one and that's the way the morning made me feel--like smiling. 

I must have been smiling when I entered the front door of Native Grounds. I don't know how long the smile continued because immediately I entered, I was met by the entire southside gang, sitting at a large table near the door.

You may remember me mentioning this gang in previous posts, possibly--possibly not, because I don't write of them often. I prefer to avoid this tattered group of young men if that's the correct technical term, a miss-matched assortment of everything South Durham society has to offer, and who hang together, I must imagine, because they all work the night shift at the Food Lion. 

My theory is that they bonded, the way young men do bond while spending the early morning hours drinking Red Bull--a sport they discovered one morning when Curtis, the born-again Christian, discovered that he could get quite a buzz going drinking something perfectly legal and without a stain on its character with the church.

A few of the more alert of the group looked up from their multi-syllabic caffeinated drinks and grinned at me, thinking no doubt of the last time we met. I was considering the appropriate greeting when a voice behind me said, "What up my ninja?"

It was Doob, a Yoda-sized expatriate of Cleveland, wearing an oversized Browns hoodie that looked like it would fit an NFL tackle. His fist was raised and leaning in my direction waiting for a bump. 

Just before I arrived, Derek, one of the coffee-jockeys, left his post behind the counter and walked out to the sidewalk, the better to straighten tables, and had followed Doob into the cafe.

"Are you alright with this?" I asked Derek as I inclined the bean toward Doob.

Derek shrugged and raised both hands, palms up. "What you gonna do?" he said. "Besides, Curtis says the apocalypse is upon us and it just don't seem right to get up in somebody's face about being politically incorrect when it's the end of the world."

I looked at the designated Curtis. "What end-of-world? There's no end of the world at any time soon. That's so Y2K," I said.

"No," said Curtis, not looking up from his red-letter King James, "I'm pretty sure it's the end. It's the vampire cats." All the others nodded in unison.

"Just as long as it's not the brain-eating zombie apocalypse," said Irv.

"Vampire cats!" I said, putting a lot of topspin on it, and why not? Justified it seemed to me. I'm sure you would have done the same had you been in my position. I wasn't having a manic moment if that's what you're thinking. I remember checking in with Princess Amy at the time and she was calm as dammit. 

"There are no vampire cats," I said to Curtis. "That's just one of Amy's stories. She got it from a Chris Moore novel."

"Unh, unh," said Chad, "we saw 'em. Last night at the Food Lion."

"What? You saw the vampire cat?"

"Lots of 'em--truckloads," he said.

Chad slid something down the table that looked like a large caramel, macchiato with lots of whipped cream in an oversized mug. Doob took a slurpy hit, held his breath, and passed it to Curtis.

"Want a rip, man?" said Curtis looking directly at me. I was incredulous, is that the word I want? I gave him one of my patented looks. "It's alright," he said, "it's medicinal."

"Medicinal? What medicinal? You have a medical condition?" I said.

"Show him the card," said Chad, and Curtis took a blue card out of his shirt pocket and flashed it my way.

"That's a Durham County library card," I said.

Chad nodded. "Yeah," he said, "that's our condition. Reading makes us anxious."

This somehow got to me. I was nonplussed if that's the word. Had no comeback. I looked back at Doob who was still standing there with his fist extended in my direction. I gave it a bump.

"Troot," said Doob.

"Truth," I said.

I can't explain why, but I knew as I walked to the order-here space that today would not be the day I had hoped when I left home. Where, I wondered, was Napoleon when he was really needed?

Write is Might

"Ms Wonder, I've just had the most marvelous revelation. I'm sure I don't need to explain the true nature of life to you, so let me get right down to the nub," I said as she emerged from the garage with her arms full of boxes. 

Wonder's Photography sold to benefit Independent Animal Rescue

"Here, hold this," she said as she shoved one of the larger ones in my direction. It was disconcerting, it was diverting, and it certainly wasn't the response I was looking for.

"You could probably teach me a thing or two about life," I said, I hoped it help me avoid her attempt to derail my thoughts with those cardboard containers.

"Hold this," she repeated and I realized that I hadn't avoided anything. This time I responded by taking the box from her arms, but not with any real chirpiness.

"This box is empty," I said.

"Yes," she said. "I just now came from the Lighting Gallery," she said.

This got right past me. I felt a chill all along the dorsal fin. I live in fear that one day her perfect brain will come unhinged and I will be back where I started--standing on the shoulder of the road in the rain. Could this be the day I wondered?

"What gallery is that?" I asked.  

"I delivered some of my art prints to that lighting gallery on Highway 70 in Raleigh. I told you about it," she said. 

"Ah," I said. Not my best retort but I take pride in the fact that I do not mislead my audience and 'Ah' is just what I said.

"Still," I continued, in an attempt to get back on track, "I feel compelled to remind you that the foolishness we know as daily life sometimes comes slowly, and when it does come slowly, its impact is soft and gentle like the easy dawning of a Sunday morning."

"Easy like Sunday morning," she said. I don't know why. She just did. Just a whim do you think? I thought about asking her what she meant but realized, in the nick of time, that she was attempting to cherry-bomb my fruit punch again. She's done it before. Enjoys it, if you want my opinion.

"But it's been my experience," I continued, "that more often than not, life comes fast and strikes us squarely between the eyes, like the baseball you didn't keep your eye on. It's coming hard and fast like that this morning."

She gave me a searching look, at least I think that's what it was--searching. You know that look where the eyes move to the right and then to the left, scanning the map as it were. Gave me the feeling that perhaps I'd finally gotten her attention and that something good was coming. I was right. She let the boxes in her arms drop to the floor. I liked that. It was time, I reasoned, to begin weaving my web around her.

"There is much to do when your passion is writing," I said, and you surely know how good it felt to be talking about writing and not about lighting galleries. And if you're concerned that Ms. Wonder missed her day in the sun with art prints and whatnot, don't worry. We got back to that as soon as I had satisfied Princess Amy that the sky wasn't falling. If you haven't met Amy,  you'll want to ask one of the regulars to tell you about her.

Having gotten Ms. Wonder back on the topic of writing, I continued. "Oh sure, it looks easy. You're probably asking yourself, What's so hard about it? Where's the difficulty in putting a bunch of words together to make sentences and then group them into a paragraph or two? After all, Shakespeare did it with one hand tied behind his back and look at the drivel he sold."

"What a minute," she said. "Do you actually think that Shakespeare slapped onto the page anything that popped into his mind?"

"Please," I said. "Have you really read his stuff?" I waved my hand in the air. "All silliness and nonsense, if you ask me," I said, "but then what do you expect from someone who roamed the countryside stealing ducks?"

"Stealing ducks?" Her brow furrowed and then she asked, "Are you thinking of the stories about Shakespeare poaching deer in the Charlecote Park?"

"Let's not heap more coals on Shakespeare," I said and I thought it a pretty good comeback. "The supporters of the Earl of Oxford and Sir Francis Bacon do enough coal-heaping. No, let's talk about life and the fiend hiding in the bushes that we call Fate. The one that smacks us upside the head when we're looking the other way."

"What about it?" she said.

"What about it? Wonder, you amaze me! Do you know that more than half the time, when we aren't paying attention, our minds are wandering from pillar to post? Thoughts just rise up from the deep at random. It could be something from a Lovecraft story. Something about Thul-hu perhaps."

"Cthulhu," she said, which shot far over my head, again. 

"Ka-thoo-loo?" I said.

"That's right. Not pronounced the way you'd think."

"Thank God," I said. "But are you sure of the pronunciation?"

"Positive," she said.

"Do you know everything?" I asked.

She waved her hand in the air far more vigorously than the effort I made with mine. "And besides, I don't see a problem with daydreaming", she said. "Some researchers think it's therapeutic. And besides,  I think you're delusional."

"Not daydreaming," I said. "I'm talking about idle fretting and worrying that we fall into when we're not paying attention." 

But, truth to tell, I was beginning to get her drift that somehow, somewhere between there and here, I'd lost my way. But you know how it is when you find yourself in such a predicament, you have no choice but to soldier on and try to make some sense of it.

"Half the time we worry about the future or replay uncomfortable memories of the past," I said. "Fair warning, Ms. Wonder, idle minds are the enemy."

I thought that last remark might grab her attention but she only gave me another of her patented looks. This one was more serious than the last. Her eyes weren't actually rolling from earth to heaven but they were in a fine frenzy to find a comfortable spot to rest.

"Not buying it?" I said.

"Nope," she said. 

"I'm out of practice," I said.

"I'll give you an 'A' for effort," she said.

"Would it help my argument if I brought in something about Napoleon? Perhaps found a way to introduce Catherine the Great?"

"I think not," she said.

"Cocker Spaniels?" I asked. She shook her head.

"How about something with elves and dragons?" I said.

"Possibly," she said. "Elves and dragons would make it more interesting but I'm not sure it would strengthen the argument."

"Well, you would know," I said. "I'll work on it and get back to you. But it may take some time. I feel as though I need to start all over again." 

Burning Down the House

I should mention to those who follow this blog regularly, that there will be no mention of Napoleon, Catherine the Great, or Cocker Spaniels in this post. I mention it for no particular reason other than my desire to never disappoint my fans. For newcomers, never mind.

Ms. Wonder, whom I'm sure you know moves in mysterious ways her wonders to perform, had refilled my supply of omega capsules. She's thoughtful like that. Unfortunately, she'd mistakenly gotten the brand with lots of omega 6. She didn't realize that the more evolved species of omega is not good for my arthritis and so after the morning visit to Native Grounds, I was off to Jerry's Vita-Rama to get the preferred brand.

When I entered the store, a familiar face greeted me from behind the counter.

"Are you sober?" I said.

"Are you crazy? Of course, I'm not sober.," he said. "That man broke my heart. Listen and I will tell you a tragic story. It's a story of deceit and lost love. It's a story of...."

"Yes, we've been through all that before," I said, not meaning to be callous, but hey! We all have our limits and I'm well acquainted with mine.

"Well, then you know the story," he said.

"I do."

"Then why did you ask me if I'm sober? You must be drunk?" he said.

"Not since January 1991," I said.

"Well, there you are then," he said and he gave me an appraising eye. For the first time I noticed that he wore a purple shirt with silver crescent moons. I remember thinking that only a fat, bald guy could pull it off so well. Then he said, "Why are you here anyway?"

"I brought back some Omega capsules. They're the wrong ones."

"What's wrong with them?"

"Well, I don't mean to say that something is wrong with them. I just mean they aren't right for me."

"Why not?"

"They have far more omega 6 than is good for innocent bystanders. The inflammation you see."

"Who said omega 6 is pro-inflammation?" he said with an eye that told me he didn't believe it.

"I don't have the sources on me but take my word for it, I can't use them."

"The claims on the bottle haven't been verified by the FDA anyway so what difference does it make?"

"Are you sure you work here?" I asked

"I'm just saying," he said.

"And I'm just saying that I'm going to return them and get the ones I want, which is omega 3 with 600 DHA and 240 EPA."

"You don't have to be snippy."

"Sorry," I said, "was I snippy?"

"Snippy is what I said. Why do you take them anyway?"

"Not for the reasons on the bottle," I said.

"Very wise," he said, "and if you want to keep it a secret, you can trust me to be silent as the tomb."

"Thank you," I said.

"Of course," he said.

The door tinkled behind me and the expression on his face told me that either the angel Gabriel had walked through the door to announce the onset of Judgement Day or else Lucy Lupe Mankiller, Dark Mistress of the Greater Durham Night, was with us. It turned out to be the latter. She wore the total package: the clothes, the hair, the makeup. She looked like a crazed clown in a horror film.

"Morning, Lucy," I said.

"Don't use that wimpy kid crap on me, you worm! You abandoned me at the coffee shop in mortal need of rocking some dark magic and not a single witch in the house." She brushed her blouse as though it had been contaminated with vampire-cat hair.

Then in a different tone of voice, she asked, "Do I look like a zombie on crack?"

"Not my first impression," I said, still having the deranged clown image in my head. It felt good to be honest for a change.

The purple-shirted one, who had been standing behind the counter opening and closing his mouth like a grouper in an aquarium, said in a breathless undertone, "You burn down the house, girl."

Lucy looked at him for the first time and her expression changed in a way that's hard to describe but I'm sure you've seen it before in young women when they meet someone they think may turn out to be special in some way such as having a lot of money or not living with their parents. Then she spoke in a voice that differed markedly from the one she'd just hammered me with.

"Most fly eyeliner," she said.

"Sweet of you to notice," he said.

Lucy stepped forward and offered her hand. He brushed the back of it with his fingers. "Enchante," she said and I'm not so sure she didn't curtsy just a little.

I grabbed hold of the counter to steady myself and looked through the window in the direction of the horizon, which I'm told is handy when the world seems to be spinning 'round. Some days you can't do any better than staying tethered and letting the wild winds blow.




Go On Then!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Saying Goodbye to Mom

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Happy to hear it," I said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Love you, Mom.

Living On a Prayer.

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

       

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

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

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

"Did you say velcro?" I asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"It wasn't bananas," I said.

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

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

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

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

"They gave me a letter of gratitude."

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

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

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

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

"Damned velcro," she said.

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

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

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

"Ah," she said. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Match Made in Heaven

Author's note: for some reason, yet unexplained, this one continues to cycle from published to draft and I never remember why. If you are considering reading it, please take a moment to note where the exits are located in case you need to abandon the idea on short notice.

~%~

I woke this morning nearly pain free and, if not in mid-season form, then near enough for time trials. I don't suppose I've ever come closer to saying, "Tra-la-la." When Ms Wonder came into the boudoir with a steaming cup of Bohea I said, "Poopsie, I feel good this morning."

"I wouldn't worry about it," she said, "it's a normal feeling for most people."

"What's the day like?" I asked. "Is the sky is blue, the sun smiling, does the water run hot and cold? The usual amenities?"

"Domestic offices," she said and it seemed to suggest that I'd made another one of those near misses. I wanted to ask just what she meant but I gave it a miss after remembering the 24-hour rule.

"Then I think I'll take myself out for an airing," I said.

"Don't forget we're meeting Jenny and Bill for breakfast at 9:30."

I had forgotten all about this tryst with the two love birds and being remindedas it came suddenly on the heels of my having to cancel a dinner engagement with these two love birds. I quickly climbed into the outer crust of the Durmite weekender: qigong pants, Steve Miller Band tee--the 1999 Last Call tour--official Muskogee Creek hat, and the Aldo boaters, sans socks, which add just a hint of diablerie, and I need all the diablerie I can get.

When I returned from morning salutations, I found two waiting for me on the porch upholstered in feminine fabrics. I mean the porch wasn't upholstered, the two waiting for me where. Ms Wonder bunged herself into the sports model and Mom, still standing on the porch, waved us off like an Archbishop blessing the pilgrims.

I'm not much for chatting in traffic and remained strong and silent, the lips tight, the eye ever vigilant, until we were out of Chadsford subdivision and sailing along Highway 54. Then I got down to the subject that has troubled me for some time.

"Poopsie," I said, "there is something about the pairing of these two that has troubled me for some time."

"Jenny and Bill," she said, "they're a perfect couple. A match made in Heav'n."

"Oh, I agree," I said. "Nice work if you want my opinion. I  think they're both on to something good and should push it along with the utmost energy. Why wait until December, get married tomorrow is my suggestion. No, it's not that I object to either of them. Both are the soundest of eggs. None sounder. It's just that they both fell in love at first sight."

She said something about people who don't believe in love at first sight but it was, in my opinion, a side issue and should not divert us from the subject at hand.

I explained that I would expect nothing less of Bill. After all, strong men before him had been smitten with Jenny to an alarming degree. Ms Wonder interrupted me to say that it probably had something to do with her profile. I agreed that it might possibly be the profile as seen from the right.

"From the left too," she said.

"Well, I suppose in a measure from the left too but you can't expect men in this hectic age to take time to dodge around a girl trying to see her from all sides."

 But, of course, I had already conceded that I readily understood why Bill fell for Jenny for she is liberally supplied with oomph. He, on the other hand, a good egg, none better, but he's one of us, or that is to say, he has the face that you grow into.

"But he's no Brad Pitt," I said.

"Well," she said, "you're no Brad Pitt," as if that had anything to do with it.

Sometimes I wonder about this Poopsie, descendent of Count Alexei Orlov who helped Catherine the Great take the throne from her husband. Give that one some thought and I think you will agree that there is reason for concern.

"Would I look a little like B Pitt if I had hair?"

"No."

"If I had a chin?"

"Nope."

"I suppose I must look like Beaker, the Muppet."

"Beaker had hair," she said.

"A bald Beaker," I said.

"A very cute bald Beaker," she said giving my head a nubbing.

This give and take left me feeling better about things and I would have carried on but we were nearing our destination and I was required to twiddle the wheel to avoid a passing tree and then we arrived at William's Gourmet Kitchen. We decanted ourselves and went inside to break the fast with the two good eggs that waited within.

A Tide in Cat Affairs

Thursday evening used to be the most boring night of the week at Chatsford Hall because even though it's almost weekend, it's not quite enough to be getting on with. That all changed when one of the staff recommended devoting the evening to cat pruning. 

I realize, now that it's too late, that she meant well but was undoubtedly suffering from one of those empty-calorie, sugary drinks, the kind that caused all that unpleasantness in New York a while back. Ms. Wonder took the suggestion seriously and that put an end to the quiet near-weekend evenings.

Last Thursday, as I was putting away a stack of vinyl records, I noticed the handle of Beignet's hair brush sticking out from a chair cushion where he'd hidden it along with some of his favorite light reading. 

This Beignet is a largish, ginger and white cat of about the tonnage of Muhammed Ali when he faced Joe Frazier in that Thrilla in Manilla.

When I tell you that he loves this brush I am understating it. He can't get enough of the thing. Wants to keep it all to himself too. I've tried to convey the wisdom of the Middle Way but he has no control over this aspect of his life. He's powerless over the brush. I fret that, by brushing him so often, I'm enabling him to continue his addictive behavior, but what can I do? He's my cat!

While I stood in meditative trance, my attention focused on the hairbrush, his sixth sense alerted him, causing him to give voice. I turned toward that trilling soprano and became aware that a drama was brewing somewhere in all that fur. 

There he stood, wider and rounder-eyed than usual, and the expression on his face spoke of his inner feelings, a swelling enthusiasm that is all too familiar to the Genome. And I'll tell you the inner thoughts he expressed:

There is a tide in the affairs, is the way the thought begins--Shakespeare's Julius Caesar. I'm sure I don't have to tell you how much this Beignet admires the work of the Bard. The thought doesn't end with the tide in the affairs but continues, which taken at the flood, and we know of course that having the brush in my hand becomes to this cat, the height of the flood. Then comes the payoff, leads on to fortune. 

At this point, he no doubt thought, Here is the tide in the affair and an opportunity for a brushing and no time to lose. He moved forward. I moved back. It's the natural reaction when being chivied in that strong, silent, ernest manner characteristic of this breed--a fine Raggamuffin kitty. 

When I collided with the chair in the corner of the room, I was immediately aware that resistance was futile. There was nothing wiser than to get it over with. I raised my eyebrows to signify, "What about it?"

To leap onto my chest and press me into the chair was with him the work of an instant. He placed his paws on my shoulders and gave me a series of head butts. Then he gazed deeply into my eyes and said, Let's do this.

You understand that I had no choice. As soon as the strokes began, moving from the base of the neck, down the spine and not stopping until the tip of the tail, his expression changed to one both grave and dreamy. 

This expression implies that he is thinking deep and beautiful thoughts. Quite misleading of course. I don't suppose he'd recognize a deep and beautiful thought if you handed it to him on a platter of sardines. No matter. Not germane. I just mention it in passing.

If I could only convince this cat to read Jimmy Buffet instead of Shakespeare, he might become more interested in road trips and less interested in brushing. Sort of an intervention. I'd like to hear your opinion on the matter. Worth a try do you think?

Little Cat Feet

"What's the problem?" asked Ms. Wonder when she came into the dressing salon. It may have been my slow, careful movement through the sea of cats that prompted her question. "Something wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong," I said, "I remain, as always, the pert and nimble spirit you see before you."

"Before I what?"

Eddy Peabody

"Before you think of your own adjectives," I said. "And no more of the high-order repartee, if you please. I'm practicing fierce living like the dickens right now so don't try me too highly because I have a very small reserve this morning."

"Anything I can do to help?" she asked.

"Do you have any American standard wrenches?" I said. "I need to replace a couple of vertebrate in my lower back--numbers 4 and 5. But all my wrenches are metric."

"Sorry," she said, "no wrenches."

"Well, number 4 is moving like the North American tectonic plate and bumping up against number 5, which is moving like the Pacific plate, and if the pressure isn't released soon, California is going to fall into the ocean."

"Is that what's bothering you?" she said.

"Why do you insist that something is bothering me?" 

"Oh, just thought I would," she said. "Bad dreams?"

"Not particularly. I slew all my enemies in my dream, and the interesting part is that I did it with the jawbone of an ass."

"Just drifting off station then?"

"I fancy so, don't you? Can't think of anything that's gone especially wacky in the last 24 hours. I suppose Princess Amy is just bored and thinking of all the things that might possibly go wrong, which of course would be everything as far as she's concerned."

Now, if you regularly attend the Circular Journey, you are familiar with that little clump of grey cells sitting in the middle of my head who goes by the name, Amy. You are also aware that Amy follows a line through the Red Queen from Looking Glass World, and you understand that when Amy is discontent, the Genome is manic.

I wrestled a pair of socks from the dresser and began to upholster the outer man. This requires delicate acrobatics for those of us who lack the full cooperation of the lower back, and as I rolled back on the bed to bring the feet closer to the hands, Eddy the cat developed an acute interest in the socks. His intentions were good, but it was not helping.

"Are you going to wear knickers under these pants?" asked Ms. Wonder eyeing the clothes I'd laid out.

"Of course, I'm wearing knickers," I said holding Eddy back with one hand and attempting to don the socks with the other. "Do you think me wanton?"

"It's just that I don't see any on the bed."

"I'm wearing them now," I said, "underneath the robe."

"I'll give him a treat," she said and after some intense concentration, I realized that she was talking about the cat.

"Oh, sure," I said, "reward him for keeping me sock-less."

"What are you going to do about California?" she called from the laundry room where the treats are stored. Eddy heard them rattle in the bottle and catapulted himself from the bed and into the ether, in the general direction of the laundry room.

"I think the great Eureka State will have to take care of itself. I've got about all I can handle with the situation here at Chatsford Hall."

"What's the situation here," she said, "other than getting dressed I mean?"

"Oh, you know--ordinary life," I said. "It isn't always easy, is it? Who can say why, really? It could be that the path deviates sometimes from the dotted line connecting A with B. Or it could be that the Fate sisters, those Great Aunts of the Universe, are busy dropping banana skins in our path. I lean toward the second line of thought, don't you?"

"Well," she said, "if it means anything to you, I have all the confidence in the world that you will get the new issue of the Happy Cats newsletter published today. You are the Genome, descendent of Ortho Gherardini, and when you make up your mind, look out Princess Amy."

"Besides," the Wonder said, "you have people who depend on you. Big and small people. Some of the littlest ones are the most important."

She smiled at the cats gathering round me now that she'd placed the bottle of treats in my hand. They were all there. Ben, Sagi, and Uma were at my feet. Abbie Hoffman was sitting high atop the cat tree and, Eddy the kitten, was walking about as a roaring lion seeking whom he may devour.

"I do have people depending on me, don't I?" I said lifting the chin and swelling the chest. "Thanks, Poopsie."

"Not at all."