Walking the Dog

"Poopsie!' I said.

'What?'

Considering the verve and umph I'd put into my opening remark, I found her response, weighed in the balance, to be lacking in luster. I mused on this mystery, and it could only be deemed a mystery when this Wonder Woman fails to rally round. After due consideration, I decided to give it a miss. It was her snit and she was entitled to it but I didn't let this detain me.

'Do you realize,' I said, 'and I'm sure even as I ask that you do know all about it in those Slavic bones, that towels have two different sides?' 

'It would be impossible to have a towel with only one side,' she said.

'Exactly!' I cried, 'And each side has its own purpose.'

'Each side has its own purpose?'

'Just so,' I said, 'you're doing great. Two out of three. Now if you can answer the next question correctly, you will win the prize.'

'The prize?'

'Your brain is a finely tuned instrument,' I said, 'We've never been so synchronized, you and I. Now, tell me what are the two sides used for?'

'Used for?'

'Yes, what are their specific purposes?'

'Are you alright?' she said. And at this precise point it became apparent to me that, although we had seemed to be in complete agreement throughout, we had somehow jumped the rails at the crucial point. It was the same with King Harold when Windy Bill breezed in at Hastings.

'Poopsie, have you been paying attention? I mean really close attention? Remember, when we are not mindful, we fall into the default mode where there is weeping and gnashing of teeth, and that never works out well.'

'You're driveling,' she said.

'And you're yanking the dog's chain!' I said and I meant it to sting because the memory of that guy and his dog was still green.

'What are you talking about?' she demanded. Yes, I think "demanded" is the very word, the mot juste. She demanded that I enlighten her and I did. I let her have it.

'I'm sure I told you about the man training his puppy to heel and each time the puppy pranced ahead of him, doing a little doggy dance, the man would jerk the chain and pull the front half of the puppy's body off the ground. He had an angry scowl on his face when he did it too--the man, I mean, not the dog.'

'What does this have to do with anything?' she asked.

'Everything,' I said, 'Don't you see? The dog lives only to please the master. This is the defining characteristic of dogs, I believe. Shakespeare noted it in one of his plays. And yet the man was not simply training the dog. The man lacked patience. The man was telling the dog that he was bad just because he had not yet learned to heel. And the intensity of the move indicated a very bad dog--a stupid dog. Not the right tone if you ask me.'

'And,' said the Wonder.

'Well, you know how Princess Amy is.'

'You're limbic system,' she said.

'That's right. She hotted up when she saw this abuse and descended on me like one of those goddesses in the Iliad that descend from clouds and spur their favorite on to action. Amy spurred me. She rode me like a Voodoo loa.'

'You didn't?' said she.

'Of course, I did. Am I a man to stand around and watch animals abused? The emotions surged upon me like the seventh wave. A voice inside me shouted kawabunga! . Of course I did something. Not much. I simply asked the guy how he would like it if someone treated him that way. It was only later that I realized that someone had treated him that way. That's the only explanation for mistreating animals.'

'I'm disappointed in you,' she said.

'Me!' I said. 'What about that man?'

'He was minding his own business.' she said.

'So was I,' I said.

'No, you were minding his business,' she said.

'Exactly,' I said, 'I am my brother's keeper.'

'You're not even your keeper,' she said.

'You don't see the irony in Princess Amy controlling me like a goddess and then me controlling a total stranger? I'm a very powerful person, although not as powerful as you, Ms. Wonder. Still.'

'You're a Looney Tune,' she said but in a kind and caring way, I'm sure. I thought this would be a good time to get back to the subject. Side issues can be very distracting, or don't you think so?

'One side is for drying, it's the more open and fluffy side,' I explained. 'You use that side first and then the smoother side is used for buffing and invigorating.'

'You're crazy,' she said. 'Towels don't have two sides.'

'Manic-depressive,' I said, 'and you've already admitted that it wouldn't be a towel without two sides.'

She gave me a look then she said, 'I love you anyway,'

'Thank you, Poopsie.'

'Not at all.'

The First Lesson for Authors

Having re-read the half dozen pages I’d written in the middle of the morning when the large family next door was still having the time of their lives, I lovingly saved the pages to the cloud, like a mother goose tucking her goslings into the nest. I had that feeling that often comes upon authors when they know the book they're working on is just the stuff to give the troops.

Happiness, a wise man or woman once said, comes from making others happy. It’s possibly one of Shakespeare's gags. He made a career of writing stuff like that. But no matter who came up with the little thing, it was someone with a finger on the nub, because I was happy and all because I knew that little story I'd just written would bring joy to many.

One of the first lessons we writers learn is that you can’t please everybody but this story was sure to please even the dourest reader. It’s the story I call Cabbage Head and it’s the details of an encounter between my old friend, let us call him Jody, and a guy in Ireland’s Bar out in the West End district of Nashville when we were in school there. 

I won’t go into details now. You will have to wait until the book is published for that, but the gist of it is that Jody thought he’d met the girl of his dreams only she’d arrived with someone else that night. After the exchange of a bit of name-calling, "Cabbage Head" being the one I remember most fondly, and a jostle or two--I still think management made too much out of a few broken dishes--and yet the bouncers competed for the privilege of throwing us out.

With only that sketch of the thing, I'm sure you understand why I was so happy with the morning's output. I rose, stretched, and I remember thinking to myself, 'life is good', and if I anticipated a perfect day, why not? 

The day’s work was done and the trademark-pink sunrise of Cocoa Beach was still flooding the village as I made my way to Ossorio’s for a cup of Jah’s Mercy. The lark was on the wing, as Browning said, and the snail on the thorn—doesn’t appeal to me but it takes all kinds—and then there was a bit more muck of that kind, followed by the punchline—all’s right with the world. And so it seemed.

As soon as I entered the café, I spotted Ms Wonder staring fixedly at a plateful of bagels—Ms W. was doing the staring, not me. For several days prior she’d behaved as though she had something on her mind. If I didn’t know her as well as I do, I might have suspected her of stealing someone’s pig, for that was just the kind of look she wore. I'm sure you know just what I mean.

“Poopsie,” I said.

My voice startled her. She jumped a couple of inches and gave me the look most of us reserve for the ghost of Hamlet’s father. It was Hamlet, wasn’t it? I doubt they read those stories in school anymore. Probably scares the children, in the same way, I seemed to have frightened the Wonder.

“Get hold of yourself,” I said. “It’s bad enough that I frighten old ladies and small children on the sidewalks. I don't have room for scaring the whatsit out of my wife. Do you realize that when I stopped in the park to qigong this morning, a small child started crying and the mother rushed into Thai Thai’s to tell the manager that a man was in the park having seizures?”

“Sorry,” she said, “I was lost in thought.”

“You were lost in the movie playing in your mind, is where,” I said. “Lost in the default network and that never turns out well. It leads to negative thinking and unhealthy behavior. It’s a scientific fact. You can read all about it on my blog.

“You’re probably right,” she said, “and I think I’ve caught a chill too.”

“That’s why you wobble is it?”

“I think so,” she said.

“You’re not practicing the steps of your new line dance?”

“No.”

“Try a stiff whiskey toddy,” I said, “I understand they'll put you right in no time.”

“I don’t drink,” she said, “remember?”

“So I do,” I said on reflection, “and if I remember correctly, neither do I.”

The next few moments were filled with silence. Finally, she said, “Oh, I almost forgot. I picked up your phone by mistake and someone texted you a few minutes ago about your book. It was someone named Kayser.”

“My agent,” I said.

“He was asking how the book’s coming.”

“Yes, but it's not a book. It's my blog and he’s interested in selling the rights to dramatize it to a theatrical consortium in New York.”

“Someone wants to turn your blog into a play?” she said.

“That’s right. You don’t think it a good idea?”

“It doesn’t seem to be the kind of thing that becomes a play,” she said.

“That’s what I keep telling Kayser,” I said. I considered saying more on the subject but realized that there was no profit in it. Besides, now that I was in the company of the wonder worker, I felt in mid-season form and ready for whatever life sent my way. My plan was to wait for the right quantum wave to rise up, then get up on my surfboard and ride it all the way to shore. 

"Kowabunga?" asked Ms. Wonder.

"Did I say that out loud?" I said, and then without waiting for a reply, I said it again.

"Kowabunga, Poopsie!"

"Kowabunga," she replied.

Some days are made for letting go of the anchor and sailing into the sun. This was one of those days.

Let's Do It Again

"Ms Wonder," I said, "friends are like flowers."

"Very true," she said. "Georgia O'Keeffe said that to see a flower takes time, just as making friends takes time. She also said..."

"Yes, yes, yes," I said, "wonderful woman, and I'll bet you hold me spellbound telling me about all that she said, but later, please, when I have more time to pay close attention to every word." 

I risked losing her sympathy saying it but I had no other choice. As I'm sure you know, Ms Wonder's fine art photography is inspired by the work of Ms. O'K and she--Poopsie I mean, not O'Keefe--can go on for days about her.

"But are they worth risking eternal torment?" I said. "That is the question I ask myself."

"Pardon?" she said.

"Well, you know what I mean," I said. "That referral business."

"No," she said, "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Ms Wonder," I said. "You simply must start paying closer attention. Your life is slipping right by you. You remember the referral arrangement with Emerald City. Mention someone's name and they get $700.00 and then Mom gets flowers every month for the entire year."

"I follow you so far," she said.

"Well, no one really referred us, did they? We just said someone did so we could split the 700 green ones and get the flowers. That qualifies, unless I've forgotten the rules, as a blatant lie. Pardon me if that seems harsh but the truth will out, even if it doesn't set you free. Running afoul of one or more of the rules carved in stone, if they were carved, puts one in danger of eternal torment."

"Ah, I see now," she said. "You're wondering if $350.00 is worth eternal torment."

"I am not," I said somewhat indignantly. "You must take immediacy into account when considering eternal torment. The money comes now but no one knows when Judgement Day comes. No, it's not the money. What I'm wondering is whether fresh flowers for Mom is worth eternal torment."

"Of course," she said, "I understand now. That is a complex issue."

"I'm going to ask them what kind of flowers. Carnations, definitely not. Roses, certainly. Something in between, I'll have to think about it."

"Good plan," she said.

"Thank you, Ms Wonder."

"It's true what everyone says, that even though you have the mental prowess of a peahen, you do know how to get yours," she said.

As it happens, I've never met a peahen and so couldn't assess the quality of the compliment, but when in doubt, assume the best is my motto.

"Thank you," I said.

"Not at all," she said.

Princess Amy Again

Princess Amy is the personification of a little group of gray cells in brain, called the limbic system. Sometimes it's called that. At other times, it's called the lizard brain. It's made up of the hippocampus, the amygdala, and a few other odds and ends, but we won't let that stop us.

This limbic system is responsible for extreme emotions. The amygdala in the Genome's brain--my brain--is a species of drama queen. She has a mercurial temperament. Ekaterina, who knows the Genome best, describes metaphorically, but she it's a derogatory reference to the mental ability of bats, which I consider to be pejorative and will give a miss.

This Princess Amy gets steamed up anytime things don't go her way and she can escalate from tepid to incandescent in an instant. Since she is my amygdala, it follows that when she goes ballistic then I'm not far behind. If I pay close attention, I can interrupt her tantrums before they reach the tipping point. When left unchecked, she makes me feel a toy rat in the jaws of a her labrador puppy.

Yesterday Ekaterina, that daughter of the Winter Palace, suggested that I confront Princess Amy about her latest vexation. You will recall, the princess was showcasing an old movie-in-the-mind staring that damned sweater I received at the corporate Christmas party in 2008 when I was expecting--no, when I deserved--a big bonus check.

"Tax her heavily," were her words.

"Tax her?" I said, and I thought it weak of the Wonder to use the common speech just because April 15 is coming soon.

"Yes," she said, "look her squarely in the eye and tax her with her crime."

"Ah," I said, suddenly getting the gist of her words, "I'll do it right now."

"I'll come with you," she said.

"Where's my hat?" I said.

"You don't need a hat to tax a fiend about cashmere sweaters," she said. This Ekaterina is well versed in the manners and rules of good society. I was surprised, though, to hear the cashmere motif in her comments and I remember wondering where she could have learned about it. I usually leave that unnecessary detail out of the story for I feel that it unreasonably weakens the justification for my resentment.

I felt that resentment rising now. as I drew myself up and stared haughtily into a passing mirror, which proved to be the very place to direct the gaze when addressing a little group of brain cells in the middle of my head.

"Amy," I said, "your sins have found you out and don't pretend you don't know what I'm talking about. You have guilt written all over your face."

"If it is a face," said Ekaterina.

"Think before you speak, Amy," I said, "choose your words very, very carefully."

"Why think? Why careful?" asked Ekaterina.

"You have me there," I admitted, "it's something that a policeman once said to me and it affected me deeply. I thought it might have that same effect on Amy."

"Tax her about that sweater," Ekaterina said.

"Amy!" I said, "you almond headed, gargoyle from hell, what about that sweater?"

"Don't overdo it," advised Ekaterina.

"I've always known you were mad as a coot," I said getting into the rhythm of the thing and feeling that it was going very well.

"Coot?" said Ekaterina.

"Sort of duck," I said not wanting to take the time to fully explain for fear of losing momentum.

"Up until now I've tried to be respectful of your feelings," I said taking the high moral ground, which I strongly recommend as it makes all the difference in these confrontations.

"I have, up till now, skipped over the more embarrassing stories of our shared past. But if you insist on bringing up uncomfortable memories for the purpose of driving me manic when I'm trying to finish my book, then I will divulge all the sordid details to the world."

This seemed to be a good place to illustrate the text with a visual and so I added, "You will remember getting thrown out of Cafe' Dulce for trying to raise the price of a gelato by auctioning your boots? That and more will be exposed for the readers of my book, Out of the Blue. "

A sharp cry erupted from somewhere nearby and for a moment I thought it was Amy but quickly realized the sound escaped from Ekaterina's lips. She seemed on the verge of apoplexy as though she'd been stung on the leg by a hornet. I stared fixedly at her waiting to see if she had something to say. She did.

"Come on, let's get out of this bathroom before it's struck by lightning."

She was right, of course. She often is. Not that thunderbolts suddenly appeared but Amy had collapsed in a heap and it was clear to me that my work was done. I followed Ekaterina down to breakfast on the screened porch, as far away from that mirror as it's possible to be in Chatsford Hall.

Life comes hard and fast but not today, Amy! No not today!

A Three Cat Night

With Eddy back in mid-season form and out of quarantine, the evening had been a three cat night. Two kept me from rolling out of bed and one, unless I missed my guess, had slept on my face. When I had disentangled myself from cats and quilts, I ankled to the window and threw up the sash.

The moon on the crest of the new dawning day was slipping behind the western hills and the sky was Carolina blue and the sun was smirking as though he had not a care in the world, if it is a he. I was conscious of the spirit of the bluebird. It was going to be another one of those days where larks and snails figure big.

I may have hummed a few bars of When the red, red robin comes bob-bob-bobbing along. Not sure but I may have. What I'm sure of is that I said, "What a beautiful day, Poopsie!"

"Pleasingly clement," she said and I remember thinking what an odd thing it was but I gave it a miss like the idle wind.

"Mornings in the Renaissance District have an invigorating freshness, Ms Wonder. A garden of Eden I call it--without the angels and swords. I'm not saying that I would turn down an offer of a few days in Asheville but as a place of residual habitation, give me the south of Durham any day."

"Did you sleep well?" she said in that cute way she has of ignoring whatever I say.

"Sleep? Wonder! You know very well I didn't sleep. You?"

"No, I was thinking about the lyrics of my line dance all night," she said and then she began shashaying around the bathroom as she sang, "Wooo-oooh, it's late; let me check. Move to the right, move to the left. Zip me up--check it out--looking goo-ood. Mambo, cha-cha-cha."

This was, I imagine, another of her channeling the ancestral spirits, taking a line through the philosopher, Ivan Orlov, who was one of the pioneers of relevant logic, which I'm sure you're aware, but was also keenly interested in music theory, which may come as a surprise to you. I realized that prompt steps would need to be taken immediately through the proper channels if I were to extricate myself and so I spoke authoritatively.

"I understand fully. I often lay awake thinking about a troublesome passage in my book."

She still danced and sang. Then suddenly remembering a phone call in the night, I said, "I heard from Rick Davis last night."

It worked. "Oh, yes?" she said.

"He wants me to take a position with some admiral or whatnot at the naval base in San Diego. Something to do with the navy's efforts to provide assistance to victims of natural disasters."

"Are you considering it?" she said.

"I admit his offer interested me strangely, but I think not. I'm committed to my book and moving to San Diego would be too big an interruption."

"That book isn't even finished and it's all anyone talks about." she said. "That's a good omen for success, I think."

With those words she assumed the posture I've seen in a portrait of Count Alexi Orlov. All that was needed to complete the image was a white stallion behind her and a wolfhound at her knee.

"Why is everyone talking?" I said.

"Well," she said, "it's widely known that you misspent your youth in frivolous pursuits and you influenced many others to do the same. So, everything considered, there's going to be a lot of uncovering of things that pillars of the community have tried to keep hidden. That's hot stuff."

She spoke with a twinkle in her eye like the one Czar Alexander must have had as he watched Napoleon pack up the tent and catch the 2:35 express back to France.

"Wonder, you of all people should know it's not that kind of book."

"No?"

"It's a book intended to sweep the clouds away and let the sunshine through. It's a book that describes in detail what it was like in my, as you say, misspent youth, what happened to turn things around, and what's it's like today. It's meant to detail precisely how to escape the emotional seizures of mood disorder."

I tried my best to look indignant as I said those words but without a lot of confidence. It's hard to be indignant first thing in the morning wearing a "rock all day, roll all night" t-shirt and with toothpaste foaming around the mouth but I did my best.

"As long as they buy the book, right?" she said and it was clear that my words had not the intended effect--she regarded them as the idle wind. It was becoming a big day for the idle wind.

It was a simple, direct question and there was a simple, direct answer but not for a preux chevalier and, damn it, the Genome is as preux as a chevalier can stick. The affront to the Genome honor had the limbic system pumping out indignant words--it was a big morning for being indignant too--words that banged against the teeth but remained unspoken because rigorous honesty keeps me quiet. In a nutshell, I was non-plussed.

"I'm saving up to buy the first edition as soon as it's published," she said.

What was I to say to that? Yes, it might be a fair morning, a morning as fair as any in a summer filled with fair mornings but it had been preceded by a three cat night.

"Thank you, the Wonder," was all I said.

Not at all, she said.

Qigong Ukelele

This morning even before the sun got up (that slacker) I was qigong-ing like the dickens, doing the crane and I don't mean to boast, playing the ukulele. I know!

You are, of course, aware of what the Zen Buddhists say about chopping wood--that you should just whack the stuff and don't make a Broadway production of it. Just pay attention to the chopping.

According to these Zen practitioners, we should never under any circumstances play the ukulele while performing qigong. And yet, there I was underneath a spreading magnolia, bending and swaying and strumming. You're anxious to hear all about it, I'm sure, but like so many of my stories, it's a long one and for God's sake I don't intend to go into it all now. Just the gist, if that's the word.

Arriving at Native Grounds in the bright and fair of yester-morn, I found the room full of the usual corpses staring into space and presumably waiting for something to stir them to life. Little hope, of course, because nothing ever happens in the morning. Every Durhamite knows that if you want something diverting and invigorating, you've got to have the magic hour that follows the purples and amethysts and golds of the evening sky. 

I eyed this rabble with disapproval, resenting the universal calm that enveloped the horde at a time when, thanks to that little almond-eyed Princess Amy, I felt like one of those heroes in a Greek tragedy pursued by the Furies.

Ankling toward the bar, I noticed the headlines on the Observer lamenting the latest abomination of the North Carolina legislature and I felt Princess Amy hotting up in the darkest recesses of my mind. She was getting rowdy. I hurried toward the bar hoping that a steaming cup of Jah's Mercy would restore my sangfroid. It was not to be.

"Where have you been?" said Amy Normal, part-time barista and Backup Mistress of the Greater South Durham Night, for it was she filling the space behind the Order Here sign. "I haven't seen you in days."

"Oh?" I said. The comeback, I am fully aware, was lacking the usual Genome flair but don't forget those Furies who, even now, were creeping ever closer like a gang of Aunts.

"It's no good saying, 'Oh' with that tone of voice as though you don't give a damn," she said. "Consider the stars." She embellished the last remark by lifting a hand upward, as though we could see stars from inside the coffee shop.

"The stars?" I said, ratcheting up the Genome spirit in an attempt to get the emotional feet back on solid ground. "Is that a reference to, Look how the floor of heaven is thick inlaid with patens of bright gold? Because if it is, I want no part of it."

"I do not mean whatever it was you said, and what the hell are patens anyway? Shakespeare?"

"You have me in deep waters there," I admitted, "I'll ask Ms. Wonder when I see her this evening and report back tomorrow morning." I hoped this diversionary tactic would steer us safely away from Shakespeare. This A. Normal is a quirky bird and loves to get knee-deep into the Bard.

"Oh no," she said, "you don't get out of it that easy. I know where you've been."

"Oh?" I said.

"Stop saying Oh! What's happened to you anyway? You had so much promise in your youth and I wanted nothing more than your happiness. But what a waste you've turned out to be. You come in here giving me orders and expecting me to do just as you ask and then when the slightest temptation comes along, you cheat on our relationship and have coffee at some cheap, tawdry hole in the wall."

"Do we have a relationship?" I said.

"That's the question I ask myself," she said. "Looking up at the stars, I know quite well that, for all they care, I can go to hell, but on earth, indifference is the least we have to fear from man or beast. Auden."

Once more with the star motif and, to be honest, I had no clue as to why she called me Auden. Someone you may know, possibly, but I've never had the pleasure, I'm afraid. I began to worry for her sanity if any.

Fortunately for you and probably just as well for me, the rest of our conversation is a blur but when I regained consciousness, I was sitting at a table with the remnants of the Secret Nine. 

Sister Mary was saying something about a ukulele. When she placed the period at the end of the sentence, she gazed slowly around the table and each person, in turn, made some sort of reply to her statement. I searched the database for something meaningful but when her eyes came to rest on mine, I had only one thought.

"You don't mean a ukulele," I said hoping against hope because deep in my heart I knew I'd heard correctly. Still, it doesn't hurt to try.

"I do too," she said. "I loved that ukulele. Took it with me when I ran away from home at the age of five."

"Might it have been a cocker spaniel?" I said. "I loved a cocker spaniel when I was a kid and once took him with me when I ran away from home."

"No, I do not mean a cocker spaniel," she said. "Were you successful in running away? My parents found me on the neighbor's stoop by following the sound of my strumming."

"As I recall," I said, "my mother intervened when she found me packing a honey-cured ham for the trip."

"Too bad," she said. "Well, better luck next time. Anyway, Island Irv was just telling us about a ukulele video he saw on Youtube and his story reminded me of the Hawaiian music I heard in a hotel in St. Petersburg."

"IZ?" I said.

"Is what?" said Mary.

"No, I mean Israel," I said. I was about to add, 'Israel Kamakawiwo'ole,' but Mary interrupted again.

"Not Israel," said Mary, "Russia--we were in St. Petersburg."

"But why Hawaiian music in Russia?" I said.

"Why not?" said Mary, who is one of the more accepting and tolerant members of the Nine. If Russian hotels play Hawaiian music, let them do it until their eyes bubble, is her attitude.

And there, if your mind hasn't wandered, you have the story. It's the bare bones but I think it's enough to be getting on with and now you will understand why I thought of ukuleles while practicing the Five Animal Frolics in the dark this morning. 

I suppose one must give Amy her due because when it comes to selecting distracting thoughts, no one else comes close. I refer, of course, to Princess Amy, the Queen of the Limbic System, and not Amy Normal, Backup Mistress of the Greater SoDu.

A Fair Summer Morning

Sunshine fell graciously on the walls of Chadsford Hall and infused the surrounding gardens and terraces with a certain something, a pleasant jauntiness, so that birds chirruped happily and cats murmured their contentedness. Cooled by the shade of the cypresses and refreshed by the contents of the amber glass, ice tinkling musically as I lifted it to my lips, I had a achieved a nirvana-like repose. Storms might be raging elsewhere but here on the back lawn there was peace--that perfect unruffled peace that comes only to those who have done absolutely nothing to deserve it.

In these rare moments between depression and mania, the Genome is a dapper guy on whose gray and thinly haired head the weight of a consistently misspent life rests lightly. It is a mystery to those who know me best that one who has enjoyed life right down to the worm should, especially when reaching that certain age when most are paying for it, remain so superbly robust. It's the wildness that does it, if you want my opinion. We are born wild and the wise and the reckless remain that way. Domestication is unnatural.

On this morning, the brightest and merriest of the glad new year, upholstered in the costume of a qigong coach, Thai fisherman's pants hanging loosely from the hips and a baseball-style shirt bearing the strange device of two tigers arranged in the taijitu symbol, I was just getting busy separating earth and sky when Ms. Wonder blew in like a cossack of discontent.

No matter how balmy the day, when Wonder stamps a petulant foot and shakes a finger in the mind's direction, one can feel the chilly air of the Winter Palace blowing around the ankles. Her arrival coincided with the feeling that Greek fellow must have had with the axe suspended by a hair over his neck. I immediately sensed a twang of regret for I knew not what but expected to hear about in the next two minutes.

"The worst has happened," she ejaculated. Yes, I've searched the mental thesaurus and I'm sure that's the mot juste.

"Oh, yes?" I said for we Genomes are quick and I realized that her ire was not directed toward me this time.

"Buffy has struck," she said.

I mused for a moment, taking a deep breath and perhaps making a moue or two before replying, "The vampire slayer?"

Now she seemed to muse. Two musings in less than a minute. It seemed possible that this could turn out to be a big morning for musing. Then she gave me the eye and the eye she gave caused me to feel that coolness around the feet once more.

"Buffy my hair dresser, you goose. He's gummed the machinery," she said. "He's doing nothing about the music. For a week or two I thought he was just busy or waiting for inspiration but now I realize that he doesn't intend to do anything. He's going to dawdle and put the kibosh on the works."

I understood her concern now and I'm sure it is as clear to you that her words are the latest update on progress of her new line dance. She's creating one and she's enlisted allies in the cause--one to do the choreography and one to write the music. The lyrics are her own. I don't know where she gets her inspiration, perhaps it's the Russian blood. The people of the Volga seem compelled to compose music. She takes a line through Tchaikovsky and Rachmaninoff.

I removed the mental monocle and polished it metaphorically. "Buffy the Frizzy Slayer?" I said,  "I remember him well, nice boy. Not at all the sort of fellow to intentionally noble dogs just before the big fetch contest. No, I think you can dismiss Buffy as a carrier of malevolence. Too manic to do anything on the assignment is my guess. Put it out of your mind."

These words seemed like a good thing at the time and I expressed them with reserve fully expecting that she would see the wisdom of them and take a deep breath. Peace of mind is what I aimed for but not what I got. She seemed even more hotted up if anything.

"What are you driveling about?" she said with a slow shake of the head.

"Would you call it drivel?" I said. "Well, if it is, then it certainly isn't perfect drivel. I'm talking about people who may be expected to do the dirt, like Johnny Holiday, and people who may not, like your Buffy. You see it was nothing to the above Holiday to feed my cocker spaniel left-over steak and onions, without my knowledge of course, just before our contest to see who was the better retriever of tennis balls. When I threw the ball, Pluto just lay there, spread-spaniel with his ears unfurled and his eyes half closed. He was the perfect image of a fully contented dog."

"So you're saying that Buffy isn't..."

"Coming down like the wolf on the fold, and his cohorts gleaming in purple and gold? Not on the board. He's just pre-occupied, is my opinion. I have a suggestion."

She raised the eyebrows about a quarter inch but spoke not a word. I took it to be an invitation to continue. "Tell him that you've lost interest in the project. Seemed like a good idea at the time but now, life is coming hard and fast. Time to move on. Thank him for his efforts and recommend that he spend no more time on it. Then you simply get on with the project and he never knows the difference."

"Do you really think it would work?" she said.

"Works for me all the time. I call it the Genome Method."

"I'll think about it," she said. "Thanks."

"Not at all," I said.

She turned and started to move back across the terrace to the Hall but stopped as though her spring had wound down.

"Hello," I said.

"I was just thinking," she said, "that something about our conversation seems strange."

"Mysterious, you mean," I said. "Nothing mysterious really. It's just that you are usually coming up with the formula for my shortcomings and in the above dialogue, I was the balm that soothed your fevered brow."

"Oh, yeah," she said, "that must be it. Well, thanks again."

"Happy to have been of service," I said. "If we Genomes live for anything, it is to be of service. And this little bit of usefulness has made all the difference. Happy Birthday to me!"

Life is Good

I arrived early this morning, riding the shirtsleeves of the sun, who had awakened bright-eyed and gotten straight to the point. Not a bad opening for a yellow dwarf star. 

I deduced from the bird song redolent in the crepe myrtle and from the cawing redolent in the crows and from the speed-demoning redolent in the parking lot that the weekend had refreshed the great and the small without prejudice. 

I'm confident that all hearts were filled with gratitude for the ancient Hebrew invention of taking a day off every now and then.

But no gratitude beat in the breast of the Genome for it had been just one damned hour after another all week long. The Auditor was taking inventory as I parked and decanted myself in front of Native Grounds in the Renaissance District. The talley was: tired--yes; irritable--yes; angry--just a simmer.

Approaching the door, I saw a man on the other side cleaning the glass. He stopped cleaning as I grasped the puller and pulled. I took in his face and found that his countenance was not friendly. Stern I would have described it as. It was clear that this beni adam was not happy to see the Genome. I remember thinking how strange it was. The visage worn by this son of toil was the one Genome reserved for the Amalekites, Jebusites and Philistines.

It was with me the work of an instant to conclude that in an earlier era this guardian of the gate would have challenged me with a 'Friend or foe!' 'You're either with us or against us,' he might have declared. It wouldn't surprise me if he'd barely stopped short of ascertaining the color of my insides.

Immediately, the limbic system went into overdrive. A mental image of my hands sinking into the soft flesh of his neck filled the mental projection screen. Vivid memories of the taichi back-roll with feet planted in his belly and his body cartwheeling into the street completed the image.

I took a deep breath.

'Not today, Amy,' I said silently to the little princess shouting battle cries in my mind. 'Chill, baby. Remember, we don't know everything. This man may have had a bad morning.'

'I'll teach him what a bad morning really feels like,' she said or at least she seemed to say it.

"Good morning," I said to the neanderthal with a friendly nod of the coconut but he said nothing and continued to glare and chew his Juicy Fruit, mouth open, or it might possibly have been his tongue he chewed. Hard to tell.

Princess Amy, the tyrant of the underworld in the Genome's brain, is half Celtic, one-quarter Viking, and one-quarter Muskogee Creek, and I'm not so sure it isn't red camp Creek. When she is in full battle trance, she impresses not unlike the impression that Boudicca must have made on the front ranks of the Romans. 

She impressed like this now. One eye was saucer-sized, the other squinted into a mere slit. The lips were pulled from the teeth and the molars were grinding. Steam escaped from the seams which were near to bursting.

'Easy, old girl, there is more good than bad here,' I reminded her in soothing tones.

I reached the service counter and asked for a large, hot beverage and then searched the pockets for money. None was forthcoming. Then I perused the wallet for Genome's coffee allowance. Not there. Loaned to the needy and deserving yestereve. 

The outer crust maintained a semblance of calm reserve but need I tell you that Amy was now completely manic? She stomped the earth like a drum and sliced the forearms with an obsidian blade in the manner of the priests of Ba'al. She was in full battle frenzy and I'm sure the metallic taste of blood was in her mouth.

"Oh, that's alright," said the hostess. "We know you. Enjoy your coffee on the house."

Amy stopped her rant, the eyes opened wide. She collapsed in a heap, eyes staring blankly into the empty space that makes up most of the Genome mind.

"Thank you," I said to the hostess.

"Not at all," she said with a warm, wonderful smile that made all the difference.

'Take a deep breath,' I said to Amy. 'Life is good.'

Nature's Sweet Restorer

The stars had come out to play by the time we returned home from Winston-Salem where we had closed the Associated Artist's exhibit at Reynolda Village. It had been a long day and we wasted no time getting into bed to allow sweet nature to ravel up the sleeves of care. Somewhere in the night, in my dreams, I heard someone call my name.

"Did you hear that?" said a different voice from somewhere nearby and I was relieved to discover that it was Poopsie Wonder because, well, I'm sure I don't have to suggest the reason why. You can surely think of several good reasons on your own.

The first voice, let's call it Voice A, called again and, coming unexpectedly as it did in the middle of a peaceful summer night, it caused me to look at Ms. Wonder with wild surmise and she goggled at me with wild surmise. What rendered the thing so particularly unpleasant was that we had both jumped to the same conclusion. "It's your mother," Ms. Wonder gaggled as she switched on a lamp illuminating the clock on her night table that maintained the time at 12:30 AM.

I ambled to the top of the staircase and looked down at the specter in a cornflower blue nightshirt standing in the doorway to my mother's sitting room on the ground floor.

"Are you awake?" she asked out of concern for my safety should I stand at the top of a staircase while asleep. "Come here a minute," she said. When my mother says 'come here' it is not merely an invitation but more like a command from the centurion, a casual acquaintance of Jesus, who explained that when he said, 'Come,' they came. And so it is with me and my mother. I went.

Two hours later, after staunching the flow of blood from the motherly nose, and returning Reason to her throne, I was back upstairs and looking forward to returning to that dream where I was Bond and Ms. Wonder was Moneypenny. It promised to be diverting. I tilted the nightcap down toward the right eye, which makes all the difference.

A minute later I was in bed and within seconds I was joined by Abbie Hoffman, that tuxedoed American shorthair, who assumed his familiar position at my right side. It was now 2:30 AM and I was not exactly in the mood for a social reunion. I couldn't help but feel that he could have chosen a better time to get chummy. Still, not wanting to seem un-civil, I gave his chin a scratch.

He rearranged the cardinal points, anterior and posterior, and the expression on his map gave me to believe that something was not satisfactory. He seemed to be doing a bit of princess-and-the-peaing. I didn't like it. I was anxious to get down to some tired nature's sweet restoring. He stood, stretched, and moved to the foot of the bed, which I was all in favor of, but it wasn't to last. He returned to my side and I gave his rump a pat hoping that he'd gotten everything sorted out but no, it was another bust. He moved to the foot of the bed again but immediately returned to my side.

"I know where this is leading," I said, "and you're singing the wrong tune. You feel that old compunction to give voice to the wildness that sleeps in your breast but I ask you, is it wise? I know that you tell yourself that you can stop with one but isn't it the first yowl that does all the damage?"

"I don't have a problem," he said or, if he didn't actually say it, he gave me a look that did. "I'm not powerless in the matter you know. I howl because I enjoy the sound."

"Oh, what a tangled web," I said and I meant it to sting. "Is this the Hoffman spirit? Is this the American shorthair who used to play feathered stick with me when he was just so high?"

He didn't answer but went straight to his work, jumping from the bed and rushing downstairs where he took up position in the foyer. Moments later the first pleading cry floated up the stairwell. I'm not certain but it could be that a few passionate words spoken in haste escaped from me as I headed to the guest room.

Now, whether or not I would have achieved the dream state in that four-poster that filled the room I cannot say. This is the same bed I slept in as a young boy before my sister moved from her crib and I was awarded the living room sofa. It has been several years since I tried to actually sleep in this family heirloom and I found that a double bed no longer fits the Genome chassis. I guess I counted no more than a few dozen herds of sheep before remembering several pleasant nights spent on the sofa on the screened porch.

It was with me the work of an instant to be in position on that porch, a freshly brewed cup of ginger tea in hand, and the string lights turned on for mood. I sampled the tea. Perfect.

You know that feeling you sometimes get that someone is looking at you? I had it now. I was out in the open air with a night garden and a cypress grove just a few feet away and so I reasoned that there were probably lots of creatures of the night gazing in my direction. Then I heard a small, quiet voice address me from somewhere nearby.

"Whatch'ya doin'?"

In the dim light, I could just make out the form and color of the Siamese kitten that lives in the house on the hill behind the Hall.

"Oh, it's you, Lucy," I said cordially because I am partial to this little blue-eyed girl. "I'm planning to sleep out here tonight."

"Sorry to disturb you, sir," she said.

"Not at all," I said. "What are you doing out here?"

"I saw the lights come on," she said. "I like to sleep on this tabletop," she added as she walked a full circle and then sat looking at me.

"Nice night," I said.

"Bit warm," said she.

"Just so," I said and then the message in her recent words made themselves clear and I turned off the lights. "Well, good night, kitten."

"Good night, sir."

Despite the fact that the night was unusually warm, I found myself experiencing a soothing drowsiness just about the time the scratching began. I didn't have to look to know that the scratcher was Uma, Empress of Chatsford. Hanging out on the porch is a passion with this brindled lady and looking through the French doors to see me out here had gotten right up her nose.

I had two options as I saw it. I could either allow her onto the porch and wait for her to complete a patrol of the perimeter to secure the space, or I could move to the garage and sleep in the car. I didn't take time to weigh the options. I opened the door. But what to my wondering eyes did she do but rush to the other end of the kitchen where she stopped and looked back over her shoulder at me as if to say, 'Come.'

"What's wrong, Uma? Is Timmie in trouble?" I asked.

She twittered something under her breath sounding a little like, "Don't be an ass, it's time for breakfast." And in that moment I saw the soft, rosy light of dawn flooding the atrium behind her and I realized that another day was beginning in south Durham. It's just another example of what I always say. Life comes fast and hard and one must be ready for anything, don't you agree?

Never Give Up

It was a great day in Southport, then it wasn't a great day, but then it was great again. The weather was consistently great; the sun shown, the breezes cooled, the rain showers refreshed. A squall blew in while we were seated on the covered deck of a dockside seafood restaurant and made the experience even more special for we love a big blow on the coast. The place we stayed for the week was nice too and it was located in the yacht basin--within walking distance of the cafe district and the riverfront.

Southport sits at the confluence of the Cape Fear River and the Intracoastal Waterway. From the river-front park, you can look out past Bald Head Island right into the face of the Atlantic. So if the weather was great and the location was great, I can hear you asking, why didn't we have a great time?

If you are a follower of this blog, you're aware that I have strong emotional attachments to my animals. I'm one of the many who suffer from extreme mood fluctuations and my cats help to keep me stable. When one of them is ill I tend to take it hard. I was taking it hard in Southport.

The two-year-old Eddy, a rescue cat that we've had since he was a ball of fur, has been sick and we took him with us thinking that he would be less stressed than spending the week in a boarding facility. He became more ill while we were in Southport. Two visits to the vet and a couple of not insignificant procedures later, he was recuperating in the townhouse.

Near the end of the week, Eddy had shown no signs of improvement and I was in the deep blue, down at the depths where sunlight doesn't penetrate. To relieve some of the stress I began walking toward the waterway because the breezes were coming from that direction and the wind on my face cooled the fevered brow.

The wind picked up and by the time I was at the water's edge, the wind was near gale force. 

I had to lean into the wind to keep from being blown backward. A dark wall of rain was moving toward me, so heavy that Bald Head Island was all but obscured. Lightning bolts flashed in the darkness. I'll bet you know how I felt. While down and wallowing on the ground, the Universe had decided to kick me with a hurricane-strength blow and a monsoon drenching.

Those who know me best will tell you that my motto is to live life on life's terms. I generally take whatever comes along and find a way to live with it. But sometimes life gets a little too zealous. Princess Amy, the name I've given to my hyper-sensitive amygdala, sometimes reads dramatic events as an invitation to roll up her sleeves and get down to it. She was doing so now.

If "life on life's terms" is my motto, then "fierce qigong" is my modus operandi. Standing on that sea wall, I looked the coming storm directly in the eye with an unwavering, lazy-eyed gaze. Although buffeted by the wind, I nonchalantly shot the cuffs and flicked a speck of dust off the exquisite Mechlin lace, and addressed the Universe like this:

"Do your worst, old girl. Blow with all your might. It's all in vain of course because the Genome is more than enough for whatever you've got. As long as there is breath in this body, I am stronger than the wind. As long as there is blood in my veins, the torrents are like a few drops in the ocean. As long as there is heat in my body, the lightning is no more than a flash.

In all the Universe, in all of time since the Big Bang, there is nothing to equal the human experience. I am a part of the ultimate form in all of creation. Even the angels are envious of man. I am enough for whatever life bungs my way and I will never surrender. So give it all you're got. I will be here when you are out of breath and completely wrung out. I will be here when the sun shines tomorrow and you are nothing but a memory."

The wind became quieter and once more refreshing as I walked back to the townhome. The rain held off until I was at the front porch. When I went inside to check on Eddy, I found that he was feeling much better and so was I.

Life comes hard and fast--be ready for it.

Dark Plottings

I stood at the open bedroom, gazing out over the lawns and gardens. And if I drooped like a wet sock what of it? I am doing the best I can under the circumstances--as happy as a fluffy-minded man with excellent physical health and no income can be.

It was a lovely morning and the air was fragrant with gentle scents of summer and redolent with birdsong. Yet in my eyes there was the look of melancholy and I'm sure my brow was furrowed. How could it not? And the mouth was more than a little peevish, if peevish is the word I want; I've never looked it up but I'm pretty sure it means sullen, morose, or petulant. Those who know me best will be thinking that this is all exceedingly strange for in the early hours of morning, I am normally announcing larks and snails and thrones.

The Genome is a master of fierce qigong and, as such, nothing has the power to touch him. Even the Princess Amy, that moody little drama critic of the limbic system,  can only do it occasionally. Yet I was sad and, not to make a mystery of it any longer, the reason for this sorrow is the fact that I have recenlty lost a gazelle, as the poet said. But then if you follow these missives, you know all about Native Grounds and the dark happenings in that hallowed space.

I was keenly aware of the sunshine pouring down on the gardens, and I yearned to pop out and potter among the flowers but no man, pop he never so wisely, can hope to potter with good effect if he is separated from his pals at the caffeine den.

"Morning," I said for something moved behind me like a galleon under full sail and I turned to see Ms. Wonder, daughter of the Volga, shimmer up beside me. She peered down into the camelias searching, I'm sure, for the feral Siamese kittens that breakfast there. I was not looking for kittens. Kittens have a much different appeal for the man who gets up at 5:30 in the morning to feed them.

My eyes continued to roam the lawns, gardens and messuages that were singularly beautiful in the unexpected morning sunshine. Chadsford Hall stands on a knoll of rising ground at the  norhern end of Chadsfordshire. Away to the west, wooded berms and swales cradle the duck pond that lays gleaming like a polished mirror, while up from the water, rolling park land dotted with crepe myrtle, surges in a green wave breaking upon the cypress alee before sloping, gently, down to the provence of Fred, the Dutch gardener who maintains all the grounds that border Chadsford Estate.

The day being mid-summer's day, it's almost the high-tide of summer flowers, the immediate neighborhood is ablaze with roses, day lilies, black-eyed susans, blue-eyed grass, southern magnolia and a multitude of other blooms that only Fred could have named.

Something beside me flashed in the sun and I realized that Ms. Wonder was still beside me wearing the spectacles she uses only until locating her contact lenses. She looks very efficient in those glasses--professionally efficient. Seeing her at close range with the glamour of those sparkling lenses establishes, clearly and unambiguously, her credentials.

"What's wrong?" she said.

"Hmmm?" I said, requireing a moment to come to the surface. "Oh, you know, that Native Grounds thing."

"You've made the right decision," she said. "Everything will work out as it should. A solution will present itself."

"That's simply a kinder way of saying, 'Nothing to do about it. Get over it.'", I said.

"You may be right," she said. "But until you do find the solution, you might try having coffee at Dulce."

"What? Where?"

"You know, it used to be Deja Vu."

"Oh, I remember now. Nice place." She nodded. I wasn't looking at her but the lenses flashed in a vertical plane. "Lots of tables on two sides and a cafe bar in the window. You know how much I like sitting at a high table in the window. Great coffee as I remember and pastries, a breakfast and lunch menu and gelato. Yes, maybe I will wander there after qigong this morning."

"Remember," she said, "the American Tobacco Trail runs by there leading to the Woodcroft hiking trails. You could qigong on the trail."

"You can walk all the way downtown on that trail," I said, "right by the Bulls baseball park and DPAC."

"And the Woodcroft trail runs for miles. You may be able to talk the Secret Three into meeting you there each morning instead of Native Grounds."

"Poopsie?"

"Yes?"

"What size hat do you wear?"

"A six. Why?"

"I should have thought at least an eight. You should donate that brain of yours to science when you have no more need of it."

"Thank you," she said.

"Not at all."