The Morrigan OR the Morgan Sisters?

Morning came pouring into the grounds of Chatsford Hall from across the coastal plain and I knew that if the day was going to be anything like the one before, the sun would soon be popping up and throwing his weight around. I prefer to sleep in, of course, who wouldn't, but that option was taken off the table long ago.

With five cats in the house and a sainted mom living in the east end of this county seat of the Genomes,  it will come as no surprise that I rise with the larks and snails. If you've been paying attention to this personal review, then you know all about the larks, snails and whatnot. If you're a stranger to these parts, then you should direct your questions or objections to the poet Browning. 

As I say, morning arrived and I slipped from beneath the duvet and moved toward the sound of rushing water. Billowing mists enveloped me as I moved onto the tiles of the salle de bains making it impossible to see anything within, other than an occasional bit of leafy jungle.

"Ms Wonder," I called, and immediately felt what must have been a half-dozen cats brush my legs on their way out the door. No answer from Wonder though. I moved cautiously forward, brushing the foliage aside, and tried as best I could to follow the roar of the falls, for I knew that Wonder would be found there, submerged in waters of the plunge basin, deep in morning meditation.

"Wonder," I called again. A little louder this time and I heard the unmistakable sound of a body rising from the depths, like Venus emerging from the sea, and a musical voice replied,

"What?"

Musical may be a little too kind. A little bit musical perhaps. But it was an answer and that's all I needed to correct course and in no more than half an hour, I was pool-side.

"Thank goodness," I said breathing a deep sigh of relief, "I've found you."

"Is there a problem?" she asked.

Needless to say, for I'm sure you too noticed the lack of concern in her voice, I was astounded. I mean, here I was risking limb, if not life, traversing this lost world of the master bath to find her, and what do I get? The cool, distant motif, that's what I get, and I don't mind telling you, I didn't like it.

"Well?" she said after a few seconds of silence on my part.

"Is there a problem," I said. "Is there a problem! I'll tell you what the problem is."

"Do," she said.

"I am," I said. 

"You?", she said, "You're the problem?"

I ignored the jab and got to the point.

"The problem is that the sewer-harpy sisters are back and they're stronger than ever! That is the problem. And I could use some help, Wonder."

"Oh," she said, "Princess Amy again."

"No, not Princess Amy," I said. "This is far beyond Amy's range. This is an attack of the most sinister forces. This is Celtic!"

It may be helpful to pause here again to provide a dime-store explanation of that Princess Amy crack. My personal amygdala, that little almond-shaped cluster of cells in the middle of the brain, is somewhat lacking in sangfroid. Is that the word I'm looking for? If it means self-control or maintaining one's cool when under stress, then that's the word. 

It sometimes seems that I have a spoiled little brat living in my head, or a spoiled little princess, or the red queen from the other side of Alice's looking glass. I refer to her as Princess Amygdala or usually, Princess Amy.

After describing the forces of evil that confronted me, Ms Wonder responded with one of her false starts. It's a habit she has that is completely unlike her usual self, but there it is and one must accept it move through it to avoid a total wipe out.

"Oh, right," she said, "the sewer sisters. What is it you call them? The Morgan sisters."

"Not the Morgan sisters!" I yelled. "The Morgan sisters were Gloria Morgan Vanderbilt and Thelma, Viscountess Furness. They were Swiss-born socialites of the previous century. Or, come to think of it, you may refer to Melanie and Michele, the singing violinists. But, no! The Morgan sisters are not germane. They are a diversion and need not concern us here."

I paused because I'd temporarily lost my place in the dialogue. I looked at her. She looked at me. We looked at each other and it was beginning to feel like a big day of quiet observation.

"The Morrigan," I said. "The three sisters in one goddess. That's who I'm dealing with--Badb, Macha, and Nemain. 

"All right," she said, "Let me sit up to hear you properly." And she did so. "Now, tell me exactly what's happened. I'll be it involves delivery vans crashing into garbage cans and fireworks exploding in the sewer."

"I immediately felt better. She's sometimes slow to get involved, but once she does, the odds return to favor the Genome. This Ms Wonder, I'm sure you remember, eats a lot of fish and that oils the machinery of her powerful intellect. No one can compare to her once the wheels and cogs begin spinning. I told her the full story.

"I see," she said, "after listening attentively to the salient details. "Yes, I see the dilemma." Lupe is coming here this morning expecting you to deliver her to Pittsboro. You don't want to go within 10 miles of the Cove for fear you will become entangled in one of Gwyn's schemes. Yet, you don't want to disappoint Lupe, who is one of the Cove's finest."

I waited quietly to see what would come next.

"I think I have the solution," she said.

"I knew you would, Wonder. It's just like the man said, you move in mysterious ways your wonders to perform. Don't hold back. What do you propose?"

"In order to do the right thing for Lupe and yet protect yourself from any snares that Gwyn may lay for you, it would be advisable to text Gwyn that you are unavoidably occupied and that a good and trusted friend will deliver Lupe to the Blue Dot Cafe in Pittsboro. That way Lupe gets home and you avoid meeting with Gwyn."

I gave her a look and I meant it to sting and to sting smartly. Find a friend in the next 15 minutes who could drive an 11 year-old Lupe to Pittsboro from Durham! That's a stinker of an idea, if I've ever heard one, and I told her so.

"Oh, you don't actually need to find someone else," she said. "Simply go in disguise."

I pondered this idea. Disguise? Would it work? It seemed dubious at best but before I'd completed pondering, Ms Wonder spoke again and all things became clear.

"If you remember, we spoke only yesterday of your shaving off that beard and moustache."

That's all she had to say. It was as though I walked on clouds. Of course, everyone in Pittsboro had become used to my horsehair sofa persona. If I walked into the Blue Dot clean shaven, not a soul would recognize me. It was a perfect plan.

It was a perfect plan and I had no time to spare. Lupe would be here in 10 minutes and we would need to move quickly if we wished to avoid begin stuck in traffic with all the professors and students of the University of North Carolina. It was with me the work of an instant to race to the shaving kit and set about the whiskers.

A Beautiful World

Some days the sky is filled with dark clouds and the sun is vacationing somewhere far south. I'm not talking about the outer sky--the sky that arches far above my head. I'm talking about the inner sky--the one inside my head. I'm sure you agree that it's the inner sky that matters most.

Some days, the cause of my cloudy skies is simply cloudy thinking. For example, I often think that I can be happy if I only I manage my life just so. It doesn't work. My life cannot be managed. It may be different for you of course, but for me, life happens fast and sometimes it happens hard. Trying to manage it only leads to frustration or worse, but no matter where it leads, it never, ever turns out well.

The inner sun can be encouraged to come back out again on those cloudy interior days. The technique that works for me is consciously living life on the terms dictated by life rather than trying to live life on my terms. This means mindfully paying attention to what is really happening--not what I want to think is happening--and then acting on it.

After accepting the reality of the situation, I must then find my role in causing it--and I have a role in causing 99% of all things that happen in my life. Accepting and recognizing the part I've played will give me the opportunity to stop it and to step above it.

The process of making the sun shine again always includes gratitude. I may struggle with that but I can always start by remembering that there is always more right than wrong, more good than bad, in any given moment.

This process always works when I honestly work it. It may not bring joy everlasting but it will part the clouds and allow the sun to shine through. And that's enough. Some days it's enough just to make a shadow. Life is good and, as Louis Armstrong said, it's a beautiful world.

Nothing Remains the Same

I woke this morning to that old familiar feeling of fingers walking up the thigh. You know the feeling I mean. My first thought was that if fingers are ankling up the leg, then the hand doing the walking belongs to the ghost that resides on the third floor of the Inn of the Three Sisters in the Genome's ancestral home of Crystal Cove that lies beside the Blue Ridge Parkway.

Gene Jirlds Copyright 2001 - 2004

To face this ghost requires a steeled resolve if that's the term. Resolve has been in short supply in recent days so I took a moment to muster the will. Be still, I said to Princess Amy. You remember her. She's that almond-shaped cluster of gray cells that sits on her throne in the middle of my brain.

Remembering an old saw I heard somewhere--it may be one of Ms. Wonder's--I gathered what resolve I had. The gag I mention goes something like this (I paraphrase, of course): There is a tide in the affairs of men, which taken at the flood, leads on to fortune. I took the tide at the flood and, with a burst of resolve, threw back the duvet ready to claim the promised pot of gold or whatever it was the man said.

Not a pot of gold and not a ghost. It was Abbie Hoffman, the white-gloved assassin, my very own American shorthair tuxedo. I wasn't in Crystal Cove at all but home in Chatsford Hall! And it is a good place to be.

Remembering an old saw I heard somewhere--it may be one of Ms. Wonder's--I gathered what resolve I had. The gag I mention goes something like this (I paraphrase, of course): There is a tide in the affairs of men, which taken at the flood, leads on to fortune. I took the tide at the flood and, with a burst of resolve, threw back the duvet ready to claim the promised pot of gold or whatever it was the man said.

Not a pot of gold and not a ghost. It was Abbie Hoffman, the white-gloved assassin, my very own American shorthair tuxedo. I wasn't in Crystal Cove at all but home in Chatsford Hall! And it is a good place to be.

Remembering an old saw I heard somewhere--it may be one of Ms. Wonder's--I gathered what resolve I had. The gag I mention goes something like this (I paraphrase, of course): There is a tide in the affairs of men, which taken at the flood, leads on to fortune. I took the tide at the flood and, with a burst of resolve, threw back the duvet ready to claim the promised pot of gold or whatever it was the man said.

Not a pot of gold and not a ghost. It was Abbie Hoffman, the white-gloved assassin, my very own American shorthair tuxedo. I wasn't in Crystal Cove at all but home in Chatsford Hall! And it is a good place to be.

Remembering an old saw I heard somewhere--it may be one of Ms. Wonder's--I gathered what resolve I had. The gag I mention goes something like this (I paraphrase, of course): There is a tide in the affairs of men, which taken at the flood, leads on to fortune. I took the tide at the flood and, with a burst of resolve, threw back the duvet ready to claim the promised pot of gold or whatever it was the man said.

Not a pot of gold and not a ghost. It was Abbie Hoffman, the white-gloved assassin, my very own American shorthair tuxedo. I wasn't in Crystal Cove at all but home in Chatsford Hall! And it is a good place to be.

I would be misleading my public if I said that the prospects of late have been more than bleak. The birds sang out of tune for a while and I'm pretty sure I overheard the bluebird talking about cashing in and retiring to Miami. But nothing is permanent, as the man said. Was it the Buddha? Shakespeare? One or the other of them seems to say just about everything worth saying. Have you noticed?

The turning point for me came last weekend while attending the sixth-grade performance of The Wizard of Oz, at Carrboro Elementary School. My grandson, River, was one of the production crew and I admit, when the play began, I was prepared to be bored. It didn't happen. No boredom. I could have been in the audience of a Broadway theater. Excellent performance. I highly recommend it if it comes to your neighborhood. It was the beginning of a different way of seeing the world.

Where once the birds seemed to be in an unending argument, today they sing as though Spring were around the corner. Actually, Spring is just around the corner but you know what I mean. I read somewhere that birds bid over the best building sites with their songs. Their little heads are filled with thoughts of homemaking and raising a family. It's a positive outlook and it's contagious. I too have a positive outlook and it's due in no little part to paying attention to birdsong.

Wen, the Eternally Surprised, my once and future martial arts master, taught me that life comes hard and fast and that the prudent person is ready for anything. How to be ready he never said exactly but I gathered that it required acceptance rather than resistance.

Though things came within a toucher of falling apart over the last few weeks, the flame of fierce qigong never died and I was able to extricate myself from the looney bin without a stain on my character. Almost no stain. Very little stain. No stains that won't come out in the wash.

The details of the affair, which my biographers will probably call, "Down the Waterspout at Midnight" are quite involved and need not detain us here. Suffice it to say that knotted sheets did not enter into it. Memories played a big part. That's all I'm going to say about it. Memories of sunshine and blue skies and birdsong. Sometimes memories are all we have.

It's good to be home again. There's no place like it.

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.

The Witching Hour

It was the hour of the morning break and we had stopped at the Mill in Pittsboro to do a little tissue restoring. We had not planned to stop here. It was a spur of the moment thing. We'd come to check out the Roadhouse, which is in the space that was the General Store, but it was closed for the day. The African Art and French Antique's store wouldn't open for a couple of hours yet. The situation was one that threatened to have the Genome walking around town watching the big clock in the tower of the restored courthouse, which as I'm sure you don't have to be told is not a Genomic thing.

Wynd Horse was carrying us toward Southern Village when Ms. Wonder suddenly spoke. "Turn in here," she said and I did because the Genome is accustomed to making last second course corrections when the Orlov descendent is navigating. Never be surprised at anything life throws at you following an impulsive change in plans. When the path is abandoned, the stuff between the worlds spills out and gums up the works. It happens every time. It just goes to show that we are only toys in the hands of Fate. It's occasions like this that give people the feeling that the gods use us as pawns in a game of cosmic chess. They don't play chess of course. Monopoly is the game of the gods and they like nothing better than the card that reads, Do not pass go but go straight to jail.

A few minutes after making the turn we walked through the pollinator garden and entered a little room filled with cafe tables and original art. The original artist was hanging the last of her paintings. That she was the artist was evident from her conversation with one of the cafe patrons. That she was a witch was evident to me, given my experience and training--I earned a certificate of completion in Witch Finding at Durham Tech. It's true that it's sometimes difficult to distinguish witches from employees of the co-op in Carrboro but I have a knack for these things.

I don't often engage strangers in conversation but you remember that I am writing that book and I seem to have misplaced my witch--the Woodcroft one--and I desperately need some advice and suggestions on the selection of the precise words. Nothing more important than the mot juste for a writer. Words have power, you see. When you express something, you put your energy into it and that energy grows and becomes manifest in the physical world. Take the words, let there be light, for instance. Simple enough if you're looking for simplicity and in the right context, very powerful.


I'm not new to writing or anything like that. I've been published many times and so I'm confident that my words are good enough but good enough isn't gong to make the ideas in my book contagious and that's what I want--viral ideas. A book must have sex appeal to become popular today. It must have a sexy theme or be set in a sexy locale. My words just aren't sexy enough.

I've trained myself through fierce living to stay grounded in the here and now and interrupt the limbic system and the stuff that filters up from the sub-conscious. I remain rooted in the cingular cortex and the ideas that get dredged up through analysis just aren't sexy. Witches, on the other hand, are connected to the ground of all knowing and they're in touch with the stuff that lives between thoughts. My witch, the Woodcroft one, just happens, as Fate would have it, to be a writer.


You can easily understand then why I took action so out of character. I said a quick prayer, commended my soul, if it is a soul, to God and spoke:

"Nice work," I said.

"Thank you."

"I especially like the night gardens. Love the one with red poppies and full moon," I said.

"One of my favorites, too," she said, "They were fun to paint."

"Allows you to enjoy the nighttime gardens even in the daytime," I said.

She gave me a look. Quizzical might describe it. Made me feel the moment for applying the old oil was past and time to roll up the sleeves and get down to it.

"I wonder," I said, "if you know Gladdis of Woodcroft?"

"Who?"

"Gladdis," I repeated, "Witch of Woodcroft."

"No, I don't. Is she an artist?"

"Writer," I said. "She and I have a little support group for word-craft and I seem to have misplaced her. I thought you might have heard of her. You know, small world and all."

"I don't get it," she said and I noticed that her voice had taken on a bit of frosty timbre. "You seem intelligent enough for a man, so why are you asking me, a total stranger, if I know your friend?"

"It's just that I've written this book and reviewers are waiting but it lacks something. It speaks the truth and all that, just as Stephen King advises, but it lacks that certain something, which Seth Godin says makes all the difference. In Hugh McLeod's words, it just isn't sexy enough."

"Sexy?" she said and the jaw seemed a little tight, the lips a straight line. It wasn't going the way I'd hoped. In my mindfulness practice I've come to notice when feelings first begin to stir and what was stirring now felt like hell's foundations quivering. I was conscious of doing a little dance.

"Witches seem to have a way with words," I said, "and I was hoping that Gladdis could offer some help with my wording to give it some zing."

"Ah," she said as though she'd suddenly found what was lost, "are you Genome?"

I stopped dancing. Now it was my turn to wonder what the hey. Before I could put a response together, she began laughing and shaking her head.

"She's told stories of you at the local gatherings. We only allow her to attend if she doesn't talk about Rogue Star. You won't find her though. She's not around. We did an intervention?"

"I'm sorry," I said, "did you say intervention? Is Gladdis a drunk?"

"Oh no, she doesn't drink much. It was that book of hers. It's past 1200 pages and still going. She's powerless to stop writing. We had to do something. Carrboro said her family did one for her brother and it worked for him. So we did a spiral dance, confronted her and convinced her to get into rehab."

"Carrboro?"

"A witch's work is specific to her location. We know each other by the communities we serve."

"Oh, right," I said, "but where do you send someone to recover from writing addiction?"

"She's staying at the Inn at Something Falls," she said.

"But that's not a real place. That's in the world she created in her book."

"Oh, it's real enough," she said. "There's no such thing as fiction in a witch's words. Just speaking or writing them make them so. You should know that. Anyway, she's staying there under the watch of the innkeeper who thinks it's a great idea. If it works, it could mean a new market for the inn.

I had a strangely disconnected feeling. Napoleon must have felt the same when his attaché gave him the news that Nelson had sailed into Cairo with the British fleet and set the French ships on fire.

"I can get a message to her, if you like but she can only reply to your via twitter," she said.

"A tweet?" I said.

"Yeah, we think it's the safest way for her to communicate. With 140 character limit we hope it won't trigger her to indulge her habit. It's the first page that does all the damage."

"I see," I said but I didn't really. "Would you ask her what I can add, some little story maybe, to make my book sparkle. She's read the draft." I added as though that explained something.

"I'll pass it along," she said. "You might expect a tweet later this afternoon."

Just as she predicted, later in the day, the first few bars of Inigota Divita alerted me to the receipt of a tweet. It was from #gladdis@roguestar.

"Save child from runaway horse."

I replied, "What do you mean, save a child from horse?"

Her response came right away, "Can't miss. Huge box office."

I tried to get further clarification but nothing came back. She must have a limit on on tweets from rehab.

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.

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.'

Twelfth Night

Sunday mornings empty of the usual expectations are such a gift. Normally I would have been suiting up to teach mindfulness at Straw Valley but on Sunday last I was relaxing in the cypress alee and enjoying something on ice in an amber-colored glass. When Ms. Wonder strolled out to the rose garden, I was enjoying the peace that passeth all understanding, you know the one I mean, it comes to those who have done absolutely nothing to deserve it.

Rose photo courtesy of Ms. Wonder

In a world so full of beautiful things where we should all be happy as kings, or queens, of course, I was surprised to see the Ekaterina wearing agitation on the facial map.

"Poopsie," I said, "has the Empress escaped?"

"No, not that." she said, "Uma is sleeping on your cashmere sweater in the hall closet."

"Thank, God," I said not sure whether capitalization was required but not wanting to take any chances. "What's the matter then?"

"It's the Cove," she said referring to that ancestral homeplace of the Genomes in the North Carolina Blue Ridge. "Gwyn is trying to get in touch with you. I didn't catch the specifics. She seems upset. But I did make out that it has something to do with Mr. Jones."

"Mr. Jaynes," I set the record straight, "and yes, she is upset, bless her, and no wonder. I'd be upset too if Jaynes was standing below my window every night."

"What?" she said. She seemed about to add something more but then, experiencing second thoughts, closed her eyes and shuddered.

"Yes," I said trying to convey understanding, "they work in mysterious ways their wonders to perform in Crystal Cove."

"Does he still imagine that he's followed by a door with a bogeyman hiding behind?" she said.

"No, he's past that. Asked his doctor to increase his lithium I believe."

"See," she said, "restores balance. Have you given the subject any more thought?"

I gave her a look, a kind of aloof, lazy eyelid look. "I assume you refer to lithium," I said.

"Precisely," she said.

"I have Fierce Qigong," I said with a goodish amount of topspin.

"Yes," she said and nothing more. I found myself becoming more than a little hotted up. I took a deep breath and reminded myself that I am powerful and that life is good.

"Forget lithium, Ekaterina," I said using the formal tense to let her know that I meant business.

She made a moue. I believe it's a moue. Isn't that when you push the lips out and then pull them back again?

"Put lithium out of mind. Banish it from your thoughts. All the Genome needs is mindfulness, qigong, a vegetarian diet, the twelve steps, heaping daily doses of friendship, and pots and pots of coffee."

"Of course," she said. "I spoke thoughtlessly."

"Recklessly," I said.

"Recklessly," she said.

Now, this was more the stuff for the troops I thought, and I gave it time to settle in, enough time for the breath to return to the normal rhythm. The mental pebble sank to the bottom of the pool and the turbulent thoughts, like ripples on the water, became still.

At length, I returned to the topic. "No, it isn't specters that plague Doyle Jaynes. It's his weakness for love."

"He's in love again," she said and well she should say it. This Doyle has a habit of falling in love with every second woman he meets. Consequently, new neural pathways are being constantly constructed in his brain to make him even more susceptible to the glamour of the next woman.

"Oh, he's in love again," I said, "and it's getting in the way of managing the fishing outfitter. In fact, he's gone bust in that department and Gwyn expects it's going to affect the reputation and revenue of Two Fly, which is the biggest business in the Cove. She's more concerned about the fishing business than the fact that she's the object of Doyle's devotion.

"What!", she said. "He's fallen for Gwyn? The poor fish. He'll soon wish he were being followed by boogeymen."

"I'm not so sure it will come to that. He spends all day lying around his apartment listening to love songs and stands in the garden underneath her window all night hoping to get a glimpse of her."

"That's stalking," she said.

"It's worse than that," I said, "it's insane and all it's going to get him is fired."

"Did you tell him that?"

"I did and he told me he'd got it worked out. He's hired some guy that he calls an assistant but who will actually run the outfitter for him."

"Does that mean that everything is calm now?"

"Calm? In the Cove. Do use your intelligence."

"So what is the problem now?" she said.

"Well, I spoke to Qwyn on the phone yesterday and she tells me that Doyle sent his assistant, let's call him Alan..."

"Is that his name?"

"Yes."

"Let's call him Alan then."

"Doyle sent Alan to deliver one of those love poems and to speak on Doyle's behalf because Gwyn has barred him from the Inn where she holds court. And it seems that when Gwyn saw this Alan, she decided that he was one to take home to Ma."

"She liked him?"

"He was one of the juiciest."

"She wanted him?"

"He was so eloquent in his pitch for Doyle's suit, that Gwyn began imagining him speaking for himself and she found it much to her liking. In fact, when he left to take Gwyn's rejection notice back to Doyle, Gwyn sent her brother, my other cousin Winston, with a ring saying that she couldn't accept it and that he should take it back to Doyle."

"Wait a second, I missed the part about Doyle sending a ring."

"No, you didn't. Doyle didn't send a ring. With her quick Genome-like mind, Gwyn came up with the ruse on the nonce. You see, the ring and the message to take it back would be recognized immediately by Alan as a sign of Gwyn's approval of Alan."

"It would?"

"Ms. Wonder," I said and I put just a little topspin on it to drive the implication home, have you not read Twelfth Night by W. Shakespeare?"

"Saw the movie," she said.

"Then you will remember the ring," I said.

"Sure," she said.

"You remember too what Alan was supposed to do with the ring. He was supposed to refuse it and send it back with Winston."

"Is that what happened?"

"Nothing is as it should be in the Cove. No, it seems this Alan hasn't read nor has he seen T. Night. He kept the ring."

"Disturbing," she said.

"I'll say. The ring didn't belong to Gwyn. It was the ring of office for Molly Mysinger, who is being inducted into the Circle of Three at the end of the month. Gwyn beside herself with anxiety. She's achieved low orbit and is about to go into first stage release. She wants me to ride back into the valley of death with the United States Marines and fix it."

"And are you?" she said.

"That hell hole?" I said. "I know I should come to her aid but how can I? As someone once said, 'The spirit is willing but the flesh is weak.' Or something to that effect."

"Jesus Christ," she said.

"I know! That about sums up the way I feel about it too," I said.

Choose the Hawaiian Shirt

I stopped at the window where Uma was inspecting the day and saw that it was one of the best and brightest.

"Ms Wonder, you were right about the morning. One of the juiciest," I said.

"Absolutely," she replied.

"Spring and all that," I said.

"Yep," she said.

"I think I'll crawl into the Thai fisherman's pants and go to the Park for some pastoral dancing," I said heading for the clothes closet.

I don't know if you have the same feeling on those days around the beginning of April when the sky's a light blue, the clouds are cotton wool and the breeze blows lightly from the west. It's an uplifting feeling that makes you pause to reflect that life is good.

Well, if you do have that feeling, then take some advice from me. Be very, very careful because Fate is hiding in the bushes with plans to do you dirt. I slipped into the upholstery of a country qigong master and attired for the energetic arts, en plein air, if that's the phrase, I toddled back into the bedroom just in time for the first of those blasted text messages.

"Oh, no," I said when I'd read it. "Wonder, you remember Cousin Gwyn, who lives with Aunt Maggie in Crystal Cove."

"Oh sure," she said.

"You wouldn't speak in that light, carefree tone if you knew what's in the text. The curse has come upon me again, Poopsie. Gwyn tells me that Aunt Maggie wants me to stop by the ancestral home on the way to Chattanooga next week. My mother must have told her I was headed in that direction. I'd hoped to keep it secret."

To people who don't know the CSI version of the story, it is difficult to make clear why I avoid this X-marks-the-spot place in the North Carolina Blue Ridge. Most people know of it, if they know of it at all, as a primo outdoor recreational area. White-water rafting, trout fishing, music festivals, and all of this embowered, if that's the word, in the beautiful, balsam-fir high country. This is the surface-level glamour that most day-trippers encounter.

For the denizens and relatives like me, the Cove has a darker, murkier underbelly. The place is bursting with witches, druids and shamans--pagans, the lot of them. Not that there's anything wrong with the pagani, or whatever it was the Romans called them. Paganize until your eyes bubble, if that's what suits you, but I have a medical concern. 

You see the levels of background magic in a place where you can't bung a brick without hitting a magician, is so high that...well, let's just say that I'm allergic. The stuff clings to me like static. It builds to a critical mass and then, pop! there's a loud report in the vicinity of the Genome and bits of reality fill the air like confetti.

Give it a miss, I hear you thinking, but how the devil can I? This Mary Magdalene is my last surviving aunt and an aunt that had a lot of input into the Genome that I've become. When she issues a direct order, I must obey. I am a slave to duty in her regard.

"I wonder what she wants with me," I said.

"I couldn't say but I suggest that you wear your Hawaiian shirts while there," said The Wonder.


"Yes, good idea. I need to have as much joie de vivre as I can muster," I said. She continued with suggestions intended to fortify me against the ravages of magical tinkerings, such as morning meditation, qigong, walks in the sun and other such well-intended rot until I couldn't take it any longer and tore myself away to inventory the manly outerwear of Hawaii.

"Excuse me," Ms Wonder said as I was carrying yet another shirt to the window for consideration. "You don't plan to take that shirt do you?"

"Of course, I'm going to wear it."

"I wouldn't advise it," she said.

"Why on earth not?" I said.

"The effect," she said, "it's loud to the extreme."

I turned to face her squarely. No one knows more than I the master-mind this daughter of the Russian... whatever, never mind that now. It was I who was heading into the valley of the 600 and it was I who needed to gird the loins...what's that phrase, oh just forget it. You know what I mean. I wanted that shirt. Nothing else could buck me up like a red and yellow hibiscus on bold palm fronds.

"I need this shirt, Poopsie, nothing else in the arsenal has the same impact."

"Nevertheless," she said.

"Wonder," I said, "I am feeling low-spirited and I will need all the cheering I can get. My mind is made up." I raised myself to my full height and gazed down from lazy eyelids. I'm sure Napoleon would have done the same.

"Fine," she said but she meant nothing of the kind.

Upsetting, that's what it was. If there's one thing a fellow needs when he's facing the firing squad, it's the support of the family. And I was feeling somewhat adrift, or abandoned, or what is it? Oh, yeah, I was feeling more or less that nobody loved me.

Having nothing to gain from hiding the facts, I put my feelings on the line to Ms. Wonder. I explained that although I understood her views on tunics and other torso coverings, I was in dire straights--though I don't fully understand the meaning of dire straights, I'm sure it applies in the current circs--and what I needed from her now was more of the rally round spirit.

She stood for a while in deep thought and I could see that my words had the desired effect.

"Then on consideration," she said, "I have a suggestion that may enable you to extricate yourself from the embroilment."

"Does that mean you have a solution?" I asked.

"I suggest that you consider packing immediately..."

"That's no help."

"...and leaving for California."

I stared at the woman. Had I heard her correctly? California? Could it be that her superb brain had come unhinged? I could think of no other explanation.

"It sounded to me like you said, California," I said.

"That's right," she said.

"California?"

"California," she said. "Consider that California is 3000 miles from Crystal Cove."

"What!" I said finally getting the gist. "Not that far."

"Somewhat less," she said, "but for all practical purposes..."

"Yes, I see," I said. "For all practical purposes. Yes, this suggestion is not too big and not too small. Poopsie, I've always said there is none like you--none. You stand alone. Are you sure you're not descended from the Romanov's?"

"I'm certain," she said.

"Well, no matter, the Orlov's were the masterminds responsible for bunging Catherine to the top of the Russian imperial rainbow, so no little wonder that you possess the brainpower."

"But I'm not descended from the Orlov's," she said.

I could make no sense of this whatsoever. I myself have read the Olewine family records and I didn't hesitate to remind her of this.

"I distinctly remember that Count Alexei Orlov figured into the story. He being the breeder of the Orlov Trotter, a horse known for outstanding speed and stamina, and also the Russian Wolfhound, a dog known for whatever they're known for. They're big, I know that. And I believe there was a chicken in there somewhere although I seriously doubt that a breeder of horses and wolfhounds would scarcely waste time with chickens."

"The story," she said, with absolutely no story-telling flair--flat about sums it up, "is that my ancestor was a housemaid in the employment of Count Orlov and negotiated with him to get out of dog walking duties."

"Walking the wolfhounds, you mean?"

"Precisely," she said.

"Oh, I see," I said. "Yes, I think I remember something about that now. Sorry for the mixup."

"Not at all," she said.

"Still, Wonder, you are remarkable. I wonder your head doesn't stick out in back to make room for that brain."

"Thank you, I think," she said.

"Not at all," I said.

Pirates of Penzance

I woke early, at least it had the appearance of early. The light filtering through the curtains was a pinkish hue and this is, I believe, a sign of early morning. I'm no an expert of course. 

Beignet was limbering up with a good long stretch, front legs thrust forward and butt high in the air. It felt really good I'm sure, although I don't practice the move myself. I tend to qigong rather than yoga.

Uma Maya was on duty high atop the cat tree surveying her domain and making sure that everyone was cued and ready for the day. Abbie Hoffman, I suppose, was high atop the kitchen cabinets to make sure he was no where near Uma. 

In short, all was as it should be. How any household can function without at least a dozen or so cats is beyond me. I'll bet Napoleon kept cats.

"Good morning, Ms Wonder," I said, and then after taking a quick glance out the open window, "It's a beautiful day."

"The bluebird?" she said.

"On my shoulder," I said.

"The sun?" she said.

"High in the sky," I said, "or fairly highish, and bright certainly."

"Clouds?" she asked.

"Puffy and cotton white," I said.

"Cumulus humilis," she said or something that sounded like it.

"You're joking," I said. "Do refer to the clouds and a newly discovered variety of early human?"

"The clouds," she said, "They take their name from the latin cumulo meaning heap or pile."

"Now I know you're putting me on. A pile of clouds? This is one of your practical jokes, isn't it? You're going to run me up and down the flagpole a few times this morning."

"I wouldn't dream of doing such a thing," she said, "I learned about clouds in my aviation weather class. Cumuli are part of a larger class of clouds know as cumuliform, which includes stratocumulus, cumulonimbus, cirrocumulus and altocumulus."

"My grandmother's name was Alta," I said.

"I misspoke," she said, "I meant to say alto. Alto-cumulus."

"Oh, sorry," I said.

"Not at all," she said.

A moment of silence passed. A moment not unlike the silence that reigns on stage when one of the actors in a community play forgets the next line.

"Poopsie?"

"Still here," she said.

"Do you know everything?" I said.

"Certainly not," she said.

"Well, then you have a sticky brain, much like the sticky brain that my friend Mumps has. By the way, did you say aviation weather? You actually took a class in aviation weather?"

"Hmmm," she said.

Another moment of silence passed, one much like the first.

"Poopsie, are you, or were you ever, a fighter pilot?"

"Beg your pardon," she said with a laugh, "did you say pirate?"

"I did not say pirate and you know it but that was the funniest part of the play wasn't it?"

I probably don't need to tell you that we had gone off-topic with this reference to the play but we had seen the Durham Savoyard's presentation of the Pirates of Penzance recently and it was still entertaining us two weeks later.

"I really enjoyed the sergeant major," she said.

"You mean the major general," I said.

"Are you sure? Didn't he sing 'I am the very model of a modern sergeant major?'"

I raised a hand. I yield to no one in my enjoyment of the works of Gilbert and Sullivan and I could easily discuss these Pirates all day, but we were on a hot topic and I didn't want it to cool.

"One moment, Poopsie," I said.

"Yes," she said.

"Just one moment."

The third period of silence passed. It was beginning to look like a big morning for moments of silence.

"What were we talking about before we jumped the rails?" I said.

"You were saying that it's a beautiful day," she said.

"So it is," I said. "The snail is on the throne and all's right with the world."

"The snail is on the thorn," she said. "It's God who's sitting on the throne."

"Ah, yes, that's right," I said, "Sorry, honest mistake."

"Not at all," she said.

"Did you say, pilot or pirate?" I said. But she only winked and then another one of those silences filled the empty space.

Strange Case of the Cat in the Night

On a long winter's night, with rain falling softly and a wispy breeze lightly rattling the window panes, there are few things more enjoyable than, as Shakespeare said, "tired nature's sweet restorer--balmy sleep." 

It helps to have a bed liberally sprinkled with serene kitties, provided that is, that you have not got one like Abbie Hoffman aboard.

We can never really know why a cat does anything. Not really. We can only imagine and, more often than not, our imaginings interpret cat behavior in human terms, which I'm sure makes us look like priceless asses to the cats. 

Come to think of it, Sagi M'tesi, the caramel-colored target tabby, has only two expressions--one of them says, 'Please feed me,' and the other says, 'What a priceless ass you are.'

Now if Abbie Hoffman has ever resembled a specter, shimmering in and out of awareness, he achieved this resemblance in the wee hours this very morning. I could go so far as to say that he shimmered unceasingly and to the annoyance of all. 

Not only did he shimmer, but adding insult to injury, if that's the term I want, he yowled. He yowled in the Chang Mai room. He yowled in the hallway. He even yowled from atop the kitchen cabinets. Only during the few minutes that he lay motionless, cuddled in my arms, did he stop the nuisance.

I rose this morning much earlier than I would have chosen but you know how it is when you realize that you are wide awake with little chance of revisiting the sweet restorer. 

When I entered the dressing room, I discovered a clue to the cause of the incessant yowling. Abbie Hoffman had spent the wee hours of the morning in the closet trying on Ms. Wonder's scarves. 

This explains why, despite my earnest searching, I'd failed to locate him during the yowling episodes. He'd been in the closet trying to find the perfect scarf to accessorize his custom tuxedo.

Now Ms Wonder has done herself well in the matter of neck joy. Each time one of her colleagues travels to a foreign country, and they do travel often, each country being more foreign than the next, she puts in an order for a scarf of native handicraft. 

She has scarves from China and India, from Zimbabwe and South Africa, from Guatemala and Colombia. The actual number of countries represented in her closet by those colorful scarves is reminiscent of the parade of nations in the opening ceremonies of the Olympics.

The subject cat, A. Hoffman, tried on every one of the scarves, judging from the fact that all of them were lying on the floor. I deduced that he wore none of them to bed, that not a single scarf satisfied his longing.

No doubt this process was intended to be a palliative to dull a pain that gnawed at his heart, for little as anyone might suspect, he has a gnawing pain. I know this because I too have a gnawing pain of the heart and I am well acquainted with futile attempts to find something--anything--to medicate that pain. 

It's a common malady. I believe that Cleopatra, Catherine of Russia, Eleanor of Aquitaine, and perhaps even Napoleon, suffered in much the same way.

Strange how we never cease to look for something in the external world to restore calm to the manic mind. Abbie tries on scarves. I write these missives in Circular Journey. Whatever works about sums it up for both of us. 

When the limbic system drifts off station, the resulting altered state of mind will have you behaving in all sorts of absurd ways, like searching for a non-existent mouse or perhaps writing for a non-existent audience.

Yes, despite the evidence to the contrary, I'm certain that Abbie H. was searching for a mouse. That's the only possible explanation for his behavior in that closet. 

You may wonder how I came to this conclusion. Well, as Shakespeare or someone once said, 'Elementary.' It may not have been Shakespeare but he's credited with almost everything else quotable, and I like to go with the odds. 

Cats are well known to be acutely interested in qigong, performing slow ritualized movements, interspersed with bursts of rapid activity, followed by formal meditation. I did mention that earlier, didn't I? Should have. Sorry if I didn't. 

Cats are also known to shun the accumulation of material possessions, such as scarves; however, and I have this on the finest authority, cats do search for mice.

I'm fairly certain that I once watched my Aunt Maggie's barn cat stalking a mouse for half a day. And on more than one occasion, a devoted cat has presented me with a gift of a mouse, even though I had expressed no interest in having one. 

So I ask you, put yourself in Abbie Hoffman's boots. Your hippocampus is lying down on the job, and the happy hormones are on the decline. You feel that you could face the coming day if only you could teach a mouse a lesson or two. 

You search the premises, upstairs and down, looking for the hiding place that you know must be there. Your frustration builds until you begin yowling. Yes, you do yowl and you yowl without restraint. 

Then you enter a closet and discover a rainbow of scarves, each one looking for all the world like curtains behind which little furry invaders may hide. You see where this leads?

As I said earlier, on a long winter's night, with rain falling softly and a wispy breeze lightly rattling the window panes, there are few things more enjoyable than balmy sleep in a bed liberally sprinkled with serene kitties. Always provided that is, that you have not got one like Abbie Hoffman aboard.