Until the End of Time

By popular demand (originally published October 22, 2024)

This morning was another of those near-perfect Camelot-style autumn mornings. I was particularly bucked having come off an evening in Southport mingling with the crew on the set of The Waterfront, the newest movie production to be set in that jewel of the Carolina coast.

 

When Irv arrived at Egret Coffee Bar and Dance Club, I was reading a book Ms. Wonder had recommended.  She said it would 'do me good'. 

She was on a river tour getting photos for her next art show at Sunset River Gallery, and I was to meet her at the docks in a couple of hours. I knew she'd expect me to have started the thing by then.

"What'cha reading?" asked the Islander.

"It's a little thing Wonder recommended," I said.

"Trying to improve you," he said. "Good for her; you could use a little improvement."

I closed the book and was about to respond to that crack about needing improvement, but after giving it a second thought, decided that he was probably right.

Irv turned the book around to better see the cover. "Until the End of Time," he said. "A subject broad and deep."

"Yeah, I suppose so," I said, attempting to convince myself that the book would 'do me good.' "The author also wrote The Elegant Universe, and The Fabric of the Cosmos, both of which received some major horn-tooting in the New Yorker.

"I believe she also wrote Wanderlust, Vanished, and Lightning," said the Islander.

"Wonder didn't mention those, are you sure you're not thinking of "Summer Lightning?" I understand there are over one hundred books with that name. Anyone could make that mistake."

"Nope, not Summer Lightning," he said, shaking the coconut vigorously. Honey has read everything that the author's written; she's the most popular romance novelist in America. I'm surprised you don't know that."

"You think I'm reading a romance novel?" I asked with maximum topspin. "This is a book about the development of the universe from the Big Bopper to the distant future. It's written by a theoretical physicist who teaches at Columbia."

"Are you sure you've got that right? The Big Bopper, I mean."

"Of course, I hear them talk about it on Sirius XM's 50's on 5."

"Yes, but that's a music channel, isn't it?"

"And your point would be?"

"I don't have a point, I'm just saying if your book author works at Columbia University, I would think he's a real physicist and not a theoretical one. I'm sure Columbia checked him out before hiring him."

There followed a moment of semi-awkward silence. It seemed we came to the simultaneous conclusion that our debate was solving nothing and only getting deeper into the weeds. Finally, Irv broke the silence.

"Well, enough of that," he said. "Is the book any good?"

"Is it good?" I said, "Let me tell you something about this book." But I stopped in mid-sentence because I'd suddenly had one of those ideas that pop up, seemingly out of nowhere, like the demon king in a Thai water opera.

"I can't give you a better example of what this book is like than by reading a random passage. Listen to this," I said, and I opened the book to a random page and began to read.

"Every cell division in every organism occupying every nook and cranny of the planet contributed to the Darwinian narrative. Some of these storylines fizzled. But some provided unexpected twists that would develop into their own evolutionary flip-book."

I closed the book and sipped my coffee because I thought it might add a bit of gravitas to the occasion. You, of course, might have a different opinion, and if you do, please leave a comment.

Irv was giving me a blank stare, which prompted me to say more. "Now," I said, stalling for time, hoping to think of something quotable to share. "I'm sure the author is perfectly correct," I said, "but it's a bit much to spring on a guy with a morning head."

On hearing those words, his expression turned quizzical, and I had the strange feeling that he'd given the next question a lot of thought and had wanted to ask it for a while. I don't know why I had that feeling; just a passing fancy, I suppose.

"Why you?" he said. "I mean, with all the people in the world to mold, why does she choose to mold you?"

"It's no mystery," I said. "She sees promise in me. She wants to bring me up to her level mentally. She does her best, too, but I'm more of a physical operator than mental, if you follow me."

"I understand perfectly," he said. "I've always said that the difference in your mental and physical makeup is that physically you have something substantial."

"And you're wrong about there being no mystery," he continued. "Everyone agrees that trying to improve you goes against her usual astute, insightful nature."

"There is no mystery!" I said, heating up to near incandescence. "She believes in me because I try hard to please. And just who the hell do you mean when you say everyone agrees?"

His brow furrowed once more as though he were deep in thought, but I didn't fall for it. He's never been more than ankle-deep in thought as long as I've known him.

"Hmmm," he said, "no, I don't think it's because you try hard, but I do love a good mystery, and I'm going to analyze the thing further until I find the solution." 

"For the last time, there is no mystery!"

Irv opened his mouth to reply, but what he actually said was, "Oh, here she is now."

And despite my doubts that even a woman with her powers could materialize on Castle Street when she was supposed to be on the Riverwalk, Irv was right. There she was.

I wanted to ask how she did it. She makes a habit of shimmering in and out of places. That's where the real mystery lies, if you ask me. But before I could ask, she glanced at the book and her face suddenly took on the look of a vegetarian who had just been served shrimp scampi.

"I read your draft of the magazine article on the boat," she said, "but you haven't even started the book, have you?"

"I don't understand you," I said. "How can you say I haven't started it. Here it is, and you can see by the bookmark that I've read the first several chapters."

"What's the title of that book?" she said.

"Until the End of Time," I said, holding the book up for her to see.

"And which book did I recommend?" she said.

I looked at the book again as if I expected to find the answer to her question on the cover.

"Not Until the End of Time?" I said.

"I recommended ' From Here to Eternity," she said.

Once more, I looked at the book in my hands.

"The names are very similar," I said. "It's a simple mistake anyone could have made."

"You see," said Irv, "an intriguing mystery. I'm going to enjoy working on this one, but it's plain to see that if I'm to solve it, I'll need the help of experts."

How Can I Be Sure?

It may have been Aunt Cynthia who used to say something about a glorious morning that flatters the mountaintops and kisses the meadows. That's all well and good, of course, but have you ever noticed how things can suddenly take a nasty turn?

If you follow these little musings of mine, then you're probably aware that I insist on living happy, joyous, and free, as the saying goes. But damn, if it doesn't often seem that the odds for happy days are slim. It requires constant vigilance and hard work.

Sooner or later, right in the middle of telling your best dinner story to a rapt audience, someone at the head of the table will interrupt to tell you that you've gotten your elbow in the butter dish again.

Take this morning, for instance. It got off to a bracing start, and my heart was filled with birdsong. I expected nothing but happy endings for everyone. And yet, though immersed in the sunshine, I found the mood was mixed--not feeling this way or that. Sort of a dumb, numb mood. And I'll tell you why.

I was faced with a difficult choice. I had to make up my mind. I had to pick one and leave the other behind. You see my predicament? I didn't know which way to turn. It's not an easy task as I'm sure you agree if you've ever had to make a decision of your own.

My predicament is this: It seems that, for some reason, and your guess is as good as mine, Ms. Wonder and I have done magazine work for several years. I know! I mean, what drives people to do such things? And yet, there it is.

So with the slowdown in film production in the old metrop of Wilmington, I'm considering writing an article or two and submitting them to local magazines. The focus would be on the film industry and the current succes of shows like Outer Banks, The Summer I Turned Pretty, The Runarounds, The Waterfront, and all ther others.

I expect journalism of this type, immersed in local industry and popular culture, will be well received, and most of my advisors agree. You may be asking, if it's so hot, what's the struggle about? It's a fair question, and I'll tell you my answer to that, too.

You surely remember Princess Amy--that little almond-shaped cluster of brain cells that bears a striking resemblance to the Red Queen of Wonderland. She's taking my inventory recently, and she thinks as much of me publishing an article in local media as Moses thought of the Children of Israel when he walked in on them worshipping the golden calf.

My defenses are weak when it comes to Amy's work. My weakness goes all the way back to childhood, but there's no need to explain the whole sad story--the lack of moral support as a child, the feeling of loneliness growing up in Shady Grove, etc.

I'm afraid there's no way around it; I'm going to have to finally decide. It's the only way out of my predicament. I'm going to need to submit that article or trash it.

The recommended procedure for dealing with situations like this one is to abandon oneself to the universe. Live life on life's terms and all that rot. But there's the rub; I'm tired of all that abandoning. I want action. I want miracles or magic and I don't care which. I need something that's going to point to absolute answers; I want asurance!

My story is an old one, really. Shakespeare told us that a lack of resolve is understandable when, as he put it, "Between acting on a dreadful thing and the first motion...blah, blah, blah...man...suffers the nature of an insurrection." His words, not mine.

So, here I go again. I have my marching orders. It's a plan that I can follow. I don't want to, but I will because it's the next step, and that's all anyone can do. Is there any more to life than that?

No Pine Needles Today!

It was one of those 'Full glorious mornings', the kind that 'flatter the mountain-tops', and 'kissing with golden face the meadows'. Ms. Wonder often expresses it that way. I don't know how she comes up with these things, but I love to hear her say it. She should start a blog.

Despite all the sun's flattering and kissing, I wasn't happy. I woke up feeling like I'd been abducted by Klingons, poked, prodded, and then disassembled and poorly reassembled, and then dropped from a considerable height to see if I was still functioning.

It wasn't surprising; I'd suffered from environmental allergies for weeks. First came pollen--flowering plants, followed by pine pollen, followed by live oak and Spanish moss. By the end of the first two weeks, I'd had the maximum dose for the average adult, and now I was just a teeny bit panicky, thinking my real problem might be hiding underneath the allergies, like anchovies in the Caesar salad.

I had no energy; I felt lethargic--too peaky to even go outside. I couldn't walk down the hallway without careening off the walls. I decided it was all too much, so I took it to a higher power. Fortunately, Ms. Wonder maintains an open-door policy at all times.

I wasted no time complaining, squawking, and grumbling about how bad I felt. I'm not certain that I didn't kvetch. I'm not at all sure what the word means, but I suspect it's appropriate, given how often I hear the word used in similar circumstances. Hell, I even had a headache, something not part of the standard issue for me. 

As I walked to the bedroom, I thought about how I'd been the picture of health only two weeks ago, and now I had one foot in the deep underground microbiome. It was a grating thought, leaving me with a feeling of loss, the same effect that Neil Young's Sugar Mountain has on me.

Suddenly, something popped! And it wasn't my ears this time! I remembered how it felt in third grade to be sat on by Butch Mason and have pine straw shoved into my face as the whole degrading spectacle was witnessed by my schoolmates. Those memories brought back my life-long motto, 'I will not eat pine needles!' 

The thought was invigorating, if that's the word I'm looking for. Motivating may better express the energy I felt. I decided to shower, shave, and get dressed. Once I'd done that and gotten out in the sunshine and fresh air, I felt on top of the world with a rainbow 'round my shoulder. I was the old Genome again--the one I knew so well, and it lasted throughout the day.

Before bed, I mentally replayed my day and realized that the antidote that turned my day around was the decision to make the best of the moment. After all, what else was there to do?

The magic antidote, turning darkness into light, was having the right attitude. Will it always work that way? Who knows? But it's worth trying again. Perhaps you've had a similar experience that you can share in the comments. For now, the answer, my friend, is blowing in the autumn wind. 

Gaga for ELO

It was a beautiful day in the South Front District as I cruised along 17th Street, heading for the Memorial Bridge—the gateway to Brunswick and to my very own Ms. Wonder, who was waiting at home to show me the latest photo of the SS United States. 

I stopped at Port City Java, and when I returned to my car, “Calling America” by Electric Light Orchestra was playing on Sirius XM’s 80s on 8. I distinctly remember thinking, “Wow, I’m not a big fan of ELO, but this is a really cool song. Maybe I should listen to one of their albums later; maybe I’ve been missing something.”

As the song ended, Alan Hunter—the disc jockey and one of MTV’s original video jockeys—came on and said, “Must be something in the water. People are going gaga for ELO. The reason I say that: I got a flurry of emails while that song played saying, ‘More ELO.’”

What a coincidence, right? Seconds before, I appreciated an ELO song like never before, and then Alan commented on a mysterious surge of interest in the band. Is it really just a coincidence?

After hearing Alan’s comments, I thought it would make a fun blog post. Later, when I sat down to write, I realized I couldn’t remember exactly what Alan had said. Then I wondered if, earlier this morning, I'd stopped streaming SiriusXM on my phone at a point in the program before Alan’s ELO comments. If so, I might be able to hear his actual words.

I picked up my phone and hit play. And—drum roll—Alan Hunter’s segment began right then. I know! I’m as surprised as you are. Well, actually, I suspect you think I’m making this up, so you may not be surprised. 

Still, it’s a true story, and I don’t believe it was coincidental. For years, I’ve been convinced, like Alan said, that something in the universe is running the show. So I’m going to finish my story. Here are Alan’s actual words:

“Must be something in the water. People are going gaga for ELO. The reason I say that: I got five emails here from people saying, ‘More ELO.’ 

"I don’t know, it’s a mystery why things trend, or why I get five emails. I get millions of emails—or realistically, ten or eleven. I think something in the universe may be running the show now. Maybe it’s aliens, here among us this weekend.

"My name is Alan Hunter, a little overly pumped on this Friday. It’s the weekend after all. We can lay our burdens down, and we can let the aliens in, and perhaps enjoy the probing.”

That's the way it happened on this Friday in mid-October. We can all lay our burdens down and enjoy the weekend, knowing the aliens have everything under control. 

I must add, at Princess Amy’s insistence, that it’s not aliens who are in control; she maintains that she alone sits at the control console. She wouldn’t let me rest if I didn’t make that clear.

Princess Amy and I wish you a wonderful weekend, filled with goodness and light. May all your probing be pleasant.

Captains Log: Coastal Odyssey

Today’s mission was simple: acquire three pots for the citronella plants in the front garden. Today’s obstacle was a familiar one: the Fate Sisters find nothing more entertaining than watching humans make carefully detailed plans.

"We need to leave earlier than you think," Princess Amy announced, materializing in my imagination as I contemplated my third cup of coffee. She had assumed her Captain Kirk persona, seated in the commander's chair on the bridge of the recently retooled and refitted Wind Horse, which is now a Voyager-class mindship named GMS Coastal Voyager.

"It's Tuesday morning. The roads will be clear," I countered, confident in my knowledge of the traffic patterns in all of coastal Carolina.

Amy's eye roll was so profound, I was concerned they might get stuck. "There's construction on Highway 17," she said. "Plus, it’s a holiday weekend and tourist activity is frantic.”

“You must factor in the Shallotte Delay Zone.” This comment came from Chief Engineer Anxiety, somewhere in the engine room of my brain, which I believe is near the hippocampus.

"The what now?” I asked because I’d never heard of this delay zone anomaly.

"The twenty-minute delay trying to get onto Main Street in Shallotte,” Amy said. “It's a metaphysical conundrum described by math too complicated for you to understand."

I dismissed her insult with the cheerful arrogance that has preceded every disaster since the little tyrant entered my life. "We're just making a quick run to Home Depot for flower pots," I said. "Two hours, tops."

As predicted by my imaginary oracle, Highway 17 south soon became more parking lot than thoroughfare. Traffic congealed like chilled molasses around the exit for Shallotte. 

“Chief,” barked Amy, "traffic report!"

“Take the Cousins Beach exit and navigate the back roads,” he responded.

"Civietown Road will be our best option," I said to no one in particular.

"Absolutely not!" Amy responded. "Stone Chimney Road is clearly superior."

"Based on what evidence?"

"Statistical analysis of traffic patterns that are in Lt. Reason’s report.

“That’s not true,” I said. Reason doesn’t analyze traffic patterns.

“No, but I've been mentally analyzing them since we left Waterford."

"Civietown is more direct," I insisted.

"Stone Chimney has fewer tractors per mile,” Reason quipped from the life support station.

"Also," Amy added, and then launched into an elaborate conspiracy theory involving the Department of Transportation and alien technology. Her argument was so absurdly compelling that I missed my turn at Civietown Road. 

"You did that on purpose," I said.

"I merely provided a conversational distraction. You're the one driving."

Instead of backtracking, Amy suggested an alternative route. "It's almost noon, and Snarkies has those fish tacos you like. We could lunch at Cousins Beach, then swing back to Home Depot."

"That's completely out of the way, and I need to get to the hardware store soon."

"Yeah, but studies show that shopping on a full stomach improves decision-making by approximately seventy-three percent."

"You made that up."

"All statistics are made up at some point," she countered philosophically.

"I need to get back to planting the herbs before the afternoon heat."

"It's low tide," Amy observed, glancing at her phone. "Perfect for finding a few seashells for Ms. Wonder's collection. You know how she loves them."

I conjured up an image of Ms. Wonder's delighted face when presented with beach treasures. It was a powerful negotiating tool, and Amy had taken full advantage of it. 

Cousin's Beach in late morning was a study in blues and golds; the ocean stretched like hammered silver under a cloudless sky. I immediately felt the release of tension that always comes with the first breath of salt air. I became lost in the timeless ritual of beachcombing when a text message jolted me back to the present.

"Have you become one with the hardware store? Should I send provisions?" Ms. Wonder inquired.

Reality crashed in like a rogue wave. "Slight detour," I texted back. "Acquired shells. Heading to Home Depot now. ETA fifteen minutes."

Minutes later, navigating the narrow aisles, we found the garden section, but the planters were nowhere to be found.

Another text from Ms. Wonder: "Success?"

"The quarry remains elusive."

“Have you considered that plastic pots are equally effective?"

"Blasphemy," I replied.

After thirty minutes of fruitless searching, we approached the service desk oracle. Larry answered all questions about hardware, sitting behind the counter, reading glasses perched on the end of his nose.

“Red wood planter boxes," I said. "Ten-inch. The square ones with the brass bands."

"Don't carry those anymore."

My gardening dreams withered like unwatered seedlings. “Can you suggest a reasonable alternative?”

"In the midst of chaos, there is opportunity," he offered. Did I mention that Larry is a disciple of Sun Tzu? “Ceramic, not wooden, but functional nonetheless," he said.

"Oh, I don't know about ceramic for my plants."

"The greatest victory is that which requires no battle,” he said. 
We found the pots exactly where he indicated: ceramic pots in various sizes, glazed in colors ranging from earthy brown to cobalt blue. 

"These will look better anyway," Amy observed. "The blue ones match the kitchen window trim. They’re not what you wanted, but they’re exactly what we need.”

“The Rolling Stones said it better,” I replied.

Ms. Wonder was in the garden when we arrived home, an appreciative smile playing at her lips as I proudly displayed both the blue ceramic pots.

And so, what began as a simple two-hour mission to acquire three flower pots transformed into a four-hour odyssey involving imaginary starship crews, metaphysical delay zones, and seashell detours. 

Princess Amy, channeling Captain Kirk from the command center of my limbic system, had orchestrated the entire operation to get me into just enough chaos to remember that the journey matters more than the destination. 

Captain’s Log Supplemental:

Mindfleet Academy trains her captains well, and as Mindfleet Captain First Class, I knew all along that sometimes you don't get what you want, but if you try sometimes, you might find exactly what you need—in this case, blue ceramic pots that match the kitchen trim, and a pocketful of shells for Ms. Wonder. 

Once again, mission success was ensured by guiding Ambassador Genome to decisions he thought were his own. This is a tactic that has proven so successful, I plan to submit it to Mindfleet as the Secondary Directive.