One Sweet Day

This morning I woke to feel that I was sitting in a blue bird's nest--sweet song, clear skies, and all the fixings. I was without question in mid-season form.

"Wonder," I said to the honest woman, "I feel in mid-season form."

I never expect Ms. Wonder to take anything I say big and she did not surprise me this morning. She didn't stop plucking her brows when she expressed her opinion but the opinion she expressed was that it was good. These descendants of Russian nobility do not let excitement move them from their center, remaining balanced at all times.

The morning had taken on a decidedly pro-Genome bias. And yet, you will hardly credit it, but when I emerged from the shower, Princess Amy cast her veil over my eyes. The bright sparkly thoughts were "layer'ed o'er with the pale cast of thought." as Lupe sometimes puts it.

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

Who was that Roman guy who wrote about the  Great Web? How did it go? "If ought befall you," I think it began and then went on to say, "Know that it is all part of the Great Web."

That's how I see my depression. It's all part of the Great Web, although, in this case, it's a web of Serotonin Re-uptake Inhibitors and whatnot. Marcus Aurelius, that's the perp! I knew I'd think of his name. 

Now, where was I? Ah, right, I was about to say that Princess Amy is not the boss of me! I have the magic sword of fierce intent. And it was fierce intent that pulled me from the soup this morning.

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

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

Alla ka zam! The sky cleared, the sun shone, and the birds began singing on key. Not in the outside world, which remained rainy and gray, but it was inside where the weather cleared. If not actually proof of a Universe that works to my good, then a reasonable enough facsimile.

I may never be completely depression-free and I may have to feel those blue emotions to some extent, but still, I don't have to let them steal my song. I can ride above the clouds of depression on the back of the spirit horse of fierce intent. And so I say, "Not today, Amy! I eat no pine needles today!"

Big Night for Surprises

At 2:00 AM this morning, I was awakened by the sound of someone in the hallway outside our hotel room in an altercation with a grandfather clock. 

Those who know me best describe me as a mild mannered meditation instructor. One who responds mindfully rather than reacting emotionally. This weekend, however, there was another spirit in residence in the Genome frame. I am, for the time being, a recovering herniated-disker, rocket-fueled with vicodin and methocarbomol.

It occurred to me, in my chemically induced hyper-mania, that there is a tide in the affairs of men, which taken at the flood leads on to fortune or, if not fortune, then possibly sleep. I decided that I should get out of bed, get into some gentlemanly upholstery, and see if I could help settle the dispute.

When I found the combatants, the clock was clearly ahead on points and would possible be named victorious by default. The perp, if you don't mind my calling him that, was leaning toward the door to his room, with his forehead on the door as though to keep his balance, while trying to scan his smart phone.

With each downward scan of his phone, his head moved away from the door a few inches and then returned with a thud, causing him to voice his objections with loud ejaculations of words he heard on Jersey Shore, probably. We Genomes are quick on the uptake and it was for me the work of a moment to assess the situation.

"Good morning," I said.

At the sound of my voice, he stopped scanning and stood back from the door staring at it as though expecting it to speak again. It didn't.

"Excuse me," I said and this time he turned toward me. The look he wore indicated that he was still not sure if it was the Genome that spoke or the door. When he finally responded to my greeting, he proved himself to be decidedly not in the market for Genomes. He disapproved of my presence.

I quickly calmed him with a few well chosen words and if I exaggerated a bit, what of it? My back was hurting and I needed sleep to knit up the raveled whatnot--you may possibly remember that it was 2:00 in the morning. Now, if my words led him to believe that I was there to assist him, what of it? 

"Keep your guard up," I said, demonstrating with my own hands, "and lead with the left striking just above the belt." He seemed to intuit just where a door would wear a belt. He whirled around and gave the door a passable left jab. It was an amazing thing to see. "Fierce gigong!" I cried, urging him on.

Just as the action was getting good, the door suddenly opened and a goggly-eyed young woman appeared and added a few choice words to our conversation. It was immediately clear that this room was the wrong room and it's rightful occupant was surprised to find a stranger banging on his door. 

So too was the banger surprised. I myself was surprised making three of in all. It was a big night for surprises. 

Surprises don't last, however, and in only a few short minutes, no more than 20 or 30, we got the whole thing disentangled, found our respective rooms and, presumably, were able to knit up those ravelled sleeves in a few winks. Napoleon would have been proud of the way I handled it. Don't you think so?

An Aunt's Curse

In a previous episode...

The text message I received was from my Great Aunt Maggie, the Supreme Mother of the Genome clan, instructing me to ferry my god-niece Lupe from the old metrop of Durham, where she attends the School of Science and Math, to Shady Grove Village, my ancestral home and the domain of my mother's family.

The Village Outfitters as seen from the river.

I responded by saying that my calendar was full and that I couldn't get away just now. I promised to get back to her in a few days. She then replied with a great deal of claptrap about an aunt's curse that included many variations of, If you know what's good for you. 

Minutes later, I received a text from Lupe, the 11 year old geezer mentioned in Aunt Maggie's text. On my way up. Don't make me wait!!! Did I mention that she's 11?

I opened the door and there, standing on my threshold, was a half-pint version of the maximum adult dose of young hipster. She wore spider-crushing combat boots in a sort of silvery-black color with red socks. A plaid shirt in red and black was tied around denim shorts and a long-sleeved black t-shirt.  A wide-brimmed black hat with a red band was pushed back from her face. It was a big morning for red and black.

"Don't make me wait?" I said in a light rebuff.

"I know how you can be," she said as she walked into the room.

"How I can be..." I said with more than a little topspin. "Is this the beginning of a beautiful conversation?"

"Ha!" she said laughing now. "You big jamoke! How are you?" And with those words she threw her arms around my waist and my mood was instantly elevated. She has that power with me. You see, this Lucy Lupe Mankiller and I go way back. Well, we go back 11 years.

"Jamoke?" I said. "I'm not familiar with the term."

She ignored the remark. Her attention seemed to have been arrested, if that's the word. She was scrutinizing my face. She stepped back to get a better view.

"What happened to your caterpillar?"

"Oh, that little thing," I said. "I shaved it this morning. I thought it was time for a new look. You don't see many upper lips these days or chins for that matter. Adds a bit of the debonair don't you think?"

"No," she said.

"No? That's disappointing. I was hoping for your approval. Why don't you like it?"

"Well," she said, "you don't have an upper lip."

"Oh, that does hurt," I said. "It may be thin, Ms Mankiller, but it's there. And we may still be looking for my chin but I do have an upper lip and right now I'm struggling to keep it stiff."

She let that one slide and changed the subject. "I'm happy that you're going to the village with me."

"Don't get your hopes up, young Mankiller, I don't plan to be there for long."

"How long will you be staying then? You'll be there through mid-summer night?"

"Absolutely not," I said. "The last thing I want is to get stuck playing the part of the Fool in the Mid-summer Festival."

"Too bad," she said. "Nothing exciting ever happens in the village," she said and then added the footnote, "unless you're there, of course. You have a special knack for adding interest."

"I know why you say that with that silly grin, young Lupe," I said. "And for the millionth time, it was not my fault."

"Burning down the girl-guides' dormitory?" she said. "How's that not your fault?"

"I've explained repeatedly," I said, "that I had no choice in the matter. I was forced to make a decision on the spur of the moment, and burning the place down was all I could think of to hide the evidence."

"Hmmm," she said with a meditative nod, "Stick with that story if it suits you." And with another big grin she added, "You're like the snake that slithered into Eden and caused all the trouble for Adam and Eve. I can't wait to see what you do for an encore."

"Oh? I don't know," I said in a meditative state of my own, "so you think slithered is the right verb do you?"

Let the Good Times Roll!

If things had gone as planned, not that they ever do, I would have arrived in New Orleans this afternoon. It's Mardi Gras! 

Didn't happen, of course. Cobblestones are the reason. If you are one of the regulars who are never happier than when curled up with one of these postings, then you will remember the cobblestones in Charleston. Uneven and irregular is what they are. Not predictable. The days of our lives are like that. Well, mine are. You may have a different story.

I was expecting a pilgrimage that would take me to the sacred places of my personal mythological landscape. Again, if you're new here, you may want to consult with the Muse, who is, or so I'm told, on top of the heap of those most in the know of Ms Wonder, Princess Amy, Aunt Maggie, and the environs of Crystal Cove, Deep River Village, and Pittsboro.

New Orleans, of course, is none of those places but it is one of the special places in America and if there are secular pilgrimages, then Mardi Gras must surely be one.

I realize that Mardi Gras is marked by Epiphany on one end and Ash Wednesday on the other and the significance of that is not lost when making the argument for a secular pilgrimage. Just as there are two Christmases blended into one--secular and religious--Mardi Gras is a time of celebration and indulgence prior to spiritual commitment, and it's also a time to simply celebrate the joy of being alive.

As I said, I didn't make it to New Orleans. I'm sitting in Dulce Cafe here in Durham. This is the very spot where I made plans for the Mardi Gras pilgrimage, the plans that have once more ganged agley. But I'm thinking of New Orleans and celebrating being alive. 

I hope you can do the same. Laissez les bon temps rouler!