Emergency Backup Mistress of the Greater SODU

I woke up yesterday with an intense pang of joy, and after a little investigation, determined that it was only hypomania and no need to redecorate the house or change the wardrobe. Still I was in oojah-com-spiff mood when I entered the salle de bains and found that escapee from the pasha's harem, Ms Wonder, already there.

Have I told you about the Wonder? Surely I have. What a woman! Those pouty lips, those emerald green eyes, that strawberry blond hair.

When I wished her a happy MLK day, she gave me a certain look. Not the response I expected and I counted it as quite a slice of fruitcake, let me tell you. I realize that she's recovering from surgery and suffers some discomfort yet but still, I was somewhat disappointed. 

I didn't expect unbridled happiness. I know the Russian soul, burdened as it is by centuries of angst, is not prepared for unbridled happiness, and so it was probably for the best that the morning played out the way it did. 

The Renaissance district of Durham, near Jordan Lake, rarely gets the praise that's lavished on the rest of the city by the Top-10-Places-to-Live media. Probably due to the glitter of high-end retail. 

Despite the surface appearance, a rich tapestry of subculture makes the Renaissance a great place to be on any given morning and especially a holiday morning. 

Out in the bright sunshine, I began to feel the joy that attends a Monday holiday, and after the usual qigong tryst, I entered the doors of Dulce Cafe with a light heart and a tra-la-la on my lips. 

"Grande dark," said the barista placing my usual on the counter. This was not the desired tone. Too cool, too indifferent, too uncaring. I'd had my quota of indifference and this was just all wrong.

The barista was, no surprise, Amy Normal, emergency backup mistress of the greater South Durham night, and her attitude of barely tolerable disdain for the clientele is due to her fighting the forces of darkness all night, applying complex eye makeup and facial hardware each morning, and the maintenance of her forbidden romance with the manga-haired, love monkey (her words not mine), Foo Dog.

"Good morning, Amy," I said in measured tones, and I meant it to sting.

"It may be good for you," she said, "but you don't have to open this cafe after a night of being stalked by the ninja vampire cat that threatens the Renaissance, do you?"

I must admit that this new motif did present an interesting diversion but I didn't want to give her the satisfaction of knowing that just yet. 

"There is that," I said.

"If you only knew how fragile the defenses are that keep the general public from general disaster, you would cry like a baby and wet your pants," she said with a hard-edged eye.

"Oh, I don't know," I said nonchalantly, "it may not be as bad as it sounds when you consider that the general public can be so very annoying with little or no provocation."

She started, spilling a customer's skinny, mocha something-or-other and then stared at me with the look of someone caught feeding Froot Loops to her betas.

"I wish I'd said that," she said with a thoughtful air and I immediately logged into SuperBetter and gave myself 10 points for meaningful human contact. There is more good than bad in each moment if only we take a deep breath and look for it.

Witch of Woodcroft

The Native Grounds Cafe sits just off Fayetteville Road in the Southpoint District of Durham and I had just opened the door to enter when I heard a familiar voice say, "So kindly don't speak rot to me." I was amazed to hear this voice because I'd not enjoyed the company of the Emperor of South Durham since before the holiday apocalypse. He spotted me as I entered and waved a patronizing hand.

"Ah, Genome, so here your are," he said.

I thought about denying it but couldn't think of a substantial argument.

"Come in and have a crumpet," he said.

"Thanks," I said but then immediately shook the bean for the barista who is fairly new and probably not yet fully cognizant of the Emperor's style.

"Did you bring that bag?"

"No, sorry, I forgot," I said.

"Well of all the muddle-headed asses," he said adding something about 'Others abide our question, thou are free,' or something like that. Meant nothing to me but perhaps you are familiar with the gag. Then he dismissed me with a weary gesture and called for another Earl Grey before turning back to his waiting audience.

I sat at a table with the Enforcer and Island Irv, as is my custom, and enjoyed a cup of the hot and strengthening until the Duck Man came in strewing the flu like tattered remnants of a bad dream. I decided it was time to head for the horizon and was in the middle of see-you-latering when I heard that familiar voice again.

"Pushing off?"

"I thought I would," I said.

"Can I rely on you not to bungle that job?" he demanded and I nodded in reply. I'm sure you know how it is when the circs demand tactful surrender.

"Tell me in your own words what you're to do," he said.

"Go the the sporting goods store--"

"--on Chapel Hill Road," he said.

"Right, on Chapel Hill Road," I said.

"--and get the large duffle bag. Now buzz off. The door is behind you. Grasp the handle and push."

Weaker men, no doubt, would have been sickened by having their morning cut into like this but there is a tough, bulldog strain in the Genomes that has often caused comment. I stood firm, took three qigong breaths, and walked out into the morning with a light heart, happy to have it in me to perform this little act of duty. Then something buzzed in my pocket causing me to retrieve my personal communication device and look at the screen.

I don't know if you were one of the gang that followed the most recent tale of high suspense and international intrigue involving the adjacent kingdom of the United States but, if you were, then you may recall that the events began with a tsunami of text messages.

At first glance, my phone now had about two dozen of the things waiting for me but closer inspection revealed only three. They all bore the same signature--Gladys, Witch of Woodcroft.

The first read:
'Come at once. Serious rift in fabric of universe.'

The second:
'Received no reply to msg come at once. Come at once. Reply.'

The third:
'What the hell! Why no answer. Must I cast a spell? What is wrong with people these days? Have all the decent men been caught up in the Mayan Rapture? Come at once.'

Again, I remained calm. Three deep qigong breaths and I was centered and ready for all that life might send my way.

I typed a reply and hit the send button:
'Sorry. Static and whatnot. Did you say whiskey or whiskers? Reply.'

Reach Out

I arrived at the Den of the Secret Nine before any of the other members of the Organization. I wasn't surprised because traffic can be formidable in the Renaissance during the season of commercial orgy. I sat at the regular table and before I'd disconnected myself from iPhone life support, the Duck Man entered and sat next to me.

"I will tell you my story," he said. "I will tell you my story and you will sympathize because I can tell by looking at your face that your are sympathetic. You have a sympathetic face. My story is the story of a man's tragedy. It is the story of a blighted life. It is the story of a woman who would not forgive. It is the story..."

"I have to leave at 8:30," I said, "and if it's the story about the monkey and the nuts, I've heard it and it's vulgar."

"Sympathy," he said. "A man who has suffered the tragedy that I have suffered, requires sympathy."

"Let your days be full of joy. Love the child that holds your hand. Let you wife delight in your embrace. For these are the concerns of man," I said, taking liberties with the Epic of Gilgamesh.

"I have no wife and I have lost the woman who means all the world to me," he said.

"Listen," I said.

"Sure," he said taking a sip of his coffee.

"I walk the face of the earth like an ant walks on the surface of water," I began.

"Do ants walk on water," he asked?

I raised a hand as this was no time for side issues.

"As if the slightest misstep might send me straight through the surface and into the depths below. Not the depths of the ocean but the inner-most depths of the mind. It's scary down there."

"What's so scary about it?"

"Well," I said, "just yesterday when I was thinking about the rising tide of heinous skulduggery and political weasel-osity in the adjoining kingdom of the United States and how much the people need compassion and good will, I cleared my throat to sound the call to sanity when a cargo-van of fear, grief and anger came careening around a corner of my mind and plowed through a row of garbage cans. The driver came out flailing and swinging and shouting."

"You don't see that everyday," he said.

"No you don't," I said.

"But so what?"

"Well," the driver was me," I said.

"Ah," he said. "I gotta go."

"Have a nice Mayan apocalypse," I called after him because I had not meant to offend.

Work In Progress

My mother keeps the Big Book of Death. When I say she keeps it, I mean that she maintains it by entering the names of the recently departed and the dates of their death. The 49 days of Bardo begin with the date she enters in the book.

I was first introduced to Death in 1964 when my sister Delores died. I didn't realize then that I would come to have a personal relationship with him but our paths have crossed several times since then. The last time I saw Death was a little over three years ago when I was driving through the intersection of Woodcroft and Fayetteville and my car was struck full-on by a car rushing through a red traffic light.

"GOOD MORNING," he said, in a friendly enough though slightly raspy and very heavy voice, like a lead anchor, dragged across a cement driveway.

"Do you think this is funny?" I demanded and yes I meant it to sting. I have known this Death for many years but he is not a friend.

"IT'S MY JOB," he said, "AND IT'S THE ONLY THING THAT GIVES ME PURPOSE." Then in a slightly different tone, as though he were a next-door neighbor, he asked, "ARE YOU WELL?"

"Well? Am I well? I may have been well until a tenth of a second ago when that DART bus decided that 'twere well I was smacked into."

"YOU MEAN, IF 'TWERE DONE, 'TWERE WELL IT 'TWERE DONE QUICKLY," he said as though he liked to get it right. And then, still seeming to look for the lighter side, he rephrased, "IF 'TWERE SMACKED INTO, 'TWERE WELL IT 'TWERE SMACKED INTO WITH NOBS ON." He didn't laugh but he did grin, although he really doesn't have a choice about grinning.

"Not impressed," I said. "Not impressed with your knowledge of Shakespeare and not impressed with your humor." Remember, I was not shying away from stinging. When you're face to face with death, you have little to lose.

"IT WAS A FORD ECLIPSE," he said, "NOT AN AUTOBUS."

That's what he said. Autobus. I remember thinking how odd it was. I let it go because things were progressing rapidly and suddenly I was standing before a pair of very large, very solid-looking doors--I'm sure they were oaken, not oak, but oaken--with a pair of brass rings large enough for basketballs to fit through.

"What's that?" I said.

"I THINK YOU KNOW," he said.

"Death's doors," I said. "I'm not opening them," and I said it emphatically.

"BUT ONCE YOU ASKED TO ENTER," he protested.

"That was a long time ago. A lot has happened since then."

"IT'S INTERESTING," he said, "HOW HUMAN BEINGS HOLD ONTO THE SILLY IDEA OF OVERCOMING ADVERSITY WHEN THEY KNOW FULL WELL THAT THEY ARE SKIDDING DOWN A SLIPPERY SLOPE TOWARD AN OPEN MANHOLE. YET THEY CONTINUE TO LIVE THEIR LIVES LAUGHING AT THEIR OWN TRAGEDIES. IMMENSELY INTERESTING."

"That amuses you, does it?" I asked.

"I DON'T HAVE EMOTIONS," he said.

At that moment, my car stopped spinning and I began to slip back into consciousness.

"THE FUTURE HAS CHANGED FOR YOU AGAIN," Death said, "BUT WE WILL MEET AGAIN SOON ENOUGH."

"Are you alright?" the Parkwood EMS guy asked and when my eyes focused he was looking into the broken window of my car.

It was a couple of days later that I remembered meeting Death in that second and a half that my car spun around the intersection. My life hasn't been the same by a long shot. Sometimes good and sometimes not. But always a welcome gift of Time and Place on the right side of the grass.

Life comes fast and hard. So does Death. Be ready for anything. Fierce Qigong!

Take a Walk on the South Side

Mornings, I walk. After an early caffeine binge with the enforcers, I pace out the southend of the city one step at a time moving as quickly as my back will allow. I tell people the walk was recommended by my therapist, and there is that, but I really walk to get a feel for what it's going to be like to be the Genome for the day. The walk is quick but it's mindful.

I like the people I see out and about in the early morning. They are people with a purpose and I wonder what it would be like to be a purposeful person. I try to have purpose but no matter how hard I try, it seems that I am living just to be here. Time and Place. That's the stuff I see as important. I'd like to think that what I do is important but, there again, it seems the universe has it's own agenda. I'm just suppose to do something, almost anything, and that seems to be enough. More than that, it seems to be everything.

I don't expect you to agree. I'm not a fool. I know that everyone else in the entire world lives life with the idea that it has meaning and that they have purpose. I'm happy for them. I admire them.

I watch the barista from Trinidad who makes the little faces and hearts and fern leaves in the lattes and I wonder if it would be possible for someone without purpose in their life to do that. Even though I feel that I don't know what I'm doing, it feels somehow, and this is the salient point, that I have been chosen for the role. I am chosen to blunder through life hoping that something meaningful will happen.

This morning, pacing the south side mindfully and feeling the anger--and the pain in the upper back--I stopped on the sidewalk and began doing Swimming Dragon, followed by Parting the Clouds and then finishing with Embracing Heaven and Earth.

I was near a storm drain, and that mundane piece of municipal infrastructure became a metaphor for the neural networks in the shadowy region of my brain that support my depression. My qigong moves became fierce--my way of shouting down the storm drain of the mind, "I'm chosen! So don't mess with me, Amy!"

When I stood up a dozen people were moving around me doing whatever they do at this hour. Upper-dressed young women going to work at Nordstrom's; corporate ID-tag bearers heading to Panera's for coffee and bagels; cargo pant-ed leaf blowers. All looking at me.

"Had to be done," I said.

They all nodded and continued on their way because they all know what it's like to be messed with. And they instinctively knew that I was yelling in the right direction. Down the storm drain.