Keeping a Calm Mind

I hurried to Native Grounds after reading Amy Normal's text about deep dark depression, hopelessness and WOE. She was tending coffee bar when I arrived and my dark roast was steaming in the cup at the X in front of the counter.

"My heart has been torn asunder and I am forced to confront the truth that my manga-haired, love monkey is a douche nozzle who has sullied my innocence and whatnot and cast me aside like an unmatched glove." This came from the Amy's lips even before I could ask the question.

"Drama much?" I asked.

She called me a name that the contract with my ISP prohibits me from repeating here. Then she seemed to grow calmer and said, "It's the only way I have of describing my angst and dark inspirations."

"It's not a vampire thing," I said. "It sounds more like a Goth thing."

"If you weren't about the only person I know who offers hope to the hopeless I'd drain you to dust and sweep you into the cat litter box. Does that sound vampire enough for you?"

"Alright," I said. "I get it. So what has happened between you and Foo Dog."

"He's dumped me," she said, "and all because my vampire passions compelled me to frisk with another man."

"Well, there you go," I said. "You can't expect otherwise."

"Don't you read vampire lit?" she said. "A vamp's love minion is d-e-v-o-t-e-d, hello. They understand as  no one else understands that the dark powers cause us to be total romance sluts. When a man says something romantic, we're like, 'Please, sir, let me turn down my IQ and offer you this moist, supple body that seems to have lost its way.' I had not choice in the matter given what he said."

"Which was?"

"He said that all he wanted to do was save the woman he loves and that, as far as he's concerned, that's the same thing as saving the whole world."

"And that did it for you?" I said.

"It's Valentine's Day. I would have done him on a bed of carpet tacks."

I mused this over, turning it this way and that before speaking. "You know, Amy, I don't think this is an apocalyptic event. I think that given time Foo will forgive you and the two of you will renew business at the old stand."

"It's more complicated than that. The romance agent was Kyle, you know Kyle, he's the property of the Countess."

"Oh now I see. This does get tricky. You're suppposed to be the backup Countess, aka Mistress of the Greater SoDu Night, and now you've made a move on her man. Yes, this could be complicated. Wheels within wheels no doubt. Yes, probably wheels within wheels."

"Something like that," she said, "and now she's on her way over here to talk to me and I'm totally puckered about it."

"You have confrontation issues?"

"Me? I'm insincere. I just wear the mask because when you roll up all wild in somebody's face like a mad woman, hair on fire and all guns blazing, no one's going to mention that your roots are showing."

"Insincere?"

"Did I say insincere? I meant insecure."

"Well, I don't see that you need to worry. You only need to face her with a calm mind and you will be ready for anything."

"That's what I've heard you say but, damn it, it's not so easy."

"Oh, it's simple really. All you need to do is move slowly and think of nothing but your breath."

"You mean like slo-mo?"

"Exactly. Just move slowly and think of your breath. Give it a try now is my suggestion."

"You don't need to think about breathing," she said. "It's automatic."

"It's autonomic," I said, "and when I said think about breathing, I meant pay attention to your breathing."

She began to move as though suspended in molasses, turning this way and that, reaching for cups and things on the counter.

"This is going to calm my mind?" she said.

"Don't talk," I said. "Move you hands around and focus your eyes on your hands. That's it. Keep it up for a couple of minutes."

At that moment, the front door opened and a young woman walked into the cafe. A young, lisom woman with a vivid shade of red hair, emerald eyes, and a walk that reminded me of a burlap sack full of wild cats. It was the Countess. I turned to look at Amy who had her back to the door and was at the moment refilling the cream pitcher in one-quarter time.

"Amy," I said. She turned and saw the Countess at the exact moment that everyone else in the shop saw the Countess. I don't know if you've ever had the experience of being in the presence of, well, of just being in the presence. It may be the same if you happen to be with the President or the Pope or the Buddha. That's the way it was in Native Grounds at that moment. Everyone was in the presence of the Countess. I remember thinking that here was a woman who had practiced making an entrance.

The Shopping List

"I owe you an apology," she said. "I thought the reason you were having trouble finding the right business partner was that you were making bad choices and sabotaging yourself."

I still can't believe that she got out of the starting blocks with that remark. Bad choices? Sabotaging myself? Well, it just goes to show that not even the quality elite, like Ms. Wonder, is perfect.

"I didn't realize the full extent of what you're up against. I knew Durham women were high strung, but I had no idea they were such vicious little sharks."

"Well," I said, "I'm not sure that can be said about all of them."

"Okay, just the ones you seem to know. Don't get me wrong," she said, "I've bailed out of the middle of a business deal before. I once walked out on a hunting party in South Texas because my client sat with a tub of popcorn between his legs and, when not feeding his face, pointed and laughed at the members of the hunting party every time they missed a quail. But that's another story. Did they have everything?"

If the above spot of dialogue seems confusing to you then you can imagine how my mind ached as I tried to get around it. I felt that the honest woman had forgotten some of her lines. But then suddenly, in that strange way it sometimes happens, I remembered something that allowed me to catch up with her.

On the previous day this Ms Wonder had asked me to pick up some items at the Scrap Exchange, in the Golden Belt district, which she assured me would come in handy--the items, not the Golden Belt, although I'm sure it too comes in handy. 

The couple working the service desk that day put me strongly in mind of people who raise Cocker Spaniels. Not sure why. I handed them my shopping list and they searched for me, digging through boxes and cartons of the discarded treasure stacked along the walls. They seemed pleased to have a customer who had specific needs and wasn't just browsing for something wacky.

"They had everything," I told her, "but what I'd like to know is what I'm supposed to do with this junk."

"First," she said, "you write a suggestion for a new meditation class on a puzzle, break it up, and stuff the pieces into an envelope. When your prospective partners open them, they wonder if they've gotten a message from a psycho but then they see your name on the outside so they put the puzzle together. Then they see the suggestion as coming from a very creative guy."

"I don't know, Poopsie, it all sounds very high school to me."

"That's why it works. It makes a woman feel that she's back in high school receiving a valentine from a secret admirer. Of course, you probably never got valentines from secret admirers so you can't appreciate what I'm saying."

"Hey!"

"Just kidding," she said. "Oh, I thought of another good idea."

"I can't wait," I said.

"You'll love this one. Remember that online service that does business cards?"

"I don't use business cards," I said.

"You'll use these business cards. Order a box with nothing but your name on them in Art Deco type. Blue font on cream card-stock. Then when you hand out your cards, your prospective business partner will say, 'But your contact information isn't on here.' Then you write your number on the card. That tells her that you don't do business with just anyone. Only certain people meet your standards and she's one of them."

"A lot of people prefer to tweet," I said.

"Too chatty," she said, "Stay low-tech and it will set you apart."

"Ms. Wonder," I said resorting to the formal address, "No offense, but I don't know where you're coming from with this. I can't picture people in Houston, Texas handing out understated cream business cards."

"You're right about that," she said. "Most people in Houston introduce themselves by honking the horns of their pickup trucks. But I've spent a lot of time in Charleston, South Carolina, and let me tell you they have some slick..." 

I can't repeat the rest of her statement and as far as I was concerned, it was pure drivel. It had all gotten right by me. I began to wonder if that marvelous brain of hers had gone kaput. I thought it best to move on to another subject.

"So what am I supposed to do with this Ouija board?" I asked.

"I haven't figured that out yet," she said, "I just thought you should get one."

The Best of South Durham

If you want a great cup of brew-haha in the South Durham district, you go to Bean Traders in Homestead Market. Remember the smell of coffee in the morning when you first learned that you love coffee? That's Bean Traders. Have you ever had the experience of wanting something so badly, that you got out of bed, got dressed, and drove through the night looking for that something? That's Bean Traders. Casual coffee imbibers beware. Once you've had Bean Traders Bijou or Bodhi blend, you will not condone anything else.

Bean Traders

Bean Traders is so good that when Starbucks launched it's assault on the SoDu coffee market, it lasted three years right across the street from Bean Traders--you could see the front door of each establishment from the front door of the other. In the end, Starbucks surrendered, closed it's doors and begged the Village at Bean Traders to forgive them their inconsiderate behavior. They forgave. The Village is like that. Their loyalty is fierce and they show no mercy but they hold no grudges.

If you want the best cajun food and zydeco, blues and Nawlen's jazz, you go to Papa Mojo's Roadhouse in Greenwood Commons. Have you ever sucked crawfish heads? You will at PM's Roadhouse. Have you ever eaten gator tail? You will at Papa M's R. Have you ever danced in the parking lot under a full moon and not cared who your dance partner was? You will on Wednesday open mic night. Laissez les bon temps rouler? Yeah, baby, heaped up, pressed down and running over.

Papa Mojo's Roadhouse

And where do you find hot, fierce, intentional living? Where do you find examples of people living fully as human beings, without restriction and limitation? That would be Native Grounds. Many have moved on to other chapters and they are sorely missed by the remnant but, on any given morning you will still find Island Irv, the Enforcer, the Duck Man, Inspector Rivera, the Genome, Amy Normal and the rest of the cast, enjoying the good stuff and doing the best they can to ignore the bad.

Not everyone wants to ride a wild wind and dance with the devil on Saturday night. Some just want a little garden to bloom and fruit in season. That's cool. But for me, sometimes the best I can do is stay tethered and wait for the wind to settle. What would I do without the SoDu? I do hope it survives the current infestation of vampire kittens.

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.'