Morning Can Wait

"Are you all right? " asked Ms Wonder.

"I'm fine," I said without hesitation for the probability of being correct is one in two; not bad odds; and the Genome is a sporting man if he is a day.

It's my custom to rise at 5:30 each morning to feed the inside cats first and then the outside, to sluice the torso, fuel the mitochondria, and then hie for the open spaces of Dulce in the Sutton Station. 

To reach the morning, of course, you must practice the proven proverb of early to bed and continue there through the small hours, eventually arriving at the gates of a new dawn. But you probably knew that already.

The past evening found me continually awake with a song playing on the lips of the inner man. Does that happen to you? A song that you can't seem to shut off. If I remember correctly, it was a tune called, "I Have a Motorcar With a Horn That Goes Toot-toot." Couldn't get it out of my head.

I arose long before I arrived at the gates of dawn and by the time  I entered the salle de bain I observed in the mirror a man of my own age but not half as good looking. It was his eyes that arrested the attention. They were reddish in color and sagged beneath. The lazy eyelids were reminiscent of the Italian crooners of my youth.

The fact that I'd heard a young man driving an Audi refer to me the day before as a goggle-eyed turkey allowed me to recognize the man in the looking glass. Few turkeys have goggled as well as this specimen and any turkey would have been proud to do so.

"At least you're clean and sober," I said to the newcomer.

"Why shouldn't I be sober?" he said.

"I'm not complaining," I said, "I'm just saying."

"Having trouble sleeping is one of the textbook symptoms of overdone anxiety brought on by manic mental activity," he said. "Can you suggest anything that might account for it?"

"Well..."

"What? Say it!" he said.

"Is loopiness hereditary?" I said.

"It can be."

"Noses are," I said just to point out that some things are passed along from one to another generation.

"True," he said.

"This beezer of mine has come down through the ages," I said.

"Indeed?"

"My father had it; my grandfather had it; and my great grandfather had it. It accompanied my ancestors to Agincourt," I said.

"Were they at Agincourt?"

I nodded. "They came over with the Conqueror. My ancestor was a nephew."

"Would you say they were all dotty?" he said.

"Possibly," I said. "The Conqueror's sister's kid accepted a governing post in Hungary."

"I see," he said seeming to consider the pros and cons suggested by this fact. "How about your father? Did he have any structural weaknesses?"

"No, Dad was all right. He collected Zane Gray novels."

"He didn't think that he was Zane Gray?"

"No, certainly not," I said.

"That's all right then. Yes, I think I know the source of your problem."

"What?"

"It's the same fate that befalls many people who stand over six feet. You see, the heart has evolved over the millennia to pump blood and oxygen into a head that is five feet, eight inches off the floor. Stands to reason then that a brain so far away from the heart as yours can't possibly function properly."

I suddenly began to see this man in a different light. I didn't like the tone. All wrong as far as I was concerned.

"That's your opinion is it?" I said with more than a little topspin.

"The medical term is sublunary medulla oblongata diathesis."

"You made that up, you goggle-eyed turkey," I said.

"Very possibly," he said, "but I can't stand here arguing with you all day. I have writing to do."

I started visibly at these words. I realized that what he spoke was soothe and it was with me the work of an instant to gather the quills, refill the ink pot, roll up the sleeves and get straight to work. Maybe a nap in the afternoon you think?

Never Give Up

It was a great day in Southport, then it wasn't a great day, but then it was great again. The weather was consistently great; the sun shown, the breezes cooled, the rain showers refreshed. A squall blew in while we were seated on the covered deck of a dockside seafood restaurant and made the experience even more special for we love a big blow on the coast. The place we stayed for the week was nice too and it was located in the yacht basin--within walking distance of the cafe district and the riverfront.

Southport sits at the confluence of the Cape Fear River and the Intracoastal Waterway. From the river-front park, you can look out past Bald Head Island right into the face of the Atlantic. So if the weather was great and the location was great, I can hear you asking, why didn't we have a great time?

If you are a follower of this blog, you're aware that I have strong emotional attachments to my animals. I'm one of the many who suffer from extreme mood fluctuations and my cats help to keep me stable. When one of them is ill I tend to take it hard. I was taking it hard in Southport.

The two-year-old Eddy, a rescue cat that we've had since he was a ball of fur, has been sick and we took him with us thinking that he would be less stressed than spending the week in a boarding facility. He became more ill while we were in Southport. Two visits to the vet and a couple of not insignificant procedures later, he was recuperating in the townhouse.

Near the end of the week, Eddy had shown no signs of improvement and I was in the deep blue, down at the depths where sunlight doesn't penetrate. To relieve some of the stress I began walking toward the waterway because the breezes were coming from that direction and the wind on my face cooled the fevered brow.

The wind picked up and by the time I was at the water's edge, the wind was near gale force. 

I had to lean into the wind to keep from being blown backward. A dark wall of rain was moving toward me, so heavy that Bald Head Island was all but obscured. Lightning bolts flashed in the darkness. I'll bet you know how I felt. While down and wallowing on the ground, the Universe had decided to kick me with a hurricane-strength blow and a monsoon drenching.

Those who know me best will tell you that my motto is to live life on life's terms. I generally take whatever comes along and find a way to live with it. But sometimes life gets a little too zealous. Princess Amy, the name I've given to my hyper-sensitive amygdala, sometimes reads dramatic events as an invitation to roll up her sleeves and get down to it. She was doing so now.

If "life on life's terms" is my motto, then "fierce qigong" is my modus operandi. Standing on that sea wall, I looked the coming storm directly in the eye with an unwavering, lazy-eyed gaze. Although buffeted by the wind, I nonchalantly shot the cuffs and flicked a speck of dust off the exquisite Mechlin lace, and addressed the Universe like this:

"Do your worst, old girl. Blow with all your might. It's all in vain of course because the Genome is more than enough for whatever you've got. As long as there is breath in this body, I am stronger than the wind. As long as there is blood in my veins, the torrents are like a few drops in the ocean. As long as there is heat in my body, the lightning is no more than a flash.

In all the Universe, in all of time since the Big Bang, there is nothing to equal the human experience. I am a part of the ultimate form in all of creation. Even the angels are envious of man. I am enough for whatever life bungs my way and I will never surrender. So give it all you're got. I will be here when you are out of breath and completely wrung out. I will be here when the sun shines tomorrow and you are nothing but a memory."

The wind became quieter and once more refreshing as I walked back to the townhome. The rain held off until I was at the front porch. When I went inside to check on Eddy, I found that he was feeling much better and so was I.

Life comes hard and fast--be ready for it.

The Going Forth

Nothing but stars as I look out into the blackness from my second-floor porch. It's like looking into the gulf between galaxies, into the chill deeps of space where there is nothing but a random molecule or a fragment of rock that escaped from some pack of rogue asteroids. I read that somewhere, probably Terry Pratchet. What I was actually gazing into was the stellar depths of cafe lights that line the streets of Southport and that nearby galaxy was the location of tonight's filming of Under the Dome.

I woke around midnight to the sound of total quiet. It's loud, total quiet is. Back home in the SoDu, I would associate it with someone who is intentionally making no noise outside my bedroom door. Here, at the southeastern end of North Carolina--on a clear day, we can see all the way to Morocco--it's just the sound that's left when the sea breezes blow the creaks and goons of the fishing fleet up the Cape Fear River to Wilmington.

Standing at the porch railing, the cool breeze on my face, I feel an ancient call--the call to come into the darkness and see the world in a different light. Walking the streets under the boughs of ancient oaks is not the same experience in the dark that it is each morning and evening when I take my constitutional. It's just a little spooky. They do ghost tours here as they do in all colonial-era communities.

I dressed quickly but not carelessly because it would be an insult to startle another night visitor, encountered by chance on my outing if I were badly dressed. My outfit is dark gray, the most stealthy color for the night. Never wear black if you want to remain unseen because the night isn't black, it's a collage of dark grays. If being discovered badly dressed is insulting to another visitor, or homeowner for that matter, it would be embarrassing to be questioned by an officer of the law and this is something to take into consideration when planning to survey the filming of a TV program from the rooftops of a coastal village.

As far as I know, and I haven't made an exhaustive search, but as far as I know, it isn't unlawful to traverse the rooftops. Ms. Wonder would know but I hesitate to ask because what I do is traditional with me and I love tradition.

It is more than tradition that compels me to climb and look down upon, for I have come to Southport to find answers to questions to puzzling questions. Questions like why have tortoises never developed a philosophy and why do I feel like one of the sacrificial goats when it comes to religion and why didn't my vet talk to me about feline idiopathic chronic cystitis? If you wonder why Southport then I'm afraid you have me in deep waters there. I don't understand it myself but Wonder assures me that if I can find the answers anywhere, I will find them here. It is perhaps this promise that keeps sleep away tonight.

So this is it. The first night in Southport. Dressed in my dark gray qigong clothes, I lift one leg over the railing and grab the support post to descend to street level. I prefer using downspouts for this maneuver but the house I'm in has none. When I began my rooftop explorations years ago, many of the buildings still had waterspouts made of tile. Those pipes would support an elephant. Those were the good old days.

Once on the ground, I moved quickly through the shadows, ever vigilant for late-night dog walkers. They do exist. A half-block from the High Street, I found what I was looking for, a sturdy drainpipe that led to a flat roof overlooking the riverfront park where the film crew is busy. Eureka! The principle of displacement.

There was a real breeze now, as refreshing as a cool shower and I was encouraged to quicken my pace. It was quite dark, not black but almost, but I didn't hesitate--I went straight to my work, hand over hand, foot over foot until I reached the end of the pipe only to realize that it wasn't all there. In the darkness, I grabbed air and the follow-through almost loosened my grip completely.

Ms. Wonder has early and often pointed out the difference between improbable and impossible and she has remarked just as often that it is unwise to confuse the two. I found no reason to disagree with the honest woman. A close brush with critical injury and worse is accompanied by the quick flash before the mind's eye of past lives and the life that flashed before mine was of the French naval officer, captured and held by the British in a high tower isolated in a forest. That officer made his escape by shinnying down the downspout. Perhaps that's why I feel compelled to make my escapes down the water pipe when the situation calls for leaving without stopping to pack.

It's well-known that bumping elbows with disaster sharpens the senses to excruciating awareness of detail and so it was with me. When my hand grasped empty air and I felt myself falling back into the same, I became intensely aware of my surroundings. And when I had regained my balance and placed my foot back on solid ground, I gazed above me first at the lights ringing the top of the building, and then I scanned the branches of live oaks that shadowed me, feeling once more the cool breeze on my face. But it wasn't the same.

Something else I've read came to mind, something like, "this most excellent canopy, the air, this brave overhanging firmament, this majestical roof greeted with golden fire, why, it appears no other thing to me than a foul and pestilent congregation of vapors." It wasn't just the near stinker from falling off the drainpipe. The film crew had finished long ago and the breeze from the fishing fleet downriver smelled of dead fish.

Tomorrow, tomorrow, and tomorrow. It will be different tomorrow.

Grand Theory of Everything

We couldn't enter the wizarding realms in a normal car so Spring, Glady's agent, picked us up in her yellow Volkswagen Beatle for the short trip to Kadabra where we had an appointment to discuss the disappearance before it became headline news. I refer to the disappearance of Gladys, not Spring, who as far as I'm aware is still among those present.

If you follow this journal with any regularity, then you remember that the Witch of Woodcroft went missing soon after agreeing to help me with a travel article I'm writing for the Carolina Roads e-magazine. Spring, being her agent, was the only person I could think of that might have a clue to her whereabouts. People become anxious when they hear that wizards are missing and it's just the kind of stuff that network TV loves to strew about.

To get to Kadabra from Chadsford Hall, you travel south and as soon as you cross the narrow ribbon of Interstate 40, which technically belongs to the Kingdom of the United States, you re-enter the SoDu at Highway 54. We soon came to our destination, which was hidden behind a mountain of mulch, and when the driveway ended, Ms. Wonder said, "Why, this is Parkwood!"

"To the uninitiated, it is," said Spring.

The Volkswagen decanted us onto the lawn and Spring led us onto the porch where two wizards were waiting. The one lying on the railing welcomed us with a wide yawn and a good, long stretch. It made me want to stretch too and I did a little. The other was asleep in a chair.

"You will sit there," said Spring indicating the chair with the sleeping wizard, which she picked up and pressed her face into his tummy. There was a sound like a jack of clubs that had been clothes-pined to a bicycle spoke. I assumed the sound came from Spring. I've never heard a wizard make that sound.

"And you will sit there," she said to Wonder.

I explained to Wonder that Spring was what is known as a pre-cog and often has glimpses of the future. This skill of hers is the reason I'd sought her out to help me find Gladys.

No sooner had we taken our places at the table, than a door opened off stage and a head appeared above a black tee bearing the words Duck Dynasty.

"Can I offer you cereal?" said the head.

"I'm good," I said, "I cerealed before leaving home."

Ms. Wonder said nothing but directed her headlights, open-mouthed, at the talking head. I thought it must be the tee but Spring, who is much more attuned to these matters, immediately recognized the cause of the imitation of Lot's wife by the usually unshakable Wonder.

"It's quite all right," she said to Wonder, "perfectly harmless. A pussycat really."

The Wonder seemed to have gotten her tongue entangled with her tonsils for she said something like, "Mfjfhhg."

"He's the Higgs Boson," said Spring. "Pay him no mind."

"Higgs Boston?" said the Wonder after getting the vocal instruments working again.

"Boson. Higgs Boson. The particle at the end of the universe. It's quite the rage in particle physicist circles. All of them are searching for it."

"Why," said the Wonder and I must admit to feelings that were somewhat in harmony with hers. Why indeed? is what I asked myself.

"You have me there," said Spring. "It has something to do with the Unified Theory, whatever that is. I believe it's expected to connect the quantum field with the Newtonian world.

"Ah," I declared as if that explained things perfectly. I looked at the Boson who nodded and smiled in agreement.

"Of course," Spring went on to say, "they've been searching for forty years but they haven't found it yet because the mind refuses to see anything that doesn't fit with its notion of reality. I've seen the Boson walk through a crowded room and no one pays any attention to him at all."

"That's odd," said Wonder. "So why do they think it exists at all?"

"Mathematical hunch," said Spring.

"Excuse me?"

"Well, they have been trying to prove its existence mathematically but they have only been able to get so close. It's as though the formulas have a gut feeling that it's there somewhere."

"A mathematical sixth sense," I ventured.

"Something like that," said Spring.

"I'm being bitten by mosquitoes," Wonder said.

"Yeah, there is that," said the Boson, "and I'm afraid I can't help you find Gladys either. I don't have a clue where she is."

"Oh hell," I said. "It's going to be another one of those days. Just one damned thing after another."

"Have you thought of getting the Mysterious X to help?" said the Boson.

"I'm not familiar with than one," I said. "What does he specializes in?" I said.

"Yeah well, that's the mystery too I guess," said the Boson, "but I happen to know he's hard up for cash. Inexplicable entities have to eat too."

"I'll give it some thought," I said.

When Spring dropped us off at home, she asked, "What's that article about anyway?"

"Southport," I said. "We're going to be there for a few days. I'll work on my book and Wonder plans to work on her song, but that should still leave plenty of time for a travel story too."

"Ms. Wonder is writing on a song?"

"Yeah, she's reading a book called Songwriting: the essential guide to lyric form and structure. It's a little scary."

"Oh goody, she said. "Ms. Wonder may be inspired to do one of those Russian compositions like Stravinsky's Petrushka--you know sawdust puppets coming to life and whatnot."

"Now that would be dramatic," I said as she drove away. Wonder was already inside so I walked up the steps to the front door thinking about St. Petersburg. Gladys would have to wait.

Where is Gladys

Back in Shakespeare's day things didn't change much. Fairly uniform from day to day without a lot of ups and downs. If you were born a serf, it was a pretty safe bet that you'd serf until retirement. If you thought of owning a condo in West Palm Beach, you'd need to catch a talking fish or flush a jinn from a lamp.

artist--Michael Parkes

Today everything changes and without warning. It seems only yesterday the atmosphere in Native Grounds was quiet, meditative, serene. Then the foundations of hell started shaking and I wouldn't have been surprised if the Recording Angel had appeared taking names. I have moved in time and space to a new morning launch pad. I partake of a cup of steaming earlier in the day and I start a few furlongs further up Fayetteville Road at Sutton Station.

Coffee was over by 7:00 this morning and the guests of Dulce had scattered to their morning occupations. Some were texting on Interstate 40, some were jogging the American Tobacco Trail (it's a Durham thing), and some were serving and protecting. I was walking meditatively along the Woodcroft Walking Trail. I was alone.

It is a sad but indisputable fact that in this imperfect world the Genome is doomed to walk alone--if the earthier members of the community see him coming in time to duck. Not one of the horde of coffee hounds had shown any disposition to qigong with me. One regrets this.

Except for a slight bias toward exaggeration, which leads me to embellish almost everything that's not nailed down, the Genome's is an admirable character and, oddly enough, it's toward the noble side of my nature that most people object. Of the manic Genome, they know little if anything; it is the Genome who espouses compassion for all, realistic optimism, immersing the self slowing and deliberately in his environment, and a fierce determination to never eat pine needles; this is the Genome everyone avoids.

Still, on this fine morning, strolling under a shady canopy of oak and holly, the Genome was  not sorry to be alone, not entirely: for there was something on the mind calling for solitary thinking. The matter engaging the attention was the problem of what on earth had happened to Gladys, the Witch of Woodcroft. Two days had passed, or was it three, since I left her in Dulce uploading her latest poems to Ketchum's Korner for final testing of that new site on the Web. And since that moment, she has not been seen nor heard from and I was at a loss.

Perhaps not entirely a loss because I have a dark suspicion that this has something to do with recent cosmic events. You are surely aware that the Summer Solstice put in an appearance some few days ago and immediately after, the Supper Moon popped up on the horizon. 'So,' you may ask yourself, 'what about it?' Well, I'll tell you what about it.

Have you ever noticed that there is a tendency in the public announcements to get it base over apex? Take the weather for instance. I've already mentioned that this very morning was the picture of clemency, if that's the word I want--light, bright, blue, all the trimmings. And yet, this same morning was accused by the National Weather Service, of being surly and a little unruly. See what I mean?

Now consider Y2K, if you can remember that far back. On New Year's Day, 2000, the world was supposed to shut down. Armageddon in some form or fashion. Before that there was harmonic convergence, when planets lined up and the resulting effect on gravity would put wrinkles in Joan Rivers' brow. Ms. Rivers, however, still bears her youthful countenance. Only a year or so ago, we had two predictions for the End of It All, in the same year. And I'm sure that I don't have to tell you that most of us Survived the Mayan Apocalypse. 'So,' you are still asking yourself, 'where is the Genome going with this?'

Throw your mind back to that Solstice and Supper Moon. It's not that hard. It's only been a few days. Well, I heard a Cosmic Scientist interviewed on NPR and that CS assured everyone that there was no need to worry. There would be no brown outs, no Internet interruptions, no visitors from other realms. I know! How scary is that?

The mind of a man who has undertaken a mission as delicate as saving the world from total destruction is necessarily alert. Ever since I heard that scientist telling us, as it were, to remain calm and move in an orderly fashion to the exits, I knew the final adventure was started. This calm announcement, although startling to me, did not deprive me of my faculties. On the contrary, it quickened them. My first action was to meet with Gladys to discuss what was to be done. She agreed to move in her mysterious ways wonders to perform and report back to me with a plan. But since that day, she has vanished completely.

Her non-appearance was all the more galling in that the superb mental faculties of the Genome had just completed in every detail a scheme for propping up the Universal status quo and I was desperate for her critique. Her absence left me feeling like one of those Civil War generals who comes out of the command tent with a plan of battle all mapped out and finds that his army has strolled down to the riverbank and joined in a pig-picking. You will understand now when I say that the Genome's map was sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought.

Moving through the arched recesses of the oaks that line Woodcroft Parkway, I was deep in contemplation of the mysterious disappearance of this Gladys, when a voice suddenly addressed me.

"Hey!"

I started violently. Wouldn't you?

"Anyone about?" said the voice.

A pale face surrounded by dark hair full of twigs and leaves was protruding from the a near-by camellia bush. If memory serves, it was a candy-stripe. The camellia I mean. I drew closer, breathing heavily. The symptoms were those of the missing Gladys--long hair braided, draped around the upper torso and thrown casually over the left shoulder. But that was as far as the semblance got. We Genomes are quick to get the picture and I saw what this apparition was up to immediately.

"You pie-faced gazooni!" I said with some heat. Not great, but it was spur of the moment. "Where do you get this stuff, popping out of the shrubbery and yelling at people when they're in deep thought. Is this wise? Is this the procedure? Is this a system?"

"Sorry," said the head. "I just wanted to get your attention so we could discuss the fate of the world and all that. You know?"

"And who are you supposed to be?" I asked already sure of the answer.

"I'm Gladys," said the head.

"Ah," I said, "Gladys. Then perhaps you can tell me the meaning of 'a pale parabola of joy'."

The head was silent.

"Or, perhaps," I continued, "you might elaborate on 'the silibant, scented silence'."

Somewhere in the depths of the forest a squirrel chirruped.

"No more imposture," I said wagging a finger. "I am a friend of this Gladys and had a long conversation with her only a few days ago. You will get no cooperation from this mortal."

"Oh Hell," said the voice. "What are you going to do now?"

"Do?"

"Now that I've appeared willingly, I must remain on this side until you give me your leave."

"Oh yes, I remember something about that. The rules of engagement for natural and supernatural and all that. Well, I have no need of your services, so I don't intend to delay you. Leg it now is my suggestion."

"You mean that?"

"Certainly."

"You don't want three wishes?"

"Three wishes!" I said and I may have chuckled when I said it. "I don't need anything from the supernatural realm. I'm set. I have Catherine the Great. I have the cats, Uma, Empress of Chadsford, and I have Beignet, Sagi Mtessi, Abbie Hoffman--no, not that Abbie Hoffman--and I have Eddy Spaghetti. Supporting the whole thing on either end is Comrade Jenny and Dr. Kate. What more could I ask?"

"You are well stacked," said the head. "I probably shouldn't tell you this but your resolve causes a lot of concern in the Underworld."

"And well it should, Maalika, if you don't mind my using the informal."

"Oh, I can't tell you my name," she said, "against all protocol."

"Of course," I said. "Well, off you go then."

"Thanks," she said, "you're an ace."

"Oh, hush," I said.

Disconcerting as the whole thing was, my thoughts turned immediately to the whereabouts of Gladys. Where in the realm of the Rogue Star might she be. Time is short and growing shorter each day. If anyone has any information about the location of the Woodcroft Witch, please leave a comment on this post. Anonymity will be safeguarded except when the interest of national security is jeopardized.