Beignet Lafayette

I have the best cat in the world. Everyone agrees. He's won the Chadsford Hall Best Cat of the Year for three years running. He's nine years old and at 15.25 pounds, he's in mid-season racing form. If you think he's a bit heavy, then you're probably more familiar with the smaller, run-of-the-mill kitty. 

Ben, that's his name, Beignet Lafayette, is a child of the Neva River--that's my theory anyway. The Slavic soul requires a substantial body.  Not that there's anything wrong with felines that lack Slavic ethnicity. To be sure, all cats will keep the zombies away. Why even the kittens too small to walk straight and having tails that look like lint brushes will send the brain-eaters herky-jerking back to the cemetery if they come from a cemetery. 

So by all means, get a cat. Get two. You can't have too many. The more you have, the less chance there is that they will all be sleeping when the zombies start prowling.

When we were at the cat hospital earlier today, the vet suggested that we begin routine yearly lab workups to make sure Ben is around forever. None of us can imagine what life would be like without him, so he donated a little blood to keep us happy. He got one of those stretchy little bandages around his leg to prevent bleeding. Ever tried to remove one of those? Not as simple as it seems. The material gets all wrapped around and makes it hard to find the pull tab.

When we arrived back home, Ben had an agenda that included lots of socializing with the other cats. This takes a while, of course, sniffing, licking, marking, you know the drill. It must have been the same for Napoleon when reviewing the troops.

I cornered him and pretended to be interested in brushing him, which generally puts him in good humor and distracts him from what the other hand is doing. I found the bandage and began feeling around for the end of it. Ben tolerated about two seconds of this before changing position. I tried again with more determination. He matched my efforts with his own determination, which spoke volumes about leaving his leg alone.

I might have given the whole thing a miss for an hour or so and perhaps gotten some editing done on the book--you remember the book--but no, I decided that bandage was coming off and I knew how to get it done. I rolled up my sleeves and took a deep breath.

Cat wrestling, like alligator wrestling, is best done sparingly and only in season. I lay on the floor for the best orientation and applied a hold that I call the front leg pass-through. Ben seemed to consider this a sign of affection and began purring. Then I reached for that bandage and pinched the leader solidly between the thumb and the first two fingers. I have a lot of practice at this and it was a good firm grip. I tugged.

It must have been the tug that did it. Ben shot out from under me like a crazed weasel and made straight for the doorway, keeping the body close to the floor and using the back legs for the heavy work.  Like the Iditarod musher pulled along by her sled dogs, I was pulled along by that bandage and slid smoothly along the hardwoods. Then he made a sharp right-hand turn and headed down the stairs.

Now, if the cherry floors were smooth, then the oak staircase was bumpy. And there are fourteen steps. I have, over the years, acquired the wisdom to know the difference in situations where I have control and those that I don't. I took the stairs with fair calm. Not too anxious, given the circs. I remember thinking, for some reason that I can't fathom now, that when we hit the tile floor on the lower levels, I would have more options. 

Now, some years ago, I went in for rock climbing, a sport that I'm sure you remember from your own youth. In those days, my toes could find purchase in the smallest crevices, and perhaps I was thinking that the grout lines in the tile would give me something to work with to stop or slow our forward movement, giving me a chance to free my fingers from the bandage.

The plan I had in mind if you can call it a plan, turned out to be no more than the idle wind, which Ben respected not because he continued through the kitchen with me calling out to my mother to look sharp and not get overturned by our wake. 

Eventually, Beignet found a quiet and comfortable spot underneath a sofa in the den and we were done. I pulled the bandage off and he seemed not to notice.

Once again, we see that life comes hard and fast and that it sneaks up on us when we least expect it. Be prepared for anything, of course, and always keep in mind something I learned from our veterinarian... "It's our job to do what's right, not what's convenient." Amen. 

The Witching Hour

It was the hour of the morning break and we had stopped at the Mill in Pittsboro to do a little tissue restoring. We had not planned to stop here. It was a spur of the moment thing. We'd come to check out the Roadhouse, which is in the space that was the General Store, but it was closed for the day. The African Art and French Antique's store wouldn't open for a couple of hours yet. The situation was one that threatened to have the Genome walking around town watching the big clock in the tower of the restored courthouse, which as I'm sure you don't have to be told is not a Genomic thing.

Wynd Horse was carrying us toward Southern Village when Ms. Wonder suddenly spoke. "Turn in here," she said and I did because the Genome is accustomed to making last second course corrections when the Orlov descendent is navigating. Never be surprised at anything life throws at you following an impulsive change in plans. When the path is abandoned, the stuff between the worlds spills out and gums up the works. It happens every time. It just goes to show that we are only toys in the hands of Fate. It's occasions like this that give people the feeling that the gods use us as pawns in a game of cosmic chess. They don't play chess of course. Monopoly is the game of the gods and they like nothing better than the card that reads, Do not pass go but go straight to jail.

A few minutes after making the turn we walked through the pollinator garden and entered a little room filled with cafe tables and original art. The original artist was hanging the last of her paintings. That she was the artist was evident from her conversation with one of the cafe patrons. That she was a witch was evident to me, given my experience and training--I earned a certificate of completion in Witch Finding at Durham Tech. It's true that it's sometimes difficult to distinguish witches from employees of the co-op in Carrboro but I have a knack for these things.

I don't often engage strangers in conversation but you remember that I am writing that book and I seem to have misplaced my witch--the Woodcroft one--and I desperately need some advice and suggestions on the selection of the precise words. Nothing more important than the mot juste for a writer. Words have power, you see. When you express something, you put your energy into it and that energy grows and becomes manifest in the physical world. Take the words, let there be light, for instance. Simple enough if you're looking for simplicity and in the right context, very powerful.


I'm not new to writing or anything like that. I've been published many times and so I'm confident that my words are good enough but good enough isn't gong to make the ideas in my book contagious and that's what I want--viral ideas. A book must have sex appeal to become popular today. It must have a sexy theme or be set in a sexy locale. My words just aren't sexy enough.

I've trained myself through fierce living to stay grounded in the here and now and interrupt the limbic system and the stuff that filters up from the sub-conscious. I remain rooted in the cingular cortex and the ideas that get dredged up through analysis just aren't sexy. Witches, on the other hand, are connected to the ground of all knowing and they're in touch with the stuff that lives between thoughts. My witch, the Woodcroft one, just happens, as Fate would have it, to be a writer.


You can easily understand then why I took action so out of character. I said a quick prayer, commended my soul, if it is a soul, to God and spoke:

"Nice work," I said.

"Thank you."

"I especially like the night gardens. Love the one with red poppies and full moon," I said.

"One of my favorites, too," she said, "They were fun to paint."

"Allows you to enjoy the nighttime gardens even in the daytime," I said.

She gave me a look. Quizzical might describe it. Made me feel the moment for applying the old oil was past and time to roll up the sleeves and get down to it.

"I wonder," I said, "if you know Gladdis of Woodcroft?"

"Who?"

"Gladdis," I repeated, "Witch of Woodcroft."

"No, I don't. Is she an artist?"

"Writer," I said. "She and I have a little support group for word-craft and I seem to have misplaced her. I thought you might have heard of her. You know, small world and all."

"I don't get it," she said and I noticed that her voice had taken on a bit of frosty timbre. "You seem intelligent enough for a man, so why are you asking me, a total stranger, if I know your friend?"

"It's just that I've written this book and reviewers are waiting but it lacks something. It speaks the truth and all that, just as Stephen King advises, but it lacks that certain something, which Seth Godin says makes all the difference. In Hugh McLeod's words, it just isn't sexy enough."

"Sexy?" she said and the jaw seemed a little tight, the lips a straight line. It wasn't going the way I'd hoped. In my mindfulness practice I've come to notice when feelings first begin to stir and what was stirring now felt like hell's foundations quivering. I was conscious of doing a little dance.

"Witches seem to have a way with words," I said, "and I was hoping that Gladdis could offer some help with my wording to give it some zing."

"Ah," she said as though she'd suddenly found what was lost, "are you Genome?"

I stopped dancing. Now it was my turn to wonder what the hey. Before I could put a response together, she began laughing and shaking her head.

"She's told stories of you at the local gatherings. We only allow her to attend if she doesn't talk about Rogue Star. You won't find her though. She's not around. We did an intervention?"

"I'm sorry," I said, "did you say intervention? Is Gladdis a drunk?"

"Oh no, she doesn't drink much. It was that book of hers. It's past 1200 pages and still going. She's powerless to stop writing. We had to do something. Carrboro said her family did one for her brother and it worked for him. So we did a spiral dance, confronted her and convinced her to get into rehab."

"Carrboro?"

"A witch's work is specific to her location. We know each other by the communities we serve."

"Oh, right," I said, "but where do you send someone to recover from writing addiction?"

"She's staying at the Inn at Something Falls," she said.

"But that's not a real place. That's in the world she created in her book."

"Oh, it's real enough," she said. "There's no such thing as fiction in a witch's words. Just speaking or writing them make them so. You should know that. Anyway, she's staying there under the watch of the innkeeper who thinks it's a great idea. If it works, it could mean a new market for the inn.

I had a strangely disconnected feeling. Napoleon must have felt the same when his attaché gave him the news that Nelson had sailed into Cairo with the British fleet and set the French ships on fire.

"I can get a message to her, if you like but she can only reply to your via twitter," she said.

"A tweet?" I said.

"Yeah, we think it's the safest way for her to communicate. With 140 character limit we hope it won't trigger her to indulge her habit. It's the first page that does all the damage."

"I see," I said but I didn't really. "Would you ask her what I can add, some little story maybe, to make my book sparkle. She's read the draft." I added as though that explained something.

"I'll pass it along," she said. "You might expect a tweet later this afternoon."

Just as she predicted, later in the day, the first few bars of Inigota Divita alerted me to the receipt of a tweet. It was from #gladdis@roguestar.

"Save child from runaway horse."

I replied, "What do you mean, save a child from horse?"

Her response came right away, "Can't miss. Huge box office."

I tried to get further clarification but nothing came back. She must have a limit on on tweets from rehab.

Princess Amy Again

Princess Amy is the personification of a little group of gray cells in brain, called the limbic system. Sometimes it's called that. At other times, it's called the lizard brain. It's made up of the hippocampus, the amygdala, and a few other odds and ends, but we won't let that stop us.

This limbic system is responsible for extreme emotions. The amygdala in the Genome's brain--my brain--is a species of drama queen. She has a mercurial temperament. Ekaterina, who knows the Genome best, describes metaphorically, but she it's a derogatory reference to the mental ability of bats, which I consider to be pejorative and will give a miss.

This Princess Amy gets steamed up anytime things don't go her way and she can escalate from tepid to incandescent in an instant. Since she is my amygdala, it follows that when she goes ballistic then I'm not far behind. If I pay close attention, I can interrupt her tantrums before they reach the tipping point. When left unchecked, she makes me feel a toy rat in the jaws of a her labrador puppy.

Yesterday Ekaterina, that daughter of the Winter Palace, suggested that I confront Princess Amy about her latest vexation. You will recall, the princess was showcasing an old movie-in-the-mind staring that damned sweater I received at the corporate Christmas party in 2008 when I was expecting--no, when I deserved--a big bonus check.

"Tax her heavily," were her words.

"Tax her?" I said, and I thought it weak of the Wonder to use the common speech just because April 15 is coming soon.

"Yes," she said, "look her squarely in the eye and tax her with her crime."

"Ah," I said, suddenly getting the gist of her words, "I'll do it right now."

"I'll come with you," she said.

"Where's my hat?" I said.

"You don't need a hat to tax a fiend about cashmere sweaters," she said. This Ekaterina is well versed in the manners and rules of good society. I was surprised, though, to hear the cashmere motif in her comments and I remember wondering where she could have learned about it. I usually leave that unnecessary detail out of the story for I feel that it unreasonably weakens the justification for my resentment.

I felt that resentment rising now. as I drew myself up and stared haughtily into a passing mirror, which proved to be the very place to direct the gaze when addressing a little group of brain cells in the middle of my head.

"Amy," I said, "your sins have found you out and don't pretend you don't know what I'm talking about. You have guilt written all over your face."

"If it is a face," said Ekaterina.

"Think before you speak, Amy," I said, "choose your words very, very carefully."

"Why think? Why careful?" asked Ekaterina.

"You have me there," I admitted, "it's something that a policeman once said to me and it affected me deeply. I thought it might have that same effect on Amy."

"Tax her about that sweater," Ekaterina said.

"Amy!" I said, "you almond headed, gargoyle from hell, what about that sweater?"

"Don't overdo it," advised Ekaterina.

"I've always known you were mad as a coot," I said getting into the rhythm of the thing and feeling that it was going very well.

"Coot?" said Ekaterina.

"Sort of duck," I said not wanting to take the time to fully explain for fear of losing momentum.

"Up until now I've tried to be respectful of your feelings," I said taking the high moral ground, which I strongly recommend as it makes all the difference in these confrontations.

"I have, up till now, skipped over the more embarrassing stories of our shared past. But if you insist on bringing up uncomfortable memories for the purpose of driving me manic when I'm trying to finish my book, then I will divulge all the sordid details to the world."

This seemed to be a good place to illustrate the text with a visual and so I added, "You will remember getting thrown out of Cafe' Dulce for trying to raise the price of a gelato by auctioning your boots? That and more will be exposed for the readers of my book, Out of the Blue. "

A sharp cry erupted from somewhere nearby and for a moment I thought it was Amy but quickly realized the sound escaped from Ekaterina's lips. She seemed on the verge of apoplexy as though she'd been stung on the leg by a hornet. I stared fixedly at her waiting to see if she had something to say. She did.

"Come on, let's get out of this bathroom before it's struck by lightning."

She was right, of course. She often is. Not that thunderbolts suddenly appeared but Amy had collapsed in a heap and it was clear to me that my work was done. I followed Ekaterina down to breakfast on the screened porch, as far away from that mirror as it's possible to be in Chatsford Hall.

Life comes hard and fast but not today, Amy! No not today!

Fields of Mars

The sun rose on the other side of the bed this morning, no doubt having checked the calendar and finding that we are well into September--season of mists and mellow fruitfulness--and, so close to the equinox, time to move another degree to the east. Rising on the left side, he naturally took NC 54 to Chadsford Hall, giving Interstate 40 a complete miss, which is always best.

Not generally noticeable, this eastward drift of the sun, because we're riding on the Earth as it spins around and because the sun wobbles around a bit. You'd wobble too if you got up so early every day. And don't forget the ecliptic path of the sun is coplanar with the orbit of the Earth--talk about a reason to wobble! The only reason I was aware of the drift is that I met the sun coming my way on this side of Woodcroft Parkway as I tootled toward Native Grounds.

Watching that golden wave coming to meet me, I was reminded that summer isn't long for this world and Autumn will soon be here. A lot of difference between early September and late. Already we have the cooler temperatures and coffee that tastes curiously like pumpkin pie. Soon we will have corn in the shock, whatever that is...Ms Wonder might know... and scarecrow orgies, but that's mostly in October.

It was a quiet morning in Native Grounds due to the thinner crowd of regulars, if a crowd can be thin. It's normal for the regulars to rise late on a Sunday and caffeinate themselves in the privacy of their own homes and the tourists don't normally arrive until after 10 when they're checked out of the hotel and ready to buzz off to the next destination. We do have tourists in Durham. They come for the performance arts center, the American Dance Festival, and the Fields of Mars--the god, not the planet. No doubt many are camping out for the next appearance of the Fields at the Motorco Music Hall on September 18, the last chance to hear them before the equinox.

As I was saying, Native Grounds was mindful and in the present moment when I arrived. At least the Secret Nine were mindful and they made up the majority of those present at the moment. What they were mindful of was the question of the day and the question was written on the board behind the coffee bar.

"Who was it that wanted to go home?" the Enforcer asked as I sat down.

"I know who can't go home again," I said.

"Who?" said Island Irv.

"Amelia Earhart," said the Enforcer.

"She was lost," said Sister Mary.

"Still is," said Irv.

"D. B. Cooper is still lost too," said the Enforcer.

"I think he wants it that way," said Mary.

"Who can't go home again?" asked Irv.

"You," I said.

"Why?"

"Well, for one thing," I said trying to quickly come up with something quirky, "every time Brahman blinks, the world is destroyed and recreated so the home you left doesn't exist anymore."

"Oh, no!" said the Enforcer, "Somebody stop him quick, please!"

"Brahman?"

"No, the Genome. Don't let him get started."

"Greta Garbo?" said Pickles.

"Nah, she wanted to be alone," said Mary, "not home."

"If you ask me, everybody should stay home," said the Enforcer, "especially people who take extended vacations."

"Travel is good for the soul," said Irv. "Expands the mind."

 "What's the mind got to do with the soul?" said the Enforcer, "Besides, all that travel burns fossils and that adds to global warming."

"What I want to know," said Pickles, "is why do so many holidays fall on Monday? Does it just work out that way or is it a conspiracy?"

"Thanksgiving isn't on a Monday," said Mary. "I know cause I cook it every year."

"Christmas and Easter don't come on a Monday," said the Enforcer and then added, "Well, I remember Christmas coming on Monday once but it threw everything out of whack and they don't do it any more."

And so you can clearly see, dear reader, that the one thing you can always depend on at Native Grounds Coffee and Gelato Bar is a dose of sparkling conversation, and so it continued for the rest of the hour. I left before the bagel throwing began.

A Three Cat Night

With Eddy back in mid-season form and out of quarantine, the evening had been a three cat night. Two kept me from rolling out of bed and one, unless I missed my guess, had slept on my face. When I had disentangled myself from cats and quilts, I ankled to the window and threw up the sash.

The moon on the crest of the new dawning day was slipping behind the western hills and the sky was Carolina blue and the sun was smirking as though he had not a care in the world, if it is a he. I was conscious of the spirit of the bluebird. It was going to be another one of those days where larks and snails figure big.

I may have hummed a few bars of When the red, red robin comes bob-bob-bobbing along. Not sure but I may have. What I'm sure of is that I said, "What a beautiful day, Poopsie!"

"Pleasingly clement," she said and I remember thinking what an odd thing it was but I gave it a miss like the idle wind.

"Mornings in the Renaissance District have an invigorating freshness, Ms Wonder. A garden of Eden I call it--without the angels and swords. I'm not saying that I would turn down an offer of a few days in Asheville but as a place of residual habitation, give me the south of Durham any day."

"Did you sleep well?" she said in that cute way she has of ignoring whatever I say.

"Sleep? Wonder! You know very well I didn't sleep. You?"

"No, I was thinking about the lyrics of my line dance all night," she said and then she began shashaying around the bathroom as she sang, "Wooo-oooh, it's late; let me check. Move to the right, move to the left. Zip me up--check it out--looking goo-ood. Mambo, cha-cha-cha."

This was, I imagine, another of her channeling the ancestral spirits, taking a line through the philosopher, Ivan Orlov, who was one of the pioneers of relevant logic, which I'm sure you're aware, but was also keenly interested in music theory, which may come as a surprise to you. I realized that prompt steps would need to be taken immediately through the proper channels if I were to extricate myself and so I spoke authoritatively.

"I understand fully. I often lay awake thinking about a troublesome passage in my book."

She still danced and sang. Then suddenly remembering a phone call in the night, I said, "I heard from Rick Davis last night."

It worked. "Oh, yes?" she said.

"He wants me to take a position with some admiral or whatnot at the naval base in San Diego. Something to do with the navy's efforts to provide assistance to victims of natural disasters."

"Are you considering it?" she said.

"I admit his offer interested me strangely, but I think not. I'm committed to my book and moving to San Diego would be too big an interruption."

"That book isn't even finished and it's all anyone talks about." she said. "That's a good omen for success, I think."

With those words she assumed the posture I've seen in a portrait of Count Alexi Orlov. All that was needed to complete the image was a white stallion behind her and a wolfhound at her knee.

"Why is everyone talking?" I said.

"Well," she said, "it's widely known that you misspent your youth in frivolous pursuits and you influenced many others to do the same. So, everything considered, there's going to be a lot of uncovering of things that pillars of the community have tried to keep hidden. That's hot stuff."

She spoke with a twinkle in her eye like the one Czar Alexander must have had as he watched Napoleon pack up the tent and catch the 2:35 express back to France.

"Wonder, you of all people should know it's not that kind of book."

"No?"

"It's a book intended to sweep the clouds away and let the sunshine through. It's a book that describes in detail what it was like in my, as you say, misspent youth, what happened to turn things around, and what's it's like today. It's meant to detail precisely how to escape the emotional seizures of mood disorder."

I tried my best to look indignant as I said those words but without a lot of confidence. It's hard to be indignant first thing in the morning wearing a "rock all day, roll all night" t-shirt and with toothpaste foaming around the mouth but I did my best.

"As long as they buy the book, right?" she said and it was clear that my words had not the intended effect--she regarded them as the idle wind. It was becoming a big day for the idle wind.

It was a simple, direct question and there was a simple, direct answer but not for a preux chevalier and, damn it, the Genome is as preux as a chevalier can stick. The affront to the Genome honor had the limbic system pumping out indignant words--it was a big morning for being indignant too--words that banged against the teeth but remained unspoken because rigorous honesty keeps me quiet. In a nutshell, I was non-plussed.

"I'm saving up to buy the first edition as soon as it's published," she said.

What was I to say to that? Yes, it might be a fair morning, a morning as fair as any in a summer filled with fair mornings but it had been preceded by a three cat night.

"Thank you, the Wonder," was all I said.

Not at all, she said.