Trans-dimensional Tomfoolery

I lay half asleep in cat’s pajamas carried away by the stories running amok in the default network until I was fully awakened by a mechanical bellow that began somewhere in the depths of Chadsford Hall and rose up rumbling to the surface like whale song. The furnace had kicked in. Now would be a good time to get out of bed I thought. Then I did.

The night had been sleepless except for that one period between late evening and early morning when I had a strange dream of the mombot. Still, I was in a merry mood because I’d made a plan for the day. In fact, I’d made a plan for the week and yesterday had gone swimmingly—according to plan and there was no reason to think that today would be different. 

Keep this up, I thought, and that book would get done after all. My agent will be so happy to hear it. The publisher—well, there’s no pleasing the publisher now. Water under the bridge if that’s the phrase I want.

“I’m in a merry mood, Ms. Wonder,” I said but it was no good. She wasn’t around. I quickly upholstered the outer man as described in Sun Tzu’s, Art of War, and made my way to the garage where Wynd Horse waited.

The daily commute is a joyful thing. A time to meditate and get one’s head around the demands of the day. I mentally reviewed the plans of engagement and considered how I would gain a tactical advantage that would result in the best possible good for me and others. Or a reasonable facsimile.

After getting cash on the debit card from Banco de Los Muertos, I entered the Fayetteville conduit to get to Native Grounds ahead of the rush. Once I’d been caffeinated and sconed, I took out the hand-held device and accessed the Net, not that Net, the other one. The one that was old when Merlin was working out the details of advanced geomancy.

Everything seemed to be in order. Good timing. The courtiers were streaming through the door. I received them in turn, which is my real work these days, ensuring that their day will unfold in a meaningful and pleasing way, if not in the way they desire. It’s a job performed by countless others in coffee and tea shops around the globe. Magic of course.

I am not a practitioner. I just work here. I lived a life devoted to rational thought and dedicated to reason and the certainty of cause and effect until that one day when everything changed. 

From the time I was a sophomore in high school and my 10-year-old sister died, I gave no quarter to magic. This was due to my asking God in fervent prayer to allow me to die with her and you know how well that worked out for me. 

Day after day pretending to be one of the pod people and night after night crying in my room. I call it walking the anti-Damascus Road. It was my first brush with true Reality.

Then in my forty-first year, magic came into my life and it was irrefutable. And I was furious. Where was it when I needed it? Well, as I say, I’m not a practitioner. Tried it—zilch. I didn’t want this job, of course. Tried to avoid it. Belly of the whale and scales on the eyes, and all that.

Worse part of the job is all the witches. No, not the witches. It's the metempsychotic inversion that always builds when they come around. I get lost in it. Fortunately, I have access to a copy of the Manual of Transdimensional Displacement. That’s what I was reading on the Net when the phone call came.

It was the mombot. Bladder infection. That’s the code phrase for dropping whatever you’re doing and getting over here right now. It can only mean one thing—trans-dimensional tomfoolery! And that never ends well. Best laid plans ganged agley again.

I Know I'm Not Alone

Yesterday on a music-buying tour of the Thrift Shops of Carrboro and Chapel Hill, I discovered in the Open Eye Cafe a barista that looks exactly like Maggie Gyllenhaal. It's true! I'm not setting you up for a goose. I would have pinned her pic to prove it to you except that I'd opened the conversation with that old "Don't I know you from somewhere else?" gag, and if I'd followed that by asking to make her portrait, I'd have to marry the girl.

As Maggie was taking my order, I was struck by the thought, like a bolt from the blue, that life is unfair. Just consider for example that some remarkable musicians become Supertramp but others become Steve 'n' Seagulls. Not that there's anything wrong with the Seagulls. A fine, deserving group of musicians is my opinion and I hope you agree.

Still, as I was about to say, some Gyllenhaals become movie stars while others become baristas. So heavy did this insight weigh on my shoulders that I ordered a double Americano and took a table outside in the sun, but not too near the street. 

The mind drifted in the void for a while; it may have been minutes; it may have been more, and I mused on how true are the words of the Buddha, "All things are..." what is it? Begins with an 'I.' Imperfect? Improbable? Something that means they don't stick around long. It will come to me. At any rate, I drifted for a while until awakened by another thought, one of many that arise like shiny, multicolored soap bubbles. Impertinent! No that's not it either. Give me a moment. Where was I?

Oh yes, another thought arose and this one reflected the iridescent words of Karl Wallinger...

"What I see just makes me cry; 

I'm way down now, I'm way down now...

And the rats are on their way;

They're clouding up the images of a perfect day,

But I know I'm not alone, I know I'm not alone."

The words of that song brought enlightenment to this dharma bum in the realization that being a barista or Steve 'n' Seagulls or World Party for that matter is only disappointing to the cream of the northwestern quarter-sphere--that means you and me. Most of the world would think it paradise. I now had a different and a brighter perspective on the morning.

The day had begun with my being driven from Chatsford Hall, not unlike my ancestors who were driven from Eden. My ancestors were driven by angels bearing flaming swords while I was driven by emotional slings and arrows. Like Adam and Eve, I am emboldened by the experience to live ever more fiercely. 

Following the suggestion of Emperor Haile Selassie, I shall:

"Rage against Babylon, Brah, until we sail the ship on home to Zion." 

All things considered, it was another big day for thought, word, and deed. Impermanent! That's the word, all things are impermanent. That's what the Buddha said. But it's no big deal to me; nothing is a big deal to me because Ms. Wonder loves me and that makes all the difference. 

She loves me! And with a love like that you know I should be glad!

Like the Rolling Stones

Sunday night was still hanging around on Monday morning when I went out to feed the hilltop cats. The full moon had long since swept the stars from the sky and descended into the dark beyond the hills of Chatsford. A few minutes later when I returned to the dressing room upstairs, I opened the Venetian's and there was the day, wearing a braid in her hair and doing a buck wing dance across the lawn. Just like that. Dark then dawn. I've never been able to figure out just how it's done but I'm sure it involves smoke and mirrors like stage magic.

Ms Wonder was engaged in her Swedish exercises and so I busied myself with the morning routine. I was troubled by recent events and I wanted to discuss them with her but I waited. Focus is absolutely essential when generating the endorphins and I didn't want to distract her. At last she completed her excesses and I spoke.

"Poopsie," I said, "life is difficult."

"Is it?"

"Something always seems to be getting in the way if you know what I mean. Something stops working. Someone's dog barks. The neighbor puts his house up for sale. It's just one damn thing after another."

"Life is suffering," she said.

I mused on this. It seemed harsh for the Wonder Woman and yet it seemed that I'd heard it somewhere before. "I don't know if I'd go that far," I said.

"It's attributed to the Buddha," she said.

"Ah," I said and mused again. I noticed Sagi, the caramel tabby, reclining on the bed and his expresson seemed to suggest that this would be as good a time as any to suspend disbelief. Besides, I'd recently liked the Buddha's Facebook page. "Well, I suppose to some degree life is suffering," I said.

"If it's Her, you're worried about," she said, "I think I have the solution. If She won't go to the mountain, then the mountain will come to Chatsford Hall. The mountain to Mohammed."

This got right by me. Mohammed? That's what she said. I opened my mouth to ask for clarification but found instead that she had not relinquished the floor.

"Don't say anything," she instructed. "You're going to support me in this. Suit up and show up."

Again, with the euphemisms. Suit up? I glanced in the mirror and thought the dove gray shirt with the eggshell and cantaloupe stripes was a good choice for denim jeans. I opened my mouth once more to ask for clarification and, once more, I discovered she was still speaking.

"Don't stand there looking like a scarecrow," she said, "say something for heaven's sake."

Well, this was what I'd been waiting for. Invited to speak, I prepared myself to give tongue, if that's the expression. Doesn't sound right but I'm sure I've heard it somewhere. At that very moment, displaying one of the many characteristics that get her so disliked by right-thinking individuals, Princess Amy, the amygdala with the overactive imagination, mentioned something totally inappropriate and not germane to the issue by a long shot. I immediately noticed a feeling arising in the body that hinted at the dark, moonless night of the soul. More drama from that almond-headed cluster of brain cells it seemed to me. I remember thinking that I'd heard enough from her. The buck stops here I thought to myself.

"The bitch, Brenda, speaks," I said and I meant it to sting. But I meant it to sting Amy, not Ms Wonder. I thought I'd used my inside voice but apparently not.

"Me?" said the Wonder. "Me?" said Amy.

"No, not you," I said to Wonder. "Calm down," I said to Amy.

"Calm down," said Wonder. "I'll calm you down." But she didn't. Instead, she left the room.

"How can I calm down?" said Amy. "It's not in my job description. I'm responsible for identifying the threat level and granting authority for corrective action and that's just what I'll do."

"Yes," I said, "but you tend to over-react. When you get hotted up, you go from lukewarm to incandescent in a moment. You threaten to pop rivets and come apart at the seams. Take a deep breath and chill is my advice. These aren't the droids you seek."

"Oh sure," she said. "You call me your bitch, Brenda, and I'm supposed to calm down?"

"Just a little joke," I said. "It's something that Keith Richards used to call Mick Jaeger. They've had all kinds of tiffs over the years. You know, bedding each other's women and all the usual stuff that rock bands do, and yet, they're still touring after 50 years. That's the way you and I are."

"We bed each other's women?"

"See, that's what I mean. You jump to the most negative interpretation. You know what I meant is that we stick together. We're the Rolling Stones, you and I. We'll stay together no matter what."

This tact worked better than I expected. She became quiet and the tension dissolved. But I knew it was only temporary. Like all front girls in rock bands, it was only a matter of time before she would try to make me her subordinate again. But I would be ready. I'm living fiercely these days--more than ever before and I'm ready for whatever life serves up.

Live mindfully. Stay connected. Never quit. Just like the Stones.

Let's Do It Again

"Ms Wonder," I said, "friends are like flowers."

"Very true," she said. "Georgia O'Keeffe said that to see a flower takes time, just as making friends takes time. She also said..."

"Yes, yes, yes," I said, "wonderful woman, and I'll bet you hold me spellbound telling me about all that she said, but later, please, when I have more time to pay close attention to every word." 

I risked losing her sympathy saying it but I had no other choice. As I'm sure you know, Ms Wonder's fine art photography is inspired by the work of Ms. O'K and she--Poopsie I mean, not O'Keefe--can go on for days about her.

"But are they worth risking eternal torment?" I said. "That is the question I ask myself."

"Pardon?" she said.

"Well, you know what I mean," I said. "That referral business."

"No," she said, "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Ms Wonder," I said. "You simply must start paying closer attention. Your life is slipping right by you. You remember the referral arrangement with Emerald City. Mention someone's name and they get $700.00 and then Mom gets flowers every month for the entire year."

"I follow you so far," she said.

"Well, no one really referred us, did they? We just said someone did so we could split the 700 green ones and get the flowers. That qualifies, unless I've forgotten the rules, as a blatant lie. Pardon me if that seems harsh but the truth will out, even if it doesn't set you free. Running afoul of one or more of the rules carved in stone, if they were carved, puts one in danger of eternal torment."

"Ah, I see now," she said. "You're wondering if $350.00 is worth eternal torment."

"I am not," I said somewhat indignantly. "You must take immediacy into account when considering eternal torment. The money comes now but no one knows when Judgement Day comes. No, it's not the money. What I'm wondering is whether fresh flowers for Mom is worth eternal torment."

"Of course," she said, "I understand now. That is a complex issue."

"I'm going to ask them what kind of flowers. Carnations, definitely not. Roses, certainly. Something in between, I'll have to think about it."

"Good plan," she said.

"Thank you, Ms Wonder."

"It's true what everyone says, that even though you have the mental prowess of a peahen, you do know how to get yours," she said.

As it happens, I've never met a peahen and so couldn't assess the quality of the compliment, but when in doubt, assume the best is my motto.

"Thank you," I said.

"Not at all," she said.

Celtic New Year!

In the Brythonic tongue of Wales, my ancestral home, the term is Calan Gaeaf. It means the first day of winter but it has come to be recognized as the New Year. It was a beautiful Halloween, or Samhain if you ride the broom. The gates to Chadsford Hall open at 6:00 PM to receive whoever and whatever crosses through the veil from Otherworld. Ms. Wonder and I were ready. The candy cauldron was heaped up, pressed down, and running over. Let them come was our attitude.

I will mention parenthetically that we have no fear of the residents on the other side of the veil for we have been neighbors for years and know their children's names. And, last but not least, we have a full complement of cats and, as I mentioned in an earlier post, cats do not abide zombies. Zombies are to cats less than the dust beneath their chariot wheels.

As I said, we were ready. Yet, although the gates oped at 6:00, there were no spirits in sight on the High Street at 6:12. We were stumped. Wouldn't you be? Then Wonder's eyes opened wide and a smile played on her lips. I admit that her behavior interested me strangely.

"What?" I said.

"Fake it till you make it," was all she said but it was enough. She and I have spent years hanging out in the same secret societies and I knew exactly what she was getting at. We opened the front doors wide and carried the cauldron out to the front stoop where we sat and waited.

"It's a wide, windy world we're riding through, Billy Bob," I said as an invocation. I like invocations. Makes me feel like I'm doing something. But it wasn't the invocation, it was the boffo--the going outside to wait for the trick-or-treaters. It was just enough priming to get the crackle flowing. Siempre-bango! Just like that, the veil parted and High Street was filled with spirits.

There were witches and goblins, there were imps and ogres, there was a dragon pulled in a little red wagon followed by a were-lion and a were-catepillar. Fairy princesses, a UPS man, who must have been enchanted by a fairy dancing, and too many more to list here.

It was the most beautiful Halloween night in memory and it lasted until well into It's the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown.

"Are we going to Jenny and Bill's to see how they made out?" Wonder asked when the last of the spirits returned to Otherworld.

"Hmmm, I think not," I said.

"But I thought you wanted to do that," she said.

"That was before I locked Bill in the handcuffs," I said.

"Excuse me," she said.

"He insisted on demonstrating that he could escape from handcuffs in less than a minute," I said. "So I handcuffed him, hands behind his back, and then he realized that the cuffs were not the cuffs he practiced with."

"So?" asked the Wonder.

"Well, he didn't have a key," I said.

"Poor, Jenny," she said. "But they have a full complement of cats, so I guess it's not as bad as it could be."

We both mused for several minutes. It grew darker.

"Life comes hard and fast," I said.