Construction Zone

The dawn of another day crept upon the SoDu. Minute by minute the light grew stronger as it made its way along Coronado Lane until it filtered in the window of my bedroom. It would have awakened me from slumber had I been in bed but I wasn't of course. I'm always up and doing by the time dawn arrives. The early bird I'm sometimes called. Getting around the morning worm and all that.

The sun was dimly conscious of finding my bed empty on previous mornings. I say 'dimly' because it's been some little time since the day began with an appearance from the sun. Spring break for him probably. Doing a little surfing on Top Sail Island I shouldn't wonder. That’s where I’d be given the chance.

I'm told that few things have the tonic effect on a man accustomed to being a little slow to wake as the discovery that he has stolen a prize pig overnight. I would dispute that. I had not stolen such a prize but I was tonic-ed to the gills. I waded through an incoming tide of cats to get to the door of the sal de bains. I opened it and stepped into the tropical environment of Ms. Wonder's bath.

The river pebbles underfoot were slippery and I held to the palm fronds to keep from falling as I made my way to the sound of falling water. Eventually, I found myself on the edge of a deep, clear pool. Eddy the cat was licking a paw and when he saw me gave a yawn and turned his back.

"Don't be smug," I said, "It doesn't suit you." She was seated on a flat boulder in the middle of the bath, not too near the plunging water. I called to her above the roar of the falls.

"Wonder," I said, "Hell's foundations are shaking."

She turned the water off so we could hear each other.

"What?" she said.

"We've got to rally round Tiger," I said, "She needs us."

"Why? What's wrong?" she said.

"I’ll tell you what’s wrong," I said, "She’s headed for a rubber room at the laughing academy, that's what's wrong."

“I will not listen to that kind of talk,” she said. “You of all people should be more considerate. How would you like it if people spoke of you like that? Remember, people who live in glass houses.”

I mused on this for a moment but could not think of a single person silly enough to live in such a house.

This is probably a good time to pause and offer five cents of backstory for the newcomers. This Tiger mentioned above is my very best closer-than-a-sister friend. She has never abandoned me no matter how dark the skies nor threatening the v-shaped depressions. I’m sure you will fully understand my concern over her recent bizarre behavior.

“Just tell me why you’re concerned about Tiger,” she said.

“First,” I said, “let me warn you that what I’m about to say includes depictions of graphic violence.”

She waved a hand indicating that I had the floor and should continue.

“As you well know,” I said, “This Tiger is no stranger to wild, impulsive behavior. I mean she rides a motorcycle for one thing and she is married to the Cowboy, which tells you something right there.”
 

Her eyes met mine and we shared a meaningful look.

 

“But until recently, her behavior has been confined to the normal range of lunacy. In the last few days, however, and follow me very closely here because this is the seminal point, that has all changed.”

 

“Imagine if you will, Tiger lounging on the sofa watching marathon episodes of Murder She Wrote.”

 

“Yes,” agreed the Wonder, “or Big Bang.”

 

“As you say, Murder She Wrote or The Big Bang Theory. Doesn’t matter which. Then during the commercial break, she rises from the couch to wander aimlessly into the kitchen and then suddenly she whirls around and, with a kung-fu shout, rips the door off a wall cabinet and throws it out the window.”

 

I thought this statement might get a reaction out of her and I was not wrong. She stared at me for several seconds as though waking from a dream. Then slowly her eyes grew larger and rounder. Her lips parted as though she would speak but nothing came out.

 

“I haven't been there to witness this behavior but she speaks openly of it, as though it were just everyday behavior. Imagine how difficult it must be for the Cowboy to come home from work each day and deal with the aftermath.”

 

The Wonder remained silent.

 

“In a recent episode, she ripped a cupboard off the wall. I know! When I spoke to her about it, she mumbled something and I can't be absolutely sure of this but I believe she has plans to tear out the sink.”

 

“The sink?” she said.

 

“In the beginning, she must have known something wasn't quite right about her behavior because she didn't speak of it in public. Now she posts pictures on Facebook! I am very worried.”

 

“But how did all this begin?" she asked. "I mean there’s usually some gateway behavior isn’t there? Childhood tea parties leading to binge drinking at the corner tavern—that sort of thing?”

 

“Well," I said, "we can never be sure about causal relationships, can we? Still, I think this must surely have something to do with the Cowboy falling through the kitchen ceiling.”

 

“I’m sorry?” she said.

 

“Oh he’s unhurt,” I said. “Nothing to worry about. Just a few scratches.”

 

“I mean,” she said, and I thought she seemed to be hotting up, “what or why did he fall through the ceiling?”

 

“Well, you’ve got me there, not really sure but you know the Cowboy—he works in mysterious ways his wonders to perform. The point is, he crashed through the kitchen ceiling and something must have clicked inside her. I think she's out of control.”

 

“I know she would stoutly deny it if asked. Probably say that she can stop anytime she likes. You know how that story goes. But I'm not buying it. I'm convinced that she's in the grip of a disorder. If it feels good to knock off a cabinet door, then it will bring joy unconfined to smash the countertops with a sledge hammer. If pulling a cupboard down lightens the heart, then pushing the fridge off the back porch will bring ecstasy. Where does it all stop?”

 

“I think an intervention is called for,” she said and I thought the drama was a bit thick but her heart was in the right place.

 

“My thoughts too,” I said.

 

And so the Wonder and I put together a plan to call all our friends, confront Tiger before she leaves for work this morning, and get her into rehab at Habitat For Humanity Restore. Life comes hard and fast, as I’m sure I don’t need to tell you, but we can get through the hard times if we only stick together.

 

You’ve been here for us, Tiger, and we will be there for you. Count on it.

 

Rogue Star Unleashed

The sun appeared in the sky on Retired Gods Day in Durham like a poached egg, all bright and warm and wiggly. The mists rose from the lowlands in grey and gold streamers, moist and ragged around the edges like the fading fragments of dreams.

I like to sleep late but never do and this morning was no exception. I was up at 5:30 walking aimlessly around the lower levels of Chadsford Hall. It's a mindfulness technique, really. Walking around with attention focused on nothing--aimless. Still, I could sense the magic filling up the place.

It's nothing new to have magic in the air of the Hall, it's usually full of the stuff, but it's normally the old, comfortable sort of magic that's about as exciting as pilling a cat. The magic I felt rushing underneath the door jams was the new stuff, the newly minted variety fresh from the Source.

Not a good thing for me, new magic that is. I'm allergic. Ms. Wonder says that everyone is allergic to magic. She says that's the point. But it's different for me. The general background magic that supports all thaumaturgic activity is harmless but the new stuff clings to me like static. It builds to a critical mass and then bang! It's not pretty and it never turns out well.

The distraction from bright, cold drafts of the stuff wafting about the rooms of the Hall, glistening like Empyrian electrum and shimmering with octarine green and blue, was too much for my aimlessness. I needed advice and I needed it fast. I headed upstairs where I heard gushing torrents of water filling a bathtub. "Poopsie," I said, "I need your advice. Rally 'round."

"What's up?" she said.

"What's up?" I said, "That's the point, isn't it? You are aware that new magic is rolling off the press even as we speak and that's it's coming from Woodcroft?"

"I noticed," she said, "Are you puissant?"

This got right by me, of course. Puissant? Is that a word? What could she possibly mean by it? Must have something to do with magic. There was no time to muse on this mystery. I felt the need to get right down to it so I gave her the best response I could.

"Probably not so puissant as you," I said and I thought it pretty good. Don't you agree?

"That's sweet of you to say," she said, "and probably very true but what is it you wanted to ask."

"Well," I said, choosing my words carefully. "You are aware that Gladdis..."

"Witch of Woodcroft," she interrupted.

"Yes, all that," I said, "but put that out of your mind for the nonce. Let me finish my thought or I'll wander off the path. We cannot afford distractions. You will be leaving for work shortly and then where will I be? Lost among the lilies, that's where.

"Lost among the lilies? Is that a saying?"

"Isn't it?"

"One of yours then," she said.

"Ah," I said because I'd lost the thread. "What was it we were talking about?"

"Something about Gladdis," she said.

"That's right. You are well aware that Gladdis..."

"Witch of Woodcroft."

"As you say, Gladdis Lyremark Ironarrow or the Witch of Woodcroft, has published the first installment of Rogue Star."

"We looked at it on her website together," she said.

I raised a hand. "Poopsie," I said, "please." I gave her a look and it seemed to have quieted this tendency of her's to pop off.

"She has published a seminal chapter, is seminal the word?" 

"Seminal," she said, "or original, informative, carrying the seeds that will develop into the fruit of the work."

Although I felt that we were at a critical juncture, I could not hold back another long, meaningful look. I hoped it was meaningful and I hoped it would stick.

"Wonder," I said.

"Yes?"

"This new magic that even now has filled the lower levels and is creeping up the staircase is generated by the release of Chapter 1 on the Rogue Star website. And although we agree that it is a seminal chapter of the book, carrying the seeds that will develop into the fruit of the work, still, just what the hell are we going to do about it?"

"Do about it?"

"You know what I mean. How to stop the overflow of magic and all the strangeness that follows."

"Just relax," she said. "I realize that this is one of Princess Amy's hot buttons but everything is going to be fine."

"It is?"

"Of course, it is. Just take a deep breath and let life happen. Don't you remember Lucy once telling you that it's not your job to be in control of everything?"

"She did, yes, that's one wise kitten, well she's a cat now but she was only a kitten when she told me that. Animals have a certain wisdom."

"Humans too," she said.

"Well, some humans," I conceded. "I'll try to follow that advice. Thank you, Poopsie."

"Don't thank me, thank Lucy," she said while I took a few deep quaffs of oxygen.

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.