So Close and Yet So Far

Sunshine, calling to all right-thinking persons to come out and play in its mood-lifting light, poured into the windows of our suite in Cocoa Village. I stood at the window, having completed my morning qigong, and stared without seeing into the duckweed bog that bordered the gardens. I like the sunshine as a general rule—in fact, my morning constitution includes a brisk 20-minute walk in it. But on this particular morning, it brought no cheer. I must have looked like something standing in the showroom of a Harley Street Taxidermist.

A moralist, watching me standing there, might have remarked, smugly, that it cuts both ways. The peer of the realm, he might consider me to be, enjoying a robust fitness far above that which his irresponsible younger years warrant, often suffers the outrageous slings and arrows of uncertain fortune. This world is, after all, full of uncertainty and bogs filled with duckweed—duckweed, and alligators! At any moment, life may come swooping down out of the blue and smack one behind the ear with a sock of wet sand. It pays to be ready.

I, of course, have none of the training of the normal person who after suffering years of waiting 45 minutes to be seated is prepared to take the big one in stride. No, I am one of the blessed ones who have slept well, learned quickly, and measured up to the demands of a rigorous life. In short, the universe has worked things out in my favor. Oh sure, sometimes the moment seems to be lost but it always works out all right in the end.

Is it any surprise then that in the agony of this sudden, treacherous shock I was left feeling and looking stunned, like the blowfly that has met the swatter? You may have seen a comic illustration of the ostrich that has swallowed something he shouldn’t. You may have or you may not but, seen or not, that’s the way I felt. And I’ll tell you why I felt like a large flightless bird with a brass doorknob in its throat. I absolutely insist on being happy, joyous and free that’s why. Well, maybe just a tad more explication is called for.

I’ve recently become acquainted with the work of Nobel laureate, Daniel Kahneman, founder of behavioral economics and widely regarded as the world’s most influential living psychologist. When you’re a psychological phenomenon like me, you pay attention to what the world’s most influential living psychologists are thinking. According to Kahneman, we are happy when we can look back over our lives and remember plenty of happy memories.

If happy experiences are to be stored in long-term memory, he argues, those experiences must be as meaningful as they are happy. Otherwise, all that short-term happiness doesn't amount to beans. To be happy, really happy, we must have happy experiences that are truly meaningful. Now you will understand I think, why a recent scheduling conflict that prohibits the happiest and most meaningful experience of all, had led to the melancholy that flooded my soul. Melancholy heaped up, pressed down, and overflowing.

As I stood brooding, if that’s the word I want, the door behind me opened and Ms. Wonder entered the suite with coffee. I glanced at her with an apprehensive eye because she is not known for great empathy with those who, as she would express it, whine. I feared she might wound me with some flippancy. My concern lessened when I took in her countenance and discerned no frivolity, only a gravity that became her well.

“Bad business,” she said handing me a cup of Jah’s Mercy from the Rastafari Café on the corner.

“Hell’s foundations quiver,” I said.

“What are you going to do about it?” she said.

“Do?” I said. “What can I do?” This is my standard answer to a question about what I plan to do but it seemed especially appropriate in this case.

“Well, there’s no need in spending extra money when we can get a discounted rate at an inn farther away from the arts district,” she said.

“Wonder,” I said, “just what are you talking about?”

“Spring training, of course,” she said.

“I’m sorry, but it sounded to me that you said spring training.”

“Spring training is what I said,” she informed me. “It’s March and the baseball games have filled the hotels up and down the coast, right? We can’t stay an extra night in this hotel so we have to find another one and I have a coupon for the Fairfield by the Interstate.”

I stared at her dumbfounded. In my darkest hour, she has focused her attention on where we will spend tomorrow night. We have within easy reach a prime opportunity to experience a day full of wonder and amusement leading to many long-term happy memories. It’s so close by, less than an hour's drive, and yet it’s so far away because we have not been able to fit it into our schedule. It could very well determine our future happiness. I’m sure Dr. Kahneman would agree. I would sleep in the car if it meant a chance to be happy. Wouldn’t you?

“Wonder,” I said. “I would gladly sleep in the car to ensure a joyful tomorrow.”

“We are not having that discussion again,” she said. “Can’t you simply accept that we need to focus on exploring Cocoa? We can go to Orlando on our next trip down.”

She turned, shaking her head, and left the room but I heard her say as she walked out of sight, “I’m calling the Fairfield to see if they have any rooms left.”

Once again I turned to stare into the bog. Memories of a happy childhood played out like movies in my mind. My dearest and most cherished memories lived once more and it created a bitter-sweet mood because of what might have been. I felt the impact of Tom Hank’s words, like a sock full of wet sand to the occipital bone when in the role of Walt Disney in the movie, Saving Mr. Banks, he said, “I love that mouse.”

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!