Pine Cone Hazard

 I take Princess Amy for a walk on sunny mornings in hopes of lifting her mood and getting the day off on the right path. If you're one of the many that hang out here on the Circular Journey blog site and read everything that I write, then you're familiar with the princess. Otherwise, it may suffice to say that Princess Amy is my limbic system and it behaves like the Red Queen in Alice Through the Looking Glass. If you're still lost, then I suggest that you stop reading now and return to your social media habit.

On this morning's walk I was contemplating the characters in my book--the novel, not the South Carolina travel book. I was thinking specifically of Lupe, the 14 year-old protagonist who causes all the rannygazoo in Crystal Cove.

As I walked underneath the arbor of a pine grove, I was startled when a pine cone fell from its moorings in the canopy at just the precise moment to strike its target on the very top of my head. Pine cones are harder than you might expect this one fell from high above and landed with a jarring Whack!. I jumped. I may have shouted something like, Holy Hell! Tears came to the eyes.

Immediately after such an attack the eyes are drawn upward to see where the attack originated and this morning I saw a bird, possibly a grackle, fly from somewhere high in the tree. A new spirit guide I wondered. The thought was prompted by my musing on the character Lupe. Her mother is Native American--Lupe prefers the word Indian--and she recognizes spirit guides from the animal kingdom and insists that I have one too, even though I haven't been properly introduced.

But I'm in danger of jumping the rails in the story. Let's get back to the subject by saying that when I brought my gaze back down to earth, I almost stepped on a card lying on the ground. At first I continued walking but quickly thought better of it.

You see, the pine cone barrage was a bit out of the usual and considering the odds that a bird would dislodge the whatsit at just the right time to have it fall through the ether and smack me on the shoulder must be staggering. And if you consider the spirit guide angle, it follows that maybe it all happened for a reason and the card, which turned out to be a lottery card, could be the reason.

You understand then why I picked up the card. Unfortunately, it wasn't a winner. Now I was left wondering, Why? Realizing that there was no answer better than the whole thing being nothing more than a random happenstance, my thoughts quickly turned to germs. We think of germs a lot during a global pandemic and I was holding a card that had been in someone else's hands. 

There was no trash can in sight and I didn't want to carry this piece of garbage for the rest of my walk. But the on-going environmental degradation has made me militantly anti-littering. What to do? That became the big question in my mind. What to do with the discarded paper.

I'm interested to know if you agree with my decision, which was this: The damage to the environment and all right-thinking sensibilities had already been done by the person who dropped the card in the first place. If I placed the card on the path exactly where I found it, then I was doing no further damage and I could pick up the card and dispose of it properly on my return. 

I walked back underneath the same tree and placed the card on the ground. Then I straightened and continued my stroll.

"You dropped something."

That's right. Another hiker was approaching on the path and she'd seen my deliberately placing the piece of trash on the ground. Of course, I wanted to say, It's not mine. I'm only returning it to where I found it. 

I didn't want to pick up the trash again and go through the same deliberations. What I actually said was: "Thank you." 

Then I picked up the card, smiled as her as she walked past--it did not good, of course, I was wearing a mask--and then I walked on. I placed the card in the back pocked of my jeans and forgot about it until I washed the jeans with the card still in the pocket.

Can't Stop Us Now

Dawn had swept the stars from the sky and poured a cupful of sunshine onto the lawns of Chatsford Hall by the time Ms. Wonder came breezing into my study. She looked like Marlene Dietrich in the role of Catherine the Great leading her troops to the Winter Palace to deliver the message to Peter that he found so very disappointing. I was happy to see her--Ms. Wonder, of course, not Catherine. If the United States Marines had landed on the lawn outside, I couldn't have been happier. I told her so.

"Good morning, Wonder," I said. "I'm happy to see you."

"Have you been up all night, working on that book?" she said.

"Not that book," I said. "It's called Out of the Blue, and no, I've been wrestling with a decision regarding the end of the world as we know it."

"Right," she said and if she seemed to be less than sympathetic it's because that's exactly what she was less than, and before you judge, let me assure you she has a right. It isn't easy living with The Genome.

I aspire to be a rational, level-headed--if that's the term--adult. I make reasonable plans that outline the proper steps. So far so good, but then when the curtain goes up I forget all my lines. No amount of cajoling can motivate me to leave the wings to strut across the stage playing my part. I don't trust myself to do the right thing and, this is the worst part, I don't trust the advice of anyone else. I don't suppose you've had the experience yourself?

"I want to hand the thing over to my agent," I said, "before I get around to it, I change my mind; I want to publish it myself, keeping all control, you know." I was silent for a moment musing on something I'd heard somewhere. Probably in a song. "It's like that mountain," I said at last.

"Mountain?" she said.

"You know," I said, "First there was a mountain, then there was no mountain, then there was. That mountain."

"Donovan," she said or at least that's what it sounded like to me. I believe it's one of the prehistoric eras but I'm not sure about it. You may be more familiar with the term.

"Between the acting of a dreadful thing and the first notion," she said, "all the interim is like a hideous dream and the state of man like to a little kingdom suffers an insurrection."

"I couldn't have put it better myself," I said "but why are you talking like that?"

"Shakespeare," she said, and then added, "Julius Caesar."

Well, it's always hard to know what to say when someone hands you lines like those. First Donovan and now Shakespeare and Julius Caesar! I began to wonder if she'd taken my meds instead of hers. It's the same problem I have trying to respond to the Muse and the Saint pre-coffee. But I responded in the best way I knew how on the spur of the moment.

"Your first guess is usually the correct one," I said, "so I'd guess Shakespeare. Sounds more like his stuff than something Caesar would say."

"In Hamlet, he described it as like the poor cat in the adage."

"Then I'm sure it was Shakespeare," I said, "we read Hamlet in Norbert Kier's class in high school and I'm pretty certain he wrote it. Shakespeare I mean, not Mr. Kier."

"I know who wrote it," she said. "It was in the play Julius Caesar."

I mused through a few moments of silence, wondering why she kept referring to me as Julius Caesar. I finally decided to go with this, "You know, Wonder, I think you're on to something. I seem to remember someone else saying something similar. Something about the spirit being willing but the feet were cold."

"Jesus Christ," she said.

"Ms. Wonder!" I said. "Language!. You may have ancestors who dumped palace waste into the Winter Canal and polluted the River Neva but my ears are not garbage cans."

"May I make a suggestion?" she said and I'm sure you can imagine the relief I felt that she was about to offer help.

"Do," I said.

"You might consider writing an email to yourself with a detailed explanation of your logical and reasonable thought processes. Then, in the future, when you feel unsure of your next step, you can refer to the email and know that you are getting sound advice."

"Send an email into the future addressed to me?" I said.

"Precisely," she said.

"Ms. Wonder!" I said with not a little enthusiasm. "You are one of a kind. You do know everything no matter how much you deny it."

"Not at all," she said. "I'm happy to help in any way I can."

"You know at least as much as Shakespeare," I said, "and he seemed to hear all the gossip. Thank you immensely."

"Not at all," she said.

Free Fallin'

" I have seen it all now, Ms Wonder," I said with conviction as I entered the salle de bains.

"What now," she said.

"Just now, on my return trip from Native Ground, I saw a guy on a skateboard standing in the middle of the street, looking at his phone."

"Hmm," she said, "in the middle of the street?"

"In the turning lane, just gazing at his text messages," I said. "Cars whizzing all around."

"I've always been drawn to skateboard culture--Free Falling, and all that, but not in the middle of Highway 55 during morning rush hour.

"Free Falling isn't about skateboarding," she said," and besides Happy Cats Wellness needs you right now. You can't afford to break any bones."

You are aware, I'm sure, that she referred to our new digital enterprise, the authoritative source of all things that improve health and elevate the happiness of the household mouser.

"You and Island Irv," I said.

"What about me and Island Irv?"

"Irv tells me I'm too old to skateboard, but I say consider the facts. I've already exceeded all expectations for the Genome's demise and I'm not so certain that I don't have another decade of extravagance in me."

I paused here to give the words time to sink in and get the fullest effect. As I watched Ms. Wonder, busy with her eyebrows, I began to wonder if the words had any effect at all. I decided to press the point.

"It's like Galileo and the Jesuits all over again," And I meant it to sting a bit.

"What?" she said.

"You know what I mean, Kepler happened to notice one day that Mars circled the sun and he even mentioned it in one of his New York Times best-selling books."

I waited for her to nod or indicate in some other way that she was following me. It didn't happen. She shrugged instead.

"Well," I said, just a little disappointed, "Galileo ignored Kepler's observation even though he was, at the time, defending himself from Vatican censorship because his very own views suggested that the Earth was not the center of things. You see what I mean?"

"No," she said.

"Ms Wonder! Do put on your thinking cap. The Vatican was telling Galileo to stop spreading nonsense even though it was common knowledge that the Jesuits had made the same observations and that Copernicus had written extensively about them.

"You're driveling," she said, and I didn't like her attitude one bit. Neither did Princess Amy like it and don't make me have to stop here to explain Princess Amy.

"Galileo ignored Copernicus too," I said."

"Did you sleep well last night?" she asked, but once more I pressed on, refusing to be derailed by her questions.

"It's Olber's Paradox, Ekaterina," and you may notice that I used her formal name to emphasize that I was serious and had enough of her attempts to muddle my thoughts. "When you look into the night sky it seems full of stars because that's what you're focusing on. But look again and you see that it is essentially dark. It's a simple observation and yet it has so much meaning, missed by most observers."

I paused again, to look into those emerald-green eyes for a sign that my words were having the desired effect. Nope! Bust again! I didn't like the look in her eye either, and I didn't want to be like Galileo and ignore the evidence that had been placed before me like ripe fruit.

"Will you consider discussing a simple mood stabilizer with your doctor?" she said.

"No, Poopsie, not drugs. Too twentieth century. Gamma-ray bursts are the current thing."

"Gamma-rays is it?" she said.

"Looking into the center of most galaxies is a monster black hole," I said. I don't know why I said it. It may have been anxiety causing me to think that the time was right to say something. Then again, it may have been a whim. The look she now wore is one that I very familiar with. She was looking at me the way a mother might look at a child who just turned the cereal bowl upside down on the dog's head.

"We are doomed," I said, having decided that the time was right for closing remarks. "The end is right around the corner."

After several moments of uncomfortable quiet, she spoke.

"The universe is full of infinite prospects," she said. I mused for a moment or two and nodded in agreement. She went on to say, "And there is limitless time, is there not?"

I nodded again because when Ms. Wonder speaks in a certain tone of voice, one gets quiet and pays attention if one desires to stay out of the quarantine room. I once more mused on her observations and, in the twinkling of an eye, it struck me.

"Nothing to worry about?" I said.

"Nothing," she said. Then she patted me on the shoulder and walked into the other room. I looked into the mirror to see how Amy was taking it. I expected she would take it big and that's just the way she was taking it. She had collapsed into a heap on the floor.

"Everything is going to be alright, Amy," I said trying to reassure her. "You heard Ms Wonder, nothing to worry about."

"There's always something to worry about," Amy said.

"True," I said, "but there's infinite possibilities and limitless time. If only Napoleon had known, things might have turned out differently for him."

It's amazing isn't it, how things that seem to herald the end of the world may turn out to be just what the doctor ordered. I returned to work on Crystal Cove without a single care. Oh, but you probably haven't heard about Crystal Cove. I can't go into it now but it's my new book and you're going to love it. And yes, I know that Wonder suggested I should work on Happy Cats but let it go, dear reader. Put it completely out of your mind. I've got this. Really I do.

Princess Amy Explained

"Off with his head!"

-- Queen of Hearts, Alice in Wonderland


Deep inside the brain, there is a region that's known to be the center of intense emotion or, as I like to call them, the emotions of survival. Known as the limbic system, its job is to identify potential threats and then kick-start responses to deal with them. 

Princess Amy


The amygdala (uh - MIG - duh - luh) is just one of the named regions of the limbic system and its job is to work with other structures to regulate mood. For example, the amygdala interacts with the prefrontal cortex to generate and process the major emotions of anger, happiness, disgust, surprise, sadness, and particularly fear.

My amygdala can be quite dramatic. I think of her as a spoiled little brat who throws tantrums when she doesn’t get her way. I call her Princess Amy. Amy has a lot in common with the Queen of Hearts in the Lewis Carroll story, Alice Through the Looking Glass. 

That queen is the ruthless ruler of Wonderland. She is happy only when she wins and she always plays by her own rules. When she disapproves of someone's behavior, she yells, "Off with his head!" Once when Alice was running as fast as she possibly could to escape the chess pieces chasing her across the game board, the queen challenged her to "Run faster!" 

Princess Amy does the same. "Run for your life!" is one of her favorite commands. And just like the Queen of Hearts, she sometimes screams “Off with their heads!” In every case the only person in danger of losing his head is me.

The Queen of Hearts is despised and avoided by all the inhabitants of Wonderland because they live in fear of her. But I know that Princess Amy isn't really a despot. She actually has my best interests at heart. It's just that, like me, she's afraid that we're going to fail at life too. Instead of fearing her, I try to remember to show compassion. It helps in this regard to think of her as a frumpy little bluebird who is cute and funny even when she's hotted-up to the point of incandescence. Then I can simply say, "Chill, Amy. Everything is OK. I've got this." 

Where's Napoleon Now?

The morning was one of those sparkling ones like that effervescent orange juice they sell in the food courts in Union Station in the District of Columbia. You know the stuff I mean. They make you smile just to think of drinking one and that's the way the morning made me feel--like smiling. 

I must have been smiling when I entered the front door of Native Grounds. I don't know how long the smile continued because immediately I entered, I was met by the entire southside gang, sitting at a large table near the door.

You may remember me mentioning this gang in previous posts, possibly--possibly not, because I don't write of them often. I prefer to avoid this tattered group of young men if that's the correct technical term, a miss-matched assortment of everything South Durham society has to offer, and who hang together, I must imagine, because they all work the night shift at the Food Lion. 

My theory is that they bonded, the way young men do bond while spending the early morning hours drinking Red Bull--a sport they discovered one morning when Curtis, the born-again Christian, discovered that he could get quite a buzz going drinking something perfectly legal and without a stain on its character with the church.

A few of the more alert of the group looked up from their multi-syllabic caffeinated drinks and grinned at me, thinking no doubt of the last time we met. I was considering the appropriate greeting when a voice behind me said, "What up my ninja?"

It was Doob, a Yoda-sized expatriate of Cleveland, wearing an oversized Browns hoodie that looked like it would fit an NFL tackle. His fist was raised and leaning in my direction waiting for a bump. 

Just before I arrived, Derek, one of the coffee-jockeys, left his post behind the counter and walked out to the sidewalk, the better to straighten tables, and had followed Doob into the cafe.

"Are you alright with this?" I asked Derek as I inclined the bean toward Doob.

Derek shrugged and raised both hands, palms up. "What you gonna do?" he said. "Besides, Curtis says the apocalypse is upon us and it just don't seem right to get up in somebody's face about being politically incorrect when it's the end of the world."

I looked at the designated Curtis. "What end-of-world? There's no end of the world at any time soon. That's so Y2K," I said.

"No," said Curtis, not looking up from his red-letter King James, "I'm pretty sure it's the end. It's the vampire cats." All the others nodded in unison.

"Just as long as it's not the brain-eating zombie apocalypse," said Irv.

"Vampire cats!" I said, putting a lot of topspin on it, and why not? Justified it seemed to me. I'm sure you would have done the same had you been in my position. I wasn't having a manic moment if that's what you're thinking. I remember checking in with Princess Amy at the time and she was calm as dammit. 

"There are no vampire cats," I said to Curtis. "That's just one of Amy's stories. She got it from a Chris Moore novel."

"Unh, unh," said Chad, "we saw 'em. Last night at the Food Lion."

"What? You saw the vampire cat?"

"Lots of 'em--truckloads," he said.

Chad slid something down the table that looked like a large caramel, macchiato with lots of whipped cream in an oversized mug. Doob took a slurpy hit, held his breath, and passed it to Curtis.

"Want a rip, man?" said Curtis looking directly at me. I was incredulous, is that the word I want? I gave him one of my patented looks. "It's alright," he said, "it's medicinal."

"Medicinal? What medicinal? You have a medical condition?" I said.

"Show him the card," said Chad, and Curtis took a blue card out of his shirt pocket and flashed it my way.

"That's a Durham County library card," I said.

Chad nodded. "Yeah," he said, "that's our condition. Reading makes us anxious."

This somehow got to me. I was nonplussed if that's the word. Had no comeback. I looked back at Doob who was still standing there with his fist extended in my direction. I gave it a bump.

"Troot," said Doob.

"Truth," I said.

I can't explain why, but I knew as I walked to the order-here space that today would not be the day I had hoped when I left home. Where, I wondered, was Napoleon when he was really needed?