Changed My Life

I promised in an earlier post to explain in a future post all that rigamarole about being Death's assistant and this post is that post. The explanation isn't as easy as it might seem. This is my nth attempt and I've come to realize that a full explanation would require writing a book and that book has already been written. I'll point you to that book shortly in case you still need some splaining.

So, if you feel lost, leave a question in the comments below, and if you have a firm grasp, then leave answers to the questions below. Now, before we begin make sure the lap bar is locked into position and keep your arms and legs inside the vehicle at all times. There will be turbulence.

It all began when I found Mom's Big Book of Death. You remember that post, I'm sure, but if not, you can follow the link at the end of this post. Wait! Don't go running off on a new adventure now. Finish this post first. You'll get there soon enough.

Mom's book reminded me of the Big Book of Death in Christoper Moore's book, Dirty Job. That's how I gave Mom's book a similar name. OK, identical name. 

Unrelated to anything that Mr. Moore wrote, I've always had a love for thrift stores. See? Turbulence already. I warned you. My love began back in the day with used book stores in Charleston. From used books, I moved on to vintage clothing, then vintage electronics, and I now have a full-blown addiction to thrifting. Don't let anyone try to tell you that collecting old and rare books is harmless. Used books are a gateway!

As anyone with my addiction will tell you, thrifting begins with collecting things that you're interested in and plan to use in some way. But you soon find yourself collecting things that you have absolutely no use for but seem strangely attracted to anyway. Strike that. I can only speak for myself. I should have said, I am strangely attracted to things that I have no use for. In little time, those things began to clutter up my shelves, tabletops, bureau drawers. You get the idea.

Recently, I made updates to Mom's Big Book of Death and was reminded again of Dirty Job. It happens to be one of my favorite books and is easy to be reminded of. And so I decided to read it again. 

That's when I realized that my strange attraction to objects in thrift stores was not too unlike the main character, Charlie Asher, and his attraction to soul vessels. Don't get your knickers in a wad, soul vessels are...no! I'm not going to go down that rabbit hole again. Suffice it to say that when a person leaves the earth to sleep among that stars, his or her soul takes refuge in a favorite possession. That object, known as the soul vessel, gets passed on to someone who's been selected to assist the soul in its journey toward destiny.

Now, if you haven't gotten into loose gravel on the shoulder and slid into the ditch, then you may have jumped ahead to realize that the way that soul vessel gets to the soul's next ride, is with the assistance of a Soul Merchant. Charlie Asher is a Soul Merchant in Dirty Job.

And now for the punchline. I'm Charlie Asher in my timeline. I'm a Soul Merchant. It all fits. The story that Christoper Moore tells in his book is my story. Why do I think that? Let me count the ways:

1. Charlie buys all sorts of objects (ones that glow) at estate sales and sells them in his thrift store. I buy objects (ones I'm strangely attracted to) in thrift stores and sell them online.
2. Charlie sells objects (some are soul vessels but most are not) to the appropriate person as chosen by destiny. He doesn't play any part in making sure the right person gets the soul. I sell objects to the appropriate person as chosen by destiny and some of them write me to tell me how much getting the object means to them (soul vessels?).
3. Charlie has to deal with the three Celtic goddesses of war and death. I have to deal with that spoiled little brat of a limbic system that I call Princess Amy.
4. Charlie has a connection to the Big Book of Death. I have a connection to Mom's Big Book of Death.

Still not convinced? Pay close attention to this:

As I re-read Christopher Moore's Dirty Job, I came to a part of the story that I'd forgotten. Charlie Asher is writing a check at an estate sale and realizes that the check is the last one in the ledger. He begins to cry because he shared that checkbook with his recently deceased wife and he will no longer see her handwriting in the ledger. He feels he's losing another part of someone loves.

That part of the story is where I realized that Charlie's story is my story. You see I still have my mom's checkbook and I keep cash tucked inside it because each time I took my mom shopping or to an appointment, she would buy a coffee for me with the cash she kept in that checkbook. I do it because I feel that I still have a little part of her with me. She still buys me coffee.

Several days ago, when I first began writing this post, I remembered something else that had slipped my memory. A few years ago, I was introduced to an online game that was designed to help people like me deal with their emotional disorders. The game is called SuperBetter. It helped me immensely but I stopped using it quite some time ago. Why mention it here?

Here's why. To play the game, you choose an avatar based on the main character of a favorite movie, play, TV show, or book. Then you tailor the principles and challenges of the game to mimic the events and challenges faced by your chosen avatar. Years ago, long before my mom died and long before I found her Book of Death, I chose Charlie Asher as my avatar.

That may not impress you but it impresses the hell out of me every time I think of it.

Link to Mom's Big Book of Death

If Not For You?

Weekday mornings I Walk. It's capitalized because it's a spiritual practice. Around 9:00 am, after performing the cat chores--feeding, administering medication, and other routine caretaking, and after a light breakfast, I leave the as-needed care with Ms. Wonder. Then I head to Brunswick Forest to walk in the pines.

It's more than walking, of course. Those who know me best are aware that anytime you find the Genome underneath a leafy canopy, he will qigong. It's a spiritual thing. In fact, I do more than perform the ancient practice that originated in the Wudang Mountains of central China--I Fierce Qigong! Like the dickens! And I do it with my Kung Fu fighting cane!

I sometimes refer to this morning ritual as lost in let's remember because it makes me think of my younger days. You know what I mean.

When the weather is warm and dry my regalia includes the fighting cane, my Qigong Wellness t-shirt, from the martial arts academy that hasn't existed in over 14 years; and my competition taiji shoes, from my teaching days, which are long over; and I wear a golf glove to complete the outfit, to prevent losing my grip on the cane and beaning innocent bystander who only came to the park to air out the dog. 

Although I pretend to have some other purpose for being here, I'm actually here for the few minutes of meditation it allows. We both know that I'd come here just to watch the dogs enjoying their morning in nature. Makes me smile....

That's the essence of my regular morning walks but that's not what went down today. I was in a different dimension this morning. I was lost in thought and feeling about what it means to be a Soul Merchant.

Being out among the coastal people, when they were just beginning to move, greeting the morning, making ready to go about the mundane business of the day, I couldn't stop wondering if I'd soon deliver a soul vessel to one of them. 

It doesn't matter that I have no idea what I’m doing or whether or not I’m really doing anything, it just seems apparent that I’ve been chosen for the job. 

Uh oh! I'm so sorry about that. I've done it again. Jumped the rails and started talking about something that you've not been introduced to. I promise to do something about that in future posts.  For now, let me just say that all this stuff about Soul Merchants and whatnot is connected to Mom's Big Book of Death. 

Surely you remember Mom's book. We've talked about it enough. Still, I promise to clear up the whole shebang in the very next post. Watch for it because I don't have your number. I don't know how to get in touch with you other than The Circular Journey and I really need to be in touch with you. 

I've said it before and I mean it still, I don't know what I'd do without you!

As I was saying, it seems apparent that I've been chosen for the job. After all, someone has to do it. But my weakness is Princess Amy, of course. She seems to take on the role of the Morrigan (stay tuned) and she keeps throwing obstacles in my way. That can't be tolerated. 

As I went about my routine, doing the things I usually do every day even though I don't really feel up to it, I realized that it felt different this morning. I felt as though I had a real purpose, a reason to breathe the air and to take up space for a period of time. I realized that I was not dumbly going through the motions. I actually strutted. I felt like Mick Jagger on tour.

And so, when most of the dogs and their people were on the other side of the lake, I found a spot in the pine thicket with a small clearing bathed in bright sunlight. I got into qigong open position and raised my arms in a gesture known as lifting the sky, and then I closed my eyes and addressed that same sky in my loudest voice, saying, 

“I am the chosen one! So don’t mess with me today!” I said it with a lot of topspin because I wanted to make sure it stuck.

I was talking to Amy, of course, and it felt good. I stood there for several seconds, arms raised to heaven, eyes closed, and with the biggest smile that I could fit on my face. 

Talking to Amy is an inside job and isn't always understood by the public. When I finally looked around, I noticed that a few doggers were back on my side of the lake. 

One couple walking a poodle stared at me with exaggerated concern. Another guy and his terrier gave me a look that said they were considering their options for escape. The woman with the Plott Hound just kept walking forward, staring at the ground and making an effort to not look at me.

“Had to be done,” I said to all of them and to no one in particular. 

The first couple glanced at each other questioningly, the second couple called to their dogs. The woman with the Plott Hound gave me a quick glance and a furtive smile. And they all walked on. They seemed to understand being messed with, don't we all in the age of COVID? And they seemed to accept my way of dealing with the situation.

I never felt so vital. I absolutely tingled with energy. I finally understood why the living, when compared to the dead, are called the quick. I completed my walk around the lake enjoying the sense of irony, that until I became Death's assistant, I'd never felt so alive.

Almost Is Not Enough

It was early morning on the day of the first 9:30 am meditation class that I was to lead at Straw Valley. I'd worked hard for this slot and had every reason to be happy with myself but I wasn't. Instead, I was filled with a nameless dread. I feared that the students would object to the earlier starting time and not be there when the class began. 

We Genomes are men of steel, ask anyone, and yet sometimes, strangely, we struggle to maintain the stiff upper lip.

"Poopsie, I'm not the merry old self this morning," I said.

"Really?"

"Nope. Far from it."

"I'm sorry to hear it," she said.

"But why, is what I ask myself," I said.

"I couldn't say," she said and for the first time since the conversation began, I noticed that she was devoting all her attention to Eddy. I began to wonder if this was the time for playing with kittens. A little more of the rally-round spirit would have suited me.

"It could be that Princess Amy is messing around with the lipid cocktail again." I said, "Or it could be that I'm worried about a gang of students showing up at 10:00 and when they learn that I'm halfway through the meditation portion of the program, they begin throwing chairs around and trampling through the bamboo grove."

"You mean to say halfway through the meditation class," she said.

"What did I say?"

"You said meditation portion."

"That's what I meant to say," I said. "I wonder why Princess Amy gives me such a hard time? After all, we're technically one and the same."

"Difficult to say," she said.

This Amy I speak of always has something sinister in mind for me. And it isn't like I stiffen the neck and kick about it. I usually go along with just about everything she asks--living life on life's terms and all that. The only time I balk is when she starts ladling out that not-good-enough nonsense.

She loves to remind me that I was always missing the mark as a kid. I wasn't a very good student, always preferring the outdoors to the classroom. I wasn't a good athlete, always being the last kid chosen for the team. I was smaller than the average and I learned quite early that staying away from the ball was a really good survival technique.

"I have to leave now," said Ms. Wonder, "I've got to hang that art exhibit."

"Yes, I remember," I said, "And when does it come down?"

"End of the year," she said. "It's like you always say."

"What is?"

"The art exhibit," she said, "It's like everything else--it arises, it abides for a moment, and then it passes away. Maybe your feelings of impending doom will be like that too."

It's amazing how prescient, this woman can be if prescient is the word I want, because half an hour into the meditation class, everyone was sitting quietly, listening to the bamboo leaves rustling in the breeze. Not a single chair was bunged about nor a single drop of blood spilled. I remember thinking how odd it was.

After repeating the goodbyes and passing around the happy endings, I remembered something Ms. Wonder often says, "Our anxious anticipation of future events is almost always worse than what actually happens."

I don't know where she gets these things but I'm sure she has a million of them. And like most of them, this particular one is a good thing to keep in mind. Not that it completely calms the anxious mind but it helps. 

The shortcoming of course, which I'm sure you caught right away, is that annoying little word, almost.

Uncommon Sense

Sometimes the best choice is one that just doesn't make sense. And it can be damned difficult, if not impossible, to get anyone else to see the reason for making that choice. Take my conversation with Ms. Wonder just this morning. 

"Poopsie," I said, "I'm going to Lowe's Home Improvement in Shallotte this morning so if there's anything you need in the way of hardware joy, just point to it and it's yours."

"Oh," she said in a dreamy sort of way, "The Lady of Shalott."

"No," I said, perhaps a little too loudly but only because I saw immediately what was about to happen and I was anxious to prevent it. This Wonder, although gifted with the most amazing brain--it must be a size 10 if an inch--can sometimes leave her stable orbit and fly off into deep space like an electron escaping the pull of the proton. 

"No, not Shalott," I said, "the word is Shallotte. Listen to the difference: you said, Shalott, but I said Shallotte. I'm going to the Lowe's hardware store, not the Lowe's food store, in Shallotte, the village about 2o miles away. And do you know why I'm going to drive 20 miles when I could drive as little as 10 miles to the Lowe's in Wilmington?"

"No," she said, "but do you know why the lady left the confines of the tower on her island prison? It was because she chose to look at reality rather than the shadowy reflection in her mirror. In other words, she chose to live life as it comes rather than pretend."

"Yes, that's all very well," I said, "and I'm sure it was the best decision for her at the time--proper steps through the proper channels and all that--but it has nothing to do with the subject at hand."

"She saw Lancelot," she said with an even more dreamy voice. "And Tennyson doesn't tell us in the poem but I'm sure she fell in love with Lancelot at first glance and thought she must see him again even if the mysterious curse took her life."

"All in the blue unclouded weather," she recited and continued with some guff about Lancelot's saddle leather and helmet feathers burning like one flame, and whatnot.

"The Lowe's in Wilmington may be half the distance to Shallotte but the drive time is double."

"Out flew the web and floated wide," she continued with a spirited waving of the arms.

"Poopsie," I said in hopes of cutting this diversion short, but it didn't work. Never does. Don't know why I continue to try.

"The mirror crack'd from side to side; The curse is come upon me, cried The Lady of Shalott."

The timbre of her voice and the look in her eyes told me that she was possibly under the influence of the spirit. It's a phenomenon not unlike voodoo practitioners when they are ridden by the loa while in trance.

"Surely the term is not is come upon me," I offered. "Perhaps comes upon me or even has come upon me. Don't you think?"

"She lay in a boat and allowed the stream to carry her to Camelot," she said. "Tennyson says that she wrote her name on the boat. I wonder why she did that."

"Perhaps to make it easier to find among all the other boats when she was ready to leave," I said.

"I think the boat with her name was symbolic of the strict role women were forced to play in the 19th century when Tennyson was writing."

I decided to try once more to get back to the subject. I knew that chances were slim but sometimes you just have to do whatever you can muster.

"She may have arrived during rush hour on the river," I said. "A lot of traffic."

"There was no traffic on the river," she said. "At least Tennyson didn't mention it."

"Probably just an oversight," I said. " Did he mention that the road to Shallotte is a 4-lane highway with no traffic lights?"

"You can't mean Camelot," she said. I'm certain it was a single-track dirt road unless...are you implying that the road may have been one built by the Romans when they occupied Britain?"

"I'm talking about the drive down Ocean Highway to Shallotte, not the road to Camelot."

"When Lancelot saw her, he thought she was very beautiful. He said, She has a lovely face; God in his mercy lend her grace...."

"I'm talking about why I'm driving 20 miles to Shallotte when I could drive a mere 10 miles to Wilmington."

"Then you'd better get started," she said, "the Lady of Shalott was dead when she arrived."

"I'm not sure what you mean by that," I said, "but I'm sure I don't like it."

And with that, I wished her a ta-ta and ankled out the door. In mere minutes I was on the Ocean Highway, windows down, 38-Special singing Caught Up In You, and the volume turned up to 11. Halfway through the song, I felt the way I'm sure Donnie Van Zant must have felt during the recording sessions for the Special Forces album.

And now I'm sure you see why I began this post by saying that sometimes the best path is to forget common sense and rely instead on the uncommon variety.

All About Nothing

After a bit of morning inspiration from the Muse, I walked onto the screened porch where I found Ms Wonder deep in meditation with the octopus, Olivia. Not a real octopus, you understand, merely an understudy.

"This morning I plan to blog about nothing," I said.

"That's it," she said. "Not good morning, Miss Wonderful? Just walk out and begin talking about nothing?"

I held up a hand to indicate that what I was about to say was off topic and not to become the topic. "Not Miss Wonderful," I said. "That would be the love interest of a boy in middle school. Ms Wonder is the correct sobriquet and it's an honorific for one who works in mysterious ways her wonders to perform. 

She clicked her tongue, got off her meditation cushion, and gave me a couple of whacks on the back. "Feel better now?" she said. "Think you can talk like a 21st century Carolinian?"

"Did you say, Canadian?" 

"Carolinian," is what I said.

"Then I'll try," I said. "I don't think I could manage Canadian this early in the day. It's the dipthongs."

"Oh, God, help me," she said and it did leave me wondering why but you're surely aware that this woman, no matter how strong a leading lady she may be, loves to practice subterfuge and misdirection and it's my job to ignore it. Still, I wonder why she said, 'Oh, God, help me'. 

"At any rate," I said, "the Muse reminded me about de nihilo nihilum, blah, blah, blah..."

Now she held up a hand. "Please," she said. "It's way too early in the morning for this conversation. Table it for the afternoon. Maybe I'll be ready to listen after a walk around the lake."

Well, I don't have to explain to you how that made me feel. A blow too low was my opinion. Too early for conversation! What would you have done in my position? Not that you ever are, of course.

I chose to end the conversation and you would have done the same, I'm sure if you were in the same situation. After all, we aren't orangutans or howler monkeys. No offense, if you're partial to our primate cousins. I merely use them as examples of what we're not.

I took a seat on the sofa and made preparations for the arrival of a cat. In seconds, there was a cat. But not from nothing. There was an unseen, unknown cat and then there was a known cat. Do you see where I'm going with this?

"What did you say about a cat?" she said and I was as surprised as you are. I remember wondering if I'd spoken out loud.

"Not a cat," I said. "I'm thinking about the big bang. First, there was no universe and then there was. Do you see what I mean?"

"Oh, I love that show," she said. "Have you seen the one where they go to the Star Trek convention?"

"No, no, no! Not the Big Bang Theory! It's the beginning of everything that I'm thinking about!"

"Oh, I get it,' she said. "You're talking about something coming from nothing."

"Yes!" I said. "Thank you. I'm talking about the Catholic concept of creatio ex nihilo or..."

"No, you're not," she said, "and stop talking in italics. You're planning, unless I miss my guess, to begin some deep drivel about how the universe could not come from nothing. Because only nothing comes from nothing. 

You probably want to make the argument that the very idea of something from nothing requires some all-powerful outside force with conscious intent. 

You probably want to say something like, the latest scientific thinking about the big bang is built on the foundations of the same original miracle upon which the Catholic concept of creation is built. Am I right?"

"Well, yes, since you put it like that," I said.

"Let there be!" she said with a grand flourish. "BIG Bang!"

I stared at the woman and I was speechless. Once again, when I thought I had a new perspective to share, she demonstrated that she knows everything. I suppose it shouldn't surprise me.

No, I shouldn't be surprised because I've learned that she knows all about any subject you throw her way. Still, I thought it might be fun to test her once again.

"Poopsie," I said, "you remember that thing I quoted when this conversation began?"

"You mean, from nothing, nothing can come?" That quote? Persius," she said. "Probably Etruscan."

"Like the Gherardinis," I said.

"Don't flatter yourself," she said. "It's not like they were your grandparents, or anything." Then seeing, no doubt, the shadow that moved across my face, she added, "But there is hope for you yet."

"Of course," I said. But I didn't say it with any real chirpiness. 

"See?" she said, and I had no idea then, and I still have no idea what she meant by it.

"By the way," I said, "I get that Persius guy confused with Perseus, the one that whacked off the Medusa's head.

"I know, you do," she said and then in her characteristic way she changed the subject like changing the sheets. "Let's go to Lake Gaston. The Virginia side this time," she said.

"Of course, the Virginia side," I said. "I care only for your happiness, Wonder."

"Sure you do," she said, and I was happy that we could finally agree on something.