Dark Side is the Fun Side

"Where do you wanna celebrate tonight?" said the Smurfette in the passenger seat. If you haven't been following along, then I should tell you that this Smurfette is my 13-year-old, god-niece, Lupe. 

"Celebrate what?" I said.

"Your first night back in the Village after all that excitement last Christmas," she said.

I gave her one of my patented looks. Wasted on her, of course. She ignores all my looks. Knows me too well.

"First,  you young geezer, I've driven down from Durham today and I've got no energy left for celebrating. Second, I don't respond to references to last Yuletide. It's the dead past and I intend to let it stay dead."

She grew pensive if that's the word, and quiet. She looked down at her hands. I don't know why. A whim? Then her expression changed dramatically. It hotted up.

"What then?" she demanded. "You finally come back for a visit and I get my hopes up that something fun will finally happen in this moldy, old, village, and now you're going to bed. You've gotten old!" 

A moment of silence passed while she waited for the gravitas of her comment to sink in and I waited for... I'm not exactly sure what I waited for. I just waited.

"First, you little goober, you know that every time I come into this blotted village, the earth opens up and swallows me whole and I'm never heard from again."

More silence. She sighed and gazed out the window to keep from looking at me.

"Fine," she said. "But can't we do something tonight--anything?"

"Tales of the Dark Side is on television tonight," I said. "The feature is How to Kill a Vampire. It's a BBC production."

She mused on this morsel and I took it as a good sign. I decided it couldn't hurt to continue with it, "Did you know the best way to rid yourself of a bothersome vampire, is a stake through the heart? The vampire's heart preferably. You could do it the other way but it's a much bigger production." 

Without going into all the details, let me just summarize by saying that any movie with stakes through the heart is right up this little ninja's alley. She gave in without a struggle.

We met in the party room of the Inn of the Three Sisters to watch the movie on the big screen TV. I was relieved to know that my first day back in the village would wrap up neatly without incident.

Ha!

We know, you and I, that it's just when you think all is well and stop looking for it, that the Universe sneaks up behind you and lets you have it behind the ear with a sock full of wet sand. But one can hope.

Lupe and I sat on the floor in front of the TV, a bowl of popcorn between us. Midnight was only minutes away. The movie began at 11:30 so we'd already learned of the vampire, although we hadn't yet been introduced. And we'd learned that the townsfolk had resolved to rid themselves of the thing. Or rather, the local doctor was cajoled into doing it.

The doctor and one unfortunate villager had entered the old mansion on the hill and had descended into the cellar. It was a silly thing to do, of course, but they did it even though Lupe and I were telling them, No, no, you stupid twerps!

There was no light in the cellar, other than the single candle the accomplice carried. Now when I say cellar, I mean just that. This was no self-respecting basement with recessed lighting, a second fridge, and beanbag toss. This was a dark, damp, rat-infested, cellar. And it had a casket in the middle of the room with a vampire in it. 

We learned that the vampire's name was Daisy. Really? Daisy? It's true; I don't make these things up.

The two heroes crept up to the coffin. The doctor pulled a sharpened wooden stake from his coat with his left hand, and then a wooden mallet with his right. The other guy just held the candle. But it wasn't his only purpose; he also opened the lid of the casket.

Inside the coffin, illumined by the candle, lay Daisy, beautiful in her vampire sleep, except for the blood that trickled from the corners of her mouth. The doctor placed the tip of the stake on Daisy's left breast and raised the mallet. Just at that moment Daisy opened her eyes and saw the mallet about to fall. She took it big!

Daisy's mouth opened in what I knew would be a prolonged, unearthly shriek. But that didn't happen. No shriek from Daisy.

At the same instant Daisy opened her mouth, so did Lupe open hers, and although Daisy's scream was stopped short by the stake, Lupe actually did a passing imitation of a prolonged, unearthly shriek. 

Lupe's scream was inches from my ear and the sound of it electrified me. I was moved to action. But there was nothing for me to do except kick the popcorn bowl into the TV screen. I did it expertly.

The noise woke my Aunt Cynthia, whose bedroom was at the top of the stairs, and she shouted to her husband, although there was no reason to shout since he was sleeping next to her, "Paul, wake up and put your pants on! The Lord has come back and Judgement Day is here!"

Well, you can't expect the sleeping members of the household to remain calm with all that going on. And remaining calm is just what they didn't do. 

My grandfather, a veteran of the Great War, had told me the story of the Battle of the Bulge many times. His unit, in preparing for the German onslaught, referred to it as, Judgement Day.

When Grandpa Will, sleeping in a room down the hall from Aunt Cynthia, heard her shouting, he assumed the Nazis had begun the final push, and he immediately took steps to buy time for the allies. 

His service revolver, the one he brought home as a souvenir of the war, was quickly warmed up and he began firing out his bedroom window into the night. I'm not sure what he was shooting at but there you have it.

As you've probably guessed, the gun-play aroused the neighborhood to the man, and to the dog. They took it big too! Men and dogs alike. For their part, the dogs were inspired to create a rousing serenade to serve as a theme song for the on-screen action. 

The men, who were no less hotted up than the dogs, demonstrated their patriotism in this perceived hour of crisis by exercising their Second Amendment rights. The sound of gunfire and barking dogs could be heard as far away as Dallas Bay. 

It took some time for things to settle down. I could still hear sporadic gunfire as late as 2:00 AM. I don't know when it actually stopped. It may have just moved out of hearing and continued to move around the globe like daybreak.

Something resembling calm was eventually restored. Family and guests were returned to their beds. When peace and quiet reigned once again, Lupe and I were raiding the fridge in the main kitchen.

"Wow!" said the shrimp with a mouthful of butter-pecan ice cream. "That was exciting. I don't know when I've had more fun."

"It's certainly been the most eventful summer solstice I can remember," I said.

"Me too," she said. "We've had a few winter solstices that come close." With that comment, a wince creased my face, and a smile that simply could not be held back creased the corners of her mouth. 

I'd gotten a big kick out of the evening, and that's not a reference to the popcorn bowl. I especially enjoyed being interviewed by Constable on Call, Vickie Mason, in her vain attempt to pin the whole ranygazoo on me. It was a refreshing change to have nothing to hide and I was almost looking forward to the rest of my stay.

I decided to give the little Hobbit (Lupe) a pass for that reference to exciting winter solstices.

"We've had some exciting winter solstices," I said to her. "But this one wins the Oscar because it didn't require starting an unfortunate conflagration to burn down the fishing guides dormitory."

Great Writing Secrets

Writing is easy. I do it all the time. Let me tell you my secret.

No writer's block plagues my mornings, just ask Ms Wonder. I'm up at the crack of dawn although I'm at a loss to understand why the 'crack' of dawn. But let's not be sidetracked by figures of speech, although...oh, never mind.

Immediately after feeding the cats and Yoga With Adrience, You will find me, if you're looking, banging away at this blog, and the best part is that I like what I've written when I read it again weeks or even years later. That's the secret to great writing. 

Did you miss it? No problem. I'll come back to it later in this post.

Writer's block is simply a lack of inspiration. Now, I know what you're thinking. You're thinking that inspiration is old school. You're thinking that pseudo-post-modernists say inspiration is a myth. They're right about that, of course, but not in a way they understand.

Inspiration is the key to good writing just like cats are the key to a happy home. The piece that you put into words already exists before you begin writing it. Just like those cats already exist before they come to live with you.

So inspiration is a mythical event or, if you prefer, substance, and it's real. Another way to say it is, the Muses are mythical but they're real. Now you're probably saying to yourself, that's all well and good, Genome, but it still leaves the writing hanging when the Muse's timing isn't convenient. 

You have a very good talking point but I've got the answer.

The answer was suggested in an earlier paragraph. The answer is cats. Well, I suppose it could be dogs or ferrets or rabbits or goldfish. I should say pets because I realize that cats can be finicky about who they live with. Feel free to replace 'cats' with 'pets' and we can get on with it.

Anytime I need inspiration, all I have to do is look into a cat's face. That always gets them moving and doing something inspirational. They don't like to make direct eye contact. Makes them fidgety. Of course, sometimes when I look into their face they just ignore me. That's why I live with more than one. If Sagi doesn't inspire me, then I simply find Uma, Beignet, Abbie, or Eddy, and do a bit of face staring there.

This technique always works. You can see that it works from the number of blog posts I write about cats. Just click on the labels tab in the menu on the right side of the website and then select Cats and More to see all of them.

To solidify the point, here are a few examples: Don't Even Think About It, which features Sagi, the caramel-colored tabby. Then there's a personal favorite, Little Cat's Feet, in which Eddy is the star but all the household plays a part. And one of the most popular posts, Strange Case of the Cat in the Night, featuring Abbie, the white-gloved assassin, is a perfect example of feline inspiration.

And now, just to be perfectly clear, the secret of great writing that I promised you at the start. If you strive for great writing, then you must write only for yourself. If you like it then you're doing it right.

There you are. The cure for writer's block and the secret to great writing. And it was delivered with no jokes. You're very welcome.

The Shakespeare Method

The thing that troubles me not a little, although assured early and often by my guru, Swami Beyondananda, is that writer's block is a fabrication. And yet, not very often, but yet fairly often, I find myself not writing. 

I tell myself that it isn't writer's block; that it's simply life getting in the way. Life does get in the way of our intentions sometimes, doesn't it? I think, after a reasonable amount of consideration, that you will agree life does sometimes get in the way.

Still, all things considered, why do I go for weeks without writing? Could it be there's nothing interesting to write about? No, that's absurd there's always something interesting afoot.

I've considered the whole thing forward and back but haven't been able to get a handle on it and in times such as this, there is only one recourse for me. Take it to a higher power. 

So I brought it to Ms. Wonder's attention. She has a way of seeing through these things that astounds me. She performs wonders right before my very eyes and still leaves her methods shrouded in mystery. 

"Poopsie," I said, "I wonder if you have a few minutes to help me with a knot? You know what I mean. What is that knot we hear so much about?"

"Gordian Knott," she said.

"That's it," I said, "the Gordian Knott, although I don't know why Gordian. Do you suppose Gordian untied knots while leaving bibles in hotel rooms?"

"The Gideons, I believe, leave bibles in hotel rooms. The Gordian Knot is a legend from the time of Alexander the Great that became a metaphor for an intractable problem solved by a bold stroke." 

"Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why did it become a metaphor?"

"It seems the Phrygians were without a king..."

"Phrygians," I said. "Wonder, are you making this up? I mean, Phrygians?"

"It's an ancient legend," she said. "An oracle decreed that the next man to enter the city driving an ox-cart should become their king..."

"Wait," I said. "I believe you're confusing the ox-cart thing with a sword in the stone, and just as I surmised, it wasn't Phrygians, it was the British."

She gave me a look that one might give the guy who rides his motorcycle through the neighborhood after midnight. Then she continued with the ancient legend, which I'd already determined was some kind of garbled fairy tale. 

 "A peasant farmer named Gordias drove into town on an ox-cart and was immediately crowned king. Out of gratitude, his son Midas dedicated the ox-cart to the Phrygian god Sabazios, known as Zeus to the Greeks, and tied it to a post with an intricate knot."

"Wonder," I said, "I appreciate your effort but I must ask you to put a sock in it when it comes to peasants driving ox-carts and becoming king. Reminds me of that frog who dreamed of becoming a king. Pure drivel."

"Fine," she said.

"Still, why the metaphor?"

"The ox-cart remained in the palace until Alexander arrived. An oracle had declared that any man who could unravel the knot was destined to become ruler of all of Asia..."

I held up a hand. "Wonder," I said. "Think about it for a second. First, an oracle predicts a farmer driving an ox-cart. Let me remind you that I have plenty of experience with Oracles. I was a professional Oracle administrator for years."

"Second, now an oracle makes a second prediction about loosing the knot that binds the cart. I think Freud would have a lot to say about this legend; probably involves dysfunctional family relationships."

She sighed deeply and this time gave me a look that a mother might give a child whose ice cream slides off the cone and onto the boardwalk. Then she demonstrated that stubborn Slavic streak and continued with the story.

"Alexander struggled to untie the knot and then realized that it would make no difference how the knot was loosed, so he drew his sword and sliced it in half with a single stroke."

"Nope. Can't go there," Poopsie. "Not plausible. Too many oracles declaring stuff just in the nick of time. Life doesn't allow for it. Comes fast and hard, that's what life does and you don't just saunter into town and be named king because you're driving an ox or any other type of cart. Nor do you untie knots with a sword and become ruler of Asia."

"Nevertheless, many people over centuries have found it meaningful as a metaphor."

"Yeah, well people over the centuries have found Shakespeare meaningful too. What of it?"

"Oh, yes," she said, "I almost forgot. In Henry the Fifth, Shakespeare said, Turn him to any cause of policy, the Gordian Knot of it he will unloose, Familiar as his garter."

"There, you see? Pure bilge. Familiar as his garter. Shakespeare at his best. Ha!"

I waited for her response but it never came. She just looked at me as though I'd just announced that I wanted to breed Pomeranians. 

"Well, thank you, Poopsie. That explains Gordias I suppose but not Gideon. I happen to remember from my bible study in elementary school, that Gideon was a timid Israelite who was called by God to free his people from Midianite oppression. 

I think an oracle was involved there too. Oracles are a sure sign of poppycock, Wonder. Poppycock! And you can quote me. 

As I remember, Gideon was successful in carrying out his assignment. Trumpets and torches figured into it. He was rewarded with so many wives that he sired 70 sons. 

Unfortunately one of the sons murdered all his half-brothers. You'd think one of them would have gotten wise before it was too late."

She continued to stare at me and I thought it best to take immediate action to avoid her becoming unhinged.

"But enough of that," I said. "What about the bibles?"

"The Gideons International distribute bibles, free of charge, in hotel rooms and other strategic places where people may find them. They took the name after conducting a prayer to find the appropriate name."

"God spoke to one of them I suppose. He often does speak to his people. With mixed results, it seems. Especially when half-brothers are involved."

"I don't know the full story," she said.

"And you never will," I said.

"Now, what was it you wanted to ask about? I've forgotten" she said.

"Oh, I did have a question, didn't I? What was it? Not Gideons. Oh yes, the Gordian knot. Here's the thing. You've heard of writer's block, of course."

"Sure."

"What about the photographer's block, ever experience that?"

"I don't believe so."

"What I want to know is, why do I go for weeks without writing? Think of it as a Gordian knot. I want to write. In fact, it's all I think about and yet I don't do it as regularly as I think I should."

"I heard it said that one shouldn't make a big deal of it. Just put words on paper," she said.

"Yes, I see where you're going. It worked for Shakespeare; slap a few words down on paper I mean."

"Right," she said, and she said it in a way that made me doubt her sincerity.

She's been right before and I'm sure she'll be right again. I mean just consider the law of averages. So after our little chat, I wrote this post that you now hold in your hands. I hope you'll return soon to see what I come up with. Hopefully, it will be better than the bilge Shakespeare wrote.

Does It Really Matter?

The morning after broke fair and bright and the day was served up with all the trimmings: the sun, the sky, the birdsong. But that was on the outside. It was different in the heart. A stalled low-level depression accompanied by grey skies about sums it up. Nature may have smiled but there was no smile in the Genome. It makes little difference when facing a trial by fire that you've got a nice day for it. 

Consider Napoleon happily overseeing the installation of French administrators in the Cairo offices of the Egyptian antiquities department. He must have felt very satisfied with the way things had worked out. The weather only added to his buoyant mood; the sky was Mediterranean blue and the clouds were puffy and white—just the kind of day one hopes for when visiting Cairo—and then Nelson sailed the British fleet into the harbor and set fire to all the French ships. Think about that next time you feel the Universe has let you down.

 The bamboo grove in the Courtyard at Straw Valley

I pondered the mystery of Napoleon's narrow escape as I pushed along toward the courtyard at Straw Valley. Did he have a train hidden away in the desert somewhere? Some of the best generals do hide trains in strategic places. I believe it was a favorite tactic of Garibaldi. I'm not sure about that. I can ask the Muse when I see her.

The weather continued fine and a nuthatch sang in the shrubbery near the side gate as I approached the bamboo grove. No reason not to sing, of course, I just mention it in passing.

It was Lupe who suggested a morning out with friends at Straw Valley and I thought it a particularly good suggestion. Just goes to show how the Fate sisters love their practical jokes.

Entering the east gate, I heard voices and realized that, though the hour was early, I was not the first to arrive. A long table was placed not too near the door, but near enough for a quick escape if a q. e. was called for. Seated there were the Muse and the Saint, both enjoying an espresso. I knew it was espresso by the look on their faces. Nothing else comes close.

Sophie was seated between the two mentioned enjoying a cup of tea. I don’t know how that’s possible, first thing in the morning, but I swear it’s true. The table was quite long, large enough to seat about 10 people, but the three were all crowded together at one corner of it.

Muse and Saint were in animated conversation while Sophie, seated between the two, seemed only interested in her tea.

"Sorry, no room," the Saint remarked when he saw me approaching.

"Very funny," I said and took a chair near them but across the table.

"I was just saying to the Saint," said the Muse, "that a margherita pizza would be the perfect thing for lunch, don't you agree? 

"I do like margherita pizza," I said, "but today I'm planning to have butternut-squash ravioli."

"Oh," said the Muse, "if it's squash ravioli you want, the very best, hand-made, squash ravioli is made in Fidenza."

"Fidenza? Is that near Milan?"

"No, not Milan--Fidenza."

"Don't let the people in Bologna hear you say that," said the Saint. 

"People in Bologna have the tortellini," said the Muse. "Just saying...."

"I'll get a coffee," I said as I rose and began ankling toward the barista station.

"Don't order anything with milk in it," said the Muse, "it's too early in the day for that and I should have to leave if you do."

Sophie's eyes opened wide at hearing this and I was expecting her to ask about the correct time of day to have milk in coffee but it didn’t happen. Sophie doesn’t drink coffee. I know! I can only wonder if she was never exposed to George and Nespresso. That could explain it I suppose. After a brief pause, she finally spoke, but not about coffee.

"Why is a raven like a writing desk," she asked directing her gaze toward me.

"Oh good, a riddle," I said. "I enjoy riddles. Let me think. Ravens and writing desks."

"Not plural," said Sophie. "Just raven and desk."

"Right," I said. "I think I've heard this one before."

"So you think you can solve it?" Sophie asked.

"I do," I said.

"Good," she said, "because Alice was able to solve it and I do so want to know the answer."

"Of course, I remember now," I said, "Alice's Adventures in Wonderland. I knew I'd heard the riddle before."

"You only thought you had heard it," said the Saint.

"I was pretty certain," I said.

"Maybe," said the Muse.

"Alright," I said. I don't know why I said it. I just did.

The conversation dropped and we sat silent for a moment while I tried to remember everything I knew about ravens and writing desks; not much as it turned out.

"Have you solved the riddle yet?" Sophie asked.

"Nope," I said shaking my head. "I give up."

"Too bad," said Sophie.

"Get some coffee," said the Saint.

"I'm still deciding," I said. I didn't want to get a coffee with milk because I didn't want to take a chance of the Muse leaving and I had a question or two about Fidenza.

"Tell us a story," said Sophie.

"I think I'll get coffee now," I said.

"I'll have another double espresso, thank you," said the Muse.

"Really?" I said. "I've never known you to have more than one at a sitting."

"It isn't for me," she said. "It's for the mouse in the flower pot outside."

I raised an eyebrow and gave her a look. You know the look I mean. You would have given the same look had you been there. She raised an eyebrow and returned the look. It was an opposite but equal look. I glanced at the Saint and at Sophie and they too were giving me looks with eyebrows raised. I don't know when I've experienced a day with so many eyebrows. Mine was far outnumbered.

I walked to the Order Here spot and was greeted by Amy Normal, Backup Mistress of the South Durham Night, and rogue barista. 

“What are you looking at?” she said.

“You've done something with your hair,” I said.

“I decided to ornament the topknot. Spice things up you know?"

"Very nice," I said, "but the cats will surely miss them."

"They were the only feathers I had," she said. "Wanna make a smartass comment about them?'

"No, no," I said. "Very becoming."

“You know, Genome,” she said, “we had high hopes for you when you were young. You seemed so bright and full of fun. But now…just look at you. What happened?”

I pondered the question for what seemed a long time but was probably only a moment. At that same moment, Princess Amy awoke and directed my attention to the door. As I could think of nothing in common for ravens and writing desks, I decided I would deliver that double espresso the the mouse in the flower pot myself.

As I passed their table on my way to the door, I overheard the Saint say, "Spread the love, Brother." The Muse was shaking her head. "Total eclipse of the heart." I heard her say. Just to set the record straight, it wasn't a mouse in the flower pot out in the courtyard; it was Miles. And I thought he was in Paris!

Sweet Dreams and Tomato Sauce

I finished reviewing the blog post I'd written to promote my summer driving tour and was very pleased with the progress. You know the tour I'm talking about. It's the summer road trip I'm calling the Colonial Coast tour. 

As I was saying, I finished my writing for the evening and went straight to the bedroom hoping to find that Ms. Wonder had not yet finished her reading and turned off the light because I wanted to wish her a good night before going to sleep myself.

I was pleased to see that her face was still in the Charleston magazine and the light still on but, to my disappointment, she placed the periodical on the night table and switched off the light just as I entered the doorway. 

Well, you know the result of abruptly walking from the light into the dark. I bumped into a cat, who voiced his displeasure at my clumsiness, which caused a second cat to become convinced that discretion is to be valued above valor. 

He lept from the dresser causing that thing the Brits call a torch to fall on the floor and begin brightly shining into the gloom.

Just another of the many examples of one damned thing after another.

"Imported from Italy," said Ms. Wonder from somewhere in the darkness.

"What?" I said.

"The dresser," she said. "Imported from Italy. Now turn the light on before you break it."

Well, I don't need to tell you that I didn't like the way things were lining up. I'm an innocent man, I thought. I only came in to wish her good night, I thought. And yet here we were nit-picking again. 

But taking three breaths and counting backward from 10, I moved beyond the fray and took the proper steps.

"Sogni stellari, cara mia," I said

"Sogni d'oro," she corrected and that started it all again. I could have let it go but I have this deep need to be understood. I'm not looking for agreement, only understanding. It's a character fault probably, but there it is.

"I mean more than sweet dreams, my love; I mean to wish you stellar dreams, star dreams," I said.

"Don't start," she said

"But it's an important distinction," I said.

"Sure," she said, although not with any real fealing. "Like the eye of the needle thing," she said

"You refer to the 'eye of the needle' as compared to the 'eye of a needle,' I said. "A fitting comparison I suppose." 

I didn't mean that of course. They weren't comparable at all. A camel can't fit through the eye of a needle. Impossible! A lean camel, however, can fit through the gate in the western wall of Jerusalem that was referred to as the 'eye of the needle'. 

"Please," she said, pulling a pillow over her head. "I need to get to sleep."

"I understand fully," I said. "Early to bed and all that." And I meant it but I'd spent some time thinking about the significance of the two blessings and wanted to make sure my intentions of wishing her stellar dreams were understood.

"It's just that sweet dreams are all well and good, as far as they go, but they are limited to the dreams that comfort you like being cuddled in a mother's arms while receiving a kiss on the forehead. But is that all we want from a night's sleep?

"Exactly what I want," she said.

"But sogni stellari, oh my!" I said. "Sogni stellari is so much more. Star dreams are the visionary dreams, the larger-than-life dreams, the dreams that motivate us to our higher calling. We wake, not just to another day but to an open vista calling us to soar higher than ever before. Don't you want to soar when you wake?"

"No, I just want to go to sleep."

"Oh," I said, "well, goodnight then."

"Umph," she said, and then if I have learned anything about her at all, she was no longer with us but drifting somewhere out in slumberland.

Oh, it's nice enough if that's what she wants but as for me, give me sogni stellari y salsa di pomodoro! And I wish you no less, my friend. See you tomorrow and we shall soar!