Happy Daze

I woke from the dream in that particular state of confusion that follows a deep Sunday afternoon nap, when you're not entirely sure what year it is, let alone what day. 

Untangling myself from the sheets, I stumbled to the window and looked out, checking to see if the world still made sense. The familiar sight of Wynd Horse in the driveway, along with the neighbor’s endlessly barking terrier, was reassuring. What a dream!

Thoughts of the dream continued to play out in my mind as I made the first coffee of the day. She had appeared at my driver's side window like a roller-skating carhop girl at a 1960s drive-up burger house. It was Princess Amy, of course.

"What the hell?" I thought. I knew I shouldn't have eaten those nachos.

"Have we somehow quantum jumped into Happy Days?" I asked. Remember, it was a dream, after all, and stranger things have happened, especially when fresh jalapenos are involved.

"I'm not happy about it myself," she said. "You think I enjoy roller skating in cut-off blue jeans? I'm going to be a reality TV queen; I must maintain some dignity."

"But I didn't make the choice to be here, you did," I shot back, and I meant it to sting. 

"What choice?" she demanded, "You made the decision to eat fast food--something you haven't done since 1979. What were you thinking?"

"Don't be ridiculous," I insisted. "Do you really think I was making decisions in 1979? I never made a single decision before January 12, 1991."

"Well, someone did, or we wouldn't have gotten to 1991 in the first place."

"So what is this then? Why am I parked in front of a Burger Barn, and why are you dressed like a carhop? Is this supposed to be The End you're always harping about?" I said. "Is it finally happening?"

"You're the one who keeps talking about the end," she said. "And what do you mean when you say, 'it's happening'? What's happening?"

"Judgement Day and all that," I said. 

I don't know why this conversation was taking place, even though it was a dream. As far as I could tell, it had no bearing on anything in my waking life. But then nothing seems to make sense in my dreams anymore.

"Don't be silly, Sherlock," Amy replied. "We seem to be in the 1960s, and we know that life on Earth continues until 2025. This isn't the end of anything."

"It's 2025 in another universe," I said. "We seem to have branched into a different and stranger universe. Apparently, we've become entangled in some wave function collapse, and now, here we are, trapped in a world where Ms. Wonder hasn't yet been born."

I felt a sudden onset of despair. "She's the stuff that makes life outside the Garden of Eden a paradise. Without her, anything might happen at any moment."

“There’s nothing we can do but wait it out,” Amy said, a note of desperation creeping into her voice. “If we can hang on, Wonder will eventually be born, grow up, and make everything right again.”

Then she gave me a look I’d never seen before—one of pure defeat and resignation. Even though it was just a dream, that look still haunts me as I write this.

“Yes, that’s true,” I replied. “But that’s years away, and anything could happen before she gains her full power.”

“You have a point,” Amy said, pausing dramatically. At last, she broke the silence.

“So, what can I get for you?”

“Sorry,” I replied, realizing I’d drifted off and missed something. “What did you say?”

Amy pulled an order pad from her back pocket and a number 2 pencil from behind her ear. “What would you like to eat?” she repeated.

“Are you kidding? You really think I can eat at a time like this?”

“Of course,” she replied confidently. Taking a deep breath, she managed a small smile at the corner of her mouth. “Remember the first rule of Fierce Qigong: No striving; let life unfold on its own terms.”

“Yeah, you’re right. Thanks for the reminder,” I said, beginning to feel a little better myself. “I’ll have the cheeseburger, some fries, and a Pepsi.”

"Pepsi, Pepsi, Pepsi," she said with a grin.

When I woke, I realized that my dreams aren’t getting stranger—they’re just becoming more honest. Even in a quantum-shifted universe where Ms. Wonder hasn’t been born yet and Princess Amy is serving burgers on roller skates, one fundamental truth remains: when faced with the collapse of reality as we know it, humans still order the cheeseburger and fries.

Some things, apparently, transcend even wave function collapse. And yes, I have an obligation to my public to be completely forthcoming about that too."

A New Morning

The morning sun streamed through my bedroom window with the enthusiasm of a weather forecaster promising parade-perfect skies, and I woke up feeling inexplicably fine—no special reason, just one of those mysterious mornings when the spirit decides to cooperate. 

Outside my window, the Carolina coast was putting on its daily spectacular: sunshine warming a brilliant blue sky, a cooling breeze wafting in from the Atlantic carrying that faint scent of possibility and sunscreen. 

The predawn quiet had given way to nature's gentle morning stretch—birds chirping without a care in the world, blissfully focused on their next snack, while I lay there with a persistent thought from last evening that had patiently waited for me like a faithful dog.

My plan is refreshingly simple—develop genuine self-awareness through continued meditation practice, learn to assess my attitudes and habits with the kind of brutal honesty that makes most people squirm, and then take small, deliberate steps toward becoming the person I keep glimpsing in those rare moments of clarity. 

I intend to focus on proven, science-backed techniques while remaining skeptical of the contradictory nonsense that clutters the internet, seeking guidance from truly impartial sources rather than well-meaning friends who might sugarcoat the truth. 

What I hope to gain isn't perfection—that's a fool's errand—but rather the quiet satisfaction of progress, however small, and the wisdom to accept my limitations while still pushing gently against them.

What brought all this on, you wonder? It's this newfound clarity of mind and sense of hope that arrived unannounced, like an unexpected gift that, as far as I know, I've done absolutely nothing to deserve. These moments of grace can leave as quickly and mysteriously as they arrive, so I want to savor this one while it lasts and see where it leads. 

I debated including this next bit, wondering whether it adds or detracts from the message in this post, but to be sure, I'll mention that Princess Amy doesn't think highly of my search for self-improvement. By now, you’re familiar with Amy, the little imaginary tyrant who insists that she’s in charge of my life, and scoffs at what she calls my “delusional” aspirations. 

 I mention it here only to point out that challenges should be expected when we're trying to better ourselves. It's only natural. Consistency and perseverance are the antidote to obstacles. Amy's comments might warrant another blog post about attempting to reason with my limbic system.

The Art of Self-Improvement may sound grandiose to Amy, but it's really nothing more than paying attention: to the quality of morning light, to persistent thoughts, and to the quiet, sudden moments when an inner voice softly insists, “This is it.”

I hope you'll enjoy this journey with me. Better yet, leave a comment and tell me about your own morning revelations. Say you will.

The Contemplative Sparrow

I stepped onto the lanai to greet the morning and saw, to my delight, a sparrow perched atop the bird feeder. The serenity I felt in that moment brought to mind something a Buddhist friend once said about meditation: "We're just sitting on the floor, staring blankly into space, doing nothing." 

That sparrow remained motionless for the longest time. As you know, birds at feeders usually start by perching near protective cover and observing what's happening. Once they've determined it's safe, they'll fly over and take their place at the seed trough. Occasionally, a bolder bird may chase others away, while a timid one might take flight if startled.

What you don't often see is a little bird sitting around on top of the feeder, staring blankly into space, doing nothing.

She seemed to be quietly enjoying the moment: the peaceful view, the quiet, and likely the comfort of being so near a source of food with no competition. Eventually, she dropped down to the table and began eating again.

My thoughts turned to other birds--specifically, where were they, I wondered. Scanning the back yard, I saw only one other bird. A Cardinal perched on the fence railing. He seemed just as intrigued by the sparrow's behavior as I was.

A sudden movement farther down the fence caught my attention—it was a blue-tailed skink gripping the side of a fence plank. I wondered if he, too, was watching the sparrow. But soon I realized he wasn't alone; another skink was clinging to the opposite side of the same plank.

Was a territorial showdown about to erupt? That seemed unlikely since a third skink was perched on the adjacent plank at the same latitude. Rather than a rumble, it looked more like a 'meeting after the meeting' of Skinks Anonymous.

Now, some of you are probably thinking, Genome, you're witnessing natural behavior and imagining it's something more. It's only a bird hanging out at the feeder. What could be more natural? And the skinks? They're basking in the sunshine. It's what reptiles do!

You’re right, of course. I tend to view reality through the lens of my imagination. I’ve always believed that even true stories are more interesting and more memorable when elves and faeries are sprinkled in. I think we can all agree that a touch of fantasy can always improve the truth.

My Buddhist buddy knew it all along; the most profound moments come from 'just sitting around, staring blankly into space, doing nothing.' Doesn't matter if it's a sparrow on a feeder, a skink warming on the fence, or a person quietly watching it unfold through the window. The magic isn't in what we do; it's in what we see. And if what we see happens to include a few elves and faeries, it makes the meditation more enchanting.

What Was Lost Is Found

We're in late summer, here on the Carolina coast, and the days are much like those of Camelot; sunshine warms a brilliant blue sky, and a cooling breeze wafts in from the sea. It's still summer in the sunlight, but it's autumn in the shade.

I woke early this morning and found a persistent thought from last evening patiently waiting for me to wake. Minutes later, a freshly brewed cup of Jah's Mercy in hand, I sat at my keyboard to share that thought with you.

From time to time, I find old drafts from yesteryear that were never published. Overlooked probably. According to Google Analytics, I've been writing these missives since June 30, 2010. Given how many drafts I write for every published post, it's easy to see how a post can be lost.

I found one yesterday that has special meaning for me, and I'm surprised that it was never released. I decided it was a problem that needed remediation. This one was intended for publication on Mother's Day, 2013. With all that said, let's go:

Sunshine pierced the clouds that enveloped the Renaissance district. It streamed down Woodcroft, turned right at Barbee Lane, and spilled into the window where Uma, Empress of Chatsford, performed her morning ablutions. In the room above, light crept softly through the window. falling across the bed where Ms. Wonder lay sleeping as I worked on my latest reminiscences.

I was recording a dream in which I played the role of a mid-19th-century French spy, imprisoned in a tower, and contemplating what would be my last sunrise, all because some humorless Englishman, who couldn't take a joke, had ordered my execution. 

Just as the sun was rising--in my dreams, not outside my own window--someone burst into the bedroom like an avenging Fury, slamming the door into the wall with a bang that brought me out of that dream tower with a heart-stopping start.

I leapt from the desk, pressing my hand to my chest as though it might prevent a heart explosion. Beignet, who had caused all the commotion, was in the middle of the room, giving me a look as though to say, "What?" 

I've long since abandoned any attempt ot understand what motivates a cat to do what it does, so my only thought was that the Fates were making themselves felt on a day better suited for the Graces; after all, it was Mother's Day. 

My next thought was of Ms. Wonder, who should have been leaping around the room, insisting that I do something. I glanced toward the side of the bed with all the controls and was surprised to see her still sleeping furiously. Looking at her peaceful, sweet face, I recalled someone once saying that a certain number of hours of sleep, I forget how many, makes a person something that I don't actually recall right now. But at that moment, it was all good.

I moved quietly about the room, which was full to overflowing with Beignets. I thought it best to check on Eddy Peebody, who might possibly have been startled by the commotion, on account of suffering recently from a bladder infection. 

At bedtime, he was disgruntled about being confined to his room and, whatever benefits sleep is supposed to bring, his eight hours had done nothing to gruntle him. I surmised that breakfast would help. I promptly set out food for all members of our little fur tribe. After all, it's important that no cat ever feels slighted, not for an instant.

With the chores completed, I found a few moments for myself and realized that, like Eddy, I was anything but gruntled. I felt low-spirited to the core. Still, fierce living has taught me that life's greatest joys lie in the little things, and we sometimes let disappointments overshadow our blessings. So, I mentally listed the things I could count on the positive side of the ledger.

First, I named the members of our Chatsford Tribe: Beignet, Uma Maya, Abbie, Sagi, and Eddy Peebody. I didn't forget all the members of the extended tribe living outside: Lucy, Smudge, Jack, and many others. 

Of course, Ms. Wonder tops the list. She is, after all, the sunshine of my life and that of the fur tribe. On the other end of the spectrum, but still essential to a good life, are the people of the meetings--meetings at Native Grounds caffeine den, where there's always an excellent chance of finding the Enforcer and Island Irv, and at all the other meetings of friends you haven't yet met.

I've saved the best for last because she's above and apart from lists: My mom, Va, who is settled comfortably in the downstairs bedroom, soon to awaken and restore order, keeping the Fates in line and restoring calm and stability when chaos shows its face. 

As I finished my mental inventory of blessings, I could hear the familiar sounds of Mom stirring downstairs - the gentle creaking of floorboards, the whisper of slippers against hardwood. Soon she would emerge, bringing her particular brand of loving order to our chaotic little kingdom. 

Beignet had long since retreated to his sanctuary, no doubt plotting his next dramatic entrance. Ms. Wonder continued her peaceful slumber, and Eddy Peebody now seemed overjoyed at the promise of a new day of freedom. 

And there, in that moment between the darkness of early morning doubts and the bright promise of Mother's Day unfolding, I understood once again that home is in the heart. It's a constellation of beings who fill your days with purpose, even when they wake you with door-slamming theatrics or bladder infections. Especially then.

Wonder's Art Caper

Just when I thought I'd seen the full spectrum of Ms. Wonder's theatrical approach to art promotion—from puzzle-piece proposals to Magic 8-Ball mysteries—she's outdone herself again. And this time, she's recruited me as her undercover operative.

The news arrived with her characteristic dramatic flair: Ms. Wonder has been selected for a one-person photography exhibit at the Maritime College of the State University of New York. This is genuinely thrilling news—a prestigious venue for her "Ships of the Cape Fear" series, those mesmerizing images where she transforms massive cargo vessels into floating geometric poetry. 

I should be simply celebrating this achievement, but instead, I can’t help but wonder what elaborate scheme she’s planning to accompany it.

The Maritime Big-Wigs Conspiracy

"The marine big-wigs always support each other," she explained over her morning espresso, gliding to our table near the window with an effortless grace that I suspect is encoded in her DNA, "because most of the public just aren't interested in the shipping industry."

This revelation came with that familiar spark of visionary momentum I've learned to both love and fear. When Ms. Wonder starts talking about industry conspiracies and mutual support networks, it usually means I'm about to become an unwitting participant in some elaborate performance art piece disguised as marketing.

"The curators from the other maritime museums will attend the opening," she continued, and I detected a subtle shift in her tone, a shift that always signals the arrival of The Plan. "This could be the perfect opportunity to expand my reach."

I should have seen it coming. This is the same woman who once sent press releases printed on jigsaw puzzles to magazine editors. She reasoned that at first, they’d think they’d received a message from a psycho, but when they saw her name on the envelope, they’d realize she was actually very creative. Clearly, she had no intention of approaching this networking opportunity conventionally.

Enter the Contact Card Caper

"I want to have special postcards printed," she announced, "featuring my photography, of course, but missing my contact information."

I didn't ask because I suspected I was about to learn I'd been cast in whatever production was taking shape in her mind.

"When curators admire the cards," she said with the satisfied smile of someone who'd just solved world hunger through creative graphic design, "they will mention the missing details. That's when you'll handwrite my email, phone number, and website on the back. It makes them feel special—not just another bloke getting a mass-produced business card."

And there it was. I was no longer simply Ms. Wonder's devoted partner; I had been promoted to covert contact-information operative, equipped with a pen and a mission to make maritime museum curators feel uniquely valued through the strategic withholding and subsequent personal inscription of basic business details.

"Let me see if I understand this correctly," I said, employing the tone I reserve for moments when reality seems to be operating under different rules than I remember. "You want me to circulate among distinguished museum professionals at your opening, carrying postcards that appear to be defective, waiting for them to point out the obvious omission so I can dramatically produce a pen and transform their disappointment into gratitude?"

"Exactly!" she said, clearly delighted that I'd grasped the full theatrical scope of her vision.

The Undercover Assignment

And so, here I am, preparing for my debut as an art world operative. My mission—should I choose to accept it (and we all know I will)—is to spot curators in the crowd, engage them in conversations about Ms. Wonder’s work, present them with postcards, and finally perform the subtle magic of making them feel chosen, all through the simple act of handwriting digits and web addresses.

I’ve been rehearsing my “Oh, how silly of me, let me just write that in for you” routine, trying to strike the perfect balance between casual oversight and intentional exclusivity. It’s surprisingly difficult to make a calculated omission appear both accidental and meaningful.

Ms. Wonder, meanwhile, is preparing for her presentation with the confidence of someone whose Rube Goldberg approach to life has once again produced unexpected results. From those early days of mailing puzzle pieces to editors across the southeast to landing a solo show at one of the most prestigious maritime institutions in the country, her audacity masquerading as a business plan has actually worked.

The Bigger Picture

What strikes me most about this whole elaborate scheme is how perfectly it captures Ms. Wonder's approach to her art and her life. She sees poetry in industrial cargo ships, transforms massive steel vessels into abstract compositions, and now she's turning basic networking into performance art.

 There's something beautifully consistent about a photographer who finds profound beauty in the functional design of shipping containers, and also finds creative opportunity in the deliberate omission of contact information.

And if I'm being honest, there's something rather touching about being recruited as her accomplice. After all these years of watching her transform the ordinary into the extraordinary—whether it's finding the soul of ocean-going freighters or turning a routine gallery opening into an elaborate theatrical production—I've learned that being part of Ms. Wonder's schemes is never boring.

So this spring, when you hear about a photography exhibit at the Maritime College of the State University of New York featuring stunning abstract images of cargo vessels, know that somewhere in the crowd there's a slightly bewildered partner wielding a pen, ready to make maritime museum curators feel special through the ancient art of handwritten contact information.

It's not exactly how I imagined I'd be supporting the arts, but then again, nothing about life with Ms. Wonder has ever been exactly as I imagined it would be. And that, I've discovered, is what gives life its sparkle.

Operation Contact Card is scheduled for deployment this spring. Wish us luck—we're going to need it.