Irie, Me Dreadies!

"It's a beautiful morning," said The Wonder when I entered the salle de bains.

"Is it?" I said.

"It is a beautiful morning," she said again, "with sunshine, blue skies, and Cardinals in the cypress trees singing 'pretty, pretty.' This last bit was a repeat of one of my mother's gags and it opened the door for a quip about all the cardinals who pray to be on vacation now that they've been released from conclave but I just didn't have it in me. 

Today was already measuring up to be one of those days when making a shadow would have to suffice.

artist Charlie Harper

"There is no sunshine in the heart, Poopsie, and no sunlight in the soul," I said. "Fate has sneaked up behind me and let me have it behind the ear with a sock full of wet sand."

"The day will get better," she said as if she could possibly know anything about what my day would be like but this Wonder meant well and I didn't want to question her optimism. You know how it is when you do question these descendants of the Russian nobility, they quickly become imperial on you, and that never ends well.

Not long after this conversation, I was safely ensconced in Native Grounds, not yet coffeed but seated and waiting for my order to arrive via Anna, who was filling in for Amy Normal. The Normal, I guessed, was out late last night saving south Durham from a dark fate and was even now, I reckoned, recovering in bed with Foo Dog, her manga-haired boyfriend.

"It's a beautiful morning," said Island Irv when he joined me at the table.

"Let's just pretend we've already had this conversation," I said.

It was at this moment that Amy, against all my expectations, shimmered into my consciousness with what seemed to be a special delivery for Irv. Even without caffeine, the Genome is pretty quick and I realized immediately that she had brought the get-well card for Irv to sign, he not being among those present yesterday when everyone had written little nuggets of encouragement to the Music Man, who recently was hospitalized with kidney stones.

"I know the feeling," said Amy who had apparently overheard my comments to Irv, "give me a good storm and I feel that I've gotten my money's worth out of the day."

Everyone in the room was looking at Amy. Hard to say why. Not because there wasn't a lot to grab the attention. She is striking in the way dark-haired, fair-skinned, burgundy-lipped young women are striking but then there's the pink tutu and black fishnets and standard-issue beetle crushers that have their own dramatic appeal. So, as I said, hard to say why.

At that very moment, a blond, dreadlocked young man appeared at our table. "Irie, me caffeine dreadies," he said shaking his gorgontian hair, "I be Makeda, disciple of Master Genome, gonna learn to be qigong ninja just like he."

Makeda momentarily took the attention from Amy but that didn't distract her from her mission. "You gonna sign that or what?" she said to Irv who was now doing a fair improvisation of those large fish in the tank at China Palace Restaurant.

"Ah, Jah's mercy!" said Makeda taking in an eye-full of Amy at point-blank range. "Please say you belong this tribe, Snowy Biscuit. I and I fire up a spliff of sacred herb and we sail the ship on home to Zion together."

"Douche-nozzle," said Amy to Makeda and then to Irv, "Sign the damned thing."

"Yeah," said Makeda to Irv, "and why you give me the stink eye?"

Now if you're a member of the gang who never begins the day without first checking in here to get the latest news of the Renaissance District of South Durham, then you've already guessed that Island Irv was non-plussed by all the attention.

His overall appearance suggested a man so faint, so spiritless, so dull that he may as well have been the bozo who drew back Priam's curtains in the dead of night to announce that the better half of Troy was scorched, or so it seemed to me.

"Sign," said Amy and immediately crossed her arms to signify, well, I'm not exactly sure what it was meant to signify but I'm sure it meant something. Irv opened his mouth to allow the spirit to give utterance but nothing came out. We observed a moment of silence at the table.

When his mouth next opened the sound that came out was a sort of gulping, not unlike the sound my cat Beignet makes just before delivering a hairball. I could see that whatever he wanted to say, Shakespeare could have managed it probably, but all the nouns and adjectives that presented themselves to Irv were simply inadequate.

Amy slammed her fist on the table. Irv gave a violent start, then quickly wrote something in the card. To snatch that card up and slide out the door was with Amy the work of an instant. When all the qi had settled, I looked around and discovered, to my surprise, that I was alone again with Irv.

"Did Makeda leave?" I asked.

"He followed Amy," he said.

"Genome?" he said.

I couldn't think of a reason to deny it so I admitted that it was I, the Genome.

"Do you think it's wise to take that young man on as a disciple?"

"Use your intelligence, if any," I said with what was probably too much topspin, "I don't take disciples, and neither do I take apprentices. Makeda is one of my students at Straw Valley."

"Are you a qigong ninja?"

"Irv," I said. "there is no such thing as a qigong ninja. At least I don't think there is. Perhaps at the Shaolin Temple," I added.

"That young man smokes ganja," he said.

I gave him a look. Ganja! Can you credit it that this Island Irv used the word ganja?

"He smokes pot, you boob," I said.

"Well, no matter if he smokes Hava-Tampas," he said, "I think this guy is trouble."

I decided the time had come to change the subject and considering what a big morning it had been for 'just that very moment,' it seemed one of them had come.

"So," I said, "what did you write in Music Man's get-well card?"

He stared at me doing that fish impression again.

"Did you say, get well card?" he said.

"Well," I said, "the Music Man is in hospital having just survived a trying ordeal with a particularly virulent gang of kidney stones. Of course, we're expressing our best wishes. What did you write?"

"I thought it was a birthday card," he whimpered.

You will remember that I had started this day in a somber mood. No silver linings. Hearing these words, however, my day brightened a bit and I began to feel that there was hope for raising the spirit.

"Did you say something about 'many happy returns?'" I asked and I may have had a smile on my face.

"Almost," he said, "I quoted Dr. Seuss. I couldn't think of anything else with all that pressure I was under."

"What did you write? Out with it," I said.

He said, " I wrote, Don't cry because it's over. Be happy that it happened."

It just goes to show that no matter how deep you may be in the soup, in the blink of an eye, a friend appears and throws you a rope.

Sailing Home

I have a best friend who still lives in the Village where we grew up. That's not exactly true and I don't want to deceive my public. I actually lived in the Hedge Row that separates the Village from the Dark Wood. The only claim I have on the Village is the post office.

We didn't know each other until after high school but we soon became fast friends--like brothers. I was Aragorn to his Gandalf. No one knowing us well would use the same words to describe us and yet we had a lot in common then as now. For one thing, we were both alone even when surrounded by others. In a crowd, he would soar over the heads of the throng and sing a song so poetic that people would be lost the lyrics. He would be the center of attention but far away from everyone else. In the same situation, I would retreat to the edges as far away from the center of attention as space would allow and then blend chamelion-like with my surroundings.

This Gandalf's faith for the future was in Jesus and mine was in humanity. We both thought more about this world than the next and we both avoided the rules like cold gravy. We were making our on path. Isn't that what all the wise recommend? Still, we grew unhappy and depressed rather than fulfilled as we had been promised.

Gandalf decided that the cure for his melancholy was to reaffirm his compass headings and sail back into the race. It wasn't necessary to win, just cross the finish line and receive his prize. I decided that the story I was telling had stopped working and now I'm telling a different story.

Jah's blessings on you Gandalf. May you sail your ship home to Zion and may my fast black ship bring me in safety to the shores of Ithaca.

Strange Case of the Cat in the Night

On a long winter's night, with rain falling softly and a wispy breeze lightly rattling the window panes, there are few things more enjoyable than, as Shakespeare said, "tired nature's sweet restorer--balmy sleep." 

It helps to have a bed liberally sprinkled with serene kitties, provided that is, that you have not got one like Abbie Hoffman aboard.

We can never really know why a cat does anything. Not really. We can only imagine and, more often than not, our imaginings interpret cat behavior in human terms, which I'm sure makes us look like priceless asses to the cats. 

Come to think of it, Sagi M'tesi, the caramel-colored target tabby, has only two expressions--one of them says, 'Please feed me,' and the other says, 'What a priceless ass you are.'

Now if Abbie Hoffman has ever resembled a specter, shimmering in and out of awareness, he achieved this resemblance in the wee hours this very morning. I could go so far as to say that he shimmered unceasingly and to the annoyance of all. 

Not only did he shimmer, but adding insult to injury, if that's the term I want, he yowled. He yowled in the Chang Mai room. He yowled in the hallway. He even yowled from atop the kitchen cabinets. Only during the few minutes that he lay motionless, cuddled in my arms, did he stop the nuisance.

I rose this morning much earlier than I would have chosen but you know how it is when you realize that you are wide awake with little chance of revisiting the sweet restorer. 

When I entered the dressing room, I discovered a clue to the cause of the incessant yowling. Abbie Hoffman had spent the wee hours of the morning in the closet trying on Ms. Wonder's scarves. 

This explains why, despite my earnest searching, I'd failed to locate him during the yowling episodes. He'd been in the closet trying to find the perfect scarf to accessorize his custom tuxedo.

Now Ms Wonder has done herself well in the matter of neck joy. Each time one of her colleagues travels to a foreign country, and they do travel often, each country being more foreign than the next, she puts in an order for a scarf of native handicraft. 

She has scarves from China and India, from Zimbabwe and South Africa, from Guatemala and Colombia. The actual number of countries represented in her closet by those colorful scarves is reminiscent of the parade of nations in the opening ceremonies of the Olympics.

The subject cat, A. Hoffman, tried on every one of the scarves, judging from the fact that all of them were lying on the floor. I deduced that he wore none of them to bed, that not a single scarf satisfied his longing.

No doubt this process was intended to be a palliative to dull a pain that gnawed at his heart, for little as anyone might suspect, he has a gnawing pain. I know this because I too have a gnawing pain of the heart and I am well acquainted with futile attempts to find something--anything--to medicate that pain. 

It's a common malady. I believe that Cleopatra, Catherine of Russia, Eleanor of Aquitaine, and perhaps even Napoleon, suffered in much the same way.

Strange how we never cease to look for something in the external world to restore calm to the manic mind. Abbie tries on scarves. I write these missives in Circular Journey. Whatever works about sums it up for both of us. 

When the limbic system drifts off station, the resulting altered state of mind will have you behaving in all sorts of absurd ways, like searching for a non-existent mouse or perhaps writing for a non-existent audience.

Yes, despite the evidence to the contrary, I'm certain that Abbie H. was searching for a mouse. That's the only possible explanation for his behavior in that closet. 

You may wonder how I came to this conclusion. Well, as Shakespeare or someone once said, 'Elementary.' It may not have been Shakespeare but he's credited with almost everything else quotable, and I like to go with the odds. 

Cats are well known to be acutely interested in qigong, performing slow ritualized movements, interspersed with bursts of rapid activity, followed by formal meditation. I did mention that earlier, didn't I? Should have. Sorry if I didn't. 

Cats are also known to shun the accumulation of material possessions, such as scarves; however, and I have this on the finest authority, cats do search for mice.

I'm fairly certain that I once watched my Aunt Maggie's barn cat stalking a mouse for half a day. And on more than one occasion, a devoted cat has presented me with a gift of a mouse, even though I had expressed no interest in having one. 

So I ask you, put yourself in Abbie Hoffman's boots. Your hippocampus is lying down on the job, and the happy hormones are on the decline. You feel that you could face the coming day if only you could teach a mouse a lesson or two. 

You search the premises, upstairs and down, looking for the hiding place that you know must be there. Your frustration builds until you begin yowling. Yes, you do yowl and you yowl without restraint. 

Then you enter a closet and discover a rainbow of scarves, each one looking for all the world like curtains behind which little furry invaders may hide. You see where this leads?

As I said earlier, on a long winter's night, with rain falling softly and a wispy breeze lightly rattling the window panes, there are few things more enjoyable than balmy sleep in a bed liberally sprinkled with serene kitties. Always provided that is, that you have not got one like Abbie Hoffman aboard.