Magic In the Music

I was hoping to see a familiar and friendly face as I opened the door and entered the caffeine den. I wasn't disappointed. Two of them were present.

"Good morning," said Claudia. And right behind her greeting came the salutation from Lupe, "Welcome back to Wonderland," she said.

"It's very good to be back on the home field," I said. "Now, what is the urgent crisis that we're dealing with?"

"Not an urgent crisis," she said.

"Not urgent?" I said. "Then why all the texting demanding that I appear for questioning?"

I was aware of some giggling coming from the direction of Claudia. She's a giggler. I don't know why.

"I have good news for you, silly. I've found Molly Mysinger's ring and I thought you should be the first to know since you're the jamoke tasked with finding it."

"The ring! You've found the ring that Gwyn lost? This is good news."

"Yep, Gwyn had me preparing the planting beds at the Inn, and when I was cleaning out the fountain near the front gate, I saw it sparkling in the sunlight at the bottom of the fountain."

"Do you have it with you? I won't feel really good about it until I have it in my hands."

"That's what I want to talk to you about," she said. "But first, why are you so down? I thought you'd be happy about the ring."

Oh, I'm happy about it," I said. "It's just that I've been a little blue lately."

"What's the problem?" said Claudia.

"No problem," I said. "It's the weather forecast in Wonderland. Overcast with a chance of rain today and for the foreseeable future."

"Wonderland? Why do you guys keep talking about Wonderland?" she said. Her brow had taken on that scrunched look that usually comes from eating a fruit smoothie too fast or the expectation of another trans-dimensional discussion between Genome and Ms. Mankiller.

"Well, it's like this," I said. "I've always been a strange combination of quantum physics nerd and angel channeler, and the combination is a mixture that's highly unstable."

"Whaaat?" said Claudia.

"He means he can't make up his mind where he should place his faith," Lupe said. His options are the Buddhist concept that everything is empty or the spiritual concept that the conscious universe is your best friend. I may have marred some of the details; I'm not an expert in his philosophy."

Claudia frowned again. I was beginning to think she had a smoothie hidden away somewhere.

What you need," said Lupe turning once more to face me, "is one of those music-based treatments that are based directly on the biology of neurological impairment and recovery."

"If it's anything like Laugh Yoga, you can forget it," I said. "I've been there and it's a dead-end road with no detours."

"Not at all," she said. "I read about it in Scientific American Mind. The musical-based treatments aim to restore functions lost to injury or neurological disorders by enlisting healthy areas of the brain. Among the beneficiaries are people diagnosed with stroke, autism, tinnitus, and depression."

"Will, forgive my doubt, but I'm familiar with many of the so-called cures for tinnitus, and autism, and it sounds like snake oil to me; one cure for whatever ails you."

"Snake oil?" said Claudia.

"You could consult a shaman in the highland tropical forests of Peru," said Lupe. I believe they know of other cures."

"I don't plan to be in Peru anytime soon," I said and I meant it to sting. I felt this little land-shrimp wasn't showing the proper rally-round spirit with all this Scientific Mind mumbo-jumbo.  

"Researchers have noted that those with aphasia, even though they don't speak fluently, may be able to sing words and phrases with no difficulty," she continued, completely ignoring my last comment. "The treatment is known as melodic intonation therapy."

"I don't care about melodic intonation therapy," I said and I may have raised my voice because it was then that I noticed most of the patrons of the cafe were looking in our direction. But to be fair, they may have been attracted by Lupe's swaying dance that accompanied her introduction to melodic IT.

"Music is persuasive and compelling," she continued, still apparently unaware that I was speaking. "When patients believe in their treatment, their attitude tends to remain positive."

I said nothing more on the subject but gave her one of my patented looks; the one designed to convey no emotion much like the ancient Greek stoics.

"Lupe, all I need to know about music therapy was brought to the Billboard charts by the Loving Spoonful in 1965." 

"And what's that then?" she said.

"There's magic in the music and the music's in me," I said.

"Well, do you know the song, The Magic in the Music, by Sophia the First in the Princess Prodigy?"

"Sounds like a romantic comedy that Shakespeare could have written but I'll let it pass. What's the message in it?" I asked.

"Strike up a spell anytime you choose it," she said. "Then you can feel the magic; all the magic in the music."

"I like it," I said.

"Knew you would," she said. 

Claudia nodded. "Me too," she said.

"You always come through, Lupe," I said. "She always comes through," I said to Claudia.

"For me too," she said. "There's no other like her."

"I'm not sure I'm ready to go that far," I said. "But I'll take it under advisement."

Make It So!

Wind Horse rocketed across the Holmes Bridge and straight into the mouth of downtown if mouth is the word I'm looking for. And before anyone asks, and I'm sure that someone is thinking about it even now, the bridge referred to is not the Holmes Street Bridge in Shakopee, Minnesota. 

I realize that bridge is a noteworthy one because it's the state's only example of a deck truss bridge. But for God's sake, let's not get sidetracked by another diversion.

The bridge I refer to features a 250-foot double-leaf bascule structure over the Cape Fear River and empties into 3rd Street leading to downtown Wilmington, NC. So please no more questions.

As I was saying, Wind Horse charged straight into the road leading to downtown and I was reminded of a poem we memorized and recited back in Shady Grove Elementary School. You may remember the poem unless you came along after poetry was banned from public education.

The poem is called, The Charge of The Light Brigade, and begins with "Half a league, de dum, de dum, de dum, and then delivers the punchline...

"someone had blundered"

That summed up my feelings perfectly. Someone had blundered and it wasn't me. I had done everything humanly possible to sort out a life worth waking up for but the higher power, if any, had slept in, apparently.

If you're a regular visitor to the blog, you won't be surprised when I say that because of the emotional turmoil in my head, I soon found myself parked in front of Native Grounds, my favorite downtown caffeine den, and looking forward to meeting up with my favorite members of Team Genome, that being my god-niece, Lupe Lightfoot Mankiller, and her BFF, Claudia Solviegh Bensen. 

Stage direction: Genome enters Native Grounds. 

"Genome!" said the pair. "What's going on? What's the emergency?"

Sit down and tell us everything, said Lupe. "You look like someone who drank from the cup of life and found a worm at the bottom."

"What's the matter?" I said. "You want to know what's the matter? I'll tell you. I've had it! I'm tired of reading about all the other bipolar bozos who've become rich and famous and yet, where's mine? That's the question I ask the Universe."

I paused long enough to order a double cappuccino with oat milk and a sprinkle of nutmeg. I know! Nutmeg! Don't get hung up over it; I sometimes like to stir things up a bit.

"I too suffer the slings and arrows of mental illness," I continued, "with none of the up-side. I've paid my dues, and all I get is treasons, stratagems, and spoiled."

"I understand exactly what you mean, dear old ancestor," said Lupe, "even though you've bungled another quote. I might suggest that you would feel better if you got a haircut. You look a little like a chrysanthemum."

"And I know you're only trying to help me feel better by lightening the mood," I said, "but I'm on a mission here. I've asked you to meet me so that I can express my revised evil plan for world domination. And, of course, I'm asking for help from my minions."

"Wait, wait, wait," cried Claudia. "You're getting far ahead of me. First, are you really Lupe's ancestor and do you actually have an evil plan?"

Lupe placed a hand on Claudia's arm and shook the coconut--she shook her own personal coconut, not Claudia's. I was not to be diverted by any off-stage action so I refused to give up the floor and I continued with my plea.

"We Genomes do not lightly forget," I said. "Well, we do forget some things like appointments, people's birthdays, and mailing letters, but we don't forget abject suffering.

I don't know if you're aware but yesterday I experienced what your grandparents' day was called a nervous breakdown. I lost all structural support and collapsed into a heap on the floor."

"We heard," said Lupe. "And we want you to know that we're here for you even when we don't appear to be."

"Yeah," said Claudia. "We'll be your structural support."

"I spend all day, every day," I said, "looking for the silver lining, a little light music, a bit of cheerfulness. And what do I find? Grief! That's what I find. Loads of unrequited grief. I've had enough!"

Lupe patted my right hand and Claudia patted my left. I expected them to pat my head next and I suppose if I had two instead of one, the pats would have happened.

"Whenever I get that depressed," said Lupe, "the feeling turns into anger and I go out into the street and start knocking peoples' hats off. That usually helps."

"Oh," said Claudia, "I think Genome would never do something like that. You wouldn't would you?"

"I'm not always good and noble, Claudia," I said. "I am the hero of this story but I do have my off moments. Remember, the hypothalamus takes orders only from Princess Amy and the behavior that results is not always under my control."

"Is it really as bad as all that?" she said.

"Let me put it this way," I said. "It's never difficult to distinguish between the hypothalamus with a grievance and a ray of sunshine."

"C'est le vie!" said Lupe. "Just one long string of mistaken identities and rash acts and whatnot."

"But that's all done," I said. "From now on, it's going to be a different story. Today I finally open that gate and step out onto the yellow brick road."

Claudia gave Lupe a quizzical look. Is that a word, quizzical? Lupe explained, "It's a mixed reference to the Wizard of Oz and to a session with a shaman in Sedona, Arizona."

"What will you do differently?" she asked me.

"To start, I will inventory all those items in Mom's boxes and remove their power over me. They've become an anchor holding me back. Then I will review my success as a published travel writer and that will bolster my confidence and put me back on solid ground. From there, I will move forward one step and one day at a time."

"By Jove, I think you've got it!" said Lupe, and I recognized the gag from some musical or other but the exact source eludes me. Maybe one you're familiar with. Leave a comment below.

"And there's no better time like the present," she continued. "Shakespeare says, if you're going to do something, you might as well pop right at it and get it over with."

"Somehow, I feel that in the present circs, Shakespeare isn't the bimbo I care to follow. Someone like Napoleon perhaps."

"Forget Napoleon," said Lupe. "He's a bum. Listen to Jean Luc Piquard instead:

Make it so, Data! Engage!"

With her words of encouragement, I shot out of my chair as though I'd sat on a tack. I practically flew out the door and into the wide, blue, open. 

And here I still am today, engaged like the dickens! Buckle up is my advice and make sure the safety bars are in place.

It's a wide, wild, windy world we're riding through, Billy Bob!

Magic Happens

I don't know if you're familiar with the story of Mrs Lot and her rather fantastic finish? If so, you may want to skip to the next paragraph. However, if the name doesn't ring a bell, then here's the gist:

The unfortunate woman was the victim of history's worst practical joke. We must assume it was a practical joke because the story, as it's recorded leaves room for doubt. We do know that when told by her companions, 'Don't look now...', what do you think she did? Of course, she did look. Don't we all when told not to? 

The courtyard of Straw Valley

That much of the story isn't so fantastical but now we come to the punchline. When she looked, by some odd coincidence, according to my sources, (you aren't going to believe it), she turned into a pillar of salt! I know! Who'd have guessed? Salt!

The reason I mention it here is that a very similar thing happened to me this morning when Ms Wonder told me to let the Straw Valley thing go. You remember that I hoped to teach public qigong classes at that jewel of venues until I bobbled a reply to the event planner.

At any rate, while revisiting some old emails, I found an unopened missive from that same organizer. Reading from left to right, it said, 'I'd like to set up a day and time to talk.' 

Well, if you've been following along, you know how much I wanted this gig so it should not surprise you that I sat frozen with the smartphone in my hands like one of those peasants, who talk back to a wizard and--presto!--they turn into a pillar of salt, or something. Forgive me if I misalign some of the details.

And so this very morning I found myself walking into the courtyard of Straw Valley with an appointment to review the space with the planner. At the very moment I entered the coffee bar, I saw her walking my way and, I thought it very auspicious that she wore a smile.

It's moments like this that you find the Genome at his best--ice cold brain working like a Swiss army knife. Nothing creates so unfortunate a first impression as the hesitant utterance and the shifting from one foot to another like a south-side Fred Astaire. But I was up for it. I'd found the middle way. I'm sure, considering this and that, it must have been not unlike the Buddha.

As soon as she began to speak, I realized that this young woman created her own future, making things happen by sheer force of will. I quickly gave up control and simply allowed it all to happen. We agreed to begin with Sunday morning classes as soon as the new year could get here. I hoped it wouldn't be delayed by some unforeseen solstice nonsense.

I was deep into the moment, allowing the Universe to work its magic, and as I slowly emerged from the void, I heard her say something about making the deadline for the Indy newspaper and then she was gone with the wind. A sharp cry of joy escaped my lips. 

The sun, once hidden behind a gray veil, came shooting out like a startled rabbit, rolled up his sleeves, and got down to some serious shining. Birds in the shrubbery sang in four-part harmony, five probably, and I saw the world through a pink mist.

I knew it would be a perfect day when the barista swirled a heart into the foam of my morning latte. 

More Banging Less Grousing

"When I was a kid, we used to wait until dark and then build a big bonfire in Mr. Davis's front yard," I said to Ms. Wonder as she traipsed around the kitchen working up some new culinary delight.

"In the front yard?" she said with a touch of incredulity.

"We had big front yards in Shady Grove," I said. "The band was always located on the front porch, 'making music,' as the saying had it, and we didn't want the fire too near the band so we put it far out in the front yard, close to the road."

"Why build a bonfire at all?"

"Ah, it's one of those holdovers from the early days when my ancestors came over from Wales and were isolated in Appalachia. I didn't know that when I was a kid, but I didn't need to know. It was simply fun to have a bonfire in the night and that was reason enough. Much later, I learned that we were following a remnant of the old Celtic customs of our ancestors."

She glanced at me and I saw a sort of whatsit expression on her face. An expression that could easily have been followed by her excusing herself to attend to something she'd forgotten. I see that expression often when I begin one of the stories my childhood.

"You see, in Northern Europe, the Celts would build bonfires on the hilltops to help warm up the earth and add a little more light to the night. Moral support for the sun, I think it was. They would then beat drums to raise a ruckus and frighten the Spirit of Winter away. 

That was the whole point of May Day Eve--to push Winter back and encourage the new sun king to roll up his sleeves, spit on his hands, and get down to the business of summer."

"That's interesting," she said but her tone wasn't convincing.

"Well, the reason I bring it up..."

"Why do you bring it up?"

"Because I'm sick of winter and I'm sick of this virus thing. I don't like it. I know that members of our audience who operate from a base in New England or from the steppes of Russia are probably rolling their eyes right now at the thought of winter in North Carolina, but I'm sure we're all aligned in our disapproval of the virus. I think Providence has jumped the rails again, Poopsie. This is certainly not the stuff to give the troops if you want my opinion."

"Which troops," she said.

"Don't worry about which troops," I said. "We've had some warm days recently and I've seen the bluebird around the neighborhood and I do hope that she sets up shop on the corner and gets down to business soon. Bringing a little sweetness and light to the situation I mean. So I've decided to do my little part and start banging away and push this virus thing away with the winter."

"Banging?"

"That's right, I've built a bonfire in my heart and I'm going to start banging on anything that I can bang, which at present is Happy Cats Wellness, that online fount of information to keep cats and their caretakers healthy and happy."

"What do you plan to do with Happy Cats?" she said with a lot more enthusiasm than I'd noticed earlier in the conversation. "I thought you'd given it up, shut down the website, and closed the door."

"That's true," I said. "But Uma Maya has inspired me to crank it back up. I plan to stir up the Happy Cats website and launch a full-frontal social media attack."

"A little more of the Beltane analogy and a little less of the militarism," she said.

"Sorry, it's that old Napoleon line that runs through my soul," I said.

"Right," she said.

And so there you are dear reader. You've been apprised of the entire affair. You should now consider yourself banged to the fullest and you should feel much better for it. I'll keep you updated as the story progresses.

Turtles All the Way Down

Remember that story about a Great Flood that's featured in so many episodes on the History channel? If I remember correctly, 40 days and 40 nights of rain figure into it. Well, it's rained without stopping for 18 months in North Carolina and although the mountains are still above above water, all the rivers, lakes, and many of the roads are overflowing.

I was feeling particularly peevish on this dark, rainy morning, and so I thought a little outing with the radio tuned to just the right channel would help soothe my irritable mood. And so Ms Wonder and I climbed into the Volvo and began cruising the roads, doing our best to avoid low areas and high water.

I began to feel a little better as I listened to Supertramp performing Goodbye Stranger. The decision to get out of the house was a good one I thought. It just goes to show that, once again, the Universe proved to be a foul practical joker.

We made a right turn onto Farm-to-Market Road, remembering it to be elevated above the surrounding terrain but the sheet of water washing over the road where it crossed Sutter's Creek told us that it simply wasn't so. We slowed to a stop a few feet from the torrent.

There was no other traffic on the road, so it would be easy to turn around but I sat there for a few moments, not really thinking of anything in particular. I do that sometimes. It's nothing for you to worry about. It passes quickly. But it didn't pass quickly enough this time.

"Look!" said the Wonder pointing into the water.

Her tone of voice made it clear that something worth noting was there in the water but, try as I might, I couldn't see it. Not at first anyway. But then I did see something. I wasn't sure what it was. A dark shape in the water that was doing an impressive imitation of Nessie.

The head and about 4 inches of the neck were above water. For those of you living in the Federated Malay States, the 4 inches would be about 10 centimeters. Behind the head, there was a curved back with ridges running down the spine. Ridges similar to those on an alligator's back, but this was no alligator. It was a snapping turtle.

"Do something!" wailed the Wonder.

"What?" I asked. "Do what?"

"It's heading for the storm drain," she said. "We can't let it go down the storm drain."

Well, you're fully aware by now that we Genomes are quick-witted, and as soon as she said storm drain I understood her concern. The sewer is certainly no place for a snapping or any other turtle. No argument from me on that point but what I wanted to know was who she meant when she said, we.

"Please," she said. "It's moving fast. It will be too late if you don't hurry."

Now, if you frequent these pages with any regularity, you know that when this woman of wonder pleads for my help, her wish becomes my command. 

I was out of the car even before I finished the mental inventory of the things I didn't have to help move a snapping turtle. But although I was short of snapping turtle moving tools, my timing in exiting the car was perfect for the prank planned for me by the Fate sisters. I was drenched in a cold down-pour in about three seconds.

My clothes were soaked and I was cold and shivering.  The rain in my eyes made it difficult to see clearly. My shoes were in ankle-deep water making squelching noises as I walked. "Mama!" about summed up my attitude.

Squelch, slosh, squelch, slosh....

The turtle was moving fast. Snappers do move quickly, unlike their cousins, and the water flowing into the drain was helping with his breaststroke, which wasn't bad without the help. He was dangerously close to the drain.

A glance toward the car told me that the anguish still darkened  Ms. Wonder's face. It was her pleading look that spurred me on. I would be her knight and I would slay this dragon. Not an appropriate metaphor, you're probably thinking, and you're right but still, I think you know what I mean.

As it sometimes happens, a solution came to me at the last instant. Like a bolt out of the blue--another bad metaphor--I suddenly recalled a poster I'd seen about rescuing turtles from the roadway. 

That poster included the how-to for holding a turtle in a way that prevents the rescuer from needing rescue. I was certain that I could do it. Not totally certain but close enough to be getting on with.

Squelch, slosh, squelch, slosh... 

I moved quickly behind him with a low, stooping approach like a professional bowler approaching the lane. Where do these mental images come from?

Squelch, slosh, squelch, slosh... 

I grabbed his shell with my right hand at about 5 o'clock and picked him up out of the water. I was surprised by how heavy he was. He was surprised too, judging by the expression on his face. Probably not a frequent flyer.

Squelch, slosh, squelch, slosh... 

I grabbed him with my other hand at about 7 o'clock. But he was wet and I was off balance due to his unexpected heaviness. I was struggling to hold on to him and remain upright. It forced me to move faster than I'd planned.

Squelch, slosh, squelch, slosh... 

I was too far into the forward fall to recover but I would still save this turtle and win the favor of the Lady Wonder. Giving it my all to keep balanced, I lifted the turtle up as high as I could to get him above the guard rail. He seemed to be enjoying the bird's eye view; his eyes were opened wide and he had a sort of smile on his face.

At this precise moment, the turtle was able to scratch my hand with a rear foot. Now, this clawing did no damage to my hand. It did however add a great deal of excitement to the experience. 

You remember Princess Amy, of course. She decided that the scratch could be serious and that another scratch was probably coming. The drive to win the favor of Lady Wonder combined with Amy's cries of Run for your life! proved too much. I took it big!

Yes, I panicked. Not something the Genome often does. Let there be no doubt about that. But on this occasion, I caved. Not only was I off balance but I was fully extended and falling toward the stream below me. 

I released the turtle and he flew up and up, then he seemed to pause at the top of the arc before turning down, down. All my post-release English did nothing to improve his azimuth. In short, he went straight into the storm drain. And I went straight into about 8 inches of water on the roadway.

Nothing is so bitter as disappointment in the eyes of your lady. Nothing that is except realizing, when it's too late to be meaningful, that it was all unnecessary anyway. You see when I tell you that the turtle went into the drain, it's assumed that he ended up in the storm sewer. But that's not what happened.

This particular storm drain emptied not into a sewer, but into Sutter's Creek that runs underneath the road at this point. All the effort I'd put into getting the turtle into the creek was pointless because that's where he was going anyway.

How will I turn this into a positive experience for the Genome, I wondered. The answer came right away. It wasn't going to happen. My only option was to throw myself at the mercy of the Universe.

By the time I squelched my way back to the car, the laughter coming from inside told me that the Universe had ruled against me.

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.

And so I have 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.

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.

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!