Keep On the Sunny Side

Sunshine stole across the mews from the general direction of the Atlantic Ocean, not that it was remarkable in any way. I mean, I'm damned if I know how it's done--smoke and mirrors probably--but that old sun rises each and every morning and has done so for a good long time if what I read is true. 

Statistically, it has to fail one day soon, of course, but the Genome doesn't plan to be around when it does. If you're smart--and I readily accept that you are smart because you frequent these pages on The Circular Journey--you'll book your getaway with me.

But, as I say, sunshine stole across the mews, and then it oozed its way onto the grounds of Chadsford Hall. It made its way up the outside wall to the second-floor bedroom window, and if you're wondering how such a thing could happen, you won't be surprised to learn that I, too, wonder how. Perhaps it climbs up the waterspout. the gates and o

The morning was a perfect ringer for the one we'd been waiting for, and we had a song in our hearts when we rose and began preparing for our trip. I'm not exaggerating when I say the general mood was bumpsie-daisy.

Twenty years ago this month, Ms. Wonder and I published our first travel article in the Birmingham News. And now we were on our way to those same Eden-like gardens to do yet another article, one that our biographers may refer to as "Brookgreen Gardens: Then and Now."

The Genome that waded through a half-dozen cats and padded across the Persian carpet was not the usual Genome. The spirit was soaring. I may have sung a few lines of "59th Street Bridge Song" and if I didn't sing them, I surely hummed a few bars.

When I reached the sal de bains, I entered a world of mists and fruitful mellowness, and I expected to find Ms. Wonder in attendance. I was not disappointed. She was there, bubble-covered and lilac-scented to the core.

"Good morning," I called into the billows of steam.

"Oh, you startled me," she said.

"Not like you startled me," I said, "I thought you were Venus, rising from the sea."

"You came to bed late," she said.

"Went for a walk in the garden," I said.

"Good for you," she said, "the garden is nice late in the evening. Very soothing."

"That's your view, is it?"

"And the stars," she said.

"What about the stars?"

"You know," she said, "the floor of heaven is thick inlaid with patens of bright gold."

I immediately realized the conversation was coming dangerously close to saying something about the blessed damozel leaning out from the gold bar of heaven. I decided to take prompt action through the proper channels to prevent it.

"Poopsie," I said.

"How does it go?" she asked, "the smallest orb in his motion like an angel sings..."

"Poopsie."

Such harmony is in immortal souls..."

"Poopsie!" I cried and the sound of my voice dislodged a cat from a bubble cloud at the foot of the tub. It turned out to be Eddy. The cat I mean, I don't have names for bubble clouds.

"What?" said the Blessed Damozel.

"You couldn't possibly put a sock in the floor of heaven, could you?"

"Sorry," she said. "Not in a good mood then?"

"I've been loonier," I said.

"I'll say," she said.

"Pardon me?" I said.

"Looney to the eyebrows," she said.

"I'm in the room," I said. "I can hear you."

"Sorry," she said, "Are you still thinking about the lost opportunity at Straw Valley?"

"Definitely, not," I said. "I work through these little setbacks and then get on with life. Live for today, is my motto."

"Still," she said, "It's a sad thing to lose a gazelle."

"Ms. Wonder," I said, "don't try me too high. I'm not in the mood to discuss losing gazelles."

"Over it then?" she said.

"No doubt about it. Fierce living is the thing you know. Take life just as it's hurled at you." I said.

"Good," she said, holding out a shapely arm with the expectation that the Genome would put a towel in it. "That means it's a good day for a trip to the low country. Let's get ours while the getting's good."

"I'm with you," I said. Sometimes all it takes to turn the tide is being with people who are on your side. Try it now is my suggestion, and if you have trouble finding someone, don't worry; I'm here for you.

Back to the Island

Something there is that calls us back to the island of Ocean Isle repeatedly. I've loved her from the first time I saw her. I don't know what set her apart from all the others. It may have been her name; the words Ocean Isle conjures images of a tropical paradise. It may have been the sound of the surf rolling in as the sun sinks into the sea, or it may have been the soft whispers of the evening breezes.

And why shouldn’t this coastal paradise call to us? The island has everything we need for a day trip or extended vacation. There are lots of sun, sand, and surfable waves, and the boardwalks allow me to cross the dunes without disturbing them. I especially like that.

The thing I like most about the island is that everything I want or need is never too far from the sea—things like icy drinks and shrimp burgers and coffee—especially coffee because no matter how much sand I have in my shoes, nor how much salt I have in my t-shirt, I can’t pass up a cup of the steaming.

As satisfying as it is to have the best things of life right across the street from the Atlantic, it gets even better than that here at OIB. The multicolored sunshine logo on the Sunset Slush pushcarts comes out onto the beach every day bringing Italian ices in a wide variety of flavors. That’s right—they bring the stuff to you, my friend, and they are as dependable as caffeine.

The town of Ocean Isle is big enough to offer outstanding summertime diversions too—like the free outdoor movies on Wednesday evenings and the free outdoor concerts in the park on Fridays. Large enough to provide all that and yet small enough that it doesn’t get in the way—plenty of room for everybody.

Considering everything Ocean Isle offers, I have to wonder why it's routinely overlooked by the big media outlets when they rank the best Carolina beaches. I rate it the number one beach in Carolina—North and South.

But regardless of what draws us here, we are drawn, and the time comes when we simply must go back. We came back this time to search for photographic opportunities to illustrate a travel piece destined for publication in Carolina Roads Magazine.

It was an early August morning and we'd stopped at Lowe's Foods on the mainland for some reason that I've forgotten now. I'd never noticed it before but there at the end of the sidewalk was an inviting little spot named OIB Surf & Java Cafe. I know! Surfing and coffee as if they belonged together.  

Oh sure, I’d seen these little coffee shops everywhere along the Carolina coast. Some of them were pleasant surprises but most were just another bean grinder—good for a cup of the needful but one was as good as another. I wasn’t expecting much from a bean trader located in a strip center. Still, it was early morning and I felt in need of the medium dose for an average adult.

I opened the front door and the instant I stepped inside, my low-level expectations were replaced by a completely satisfying sight that seemed to drop softly through the air like the gentle rain from heaven.

I stared in amazement, speech taken from my lips by a sharp intake of breath. It may not have been the perfect coffee shop, because none of my friends were there waiting for me, but it was close enough to perfect to be getting on with. 

"Good morning," called the barista, "What can I get started for you?"

Whatever it was that she might start for me was destined to remain a mystery for the moment, because this pleasant surprise had taken me by storm, and my system needed time to adjust.

I looked around the room cautiously, expecting at any moment for the place to revert to what I’d expected before opening the door. What I saw were stylish, yet comfortable chairs surrounded by potted palms. I saw surfboards, and wet suits, and a year’s worth of The Surfers Journal. I even saw ukuleles. Yes, that’s right.

Ms. Wonder and I wandered around the place, taking it all in, and making a few photos as we went. Eventually, we found ourselves back at the starting point. We ordered coffee but I couldn't stop looking at the muffins. I don't eat muffins but I ate those muffins.

Eventually, the time was past for living in a dream world and it was time to go back to the island. As we left the cafe, I remember thinking that this place was too good to be true and I wondered if it would still be here when we came this way again. Like Brigadoon, perhaps it appears once in a while and can’t be found except on one special day of the year.

You remember Brigadoon, don't you? It's a musical about a village in Scotland that appears for only 1 day every 100 years. Tommy, the American tourist falls in love with Fiona who lives in the village. Everyone knows that story. You may have performed the role of Tommy or Fiona in your high school production. 

At the end of the day, we sat alone on the beach near the pier, where we enjoyed a Sunset Slush while we watched the sun go down, and listened to the sea roll in, and heard the night birds cry. 

Eventually, the time came to say goodbye and as we drove across the bridge back to the mainland, I thought of OIB Surf & Java. Was it still there I wondered? Or had it disappeared like Brigadoon? As we neared Lowe’s Foods, I fought the urge to turn into the center. I lost the fight.

Surprisingly the coffee shop was still there. Still, I reasoned, several hours remained in the day and it might yet disappear under cover of night. I'll update you with the latest when we come back to the island.

Coastal Camelot

Morning comes early in Southport, North Carolina. You're probably thinking that it comes early where you live too, but let me tell you, there is far more to the morning here than you can imagine.

On a clear day in this small seaside village on the edge of the Atlantic, the dawning begins with a rosy glow that gradually becomes a golden curtain draped over the horizon. Then, as if on cue, the curtain opens to reveal that familiar old ball of gas in his most pleasing aspect of Monarch of the Heavens.

Reminiscent of that perfect original garden.

Soon after sunrise, the morning clouds gather in the east, puffy and white, to soften the morning light. The day’s unfolding is reflected on the serene surface of the Atlantic Ocean—the surf calmed by numerous barrier islands. It's all very much like Camelot in the way it resembles perfection.

This morning opened with a show so grand and so majestic that I found myself questioning Mr. Priddy’s sixth-grade lesson about the earth’s rotation causing the sunrise. Surely, I thought, gazing at this glorious beginning of the day, only a goddess driving her divine sun chariot could put on such a spectacle.

Each evening, just about the dinner hour, clouds gather on the western horizon, and the sea breeze grows even more refreshing. People gather to stroll along the waterfront—some playing with children, some walking with dogs, and some arm-in-arm with lovers.

The mystique is irresistible.

Little streams of people begin to pool outside popular spots like Fishy Fishy Cafe, Southport Provision Company, and Port City Java. And of course, people gather wherever the movie du jour is being filmed. 

The charm of Southport is so alluring that there's always a movie or television series being filmed here. It's not unusual for two or three projects to shoot concurrently in this charming community.

We arrived at the Yacht Basin early hoping to claim the best vantage point to watch the filming of “The Waterfront,” a new television series slated for release in 2025. 

While many visitors hope to catch a glimpse of the stars of the show, we came for the behind-the-scenes excitement—the flawlessly orchestrated hustle of the production crew is a spectacle in itself.

The docks of the Yacht Basin have been converted to serve as a film set but all was quiet when we got there. We soon discovered why. The action of the moment was taking place behind us. 

An ocean-going freighter had entered the Cape Fear River, and the harbor pilot was climbing a rope ladder to board the ship and guide it into the Port of Wilmington. Not even a movie production can compete for attention with a scene like that. 

“Picture’s up!" yelled the movie wrangler, calling our attention back to the set in time to see the extras go into action

“Rolling!” Called the principal cameraman, and men began loading crab crates onto fishing boats. An actor dressed in a deputy sheriff’s uniform strode through the maze of cameras and onto the set. 

Cut!" yelled the First Assistant Director, and the command echoed around the set. The fishermen began removing and restacking the crab crates for the next take. 

One of the visitors in the crowd said to his companion, “This is some serious acting.”

"Hmmm," I said to Ms. Wonder, and I emphasized the statement with a raised eyebrow. She raised an eyebrow of her own to indicate that she shared my opinion of the spurious review.

"Cart's here!” she suddenly exclaimed, and I didn’t need to ask what she meant. We hurried to the loading zone to board the touring cart for the next excursion through all of Southport’s most popular destinations.

Time moves more slowly in Southport.

In a world where everything is constantly changing, Southport offers a comforting sameness. And there's no better way to experience how dependable the town can be than by joining the one-of-a-kind tour that is Southport Fun Tours.

Dan Guetschow, affectionately known as “The Rev.” conducts the tours and regales his passengers with tales ranging from local history to local gossip. Dan earned his nickname while playing guitar with the Boz Skaggs band. I know—Boz Skaggs! It’s little surprises like this that make Southport feel even more magical. 

Later in the evening, Ms. Wonder and I strolled along the saltwater marsh on our way back from the yacht basin. A line dance of pelicans passed overhead, playing follow the leader. The first bird glided to the right, and one by one, the others followed. The leader moved back to the left, and the rest followed suit. The aerial waltz was repeated several times until the birds were out of sight.

The perfect spot for happily ever after-ing.

The music of Jimmy Buffett drifted up from Southport Provisions cafe while we searched for the best spot to photograph the sunset. We met a local native enjoying the evening in the company of her Scottish terrier. I nodded as we passed.

"Crabs are out," she said, and she said it with authority.

"Ah," I said after searching the data banks and failing to find an appropriate reply. My subconscious, working in the background, continued to puzzle over her words. Before I could think of a satisfactory response, she spoke again.

“Big blow coming,” she said, glancing over her shoulder toward the evening clouds.

I smiled to myself, knowing full well that it never rains ‘till after sundown in Camelot. This time I had the perfect comeback—bright, optimistic, and cheerful.

"Stay dry," I said to her in my friendliest tone, and I felt pretty full of myself too. 

"Didn't say rain," she corrected. "Wind!"

"Ah," I said again, and I consoled myself for that second blunder by reminding myself that, in short, there's simply not a more congenial spot for happily-ever-after than here in the coastal Camelot that is Southport.

Write is Might

"Ms Wonder, I've just had the most marvelous revelation. I'm sure I don't need to explain the true nature of life to you, so let me get right down to the nub," I said as she emerged from the garage with her arms full of boxes. 

Wonder's Photography sold to benefit Independent Animal Rescue

"Here, hold this," she said as she shoved one of the larger ones in my direction. It was disconcerting, it was diverting, and it certainly wasn't the response I was looking for.

"You could probably teach me a thing or two about life," I said, I hoped it help me avoid her attempt to derail my thoughts with those cardboard containers.

"Hold this," she repeated and I realized that I hadn't avoided anything. This time I responded by taking the box from her arms, but not with any real chirpiness.

"This box is empty," I said.

"Yes," she said. "I just now came from the Lighting Gallery," she said.

This got right past me. I felt a chill all along the dorsal fin. I live in fear that one day her perfect brain will come unhinged and I will be back where I started--standing on the shoulder of the road in the rain. Could this be the day I wondered?

"What gallery is that?" I asked.  

"I delivered some of my art prints to that lighting gallery on Highway 70 in Raleigh. I told you about it," she said. 

"Ah," I said. Not my best retort but I take pride in the fact that I do not mislead my audience and 'Ah' is just what I said.

"Still," I continued, in an attempt to get back on track, "I feel compelled to remind you that the foolishness we know as daily life sometimes comes slowly, and when it does come slowly, its impact is soft and gentle like the easy dawning of a Sunday morning."

"Easy like Sunday morning," she said. I don't know why. She just did. Just a whim do you think? I thought about asking her what she meant but realized, in the nick of time, that she was attempting to cherry-bomb my fruit punch again. She's done it before. Enjoys it, if you want my opinion.

"But it's been my experience," I continued, "that more often than not, life comes fast and strikes us squarely between the eyes, like the baseball you didn't keep your eye on. It's coming hard and fast like that this morning."

She gave me a searching look, at least I think that's what it was--searching. You know that look where the eyes move to the right and then to the left, scanning the map as it were. Gave me the feeling that perhaps I'd finally gotten her attention and that something good was coming. I was right. She let the boxes in her arms drop to the floor. I liked that. It was time, I reasoned, to begin weaving my web around her.

"There is much to do when your passion is writing," I said, and you surely know how good it felt to be talking about writing and not about lighting galleries. And if you're concerned that Ms. Wonder missed her day in the sun with art prints and whatnot, don't worry. We got back to that as soon as I had satisfied Princess Amy that the sky wasn't falling. If you haven't met Amy,  you'll want to ask one of the regulars to tell you about her.

Having gotten Ms. Wonder back on the topic of writing, I continued. "Oh sure, it looks easy. You're probably asking yourself, What's so hard about it? Where's the difficulty in putting a bunch of words together to make sentences and then group them into a paragraph or two? After all, Shakespeare did it with one hand tied behind his back and look at the drivel he sold."

"What a minute," she said. "Do you actually think that Shakespeare slapped onto the page anything that popped into his mind?"

"Please," I said. "Have you really read his stuff?" I waved my hand in the air. "All silliness and nonsense, if you ask me," I said, "but then what do you expect from someone who roamed the countryside stealing ducks?"

"Stealing ducks?" Her brow furrowed and then she asked, "Are you thinking of the stories about Shakespeare poaching deer in the Charlecote Park?"

"Let's not heap more coals on Shakespeare," I said and I thought it a pretty good comeback. "The supporters of the Earl of Oxford and Sir Francis Bacon do enough coal-heaping. No, let's talk about life and the fiend hiding in the bushes that we call Fate. The one that smacks us upside the head when we're looking the other way."

"What about it?" she said.

"What about it? Wonder, you amaze me! Do you know that more than half the time, when we aren't paying attention, our minds are wandering from pillar to post? Thoughts just rise up from the deep at random. It could be something from a Lovecraft story. Something about Thul-hu perhaps."

"Cthulhu," she said, which shot far over my head, again. 

"Ka-thoo-loo?" I said.

"That's right. Not pronounced the way you'd think."

"Thank God," I said. "But are you sure of the pronunciation?"

"Positive," she said.

"Do you know everything?" I asked.

She waved her hand in the air far more vigorously than the effort I made with mine. "And besides, I don't see a problem with daydreaming", she said. "Some researchers think it's therapeutic. And besides,  I think you're delusional."

"Not daydreaming," I said. "I'm talking about idle fretting and worrying that we fall into when we're not paying attention." 

But, truth to tell, I was beginning to get her drift that somehow, somewhere between there and here, I'd lost my way. But you know how it is when you find yourself in such a predicament, you have no choice but to soldier on and try to make some sense of it.

"Half the time we worry about the future or replay uncomfortable memories of the past," I said. "Fair warning, Ms. Wonder, idle minds are the enemy."

I thought that last remark might grab her attention but she only gave me another of her patented looks. This one was more serious than the last. Her eyes weren't actually rolling from earth to heaven but they were in a fine frenzy to find a comfortable spot to rest.

"Not buying it?" I said.

"Nope," she said. 

"I'm out of practice," I said.

"I'll give you an 'A' for effort," she said.

"Would it help my argument if I brought in something about Napoleon? Perhaps found a way to introduce Catherine the Great?"

"I think not," she said.

"Cocker Spaniels?" I asked. She shook her head.

"How about something with elves and dragons?" I said.

"Possibly," she said. "Elves and dragons would make it more interesting but I'm not sure it would strengthen the argument."

"Well, you would know," I said. "I'll work on it and get back to you. But it may take some time. I feel as though I need to start all over again." 

The First Lesson for Authors

Having re-read the half dozen pages I’d written in the middle of the morning when the large family next door was still having the time of their lives, I lovingly saved the pages to the cloud, like a mother goose tucking her goslings into the nest. I had that feeling that often comes upon authors when they know the blog entry they're working on is just the stuff to give the troops.

Happiness, a wise man or woman once said, comes from making others happy. It’s possibly one of Shakespeare's gags. He made a career of writing stuff like that. But no matter who came up with the little thing, it was someone with a finger on the nub, because I was happy and all because I knew that little story I'd just written would bring joy to many.

One of the first lessons we writers learn is that you can’t please everybody but this particular story was sure to please even the dourest reader. It’s the story I call Cabbage Head and it’s the details of an encounter between my dear old friend, let us call him Gandolf, we did call him that, and a guy in Ireland’s Bar out in the West End district of Nashville when we were in school there. 

I won’t go into details now. You will have to wait until the book is published for that, but the gist of it is that Gandolf thought he’d met the girl of his dreams only she’d arrived with someone else that night. After the exchange of a bit of name-calling, "Cabbage Head" being the one I remember most fondly, and a jostle or two--I still think management made too much out of a few broken dishes--and yet the bouncers competed for the privilege of throwing us out.

With only that sketch of the thing, I'm sure you understand why I was so happy with the morning's output. I rose in the best spirit of morning, I stretched well, and I remember thinking to myself, 'Life is good'. If I fully expected to enjoy a perfect day, why shouldn't I? 

The day’s work was done at an early hour and the trademark-pink sunrise of Cocoa Beach was flooding the village as I made my way to Ossorio’s for a cup of Jah’s Mercy. The lark was on the wing, as Browning said, and the snail on the thorn—doesn’t appeal to me but it takes all kinds—and then there was a bit more muck of that kind, followed by the punchline—all’s right with the world. And so it seemed.

As soon as I entered the café, I spotted Ms Wonder staring fixedly at a plateful of bagels—Ms W. was doing the staring, not me. For several days prior she’d behaved as though she had something on her mind. If I didn’t know her as well as I do, I might have suspected her of stealing someone’s pig, for that was just the kind of look she wore. I'm sure you know just what I mean.

“Poopsie,” I said.

My voice startled her. She jumped a couple of inches and gave me the look most of us reserve for the ghost of Hamlet’s father. It was Hamlet, wasn’t it? I doubt they read those stories in school anymore. Probably scares the children, in the same way, I seemed to have frightened the Wonder.

“Get hold of yourself,” I said. “It’s bad enough that I frighten old ladies and small children on the sidewalks. I don't have room for scaring the whatsit out of my wife. Do you realize that when I stopped in the park to qigong this morning, a small child started crying and the mother rushed into Thai-Thai’s to tell the manager that a man was in the park having seizures?”

“Sorry,” she said, “I was lost in thought.”

“You were lost in the movie playing in your mind, is where,” I said. “Lost in the default network and that never turns out well. It leads to negative thinking and unhealthy behavior. It’s a scientific fact. You can read all about it on my blog.

“You’re probably right,” she said, “and I think I’ve caught a chill too.”

“That’s why you wobble is it?”

“I think so,” she said.

“You’re not practicing the steps of your new line dance?”

“No.”

“Try a stiff whiskey toddy,” I said, “I understand they'll put you right in no time.”

“I don’t drink,” she said, “remember?”

“So I do,” I said on reflection, “and if I remember correctly, neither do I.”

The next few moments were filled with silence. Finally, she said, “Oh, I almost forgot. I picked up your phone by mistake and someone texted you a few minutes ago about your book. It was someone named Kayser.”

“My agent,” I said.

“He was asking how the book’s coming.”

“Yes, but it's not a book. It's my blog and he’s interested in selling the rights to dramatize it to a theatrical consortium in New York.”

“Someone wants to turn your blog into a play?” she said.

“That’s right. You don’t think it a good idea?”

“It doesn’t seem to be the kind of thing that becomes a play,” she said.

“That’s what I keep telling Kayser,” I said. I considered saying more on the subject but realized that there was no profit in it. Besides, now that I was in the company of the wonder worker, I felt in mid-season form and ready for whatever life sent my way. My plan was to wait for the right quantum wave to rise up, then get up on my mental surfboard and ride it all the way to shore. Wherever and whatever shore means in this context.

"Kowabunga?" asked Ms. Wonder.

"Did I say that out loud?" I said, and then without waiting for a reply, I said it again.

"Kowabunga, Poopsie!"

"Kowabunga, Genome!"

Some days are made for letting go of the anchor and sailing into the sun. Too many metaphors? Perhaps you're right. But still, doesn't change the fact that this, was one of those days.

Let's Do It Again

"Ms Wonder," I said, "friends are like flowers."

"Very true," she said. "Georgia O'Keeffe said that to see a flower takes time, just as making friends takes time. She also said..."

"Yes, yes, yes," I said, "wonderful woman, and I'll bet you hold me spellbound telling me about all that she said, but later, please, when I have more time to pay close attention to every word." 

I risked losing her sympathy saying it but I had no other choice. As I'm sure you know, Ms Wonder's fine art photography is inspired by the work of Ms. O'K and she--Poopsie I mean, not O'Keefe--can go on for days about her.

"But are they worth risking eternal torment?" I said. "That is the question I ask myself."

"Pardon?" she said.

"Well, you know what I mean," I said. "That referral business."

"No," she said, "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Ms Wonder," I said. "You simply must start paying closer attention. Your life is slipping right by you. You remember the referral arrangement with Emerald City. Mention someone's name and they get $700.00 and then Mom gets flowers every month for the entire year."

"I follow you so far," she said.

"Well, no one really referred us, did they? We just said someone did so we could split the 700 green ones and get the flowers. That qualifies, unless I've forgotten the rules, as a blatant lie. Pardon me if that seems harsh but the truth will out, even if it doesn't set you free. Running afoul of one or more of the rules carved in stone, if they were carved, puts one in danger of eternal torment."

"Ah, I see now," she said. "You're wondering if $350.00 is worth eternal torment."

"I am not," I said somewhat indignantly. "You must take immediacy into account when considering eternal torment. The money comes now but no one knows when Judgement Day comes. No, it's not the money. What I'm wondering is whether fresh flowers for Mom is worth eternal torment."

"Of course," she said, "I understand now. That is a complex issue."

"I'm going to ask them what kind of flowers. Carnations, definitely not. Roses, certainly. Something in between, I'll have to think about it."

"Good plan," she said.

"Thank you, Ms Wonder."

"It's true what everyone says, that even though you have the mental prowess of a peahen, you do know how to get yours," she said.

As it happens, I've never met a peahen and so couldn't assess the quality of the compliment, but when in doubt, assume the best is my motto.

"Thank you," I said.

"Not at all," she said.

Qigong Ukelele

This morning even before the sun got up (that slacker) I was qigong-ing like the dickens, doing the crane and I don't mean to boast, playing the ukulele. I know!

You are, of course, aware of what the Zen Buddhists say about chopping wood--that you should just whack the stuff and don't make a Broadway production of it. Just pay attention to the chopping.

According to these Zen practitioners, we should never under any circumstances play the ukulele while performing qigong. And yet, there I was underneath a spreading magnolia, bending and swaying and strumming. You're anxious to hear all about it, I'm sure, but like so many of my stories, it's a long one and for God's sake I don't intend to go into it all now. Just the gist, if that's the word.

Arriving at Native Grounds in the bright and fair of yester-morn, I found the room full of the usual corpses staring into space and presumably waiting for something to stir them to life. Little hope, of course, because nothing ever happens in the morning. Every Durhamite knows that if you want something diverting and invigorating, you've got to have the magic hour that follows the purples and amethysts and golds of the evening sky. 

I eyed this rabble with disapproval, resenting the universal calm that enveloped the horde at a time when, thanks to that little almond-eyed Princess Amy, I felt like one of those heroes in a Greek tragedy pursued by the Furies.

Ankling toward the bar, I noticed the headlines on the Observer lamenting the latest abomination of the North Carolina legislature and I felt Princess Amy hotting up in the darkest recesses of my mind. She was getting rowdy. I hurried toward the bar hoping that a steaming cup of Jah's Mercy would restore my sangfroid. It was not to be.

"Where have you been?" said Amy Normal, part-time barista and Backup Mistress of the Greater South Durham Night, for it was she filling the space behind the Order Here sign. "I haven't seen you in days."

"Oh?" I said. The comeback, I am fully aware, was lacking the usual Genome flair but don't forget those Furies who, even now, were creeping ever closer like a gang of Aunts.

"It's no good saying, 'Oh' with that tone of voice as though you don't give a damn," she said. "Consider the stars." She embellished the last remark by lifting a hand upward, as though we could see stars from inside the coffee shop.

"The stars?" I said, ratcheting up the Genome spirit in an attempt to get the emotional feet back on solid ground. "Is that a reference to, Look how the floor of heaven is thick inlaid with patens of bright gold? Because if it is, I want no part of it."

"I do not mean whatever it was you said, and what the hell are patens anyway? Shakespeare?"

"You have me in deep waters there," I admitted, "I'll ask Ms. Wonder when I see her this evening and report back tomorrow morning." I hoped this diversionary tactic would steer us safely away from Shakespeare. This A. Normal is a quirky bird and loves to get knee-deep into the Bard.

"Oh no," she said, "you don't get out of it that easy. I know where you've been."

"Oh?" I said.

"Stop saying Oh! What's happened to you anyway? You had so much promise in your youth and I wanted nothing more than your happiness. But what a waste you've turned out to be. You come in here giving me orders and expecting me to do just as you ask and then when the slightest temptation comes along, you cheat on our relationship and have coffee at some cheap, tawdry hole in the wall."

"Do we have a relationship?" I said.

"That's the question I ask myself," she said. "Looking up at the stars, I know quite well that, for all they care, I can go to hell, but on earth, indifference is the least we have to fear from man or beast. Auden."

Once more with the star motif and, to be honest, I had no clue as to why she called me Auden. Someone you may know, possibly, but I've never had the pleasure, I'm afraid. I began to worry for her sanity if any.

Fortunately for you and probably just as well for me, the rest of our conversation is a blur but when I regained consciousness, I was sitting at a table with the remnants of the Secret Nine. 

Sister Mary was saying something about a ukulele. When she placed the period at the end of the sentence, she gazed slowly around the table and each person, in turn, made some sort of reply to her statement. I searched the database for something meaningful but when her eyes came to rest on mine, I had only one thought.

"You don't mean a ukulele," I said hoping against hope because deep in my heart I knew I'd heard correctly. Still, it doesn't hurt to try.

"I do too," she said. "I loved that ukulele. Took it with me when I ran away from home at the age of five."

"Might it have been a cocker spaniel?" I said. "I loved a cocker spaniel when I was a kid and once took him with me when I ran away from home."

"No, I do not mean a cocker spaniel," she said. "Were you successful in running away? My parents found me on the neighbor's stoop by following the sound of my strumming."

"As I recall," I said, "my mother intervened when she found me packing a honey-cured ham for the trip."

"Too bad," she said. "Well, better luck next time. Anyway, Island Irv was just telling us about a ukulele video he saw on Youtube and his story reminded me of the Hawaiian music I heard in a hotel in St. Petersburg."

"IZ?" I said.

"Is what?" said Mary.

"No, I mean Israel," I said. I was about to add, 'Israel Kamakawiwo'ole,' but Mary interrupted again.

"Not Israel," said Mary, "Russia--we were in St. Petersburg."

"But why Hawaiian music in Russia?" I said.

"Why not?" said Mary, who is one of the more accepting and tolerant members of the Nine. If Russian hotels play Hawaiian music, let them do it until their eyes bubble, is her attitude.

And there, if your mind hasn't wandered, you have the story. It's the bare bones but I think it's enough to be getting on with and now you will understand why I thought of ukuleles while practicing the Five Animal Frolics in the dark this morning. 

I suppose one must give Amy her due because when it comes to selecting distracting thoughts, no one else comes close. I refer, of course, to Princess Amy, the Queen of the Limbic System, and not Amy Normal, Backup Mistress of the Greater SoDu.

Life is Good

I arrived early this morning, riding the shirtsleeves of the sun, who had awakened bright-eyed and gotten straight to the point. Not a bad opening for a yellow dwarf star. 

I deduced from the bird song redolent in the crepe myrtle and from the cawing redolent in the crows and from the speed-demoning redolent in the parking lot that the weekend had refreshed the great and the small without prejudice. 

I'm confident that all hearts were filled with gratitude for the ancient Hebrew invention of taking a day off every now and then.

But no gratitude beat in the breast of the Genome for it had been just one damned hour after another all week long. The Auditor was taking inventory as I parked and decanted myself in front of Native Grounds in the Renaissance District. The talley was: tired--yes; irritable--yes; angry--just a simmer.

Approaching the door, I saw a man on the other side cleaning the glass. He stopped cleaning as I grasped the puller and pulled. I took in his face and found that his countenance was not friendly. Stern I would have described it as. It was clear that this beni adam was not happy to see the Genome. I remember thinking how strange it was. The visage worn by this son of toil was the one Genome reserved for the Amalekites, Jebusites and Philistines.

It was with me the work of an instant to conclude that in an earlier era this guardian of the gate would have challenged me with a 'Friend or foe!' 'You're either with us or against us,' he might have declared. It wouldn't surprise me if he'd barely stopped short of ascertaining the color of my insides.

Immediately, the limbic system went into overdrive. A mental image of my hands sinking into the soft flesh of his neck filled the mental projection screen. Vivid memories of the taichi back-roll with feet planted in his belly and his body cartwheeling into the street completed the image.

I took a deep breath.

'Not today, Amy,' I said silently to the little princess shouting battle cries in my mind. 'Chill, baby. Remember, we don't know everything. This man may have had a bad morning.'

'I'll teach him what a bad morning really feels like,' she said or at least she seemed to say it.

"Good morning," I said to the neanderthal with a friendly nod of the coconut but he said nothing and continued to glare and chew his Juicy Fruit, mouth open, or it might possibly have been his tongue he chewed. Hard to tell.

Princess Amy, the tyrant of the underworld in the Genome's brain, is half Celtic, one-quarter Viking, and one-quarter Muskogee Creek, and I'm not so sure it isn't red camp Creek. When she is in full battle trance, she impresses not unlike the impression that Boudicca must have made on the front ranks of the Romans. 

She impressed like this now. One eye was saucer-sized, the other squinted into a mere slit. The lips were pulled from the teeth and the molars were grinding. Steam escaped from the seams which were near to bursting.

'Easy, old girl, there is more good than bad here,' I reminded her in soothing tones.

I reached the service counter and asked for a large, hot beverage and then searched the pockets for money. None was forthcoming. Then I perused the wallet for Genome's coffee allowance. Not there. Loaned to the needy and deserving yestereve. 

The outer crust maintained a semblance of calm reserve but need I tell you that Amy was now completely manic? She stomped the earth like a drum and sliced the forearms with an obsidian blade in the manner of the priests of Ba'al. She was in full battle frenzy and I'm sure the metallic taste of blood was in her mouth.

"Oh, that's alright," said the hostess. "We know you. Enjoy your coffee on the house."

Amy stopped her rant, her eyes opened wide. She collapsed in a heap, eyes staring blankly into the empty space that makes up most of the Genome mind.

"Thank you," I said to the hostess.

"Not at all," she said with a warm, wonderful smile that made all the difference.

'Take a deep breath,' I said to Amy. 'Life is good.'