Once and Future Spring

"In spring, a livelier iris gleams upon the burnished dove," Ms Wonder said this morning as I struggled into the under armor underwear. I don't know how she comes up with this stuff but she certainly knows how to put things neatly, don't you think? 

I was still wondering how the dickens a dove goes about getting burnished when I entered the ring of ancient oaks on the grounds of Research Commons for morning qigong.

You are probably familiar with this ring of hoary trees if hoary is the word I want. It sits atop the hill that overlooks the post office on Alexander. I don't know how long this oaken ring has been here, but I wouldn't be surprised to learn the trees were here when Caesar drove the Nervii out of the Triangle. The trees are possibly the remains of a Druid grove or college. The hilltop has that look.

As I walked to the western end of the circle, the better to face the east and greet the rising sun, I noticed the open space was filled with ranunculi--many of them buttercups. I immediately time-traveled back to my college days and the spring semester when my old school chum, Mumps, and I were enrolled in BIOL 4120, the Botany of Flowering Plants.

This class was required for a degree in biology and it had been taught by Dr. Fowler for as long as that ring of oak trees had been in the Triangle. Fowler isn't his real name. People don't use people's real names when they write about them for publication. I've heard it called protecting the innocent. 

This doctor was one of those be-speckled and bedraggled birds featured in so many stories of Arcadia. He eccentricated himself by wearing the same elbow-patched tweed sport coat every day, and the jacket was accessorized with the same tie. It was no ordinary traditional tie but a knitted species that stopped abruptly above the belt as though cut square with scissors.

One beautiful spring Tuesday Mumps and I were canvassing the countryside looking for wildflowers to draw in our official MTSU sketchbooks. Accurate drawings were part of our final grade.

As I remember, the sky was blue, the wind still, the sunshine warm, and we had no sooner entered an open meadow when Mumps let out a "Eureka!" Turns out he had almost stepped on a flower that I called a shepherd's purse, and he called a capsula bursa pastoris. Mumps is like that. Sticky-minded I call it. Anything he reads or hears simply gets stuck in his mind. My mind? Slippery about sums it up.

If you were an innocent bystander, you would have marveled because it was the work of an instant for Mumps and me to sprawl on the grass and begin sketching stamens and pistles like Billy Oh.

Now, on these fine spring days, the mind is calm and the spirit peaceful, and the whole package is one perfectly suited to seeking enlightenment. And that's just what we were doing. The limbic systems worked overtime instructing the endocrine glands to decant this and that in good measure, heaped up, pressed down, shaken together, and running over. 

The result of all this chemical stimulation was consciousness elevated to that of rats with metal electrodes inserted into the nucleus accumbens and septal nuclei. It was in this heightened state of enlightenment when the striatum realized we were late for lab. It was either leave right away or risk wearing the dunce cap for late arrival. We got a move on.

Now, Dr. Folwer had a peculiar method of lecturing to lab students. He turned his back to us while scribbling on the chalkboard and babbling away on everything from dicotyledons to ovaries, and when you least expected it, he would dervish around and point a bony, arthritic finger at the victim and demand an answer to the question of the day.

So here we were, seated on lab stools and doing our best to take notes and not laugh out loud at what seemed to be the most trivial drivel we'd ever heard. You are aware, it goes without saying, that it wasn't really drivel. You see, when one's consciousness has been elevated to a certain level, almost every subject seems, well, not just drivel but absolute rot. So it was with us.

With the surprising immediacy of Judgement Day, the professor swirled around like a tornado and pointed the gnarled digit directly at Mumps, catching him right between the eyes, at point-blank range, too. We never heard the question because the blow knocked James off his stool and onto the floor, where he exploded with a guffaw that sounded like a steam boiler coming apart at the seams. It disrupted the class, not a little.

I would love to remember how that situation was resolved because a story is never complete without a happy ending, and a happy ending is evident because we somehow got those degrees. However, this particular story seems to have no end. Perhaps that's the way it should be. A once and future tale.

Bertie Wooster says that the difficult part about telling a story is knowing where to begin but for me, it's knowing where to end. Maybe that's because I don't really like endings. I like the kind of stories that go on forever.

I never enjoyed a college class as much as that taught by Dr. Fowler and I never enjoyed a college classmate as much as Mumps. Higher education comes in many forms and most of them are unexpected. That's life they say.

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.

Keeping a Calm Mind

I hurried to Native Grounds after reading Amy Normal's text about deep dark depression, hopelessness and WOE. She was tending coffee bar when I arrived and my dark roast was steaming in the cup at the X in front of the counter.

"My heart has been torn asunder and I am forced to confront the truth that my manga-haired, love monkey is a douche nozzle who has sullied my innocence and whatnot and cast me aside like an unmatched glove." This came from the Amy's lips even before I could ask the question.

"Drama much?" I asked.

She called me a name that the contract with my ISP prohibits me from repeating here. Then she seemed to grow calmer and said, "It's the only way I have of describing my angst and dark inspirations."

"It's not a vampire thing," I said. "It sounds more like a Goth thing."

"If you weren't about the only person I know who offers hope to the hopeless I'd drain you to dust and sweep you into the cat litter box. Does that sound vampire enough for you?"

"Alright," I said. "I get it. So what has happened between you and Foo Dog."

"He's dumped me," she said, "and all because my vampire passions compelled me to frisk with another man."

"Well, there you go," I said. "You can't expect otherwise."

"Don't you read vampire lit?" she said. "A vamp's love minion is d-e-v-o-t-e-d, hello. They understand as  no one else understands that the dark powers cause us to be total romance sluts. When a man says something romantic, we're like, 'Please, sir, let me turn down my IQ and offer you this moist, supple body that seems to have lost its way.' I had not choice in the matter given what he said."

"Which was?"

"He said that all he wanted to do was save the woman he loves and that, as far as he's concerned, that's the same thing as saving the whole world."

"And that did it for you?" I said.

"It's Valentine's Day. I would have done him on a bed of carpet tacks."

I mused this over, turning it this way and that before speaking. "You know, Amy, I don't think this is an apocalyptic event. I think that given time Foo will forgive you and the two of you will renew business at the old stand."

"It's more complicated than that. The romance agent was Kyle, you know Kyle, he's the property of the Countess."

"Oh now I see. This does get tricky. You're suppposed to be the backup Countess, aka Mistress of the Greater SoDu Night, and now you've made a move on her man. Yes, this could be complicated. Wheels within wheels no doubt. Yes, probably wheels within wheels."

"Something like that," she said, "and now she's on her way over here to talk to me and I'm totally puckered about it."

"You have confrontation issues?"

"Me? I'm insincere. I just wear the mask because when you roll up all wild in somebody's face like a mad woman, hair on fire and all guns blazing, no one's going to mention that your roots are showing."

"Insincere?"

"Did I say insincere? I meant insecure."

"Well, I don't see that you need to worry. You only need to face her with a calm mind and you will be ready for anything."

"That's what I've heard you say but, damn it, it's not so easy."

"Oh, it's simple really. All you need to do is move slowly and think of nothing but your breath."

"You mean like slo-mo?"

"Exactly. Just move slowly and think of your breath. Give it a try now is my suggestion."

"You don't need to think about breathing," she said. "It's automatic."

"It's autonomic," I said, "and when I said think about breathing, I meant pay attention to your breathing."

She began to move as though suspended in molasses, turning this way and that, reaching for cups and things on the counter.

"This is going to calm my mind?" she said.

"Don't talk," I said. "Move you hands around and focus your eyes on your hands. That's it. Keep it up for a couple of minutes."

At that moment, the front door opened and a young woman walked into the cafe. A young, lisom woman with a vivid shade of red hair, emerald eyes, and a walk that reminded me of a burlap sack full of wild cats. It was the Countess. I turned to look at Amy who had her back to the door and was at the moment refilling the cream pitcher in one-quarter time.

"Amy," I said. She turned and saw the Countess at the exact moment that everyone else in the shop saw the Countess. I don't know if you've ever had the experience of being in the presence of, well, of just being in the presence. It may be the same if you happen to be with the President or the Pope or the Buddha. That's the way it was in Native Grounds at that moment. Everyone was in the presence of the Countess. I remember thinking that here was a woman who had practiced making an entrance.