Where is Gladys

Back in Shakespeare's day things didn't change much. Fairly uniform from day to day without a lot of ups and downs. If you were born a serf, it was a pretty safe bet that you'd serf until retirement. If you thought of owning a condo in West Palm Beach, you'd need to catch a talking fish or flush a jinn from a lamp.

artist--Michael Parkes

Today everything changes and without warning. It seems only yesterday the atmosphere in Native Grounds was quiet, meditative, serene. Then the foundations of hell started shaking and I wouldn't have been surprised if the Recording Angel had appeared taking names. I have moved in time and space to a new morning launch pad. I partake of a cup of steaming earlier in the day and I start a few furlongs further up Fayetteville Road at Sutton Station.

Coffee was over by 7:00 this morning and the guests of Dulce had scattered to their morning occupations. Some were texting on Interstate 40, some were jogging the American Tobacco Trail (it's a Durham thing), and some were serving and protecting. I was walking meditatively along the Woodcroft Walking Trail. I was alone.

It is a sad but indisputable fact that in this imperfect world the Genome is doomed to walk alone--if the earthier members of the community see him coming in time to duck. Not one of the horde of coffee hounds had shown any disposition to qigong with me. One regrets this.

Except for a slight bias toward exaggeration, which leads me to embellish almost everything that's not nailed down, the Genome's is an admirable character and, oddly enough, it's toward the noble side of my nature that most people object. Of the manic Genome, they know little if anything; it is the Genome who espouses compassion for all, realistic optimism, immersing the self slowing and deliberately in his environment, and a fierce determination to never eat pine needles; this is the Genome everyone avoids.

Still, on this fine morning, strolling under a shady canopy of oak and holly, the Genome was  not sorry to be alone, not entirely: for there was something on the mind calling for solitary thinking. The matter engaging the attention was the problem of what on earth had happened to Gladys, the Witch of Woodcroft. Two days had passed, or was it three, since I left her in Dulce uploading her latest poems to Ketchum's Korner for final testing of that new site on the Web. And since that moment, she has not been seen nor heard from and I was at a loss.

Perhaps not entirely a loss because I have a dark suspicion that this has something to do with recent cosmic events. You are surely aware that the Summer Solstice put in an appearance some few days ago and immediately after, the Supper Moon popped up on the horizon. 'So,' you may ask yourself, 'what about it?' Well, I'll tell you what about it.

Have you ever noticed that there is a tendency in the public announcements to get it base over apex? Take the weather for instance. I've already mentioned that this very morning was the picture of clemency, if that's the word I want--light, bright, blue, all the trimmings. And yet, this same morning was accused by the National Weather Service, of being surly and a little unruly. See what I mean?

Now consider Y2K, if you can remember that far back. On New Year's Day, 2000, the world was supposed to shut down. Armageddon in some form or fashion. Before that there was harmonic convergence, when planets lined up and the resulting effect on gravity would put wrinkles in Joan Rivers' brow. Ms. Rivers, however, still bears her youthful countenance. Only a year or so ago, we had two predictions for the End of It All, in the same year. And I'm sure that I don't have to tell you that most of us Survived the Mayan Apocalypse. 'So,' you are still asking yourself, 'where is the Genome going with this?'

Throw your mind back to that Solstice and Supper Moon. It's not that hard. It's only been a few days. Well, I heard a Cosmic Scientist interviewed on NPR and that CS assured everyone that there was no need to worry. There would be no brown outs, no Internet interruptions, no visitors from other realms. I know! How scary is that?

The mind of a man who has undertaken a mission as delicate as saving the world from total destruction is necessarily alert. Ever since I heard that scientist telling us, as it were, to remain calm and move in an orderly fashion to the exits, I knew the final adventure was started. This calm announcement, although startling to me, did not deprive me of my faculties. On the contrary, it quickened them. My first action was to meet with Gladys to discuss what was to be done. She agreed to move in her mysterious ways wonders to perform and report back to me with a plan. But since that day, she has vanished completely.

Her non-appearance was all the more galling in that the superb mental faculties of the Genome had just completed in every detail a scheme for propping up the Universal status quo and I was desperate for her critique. Her absence left me feeling like one of those Civil War generals who comes out of the command tent with a plan of battle all mapped out and finds that his army has strolled down to the riverbank and joined in a pig-picking. You will understand now when I say that the Genome's map was sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought.

Moving through the arched recesses of the oaks that line Woodcroft Parkway, I was deep in contemplation of the mysterious disappearance of this Gladys, when a voice suddenly addressed me.

"Hey!"

I started violently. Wouldn't you?

"Anyone about?" said the voice.

A pale face surrounded by dark hair full of twigs and leaves was protruding from the a near-by camellia bush. If memory serves, it was a candy-stripe. The camellia I mean. I drew closer, breathing heavily. The symptoms were those of the missing Gladys--long hair braided, draped around the upper torso and thrown casually over the left shoulder. But that was as far as the semblance got. We Genomes are quick to get the picture and I saw what this apparition was up to immediately.

"You pie-faced gazooni!" I said with some heat. Not great, but it was spur of the moment. "Where do you get this stuff, popping out of the shrubbery and yelling at people when they're in deep thought. Is this wise? Is this the procedure? Is this a system?"

"Sorry," said the head. "I just wanted to get your attention so we could discuss the fate of the world and all that. You know?"

"And who are you supposed to be?" I asked already sure of the answer.

"I'm Gladys," said the head.

"Ah," I said, "Gladys. Then perhaps you can tell me the meaning of 'a pale parabola of joy'."

The head was silent.

"Or, perhaps," I continued, "you might elaborate on 'the silibant, scented silence'."

Somewhere in the depths of the forest a squirrel chirruped.

"No more imposture," I said wagging a finger. "I am a friend of this Gladys and had a long conversation with her only a few days ago. You will get no cooperation from this mortal."

"Oh Hell," said the voice. "What are you going to do now?"

"Do?"

"Now that I've appeared willingly, I must remain on this side until you give me your leave."

"Oh yes, I remember something about that. The rules of engagement for natural and supernatural and all that. Well, I have no need of your services, so I don't intend to delay you. Leg it now is my suggestion."

"You mean that?"

"Certainly."

"You don't want three wishes?"

"Three wishes!" I said and I may have chuckled when I said it. "I don't need anything from the supernatural realm. I'm set. I have Catherine the Great. I have the cats, Uma, Empress of Chadsford, and I have Beignet, Sagi Mtessi, Abbie Hoffman--no, not that Abbie Hoffman--and I have Eddy Spaghetti. Supporting the whole thing on either end is Comrade Jenny and Dr. Kate. What more could I ask?"

"You are well stacked," said the head. "I probably shouldn't tell you this but your resolve causes a lot of concern in the Underworld."

"And well it should, Maalika, if you don't mind my using the informal."

"Oh, I can't tell you my name," she said, "against all protocol."

"Of course," I said. "Well, off you go then."

"Thanks," she said, "you're an ace."

"Oh, hush," I said.

Disconcerting as the whole thing was, my thoughts turned immediately to the whereabouts of Gladys. Where in the realm of the Rogue Star might she be. Time is short and growing shorter each day. If anyone has any information about the location of the Woodcroft Witch, please leave a comment on this post. Anonymity will be safeguarded except when the interest of national security is jeopardized.

Dark Plottings

I stood at the open bedroom, gazing out over the lawns and gardens. And if I drooped like a wet sock what of it? I am doing the best I can under the circumstances--as happy as a fluffy-minded man with excellent physical health and no income can be.

It was a lovely morning and the air was fragrant with gentle scents of summer and redolent with birdsong. Yet in my eyes there was the look of melancholy and I'm sure my brow was furrowed. How could it not? And the mouth was more than a little peevish, if peevish is the word I want; I've never looked it up but I'm pretty sure it means sullen, morose, or petulant. Those who know me best will be thinking that this is all exceedingly strange for in the early hours of morning, I am normally announcing larks and snails and thrones.

The Genome is a master of fierce qigong and, as such, nothing has the power to touch him. Even the Princess Amy, that moody little drama critic of the limbic system,  can only do it occasionally. Yet I was sad and, not to make a mystery of it any longer, the reason for this sorrow is the fact that I have recenlty lost a gazelle, as the poet said. But then if you follow these missives, you know all about Native Grounds and the dark happenings in that hallowed space.

I was keenly aware of the sunshine pouring down on the gardens, and I yearned to pop out and potter among the flowers but no man, pop he never so wisely, can hope to potter with good effect if he is separated from his pals at the caffeine den.

"Morning," I said for something moved behind me like a galleon under full sail and I turned to see Ms. Wonder, daughter of the Volga, shimmer up beside me. She peered down into the camelias searching, I'm sure, for the feral Siamese kittens that breakfast there. I was not looking for kittens. Kittens have a much different appeal for the man who gets up at 5:30 in the morning to feed them.

My eyes continued to roam the lawns, gardens and messuages that were singularly beautiful in the unexpected morning sunshine. Chadsford Hall stands on a knoll of rising ground at the  norhern end of Chadsfordshire. Away to the west, wooded berms and swales cradle the duck pond that lays gleaming like a polished mirror, while up from the water, rolling park land dotted with crepe myrtle, surges in a green wave breaking upon the cypress alee before sloping, gently, down to the provence of Fred, the Dutch gardener who maintains all the grounds that border Chadsford Estate.

The day being mid-summer's day, it's almost the high-tide of summer flowers, the immediate neighborhood is ablaze with roses, day lilies, black-eyed susans, blue-eyed grass, southern magnolia and a multitude of other blooms that only Fred could have named.

Something beside me flashed in the sun and I realized that Ms. Wonder was still beside me wearing the spectacles she uses only until locating her contact lenses. She looks very efficient in those glasses--professionally efficient. Seeing her at close range with the glamour of those sparkling lenses establishes, clearly and unambiguously, her credentials.

"What's wrong?" she said.

"Hmmm?" I said, requireing a moment to come to the surface. "Oh, you know, that Native Grounds thing."

"You've made the right decision," she said. "Everything will work out as it should. A solution will present itself."

"That's simply a kinder way of saying, 'Nothing to do about it. Get over it.'", I said.

"You may be right," she said. "But until you do find the solution, you might try having coffee at Dulce."

"What? Where?"

"You know, it used to be Deja Vu."

"Oh, I remember now. Nice place." She nodded. I wasn't looking at her but the lenses flashed in a vertical plane. "Lots of tables on two sides and a cafe bar in the window. You know how much I like sitting at a high table in the window. Great coffee as I remember and pastries, a breakfast and lunch menu and gelato. Yes, maybe I will wander there after qigong this morning."

"Remember," she said, "the American Tobacco Trail runs by there leading to the Woodcroft hiking trails. You could qigong on the trail."

"You can walk all the way downtown on that trail," I said, "right by the Bulls baseball park and DPAC."

"And the Woodcroft trail runs for miles. You may be able to talk the Secret Three into meeting you there each morning instead of Native Grounds."

"Poopsie?"

"Yes?"

"What size hat do you wear?"

"A six. Why?"

"I should have thought at least an eight. You should donate that brain of yours to science when you have no more need of it."

"Thank you," she said.

"Not at all."

Early Morning

The emotions of a man who has gone out onto the back lawn to feed the outside cats at the hour of 5:15 in the am, and then finds himself locked out are necessarily chaotic but on one point I was perfectly clear, that if I could not get Ms. Wonder's attention, I would have a lot of time on my hands. The morning seemed to stretch before me endlessly.

By way of getting through it, I began a tour of the grounds, taking care to keep away from the first-floor windows where any noise might awaken the Gin. Noises that occur outside visiting hours are considered by the Gin to be the calling card of burglars and any person or persons who chance to be the cause of the noise will come to regret it.

At length, I came to the spot in the garden below Wonder's bedroom window and I sat down among the roses to review my position and assess my chances of ever seeing the girl I love again. That Fate was up and about seeking those whom she may devour was made apparent in the next few minutes when Poopsie appeared in the window and immediately disappeared like something in a cuckoo clock. She had not seen the Genome. But the Genomes are quick thinkers, something I may have mentioned before, and I marked the spot where she appeared and went off in search of a ladder.

That my mind had turned to ladders will not be surprising to those familiar with the story of Romeo who would have done the same in my place. And if my father's analysis of Great-uncle Luther is correct, so would he have searched for ladders for he was a man who thought on his feet where the alternate sex was concerned. The first impulse of every lover on seeing the object of his adoration in an upper window is to climb up and join her. Simply natural.

One thing that can be placed on the credit side of the ledger for Chadsford Estates is that if you search for a ladder, you can generally find one and so I did. I found mine propped up against a tree where someone seemed to be doing some pruning. Had there been an innocent bystander, which there wasn't at this hour, the strength of my desire to be inside the house would have been most evident because, even though the ladder was no small burden, I made nothing of it. I might have been swinging an ivory-studded walking cane.

I placed the ladder against the wall and to shinny up the thing to Wonder's window was with me the work on an instant. Just as I was about to rap the secret code on the pane to bring her to my rescue, my attention was diverted by the sound of my next-door neighbor's voice. It gave me quite a start. Gabriel's horn would not stir me more. When I got my heart back in place, I descended the ladder and moved toward the sound of the squawking.

Truth, it is said, is stranger than fiction and today I readily admit to subscribing to the notion. Who would expect neighbors, no matter how close-by, to be pruning trees before 6:00 in the morning?

The Morning Beignet

Ever since he came to live with us as a kitten at 10 months of age, he's displayed a certain look that warns the bystander when he is about to do something totally unexpected and something to which he considers himself perfectly entitled. 

That's the word. This Beignet considers himself entitled. Probably my fault.

He wore that look this morning when I first woke, raised myself up in bed, and spotted him sitting outside the salle de bains. A barely audible "unnnh" escaped from somewhere in all that fur and he abruptly moved toward the bed, disappeared from view momentarily, and a split second later he was floating above the horizon as though his eighteen pounds were as a feather. 

Donovan might describe it like this: there was a cat; then there was no cat; then there was. He made a perfect landing on the bed in mid-stride and lost not a mite of momentum as he trod across my chest and finally came to rest just below my chin. 

In all this activity, he never lost that expression of his; the one that said, What? as if I was about to criticize his behavior.

"You can lie there," I said, "as long as you don't knead."

He began to knead. 

I wrapped my hand around his paws. He stopped the pushing but he continued to open and close his claws. I was happy that we'd recently clipped them.

"You're going to have to move after all," I said as I gently urged him to decant. He resisted and moved his tonnage ever closer to me. "Don't put your butt in my face," I said as he 180-ed around. I pushed his hips away before he could lie down.

"What?" he said looking back at me from about midships of my stomach. I gave his head a nubbin that said settle in, get comfy.

This ginger-backed boy with a powdered sugar undercarriage looked so much like the deep-fried breakfast pastries of New Orleans that there was never a question about what to name him. It seems only right that he should have a morning habit to keep company with his name.

Beignet is really the ideal cat. I'm sure he was the cat model that all others were based on. His excellent qualities have won him the title of "Cat of the Year" for six years running and he's making a strong showing again this year. If he's awarded the title once more, it will be a new record.

And there's no doubt in my mind that he will win that title this year and every year hereafter.

Twelfth Night

Sunday mornings empty of the usual expectations are such a gift. Normally I would have been suiting up to teach mindfulness at Straw Valley but on Sunday last I was relaxing in the cypress alee and enjoying something on ice in an amber-colored glass. When Ms. Wonder strolled out to the rose garden, I was enjoying the peace that passeth all understanding, you know the one I mean, it comes to those who have done absolutely nothing to deserve it.

Rose photo courtesy of Ms. Wonder

In a world so full of beautiful things where we should all be happy as kings, or queens, of course, I was surprised to see the Ekaterina wearing agitation on the facial map.

"Poopsie," I said, "has the Empress escaped?"

"No, not that." she said, "Uma is sleeping on your cashmere sweater in the hall closet."

"Thank, God," I said not sure whether capitalization was required but not wanting to take any chances. "What's the matter then?"

"It's the Cove," she said referring to that ancestral homeplace of the Genomes in the North Carolina Blue Ridge. "Gwyn is trying to get in touch with you. I didn't catch the specifics. She seems upset. But I did make out that it has something to do with Mr. Jones."

"Mr. Jaynes," I set the record straight, "and yes, she is upset, bless her, and no wonder. I'd be upset too if Jaynes was standing below my window every night."

"What?" she said. She seemed about to add something more but then, experiencing second thoughts, closed her eyes and shuddered.

"Yes," I said trying to convey understanding, "they work in mysterious ways their wonders to perform in Crystal Cove."

"Does he still imagine that he's followed by a door with a bogeyman hiding behind?" she said.

"No, he's past that. Asked his doctor to increase his lithium I believe."

"See," she said, "restores balance. Have you given the subject any more thought?"

I gave her a look, a kind of aloof, lazy eyelid look. "I assume you refer to lithium," I said.

"Precisely," she said.

"I have Fierce Qigong," I said with a goodish amount of topspin.

"Yes," she said and nothing more. I found myself becoming more than a little hotted up. I took a deep breath and reminded myself that I am powerful and that life is good.

"Forget lithium, Ekaterina," I said using the formal tense to let her know that I meant business.

She made a moue. I believe it's a moue. Isn't that when you push the lips out and then pull them back again?

"Put lithium out of mind. Banish it from your thoughts. All the Genome needs is mindfulness, qigong, a vegetarian diet, the twelve steps, heaping daily doses of friendship, and pots and pots of coffee."

"Of course," she said. "I spoke thoughtlessly."

"Recklessly," I said.

"Recklessly," she said.

Now, this was more the stuff for the troops I thought, and I gave it time to settle in, enough time for the breath to return to the normal rhythm. The mental pebble sank to the bottom of the pool and the turbulent thoughts, like ripples on the water, became still.

At length, I returned to the topic. "No, it isn't specters that plague Doyle Jaynes. It's his weakness for love."

"He's in love again," she said and well she should say it. This Doyle has a habit of falling in love with every second woman he meets. Consequently, new neural pathways are being constantly constructed in his brain to make him even more susceptible to the glamour of the next woman.

"Oh, he's in love again," I said, "and it's getting in the way of managing the fishing outfitter. In fact, he's gone bust in that department and Gwyn expects it's going to affect the reputation and revenue of Two Fly, which is the biggest business in the Cove. She's more concerned about the fishing business than the fact that she's the object of Doyle's devotion.

"What!", she said. "He's fallen for Gwyn? The poor fish. He'll soon wish he were being followed by boogeymen."

"I'm not so sure it will come to that. He spends all day lying around his apartment listening to love songs and stands in the garden underneath her window all night hoping to get a glimpse of her."

"That's stalking," she said.

"It's worse than that," I said, "it's insane and all it's going to get him is fired."

"Did you tell him that?"

"I did and he told me he'd got it worked out. He's hired some guy that he calls an assistant but who will actually run the outfitter for him."

"Does that mean that everything is calm now?"

"Calm? In the Cove. Do use your intelligence."

"So what is the problem now?" she said.

"Well, I spoke to Qwyn on the phone yesterday and she tells me that Doyle sent his assistant, let's call him Alan..."

"Is that his name?"

"Yes."

"Let's call him Alan then."

"Doyle sent Alan to deliver one of those love poems and to speak on Doyle's behalf because Gwyn has barred him from the Inn where she holds court. And it seems that when Gwyn saw this Alan, she decided that he was one to take home to Ma."

"She liked him?"

"He was one of the juiciest."

"She wanted him?"

"He was so eloquent in his pitch for Doyle's suit, that Gwyn began imagining him speaking for himself and she found it much to her liking. In fact, when he left to take Gwyn's rejection notice back to Doyle, Gwyn sent her brother, my other cousin Winston, with a ring saying that she couldn't accept it and that he should take it back to Doyle."

"Wait a second, I missed the part about Doyle sending a ring."

"No, you didn't. Doyle didn't send a ring. With her quick Genome-like mind, Gwyn came up with the ruse on the nonce. You see, the ring and the message to take it back would be recognized immediately by Alan as a sign of Gwyn's approval of Alan."

"It would?"

"Ms. Wonder," I said and I put just a little topspin on it to drive the implication home, have you not read Twelfth Night by W. Shakespeare?"

"Saw the movie," she said.

"Then you will remember the ring," I said.

"Sure," she said.

"You remember too what Alan was supposed to do with the ring. He was supposed to refuse it and send it back with Winston."

"Is that what happened?"

"Nothing is as it should be in the Cove. No, it seems this Alan hasn't read nor has he seen T. Night. He kept the ring."

"Disturbing," she said.

"I'll say. The ring didn't belong to Gwyn. It was the ring of office for Molly Mysinger, who is being inducted into the Circle of Three at the end of the month. Gwyn beside herself with anxiety. She's achieved low orbit and is about to go into first stage release. She wants me to ride back into the valley of death with the United States Marines and fix it."

"And are you?" she said.

"That hell hole?" I said. "I know I should come to her aid but how can I? As someone once said, 'The spirit is willing but the flesh is weak.' Or something to that effect."

"Jesus Christ," she said.

"I know! That about sums up the way I feel about it too," I said.