Fields of Mars

The sun rose on the other side of the bed this morning, no doubt having checked the calendar and finding that we are well into September--season of mists and mellow fruitfulness--and, so close to the equinox, time to move another degree to the east. Rising on the left side, he naturally took NC 54 to Chadsford Hall, giving Interstate 40 a complete miss, which is always best.

Not generally noticeable, this eastward drift of the sun, because we're riding on the Earth as it spins around and because the sun wobbles around a bit. You'd wobble too if you got up so early every day. And don't forget the ecliptic path of the sun is coplanar with the orbit of the Earth--talk about a reason to wobble! The only reason I was aware of the drift is that I met the sun coming my way on this side of Woodcroft Parkway as I tootled toward Native Grounds.

Watching that golden wave coming to meet me, I was reminded that summer isn't long for this world and Autumn will soon be here. A lot of difference between early September and late. Already we have the cooler temperatures and coffee that tastes curiously like pumpkin pie. Soon we will have corn in the shock, whatever that is...Ms Wonder might know... and scarecrow orgies, but that's mostly in October.

It was a quiet morning in Native Grounds due to the thinner crowd of regulars, if a crowd can be thin. It's normal for the regulars to rise late on a Sunday and caffeinate themselves in the privacy of their own homes and the tourists don't normally arrive until after 10 when they're checked out of the hotel and ready to buzz off to the next destination. We do have tourists in Durham. They come for the performance arts center, the American Dance Festival, and the Fields of Mars--the god, not the planet. No doubt many are camping out for the next appearance of the Fields at the Motorco Music Hall on September 18, the last chance to hear them before the equinox.

As I was saying, Native Grounds was mindful and in the present moment when I arrived. At least the Secret Nine were mindful and they made up the majority of those present at the moment. What they were mindful of was the question of the day and the question was written on the board behind the coffee bar.

"Who was it that wanted to go home?" the Enforcer asked as I sat down.

"I know who can't go home again," I said.

"Who?" said Island Irv.

"Amelia Earhart," said the Enforcer.

"She was lost," said Sister Mary.

"Still is," said Irv.

"D. B. Cooper is still lost too," said the Enforcer.

"I think he wants it that way," said Mary.

"Who can't go home again?" asked Irv.

"You," I said.

"Why?"

"Well, for one thing," I said trying to quickly come up with something quirky, "every time Brahman blinks, the world is destroyed and recreated so the home you left doesn't exist anymore."

"Oh, no!" said the Enforcer, "Somebody stop him quick, please!"

"Brahman?"

"No, the Genome. Don't let him get started."

"Greta Garbo?" said Pickles.

"Nah, she wanted to be alone," said Mary, "not home."

"If you ask me, everybody should stay home," said the Enforcer, "especially people who take extended vacations."

"Travel is good for the soul," said Irv. "Expands the mind."

 "What's the mind got to do with the soul?" said the Enforcer, "Besides, all that travel burns fossils and that adds to global warming."

"What I want to know," said Pickles, "is why do so many holidays fall on Monday? Does it just work out that way or is it a conspiracy?"

"Thanksgiving isn't on a Monday," said Mary. "I know cause I cook it every year."

"Christmas and Easter don't come on a Monday," said the Enforcer and then added, "Well, I remember Christmas coming on Monday once but it threw everything out of whack and they don't do it any more."

And so you can clearly see, dear reader, that the one thing you can always depend on at Native Grounds Coffee and Gelato Bar is a dose of sparkling conversation, and so it continued for the rest of the hour. I left before the bagel throwing began.

A Three Cat Night

With Eddy back in mid-season form and out of quarantine, the evening had been a three-cat night. Two kept me from rolling out of bed and one, unless I missed my guess, had slept on my face. When I had disentangled myself from cats and quilts, I ankled to the window and threw up the sash.

The moon on the crest of the new dawning day was slipping behind the western hills and the sky was Carolina blue and the sun was smirking as though he had not a care in the world, if it is a he. I was conscious of the spirit of the bluebird. It was going to be another one of those days where larks and snails figure big.

I may have hummed a few bars of When the red, red robin comes bob-bob-bobbing along. Not sure but I may have. What I'm sure of is that I said, "What a beautiful day, Poopsie!"

"Pleasingly clement," she said and I remember thinking what an odd thing it was but I gave it a miss like the idle wind.

"Mornings in the Renaissance District have an invigorating freshness, Ms Wonder. A garden of Eden I call it--without the angels and swords. I'm not saying that I would turn down an offer of a few days in Asheville but as a place of residual habitation, give me the south of Durham any day."

"Did you sleep well?" she said in that cute way she has of ignoring whatever I say.

"Sleep? Wonder! You know very well I didn't sleep. You?"

"No, I was thinking about the lyrics of my line dance all night," she said and then she began sashaying around the bathroom as she sang, "Wooo-oooh, it's late; let me check. Move to the right, move to the left. Zip me up--check it out--looking goo-ood. Mambo, cha-cha-cha."

This was, I imagine, another of her channeling the ancestral spirits, taking a line through the philosopher, Ivan Orlov, who was one of the pioneers of relevant logic, which I'm sure you're aware, but was also keenly interested in music theory, which may come as a surprise to you. I realized that prompt steps would need to be taken immediately through the proper channels if I were to extricate myself and so I spoke authoritatively.

"I understand fully. I often lay awake thinking about a troublesome passage in my book."

She still danced and sang. Then suddenly remembering a phone call in the night, I said, "I heard from Rick Davis last night."

It worked. "Oh, yes?" she said.

"He wants me to take a position with some admiral or whatnot at the naval base in San Diego. Something to do with the navy's efforts to provide assistance to victims of natural disasters."

"Are you considering it?" she said.

"I admit his offer interested me strangely, but I think not. I'm committed to my book and moving to San Diego would be too big an interruption."

"That book isn't even finished and it's all anyone talks about." she said. "That's a good omen for success, I think."

With those words, she assumed the posture I've seen in a portrait of Count Alexi Orlov. All that was needed to complete the image was a white stallion behind her and a wolfhound at her knee.

"Why is everyone talking?" I said.

"Well," she said, "it's widely known that you misspent your youth in frivolous pursuits and you influenced many others to do the same. So, everything considered, there's going to be a lot of uncovering of things that pillars of the community have tried to keep hidden. That's hot stuff."

She spoke with a twinkle in her eye like the one Czar Alexander must have had as he watched Napoleon pack up the tent and catch the 2:35 express back to France.

"Wonder, you of all people should know it's not that kind of book."

"No?"

"It's a book intended to sweep the clouds away and let the sunshine through. It's a book that describes in detail what it was like in my, as you say, misspent youth, what happened to turn things around, and what it's like today. It's meant to detail precisely how to escape the emotional seizures of mood disorder."

I tried my best to look indignant as I said those words but without a lot of confidence. It's hard to be indignant first thing in the morning wearing a "rock all day, roll all night" t-shirt and with toothpaste foaming around the mouth but I did my best.

"As long as they buy the book, right?" she said and it was clear that my words had not the intended effect--she regarded them as the idle wind. It was becoming a big day for the idle wind.

It was a simple, direct question and there was a simple, direct answer but not for a preux chevalier and, damn it, the Genome is as preux as a chevalier can stick. The affront to the Genome honor had the limbic system pumping out indignant words--it was a big morning for being indignant too--words that banged against the teeth but remained unspoken because rigorous honesty keeps me quiet. In a nutshell, I was non-plussed.

"I'm saving up to buy the first edition as soon as it's published," she said.

What was I to say to that? Yes, it might be a fair morning, a morning as fair as any in a summer filled with fair mornings but it had been preceded by a three-cat night.

"Thank you, the Wonder," was all I said.

Not at all, she said.

Love Potion Number Mouse

If you're one of the inner circle, you know all about Eddy, the two-year-old, black American shorthair, and his frequent bladder inflammation. Well, I want you to be the first to know that I've found the cause and the solution to his problems. I also want to pass along an idea that will enhance the fortunes of someone who can spot a sure thing when it comes along. That someone is you.

One recent morning I found Ms. Wonder in the salle de bains preparing for the office. When she saw me, she gave me a familiar look with those emerald eyes that turn the knees to jelly. It's the look that hooked me so many years ago.

"How did you sleep," she said.

"Sleep?" I said, "How can I sleep with Eddy suffering? I made a promise to that little guy when I found him in the construction zone. I promised him that I would take very good care of him and that he would be happy with us. Do you remember?"

"I remember," she said kneading my shoulder, "but you're doing all you can."

"No," I said, "I'm not. I can learn everything there is to know about this inflammation thing he has."

"Ideopathic chronic cistitis," she said. "Ideopathic means the cause is unknown. If the veterinary schools haven't found a cure, how do you hope to?"

"You forget," I said, "you're talking to the Genome. I do not eat pine needles. Watch me. I'll find the solution. I can't forget the vet telling me that if the urologist at North Carolina State has nothing to offer, then at least they will do the autopsy for free when we decide to say goodbye to him. And Wonder...."

"Yes."

"I don't plan to say goodbye for a good while yet."

"Well, on the subject of eating pine needles, I have a starting place for you--" she said, "kibble. I've read that it's associated with a lot of feline health issues from diabetes to urinary issues to allergic reactions."

"Kibble? I don't understand you. Isn't kibble just dry food?"

"That's right," she said. "I read that all dry food is nothing more than junk food for cats. Cat's wouldn't even consider it food if the manufacturers didn't coat the stuff with something to make the cats want to eat it."

"Crack for cats!" I said, "Thanks, Wonder, that's a good place to start. Cut out all dry food. But I thought pet food had to measure up to some government standard."

"Yeah, right," she said, "Just check it out."

I did check it out. I learned that the information provided by quality veterinary schools like Cornell (No. 1) and North Carolina State (No. 3) had to be rightly divided or taken with a grain of salt if you prefer because veterinary science is funded by the pet food companies and the science is not the best. 

If you want specifics, look it up. The vets I find most helpful are Dr. Karen Becker and  Dr. Elizabeth Hodgkins. They both suggest that healthful cat food consists of high protein meat sources (not meat byproducts); high fat content (cats require enough fat in their diet to give a human a coronary); very low carbohydrates; no grains or starches; and high moisture content. This is the suggested diet for all cats.

If you have a special needs cat--one with urinary issues or allergies--then you should go a step further and choose a food that uses "novel" protein sources. When first reading this, I was surprised to learn that novels have any redeeming value. I always stick to non-fiction. 

Then I discovered that a novel protein source is one that has very little incidence of allergic reactions. Those novel sources include venison, lamb, and rabbit. There are others, but I chose these three. I still stand by my recommendation to read non-fiction and for heaven's sake stay away from self-help books--I can take some drivel but not pure drivel.

After just a few days on venison and rabbit sourced in the United States and New Zealand, Eddy was showing signs of better health than he had shown in his entire life. It has been about four weeks now and he has been reborn. Hard to imagine that he is the same cat that, about six weeks ago, our vet was talking about quality-of-life and autopsies.

All our cats are now on the new diet and I am very happy with the outcome but I am never satisfied and recently I've been musing on a brain splinter that I picked up from those websites concerning raw food. It seems that the experts on cat nutrition all agree that raw food is the most healthful. But it takes a lot of work and quite candidly, my cat duties take up enough time, especially during the morning feeding.

However, I have had one of those manic inspirations that the Genome is known for, and I think it's the perfect solution for the most healthful cat food. I spoke to Wonder about it just this morning.

"Wonder!" I said. "I've got the perfect solution to feeding our cats the most healthful food without the hassle."

"You mean the raw food diet?" she said.

"None other," I said. "I'm surprised that someone else hasn't thought of it before me. Wonder, can you patent an idea?"

"No."

"Too bad." I said. "This one is a piperino."

"I'm almost afraid to ask," she said, "but before you tell me, let me say that I'm not going to feed raw food to my cats."

"You'll feed this food, I'll bet, when you hear how simple it is. Laboratory mice."

"I'm sorry," she said, "if I didn't know better, I'd swear you said laboratory rats."

"Mice, Wonder, mice. There's a big difference. Mice and rats hold different political views altogether."

"I know what you're thinking." she said, "The mice will be the perfect portion size and the cats will have the 'whole bone' diet or whatever, but you do realize, don't you, that you have to keep lab mice frozen, then thaw them in time for feeding? I'm sorry but I'm not going to have those things in my refrigerator."

"You have the wrong idea," I said. "No refrigeration. When the dinner gong goes, my job is to release five mice and the cats do the rest. Perfectly natural food source and no leftovers or washing bowls. Didn't I tell you it was ringer?"

"Feed live mice to our cats?"

"Nicely put. In a nutshell," I said.

She gave me a different look. One that I get more often than the soft gaze. It's the one where the eyebrows slam together above the nose and the upper lip is tucked into the lower and if I'm not mistaken there is a bit of chewing.

"I'm guessing you prefer to leave well-enough alone." I said.

What she was thinking she didn't say but it was enough. So there you are. You have my permission to use the mouse idea in a commercial venture--perhaps a book or a blog site--and I shall follow your future success with great interest.

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.

A Fair Summer Morning

Sunshine fell graciously on the walls of Chadsford Hall and infused the surrounding gardens and terraces with a certain something, a pleasant jauntiness so that birds chirruped happily and cats murmured their contentedness. 

Cooled by the shade of the cypresses and refreshed by the contents of the amber glass, ice tinkling musically as I lifted it to my lips, I had achieved a nirvana-like repose. Storms might be raging elsewhere but here on the back lawn, there was peace--that perfect unruffled peace that comes only to those who have done absolutely nothing to deserve it.

In these rare moments between depression and mania, the Genome is a dapper guy on whose gray and thinly-haired head the weight of a consistently misspent life rests lightly. It is a mystery to those who know me best that one who has enjoyed life right down to the worm should, especially when reaching that certain age when most are paying for it, remain so superbly robust. 

It's the wildness that does it if you want my opinion. We are born wild and the wise and the reckless among us tend to remain that way. Domestication is unnatural.

On this morning, the brightest and merriest of the glad new year, upholstered in the costume of a qigong coach, Thai fisherman's pants hanging loosely from the hips, and a baseball-style shirt bearing the strange device of two tigers arranged in the taijutsu symbol, I was just getting busy separating earth and sky when Ms. Wonder blew in like a cossack of discontent.

No matter how balmy the day, when Wonder stamps a petulant foot and shakes a finger in the mind's direction, one can feel the chilly air of the Winter Palace blowing around the ankles. Her arrival coincided with the feeling that Greek fellow must have had with the axe suspended by a hair over his neck. I immediately sensed a twang of regret for I knew not what but expected to hear about in the next two minutes.

"The worst has happened," she ejaculated. Yes, I've searched the mental thesaurus and I'm sure that's the mot juste.

"Oh, yes?" I said for we Genomes are quick and I realized that her ire was not directed toward me this time.

"Buffy has struck," she said.

I mused for a moment, taking a deep breath and perhaps making a moue or two before replying, "The vampire slayer?"

Now she seemed to muse. Two musings in less than a minute. It seemed possible that this could turn out to be a big morning for musing. Then she gave me the eye and the eye she gave caused me to feel that coolness around the feet once more.

"Buffy my hairdresser, you goose. He's gummed the machinery," she said. "He's doing nothing about the music. For a week or two I thought he was just busy or waiting for inspiration but now I realize that he doesn't intend to do anything. He's going to dawdle and put the kibosh on the works."

I understand her concern now and I'm sure it is as clear to you that her words are the latest update on the progress of her new line dance. She's creating one and she's enlisted allies in the cause--one to do the choreography and one to write the music. The lyrics are her own. I don't know where she gets her inspiration, perhaps it's the Russian blood. The people of the Volga seem compelled to compose music. She takes a line through Tchaikovsky and Rachmaninoff.

I removed the mental monocle and polished it metaphorically. "Buffy the Frizzy Slayer?" I said,  "I remember him well, nice boy. Not at all the sort of fellow to intentionally noble dogs just before the big fetch contest. No, I think you can dismiss Buffy as a carrier of malevolence. Too manic to do anything on the assignment is my guess. Put it out of your mind."

These words seemed like a good thing at the time and I expressed them with reserve fully expecting that she would see the wisdom of them and take a deep breath. Peace of mind is what I aimed for but not what I got. She seemed even more hotted up if anything.

"What are you driveling about?" she said with a slow shake of the head.

"Would you call it drivel?" I said. "Well, if it is, then it certainly isn't perfect drivel. What I'm talking about, just to be clear, are the people who may be expected to do the dirt, like Johnny Holiday, as opposed to the people who may not, like your Buffy for instance. You see it was nothing to the above Holiday to feed my cocker spaniel left-over steak and onions, without my knowledge of course, just before our contest to see who was the better retriever of tennis balls. When I threw the ball, Pluto just lay there, spread-spaniel with his ears unfurled and his eyes half closed. He was the perfect image of a fully contented dog."

"So you're saying that Buffy isn't..."

"Coming down like the wolf on the fold, and his cohorts gleaming in purple and gold? Not on the board. He's just somewhat pre-occupied, that's all. And I have a suggestion for you."

She raised her eyebrows about a quarter inch but spoke not a word. I took it to be an invitation to continue. "Tell him that you've lost interest in the project. Seemed like a good idea at the time but now, life is coming hard and fast. Time to move on. Thank him for his efforts and recommend that he spend no more time on it. Then you simply get on with the project and he never knows the difference."

"Do you really think it would work?" she said.

"Works for me all the time. In fact, it's become standard procedure for me. I call it the Genome Method."

"I'll think about it," she said. "Thanks."

"Not at all," I said.

She turned and started to move back across the terrace to the Hall but stopped as though her spring had wound down.

"Hello," I said.

"I was just thinking," she said, "that something about our conversation seems strange."

"Mysterious, you mean," I said. "Nothing mysterious really. It's just that you are usually coming up with the formula for my shortcomings and in the above dialogue, it was I who became the balm that soothed your fevered brow."

"Oh, yeah," she said, "that must be it. Well, thanks again."

"Happy to have been of service," I said. "If we Genomes live for anything, it is to be of service. And this little bit of usefulness has made all the difference. Happy Birthday to me!"

That last bit bubbled to the surface because I'd just realized that today was indeed my birthday. What a nice surprise.