So Close and Yet So Far

Sunshine, calling to all right-thinking persons to come out and play in its mood-lifting light, poured into the windows of our suite in Cocoa Village. I stood at the window, having completed my morning qigong, and stared without seeing into the duckweed bog that bordered the gardens. 

I like the sunshine as a general rule—in fact, my morning constitution includes a brisk 20-minute walk in it. But on this particular morning, it brought no cheer. I must have looked like something standing in the showroom of a Harley Street Taxidermist.

A moralist, watching me standing there, might have remarked, smugly, that it cuts both ways. The peer of the realm, he might consider me to be, enjoying a robust fitness far above that which his irresponsible younger years might warrant, often suffers the outrageous slings and arrows of uncertain fortune. 

This world is, after all, full of uncertainty and bogs filled with duckweed, and at any moment, life may come swooping down out of the blue and smack one behind the ear with a sock of wet sand. It pays to be ready.

I, of course, have none of the training of the normal person who after suffering years of waiting 45 minutes to be seated is prepared to take the big one in stride. No, I am one of the blessed ones who have slept well, learned quickly, and measured up to the demands of a rigorous life. 

In short, the universe has worked things out in my favor. Oh sure, sometimes the moment seems to be lost but it always works out all right in the end.

Is it any surprise then that in the agony of this sudden, treacherous shock I was left feeling and looking stunned, like the blowfly that has met the swatter? You may have seen a comic illustration of the ostrich that has swallowed something he shouldn’t. You may have or you may not but, seen or not, that’s the way I felt. 

And I’ll tell you why I felt like a large flightless bird with a brass doorknob in its throat. I absolutely insist on being happy, joyous, and free that’s why. But is that enough explanation? Perhaps not. Let me marshal my thoughts and have another go.

I’ve recently become acquainted with the work of Nobel laureate, Daniel Kahneman, founder of behavioral economics and widely regarded as the world’s most influential living psychologist. 

When you’re a psychological phenomenon like me, you pay attention to what the world’s most influential living psychologists are thinking. According to Kahneman, we are happy when we can look back over our lives and remember plenty of happy memories.

If happy experiences are to be stored in long-term memory, he argues, those experiences must be as meaningful as they are happy. Otherwise, all that short-term happiness doesn't amount to beans. To be happy, really happy, we must have happy experiences that are truly meaningful. 

Now you will understand I think, why a recent scheduling conflict that prohibits the happiest and most meaningful experience of all, had led to the melancholy that flooded my soul. Melancholy heaped up, pressed down, and overflowing.

As I stood brooding, if that’s the word I want, the door behind me opened and Ms. Wonder entered the suite with coffee. I glanced at her with an apprehensive eye because she is not known for great empathy with those who, as she would express it, whine. 

I feared she might wound me with some flippancy. My concern lessened when I took in her countenance and discerned no frivolity, only a certain gravity that became her well.

“Bad business,” she said handing me a cup of Jah’s Mercy from the Rastafari Café on the corner.

“Hell’s foundations quiver,” I said.

“What are you going to do about it?” she said.

“Do?” I said. “What can I do?” This is my standard answer to a question about what I plan to do but it seemed especially appropriate in this case.

“Well, there’s no need to spend extra money when we can get a discounted rate at an inn farther away from the arts district,” she said.

“Wonder,” I said, “just what are you talking about?”

“Spring training, of course,” she said.

“I’m sorry, but it sounded to me that you said spring training.”

“Spring training is what I said,” she informed me. “It’s March and the baseball games have filled the hotels up and down the coast, right? We can’t stay an extra night in this hotel so we have to find another one and I have a coupon for the Fairfield by the Interstate.”

I stared at her dumbfounded. While I stood brooding and contemplating how much life had suddenly become a pond full of duckweed, this marvelous wonder had found within easy reach a prime opportunity to experience a day full of wonder and amusement leading to many long-term happy memories.

I’m sure Dr. Kahneman would approve when I say that I would sleep in the car if it meant a chance to be happy. Wouldn’t you?

“Wonder,” I said. “I would gladly sleep in the car to ensure a joyful tomorrow.”

She turned, shaking her head, and left the room but I heard her say as she walked out of sight, “I’m calling the Fairfield to see if they have any rooms left.”

Once again I turned to stare into the bog. Memories of a happy childhood played out like movies in my mind. My dearest and most cherished memories lived once more and it created a bitter-sweet mood because of what might have been. 

I felt the impact of Tom Hank’s words, like a sock full of wet sand to the occipital bone when in the role of Walt Disney in the movie, Saving Mr. Banks, he said, “I love that mouse.”

Construction Zone

The dawn of another day crept upon the SoDu. Minute by minute the light grew stronger as it made its way along Coronado Lane until it filtered in the window of my bedroom. It would have awakened me from slumber had I been in bed but I wasn't of course. I'm always up and doing by the time dawn arrives. The early bird I'm sometimes called. Getting around the morning worm and all that.

The sun was dimly conscious of finding my bed empty on previous mornings. I say 'dimly' because it's been some little time since the day began with an appearance from the sun. Spring break for him probably. Doing a little surfing on Top Sail Island I shouldn't wonder. That’s where I’d be given the chance.

I'm told that few things have the tonic effect on a man accustomed to being a little slow to wake as the discovery that he has stolen a prize pig overnight. I would dispute that. I had not stolen such a prize but I was tonic-ed to the gills. I waded through an incoming tide of cats to get to the door of the sal de bains. I opened it and stepped into the tropical environment of Ms. Wonder's bath.

The river pebbles underfoot were slippery and I held to the palm fronds to keep from falling as I made my way to the sound of falling water. Eventually, I found myself on the edge of a deep, clear pool. Eddy the cat was licking a paw and when he saw me gave a yawn and turned his back.

"Don't be smug," I said, "It doesn't suit you." She was seated on a flat boulder in the middle of the bath, not too near the plunging water. I called to her above the roar of the falls.

"Wonder," I said, "Hell's foundations are shaking."

She turned the water off so we could hear each other.

"What?" she said.

"We've got to rally round Tiger," I said, "She needs us."

"Why? What's wrong?" she said.

"I’ll tell you what’s wrong," I said, "She’s headed for a rubber room at the laughing academy, that's what's wrong."

“I will not listen to that kind of talk,” she said. “You of all people should be more considerate. How would you like it if people spoke of you like that? Remember, people who live in glass houses.”

I mused on this for a moment but could not think of a single person silly enough to live in such a house.

This is probably a good time to pause and offer five cents of backstory for the newcomers. This Tiger mentioned above is my very best closer-than-a-sister friend. She has never abandoned me no matter how dark the skies nor threatening the v-shaped depressions. I’m sure you will fully understand my concern over her recent bizarre behavior.

“Just tell me why you’re concerned about Tiger,” she said.

“First,” I said, “let me warn you that what I’m about to say includes depictions of graphic violence.”

She waved a hand indicating that I had the floor and should continue.

“As you well know,” I said, “This Tiger is no stranger to wild, impulsive behavior. I mean she rides a motorcycle for one thing and she is married to the Cowboy, which tells you something right there.”
 

Her eyes met mine and we shared a meaningful look.

 

“But until recently, her behavior has been confined to the normal range of lunacy. In the last few days, however, and follow me very closely here because this is the seminal point, that has all changed.”

 

“Imagine if you will, Tiger lounging on the sofa watching marathon episodes of Murder She Wrote.”

 

“Yes,” agreed the Wonder, “or Big Bang.”

 

“As you say, Murder She Wrote or The Big Bang Theory. Doesn’t matter which. Then during the commercial break, she rises from the couch to wander aimlessly into the kitchen and then suddenly she whirls around and, with a kung-fu shout, rips the door off a wall cabinet and throws it out the window.”

 

I thought this statement might get a reaction out of her and I was not wrong. She stared at me for several seconds as though waking from a dream. Then slowly her eyes grew larger and rounder. Her lips parted as though she would speak but nothing came out.

 

“I haven't been there to witness this behavior but she speaks openly of it, as though it were just everyday behavior. Imagine how difficult it must be for the Cowboy to come home from work each day and deal with the aftermath.”

 

The Wonder remained silent.

 

“In a recent episode, she ripped a cupboard off the wall. I know! When I spoke to her about it, she mumbled something and I can't be absolutely sure of this but I believe she has plans to tear out the sink.”

 

“The sink?” she said.

 

“In the beginning, she must have known something wasn't quite right about her behavior because she didn't speak of it in public. Now she posts pictures on Facebook! I am very worried.”

 

“But how did all this begin?" she asked. "I mean there’s usually some gateway behavior isn’t there? Childhood tea parties leading to binge drinking at the corner tavern—that sort of thing?”

 

“Well," I said, "we can never be sure about causal relationships, can we? Still, I think this must surely have something to do with the Cowboy falling through the kitchen ceiling.”

 

“I’m sorry?” she said.

 

“Oh he’s unhurt,” I said. “Nothing to worry about. Just a few scratches.”

 

“I mean,” she said, and I thought she seemed to be hotting up, “what or why did he fall through the ceiling?”

 

“Well, you’ve got me there, not really sure but you know the Cowboy—he works in mysterious ways his wonders to perform. The point is, he crashed through the kitchen ceiling and something must have clicked inside her. I think she's out of control.”

 

“I know she would stoutly deny it if asked. Probably say that she can stop anytime she likes. You know how that story goes. But I'm not buying it. I'm convinced that she's in the grip of a disorder. If it feels good to knock off a cabinet door, then it will bring joy unconfined to smash the countertops with a sledgehammer. If pulling a cupboard down lightens the heart, then pushing the fridge off the back porch will bring ecstasy. Where does it all stop?”

 

“I think an intervention is called for,” she said and I thought the drama was a bit thick but her heart was in the right place.

 

“My thoughts too,” I said.

 

And so the Wonder and I put together a plan to call all our friends, confront Tiger before she leaves for work this morning, and get her into rehab at Habitat For Humanity Restore. Life comes hard and fast, as I’m sure I don’t need to tell you, but we can get through the hard times if we only stick together.

 

You’ve been here for us, Tiger, and we will be there for you. Count on it.

 

Trans-dimensional Tomfoolery

I lay half asleep in cat’s pajamas carried away by the stories running amok in the default network until I was fully awakened by a mechanical bellow that began somewhere in the depths of Chadsford Hall and rose up rumbling to the surface like whale song. The furnace had kicked in. Now would be a good time to get out of bed I thought. Then I did.

The night had been sleepless except for that one period between late evening and early morning when I had a strange dream of the mombot. Still, I was in a merry mood because I’d made a plan for the day. In fact, I’d made a plan for the week and yesterday had gone swimmingly—according to plan and there was no reason to think that today would be different. 

Keep this up, I thought, and that book would get done after all. My agent will be so happy to hear it. The publisher—well, there’s no pleasing the publisher now. Water under the bridge if that’s the phrase I want.

“I’m in a merry mood, Ms. Wonder,” I said but it was no good. She wasn’t around. I quickly upholstered the outer man as described in Sun Tzu’s, Art of War, and made my way to the garage where Wynd Horse waited.

The daily commute is a joyful thing. A time to meditate and get one’s head around the demands of the day. I mentally reviewed the plans of engagement and considered how I would gain a tactical advantage that would result in the best possible good for me and others. Or a reasonable facsimile.

After getting cash on the debit card from Banco de Los Muertos, I entered the Fayetteville conduit to get to Native Grounds ahead of the rush. Once I’d been caffeinated and sconed, I took out the hand-held device and accessed the Net, not that Net, the other one. The one that was old when Merlin was working out the details of advanced geomancy.

Everything seemed to be in order. Good timing. The courtiers were streaming through the door. I received them in turn, which is my real work these days, ensuring that their day will unfold in a meaningful and pleasing way, if not in the way they desire. It’s a job performed by countless others in coffee and tea shops around the globe. Magic of course.

I am not a practitioner. I just work here. I lived a life devoted to rational thought and dedicated to reason and the certainty of cause and effect until that one day when everything changed. 

From the time I was a sophomore in high school and my 10-year-old sister died, I gave no quarter to magic. This was due to my asking God in fervent prayer to allow me to die with her and you know how well that worked out for me. 

Day after day pretending to be one of the pod people and night after night crying in my room. I call it walking the anti-Damascus Road. It was my first brush with true Reality.

Then in my forty-first year, magic came into my life and it was irrefutable. And I was furious. Where was it when I needed it? Well, as I say, I’m not a practitioner. Tried it—zilch. I didn’t want this job, of course. Tried to avoid it. Belly of the whale and scales on the eyes, and all that.

Worse part of the job is all the witches. No, not the witches. It's the metempsychotic inversion that always builds when they come around. I get lost in it. Fortunately, I have access to a copy of the Manual of Transdimensional Displacement. That’s what I was reading on the Net when the phone call came.

It was the mombot. Bladder infection. That’s the code phrase for dropping whatever you’re doing and getting over here right now. It can only mean one thing—trans-dimensional tomfoolery! And that never ends well. Best laid plans ganged agley again.

Like the Rolling Stones

Sunday night was still hanging around on Monday morning when I went out to feed the hilltop cats. The full moon had long since swept the stars from the sky and descended into the dark beyond the hills of Chatsford. 

A few minutes later when I returned to the dressing room upstairs, I opened the Venetian's and there was the day, wearing a braid in her hair and doing a buck wing dance across the lawn. Just like that. Dark then dawn. I've never been able to figure out just how it's done but I'm sure it involves smoke and mirrors like stage magic.

Ms Wonder was engaged in her Swedish exercises and so I busied myself with the morning routine. I was troubled by recent events and I wanted to discuss them with her but I waited. Focus is absolutely essential when generating the endorphins and I didn't want to distract her. At last, she completed her excesses and I spoke.

"Poopsie," I said, "life is difficult."

"Is it?"

"Something always seems to be getting in the way if you know what I mean. Something stops working. Someone's dog barks. The neighbor puts his house up for sale. It's just one damn thing after another."

"Life is suffering," she said.

I mused on this. It seemed harsh for this wonder woman and yet it seemed that I'd heard it somewhere before. "I don't know if I'd go that far," I said.

"It's attributed to the Buddha," she said.

"Ah," I said and mused again. I noticed Sagi, the caramel tabby, reclining on the bed and his expression seemed to suggest that this would be as good a time as any to suspend disbelief. Besides, I'd recently liked the Buddha's Facebook page. "Well, I suppose to some degree life is suffering," I said.

"If it's Her, you're worried about," she said, "I think I have the solution. If She won't go to the mountain, then the mountain will come to Chatsford Hall. The mountain to Mohammed."

This got right by me. Mohammed? That's what she said. I opened my mouth to ask for clarification but found instead that she had not relinquished the floor.

"Don't say anything," she instructed. "You're going to support me in this. Suit up and show up."

Again, with the euphemisms. Suit up? I glanced in the mirror and thought the dove gray shirt with the eggshell and cantaloupe stripes was a good choice for denim jeans. I opened my mouth once more to ask for clarification and, once more, I discovered she was still speaking.

"Don't stand there looking like a scarecrow," she said, "say something for heaven's sake."

Well, this was what I'd been waiting for. Invited to speak, I prepared myself to give tongue, if that's the expression. Doesn't sound right but I'm sure I've heard it somewhere. At that very moment, displaying one of the many characteristics that get her so disliked by right-thinking individuals, Princess Amy, the amygdala with the overactive imagination, mentioned something totally inappropriate and not germane to the issue by a long shot. I immediately noticed a feeling arising in the body that hinted at the dark, moonless night of the soul. More drama from that almond-headed cluster of brain cells it seemed to me. I remember thinking that I'd heard enough from her. The buck stops here I thought to myself.

"The bitch, Brenda, speaks," I said and I meant it to sting. But I meant it to sting Amy, not Ms Wonder. I thought I'd used my inside voice but apparently not.

"Me?" said the Wonder. "Me?" said Amy.

"No, not you," I said to Wonder. "Calm down," I said to Amy.

"Calm down," said Wonder. "I'll calm you down." But she didn't. Instead, she left the room.

"How can I calm down?" said Amy. "It's not in my job description. I'm responsible for identifying the threat level and granting authority for corrective action and that's just what I'll do."

"Yes," I said, "but you tend to overreact. When you get hotted up, you go from lukewarm to incandescent in a moment. You threaten to pop rivets and come apart at the seams. Take a deep breath and chill is my advice. These aren't the droids you seek."

"Oh sure," she said. "You call me your bitch, Brenda, and I'm supposed to calm down?"

"Just a little joke," I said. "It's something that Keith Richards used to call Mick Jaeger. They've had all kinds of tiffs over the years. You know, bedding each other's women and all the usual stuff that rock bands do, and yet, they're still touring after 50 years. That's the way you and I are."

"We bed each other's women?"

"See, that's what I mean. You jump to the most negative interpretation. You know what I meant is that we stick together. We're the Rolling Stones, you and I. We'll stay together no matter what."

This tact worked better than I expected. She became quiet and the tension dissolved. But I knew it was only temporary. Like all front girls in rock bands, it was only a matter of time before she would try to make me her subordinate again. But I would be ready. I'm living fiercely these days--more than ever before and I'm ready for whatever life serves up.

Live mindfully. Stay connected. Never quit. Just like the Stones.

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.