Moonbeam Celebrations

Moonlight, calling to all unsleeping to come out and revel in its pearly luster, poured in the screened porch of Chatsford Hall. It had a magical glow. But to the Genome, much as he appreciates the beaming countenance of Sister Moon, it brought no cheer. 

The cypresses cast shadows across the lawns and gardens and white camellias peeked out of the dark shrubbery with their laughing gnome faces. Still, when I mindfully scanned my feelings, all I found were the emotions belonging to something that has been prepared for stuffing by a taxidermist.

Years of living life on life's terms and practicing Fierce Qigong have prepared yours truly for any catastrophe that comes his way. Like the Russian peasant who endures long, cold winters haunted by hungry wolves and empty vodka bottles, the soul has a hard protective coating. Left alone to his own devices, Genome takes on the appearance of Fate's spoiled darling.

But I ask you, with a week of no sleep and an overactive limbic system, can we wonder that moon shadows make no appeal? As I sat watching a scattering of clouds moving up from the south, a voice spoke to me from the north, saying, "Whatcha doin'?"

It was Sarah Lupe Louise sitting atop the table on the outdoor side of the porch screen. My gaze softened at the sight of her and I felt a soothing sense of relief because this young cat considers the Genome a source of perpetual goodness. You might say that she can't get enough of the Genome bouquet. 

Well, I don't have to tell you how effective is the medicine of the kind heart. It's the stuff to give the troops, if you want my opinion, just before they take the field to face the prowling forces of Midian. It makes all the difference.

"Can't sleep," I said.

"Too bad," she said.

"Want to feed me?" she said doing that little figure eight dance of hers.

"Too early," I said but somehow it didn't seem enough in the way of explanation. "It's only 3:00 AM," I added.

"Oh," she said, and calmly accepting my decision, she sat and began inspecting a paw.

Still looking for a solution to remedy the circumstances that I found so unsettling, I said, "I just don't know what to do."

"Nothing for you to do," she said.

"You think not?"

"Not in charge," she said. 

"No," I said, "I guess I'm not in charge, am I?"

"Jungle cat in the sky," she said.

"In charge you mean," I said, and then, still musing, I asked, "So what's it all about? Why do we bother?"

"Well," she said, "I do my stuff because I'm a cat."

"I see," I said, "You do what you do because it's what you were meant to do. Like dancing. You're a good dancer."

"Thank you," she said, "I also kill voles."

"Let's keep this conversation out of the gutter, shall we?" I said.

"You do human things pretty good," she said.

Something in her words, if they were words, seemed to go to the heart of the matter. I ratcheted up the musing to full-scale pre-frontal cortex stuff and I noticed that the inside feelings were a lot more agreeable.

"Hungry?" I asked.

"I could eat," she said and began doing a passable Electric Slide. 

I entered the kitchen and selected a fine quality New Zealand venison and after bunging the medium dose for the average cat into a bowl, I walked into the garden to give her an early morning snack. 

Life comes hard and fast for cats and for people, maybe even a little harder for cats, and it occurs to me that cats, like people, have little real value when they're sleeping among the stars. So why wait? Might as well celebrate today and what better way to do that than by helping someone else celebrate?

Cat Zen

"Poopsie," I said, and if I was taking liberties with the familiar form, what of it? I was in a stir and needed soothing. And that soothing I needed immediately. Nothing like that cat in the adage stuff--the one that let 'I dare not' wait upon 'I would.'

"Poopsie," I said, "it's another morning. Can you believe it? Consider the odds, I mean. Wouldn't you think that any day now we should begin without a morning. Otherwise, it's just one damn thing after another. Whatever are we to do?"

"Speaking for me," she said, "I'm on my way into the office and you, if you will follow my suggestion, will complete some of the things on that list I gave you."

"Forget lists," I said, "this is no time to be thinking of lists. Hell's foundations are shaking."

She gave me a look, not thoroughly compassionate but not totally lacking either. Then she said, "What are you talking about?"

"Ms. Wonder," I said, with some topspin, "have you not been paying attention? The world has jumped the rails. We're off the path. Last week, if it could go wrong, it did and now the same is happening this week. Consider Uma for example. She disappears."

"She has found a new hiding place that we don't know about," she said with a sanguine smile, "but she hasn't disappeared into thin air."

"I beg your pardon," I said. "Thin air is exactly what she has disappeared into. She takes a few steps toward the hallway each morning and then poof--gone."

"Not poof--gone," she said.

"Yes, poof--gone," I said.

We stood there for a moment or two, giving each other the eye and sizing each other up. You know how it is when two strong personalities are in close juxtaposition if that's the word. The atmosphere can sometimes get thick.

"Maybe you should try meditating, like Eddy here," she said reaching to stroke the back of the cat who sat on the toilet seat staring into the trash can, as he does every morning.

"I meditate!" I said. "I teach others to meditate too. That's what I do. I immerse myself in meditation."

"Yes, but Eddy meditates first thing every morning right after breakfast."

"He's just lethargic from eating so much food," I said.

"He contemplates the void," she said still stroking the back of that cat.

"Are you implying that the trash can and the void are the same?" I asked.

"Think about it," she said. "Everything that goes into the trash can is considered to be worthless--it amounts to nothing. No matter how much you put in, the contents are always worthless. So the trash can in that respect represents nothing. Then when you consider that everything is eventually used up or loses its value and is thrown away, you realize that everything ends up in the trash. Everything becomes nothing. The trash can, like the void, represents everything and nothing."

I was non-plussed. Wouldn't you have been in the same situation? I mused on this observation for a long moment. This Poopsie Wonder, as I've always said, and as you have certainly found by reading these missives, this Ms. Wonder is amazing. She knows all.

"Do you suppose that Eddy actually contemplates the void intentionally?" I said.

"Probably not," she said, "but do we actually have to be aware that we are meditating?"

"Actually, the essence of meditation of to be aware of nothing but existence," I said.

"Well, there you go then," she said.

"Truth!" I said. And I immediately trained the focus of my attention on trash cans and trash cans are what I've contemplated ever since. Nothing but trash cans. I can honestly say my life has gotten better because of it. No more wasted time focusing on goals and bucket lists and other such nonsense.

Napoleon or Not

I awoke with that feeling that sometimes comes early in the morning that you need urgent care, or you need to get to Urgent Care in about 3 seconds. I thought I'd swallowed a migration of butterflies but was relieved to discover that it was only Ben's tail. You're familiar with Ben, of course, the Ragga-muffin cat, properly referred to as Beignet. 

As soon as I could breathe again, I bounded out of bed, and seeing a cloud of steam and a small river coming from the salle de bains, I knew Ms Wonder must be within. I desired her thoughts on a subject of interest and so I waded into the stream. A raft of ducks appeared out of the mist and swam out the door and into the bedroom.

Beignet Lafayette

"Poopsie?" I said, directing my voice toward the sound of rushing water.

The torrent of water stopped abruptly and presently a Venus-like form appeared. Two emerald-green eyes gave me a look that made me think that my pajama top and bottom were mismatched but no, a quick glance in the mirror told me that the corn-flower blue pants and the heliotrope t-shirt were parfait.

"What?" I said.

"Why are you wearing Abbie on your shoulder?" she said and I'm blowed if she didn't describe the situation perfectly. I recognized the question, however, as diversionary, and I did not intend to be distracted. I pressed on.

Abbie (Abracadabra) Hoffman

"Oh, it seemed like a good idea at the time," I said lifting the little ninja from my shoulder and placing him on the floor. "If you have a moment, I have something to run up your flag pole."

"Run it," she said in that way she has of moving the story forward.

"Right," I said. "Here it is then, without preamble, having considered this and that, I believe I should stop talking about Napoleon."

Her right hand, which had been meditatively soaping a left arm, stopped abruptly as though the spring had unwound. She made a moue, if it is a moue, where she pushed the lips out and then pulled them back in again.

"I don't get it," she said.

"Simply," I said. "I keep mentioning Napoleon in my blog posts and I think it may be having a disruptive effect on the education of French school children."

"Hold on," she said, "let me get this straight. You've been making negative comments about Napoleon?"

"Of course not," I said. "Who would do such a thing?"

"Some people think of him as a little tyrant," she said.

"Not at all," I said. "An emperor for the little people in my opinion."

 "So you simply reference him in blog posts, perhaps quoting him or mentioning some of his achievements?"

"Well," I said, "I may have mentioned his retreat from the Russian front in a contingency sleigh or perhaps the burning of the French fleet in the port of Cairo but only in the most tasteful and respectful way, you can be sure."

"So what's the problem?" she said.

"Well, it's like this," I said. "I've noticed that whenever I mention Napoleon, that blog post gets a lot of hits in France. I've tried to reconcile this phenomenon and all I've come up with is that French kids are researching their country's history in school and they Google themselves to my blog where I'm sure they're entertained for hours but, unfortunately for them, they gain no useful information for their reports."

"Oh," she said, applying loofah to the left elbow, "I see what you mean."

"I thought you would," I said.

"I think you'd best leave off with Napoleon," she said.

"But only in my blog posts," I said. "I shall continue to follow his example in my plans for world domination."

"Exactly," she said.

"Thank you, Poopsie," I said. I left her soaking in the tub and I went looking for those ducks.

Sagi M'Tesi

Hard Like Water

I found her at the cafe table where I'd left her only minutes before.

"Lupe," I said. "I'm so glad you haven't left."

And I was too. You see, we'd finished that conversation which is now the gist of the last post and I'd shared my advice about wooden nickles and ankled away. Then I remembered the real reason I'd come looking for her in the first place.

Adorable Vectors by Vecteezy

"Still here," she said, "but If you have a long story, it will have to wait until our next appointment. I'm meeting friends in the Castle Street Arts District to see Wicked at the Tivoli."

"You'll have time for me, you young geezer," I said. The remark was made in the warmest, most loving way of course.

"Walk and talk," she said getting up from the cafe table and heading uptown.

"What's happening on Castle Street?" I asked.

"No time for that now," she said. "You'll have to wait for tomorrow's Star News and read about it there."

"Big stuff," I said and was about to muse on it but she came to an abrupt stop, looked me in the eye, and said, "Talk."

"Ah, right," I said. "I need some advice about changes I want to make in my life. I've been struggling..."

"I know," she said.

"I practice all my power principles and yet I seem to make no progress. I'm beginning to feel that I'm stuck in some wormhole or other. Or maybe I've crossed over the horizon boundary of a black hole or whatnot."

"Well, I know how much you like to compare your life to quantum fields," she said, "but you're wasting subspace energy looking there. Your problem is that you've forgotten Fierce Qigong."

"Mankiller!" I said coming to an abrupt stop. You've been around these parts long enough to know that when I use this former shrimp's surname I mean business and I want it to show.

"Never do I forget Fierce Qigong. It's my raison d'ette."

She came to an abrupt stop. It was looking like a big day for abrupt stops. She turned around and took two slow steps toward me. I knew she meant business.

"What is the foundation of Fierce Qigong?" she asked.

It was a rhetorical question, of course, but I had a strange feeling that we were about to get somewhere and I thought it best to play along.

"Fierce Qigong is founded on taiji chuan," I said.

"Chen style," she said.

"To be sure," I said.

"And what is the principal difference between taiji chuan and kung fu?" she said. "Or should I say, wushu?"

"Wushu or even sip pal gi in case any of my Korean masters hear of this conversation." 

"Genome! Put a sock in it! Back to the question; what's the difference between taiji and wushu?"

Well, checkmate, I thought. She'd done it again and with only two questions. Forget Sherlock Holmes, forget Jeeves; when this Lupe Louise Mankiller accepts an assignment her mysterious something works wonders.

"The difference is soft hands," I said. "Hands like water--soft and yielding and yet unstoppable; cutting through stone."

"Taking a relaxed approach," she said. "Never losing inner harmony. Performing the next best thing without striving and without planning the outcome."

"That's what I haven't been doing," I said.

"Rem acu tetigisti," she said.

"Fierce Qigong," I said. And I meant it too.

What's The Point?

I pulled on the trousers just as Archimedes, George Washington, and Barack Obama must have done--one foot at a time. Did Archimedes wear trousers? No matter. Ms Wonder tells me it's the small things in life that make a difference, and I'm sure she's not far from wrong. It made me feel pretty special to be in the company of those great men. 

And let's not forget cats. It's equally uplifting to be in their company. They may be small, but they're great in their own way. Beignet is undeniably one of the greats, but he isn't small. Just thought I'd clarify.

"Well, Poopsie," I said, "how about it?"

Source: Mango Science

Earlier that morning, during the corralling of cats, I'd briefed Ms. Wonder on the latest developments regarding my book. You remember the book, don't you? It's a guide for coping with the less pleasing emotions--anxiety, depression--those nagging questions about why we even bother? I mean, what's the point of it all. 

I can't wait for the book to be published because I know it will change lives. Maybe even mine. But as much as I look forward to its release, the stark truth remains--it must be written first. And there, as the man said, is the rub. 

I'll bet it was Shakespeare who said it first. He had a knack for snappy, memorable phrases. The Marketing Department would've loved him.

But back to the book. My agent phoned over the holidays to remind me it's over a year since we first spoke of the book. He expected a draft by now and he's--how shall I say--pressing me to get on with it. 

Of course, it’s easy for him to say. He doesn’t have to write the thing. Not so simple for me. I feel like the toad must have felt beneath that harrow. If it was a toad. What is a harrow anyway?

“Thought of anything?” I asked Ms. Wonder.

She didn’t answer immediately, and the silence gripped me with the icy hand of dread. When pressing a trusted advisor for counsel, the last thing one wants is still air. I stifled a hollow groan.

Have you ever surprised a mother bear frolicking with her cub in a meadow and then realized that you've left the bear repellent in the glove box in the car? Me neither, but I can imagine the result.

Ms. Wonder’s hesitation was making me feel that way now. Whatever she was about to say, I felt certain it would hit the Genome right between the eyes.

I continued to get dressed for the day, but my heart wasn't in it. I socked my feet with trembling hands, reminding myself that I was enough for anything coming my way. The thought helped a little, but it didn't completely erase the feeling that the spinal cord had been left in the fridge past the expiration date.

"It may be," I said, hoping to bolster up the spirit, "that you don't have the whole of the situation clear in your mind. Let me itemize the facts."

"The shirt," she said, and I felt a flicker of relief. "The button-line should be straight from neck to waist."

"But I have ankylosing spondy...."

"There," she said tugging the front of my shirt into submission. "Perfect"

"Thank you, Poopsie."

"Not at all."

"There are times when I wonder if gig lines matter," I said.

"The mood will pass," she said.

"I don't know why it should," I said. "Without a solution to this problem, my life will be meaningless. Unless something miraculous pops up in my morning meditation, I'm doomed. Solutions do sometimes pop up, don't they? Out of the blue?"

"Archimedes is said to have discovered the principle of displacement suddenly during his bath," she said as though remembering an amusing anecdote.

"Was that a big deal?"

"It's generally considered significant. His death at the hand of a common soldier was considered to be a great loss to Greek natural philosophy."

"Aren't you confusing Archimedes with the tai chi master who developed the Five Animal Frolics?"

"Hua Tou was killed by a mistrustful army general, I believe," she said.

"Still," I said, "what's it got to do with my situation?"

"Well," she said, "it couldn't have been a pleasant experience for either of them."

She had a point, of course, and I mulled over her words sensing a lesson. There seemed to be a hidden lesson in them. 

"We do what we must do," she said, "and the best course of action is often the next step in front of us."

"Is that what great men do?"

"Great and small," she said.

"Alright," I said. "Today I'll organize the chapters I have, and then first thing tomorrow, I'll jump into the fray."

I'm not sure what Napoleon would have thought of the plan, but sometimes we must soldier on without the benefit of a great general. As I looked around me, I noticed the room was devoid of generals. I sighed deeply and resigned myself to taking the next step--finishing the book. 

Footnote: Several readers have commented that being in the company of Timberwolves can be just as motivating as other greats, like men, women, and cats. I'm not up-to-date on Timberwolves, so I'm not recommending it, but I thought it worth mentioning.