Don't Forget to Duck

Here we are in the month of August and the beginning of the last month of summer. But what are we going to do about it is the question I ask myself? 

This morning was one of those that so often call to me, in a loud voice, to get the hell out of the house as though there's a fire in the boiler room. Do you have those mornings? A morning when you know that if you don't do as directed, the Universe will deny all responsibility? This morning was that morning.

A trip to the shores of the Atlantic is always my first choice, of course. But it's a weekday and Ms Wonder is busy performing her patented wonders in mysterious ways and she wouldn't like it if I were to interfere. I'll wait for the 7th day when she takes a break from all that to suggest a beach frolic.

"I'm out," I called as I ankled my way down the hallway.

"I'll be a while longer," said the Wonder.

"I'll text you about coffee," I said. It's code, of course. Don't expect you to follow that one. In less time than it takes a make a mistake, I was in Wind Horse, with Quinn on the dashboard, and on my way out of the neighborhood.

I slowed to look both ways at the intersection and was cheered to see so many neighbors out and about. As I entered the thoroughfare, I waved to the dog-walkers and tootled the horn to wish a good morning to them and to the runners enjoying the morning pick-me-up. 

Even when all the world seems just right, with the lark on the wing and the snail on the thorn (I'm told it's a thing with snails) and God in his heaven, still Princess Amy can find something to raise hell about. And she wasted no time this morning.

I won't bother you with all the details. I'll just say that visions of panel trucks careening around corners and knocking garbage pails every which way figured into it. I was at the point of buying into it when Mark Goodman, one of the original MTV VJ's, announced that beginning at noon, Chanel 30 would become Prince Radio.

Yes, the Artist Formerly Known as Prince, that Prince. I immediately smashed the channel 30 button. In little time I was out on the boulevard and racing into the open wind. Windows down, radio cranked up to 11 with lots of bass, heavy mid-tones, and just the right amount of treble. (It's all about the treble). The Artist was playing live at Syracuse. Not actually live, you understand, but a recording of the live concert. 

With the Prince in residence, Princess Amy was forgotten. Sometimes all it takes is turning the volume up on any music that brings out the cartwheels in you. As I headed back home, I pretended for about 10 minutes that I was heading south toward ocean breezes, salt air, and sand in my shoes. Ahhhhh! 

Take it from me. Life comes hard and it comes fast. It will punch you right in the nose if you don't duck. So don't forget to do just that. Makes no sense to try to change the situation. Simply accept it for what it is and get on with it. All roads lead to the same destination. Some simply take a little longer to get there.

Happy August! Happy Summer!

Know Your Limits

It is true that I once pitched the idea of an online Qigong for Seniors class to my followers on Instagram, and the suggestion was received warmly. But I didn't do the pitching with any real chirpiness. 

So when Ms. Wonder suggested revisiting the idea as a palliative for losing the Straw Valley opportunity, I opened the door and invited the idea to make itself at home. It's a technique I learned from the Sufi poet, Rumi. No, it's more accurate to say that I learned it from Wonder and she learned it from Rumi.   

The lack of chirpiness continues to hold me back, and it will come as no surprise that it's affecting my sleep. I'm up late, avoiding the thoughts that will fill my mind as soon as I place my head on the pillow. Then I'm up with the dawn and I seem to repeat the day that ended the night before. It's like that movie, Groundhog Day.

When day broke this morning I bunged a half-dozen cats off the bed and entered the master bath to find the tub occupied with a female form covered in bubbles with what seemed like another dozen or so feline accomplices. The female proved to be Ms. Wonder. (Wonder assures me that the house isn't chock-a-block with cats--more or less the normal allotment according to her--but I'm not buying it. You can't find a comfy spot near any window that isn't running over with cats.

"Oh, you startled me," she said.

"Not like you startled me," I said. "The top of my head nearly came off. I mistook you for Gina Lollobrigida."

"Who?"

"Never mind," I said. "Probably before you discovered your toes. What I came here to announce is," I paused here for effect, if that's the word, and then I let it go, "I do what I like now." 

"What are you talking about?" she asked.

"I just don't have enough time to do everything."

"You came to bed late," she said, changing the subject abruptly. I thought of making an issue of it, and I'm sure I'm right on this point, that Napoleon would have made an issue of it. But after second thoughts, I gave it a miss.

"Went for a walk in the garden," I said.

"Good for you," she said, "the garden is at its nicest late in the evening. Soothing."

"That's your view, is it?" I said, meaning it to sting.

"And the stars," she said.

"What about the stars?"

"You know," she said. "Look how the floor of heaven is thick inlaid..."

I waved a hand, realizing that we were dangerously close to poetry and a heightened risk of hearing about young-eyed cherubims and the kind of harmony that exists in immortal souls, and I felt that something must be done quickly to prevent it.

"Ms. Wonder," I said.

"How does it go?" she asked, although I knew it wasn't really a question. She continued without pausing, "the smallest orb in his motion like an angel sings..."

"Wonder Woman!"

"Such harmony is in immortal souls..."

"Poopsie!" 

"What?"

"You couldn't possibly put it aside, could you?"

"Oh, I'm sorry," she said. "Not in the mood for poetry then?"

"Is anyone ever?" I said. "And before we move on, let me point out that here again is another example of Shakespeare simply slapping down any old thing that comes into his head. Cherubims! The man was looney to the eyebrows!'

"It's not Shakespeare," she said.

"Well, I'm surprised it isn't. I'll bet that someone had to get up pretty early in the morning to come up with something that Shakespeare hadn't already written."

"You get up pretty early in the morning," she said.

"What of it?" I said. 

"Just saying," she said. "Have you made any progress on how you hope to spend the next chapter of your life?"

"Yes, I have," I said. "I've ruled out a number of things." And with that, I made a masterful dash for the door.  One thing about the Genomes is that we may be men of cold steel but we know when we're in over our heads, and I may not have the quickest mind in the village but I could tell that Wonder was about to make another of her suggestions that cause the earth to tremble and grown me to cry.

Writing Lesson

I woke this morning with that feeling you sometimes have that in just about 7 seconds the universe is going to come unraveled and someone's going to have to pay for all the excess we enjoyed in the 1980s. I hate that feeling and the reason I hate it is because I missed out on much of the fun provided by that decade of RAD.

I got out of bed and hurried downstairs for a cup of Jah's mercy.  I walked to the cupboard, opened the door, and stood staring at the coffee selection. 

"What's wrong," said Ms. Wonder. "You look like..."

"I look like what?"

"Nothing," she said.

I thought her style to be a bit harsh considering the subject matter and I thought about telling her so but, hoping to keep the spotlight on me, I decided to let it go.

"You know that I'm still downsizing," I said. "Trying to fit 20 years in Durham into 5 months in Brunswick."

"Or something like that," she said.

"So last night when rummaging through the next box in line, I found that unfinished collection."

"You mean that collection of story ideas?"

"You know what I mean," I said. "I need fresh material for the blog and fresh material is just what I don't have a lot of these days. I blame COVID."

I waited for her to respond but she seemed distracted by Sagi who was surfing the countertops.

I had an idea that seemed promising but it wasn't really something that happened to me and as you well know, The Circular Journey demands large doses of truth, and by that I mean, my actual life. 

"What's your idea?" she said.

"Well, all aspiring authors must face a barrage of rejections. At least that's the prevailing thought in writing circles. Steven King tells a story about spiking his rejection letters on a nail driven into his office wall."

"But we didn't get a lot of rejection letters," she said. 

"Right," I said, "but my idea is that a writer decides to give all the rejections a positive twist."

I didn't reply. I just gave her a look that was meant to say, Go easy, Wonder. These are slippery slopes.

"I'm so sorry," she said. "You don't really look like...." She swallowed big. "Never mind."

This may be a good time to explain that when I began writing for periodicals, I received rejection letters, just as everyone else getting started. It was painful, of course. You work hard on a story and are so proud of it when you submit it, thinking that it will win awards and make your name familiar to all. But then the rejection notice comes and you're deflated. It's all you can do to stay away from alcohol, drugs, cigarettes, and chocolate candy.

But one day, by accident really, I realized that I'd received rejection letters from the major newspapers in twelve of the original thirteen states. Getting one more rejection from that last state would make a complete collection. It would allow me to put a positive spin on something that's normally disappointing, hurtful, and an obstacle to overcome.

The newspaper to target was obvious--the Atlanta Constitution. I wasted no time in choosing a subject that would be of little interest to the newspaper's subscribers and consequently of no interest to the editors. I submitted a piece on kayaking the Intracoastal Waterway out of McClellanville, South Carolina. The piece had been popular with the readers in Myrtle Beach but would interest few people living in Atlanta.

I sent the piece off in the mail and waited expectantly for the rejection. To my dismay, the piece was not only published in the Sunday travel section but the editor received several letters from subscribers declaring how much they enjoyed reading it. She asked me to submit more like it.

It was a big disappointment, of course, but the editor's specific request gave me the inside track I needed to win a rejection. All I had to do was write something so different, something totally unlike that little adventure piece, that it would be rejected out-of-hand.

I wrote about the two little churches in the North Carolina mountains where Ben Long painted his first public frescoes. I was so certain of a rejection that I started planning the celebration. 

Nothing doing. It was published. How I wondered could the editors of such a prestigious newspaper have such lackadaisical standards? 

I was getting more than a little concerned. Newspapers were already feeling the bite of a downturn in the general economy and many of them were abandoning regional contributors and printing more free articles from the UPI and AP. Time was running out. But I had one more ace in the hole if that's the term.

Christmas was on its way and that provided an idea that I considered foolproof. No self-respecting editor of any newspaper based in the southern United States would print an article during the holidays with a deviant theme and I had an idea that was deviant as a drug addict.

I wrote a piece on the origins of traditional Christmas customs. I associated the Christmas tree, the custom of gift-giving, and even Santa himself to pre-Christian, pagan Europe. Hallelujah! It's raining rejection notices. Don't you think?

Weeks later a large envelope arrived and I could tell before opening it that it contained my manuscript and the DVD with Ms. Wonder's original photography. It could mean nothing other than standard rejection notice.  I called Wonder to join me for sparkling grape juice and celebrate the final piece of the collection. But when we opened the envelope, it contained only the disc. The message was clear enough. The article had been rejected but there was no rejection letter to complete my collection.

I was crushed. After the appropriate period of mourning, I picked myself up, as we Genomes are want to do, and I submitted no more articles to newspapers. From that day forward, I wrote for magazines only. The story is a good reminder of the Fierce Living motto, Life comes hard and fast. Be ready for anything.

Back In the Village

Well, here I am again, back in the Village of Crystal Cove and staying at the Inn of the Three Sisters. I know what you're thinking. As determined as I am to avoid this place, how is it that I end up here so often? 

Well, I'd like nothing better than to explain but it's a long story and for God's sake, I can't into it now. Right now I want to tell you about the dream I had on my first night here.

In my dream, I was in a hotel restaurant in central Missouri. I know! Central Missouri! Dreams can be so weird. I was eating a bowl of wabi-sabi--I know, I know! The waitress, filling the tall, amber drinking glass with tissue restorer was Susan S. and she looked exactly the same as so many years ago when she was a doctoral candidate at Rice University.

Susan inclined her head, the way the best waitresses do, toward the sidebar and recommended the sauce in the bottle there over the sauce in the bottle on my table. Of course, I walked over to investigate but discovered that the indicated bottle was uncapped and that the mouth of the said bottle was all crusty! When I turned to protest her recommendation, Susan was gone. 

Guess what happened next. Right! I woke up. You will not be surprised to know that my immediate thoughts were of the nature of the dream. What the hell, I thought. 

Now I am well aware, just as I'm sure you are, that many great and wonderful breakthroughs come to people through dreams. I'm sure you remember the story about Albert Einstein unlocking the secrets to general relativity because of a dream in which he rode through space on a sunbeam. Or was it a comet? Don't quote me.

What you don't know is that this Susan S. is the person who taught me to decipher dreams. The technique requires that immediately upon waking, you use guided imagery meditation to put yourself mentally back in the scene of the dream and then you direct your questions to one of the characters in the dream. You can speak to a person, a rabbit, a zombie, it really doesn't matter. Ask a direct question concerning events in the dream and you will get a direct answer. It really works. Try it sometime. I tried it with this dream.

I soon was back at the same table in the restaurant in the middle of Mizzou but, as I'm sure you've guessed already, Susan wasn't there. The waitress was played this time by Amy Normal, Backup Mistress of the Greater Durham Night and part-time barista at Native Ground. 

I considered the change of personnel to be irrelevant, a side issue, and one that I would not let distract me from unlocking the secrets of whatever my higher self was trying to tell me. I decided that this Amy, not to be confused with Princess Amy, although come to think of it they do have a lot in common, would be met with the same respect I show the idle wind, which as Poopsie Wonder tells me…oh forget it. Not important really and I'm in danger of getting derailed. Let's get back to the pertinent details.

I rolled up my sleeves and got into action. She--Amy Normal that is--raised an eyebrow and I saw immediately that she was going to play hardball. I decided to take the direct approach. Always best when the witness is hostile. I'm sure Napoleon would approve.

"Hey, Normal," I said. "What gives?"

She rested her elbow, the one connected to the arm holding the coffee pot, on her hip and gave me a look.

"Simple," she said. "You're wabi-sabi has got stems on."

This got right by me. Stems? As you well know, this Normal and I have our differences and she can often become a thorn in the side but I've always maintained that her IQ is of the highest and brightest. This comment however had me reeling. I was sure she had finally come undone. 

"Look in the bowl, douche-bag," she said.

"Bowl?"

She stomped her foot, just a little, like a horse stamping the ground prior to charging into the fray if fray is the word. She looked toward the ceiling and sighed and for some reason and it immediately dawned on me what she was driveling about. I looked into the wabi-sabi bowl and you will never guess what I found there.

Cherries! The wabi-sabi, whatever the hell that is, had become a bowl of cherries--with stems on.

It was at that precise moment, back in the waking world, that Uma, Empress of Chatsford, began licking the top of my head. I woke but lay motionless thinking about the dream. Uma put an end to the meditation when she began playing Dig-the-Mummy-Out-of-the-Sand. What the hell, I thought. You play the hand you're dealt. 

I rose, moved to the window to salute the sun, and then performed the morning ablutions. This day was going to be filled with more good than bad and I was ready for it. I may not know the meaning of the dream but I have the support of Poopsie, Uma, Susan, and yes, even Amy. And like icing on the cake, I have you, my 1000 real fans, to rely on to get me through the day. What's the worst that could happen?

Coastal Camelot

Morning comes early in Southport, North Carolina. You're probably thinking that it comes early where you live too, but let me tell you, there is far more to the morning here than you can imagine.

On a clear day in this small seaside village on the edge of the Atlantic, the dawning begins with a rosy glow that gradually becomes a golden curtain draped over the horizon. Then, as if on cue, the curtain opens to reveal that familiar old ball of gas in his most pleasing aspect of Monarch of the Heavens.

Reminiscent of that perfect original garden.

Soon after sunrise, the morning clouds gather in the east, puffy and white, to soften the morning light. The day’s unfolding is reflected on the serene surface of the Atlantic Ocean—the surf calmed by numerous barrier islands. It's all very much like Camelot in the way it resembles perfection.

This morning opened with a show so grand and so majestic that I found myself questioning Mr. Priddy’s sixth-grade lesson about the earth’s rotation causing the sunrise. Surely, I thought, gazing at this glorious beginning of the day, only a goddess driving her divine sun chariot could put on such a spectacle.

Each evening, just about the dinner hour, clouds gather on the western horizon, and the sea breeze grows even more refreshing. People gather to stroll along the waterfront—some playing with children, some walking with dogs, and some arm-in-arm with lovers.

The mystique is irresistible.

Little streams of people begin to pool outside popular spots like Fishy Fishy Cafe, Southport Provision Company, and Port City Java. And of course, people gather wherever the movie du jour is being filmed. 

The charm of Southport is so alluring that there's always a movie or television series being filmed here. It's not unusual for two or three projects to shoot concurrently in this charming community.

We arrived at the Yacht Basin early hoping to claim the best vantage point to watch the filming of “The Waterfront,” a new television series slated for release in 2025. 

While many visitors hope to catch a glimpse of the stars of the show, we came for the behind-the-scenes excitement—the flawlessly orchestrated hustle of the production crew is a spectacle in itself.

The docks of the Yacht Basin have been converted to serve as a film set but all was quiet when we got there. We soon discovered why. The action of the moment was taking place behind us. 

An ocean-going freighter had entered the Cape Fear River, and the harbor pilot was climbing a rope ladder to board the ship and guide it into the Port of Wilmington. Not even a movie production can compete for attention with a scene like that. 

“Picture’s up!" yelled the movie wrangler, calling our attention back to the set in time to see the extras go into action

“Rolling!” Called the principal cameraman, and men began loading crab crates onto fishing boats. An actor dressed in a deputy sheriff’s uniform strode through the maze of cameras and onto the set. 

Cut!" yelled the First Assistant Director, and the command echoed around the set. The fishermen began removing and restacking the crab crates for the next take. 

One of the visitors in the crowd said to his companion, “This is some serious acting.”

"Hmmm," I said to Ms. Wonder, and I emphasized the statement with a raised eyebrow. She raised an eyebrow of her own to indicate that she shared my opinion of the spurious review.

"Cart's here!” she suddenly exclaimed, and I didn’t need to ask what she meant. We hurried to the loading zone to board the touring cart for the next excursion through all of Southport’s most popular destinations.

Time moves more slowly in Southport.

In a world where everything is constantly changing, Southport offers a comforting sameness. And there's no better way to experience how dependable the town can be than by joining the one-of-a-kind tour that is Southport Fun Tours.

Dan Guetschow, affectionately known as “The Rev.” conducts the tours and regales his passengers with tales ranging from local history to local gossip. Dan earned his nickname while playing guitar with the Boz Skaggs band. I know—Boz Skaggs! It’s little surprises like this that make Southport feel even more magical. 

Later in the evening, Ms. Wonder and I strolled along the saltwater marsh on our way back from the yacht basin. A line dance of pelicans passed overhead, playing follow the leader. The first bird glided to the right, and one by one, the others followed. The leader moved back to the left, and the rest followed suit. The aerial waltz was repeated several times until the birds were out of sight.

The perfect spot for happily ever after-ing.

The music of Jimmy Buffett drifted up from Southport Provisions cafe while we searched for the best spot to photograph the sunset. We met a local native enjoying the evening in the company of her Scottish terrier. I nodded as we passed.

"Crabs are out," she said, and she said it with authority.

"Ah," I said after searching the data banks and failing to find an appropriate reply. My subconscious, working in the background, continued to puzzle over her words. Before I could think of a satisfactory response, she spoke again.

“Big blow coming,” she said, glancing over her shoulder toward the evening clouds.

I smiled to myself, knowing full well that it never rains ‘till after sundown in Camelot. This time I had the perfect comeback—bright, optimistic, and cheerful.

"Stay dry," I said to her in my friendliest tone, and I felt pretty full of myself too. 

"Didn't say rain," she corrected. "Wind!"

"Ah," I said again, and I consoled myself for that second blunder by reminding myself that, in short, there's simply not a more congenial spot for happily-ever-after than here in the coastal Camelot that is Southport.