Another White Chip

You know how the universe, or the Fate sisters, or some god-like intelligence working the joy-sticks likes to prank us by giving us the impression that everything is going our way? Of course, you do. You're no stranger here. Well, this morning was no exception.

I was up with the larks, the snails, and Bree, three of nature's best who apparently enjoy the early morning. The sky was clear and bright, the sun was at work on the usual corner, and bluebirds were singing the all-clear. In other words, all was right with the world, and no sign of the disaster that was to come.

But we Genomes are not new to this neck of the woods either. We've seen many days begin with this bien-etre outlook only to drop a banana peel in our path before mid-afternoon. 

Just as the honeyed sunshine climbed the garden fence and began creeping toward the snapdragons and clematis, I entered the kitchen to put on the coffee and get breakfast for Uma Maya and Sagi, the two resident felines of the Genome household. 

When Ms. Wonder entered the salon with a sheaf of travel brochures in her hand, I wasn't distracted in the way of lesser men. I naturally recognized the tactic as one of diversion and subterfuge. I knew that the imminent discussion of European river cruises was not the true source of danger.

Still, I'm amazed at the persistence of this Ms. Wonder in pressing the matter of cruises. Her fascination is becoming something that might possibly be defined in the Diagnostics and Statistical Manual V5. I can only assume it's something in her Slavic DNA, possibly something left over from the time her ancestors worked in the Orlov stables so near the Volga River. 

The problem with these luxury cruises, as I've mentioned in previous posts, is that once you get started, you find that you can't stop. You think you can quit any time you like but then the next thing you know, you're throwing a toothbrush and passport into a plastic bag and heading for the sea. First, it's a ship to Ixtapa Zihuatanejo, then it's a river barge down the Rhein, and the next thing you know, you're on a ferry down the Yangtze from Nanjing to Shanghai.

In the matter of cruises, I have taken a firm stand. If I wobble, she will be encouraged and continue to drag in these brightly colored tracts, much like Lucy, the cat, brings dead mice to the doorstep even though I make it clear in word and deed that the market for dead mice is sluggish if any.

Forgive me if the foregoing was a repeat. I sometimes get caught up in the emotions and let them sweep me away. Just stick with me and in the future, I shall remain mindful.

"Poopsie," I said, with confidence that suited me well; probably brought on by having the  home-field advantage, "do you know what today is?"

"Wednesday," she said.

"Today is the day Sagi gets his 90-day chip."

"Wow," she said, and with this one exclamation, I knew that I had sidestepped the talk of ships and ports of call. "Has he been clean for three months? Again?"

"That's right," I said, "our top-ranked caramel-colored tabby has not shredded a single roll of toilet paper since December 2. And you didn't need to add the 'again' to your remark. I'm aware that he's had his slips but let's remain confident."

"Oh, that boy!" she said with warm admiration. "Where is he? I'm going to give him a chin-scratching. He likes that."

Immediately, she was up the stairs and looking for the cat, probably on his favorite cushion in the upstairs window. And I was left in the kitchen alone, bubbling over with joie de vivre resulting from my nimble avoidance of you know what.

I was doing my patented victory dance, a little something that I'm told originated with Alexander, or was it Napoleon? No matter. As I danced my way around the kitchen island, the corner of the counter near the cupboard came into view. A sudden chill around the ankles stopped my dancing. I stared at a roll of paper towels sitting on the counter near the window. 

The subject, Sagi, sat next to the towels and looked toward me with an expression much like the one that native English speakers wear when about to say something in French.

The towels were not the tight wound roll of ephemera that you might expect. They were streaming out across the counter and down onto the floor. We Genomes have quick minds and I instantly discerned what had occurred.

There was Sagi, spirit floating gayly along, 90 days clean and sober. Sitting on the sofa with me watching Weekend Update and then I fell asleep, leaving no one in control. The Met Gala followed WU and all those celebrities parading down a long, flowing pathway must have reminded this champion feline of a roll of paper towels. 

Seeing that long, flowing streamer leading to the celebrity parade must have been too much for his paper addiction. I can see him now, white-knuckling through the show, hoping for the commercial that never came, until he could take it no longer.

I could clearly see, looking into Sagi's eyes, the familiar kitty lament that says, 'you promised that you'd never subject me to more than I can bear, but this!'

It must have been for him the work of an instant to leap to the counter and begin spinning the roll of towels until they shot across the room and floated to the floor. I can imagine how satisfying the sight must have been to him. But then the remorse of having gone back out inevitably followed, as it always does.

The evidence of his back-sliding is just another example of the trouble caused by Auntie Mabd, the younger of the Fate Sisters, or if you will indulge my own personal theory--Princess Amy. Now there's one of the girls if you want one. Benevolent universe, my left foot. And you can quote me! 

Not all aunts are bad, of course. My Aunt Mary Magdalene and Aunt Arvazine come to mind as the good and deserving types. Still, behind every poor schmuck going down for the third time is an aunt who shoved him into it and it's amazing how often the aunt in question is one of the big three--Mabd (Amy!), Nemain, or Macha.

It's the same for cats.

The situation strongly resembled some great moment in Greek tragedy where the hero is stepping high, wide, and handsome--as I believe the saying goes--completely unaware that Nemesis is following close behind looking for an opportunity to drop a banana peel. This moment was that moment.

I scooped him up and gave him a kiss behind the ear. "Don't worry my old buddy," I said. "We'll get through this; remember, my friend, you fail in the face of rolls of paper, but together we recover and re-roll."

Born Of The Sea

I entered the door of Native Grounds hoping to find my god-neice, Lupe, in residence. She's recently moved into the Castle Street Arts District and can be found most mornings enjoying a steaming mug of Jah's blessings at the cafe. This morning was no exception.

She was sitting near the window with her roommate, Claudia, and they were dressed in a way that left no doubt they traveled in the same circles. They recently met I'm told at the annual pow-wow in the mountains of western Carolina.

Having my coffee in hand, I joined them. 

"Hello, old ancestor," said Lupe.

"Not sure I like that," I said. "Isn't ancestor a title reserved for those who sleep with the stars?"

"Elder then," she said.

"How about, god-uncle?" I said.

"Genome, it is," she said. Claudia giggled.

"I'm happy to see you," said Lupe. "Now tell us a story. Claudia hasn't heard many of your stories and she thinks you're interesting. Although, I can't imagine why."

Claudia's brow wrinkled at Lupe's verbal jab.

"She likes to tease me about my stories," I said. "And yes, it so happens that I do have a story for you." 

"Knew you would," said the verbal jabber.

"Yesterday morning, I felt the need to go to get out on the open road to escape some of the depression that had enveloped me from the moment I woke."

"He talks like that when he's feeling philosophical," Lupe explained to Claudia. Claudia nodded.

"And so I thought I'd drive to Ocean Isle to visit my mother," I said.

"Does your mom live on the island?" asked Claudia. "I'd love to live there."

"Actually, my mother is the ocean," I said.

"The ocean is your mother?" said Claudia. Lupe smiled a knowing smile.

"Right," I said. "I was born of the sea."

"Oh, like Aphrodite!" she said getting into it. "She was born in the sea."

"Claudia," said Lupe, "don't encourage him. Humor him to be sure but don't make his stories illusions of mythology."

"But this is mythological," Claudia said. "And it's heroic mythology."

I was fast taking a strong liking to this new friend of Lupe's.

"Heroic!" said Lupe. "Heroic! That's silly. His stories may be entertaining but that's as far as they go. Nothing heroic."

"But Lupe, we all live in a fantasy of our own making," said Claudia. "We each are the hero of our life's journey. Joseph Campbell described it beautifully."

Lupe looked at Claudia the way one might look at a lost child. I looked at her like my new best friend.

"And so I was born at sea," I said. "Mother brought me to shore and hid me in the dunes among the sea oats. Fiddler crabs fed me and seagulls sang lullabies when the sun set each evening."

"Really?" said a wide-eyed Claudia. Lupe rolled her eyes in silence.

"With the next full moon, baby sea turtles hatched and made their way back to the sea and I followed them."

"Then what happened?"

"I was lifted from the sea and sailed on a wooden ship with brightly painted sails to my first home where I lived with other children like me until we were taken to our forever homes in this dimension."

"Oh," said Claudia. "You must have suffered separation anxiety in a big way."

"It hurt like unrequited love," I said. "But we consoled ourselves with the knowledge that the purpose of our lives was to raise the consciousness of earthlings around us."

"Oh, if only I could place my hands on a really hot stove right now," said Lupe.

I gave Claudia an inquiring look but Claudia was given Lupe one. Apparently, she was unfamiliar with the quote too. Perhaps it's one you know? Shakespeare, Aurelius, Socrates? Leave a comment below.

Jesse the Bear

Life is a struggle. Life comes hard and fast and often takes us by surprise. I think of daily life as Jesse the Bear.

Jesse is a fictional bear that attacked one of the characters in a TV show from the 90's called Northern Exposure. The bear had assumed mythical status in the mind of Holling, the character who survived the attack. Holling lived with the memory of that attack in his mind every day and to him, the bear Jesse was waiting for him--everywhere.

My own personal Jesse was born on the grounds of our elementary school when the class bully would wait for me every morning before class.

He would sneak up behind me, throw me to the ground, and then sit on me. Then he'd shove a handful of pine needles in my face and demand that I eat them to be allowed to get up.

Many of my classmates would be nearby witnessing my humiliation and embarrassment. But no matter how my attacker taunted me and even punched me, I refused to open my mouth. I may have been physically and emotionally bruised but I maintained at least a little dignity by not giving in to his demands. It was the only means of resistance available to me.

The experience instilled in me an attitude of defiance and a fierce determination to resist and often fight to defend what seemed fair and right. It gave me a motto for living life on life's terms:

I will not eat pine needles!

Later when alcoholism and addiction beat me down, it was that willingness to fight back that led to my recovery. I would undoubtedly be dead now without the support of Alcoholics Anonymous. But I was still humiliated and angry due to the loss of almost everything important to me.

I was filled with anger and it would have brought me right back into the limitations of addiction if I had not had an outlet for my anger. I found that outlet when I discovered that many of my problems were due to a mental health disorder. 

Princess Amy is the personification of my diagnosis: Bipolar Disorder II, mixed state, rapid cycling. She has given me someone to fight against. She has become my personal Jesse the Bear.

No matter what Life throws at me, I intend to refuse to eat pine needles and fight back in any I can. In fact, when the whistle blows and it's my time to clock out and sleep with the stars, I fully expect to go out like Butch and Sundance. If not a hail of actual bullets, then:

a hail of the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, 

freeze-frame, 

roll the credits.

Stormy Weather

The morning began as one that could go either way. After the first cup of Jah's mercy, I might feel like singing zip-a-dee-do-dah or I might feel like singing Stormy Weather. I was considering how I should begin the day when Ms. Wonder came into the kitchen looking for her cup.

"I suppose you're going to Southport today," she said.

"Not Southport," I said, "Brunswick Forest."

"Not Southport?" she said. "I thought you'd be chasing the film crew making that new movie. What's its name? The Problem in Providence?"

"The name is The Problem With Providence not to be confused with A Problem With Providence, which is another movie in production right now, but not in Southport. And if you want my opinion, many people are going to confuse the two movies from now until the final Big Bang, which is expected to occur, in case you haven't heard, sometime in 2025."

"Why did you change your mind, if you don't mind my asking?"

"I decided that today would be better spent chasing the Creature of the Blank Lagoon."

"Oh my God!" she said. "I thought you'd given up that looney idea of finding a lake monster. Have you forgotten the time wasted last year looking for, what did you call it, Jordie?"

"First of all," I said. "It's not a monster, it's a creature. Surely you remember Lupe's argument that it's probably a mother taking care of a brood of youngsters. And secondly, it's technically a cryptid, and cryptids are found all over the world."

"They aren't found all over the world," she said. "They're reported by people who get their kicks by making silly claims."

"Cryptids are everywhere in the space-time continuum, Poopsie. You have your Yeti in the Himalayas; Sasquatch in the Pacific rain forests; Chupacabra; Nessie; the Kraken; and what about Unicorns; Pegasus; the Minotaur?"

"You're confusing the subject again," she said. "You're mixing legend, myth, and who knows what else."

"Even here in the Carolinas we have Normie in Lake Norman," I said.

"Again," she said, "more claims that have been exaggerated. In the case of Normie, the stories are used to market the Normie Lake Tours."

"Cryptids are nothing more than creatures that naturalists consider impossible or extremely unlikely," I said. "I personally have no trouble allowing for the possibility that such creatures exist because I consider human beings to be impossible and extremely unlikely to exist."

I expected the last remark to give me the edge in the debate because I thought the crack about humans to be an excellent talking point and impossible to disprove. Is disprove the word? I expected her to be nonplussed and she didn't immediately speak but to my surprise, she gave me one of those disapproving looks.

There was a moment of uncomfortable silence and I felt compelled to continue speaking. When I have the floor, I tend to keep talking. It's usually a tactic that I later regret but somehow I can't seem to stop myself.

"Ms. Wonder," I said, "my thoughts about humans aside, I have another reason to think there may be truth in many of the stories. I found evidence of one in Lake Jordan. 

You remember that surely. I never actually saw it steadily or whole, however, I uncovered plenty of evidence to satisfy me that the creature I call Jordie is real."

"Not actual evidence," she said.

"A very reliable source claimed to have seen them on several occasions," I said. "That's right; my source saw two of them; probably a breeding pair. 

I realize that the nay-sayers found fault with all my evidence. They went so far as to suggest that the footprints I photographed in the mud flats were simply dog prints that had been enlarged by rain. Dog prints! 

They claimed the wallows I found in the tall grass were formed by the wind. Even my photograph of her feeding in the morning fog was presumed to be a maintenance station for a gas pipeline.

A gas pipeline, Wonder! Have you ever heard anything so absurd? Well, I'm going to change all that. Remember the wallows we found on the banks of River Brunswick last summer?"

"Those were swirls caused by eddies in the tidal flow," she said.

"Swirls, my beret, Wonder! Those are bedding areas. The creatures come out at night to feed along the banks of the river. Everyone knows that! I've found more of them in the lagoons of Brunswick and there are no tidal eddies in the lagoons."

She sighed deeply and the look that crossed her face now was one of defeat. Somehow it made me feel bad winning an argument in this way. I felt that the Genome logic had overwhelmed her. I didn't like it.

"I've heard enough and I need to get back to work," she said, "but tell me honestly, you don't really believe these creatures exist, right?"

And so with that question, I realized that this was one of those situations that require looking deep into the soul and coming up with the right answer. 

The universe is a mysterious master, and it's impossible to completely understand it. I looked deep and found the answer. It was my turn to sigh deeply.

"Remember that conversation we had when you asked if I was ever happy? Well, having something fun to write about each day helps to lift my mood up above the clouds to the heavenly heights where mockingbirds sing."

I paused and savored for one more moment that feeling of having faced one's detractors and come out on top.

"So what if I look for cryptids in lagoons, and mythological creatures in the sewers of my mind, or film crews on the Carolina coast? It may not always elevate me above the happy threshold but it gets me closer than I'd be otherwise."

"Ah," she said. "Thank you for your candor and with that understanding, as far as I'm concerned, you can look for lagoon creatures until your eyes bubble."

"Thank you, Poopsie," I said.

"Not at all," she said.

"Fierce Qigong, Poopsie," I said.

"Fierce Qigong," she said.

When Morning Comes

Life comes hard and fast and I don't know about you, but it sometimes takes me completely by surprise. I still remember exactly where I was and what I was doing back in the day, when Steven Hawking, The Most Brilliant Physicist in the World, admitted that black holes don't exist. 

You could have knocked me down with a feather. I mean just what the hell are we to do now? It's another blatant example of one damned thing after another.

Sifu Abbie Hoffman

The cat Abbie Hoffman is just as concerned as I am about the chaos and absurdities of life. He's with me now on the desktop, sitting on my keyboard, and editing the work as I write. Even at this early hour, before dawn, we're fully dressed, he in his formal attire of white tie and tails, and I in my cargo pajamas. 

We make a good team and it makes me feel better to know that I'm not the only one who feels that the present circs are too tight for comfort. 

We were awakened this morning, Abbie and I, like everyone else in the Renaissance District of the SoDu, at 10 minutes past 5:00 by the ubiquitous tornado warning. 

Like everyone else we rose, gathered up Ms. Wonder and the rest of the furry tribe, and bunged them all into the bathtub for safety. However why the bathtub seemed safe is something that escapes me. 

I try to remember the bilge we were taught in school about bathtubs and the only thing I remember is that Archimedes made that discovery, whatever it was, while playing with baking soda in the bath. Was it baking soda? The details escape me.

We were told he shouted, "Eureka!" and danced around a good bit, flooding the floor and no doubt sending water out into the hallway. And we were supposed to believe that the excitement was caused because he'd discovered the principle of displacement. 

That's right, we're supposed to believe that he discovered displacement in the bathtub. And yet we know, pay attention because the punchline is coming. We know that bathtubs were invented in ancient Egypt several BC's before Archie and we're supposed to believe that no one noticed displacement in all that time? Get real.

But let's get back to the present, shall we? Here's Occum's razor to explain the morning weather. (Look it up. It's spelled Occum's razor.) 

What the National Weather Service picked up on radar was not a tornado but a wind vortex created by the Witch of Woodcroft. It was intended to suck the sick spiritual energies from the environment and transform them into something good for society. She does it all the time. Becoming a nuisance.

No wonder the NWS is confused. The Witch of W. means well--she does, I don't deny it. But, her work often brings unintended results. Don't worry. Abbie Hoffman and I are hard at work to restore the natural balance. 

As I sat back to admire my work, I noticed that Abbie was staring out the window. Dawn peeked timidly over the edge of the horizon in the far distance. No doubt She's unsure of what to expect from the weather, it being one of the dark and loud species of weather this morning. 

Apparently, Dawn puts little credence in the promise that "...weeping may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning." If She intends to continue in the role of Herald of the New Day, then She's going to need some bucking up. 

After all, the Sun can't make his appearance on stage with Dawn's introduction. It would be like discovering the principle of displacement with bathtubs.

Abbie made a little noise deep in his throat and I wondered if he shares my resentment toward the Sun for being absent when he's needed most. A fair-weather friend, the Sun, in my opinion. I'm happy to have that howler of a storm out of the way but I'm not sure that I'm ready to welcome the sun with open arms just yet. I forgive, really I do, but I don't do it quickly. 

Dawn and the other half of the morning sketch, the Sun, need to get their act together. It's another opinion shared by my tuxedoed feline friend and me.

The light suddenly became brighter in my office and Abbie jumped from the desktop to the chair near the window. He huddled down, making himself as small as possible in the way that cats do, and he peeked over the window sill. 

Sunlight was slowly working its way across the fields and woodlands from the east. The sun was smiling in that smug, self-satisfied way it has at the beginning of the day. It eased itself up the drive and began climbing the wall. Inch by inch, the light moved closer to my office window. At last, it peered inside, still smiling, and softly entered the room.

It was exactly the Bruce Lee moment that Abbie was waiting for.

Abbie Hoffman, having recently been certified as a master of taiji ch'uan, executed a lightning-quick single whip, if it was a single whip, and the Sun lay cowering on the floor while dawn fell backward onto the grass in front of the garage. It was as beautiful a single whip as I've seen.

Abbie looked down on Dawn with lazy eyelids as though it were normal to see Her spread-eagled on the lawn. He turned an inquiring gaze toward me and I returned a look to say that I understood completely. 

It couldn't be helped. It was a thing that needed doing and he, with his impeccable credentials, was the man to do it. Now we could forgive.

While I was congratulating him on a job well done, I became aware that his attention was arrested, if that's the word, by a shimming light that illumined the center of the room. Abbie Hoffman was staring into that light with wild surmise--much like the one worn by stout Cortez and his men when they first glanced at the Pacific.

"Well," I said to the specter, "we know you're here. You might as well show yourself."

And with those words, a large face materialized in the center of the room. The features shimmered and glittered in the morning light. When he recognized who I was, he smiled sending little sparkles flashing around the room like tiny fireworks."

"I apologize for the intrusion," said the Sun.

"No need," I said, "it's not your fault nor ours. I credit all this ranygazoo to the Witch of Woodcroft."

Abbie concurred, or he mumbled something that seemed to indicate agreement with my assessment. He rarely disagrees with me. We march in lockstep most days.

"She's off the wagon again!" said the Sun. "I thought 30 days in rehab..."

"I think it will require something stronger than a 12-step program," I said. "But Abbie Hoffman and I have an idea and now that you're here, we no longer need to let 'I dare not' wait upon 'I would'."

"Who's Abbie Hoffman?" he said.

"The cat in the adage," I said nodding toward Abbie.

"Oh," said the Sun, but not with any real conviction. "Well, I suppose I should get back into the heavens. Lots of people expecting it."

"I suppose so," I said, "although I don't know why. So many millennia without missing a day. I'd think that the odds are in favor of taking a day off."

And that pretty much sums up our morning. Even if some of the facts were mangled in the telling, the gist is there. The morning, as usual, swept away the weeping of the night and Joy now reigns supreme.