Goodness and Light

"Have you ever heard of a city called Tunis?" asked Island Irv as soon as I'd settled down with my Sunday morning latte in Ibis Coffee Cafe and Dance Bar.

"Sure," I said, "it's the capital of Tunisia and it's on the northeast corner of Africa, near the tip of the Italian boot or, if you prefer, the island of Malta."

I expected that to be the end of this line of questioning because he seemed puzzled by the inclusion of footwear in my response, and besides Irv often asks questions that go nowhere. But I was wrong.

"So what's the northwest corner of Africa near," he asked.

What, if anything, I wondered, is this leading to?

"The northwest corner lies just across the Straight of Gibraltar from Spain," I said.

"Spain," he said with a quizzical expression as though he were musing about the implications that particular bit of geography might have on his personal philosophy. I was prepared for more, but no, before Irv could think of another question, someone else took the stage.

"I'd like a double cappuccino, half-caf, with oat milk, a drizzle of caramel, and just a sprinkling of cinnamon. I want only enough foam to be aesthetically pleasing but no more."

The request was made by someone you've read about in a previous post. I described him then as being the Lord Sidcup type and I may have implied that he often instills in my mind the thought of beating his brains out with a brick. I call him Spode because he reminds me of that P.G. Wodehouse character.

I looked at Irv, who was looking at me, with the same expression; an expression that said, Oh no, not again, Lord. Why me?  

This local version of Lord Sidcup is a bit of a celebrity because he writes a column for Port City Magazine in which he reviews local hot spots, and the arts scene, and keeps us informed on the goings on in the city.

After placing his order, he walked toward the seating area but, immediately slowed to a standstill. He resembled the man who, after lunch with old friends from out of town, suddenly realizes he left his wallet on the kitchen counter at home. 

Minutes later a barista approached him with his order.

"Your double capp," she said.

"Oh!" he said as though it were a surprise. "I haven't found a table yet. I can't enjoy my coffee standing here in the middle of the room."

"There are a few tables near the window," said the barista and there are several tables along the far wall."

She made a delicate sweep with her arm as though revealing tables that had not been seen up to now. Her gesture was so dramatic that I wondered if she was enrolled in drama classes at UNCW. I thought I'd call her Desdemona. I don't know why. Just one of those things, I imagine.

"Oh, that won't do at all," he said. "I need a cafe table in the center of the room because the light is too bright near the windows and the television near the far wall is too loud. I need a quiet, well-lighted space to enjoy my coffee."

As she walked past our table, I caught her eye and said to her, "Well, that turned a little dark, didn't it?"

"That's alright," she said, "I like it dark sometimes." Then turning to glance back at Spode, she said with a low menacing tone, "I can go dark too."

I looked at Irv once more with two raised eyebrows. He called my eyebrows and raised me two more with a knowing nod.

Several minutes passed with Spode standing in the middle of the room giving the evil eye to seated customers. Eventually, he walked back to the order-here spot.

"Excuse me," he said to people at the front of the line, "I've ordered but need to make a small change."

"I've decided against the sprinkling of cinnamon on my cappuccino," he said to the guy taking orders at the counter.

The order taker didn't say anything but gave Spode a look that said, I'm not a major player in this episode, only an extra who has no speaking parts.

"My order was a double cappuccino, with a drizzle of caramel, and a sprinkling of cinnamon. But I've decided against the cinnamon."

The intrepid extra demonstrated a professional ability to improvise by looking at the barista to his left who nodded knowingly and then moved away, presumably to take care of the change.

Spode turned back to the seating area and walked to a table that had just opened up very near our own. He sat, took his tablet out of a shoulder bag, and signaled to the barista that he was ready for his coffee.

Desdemona soon returned with his order. "I'm sorry, said Spode, "but that's simply far too much foam. Can you remake it with half as much?"

"I'll get a spoon for you to remove some of the foam," she said.

"Does that ever work? I mean really work?" said Spode in a tone that left no doubt it was not a question.

She took the coffee away without a word.

Spode began working on the tablet and presently, a beautiful, thin-foam cappuccino was delivered to his table. I expected to see him bloom like a flower in the gentle rain of summer. But it wasn't to be.

"Excuse me," Spode said to the retreating Desdemona, "I don't want to be a bother, but I changed my order to leave off the cinnamon and yet there's cinnamon sprinkled all over the foam."

Desdemona gave him a long, slow expressionless look.

"I simply will not be able to write my article if I can't enjoy my coffee exactly the way I like it," he said. "Anything less will ruin my entire day."

Desdemona didn't reply. Her expression was unchanging.

"Please," whined Spode.

Still silent, she took the coffee away again.

Several minutes went by without noticeable barista activity. Spode began to appear anxious and occasionally looked up to glance toward the front of the cafe. Finally, he raised a hand and gestured for attention.

"Am I ever going to get my coffee," he said when Desdemona arrived table-side. "At this rate, I'll have the article finished before it gets here."

"Hang tight," said Desdemona. "We don't want you to lose your cool and disappoint the people with an anxious article. We're driving a master barista from Calabash to make your coffee."

She turned and walked away.

I looked at Irv with another raised eyebrow to see if he'd taken this development the way I had.

"You'd think a magazine columnist would be aware," said the islander, "that, even under the best conditions, a sensitive, highly-trained barista will go dark at the slightest provocation."

I nodded. Unfortunately, I had to leave before the specialist arrived from Calabash. I was disappointed too. I was looking forward to having a word with him. I've always wondered what's the deal about blonde espresso.

A Story I Can Believe In

Today was the yearly checkup for Uma Maya, Queen of Cats, Empress of Chadsford, and, as per the rule book, she is perfect. When she lounges peacefully in an upper-story window, gazing out upon the lawns and gardens of Chatsford Hall, there flickers in the air around her a shimmering image of the Hermitage with Uma reclining on a velvet cushion in a gilded Louis XIV chair. The vet crew at Cat Hospital of Durham are in awe of Her Majesty, as are we all.

Given that this feline has her paw on the thermostat of my happiness, you would expect the Genome to be proclaiming his standard, 'It's a beautiful day!' But no, it was not in the works. There was a somber and low-spirited mood in evidence. And I'll tell you why. It wasn't the gray sky and threatening inclemency. No, the reason for the leaden heart is the recent arrival at Native Grounds of one who gets the Lord Sidcup treatment, but one that I shall call Spode.

I don't have to tell you how important to my mental health are these morning assignations at the den of caffeine. But one sowing discord has recently joined our little klatch. You probably know someone whose presence causes you to fiddle with the keys in your pocket, do a little dance from one foot to the other and generally behave like a turkey caught in the rain. Well, in the case of this slab of gorgonzola, that's just the beginning.

This guy dominates the conversation, telling stories that make everyone uncomfortable and then offering an unspoken eye-to-eye challenge in his theatrical pauses daring you to disagree.

I want to ask him to leave, explaining that he is taking up space that's better used for other purposes. But I don't. Instead, I shush the proud spirit of the Genomes, the one I encouraged yesterday to stand up and speak out, declaring to the world that it is worthy and good enough to deal with whatever comes. You're probably thinking, 'So why don't you tell him to buzz off?'

The reason I hold my tongue even though the urge to beat his brains out with a brick descends upon me like Papa Legba riding a Voo-Doo devotee is that I don't know him well enough. You see, there is always a lot more to the story than what we know. I don't want to take away from someone the very thing they need to cope. Perhaps this man needs a group to hang with. Perhaps he's vulnerable and the challenging looks are his way of determining whether or not we will accept him. 

You see, at the foundation level, he is simply telling his story. We all do it. We all have stories. You're reading mine now. Stories aren't the drivel we spout at the coffee shop as we hobnob with friends. Stories are the lives we think we are living. If the story supports us and helps us to get through the day, that's a good thing. 

The reason I didn't speak out is that I don't know the man well enough to know that it's necessary. I could take something away that is propping him up until he can get real help. Still, knowing the right thing to do isn't the same as knowing what I want to do. And as I noted in a past installment, knowing what you want is vital. Now, I love the assembly at Native Grounds but I cannot sit and smile like an idiot while someone is spouting bilge that conflicts with my version of what's right.

I have made a decision and having made that decision, I shall ignore any and all evidence that doesn't fit with my plan. Here is the plan, as I see it. I am booking passage on the first freighter to the interior of the Amazon where I will live with the Tupi Indians as one of their own. That is my first choice. If that requires more time than I have available, then I will find another local caffeinery and begin building a new tribe. That is the plan for now and as always, the plan is flexible and may change.

The Buddha pointed out that all things are impermanent and I certainly don't want to seem in conflict with the man. After all, I have taken the oath to uphold the Sangha, or is it abandon myself to the Sangha, I forget which. I'll check with Ms. Wonder. The point I'm trying to get at is that no matter how I resolve this little crisis, there is one thing you can bet the mortgage on. I will not give up. The Genome does not eat pine needles.

Not Like A Melon

"Not like a watermelon?" I said.

"Certainly not," she said and I felt much of my anxiety fade away as soon as she said it. "If anything it's more like a honeydew."

I knew she meant well and was trying her best to reassure me because the little geezer has a soft spot in her heart for her favorite god-uncle. 

Although speaking from a place of goodness and light, and I was touched by her words, they left me non-plussed for the moment. I mean, it isn't every day that one of the nearest and dearest tells you, in a soft caring voice, that your head resembles one melon more than another.

I looked to Claudia who had just that moment joined us at our sidewalk table in front of Ibis Coffee Cafe and Dance Bar on Princess Street. She's one of those whip-spart urban girls who always knows just the thing to say in any situation. 

She didn't fail me in this situation. Apparently overhearing the recent conversation, she sat, and gave my hand a light pat as if to say, there there.

"Not at all like a melon," she said.

"Not like a melon?" I said hoping for more encouragement.

She gave Lupe a look that carried a light reprimand if I read it correctly.

Then turning back to me she said, "Not like a melon." Her eyes turned up and to the right, as if she'd find something more to say in that corner of her head. "More like the dome of St. Catherine's," she said.

I was struck mute and could only return her look, which immediately softened, and took on something resembling what I've heard described as, that hangdog look of a native English speaker who is about to attempt French.

"Are you familiar?" she said. "With St. Catherine's I mean."

"Of course," I said, "it's the cathedral on 3rd Street."

She brightened when she heard my words and said, "Yes, that's the one! Good." With that she patted my hand, excused herself, and went inside to order what I assumed would be a steaming cup of Jah's Mercy.

I followed, feeling that I could use another cup of his mercy myself.

Charlie and The Extra

It's all a multi-layered, convoluted, mash-up if you want me to be rigorously honest about it. And why would you want anything less? Besides, I've made a promise to be completely upfront with my public and what follows is as upfront as the orchestra seats.

If you've been following along this season, you're aware that after the last of my entourage retired and moved to gentler climes, I was lost. I mean, now that it was all over, just who was I? Life is a stage after all and each of us has our role to play. But I'd been a main character in the current production since opening night and suddenly I found myself cast as an Extra. 

I was open to suggestions and Amy took advantage of my weakness to convince me that I was called to collect the soul vessels of the recently departed. I'm sure you're up-to-date and all that.

Fortunately for me, and follow me closely here, Amy doesn't give me clear instructions. She likes to make me work for it. What she actually told me, and you will remember this, is that I should become a reseller of vintage items.

Let's not go into all that now. I've written about it often and you can find all you want to know in the archives.

The purpose of reselling, according to Amy, was to keep the world safe from the dark forces of the Underworld striving to take over the Upperworld. I embraced her suggestions because there’s nothing more bracing than seeing the forces of darkness stubbing their toe.

Eventually, it became clear that Amy's true purpose was to drum up as much mania as possible. She's addicted to the stuff. Oh sure, she claims she can quit anytime she wants but, in truth, it only takes one and she's off on some bender and God only knows when she'll hit bottom.

Yes, it's all heiness, underhanded, skullduggery known as feeding one's monkey. That's what it is.

Turns out that Amy used one of Christopher Moore's books to manipulate me and it was, to be blunt, a dirty job. Fortunately, for me, that same book held the solution.

The Emperor of San Francisco explained that my true purpose was to be out among the people of the city when they were just beginning to stir. My job was to greet the day, setting the stage for the shape of things to come, and do a bit of mood-lifting for the people I met. 

When the opportunity arose, I was to lift the mood of their little dogs too. You might say that I was to become the antidote to the Wicked Witch of the West.

"Sometimes," the Emperor said to me, "a man must muster all of his courage to simply be calm, quiet, and present in the moment. Only then can one be kind to all without judgment."

Life is much better now because somehow, some way I have more space for the love that Ms. Wonder sends my way. If that's all there was to look forward to, it would be more than enough.

Of course, I still see things. You've read about most of them, but one there is that you haven't heard of. Recently, I've seen squirrels peeking over fences as if to spy on me. I know! It's hard to credit but I swear it's true. And I'm not so sure they aren't filming me. I wouldn't swear to it. It's just a feeling I have.

Now, I should probably mention that the squirrels may be monitoring my movements because they've seen me in the company of Charlie. Have you met Charlie? You'll read more about him in future posts but for now, here's the essence.

Charlie is a member of the Doggy Nation, and like his cousins, possesses a hyper-active amygdala and has a less than enlightened opinion of coexistence with any rodent. 

Considering the above, you can easily understand why being seen with him may cast me in a suspicious light among the squirrel community. Still, I completely agree with Charlie that the tree monkeys are just way too goofy for a self-respecting terrier to tolerate.

There you have the gist of the current state of affairs. The multi-layered, convoluted, mash-up that is my new life. I'm still learning the ins and outs, and I'll do my best to keep you informed on developments. 

Until next time; Good morning! Have a wonderful day and most importantly, be happy, be healthy, and be safe!

More Joy in the Morning

His response lacked any real enthusiasm and this got right by me. Why? That's the question I asked myself. Consider the circs I mean. 

Going about his business on what was presumably a typical day for a rock troll--he's a personal injury lawyer in Uberwald--and then Biff! without warning, he finds himself sitting here in my studio. 

You would think, wouldn't you, that he would rally round and support the team in doing something about it?

"Life comes hard and fast," I suggested in an attempt to make him appreciate the importance of our work--Abbie's and mine.

"And sometimes it takes us by surprise," he said.

"You took the words right out of my mouth."

"Sir?" he said and I remembered that English isn't his native tongue and he's not fully equipped with all the gags and wheezes in the language.

"I was just about to say that," I said.

"My concern," he said, "is that fighting the negative forces seems ill-advised. It's well known that struggling against magic, we become more entangled."

"Ah," I said, "having found a talking point. "We do not struggle. We do not fight."

"We?" he said.

"Abbie and I," I said.

Abbie sat up to receive the recognition.

"Yes," he said in a soupy sort of voice, "the cat."

Abbie squeaked and directed one cold eye in his direction. This cat is a weapon when annoyed and channels the ancient Irish hero, Chuhulain, when in fighting mode. When one eye becomes larger than the other and steam escapes from the seams, the wise observer gets into the lead-lined jacket.

"We don't oppose the Witch of Woodcroft," I explained. "She's full of good works. She pulls the elements of decay from our environment and uses them as compost to feed a garden of wholesome and healthy delights. It's all on her website.

"I don't consider it delightful to be pulled away from very important business with the court," he said.

"Yes, I fully understand," I said. "The dross of her distillation, if it is dross, accumulates to critical mass. Then a loud report is heard and something that would rather not, pops in or pops out of one world and into another.  Like you. It's all very disturbing."

"You'd go so far as that would you--disturbing? Well, what can you possibly do about it?"

"That's where our plan comes into play," I said and Abbie Hoffman, who seemed to have calmed somewhat, stopped washing a paw and gave Feldspar another warning look to make it clear that he would harbor no backtalk about cats.

 "We will intercept the dross as it accumulates and replace the negative charge with a positive one--an effect greatly to be preferred because it will be healthful and enjoyable."

"How do you intercept the accumulation of dross?" he said.

"Ah, there you have me. It's something that Abbie Hoffman does but it's a trade secret and known only to him. But intercept it he does and then we use the raw material of it, he and I, to build a humorous story and then have a laugh. You can't be hurt by something that makes you smile."

"That sounds like Fierce Living," he said. "It's the solution you write about for managing runaway emotions. You're writing a book, aren't you? Is it finished?"

"Almost," I said. "Thank you for asking and yes, I am talking about Fierce Living. It works on everything. It's unbounded; it's wild and free; it's as wide as the sky and as deep as the sea. Why don't you join us, Feldspar? It will be like old times. We will make a team of three and nothing can stop us."

"Well," he said, and then looking at Abbie he added, "I don't know."

Abbie sat bolt upright at this, leveled a gaze at the troll and began washing the right paw with the intention, no doubt, of being prepared to deliver another single whip or possibly a repulse-the-monkey or a white-crane-spreads-her-wings. I'm sure you would know better than I.

Then suddenly Abbie Hoffman jumped down from the desk and approached Feldspar. I wondered if he was advancing to attack but then realized he was sniffing the chair. It was at this very moment that I noticed a distinctive odor.

"What is that smell?" I said.

"When the curtain between the worlds was rent," began Feldspar, "I was meeting with a gaggle of goblins and I fear that one of them fell through with me and I inadvertently sat on him."

"A goblin is beneath you?" I said leaning forward to get a better look.

"I'm afraid it's true," he said.

"Shouldn't you let him up?"

"On no account will I be responsible for releasing a goblin into your world. Remember the Middle Ages, sir."

"Right," I said. "So when you pop back home, he will pop back with you, is that it?"

"We can only hope, sir."

"I'm never going to get the smell out of that chair."

"I suggest burning it," he said.