Abracadabra, Alakazam!

This morning I woke with the feeling that I was sitting in a blue bird's nest surrounded by a chorus singing of sunshine, blue skies, ocean breezes, and all the fixings. I can honestly say that I was feeling boompsie-daisy. 

"Wonder," I said on my way to the sal de bains, "I'm feeling boompsie-daisy."

I never expect Ms. Wonder to take anything I say big and she didn't surprise me this morning. These descendants of Russian nobility do not let excitement move them from their center, remaining balanced at all times.

She continued to pluck her brows while she expressed her opinion but, I'm happy to say, that her expressed opinion was good. 

Yes, the morning began with a decidedly pro-Genome bias. And yet, you will hardly credit it, but when I emerged from the shower, Princess Amy cast her veil over my eyes. The bright sparkly thoughts that filled my head only a few minutes prior were now "layer'ed o'er with the pale cast of thought." as I've heard Wonder describe it.

Up one minute, down the next, that's the Genome known by most of the Villagers. It's a chemical thing with a lot of technical jargon and a lot of guff about the amygdala, the little organ in the brain that's the center of the limbic system and the source of emotion. 

The species of amygdala that sits behind the control panel of my emotions is a very stubborn little organ and most insistent on getting her way. She reminds me of a spoiled little princess who relies on temper tantrums to make her the center of attention. I call her, Princess Amy.

Who was that Roman guy who wrote about everything being part of the Great Web? He understood that everything in life was interconnected. Wrote books about it I believe. No matter, it will come to me later.

My point is that I see my depression as being part of that Great Web. In my case, the web is one of Serotonin reuptake inhibitors and whatnot. Marcus Aurelius! Yes, that's the perp I was thinking of! 

I knew his name would come to me. That Great Web in my brain is like a personal Internet of ganglia and synapses. Names can be hard to find unless I have the appropriate keywords in the search string.  

Now, where was I? Ah, right, I was about to say that Princess Amy is not the boss of me! I am the chosen one, the hero of my personal life story. I have that on the authority of Joseph Campbell and he should know. And according to C.S. Lewis, all heroes have magic swords. My own magic sword is my fierce intent. And it was fierce intent that pulled me out of the soup this morning.

Having clad the outer crust in the upholstery of the casually employed, I bunged myself into Wind Horse and gave her rein on the open road. But most importantly, I held fiercely to the intention that the open road and whatnot would return the bluebird to her rightful position.

As soon as I set out, I tuned the radio to "60's Gold" where Louis Armstrong sang "What a Wonderful World," which was followed immediately by The Loving Spoonful singing, "It's a Beautiful Morning." 

Alakazam! (The Arabic magical word, not the Pokemon character.) Alakazam is a sort of versatile magical command, along the lines of abracadabra. Regular fans of The Circular Journey will remember our tuxedoed magical feline who was called Abbie Hoffman. His real name, of course, was Abracadabra. But then you knew that already.

But I've jumped the rails again. Let's get back to the story. Alakazam! The effect was immediate. The sky cleared, the sun shone, and the birds began singing on key. Not in the outside world, which remained rainy and gray, but it was inside where the weather cleared.

I may never be completely depression-free and I may have to feel those blue emotions forever, but I don't have to let them steal my song. With sweet memories of the loves of my life, one of them being Abbie Hoffman, I can rise above the clouds of depression on the back of the spirit horse of fierce intent. 

Sweet memories make sweet dreams. And so I say, Abracadabra, Alakazam! Not today, Amy! I eat no pine needles today!

The Twee System

I began my morning walk, with emotions soaring over the rainbow. The skies were blue, the sunshine warm, and the Mockingbird Five were performing live at the Brunswick Welcome Center. I was feeling fine, better than fine--the word is hiding from me right now; begins with an 'E'. 

Then, little by little, I felt my mood slipping. I began to worry that my daily inventory was going to be disappointing. I felt that I'd stepped out onto what I've heard called, the slippery slope.

I know what you’re thinking. You probably think of me as one of the most delightful people you’ve ever met. You remember me as one who remains quiet and reserved in the company of others, who is always polite, and who pays attention when others speak.  

Genome, you say to yourself, what is happening to you? 

Well, it's no mystery, my friend. It may border on tragic and it may be heartbreaking. But it's no mystery. It began when a well-meaning friend, one who cannot leave well enough alone, suggested that I might benefit from those martial arts exercises you see advertised everywhere. 

My people-pleasing nature caused me to consent and before you could say lower dantien, I was enrolled in classes taught by Asian ambassadors for martial arts in America. My personality began to change. I became like one of those self-absorbed young men you see in TikTok videos. 

After a few weeks, I was no longer quiet and calm. I became hearty and talkative even at the breakfast table, driving Ms. Wonder to distraction, perhaps to tears if I’m completely honest. I often boast to her of having been out with the dog walkers for a bracing walk hours before she awoke. Nothing to it, of course. I probably got up when she was in the bath, if I'm honest. But I feel that I should say something to let her and others too know that I’m working to improve myself. 

If you think that's bad, better sit down. Throughout the day I sashay about town with a brisk, even jaunty, step. I greet everyone with a boisterous Good morning! I shake hands, I slap backs, and I'm generally a nuisance to almost everyone I encounter.

Naturally, this behavior has lost me a great many friends. But far worse has been the effect on my moral fiber. Although I like to think of myself as a mild and inoffensive man, I fear that Nature, the silly ass, has given me a ready wit and a short fuse. Whenever I find myself with a difference of opinion, and I do find myself in such situations more often than is probably healthy, I can’t help but think of a snappy remark or superb comeback. I sometimes decide it's a great pity to let it go to waste.

Brooding intensely over this troubling matter, and relying on my systems analysis skills, I’ve developed a program of spiritual exercises designed to improve the soul so that it keeps pace with the self-assertiveness. I like to think of it as keeping self and spirit aligned.

The key to success for this new system is to a mindfulness technique I mastered long ago coupled with the philosophy known as Twee (look it up). Imagine that you’re performing the kung fu hurricane kick. If you can’t imagine doing it, then imagine me doing it. Works just as well. 

Now as you lift the leg above the waist and swirl around toward the opponent, instead of thinking about driving your foot through his head, you think instead of the dictum that all creatures have co-evolved on the earth and that we are all endowed by our creator with certain inalienable rights and among these are the right to enjoy life, freely as Nature intended, in pursuit of our needs and desires. 

Having completed this exercise, you stand in the horse position, hands crossed at the lower dantien, and say the following words: I offer myself to you totally, good and bad, to do with, to make with what you will. 

Doesn’t matter who you’re offering yourself to; the words simply set the intent to get out of your own way.

Ecstatic! That's the word I was looking for. Sorry for the interruption. The word just popped into my head and I wanted to be sure to get it on record.

Space forbids a complete list of my new spiritual exercises, but I'm preparing a small illustrated booklet, found on the advertising pages. The portrait included here is taken from the booklet and shows me immersed in mindful Twee.

You'll notice immediately a sort of rapt, seraphic expression in my eyes and a soft and spiritual suggestion of humility about the mouth. A big difference in my demeanor and the offensively preoccupied expression you see in most of the public today, don’t you think? 

I hope my experience will benefit you as you travel your own self-improvement path. Remember, my friend, it's a wide, wild, wind-blown world we’re riding through but you don't have to let it blow your skirts up. Fierce Twee!

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.