A Day in the Life Ep2

After our encounter with Ms. Thistle in Brunswick Park, Charlie and I continued on our way to Native Grounds Cafe. You remember Charlie, don't you? He appeared in a couple of previous posts. Small guy, very curious, cute in a Zach Galifianakis sort of way. He's a member of the Terrier Tribe of the Dog Nation.

Arriving at the cafe, I was disappointed to realize that the only outdoor table was occupied by a vendor waiting to harass customers. The vendor turned out to be Greg, one of many local people who find temp work promoting local home-made goods.

Greg wore an apron that read, Gourmet Wild Bird Food. You're expecting a joke at this point, no doubt, but no, those words were actually on the apron. In big letters.

He was standing underneath an oversized umbrella looking more than a little despondent, but his face lit up when he saw me. I didn't consider it a good sign.

"Genome," he called, a little too loud and with too much topspin.  "Just the man I wanted to see this morning. How are you, my friend."

Now, there's probably no need to tell you what I was thinking when I heard the words "my friend." It's just as well, I really shouldn't repeat what I thought. The Genome social code doesn't allow such excesses.

Charlie began to express second thoughts about this aproned, chef-hatted human right away. He dug in his heels, struggled against his leash, and growled in a low, menacing way that left no doubt that he didn't like the setup, and neither should I.

"Hello, Greg," I said. "Wow, the humidity is off the scale today, isn’t it?" In truth, the humidity was nothing to complain about but I was grasping for something to say. After all, why would anyone say, 'Wow', unless circumstances had put them in a spot with little time to prepare?

"Ha!" he said and there was something dismissive in the way he said it, as though he cared little for the moisture. "Not a soul has come by since I got here. But now you're here so everything's alright."

I didn't care for that 'Now you're here...' expression. And I was dismayed to notice for the first time that his chef’s hat was adorned with what I’m pretty certain were feathers. I'm not over-stating it when I say it was shocking

"What’s in the cart?" I said and immediately realized it was a mistake. Showing interest in the poison isn't the best strategy when addressing a member of the Borge family.

"Oh, my friend," he said and I cringed at the resurgence of the  'my friend' motif. He reached into the cart and with a theatrical flourish, produced a bag of what I took to be birdseed.

The moment the bag appeared, Charlie changed his attitude. Where once he was hesitant and suspicious, he suddenly became curious and excited. No doubt, it was thoughts of the dog biscuits waiting inside the shop that changed his attitude.

"Greg," I said. "What is that?"

Charlie, was alternately placing his front paws on Greg's leg and then dropping back down to all fours to pirouette, is that the word, meaning turning round and round in tight circles?

His dancing got Greg's attention, of course. Everyone pays attention to Charlie when he dances.

"You are about to enjoy the finest bird food known to man," said Greg, holding a handful of seed down for Charlie's inspection.

"Greg," I said, "there are so many things wrong with what you just said, I don't know where to begin."

"The secret ingredients in this special blend are crushed pretzels and quinoa," he said to no one in particular. "But that's just me. What do you think little guy?" apparently directed to Charlie.

Charlie was not falling for it. He looked at the seed but nothing more. Instead, he looked at me with another raised eyebrow meaning, "What the hey?"

Now a Genome isn't intentionally offensive to anyone, not even a salesman attempting a cheap trick on innocent passersby. But my obligations to Charlie, an ambassador of his tribe, are just as important.

I inclined my head to the little guy and raised both eyebrows. It was my way of saying, "Charlie, you know that stuff isn't for us. Give it a miss, is my advice." Charlie got the message and backed off.

"Thank you, Greg," I said. "But Charlie and I have an appointment inside. I think Spring is there and I have a message for her from Ms. Thistle."

"But surely you will sample the..."

"The what?" I said. "Pigeon food?"

"Not pigeon food!" he said with a hint of wounded pride. "This is the finest bird food available. It's a culinary delight. Not only a taste sensation but it has an energy kick that will lift the mood. Try it." 

"It's still bird food," I said and I felt great relief at finally being in the position of owning the talking point.

But no. Greg gasped and brought his hand to his chest in a gesture equally as dramatic as Jack's in that episode of Will & Grace. 

"This food is imported from Thailand," he said. "They make animal food of the highest quality. They follow the same standards we use for human food."

"Sorry, Greg," I said. "Charlie insists that we get inside." 

Charlie looked up as I extended a hand to open the door. His expression said, "It's about time. You spend too much time talking to people that I don't know."

I glanced back at Greg. I don't know why. I suppose I wanted to see how he was handling the disappointment. He threw his hands up in the air and loudly lamented, “I’ve dedicated my life to helping improve the lives of others, and you’re rejecting my offer like it’s yesterday’s news."

"Sorry, Greg," I said. "Can't be helped. Responsibilities and whatnot."

As soon as we entered the cafe, I knew I'd made the right decision. How did I know? Charlie of course.  His body language left no doubt. The baristas saw him as soon as he crossed the threshold and his mood brightened even more. I wouldn't have guessed it possible.

"Hello, Charlie," they called. "Who's a good boy then?"

It was enough. He began wagging and wigging and making it clear that he was happy to be here. Everything else was forgotten. It was enough to make me forget Greg and Thistle. I was happy just to be in the presence of so much joy.

When the doggie biscuits appeared on the countertop, Charlie was enthralled. The wonder and excitement in his eyes convinced me that magic was involved. Doggie magic. You know, the more people I meet, the more I like Charlie.

Day of Reckoning

Across the bridge and into the heart of Ocean Isle I charged, my kung fu fighting cane on the passenger seat beside me, my jaw set like a bayonet, my face, had there been anyone around to see it, was a study in fearsome intensity. 

Today would be a day of reckoning.

My trusty steed, Wynd Horse, flew valiantly into the off-shore breeze as we crossed the Intracoastal Waterway. Mighty Quinn, on the dashboard, led the charge. Beignet's banner urging us on. 

Half a mile, half a mile, half a mile onward, as the poem goes, into the Valley of Juice Bars, Beachwear, and Outlandish Hair Highlights I rode. 

I'd come to the dunes of Ocean Isle, on the edge of the Atlantic, where the veil separating this world and the next is thinnest because in recent weeks the Universe had messed with me at unprecedented levels of heinous anxiety and mental weasel-osity. I intended to kick some Universal ass.

There are no reasons to justify these emotional excesses. Mood disorders don't make sense. The limbic system is out of whack and acts out in ridiculous ways at the most inconvenient times.

I've done it before and I'll keep on doing it when I've had more than I can bear. And I've had enough! I'm mad as hell and I'm not going to take it anymore.

Please don't start with the questioning comments. I'm aware that my AA sponsors wouldn't condone my behavior and my Buddhist teachers would urge me to return to the middle way.

Despite the AA sponsor's and Buddhist teacher's objections, I must take action. Sometimes a man must stand up and make his voice heard.

As we crossed the Intracoastal Waterway, my eyes scanned the area near the pier for parking spaces. There were none. Perhaps an available space could be found near Drift Coffee Cafe. Nope, that was a bust too. 

It was the final week before school and we'd just finished with a month of thunderstorms. The entire population of three states must have decided to come to the beach. 

I stopped at Sharky's and found parking near a construction site. It was only a quarter-mile walk to board one of those 6-passenger golf carts that tour the island. The cart would get me to the fishing pier and the dunes were only half a mile, half a mile, half a mile onward from there.

The golf cart charged into the thick of Ocean Isle at about 6 miles an hour. Not exactly supportive of the attack mode I'd planned. 

The slow ride was sapping my anger, so I imagined the cart to be a Viking longboat lined with war shields and with warriors hanging off the sides waving long swords while a booming drum drove us into a battle frenzy.

 The cart stopped at the play area to let a mom and two kids get off before continuing to the pier. The driver explained that Netflix was filming a family-oriented movie in the area and some of the attractions were closed to accommodate the production crew.

The ice cream shop was open. I bought a double-scoop of vanilla bean to soothe my disappointment. The ocean breeze melted the ice cream making my hands a sticky mess. I rinsed them in the sea. The day wasn't going as I'd planned.

Something had changed. My anger had dissipated. I came here to kick ass but now... I would have been satisfied to give someone a piece of my mind. But there's the rub, who would hear it?

No Sweeter Spot

Survival instinct drives a cat to seek safety in the high places far above the vague perils that lie hidden in lower levels. Abbie Hoffman, for example, often views the world from a place of safety atop the kitchen cabinets, knowing that any hullabaloo arising below can't touch him.

For those who're new to The Circular Journey, let me explain that Abbie Hoffman in this story is not one of the Chicago Seven. This Abbie, known on the street as Abracadabra, is a stylish cat, always dressed in black and white formal wear. Now, back to the story.

It must have been an instinct shared with Abbie that sent me up into the Castle Street Arts District this morning. Downtown Wilma rises several feet as it climbs away from the River Walk and up into the Arts District. 

From Cafe Luna, the elevated view looks out over the shops and restaurants lining the Cape Fear River and continues out past Memorial Bridge until it reaches the cypress forest surrounding the battleship, North Carolina.

The change in elevation did nothing to lighten my mood. It was a sultry, overcast morning. The drought that plagued the countryside in recent weeks was washed from memory by the current week-long string of thunderstorms that had rushed in from the Atlantic and now refused to leave.

The city was shrouded by a sullen sky and had taken on a brooding atmosphere. The river was a silver-gray smudge. The cypress trees along the river seemed menacing.

Pointless, it seems, to try lifting the spirit on a day destined to end in frustration and anxiety. Might as well save the energy for battles giving better odds.  I stepped into Cafe Luna, hoping the atmosphere inside was better than on the street. I ordered a double capp and played Jimmy Buffett on Spotify.

I was the only customer in the cafe and the barista seemed bored. She decided to take steps, the steps that generate diverting conversation. But she was not a buzzer, bless her, and lacked the skill to start something. As I was in the third half of the bipolar sketch, her attempt seemed futile. 

"Out for a walk this morning," she said.

It wasn't a promising beginning. Still, we Genomes never surrender and I decided to give it my best.

"Yes," I said. I know it was weak but I was trying to avoid anxiety by warming up slowly.

"It's muggy out there, isn't it?" she said and her words stirred my anxiety to look around and ask, 'What's going on here?' For my part, I was silently praying, 'Oh no! Please, God, let it not be about the weather.'

"I try to get a good walk in every morning," I said hoping to steer the conversation in another direction than the one it had taken.

"Do you like exercise?" she said and I remember thinking at the time, 'Where the hell is this conversation going?'

But I remained confident enough to continue.

"Me?" I said. "Are you kidding? I don't know when to stop."

"Are you a runner then?" she said. And if I was a little confused before, I was astounded now. What was this young geezer thinking?

"Run?" I said. "Did you ask if I'm a runner?"

"Yeah," she said. "My exercise of choice is running. What do you do for exercise?"

"Oh," I said and I was truly surprised by her explanation. "Exercise!" I said. "That explains it then. I'm sorry I thought you asked me if I liked extra fries."

Her face took on an expression one might expect to see on someone who felt strongly and had much to say. She tried to hide her thoughts but her face betrayed her. That's all it took. Everything changed in that moment.

I couldn't hold in the laughter. I came close to slapping my knee and shouting 'Huzzah!' This hard-working tiller of roasted coffee beans may not be a buzzer but she'd started something anyway.

"I can see why you were confused," said a voice behind me.

"Oh, I didn't hear you come in," I said.

"I overheard the conversation," she said. "And I'm like you. I run too but I run like a herd of turtles is chasing me."

This comic relief appealed to the barista and she burst into laughter like a paper bag exploding.

When she caught her breath, she asked the newcomer, "So you only run when you're being chased?"

"Let me put it this way," she said. "If you see me running, you better start running too because whatever is chasing me is nothing you want to be introduced to."

We all laughed great rolling waves of laughter. It was magical. Suddenly it mattered little that a storm was brewing outside. Inside it was sunny and set fair.

"I think I love you," said the barista.

"I know," said the newcomer.

In all of the Carolinas, there is no sweeter spot than the districts of Wilma overlooking the riverfront. From my vantage point looking out on the world through the windows of Cafe Luna, I felt as safe and cozy as viewing the world with Abbie Hoffman from atop the kitchen cabinets.

Starting Something

Only minutes before the whole thing began I was seated at a table near the cafe door and wearing a mood that would stop traffic had there been any.

Those words began a post, published several months ago, that illustrates what P.G. Wodehouse (yes, him again) calls buzzing. I have a lot in common with one of his fictional characters called Psmith. The P is silent, just as in Psummer. Wodehouse describes Psmith as a 'buzzer'. Describes me pretty well too.

"You talk too much," my business partner once said to me.

"Yes, I know," I said.  

Not a response that I'm proud of but I never seem to have exactly the right thing to say when put on the spot. It's an art. Planning is of the essence.

Buzzing requires no planning at all. Simply talking will do, as long as it's loud and non-stop. Smashing words and metaphors together in strange ways can be counted on to get people worked up too. The purpose is to start something that will result in laughter or excitement and prevent boredom at all costs. 

"Don't talk so much in the marketing meetings," my project manager said. "You get people get off topic and the meeting gets away from me."

Adding humor to the buzz can be a powerful sort of bomb that allows you to blow your boring life sky-high whenever you've had all you can take. And yet, it's quiet, disturbing practically no one, and doesn't leave a mess for you to clean up later.

Brian Green, the author of Until the End of Time, is convinced that all human behavior is driven by our realization that life comes to an end. But it's not true for the Genomes.

Although I experience the full spectrum of emotions ranging from depression to high anxiety to hypo-mania, it's not because I know I'm going to die one day. It's really because I know that life can become boring, often without warning.

The practice I've adopted to keep life interesting is to talk early and often. Sometimes I take on facial expressions and adopt body language that augments my speech, but there are times, like writing The Circular Journey, when I only have words.

In the blog posts, I resort to jumbling words and mixing myths and metaphors. I fumble with common expressions, and misquote authors, poets, and songwriters. Anything to get people's attention.

Another example of the buzz in my writing comes from that same post referenced in the first paragraph of this one. It reads like this:

It was Princess Amy at the wheel, of course. She loves to make an entrance in a whirlwind of drama. You realize, I hope, that she wasn't literally driving a van. An almond-shaped cluster of brain cells can't get a driver's license in the Carolinas. You know that. 

For you, that paragraph may barely rate something like a 'meh' but for me, it's priceless. 

It may seem to those who don't know me well, that my verbal skids are accidental or the result of not paying attention in class. But, those who are regular visitors know that, in truth, it's all intentional.

Some writers stick to the facts and dig right down deep into life without giving a damn. On the other hand, I like to approach writing as a sort of musical comedy, without music, and ignore physical reality altogether.

What I write is always true, if not completely factual. The words I use carry meaning, even though one must sometimes search for it. I never intend to mislead my audience. Everything I do is intended to bring a smile, and even when I do write drivel (Yes, I do. Not proud of it.) those words too are intentionally chosen to lighten the mood.

Buzzing is not without its risks. Some people consider buzzers a type of anarchist, one who behaves outside the acceptable norms of a sensible society. The offended person may be inclined to take steps. Risky for the buzzer when that happens.

I've been accused of buzzing because I want to be the center of attention. Come to think of it, who doesn't? But that's not the whole truth. I buzz to excite amusing conversations to liven things up. The best of those conversations take place without the usual societal constraints, but don't be alarmed, there is seldom a downside. 

"Genome always gets lost in public when we're on business trips," my manager explained to our client host. 

"We usually find him talking to a complete stranger in the hotel lobby, in a coffee shop, out on the street; you never know where he'll be but it's guaranteed he'll be talking to someone." 

It was one of the dullest apologies I ever heard. All he had to say was, "You know how these things happen," and then wait to see what the host would say next.

 If the result of my buzzing is nothing more than causing someone to become engaged in happy thoughts and breezy chatter, it's enough.

In closing, I'd like to provide one more example of buzzing from a previous post to illustrate how mere words can lift my spirit, eliminate boredom, and make the whole damn thing worth it. Enjoy:

On hearing her words, I had the momentary illusion that I'd been struck by lightning. I felt an infusion of spirit that seemed to fill me to the bursting point. I felt like a man living the dream as another day in Paradise unfolds. And I liked it.

A Day in the Life

It was another birthday morning, and perhaps because it was a special day, I woke to the feeling that things were about to take a turn for the better.

If you’re a regular here on The Circular Journey, then you know that a regular day for me is just one damned thing after another. But this morning, with the calming of the recent rain storm and a promise of sunshine in the forecast, I had the familiar conviction that life was starting all over again.

Did I mention that Charlie was with me? Although he was actually at home in Carolina Beach at the moment, I felt his spirit strong in the force, so I decided he would be with me this morning. 

You remember Charlie, I'm sure. He's one of those pint-sized little guys, who seems to be filled to bursting with joy and wants nothing so much as to share that joy with anyone wearing a kind face. He makes the day just a little better for everyone he meets.

Fantasy, as we all know, is pure escapism, and that's where it gets its magic. I rely on fantasy to make sense of a world that makes no sense, and I invite you to suspend disbelief and accept that Charlie was with me. He was in my heart.

The drive to Brunswick was quite enjoyable. Wynd Horse was cruising smoothly down Grandiflora Drive while Linda Ronstadt sang "Blue Bayou" and Charlie enjoyed the wind in his face from the open window. 

We drove past the coffee shop and stopped at the Brunswick Forest Welcome Center. The walk through the park would do us a bit good I thought.

While Wynd Horse chose a parking space, I recognized Ms. Thistle in the savannah underneath the pines. She held a large pair of binoculars, which told me she was braving the threat of rain in her attempt to take the lead in the Great Year competition.

Thistle is the President of the local chapter of the Wilma Squirrel Watchers Society. Veterans of this blog will know that society members compete annually to log the largest number of squirrel sightings.

"Hello, Ms. Thistle," I said. "Good morning to you."

Charlie was fish-tailing at the end of the leash, no doubt he hoped to get within licking distance of Thistle's ankles.

"You think it’s a good morning, do you?" she said.

"A little rain is nothing," I said guessing that it was the rain that dampened her spirit.

"Not concerned about the rain," she said. "I left my Peterson’s Squirrel Handbook at home and Spring left me here while she goes to Native Grounds for coffee."

"Do you really need a handbook?" I said. "There are only two species of squirrel here. Gray and Red."

"Don't care about their color. I'm just counting them."

"But you don't need a…," I began but then gave it a miss, because, I mean what do you say really?

"Don't tell me what I need, young man," she said.

"Of course not," I said. "Good morning," I said again and if memory serves I tipped my hat. Not sure why. Just seemed the thing to do at the moment.

"We're headed to Native Grounds," I said, "and if I see Spring, I’ll tell her about the guidebook. Maybe she can get it for you."

"What do I need the guidebook for? I’m only counting the damn things. What I need is coffee. And I'm glad you're getting Eddy away from here. He doesn't like squirrels and they don't like him."

"Actually," I said. "He loves squirrels. Can't get enough of their company. In fact, he's applied for membership in your society. And his name, as everyone in Waterford and half of Brunswick is aware, is Charlie, but you knew that, didn't you?"

She "harumphed" if that's the word. I'm pretty sure about it because I've heard that same word used in similar contexts and the word she used had a sort of harmonic residence. Is that the word, residence? On second thought maybe it's resonance.

"I'm not denying his posturing when he first encounters the squirrels," I said to Thistle. "They surely get the idea that he plans to convert them into a light snack, but it's only grand-standing."

She gave me a look implying that my words weren't gaining traction. 

"He has to throw his weight around when the opportunity arises," I said, "because his human admirers always resort to baby talk when addressing him. His self-respect demands it. But it's all, oh, what do you call it?"

"Sound and fury signifying nothing?"

I admit it! I was impressed! I'd never heard her say anything that gave so much evidence of culture. "Ms. Thistle," I said, "you do know your Shelly."

"I know I am," she said, "but what are you?"

Truth, dear reader! That's what she said. I was amazed again but for an entirely different reason. One second she's up on the top floor among the linens, and the next she's in the basement with the foundations. Pure drivel.

Charlie gave Thistle a look resembling a Scottish Presbyterian minister rebuking sin in the congregation. He growled and dug his rear feet into the ground as if to say, Don't get uppity, sister. It reminded me of that old gag about the warhorse starting at the sound of the trumpet.

And so we agreed, Charlie and I, that it was time to be getting on. I tipped my hat once more and smiled. Our job is to spread sweetness and light wherever we go. We share our courtesies, with the just and the unjust equally. We adhere to a dictum attributed to Louis Untermeyer. It goes something like this... 

"Humor is warmly sympathetic, playful, sometimes high-hearted, sometimes hilarious. Unlike the poisoned barb of satire, and the killing point of wit, humor is healing."

That's it. We attempt to heal some of the wounds with humor. After all, nothing is more contagious than a smile.

We walked on toward the coffee shop and I immediately noticed that Charlie, with his head held high, and stepping smartly, carried a small stick in his mouth and it suited him well. 

I doubted that I could pull it off with the same style and grace but, seeing him marching so proudly, I was reminded of the words of Frank Zappa...

"Without deviation from the norm, progress is not possible."

And with those words echoing in my head, I broke a twig from a passing rhodendron and placed it in my hat. And if you think the name Plantagenet floated into my mind, then you're spot on, my friend.

Charlie and I will see you in the next post, which biographers tell me will be titled, A Day In The Life, Episode 2. Until then, spread a little sweetness and light of your own.