Castle Street Nights

I woke up this morning with an intense pang of joy. It hit me in the solar plexus with an inexplicable potency--like I'd mainlined sunshine! Naturally, I did the responsible thing and after a little self-reflection, realized it was only hypomania and not a valid excuse to redecorate the house or revamp the wardrobe.

 

Buoyed by the oojah-com-spiff mood, I floated into the salle de bains only to find Ms. Wonder, already present and lounging like an escapee from the pasha's harem.

Have I told you about the Wonder? Surely I have. What a woman! Those pouty lips, those emerald green eyes, that strawberry blond hair.

When I expressed how happy it made me to see her, she gave me a certain look. It was not the look I'd hoped for, and I considered it quite a slice of fruitcake--dense and hard to swallow. 

I realize that she's recovering from minor surgery feeling some discomfort, I'm sure, but still, I felt a bit let down. Not that I expected unbridled happiness. Her Russian soul is burdened by centuries of angst and is unprepared for such frivolity.

I kissed the top of her head, wished her well, and set off to cross the Cape Fear River and bring me to the heart of the Castle Street Arts District.

Rarely does Castle Street get the kind of praise lavished on the rest of the city--probably due to the lack of high-end retail glitter. Despite the surface appearance, a rich tapestry of subculture makes the district a great place to be on any given morning. As Tolkien wisely mused, "All that is gold does not glitter."

Out in the bright sunshine, the joy bubbled up once more and I entered the doors of Luna Caffé with a light heart and a tra-la-la on my lips. 

"Grande dark," said the barista placing my usual on the counter with a tone of indifference one might expect from a Large Language Model chatbot. This was not at all the desired tone. Too cool, too indifferent, too uncaring.

The barista was, no surprise, Hannah Kay, the self-anointed emergency backup mistress of the greater Castle Street night. Her attitude of barely tolerable disdain for the clientele is due to dancing the night away and then applying complex eye makeup and facial hardware each morning. 

Her nights are spent, by the way, in Egret Coffee Caffé and Dance Bar, which is in the Soda Pop District not Castle Street Arts.

"Good morning, Hannah," I said, in tones so measured they could balance on a high wire, and I meant it to sting.

"It may be good for you," she shot back, "but have you ever had to open this café at 6:00 in the morning after a night of being stalked by a ninja vampire cat hell-bent on ending life as we know it in Wilmawood?"

This new motif presented an interesting diversion, but I didn't want to give her the satisfaction of knowing that just yet. 

"There is that," I said hoping to avoid any further discussion of what I guess was the Halloween night party at the Egret.

"If you only knew how fragile the defenses are that keep the general public from wholesale disaster, you would cry like a baby and wet your pants," she said with a hard-edged eye.

"Oh, I don't know," I replied nonchalantly, "It may not be as bad as all that when you consider that the general public is endlessly annoying with little or no provocation."

She started noticeably, spilling a customer's skinny mocha something, and then stared at me with the look of someone caught feeding Fruit Loops to her goldfish.

"I wish I'd said that," she muttered thoughtfully to no one in particular. Again, for the third time that morning, a feeling of joy surrounded me, and I immediately logged into SuperBetter to award myself 10 points for "meaningful human contact."

Once more a pure heart and perseverance are victorious over the forces of darkness or whatever ails you. Each moment holds more good than bad if we only take a deep breath and look for it. Life is full of...oh, blah, blah, blah. You know the drill. Enjoy the good times and leave the bad behind.

Beignet Lafayette

He's the best cat in the world. Everyone agrees. He's won the Chadsford Hall Best Cat of the Year award for 6 consecutive years. He's nine years old and weighs 15.25 pounds--in other words, peak condition. If you think he's a bit heavy, you're probably more familiar with the smaller, run-of-the-mill kitty. 

Beignet Lafayette, often called Ben or Benny, is a child of the Lost Kitty Tribe--he was left behind when a previous owner relocated--and I'm sure she's never recovered from the heartbreak. Beignet is a keeper.

But then, all cats are keepers because they shine the light of joy that dissipates the darker emotions. Even kittens that are too young to walk straight and have tails that look like lint brushes get the job done. It's simply their nature.

So, by all means, get a cat. Get two. You can't have too many. The more you have, the less chance they will all be sleeping when the zombies--those dark emotions mentioned above--begin prowling.

Earlier today, during our visit to the cat hospital, the veterinarian suggested we begin yearly lab workups to keep Ben around forever. None of us can imagine life without him--not even the veterinary staff. Naturally, Ben agreed to donate a little blood for analysis. 

Before leaving, the vet tech wrapped a scrunchie bandage around Ben's leg to prevent bleeding. When we arrived home, I decided to remove the bandage quickly and get on with other tasks, but Ben had a different agenda and it didn't include bandages. 

I cradled him and began brushing, a surefire way to put him in a good mood while distracting him from my sleight of hand. As I brushed with one hand, I searched for the end of the bandage with the other. Ben tolerated this for exactly two seconds before deciding he'd had enough.

I might have given the whole thing a miss for an hour or so and perhaps gotten some editing done on the book--you remember the book--but no, I stubbornly decided the bandage was coming off and I knew how to get it done. I rolled up my sleeves, commended my soul to God, and set about it.

Cat wrestling, much like alligator wrestling, should be done sparingly—and only in season. I stretched out on the floor for stability and attempted a move I’d seen pro wrestlers use. Ben, ever the sweetheart, took this as a gesture of affection and began to purr. I seized the moment. My fingers found the pull tab. I gave it a firm tug.

It was the tug of no return. Ben bolted for the doorway like a crazed weasel.  Clinging to the trailing bandage like an Iditarod musher pulled along by her sled dogs, I was pulled along the polished hardwood floors. We made a sharp right-hand turn and began descending the stairs. A turn of events I never anticipated.

Now, if the cherry floors can be called smooth, then the oak staircase is best described as bumpy. Over the years, I've developed a sort of wisdom about situations where I'm in control and those where I am clearly not. This situation was one of the latter.

I took the stairs with relative calm--not too anxious, given the circs. I remember thinking, for some reason that I can't fathom now, that when we hit the tile floor on the lower level, I would have more options. 

I remember being attracted to the sport of rock climbing some years ago. You may have done the same. In those days, my toes could find purchase in the smallest crevices, and perhaps I thought the grout lines in the tile would give me something to work with--something to stop or slow our forward movement.

The plan I had in mind if you can call it a plan, turned out to be no more than the idle wind, which Ben respected not because he continued through the kitchen with me calling out to my mother to look sharp and not get overturned by our wake. 

Eventually, Beignet found a quiet and comfortable spot underneath the sofa in the den and we were done. I pulled the bandage off and he seemed not to notice.

Once again, we see that life comes hard and fast. It sneaks up on us when we least expect it. Be prepared for anything, my friend, and always remember a little thing I heard from our veterinarian, Dr. Kirch, who said when it comes to cats, "It's our job to do what's right, not what's convenient." Amen. 

Did You Finally Decide?

It may have been Aunt Cynthia who used to say something about a glorious morning that flatters the mountaintops and kisses the meadows. All good stuff, of course, but have you ever noticed how things can quickly take a nasty turn?

If you follow these little musings of mine, then you're probably aware that I insist on living happy, joyous, and free, as the saying goes. But damn, if it doesn't often seem that the odds for happy days are slim. 

   

Sooner or later, right in the middle of telling your best dinner story to a rapt audience, someone at the head of the table will interrupt to tell you that you've gotten your elbow in the butter dish again.

Take this morning, for instance. It got off to a bracing start, and I had nothing in my heart but birdsong. I expected nothing but happy endings for everyone. And yet, though immersed in the sunshine, I found the mood was mixed--not feeling this way or that. Sort of a dumb, numb mood. And I'll tell you why. 

I was faced with a difficult choice. I had to make up my mind. I had to pick one and leave the other behind. It's not easy. I knew that I had to finally decide. The only option was to say yes to the one and simply let the other one ride. 

You see my predicament? I didn't know which way to turn. Did you ever have to finally decide?

It's like this: 

It seems that for some reason, and your guess is as good as mine, Ms. Wonder and I have done magazine work for several years. I know! It's incredible to think about. I mean, what drives people to do such things? And yet, there it is. And so, we've decided to launch an online travel magazine of all things. 

I know! Me too! 

The publication will be called Carolina Roads. The focus will be road trips throughout the Carolinas and neighboring states. I expect it will be well received and most of our advisors agree. You may be asking, if it's so hot, what's the struggle about? It's a fair question, and I'll tell you my answer to that, too.

You surely remember Princess Amy--that little almond-shaped cluster of brain cells that bears a striking resemblance to the Red Queen of Wonderland. She's taking my inventory recently, and she thinks as much of me publishing a magazine as Moses thought of the Children of Israel when he walked in on them worshipping the golden calf.

Well, there's no need to explain the whole sad story--the lack of moral support as a child, the feeling of loneliness growing up in Shady Grove, etc.

I'm afraid that I'm going to have to finally decide. It's the only way out of my predicament. I'm acutely aware of the reality. I've been this way before. 

The recommended procedure is to abandon myself to the universe. Live life on life's terms and all that rot. Well, I'm tired of abandoning and whatnot. I want action. I want miracles or magic--I don't care which--and the method has to provide some assurance because where's the assurance?

It's an old story, really. Shakespeare told us that a lack of resolve is understandable when, as he put it, "Between acting on a dreadful thing and the first motion...blah, blah, blah.

"That state of man, like to a little kingdom, suffers then the nature of an insurrection," he said. 

So, here we go again. Thank you for allowing me to vent. I apologize for the interruption, and I thank you for your support. I have my marching orders. It's a plan that I can follow. I don't want to but I will because it's the next step and all I can do is take the next step. Is there any more to life than that?

Time For A Cool Change S1 E3

Something woke me from a perfectly satisfying dream—the kind where all the elements feel just right. I was sailing a small boat up the Cape Fear River from Southport. The sun had set long ago, and "it's kind of a special feeling when you're out on the sea alone, staring at the full moon like a lover."

Barbary Coast Bar : The Circular Journey Intelligence Headquarters

 for 

Wilmawood Movie Production

What actually woke me, thanks to my smartphone alarm, was The Little River Band singing Cool Change. After the initial moment of disorientation that comes with waking, I became aware of the song's lyrics. "...the albatross and the whales, they are my brothers."

And they are too! Have you read my post called, Born of the Sea?

I wanted to stay in bed and ponder the rest of the lyrics, but reality dawned with a jolt: it was Friday morning, and the day had gotten a head start without me. The film crew had arrived on location to begin filming the next segment of The Waterfront at 6 a.m., and I was already two hours late.

Half an hour later, I parked on Front Street, between Hanover and Brunswick, just a stroll from Nutt Street where we were filming, and conveniently close to 24 South Cafe’. After all, caffeine is essential to any endeavor.

I fortified myself with a double cappuccino for the wild free-wheeling day ahead. If you attend The Circular Journey regularly, then you know how much I love running around looking for the film crews who work together to make movie magic happen, no matter where they're from, no matter who they love, no matter where they live. It gives me hope and hope is what I need more of.

The buildings along the street hid the movie set from me until I turned the last corner. I expected excited extras, the loud hum of equipment, and a lot of shouting. Instead, I found one truck, a lone crane, and a Christmas tree with little to no fashion sense.  

"Oh, what fresh hell is this?" summed it up for me.

"If there’s one thing in my life that's missing," to paraphrase The Little River Band, it’s those days when everything works out as planned. These days, I’m lucky if I show up on time. Today, I was nearly three hours late and already daydreaming about "sailing on the cool and bright clear water."

So, my friend, I offer a sincere apology for this ranygazoo. I know you tuned in expecting a behind-the-scenes scoop, but my sources got their knickers in a wad over the timing. It doesn’t often happen, but when rum is plentiful, the intel may be sketchy.

The filming will happen next week. I got that straight from a couple of Wilmawood Downtown Ambassadors. "There's lots of those friendly people," and just like in the song, "They show me the way to go."

No matter how much rummy intel comes my way, I just don't care. Being near the movie magic makes me happy. When I'm on set, I feel something that I first felt in another dream many years ago, and that dream gives me hope when I feel hopeless.

"I know it may sound selfish," but let me dream my dreams, love whoever I love, and breathe the air unhindered. "Yeah, just let me breathe the air."

Is That All There Is?

The morning after broke bright and fair and the day was served with all the trimmings: the sun, the sky, the birdsong. But that was on the outside. It was different in the heart. Leaden, I've heard it described as. Athough Nature was smiling, there was no smile in my heart. No, I was still sulking in an overcast corner of my mind.

Bamboo grove at Straw Valley

"Good morning," said Ms Wonder, wafting onto the lanai like she owned the day. The sun brightened as soon as she appeared, no doubt because her bright attitude encouraged it, and I admit that her appearance lightened my mood too, if only a smidgen.

"Is it a good morning?" I asked.

"Very clement," she said with a big smile, and I understood that she intended to cheer and lift the Genome's spirit, but Princess Amy was having none of it.

If Amy's name is new to you, you may want to search The Circular Journey archives for her. Or perhaps not. You're welcome here in either case. 

"It matters little," I said, "when facing a trial by fire that you've got a nice day for it." And I was pretty happy with that one. I don't remember who said it but I like it and I use whenever I have the opportunity.

"No, I suppose not," she said.

"The sun was probably shining when the 600 rode into the Russian gunfire," I said.

"The Light Brigade," she said. I nodded.

"Not feeling up to kicking off a new meditation class this morning?" she said.

"The true nature of reality, Poopsie," I said, "is this--when I form a new meditation class, Fate sends me three kinds of people. First to come are those who think they know meditation but don't. Second, the ones who’ve meditated so much their eyes bubble. And third, the kind I’m hoping will show up, although..."

I paused for dramatic effect. One can never have too much of the dramatic effect, in my opinion, and when the timing felt right, I continued:

"And this is the crux of the matter," I said, "They rarely do show up. Gives me hives just thinking of it."

"Sorry," she said with a dramatic and pleasing pout, and I immediately felt just a little better knowing that this worker of wonders was ready to help if help was required. 

"It’s like that character Shakespeare was always writing about," I said. "You know, the one who agonizes over doing something… but then doesn't?"

"Hamlet?"

"No, not that one," I said.

"The genius and the mortal instruments," she said but I wasn't in the mood for more Shakespeare and raised a hand to stop her.

"Like to a little kingdom suffers then the nature of an insurrection," she said and I held up another hand but then realized it wouldn't be enought to stem the tide.

"Poopsie! Please. Put a sock in it.  Shakespeare before coffee is just too much to bear."

When the time came, I packed up and pointed Wynd Horse in the direction of Straw Valley and the new meditation class. A White-breasted Nuthatch sang to me from the shrubbery as I passed through the gate and into the courtyard.

No reason not to sing, of course. I just mention it in passing. Sing until her ribs squeak if it suits her was my thought.  

Then I heard more voices and realized that I was not the first to arrive. I found them sipping coffee in the bamboo garden. No reason not to sip. I always approve of coffee but these few turned out to be exactly the kind of people I like to attend new classes--new to the practice but familiar with the health benefits. 

"Is there a class here this morning?" asked the bearded one, who looked like he might breed Aberdeen terriers. I assured him that it was the case.

"Let's join in," said the female in the group and they all thought this a sound suggestion. In fact, they seemed to be eager to begin, although I suspected they might be just be happy to hear that it wasn't interpretive dance.

When the appointed hour arrived, I gave instructions, asked a question or two, and rang the bell. As we focused on our breathing, it happened—by the third breath, the scales fell from my eyes. My anxious expectations had been for nothing, and instead, a quiet satisfaction settled in. Maybe I could actually help someone with all this."

That morning, one that is now long past, was a turning point for me. You know how it is, one thing led to another and now I'm writing a book about living fiercely.

"It pains me to admit," I explained to Ms. Wonder later that day, "but the whole thing feels like it has my Great Aunt’s fingerprints all over it. You know the type—gets you to do whatever she wants, no matter that you’ve got a packed schedule?"

"I suppose so."

"My qigong master, Wen the Eternally Surprised, used to say that the universe is conscious and that she's always looking out for my best interests. I haven't completely embraced the concept, but I haven't thrown it out either."

"Ah," said Ms Wonder, "It's a great mystery isn't it?"

I sighed. I was hoping for something more. Could it be that's all there is?