Thank You, Lucy!

The sun appeared in the sky this morning like a poached egg, bright and warm and wiggly. The mists rose from the lowlands in gray and gold streamers, moist and ragged around the edges like the fading fragments of dreams.

I like to sleep late but never do, and this morning was no exception. I was up at 5:30, wandering around the lower levels of Chadsford Hall. It's a mindfulness technique, really. Walking around with attention focused on nothing—aimless. Still, I could sense the magic filling up the place.

It's nothing new to have magic in the air of the Hall; it's usually full of the stuff, but it's normally the old, comfortable sort of magic that's about as exciting as pilling a cat. The magic I felt rushing underneath the doorjambs was the new stuff, the newly minted variety fresh from the Source.

Not a good thing for me, new magic, that is. I'm allergic. Ms. Wonder says that everyone is allergic to magic. She says that's the point. But it's different for me. The general background magic that supports all thaumaturgic activity is harmless, but the new stuff clings to me like static. It builds to a critical mass, and then BANG! It's not pretty, and it never turns out well.

The distraction from bright, cold drafts of the stuff wafting about the rooms of the Hall, glistening like Empyrian electrum and shimmering with octarine green and blue, was too much for my aimlessness. I needed advice, and I needed it fast. I headed upstairs, where I heard gushing torrents of water filling a bathtub. "Poopsie," I said, "I need your advice. Rally 'round."

"What's up?" she said.

"What's up?" I said, "That's the point, isn't it? You know that new magic is rolling off the press even as we speak and that it's coming from Woodcroft?"

"I noticed," she said. "Are you puissant?"

This went right by me, of course. Puissant? Is that a word? What could she possibly mean by it? Must have something to do with magic. There was no time to muse on this mystery. I felt the need to get right down to it, so I gave her the best response I could.

"Probably not so puissant as you," I said, and I thought it pretty good. Don't you agree?

"That's sweet of you to say," she said, "and probably very true, but what is it you wanted to ask?"

"Well," I said, choosing my words carefully. "You know that Gladdis..."

"Witch of Woodcroft," she interrupted.

"Yes, all that," I said, "but put that out of your mind for the nonce. Let me finish my thought, or I'll wander off the path. We can't afford distractions. You'll be leaving for work shortly, and where will I be then? Lost among the lilies, that's where.

"Lost among the lilies? Is that a saying?"

"Isn't it?"

"One of yours then," she said.

"Ah," I said because I'd lost the thread. "What was it we were talking about?"

"Something about Gladdis," she said.

"That's right. Gladdis has published the seminal installment of Rogue Star. Is seminal a word?"

"Seminal," she said, "or carrying the seeds that will develop into the fruit of the work."

"Wonder," I said.

"Yes?"

"What the hell are we going to do about it?"

"Do about it?"

"You know what I mean. How to stop the overflow of magic and all the strangeness that follows."

"Relax," she said. "I know this is one of Princess Amy's hot buttons, but everything will be OK."

"It will?"

"Of course, it will. Just take a deep breath and let life happen. Don't you remember Lucy once telling you that it's not your job to be in control of everything?"

"She did, yes, that's one wise kitten, Wonder," I said. "Well, she's no longer a kitten, but she was when she told me that. Animals have a certain wisdom, don't they?"

"Humans too," she said.

"Well, some humans," I conceded. "Thank you for reminding me, Poopsie, I feel much better now."

"Don't thank me; thank Lucy," she said. And so I did.

It's Amy's Fault

It was almost noon by the time I left the thrift store. I'd found one concert t-shirt that would bring enough profit to pay for gas and lunch.

"I don't know why we bother doing this," I told Amy. "It's just wasted time and energy. I spent the morning looking for profitable items to re-sell, and I'll need to do it again tomorrow to have a chance to break even for the week."

I got no response. I didn't expect one because I was talking to Princess Amy, that spoiled little brat of a limbic system in the middle of my brain who gets her kicks by overloading my emotional system.

"Doesn't it bother you?" I asked.

"Nope," Amy said. "I'm only in it for the money, and I don't care how much time and energy you put into it."

"The money?" I said. "I only hope I don't lose money this week."

"Yeah, you're not much of a business person. You should pay more attention to me. I'm an entrepreneur."

"You are not a business person! You're a little almond-shaped cluster of brain cells. You might benefit from the money I make but you never really profit. It's a foreign concept to you."

"Making money's not the only way to profit."

"What are you talking about, if anything?" I asked.

"I'm an entrepreneur," she said. "I get you to do stupid stuff--to generate excitement--and you can be real entertaining sometimes."

"Oh, yeah," I said. "The excitement you cause is only entertaining for you and it never ends well."

"When I'm on a roll," she said, "I can fire you up enough to get bystanders involved, and that's when it really becomes fun. What a riot!"

"You're a menace! You're a danger to the fabric of the universe."

"I'm an influencer," she said. 'And I have lots of projects in the works. I'm not just another pretty face, baby. That's why I have to keep my brain functioning efficiently. Which reminds me, I'm not operating at full power right now because I need a latte and a muffin."

"This is leading up to a stop at Surf & Java, isn't it?" I asked.

"Exactly. I can get some caffeine and you can have an Impossible sandwich for my lunch."

A few minutes later, we were seated outside the surf shop, and Amy was relatively quiet while I ate. I suppose she was soaking up some nutrients to stoke her engines. I was thinking about going home when she spoke again.

"I need another latte," she said. "You get it and I'll wait here. I'm gonna look at this magazine. It says on the cover that Keanu Reeves used to surf competitively."

I didn't reply. I was beginning to feel like I was no more than a vehicle to chauffeur my limbic system around town.

"Too bad you can't stay here and have someone else get the coffee," she said. "What if there's a sudden rush of customers and someone gets our table?"

"A rush of customers?" I said.

"It could happen," she said. "Good idea," I said, "I'll stay here to keep someone from taking our table."

"So anyways," Amy said."Did you know that Keanu was a surfer? Maybe we should take up surfing."

I tried to get comfortable in the plastic chair as I overthought Amy's earlier comments about being an entrepreneur.

"You got a lot of thinking going on," Amy said. "It's getting hot in here with all that thinking you're doing. You're burning too much energy."

“I didn't realize that you were capable of doing anything more than mismanaging my emotions," I said. "Just what are those projects you spoke of?"

"I'm a complex person," Amy said. "I got a lot going on. You haven't even seen the tip of my iceberg yet, baby. One of my goals is to be a TV star."

"How's that even possible?" I asked.

"I'm gonna be a reality star like Kyle, Lisa, and Khole."

"A reality star--you're going to be the next Khole Kardashian?"

"It's only a matter of time," she said. "I got a plan worked out, and I'm about to start shooting demo reel. That's how you make it happen, you gotta shoot a demo reel."

"What's your plan? And how are you going to film anything?"

"First," she said, "it's a concept show that I call Naked at Work."

"I already don't like it," I said.

"You don't like it but you're really good in it," she said.

"What's that supposed to mean. I'm not going to be part of anything called Naked at Work."

"But you already are. Remember those dreams? The ones where you're working in an office and you're in your underwear? That's my prototype for the show. Now it's time to move to being completely naked."

"You little jerk!" I said. "Those dreams are caused by you! I thought we had an understanding. You and I are not different persons. We're the same. What I experience, you experience. Why do you do this to me?"

"It gets boring in here," she said. "I need some diversion."

"But why not give me fun, exciting, positive dreams? You'd benefit from safe, comfortable dreams just as much I would."

"Yeah, but I'm competing for a Dreamy award, and with Naked and Afraid, I think I've got a winner."

"Awards? How does that work? Do you cause me to dream that you get an award?"

"No, dummy," she said. "There's a whole dream universe with lots of stuff going on it. What do you think dreams are for, anyway? They aren't just entertainment for you, you know."

I was overwhelmed. I needed some time alone and that's not easy to find when you're trying to get away from your own thoughts.

"Uh oh," I said, "look at the time. It seems we don't need to be concerned about a customer rush, I need to check on my mom and then stop at the hardware store. I've got to patch the lanai screens where the squirrels gnawed through them."

"Your mom is no longer living on the earth," Amy said.

"No, but I still check in with her daily."

"Well, if I was you," Amy said, "I'd get home in time for a nap so you can keep up with me tonight. We got a demo to record."

"I won't forget about that," I said, and I said it without any real chirpiness.

You're Not Alone

One day, while searching for classic vinyl records in the thrift shops of Carrboro and Chapel Hill, I was treated to one of those serendipitous, magical moments that make you think the universe has a fun side after all. 

I stopped at the Open Eye Café for a mid-morning coffee break and I'm not setting you up when I say the barista who took my order looked exactly like Maggie Gyllenhaal. I know! It's true!

I wish I could post her photo here as proof, but I opened our conversation with that old line, "Don't I know you from somewhere else?" You can imagine the awkward response if I'd then asked to take a selfie with her. 

As Maggie made my coffee, I was struck by the thought, like a bolt from the blue, that life is absurdly unfair. Stay with me for a moment and consider, for example, that some remarkable musicians become World Party, while others become Fields of Mars. Not that there's anything wrong with the Fields. A fine, deserving group of musicians in my opinion, but I think you see my point.

Still, some Gyllenhaals become movie stars while others become baristas. This cosmic imbalance weighed heavily on my mind as I collected the coffee and took a table outside in the sun, but not too near the street.

My thoughts drifted into the void while I mused on the words of the Buddha, "All things are..." how does it go? Begins with an 'I.' Imperfect? Improbable? It's a word meaning things don't last forever.

As I said, I was lost in the void until awakened by another thought, one of many that arose like shiny, multicolored soap bubbles. Impertinent! No, that's not it, either. Give me a moment. Where was I?

Oh yes, another thought arose and this one reflected the iridescent words of Karl Wallinger. "What I see just makes me cry...clouding up the images of a perfect day."

So, how do I deal with the things that make me cry, like the Maggie / World Party shortcoming? That's my question. And after a lifetime of analyzing the thing, the best answer I've come up with is that one must simply find a way of accepting the situation and get on with it.

It’s not as grim as it sounds! Often, the things I think are disasters turn out to be blessings in disguise. Not always—I’m no Pollyanna—but enough to give me hope.

Looking back over my life, I realize that the best scenarios came to me accidentally. My best plans never worked the way I hopped--but the accidents--ahh, that's where the magic was found.

This perspective isn’t exactly warm and fuzzy—it requires a willingness to embrace a little risk. But here’s the thing: it’s much easier to face life’s curveballs with a tribe by your side. And The Cicurlar Journey is always here for you. 

Do you need a sympathetic ear to share the absurdities of Life? Simply leave a comment. Are you looking for someone to be by your side, you have them. You may not have met them yet but they're all around you.

You only need to remain open-minded and accept help no matter the source. If you do that, you will attract people to you.  And that, my friend, makes all the difference.

I was taught a little slogan to remind me that my tribe is out there looking for me--alone I may fail, but together we will succeed.

Give it a try. You've got little to lose. Stop judging, stop criticizing, and accept the help that's offered. You are not alone. 

Impermanent! That's what the Buddha said. I knew I'd think of it. I've been working crossword puzzles to improve my memory.

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.