Perfectly Correct

"What a beautiful day!" I said to Ms. Wonder who waded knee-deep in suitcases and socks, like a goddess of the sea cavorting on the rocky shore. "Packing?" I asked as if the ritual was unfamiliar to me. 

"Un-packing," she said for we keep no secrets between us. And it was at that moment the dirty work of yesterday raised its ugly head and laughed at the false joy that had greeted me when I woke. 

Every year, starting about the middle of November, there's a flurry of anxiety and apprehension among owners of the better-class country houses throughout coastal Carolina, waiting to hear which one will get the Genome’s patronage for the holidays.

This year we had decided early, and a sigh of relief went up from a dozen stately homes, all listed on the Historic Register, as it was announced that the Garden Inn outside Savannah had drawn the short straw.  

And yet, scarcely 10 hours earlier, this daughter of the Russian steppes and I had lunch at On Thyme Cafe, located a few blocks down Castle Street Cafe Luna—"it's not fast food; it’s awesome food fast"—and we faced the terrible news that the outing was off.

Shakespeare captured the sentiment perfectly when he said, just when you're feeling really good about the way things are going, Fate sneaks up behind you with a blunt instrument. It's not a direct quote, but it conveys the idea nicely. 

As if waking from a dreamless sleep, I gradually became aware that Ms. Wonder was looking at me as if expecting an answer. 

"Hmm?" I said. 

"Did I hear you say something about the Orlovs?" she said. 

"Did I say that out loud?" I asked. She nodded. 

"I was thinking about how Count Orlov must have felt," I said, "after Katherine the Great told him she never wanted to see him again in this world or the next. Then when he opened the cupboards, he discovered there was no more vodka." 

A deep silence ruled the next several moments after my crack about the Count. Then Ms. Wonder spoke. "Are you going to stand there all morning?" 

"There are times, Poopsie," I said, with a small tremble in the voice, "when one asks oneself if there is any point in making an effort." 

"The mood will pass," she said but I still had my doubts. 

I nodded in response, but it had no chirpiness to it. It was the nod that Napoleon might have given in the Paris coffee shop on a morning in 1812 when a barista asked, Back from Moscow so soon?

"You know how it is," I said, "I'm in agreement with the general principle but I seem to be in neutral gear and having a little difficulty following through.

"I understand," she said, "it was much the same with Hamlet."

I nodded as though she'd put her finger on the nub, but I had no clue as to what she meant. I mention it here only because it may mean something to you.

"Don't play the victim," she said. "We may not be able to visit Savannah, but we can still enjoy the holiday lights in Airlie Gardens. We can use the extra time to refresh, rebuild, and reinvigorate."

"Poopsie," I said, and if there had been a bystander, my mood would have noticeably brightened. "You wrap the whole thing up very neatly," I said. "You make it sound like fun. I'm looking forward to it."

"Good," she said and she raised a glass of pomegranate juice. "Here's to the new year."

"I suppose you know, you have me feeling positively bucked and ready for everything that 2025 has to offer! Thank you." 

"Not at all," she said. "You see, no matter what the Fate sisters have in store for you, there's no need to let them steal your joy."

And I had to admit that, once again, she was perfectly correct.

Still Anonymous

"What's that noise?" asked a voice from somewhere in the darkness. I opened my eyes, thinking I was in the slot canyon I told you about--the one in Escalante National Monument, Utah. You remember that I saw the puma's paw print in the dust there. Possibly. 

But I wasn't sleeping in a canyon--I was in my bedroom and the voice...are you ready for this? It was the magical, mystical Ms. Wonder. Before I say more, let me explain that I was still dreaming.

"That's just Sagi," I said.

Sagi M'Tesi is the caramel-colored tabby who lives with us. One of several beings living with us that are also magical, mystical wonders.

"Sagi?" she whispered and I began to think that she wasn't fully awake.

"That's right," I said. "Sagi--he's shredding a roll of toilet paper."

"Shredding toilet tissue?"

"Toilet tissue or toilet paper," I said, "both are correct."

"Why?" she mumbled.

"There you have me in deep waters, I'm afraid, but it's his favorite pastime," I said.

"Past what time?" she said.

"Pastime," I repeated. "He finds it nearly impossible to resist, but he swears he can stop anytime he chooses," I said.

"That's what they all say," she sighed. I'm pretty sure it was a sigh.

"Well, nothing to do about it except wait for him to hit bottom and possibly conduct an intervention," I said.

I suddenly felt the urge to be outside. I don't know why. Just one of those things, I supposed. I hastily pulled on the outer crust and hied for the crepe myrtle alee.

In the early morning stillness under starlight and buoyed up by aromatic pine straw, I was serenaded by a mockingbird singing a selection of Frank Sinatra melodies. Quite pleasant.

In the middle of "I've Got You Under My Skin," the dawn bloomed in all her coastal rosiness, and soon the sun was hot-dogging above the horizon. What a show, I thought. It was a pippin of a mood lifter.

Had Ms. Wonder been with me, not that she's ever with me before 7:00 AM, but had she been with me, I would have said, "I've got a feeling everything's going my way!" She wasn't with me, but I said it anyway.

The walk worked its magic on me. Not actually magic--something to do with endorphins if I remember correctly. And for several minutes, I was caught up in the beautiful ephemera of life.

Keeping on the sunny side isn't easy for me. And who can say why? It may be the path deviates from the dotted line connecting A to B. Or perhaps, as Scott Peck made clear, life is difficult.

Once I arrived at the northernmost edge of Waterford Village, I turned and looked back across the glen, up the terraced hillside, and into the second-floor window of the cottage. From this distance, I could see Sagi sitting in the window, looking my way. Had he been watching me all this time?

I realized as I watched him watching me that my heart was in that window with Sagi. I could feel the heartstrings tugging me back home. He and Uma Maya would be waiting for breakfast when I got back. And there is nothing more satisfying than caring for a cat. Caring for two cats brings twice the satisfaction.

Sometimes life seems full of problems and just one damn thing after another. But if we pause and take a few deep breaths, we often realize that love puts the purpose and the meaning in life. And keeping love in the forefront makes all the difference.

It may be true that I can't always be on the sunny side of life, but with a little effort, I can stay on the loving side.

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.