Zeus in Red Converse

I slept through the afternoon—no disturbances, no phone calls, no car alarms, or OSHA backup signals. “Peaceful” about sums it up, and peace was precisely what I couldn’t get enough of after the morning I had in the dental chair. 

The dentist claimed it was the most difficult crown he’d ever removed, and I believe it; the experience was exhausting. But let me clarify: I haven’t been deprived of crowns; I simply got an upgrade. Still, the coronation was quite demanding, and I needed a nap to recover.

I’d been awake for a minute or two—long enough to determine that I would probably survive—when Ms. Wonder peeked into the bedroom. She was wearing a geometric print blouse and black slacks. Not that it matters; I mention it only in passing.

“What’s with this?” I said. “Why aren’t you working?”

“I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“Wow,” I said, “it must be serious if you’re checking on me. Does my face look swollen?”

“Not bad. How are you feeling?”

“The right side of my face throbs with my pulse, but other than that, I feel fine.”

I rolled out of bed, thinking I’d spend the afternoon at Luna Cafe. But when I walked into the kitchen, I managed to spill my water bottle, drop yogurt on my shoe, and drip coffee down the front of my pajamas.

Well, that does it, I thought. Driving to Luna would be risky. Apparently, the gods had taken the afternoon off, or maybe they’d left for Florida to escape the cold snap along the Carolina coast.

“I don’t know,” said Wonder. “Maybe you’re looking to the wrong god for support.”

I cut my eyes in her direction, surprised that she knew what I'd been thinking. I mean, sure, she works in mysterious ways, her wonders to perform and all that, but this was over the top. 

“I was thinking of Zeus,” I said, attempting subterfuge and misdirection to disarm her defenses.

“He’s not in Florida,” she replied. “In fact, he hasn’t been heard from in centuries.”

“Surely not that long,” I said.

“I’m afraid so. I’m pretty sure he’s no longer around.”

“You mean he’s clocked out?” I asked. “How did he go?”

“I think it was ruled natural causes,” she said.

“Makes sense,” I replied. “I mean, who would want to kill Zeus?”

“Probably lots of people,” she said. “He was an okay guy, but he messed around a lot. And I think he owed a bunch of people money.”

“I won’t be the same with him gone,” I said.

“It hasn’t been the same for a long time,” she said. “I’m told there’s another one now.”

“A replacement for a god? Now that’s something to think about over afternoon coffee.”

“The cycle of life,” she said.

“Well, yeah,” I said, “I suppose that’s the only way to look at it. But still, it seems like replacing a god wouldn’t be so easy. My crown upgrade was more challenging. Do you suppose they keep a file of applicants in an office cabinet somewhere?”

“I think they use an app called "Indeed" now. But however it happened, you know that Zeus wasn’t real, right?”

“Someone thought he was real,” I said, “and when you get right down to it, that’s all that counts.”

Suddenly, I remembered reading somewhere that Zeus wore red Converse tennis shoes. The thought seemed to support his existence. I chose not to bring it up, though, because Ms. Wonder appeared to be musing on what I’d just said, and that was good enough for me.

“Still,” I said, “it just feels wrong to go around replacing other people’s gods.”

“For sure,” she said.

Happy, Joyous, and Free

Belloc* wrote about "the unchanging place where all we loved is always dear."  He described it as where "we meet our morning face to face and find at last our twentieth year."

His words speak to me about memories stored in my mind and heart--memories of an idealized time where everything I once cherished—people, places, events—remain as meaningful and precious as ever.

When he speaks of facing the morning of our twentieth year, he means the place and time where we realize our cherished youth is behind us, and we come face-to-face with our future, with all its challenges and opportunities.

I read somewhere that when a patient wakes from anesthesia, the doctor asks several questions to assess their level of awareness. One of the questions is, "How old are you?"  

Regardless of the patient’s age, the first response is often "nineteen." That answer may be repeated until sufficient consciousness returns to respond accurately. 

For me, the age corresponding to Belloc's "carefree fields of a glorious period" came much later in life. I suppose the age isn't the same for all of us.

My passion for life, my friends, my overwhelming optimism, and my bubbling enthusiasm from that "glorious period" shine through in every story that Princess Amy shares with me about the present—whether joyful or sorrowful, whether truthful or embellished.

The Genome I remember before "meeting my morning face to face" was a kind, chivalrous, naive, aunt-ridden, code-driven, schoolboy.

I tend to overlook the low expectations for happiness that haunted those mornings. It was sufficient for me to simply escape uncomfortable circumstances.

In The Circular Journey, the Genome frequently faces bewilderment, indignity, and bullying. The source of my predicament typically lies with one of two nemeses—either Fate's practical jokes or my misguided belief that I'm the Lord of Misrule.

I almost always pay for my escape through some form of atonement or forfeit, but in the end, I'm happy to simply escape unscathed.

There’s an important life lesson in all of this—a lesson that, if I truly embrace it, could potentially transform my life and help me live happily, joyfully, and freely. However, I don't have a clue what that lesson might me. If you have any insights, please share them in the comments.

* Joseph Belloc was a French-English writer, historian, orator, poet, sailor, satirist, soldier, and political activist. The words quoted in this post are taken from his poem, "Dedicatory Ode"

Moons Out Of Orbit

"How's your day?" asked the barista. 

I was driving to the Little River Art Gallery to hear a local author talk about his latest book when I decided to stop at Egret Coffee Caffe and Dance Bar for an eye-opener. I got one alright! It popped up like the demon king in a Thai water opera.

I didn't immediately reply to the barista's question because my attention was arrested by a book displayed on the counter. The shop owner encourages artist/authors to display their craft near the point of purchase. It's part of the spirit of cooperation that permeates the downtown districts of Wilmawood.

The title of the book was "Living Your Best Life." The name had no zing, I thought, but the sub-title was in a different league altogether. It read: "The secrets they don't want you to know about the online economy and how you can make a 7-figure income working part-time from home." Well, I was intrigued. 

"How's your morning going?" said the barista, having deduced that I was caught up in the book and not paying attention to her. I suddenly realized she had something on her mind and wanted to tell someone about it--anyone, apparently.

"Oh, sorry, my morning is going well," I said, and I was about to ask her the same, but she didn't wait to be asked. Good for her, I thought, seize the reins and all that.

"Mine's crap," she said. "I've totally lost my mojo. Something has gone wrong in my energy zone and everything is out of whack."

Certainly, life does feel uncomfortable sometimes I thought. Mine wasn't going so swimmingly at the moment either but I didn't want to air it in public. And yet, it seemed I should not ignore her cry for help. Was it a mistake? Only time will tell, I thought. 

"Why do you feel that way?" I asked and I later decided it had been a mistake. I could simply have said, Sorry to hear it, and given her my drink order but no! 

If you're a regular on The Circular Journey, you know about my strange compulsion to spread goodness and light everywhere I go. Showing personal interest in people's lives seems to be part of the job description.

"Well, yesterday Wanda and I went to see Wicked at The Point Theatre, and we were directed to theater number 2 where we sat for 45 minutes waiting for the movie to start. Can you believe it?"

"Wow, that's a long time to wait," I said, adopting a sympathetic tone of voice with matching a facial expression and complimentary posture. If you'd been watching, you would have rolled your eyes and shaken your head. 

"Yeah, and that's not all," she said. "We were in the wrong theater. The movie had already started on another screen."

"That is unfortunate," I said.

"Unfortunate?" she said. "You would go so far as to say it was unfortunate? Well, what about this? I drank a yogurt parfait in the car on the way to the theater and didn't realize I'd spilled it on my sweatshirt until we were there. I smelled like a fruit salad. You think that was unfortunate, too?"

Claudia and Lupe began snickering behind me. Did I mention those two delinquents entered the caffe' mid-conversation and were now in line behind me?

"Drinking a yogurt parfait while driving isn't a good idea," I said. 

"Duh!" she said. "So you think drinking a parfait while driving is a bad idea, do you? I should have consulted with you before leaving home."

I didn't like her tone but felt somehow that I'd asked for it.

 

"I'm sorry these things happened to you," I said, but now, instead of being truly empathetic, I was faking it and wondering how to wiggle out of the conversation.

"My girlfriend's psychic," she said, gazing into empty space. "She did a reading for me and said that one of my moons is out of orbit. Now my mojo is unbalanced."

"I wouldn't be too concerned about it," I said thinking that a light tone might be the best option to turn things around. "My friends often tell me that I'm unbalanced but it seems to correct itself without any action on my part."

She seemed to consider my words, tilting her head this way and that and back again.

"My friend said an asteroid may have strayed from deep space and passed too close to my energy field. Its gravitation field probably pulled one of my moons out of orbit."

The street urchins behind me must have lost faith in my handling of the conversation and decided to take steps to extricate me and salvage their morning coffee klatch.

"That sounds about right," said Claudia, nodding her head and looking to Lupe for support.

"Yeah, makes sense to me," said Lupe. "Stray asteroids often create disturbances." 

I wished the girls had kept their pie holes shut, but the barista seemed to appreciate their comments. She did the head tilting again.

"All I know for sure is that my mojo is out of balance, and I'm keister-cakes out of luck. There's not much I can do about it until my moon gets back on track," she said.

I wish I could tell you that I practiced self-restraint at this point in the conversation. I wish I could tell you that I remained level-headed, knowing that the general public doesn't give a dingbat about physics. I wish I could, but I would be deceiving you.

"I'm sure that gravity doesn't work that way, I said, and I explained Einstein's theory of gravity and the curvature of spacetime. 

I glanced at Lupe and Claudia and saw they were taking it big. Their eyes were saucer-like, and their mouths were hanging open. No doubt they were thinking they should have passed by Egret's when they saw my car parked out front.

"But Einstein," she said. "You know--uncertainty and all that...random things happening in the universe. I'm pretty sure he called it quantum jumping."

"Actually," I said and as soon as I said it, Lupe and Claudia were shaking their heads, poking me in the ribs, and saying things under their breath, like "Don't say it," and "Leave it alone," but I paid them no attention.

"Actually," I said, "quantum mechanics features the principle of uncertainty and quantum leaps. But Einstein's relativity theories answered questions about classical physics and that's the area that deals with the motions of moons and asteroids and whatnot.

Her face lit up, and her eyes grew wider. Her eyes may have twinkled, and I won't swear to it, but I'm pretty she giggled a little.

"Classical physics!" she exclaimed. "Physics is classical too? That's a toot!"

"Well, yes," I said, wondering why her attitude was transformed at the mention of classical physics. "But when I say classical, I'm talking about the physics often referred to as Newtonian. What do you mean when you say classical?"

"Like the ancient Greeks," she said.

"Oh, right, ancient Greek culture is often called classic."

"Classic!" she exclaimed. "Oh my heavens, classic doesn't half describe Herodotus. He was a scream on stage! He had them rolling in the aisles. Now, you were saying what about asteroids?"

The oomph I brought into the cafe had deserted me. It seemed the sun had ceased to shine. My two allies were following my oomph out the door. I should have passed by the caffe when I saw my car parked out front.

Thank You, Jackie!

Welcome back to The Circular Journey, my friend. It's good to see you again. Congratulations are in order, in a small way, because you've made it through another week and here we are together at week's end. 

I suppose, like Ms. Wonder and me, you've either worked hard and everything turned out well, or despite how hard you've worked, everything went to hell.

I hope you enjoyed more of the former and less of the latter. But enough of the pour parlers, let's get on with it.

My dad visited me in a dream last night and that went well. I even told him I love him. I still feel good about that even though I spent the afternoon in a long line waiting to vote. Dad's hometown of Chattanooga didn't figure into the dream but as I replayed it in my mind, it brought back a favorite memory from years ago about that storied city.

My dad took me to Chattanooga most Saturday mornings to teach me about where and how he grew up. We were the poster crew for the "city boy vs. country boy" fable. I never heard Dad complain or directly criticize any of our country-ways but he did always refer to our community as Dogpatch (Google it.)

My Grandpa Robert retired from his job as chief cook on a tugboat in the Tennessee River and he moved the family to the country where he planned to become a gentleman farmer. He was moderately successful at it too.

The move happened while my dad was in the Navy and when he came home, I'll bet he had a hard time adjusting. But he met my mother there in the rural area and he never lived in the city again. But he still loved it and he had plenty of stories to tell me.

I must have been about six or seven when I began accompanying my dad into the city. He would show me around and tell me stories about each street, each shop, the riverfront, and his old neighborhoods. I remember him telling me that Grandpa Robert used to farm on one of the islands in the middle of the river.

What I remember most is that my dad insisted that I become familiar with the location of the Sears department store in mid-town. He stressed that if I was ever separated from him, I should find Sears, sit at the bus stop, and wait for him to come find me.

I should explain that the "bus stop" was a fully enclosed room on the ground floor of Sears, that opened onto the sidewalk and served as a shelter for those waiting for public transit. Very civilized. It had comfortable seating, vending machines, and a news rack. I've never seen a nicer.

My dad also told me that if I waited at the bus stop for a long time, or if I felt uncomfortable for any reason, I should get on the next bus that stopped and tell the driver that I was lost and to please take me to a police station.

One day, while hanging out at the bus stop, perusing a new comic book, and waiting for my dad to finish his shopping, I decided that I was in the mood for a little excitement. I decided to walk a few blocks up and down Market Street, passing in front of Sears on each circuit. Impossible to get lost and a real adventure for a first-grader. 

And so I left Sears and headed downtown. I wonder how many times I paced up and down the street until deciding I'd had enough adventure and so began looking for Sears. Imagine my surprise and confusion when I discovered the building had disappeared!

I think my next move was fairly commendable for such a young kid. I decided to walk uptown until in sight of the river, the limit of my familiar territory to the north; and then walked back down the street until I came to the rail station, which was my southern terminus. No Sears in sight! The impossible had happened. I was lost.

I quickly began walking back and forth hoping that, like Lorna Dune, the building would materialize out of the mist. There was no mist, but I'm sure you get my meaning.

At one point in my wandering, I glanced behind me and saw a policeman who seemed to be watching me with interest. Quickly, I turned away and tried to look as cool as some cucumbers, as P.G. Wodehouse put it.

You see when my dad told me to ask the bus driver to take me to the police, I realized for the first time that to become lost in the big city was a matter for the boys in blue. And like James Gagney, I wanted no part of the fuzz. You see, my mom had always been afraid of authority and I suppose I absorbed that fear from her.

I reasoned that I needed to appear normal like any not-lost, six-year-old, walking the streets with no adult supervision. Otherwise, the rozzer would suspect me of being a perp.

I continued to stroll in a leisurely way and every few minutes I would sneak a glance behind me. Each time, my worst fears were confirmed. I was being tailed. I suspected he'd radioed for backup and a stakeout was waiting for me up ahead.

What was I to do now? Trying to avoid suspicion, I was deep in thought, trying to construct a getaway by using bits of old movies I'd seen on television. 

I thought highly of two tactics but was unsure of which method would suit me best--something based on the raw, give-em-hell tact of Edward G. Robinson or the smooth, skillful strategy of Humphrey Bogart.

While debating the best strategy, I slowly became aware of a voice calling my name. The voice seemed somewhat faint as if coming from far away.

I looked ahead of me and saw no one. I looked in the windows of the buildings I passed. I looked up to heaven in case I was being called by the Lord and if it were true, I knew exactly what I should say, "Lord, here am I," just like the young Samuel in the Bible.

But it wasn't the Lord. It was my cousin, Jackie, shouting at me from the other side of the street. 

"Don't move," he shouted. "Stay right where you are. I'm coming to get you."

 If Jackie ever received his hero's commendation for rescuing me, I never heard about it. But he will always be a hero in my heart. I hope I meet him again someday so that I can properly thank him for saving me from the long arm of the law and what I was sure would be a sentence of 30 days without the option.

My Happy Place

The dreams playing in my sleep were dark and uncomfortable, and I wanted nothing more than to get out of them and into the light of day.  

I woke early with words to write—words that bubbled up in my mind as I tried to make sense of the dreams that had disturbed my sleep. Even before our morning constitutional, I was sitting at my vintage desktop computer, writing away, as if words could untangle the muddle of my heart.

If you feel the urge to complain about the poetry, please remember this is only a draft. I realize that I'm near the edge of that slippery slope and I'm taking steps to correct it. I promise.

After our walk, I was anxious to get back to my blog. Too much delay could cause me to lose the atmosphere. A proper atmosphere is everything when writing a blog like mine.

Ms. Wonder peeked into my office, her emerald eyes lighting up the place. I never have enough of her company, and I seldom see her immediately after the morning stroll. 

"You're blogging already?" she said, "You can't stop, can you? How many posts have you published this month?"

"Five," I said.

"Genome, you've written over 100 blog posts this year..."

"The count is 108," I said.

"And five more before the middle of the month? You're really on a roll."

"I love it," I said. "I don't want to stop."

She gave me a knowing look, one accompanied by a smile, and then she said, "I know you have something you want to say to me. Let's hear it."

"As you know," I began, "Most of my days are spent under the influence of one or more emotional storms. When the mood of the day features some combination of anxiety and depression, I try to find something funny in it and then write it up in The Circular Journey."

"I know," she said. "It's a form of therapy for you, it's entertainment for me."

That was all I needed to hear. There is no greater gift for me than winning her approval. I would' been happy to muse on her words for the rest of the day, but I couldn't stop the flow of words.

"Although I intend my stories to be light and whimsical," I said, "I take my writing seriously and work hard to make it as good as possible. I make each day's story sound better than it actually is, and I find that the more I write, the more I enjoy living in this protected garden my life has become."

"And my life, too," she said. 

“Yes," I said, and I paused for a second to let her words sink in before continuing. "You see, it's something I can feel good about because I created it, and I like it. A blog is a living thing. People will be reading it years from now."

"Just look at it," I said, turning the screen so that she could see it. She not only saw it, she read the last paragraph I'd written.

"Under cover of rain,' she began, 'the morning graced roses with washed and glowing faces, hanging limp in nearby spaces, reflecting from the road."  

We shared a moment--I was thinking about how proud I was of the post. I suspect she was wondering if I ever use her photographs to illustrate my posts. She likes to protect her copyrights and I don't blame her.

"It's poetry," she said and then gave me a blank look as though expecting me to fill in the gaps.

"I can't help it, Wonder." I said. "When my fingers touch the keyboard, I feel this compulsion to write something ====what and what? But I can control it. I just have to be rigorously vigilant."

To quickly change the subject before she could get a toe-hold, I said, "This story is 756 words long! Imagine--an entire story in less than 800 words."

"I know how challenging it can be to tell a story in so few words," she said. "I remember magazines that published our travel articles gave us a limit of 1200 to 1500 words, which was challenging enough."

"I have a unique style," I said, warming to the subject. "My words draw you in. You think you know what I'm about to write, and then you realize that I toyed with you, and then you chuckle. You can't help yourself."

"Do you ever wish you were still a freelance travel journalist?" she asked.

"No way," I said. "Blogging is my future, Wonder. I create a lovely garden--a protected Eden. Writing is my happy place. Even Princess Amy is OK with it."

"So there's absolutely no downside," she said. "Perfect."

"Well, I said, "the spell-checker can be annoying. I often make up words and Grammarly doesn't approve of them. Makes me stop in mid-composition to deal with it."

"You know, you can add those words to the Grammarly dictionary and stop the interruptions," she said.

"Yes, but I'd need to add hundreds of words--thousands. Makes me shudder to think of it."

"Let's not think of it then," she said.

And, I realized that she had put her finger on the nub, or if you prefer, rem acu tetigisti. Her words stirred something within me and I felt compelled to write the next line.

"From windows, life falls in place, as form and color together trace meaning for life beyond this space, and comforts weary souls."

Wonder read the words, turned to face me, and lifted an expressive eyebrow. The emerald green eye questioned the trend my writing had taken.

"I know!" I said. "It's that poetry element again. I'll correct it in rewrite, I promise."