Channeling Wodehouse

Waterford was slowly waking under the embrace of a bright mid-winter sun. Songbirds chanted their morning chorus as though reveling in the sunshine and the unbroken expanse of blue sky overhead. The squirrel community, however, wasn't paying attention. They lounged atop the fenceposts, contentedly napping like cats on a windowsill.

Inside the cozy walls of 1313 Bluebird Lane, I sat nursing a latte, awaiting the descent of Ms. Wonder from her upper-level sanctum. My eye caught a rippling shimmer near the base of the staircase, and with that, she appeared. It's a mystery how she does it.

"Good morning, Wonder. Marvelous to see you. I want to tell you something. As you know, I'm currently on a reading frenzy."

"You're on a feeding frenzy? Like a shark?"

"Not a feeding frenzy, Poopsie. I said, reading—a reading frenzy. But I'm happy you got the words mixed up. Of course, it's an easy thing to do, and there's a wheeze in there somewhere. I'll use it in my next blog post."

"If you're going to continue with puns and jokes all morning, I'm going back upstairs."

"No, wait, Poops, I think you're going to like what I have to say."

"If you're going to make me listen to puns all morning, I might just go back upstairs."

"Fine," I said. "Let me marshal my thoughts, and I'll give it to you skinny."

"Good," she said, and I used the next few moments to marshal. Once I'd worked out the outline, I was good to go. The outline must be properly organized to tell a story well. The rhythm will sort itself out once the speaker gets up to cruising speed.

"Wonder, I think you're familiar with the work of Sir Michael Caine, the legendary actor?"

"The actor in Dirty Rotten Scoundrels?"

"That's right, and many other films—all of them gems; none of them flops. I've always enjoyed watching him in movies, at awards shows, and on talk shows."

"Yeah, he was a fine actor."

"Precisely! "He was a master at transforming himself into different characters, all of them believably authentic."

A sudden clapping interrupted my story. It was Ms. Wonder clapping her hands together very close to my face. I stopped talking and gave her a stern look.

"I'm sorry," she said. "It had to be done. You were caught in a self-induced trance. I feared you might get stuck and not be able to find your way back."

"Wonder! That's the most ridiculous excuse you've ever dreamed up to get out of hearing one of my stories. And this one has special meaning to me."

"Okay then, I surrender. Let's hear it."

"The question that came to mind when watching Sir Michael or any of my favorite actors was this: How do we know when a truly accomplished actor stops acting? How do we know the personality being interviewed on late-night TV or making an acceptance speech isn't another act?"

"That's interesting," she said. "A lot of fun to think about, but probably nothing someone hasn’t asked before. In fact, I know it isn’t new because I've asked myself the same question."

"Exactly!" I said, and I said it with a lot of topspin. I’m not exactly sure why I responded so vigorously. Perhaps I wanted to disrupt the whim we had going.

"There's a comparable idea when you consider authors. When are they being transparent and allowing us to see their honest persona, and when are they creating fiction?"

"It sounds much like what you do in The Circular Journey."

"Exactly!" I said again, wondering if I was teetering on the brink of being clapped down again. All those exclamations were making me feel rather bucked.

"Wonder, I've always thought I’d led an unconventional life—one that others might find interesting. I've wanted to write a sort of autobiography but felt too self-conscious. By fictionalizing my life in The Circular Journey, I feel that I'm writing my autobiography in an oblique way."

At this point, the lovely Wonder Worker, who had been listening attentively (bless her heart) with bright eyes and a pleasant expression, opened her mouth to comment. I was happy to see her hanging onto every word, but I couldn’t let her interrupt now, so I pressed on.

"In other words, Poopsie, am I and my life the ultimate creation of my writing career? Of course, I write about actual events in my daily life, but I never shove something into the story just because it happened, and I never let facts get in the way of a good story. Wodehouse was the same."

"I’ve been following in my hero’s footsteps without realizing it. My readers get to know me, not through my ego's bluster but from every word that proceedeth from the mouth of my higher power--P.G. Wodehouse."

Her expression changed when she heard those words. It lost some of the enthusiasm and took on a more skeptical hue.

"Oh?" she said. "You channel P.G. Wodehouse, do you?"

"Oh, I’m so glad you agree!" I said. "Now I can quote you in today’s blog post."

"And so," she said, "now that you’ve documented that small caveat lector, why not get on with it? I know that’s exactly what I’m going to do."

And with that, she seemed to shimmer once more before disappearing upstairs.

Yesterday Once More

"Poopsie," I announced as I walked into the kitchen and found her enjoying the squirrel circus in the backyard, "I have an announcement to make, and you should be the first to know: I'm finally on the road to 'Find Out.'"

Yesterday Once More ~~ The Carpenters

Her face lit up like the Christmas lights on the Riverwalk and I'm pretty sure I saw a twinkle in her eye. I half expected her to throw her arms around me and ask, Where have you been all my life? Nothing like that happened, but she did ask, "Is that the funny little town near Zebulon?"

"No, you're probably thinking of Lizard Lick, but honestly, Zebulon is a funny enough name on its own."

"Wait, a second," she said. "I've got it. It's called Horneytown, Isn't it?"

"Horneytown isn't near anything," I said, "and what I'm trying to tell you is..."

"Tick Bite!" she said. "The name of the town is Tick Bite."

"Tick Bite is lost somewhere in the eastern flat lands," I said. "It hasn't been seen since the big blow of 07. Wonder, take a deep breath, and relax. Find Out isn't a place at all--it's a journey of self-discovery."

"Why do you keep saying it with capital letters if it's not a proper noun?"

"It's the name of a song, Poopsie, a song by the artist formerly known as Cat Stevens. And it's not only a song title, it's a state of being--actively seeking and accepting the lessons in whatever life sends your way."

"Oh,", she said with a quizzical expression, followed by an awkward silence.

"You see," I said. "when I look back at all the good times I had in years gone by, it makes today look rather sad. So much has changed. But I've found a possible solution to all that."

"Okay," she said, "I've heard this before but let's get on with it. What've you got?"

"It's like this," I explained. "I attended a meeting at the recovery center yesterday, and one of the speakers reminded me of the Buddha's message: desire is the root of all unhappiness. In one of his poems, Rumi even suggested we stop resisting the slings and arrows and embrace them instead."

As I spoke those words, another adage came to mind, although I couldn't remember the source. I mentioned it anyway. "I believe Rumi's words were, When life sends lemons to your door, invite them in and make lemonade. It's not an exact quote."

"That's not what he said," she moaned, "and his name is pronounced "room-ie," not "ruhm-ie. But go on--I'm listening."

"I've decided to give it a try. I'll stop fighting the things I can't change and focus on accepting myself, flaws and all. To smooth the flow, I'll sing the old songs I love so much, and it will seem like yesterday once more. I believe the Buddha would be proud of me."

"Why are you talking so fast? And why bring the Buddha into it? You say you're Buddhist, of course, but I think you make it up as you go along."

"Am I talking fast?"

"So, you're planning to find serenity by simply accepting your life as it is? You're going to give up your desires, forget about your dreams, and be content with what you have?"

"Well, it doesn't sound very appealing the way you put it," I said. "But remember, Poosie, I still have cherished memories of a life well-lived – a reminder of what I once had."

"Will the memories of your rock star days in the ‘80s be enough for you?" she asked.

"Those were such happy times," I said. "It seems like only yesterday. I can get those feelings back, like finding a long-lost friend, and it will seem like yesterday again."

"You think so, do you? Those happy times will come back all on their own if you only let them?"

"I'm tired of struggling, Poopsie. I did the math, and I'll never finish that book. I'll never be known for my shaman's dreams. I'm going to surrender to the fate of old age, and when I stop fighting everything, I'll find the serenity you mentioned earlier."

"So you're prepared to dine on mud pies and dandelion roots? Your motto, 'Eat no pine needles!' can fly out the window."

 

"Wait a minute," I said.

"That's right," she said. “Give up the struggle and live happy, joyous, and free."

My knees buckled and I sank into a heap on the floor. I felt a strange lightness--a lightness that felt hollow. It didn't come from a release of the burden of care; it was born of having nothing left to lose. I didn't like it.

“It’s never too late, you know.”

“Too late for what?” I asked.

“It’s never too late for right now—for this very moment and this very life. It's never too late.” 

“Do you have any suggestions?”

"I do," she said. "Join me tomorrow for a boat tour of the Cape Fear River. Surrounded by the incredible beauty of the natural world, singing the words to those melodies that sound so good to you, the years will melt away and it will be yesterday once more. I promise you will feel refreshed and re-energized."

"Will I be reborn? Will I become a new man?"

"That's not the way it works. There is no new man. There is only the same man who is singing his songs every day. One day at a time."

"I don't know how you do it, Poopsie. Something about that brain of yours is wondrous. You should donate it to science when you're done with it."

"Every sha-la-la-la, every wo-o-wo-o still shines," she sang. "Every song that I sing is so fine. All the best memories come back clearly to me and, just like before, it's yesterday once more."

No Regrets

“I've lived a full life," I told Ms. Wonder as we shared a quiet breakfast coffee. "And I tried to live each day in a way to avoid regret."

I didn't plan to say it; it just came out. Ever notice how often we say things we didn't plan to say? Perhaps not. It may be a Genome thing. So many things I do are influenced by the Genome DNA.

Wonder took a break from her Brunswick Community College program long enough to sip her latte. "What did you say about regrets?" she asked.

"A day without regret is a perfect day," I said.

"I suppose so," she said. "I don't think I have any big regrets--do you?" she asked.

"Regrets?" I said. "I have a few. But then again, few worth mentioning. As a young man, I hoped to travel cross-country to San Francisco. That city was a mecca for young people in those long-ago days."

"Why San Francisco?" she asked.

"It was a troubled time in our country, but the allure of that one city promised a new and better world." I paused a moment, reminiscing about the comfort those promises once brought me.

"I haven't heard about that trip," she said.

"I didn't go," I said. "It's hard to say why. When I share that dream with others, I often say I didn't want to travel alone. It's a perfectly understandable reason but I'm not sure it's the real one."

I continued to think about regret and the few that haunt me. Most of them are not truly troubling, but they do nag at me. Perhaps it's the thought that some of my dreams are no longer possible--another kind of loss that comes with age.

One of my biggest dreams is to make the all-American road trip. This journey involves driving from the East Coast to the West Coast and back again, taking a different route for each leg of the trip.

I was ready and willing to do it for most of my adult life and yet, believe it or not, I kept waiting for the 'right time'. In the end, I waited for a lifetime. I don't think I could make that trip now.

"Sounds like too much time in a car," said Irv. I probably should have mentioned that after breakfast, I drove into Wilmanwood and met Island Irv at Caffe' Luna.

"I love exploring the country by road. You can learn about how people enjoy their coffee and what they do in their spare time—little details like that. Everyone has an interesting life, and America is full of fascinating places."

He didn't say anything. Instead, he shrugged his shoulders and smiled as if to say, It takes all kinds.

"The love for travel across the country is a significant part of the American spirit. Consider the covered wagons that journeyed from east to west in the 19th century. Today, there are numerous books, songs, and movies that celebrate road trips, with many more using the journey as a backdrop for their stories."

"Like Thelma and Louise," he said.

"Exactly," I said, "and Little Miss Sunshine and .It Happened One Night, and Blues Brothers."

“Blues Brothers  isn’t really about a road trip,” he said.

"Trust me," I said.

"I'm not so sure," he said.

"Let it go," I said. "it's like Die Hard is a Christmas movie and it’s not a Christmas movie. Blues Brothers is like Die Hard.” 

"What?" he said.

"Too-may-toe, too-mah-toe," I said.

He said nothing but he gave me a look that I've never seen before. I'll need to consult my book on non-verbal communication for the interpretation.

"Think of all the books," I said. "Books like On the Road by Jack Kerouac, and Travels With Charley, by John Steinbeck, and Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, by Robert Pirsig."

"Are you sure Pirsig is the right name?" he asked. "Doesn't sound right." We eventually got it sorted out but only with the help of a second coffee.

If you regularly follow my thoughts on The Circular Journey, you're familiar with my strong urge to travel. But, as I get older, I question my ability to meet the physical demands. Will my vehicle be able to keep up? I ask myself.

When I refer to 'vehicle,' I mean both my body and Wynd Horse--I think of that car as more than a means of transportation. I question whether I want to make a long trip in any other vehicle.

Having said all that, I'm no closer to knowing how to deal with this particular regret. Fortunately, Ms. Wonder will fulfill her obligation to make the world a better place at the end of the year and we’ve planned an extended road trip together.

Our intention is to cruise up the Eastern Seaboard all the way to Quebec City. The plan has become my dream trip, one intended to mitigate the regret over not driving to San Francisco. You see, regret is something that feels like a loss to me and I've had my fill of losing.

Oh, well, not everyone should be expected to enjoy sitting in a car for hours on end. And you may be one of them. If you must make a long drive this year, I hope you will have a surprisingly good time. On the other hand, if you're a veteran roadster, then I wish you an unexpected happy surprise outing.

If Life doesn't have a road trip in store for you this year, I wish you a year of living with no regrets. A year without regret is a year in which every day is a perfect day.

Plans For the New Year

The question of how long an author should be allowed to document the adventures of specific characters is one that has often intrigued thoughtful individuals. My intention to continue this practice into the new year has brought the question back into focus in literary discussions.

It has been twelve years since I began writing about Ms. Wonder, the Genome, and Princess Amy. However, some people apparently consider my blog a nuisance and believe it should come to an end.

"Wonder," I called as I entered the sanctum that she calls her office. Right away, you're probably thinking, 'No not again. Genome when will you ever learn that interrupting her work day is never a strategy that ends well.'

But what else could I do? I was up to my neck in slings and arrows--not a good metaphor, I know, but I'm struggling here. There's a big decision to be made and the woman is my rock.

"I'm sorry to interrupt, but a crisis is brewing. My critics are calling for an end to The Circular Journey. They say, and I quote, 'Enough is enough.' My editors agree, insisting I spend my time on something profitable. They see these chronicles multiplying like rabbits in the coming years, and the prospect fills them with dread."

She didn't roll her eyes. She didn't sigh. She turned to look at me with a concerned expression. 

"First of all," she said. "There's much more to consider. Writing your stories brings you joy and it helps keep you away from Brunswick Beer and Cider..."

"Except for lunch," I interjected.

"Yes, except for lunch," she admitted. "Given that, I'd say the situation is still open to debate."

It wasn't the strong argument I'd hoped for, but, as the saying goes, 'Any port in a storm.' I decided to work with it.

"Despite the confusion and heated debates," I said, "one clear fact stands out: as the new year begins, so does our thirteenth year of business as usual."

"Has it been that long?" she asked.

"And I want to stress, Wonder, that I strongly believe anything worth doing, is worth doing thoroughly. In this regard, I'm much like Shakespeare."

"Hmmm," she said, "I'm not sure about the Shakespeare reference but I get your point." 

"My critics think that multiple stories with recurring characters have a limited shelf life," I said, "but I disagree strongly."

"Your comparisons," she said, "metaphors, similes, whatever, need work."

I'm sure her comments deserved my careful consideration and I will get to them eventually, but I pressed on.

"It's possible, I suppose, to read 'Coastal Camelot,' my most popular post, as a standalone effort and still feel satisfied. But I know there are individuals of a curious spirit who won't be content until they explore the entire blog, reading all ten of its most popular posts."

"No doubt," she said.

"The blog can't be fully appreciated with any less effort. Only by reading those ten will certain references become clear instead of mystifying and obscure."

"Of course," she said turning to face the computer screen again.

Now, my friend, after hearing my side of the debate, I ask you to consider the opening lines from 'Coastal Camelot':

 

The morning opened with a show so grand and majestic that it made me question Mr. Priddy’s sixth-grade lesson about the Earth’s rotation causing the sunrise. Gazing at this glorious start to the day, I couldn't help but think that only a goddess driving her divine sun chariot could create such a spectacle.

Not bad, right? How could anyone think it boring or redundant? And check out these lines from the post I call, 'Life is Good': 

I arrived early this morning, riding the shirtsleeves of the sun, who had awakened bright-eyed, rolled up his sleeves and gotten straight to the point. Not a bad opening for a yellow dwarf-star.

And not a bad opening from a serial blog, right? And at the risk of overdoing it, let's sample this paragraph from 'Keep On the Sunny Side': 

Sunshine stole across the mews from the general direction of the Atlantic Ocean, not that it was remarkable in any way. I mean, I'm damned if I know how it's done--smoke and mirrors, probably...  

I make these missives available to you, dear reader, at no charge, and the method of finding them is simple. All you have to do is return to the main page of this blog, and scroll down until you see the Blog Archives in the right-hand column. Then begin clicking away to your heart's content. 

Do it now is my suggestion. Make it a daily habit. I recommend beginning your morning by reading one or even two if you're feeling froggy. I guarantee that doing so will bring sunshine, blue skies, and birdsong into your inner world--and perhaps even your outer world too.

Genome In The Wintertime

Are you a fan of P. G. Wodehouse? Most people are it seems. I'm certainly fond of his work. Inspiring is the word I'd use to describe it. 

Wodehouse lived through some of the more challenging times of the 20th Century. World War I, social unrest in Europe, World War II, and worldwide financial struggles. It was a troubling time. It could be described as living in Nosferatu's cellar.

How could one cope with all that chaos? How can someone maintain their sanity when it seems everyone around them is losing theirs? Wodehouse found his escape in his stories.

Wodehouse wrote light comedy to brighten things up and to create a happy place in a dark world. His stories have helped me to remain sane--relatively--as sane as I can be. 

I haven't lived through times as difficult as Wodehouse, but I've lived through the most difficult times of my life. I've learned from the Wodehouse style and I try to follow his example. By writing The Circular Journey, I create my own happy place in a darkening world.

In my writing, I depict Wilmawood as a near perfect garden, not actually perfect but naturally beautiful and sastifying to the spirit. The people who live there are not perfect--they're fully human, and like all humans, have their flaws. They make mistakes and succumb to temptation, but they haven't tasted the apples of the Garden of Eden.

My writing thrives during days of bright sunshine, blue skies, and birdsong. So it's no wonder that I am most creative during the sunnier, warmer seasons--springtime and summer. Longer days filled with sunshine are essential to my sense of eternal youth and happiness. Unfortunately, we're up to our chins in winter now. 

Although mid-winter days offer barely nine hours of sunshine, we can take some comfort in the fact that Earth is moving around the sun at 67,000 miles per hour. At that pace, the spring equinox will be here before we realize it, bringing longer days. By late June, we can enjoy up to fifteen hours of daylight.

The calendar reminds that we're not there yet. To truly appreciate the winter season, one must pay close attention. It's important to learn the language of birdsong and attend a squirrel circus when the show is in town. I attend to these requirements as often as possible.

Every ray of sunshine holds the promise of infinite possibilities. Winter winds cleanse the mind and spirit just as spring rain showers cleanse the air. That's my story, and I will stoutly deny any other interpretation.

My philosophy, which I'm sure you're anxious to hear, is that we arrive at life’s ultimate destination too soon and the few days we're given are chock full of absurdities and chaos. Might as well embrace all that nonsense and find ways to enjoy the journey. 

I apologize to those of you who came here looking for lifestyle updates rather than philosophical reflections. It's a weakness that I sometimes surrender to--not often--but more often than I succumb to poetry. I appreciate your indulgence during this brief interruption in the narative. I felt it had to be done. Let's get back on track, shall we? 

The long nights of winter are upon us and those nights don't lend themselves to revelry--not at my age. I prefer to stroll through Brunswick Forest on sunny days when the wind is calm and quiet. Not exactly a disco party but it works for me.

There's a touch of magic in the blue skies reflecting off the lagoons and the gentle ocean breeze sweeps away dark thoughts, if I only allow it.

A great stress reliever for me is to take some time to re-energize to dance with the mockingbirds and express gratitude to the trees for simply being there. I do it almost every morning.

Oh, I mustn't forget the ducks in the lagoon. There's always something calming about a duck. No matter what problems may be afflicting the world around us, ducks remain aloof from them and simply go on being ducks.

Eureka! I think to myself when standing on the promontory overlooking the lagoon. It's an expression that's probably out of place, but I like it. I'm not sure why I like it so much. Maybe it's because the word captures a sense of euphoria, or maybe it's the thought of Archimedes running through the streets naked upon discovering the principle of displacement.

Whatever the reason, I feel the urge to shout it when I stand beneath those blue skies, the sun shining on my face and the ducks reflected in the still waters of the lagoon--Eureka! Of course, I keep my clothes on--I haven't tasted the apples of the Garden.

And who do I have to thank for this feeling of euphoria? Mr. P.G. Wodehouse that's who. By creating his happy place in his books, he also created a happy spot for me. He taught me how to cultivate my own peaceful and happy little garden. It's a place that I can feel safe and content, no matter what's happening around me. 

In my own way, with my humble skills, I strive to bring a smile to the faces of my public here on The Circular Journey. My wish for you, my cherished public, is a winter filled with bright and cheerful days free from the limitations of yesterday.