Laugh It Off

I don't know if you've noticed but from time to time as we slog along in life, moments arise that make a lasting impression. 'There's one for the record books,' you say to yourself and you realize that the memory of it will come back to you at intervals down through the years. 

Sometimes, when your head is on the pillow and your thoughts are becoming soft and mellow, up pops the memory, banishing the Sandman, causing you to leap up with that familiar feeling that you're going to die in about two minutes.

One of those remembered moments occurred to me this morning. It was just as I was wakened by Beignet, the orange and white Ragamuffin, when he decided to lie on my face and all that fur clogging the respiratory system brought immediately to mind… well, on second thought, let's not dwell on it. Too morbid. The point is not the memory itself but the effect it has on the limbic system.

This summer has been one for the record books in its own way. The Genome is a sensitive fellow and, what with one thing and another, he's been filled to overflowing with the cortisols that cause depression. When I say overflowing, I mean that the stuff has been sloshing up against the tonsils like the incoming tide. I just don't have room for any more. Full up!

When the hippocampus retrieved the memory and displayed it on the big screen--I'm not so sure it wasn't in 3D--I leaped out of bed, crossed the room to stand in front of the window in what was for me the work of an instant. I was expecting the restorative of summer morning sunshine of course. No good. It's September 11--a cause for more dark memories but not the ones that were suffocating me at the moment. We are mid-month into autumn, the season of mists and fruitful mellowness, as Ms. Wonder puts it. The sunshine wouldn't reach the high hills behind Chadsford Hall for another 30 minutes.

What one needs in times like these, I don't need to tell you, is a higher power and I looked around for Ms. Wonder but the room, though well-equipped with the usual furnishings--one bed, two dressers, about a dozen cats, was noticeably absent of Wonders--Poopsie or otherwise.

What now? is what I asked myself.

Run faster! came the reply and it was delivered in a panicked tone of voice, if I can call it a voice. The words were made without the benefit of sound waves because it came from the almond-shaped little cluster of brain cells that you may know as the amygdala but I call Princess Amy. "You've got to get away from those memories!" she said.

"Peace, Princess," I said, "be still. There's nothing to be afraid of. I can handle this."

"You?" she said. "You can't deal with something as simple as cat fur. What do you think you're going to do about it?"

It was a good question and I had to admit that she had a talking point about the cat fur. I didn't have a ready answer so I asked her to excuse me while I paced the hallway in thought. It wasn't pleasant in the hallway. Confining for one thing. For another, each time I got a good stride going, I came to the end of the hall and had to turn round and do it all over. Then, as so often happens, an unaffiliated thought led to a serendipitous one and everything changed for the better. Here in a nutshell is what happened.

First, it occurred to me that the office window faces the east and if there is to be sunshine, that's the first place to look for it. I removed myself to the office. Once there, I was surrounded by mountains of thoughts affiliated with my book, Out of the Blue. I'm sure you know what happened next. With that book in mind, all the power principles that make up fierce living presented themselves to me like the fruit in Ms. Wonder's early autumn. There you are then--power principles to keep the blues away. I immediately chose one and put it into action.

"Ha, ha, ha," I said.

"What's wrong with you?" said the princess.

"Hee, hee, hee," I replied.

"Have you dropped off the deep end?" she said.

"Ho, ho, ho," I said and was reminded of good ole St. Nick and all those delightful lies we were told as children. Then I began to laugh in earnest.

"You sound like one of those mad scientists that live in the dungeons of upstate New York castles," said the amygdala. "You should get to a doctor."

By now I felt great. I began to toss about cat toys and laughed just because I felt like it. Beignet and Sagi were doing figure eights at my shins. Abbie was looking at me in saucer-eyed amazement. Uma was racing back and forth from one room to another and Eddy was marching around as though he were in charge of it all.

Now I've come to the reason for this story. You may consider it a warning. If you are enjoying a good bout of deep blue depression and you want to keep it going for a while longer--you may be in a particularly creative mood or perhaps you're preparing for an interview on local radio--for goodness sake don't start laughing. Laughing, even if you don't feel like laughing, will lift you right out of the depths whether you want to be rescued or not.

Flight for Life

"Poopsie," I said, as I entered the sal de ban and waved away the clouds of steam billowing from the tub, "do you know what keeps an airplane in the air?"

"That's a question that flight engineers continue to debate isn't it," she said, "or have you read something recently about a consensus opinion?"

You are familiar by now with the special sense of humor this P. Wonder wields and so I'm sure you aren't surprised by her response. It's something she inherited from her Slavic ancestors, I'm sure of it. Looking for the humor in the situation probably helped them get through those long winter nights when the wolves were threatening to huff and puff and all that other unpleasantness. I admit this gag got right next to me and I laughed out loud.

"That's a good one," I said. "Consensus opinion! But what I'm referring to is the air beneath the wings. And I think that's a perfect metaphor for the people supporting the Flight for Life project. They, and I refer to those making donations to St. Jude Children's Research Hospital, are the air beneath the wings of the Piper Aztec making its way around the world to bring attention to the hospital and the services it provides to children with cancer."

"And St. Jude's," she said, "is the wind beneath the wings of those children in their time of need."

I didn't immediately respond, being caught up in thoughts of just how true her words were. I was reminded of the many times in my life when I was hopeless, which is about every other day, and someone came along to help asking nothing in return. St. Jude's is like that. No family need pay for the help they provide the children. Incredible when you think about it.

"Are they back in the air?" she said and by they she meant the crew of Flight for Life--not St. Jude hospital.

"Still in Amsterdam, taking a well deserved break after flying from North Carolina to Greenland and then to Iceland and then to the continent," I said giving her the summary of the first leg. "Do you realize, Poopsie, that only 120 people have made this flight in a plane classified as "light aircraft?" And these guys are the first to do it to raise money to help children in need."

"Where are they headed next?"

"I'm not really certain," I said. "but the last time I spoke to Bob, the co-pilot, he hinted they will fly through western Europe--France, Spain, all the usual suspects, and then they will stop in Ankara before beginning the third leg of the trip. They will stop along the way, of course, to meet with well-wishers who want to get a photo with the team and the plane. I wish I'd done that."

"Maybe you can meet them when they return to Roxboro," she said.

"I have a better idea," I said. "I think I'll meet them in Southeast Asia somewhere. If I'm lucky, I can get short flight in the plane."

"I don't think so," she said.

I didn't expect her to turn cartwheels at the idea of my taking a little jaunt around the globe but I did expect her to rally round the flag just a little.

"Why not?" I said.

"Because you're not going if I'm not going and I'm not able to leave the office right now."

I was dashed! This was so unlike the woman I count as my number one fan. I could make nothing of it other than recognizing that sometimes life sneaks up very quietly, keeping to the shadows, and then when it catches you with your guard down, it tears off the whiskers and pounces. This time was one of those times.

Quantum Entanglement

"First there is a mountain, then it seems the mountain's gone, but then if you take 

another look, why it's been there all along." ~~ Donovan, The Mountain

My morning meditation was unfolding breath by breath as I walked the courtyard of the South Point in Durham, and I was mindful of the body moving through space in rhythm with the breath. Of course, there were the usual private service announcements from Amy, that almond-eyed little bird that sits in the middle of my brain and whose only job, it seems, is to mess with my emotions.

"Look you, fool, there's a car approaching at high speed driven by a young woman late for work in the shoe department of Nordstrom's and she will brook no pedestrians crossing her path. She's irresponsible, inconsiderate, and dangerous!" That was just one of the many negative comments that I remember her announcing. Most of them were simply versions of, "Run for your life!"

"Not now, Amy," I replied to each of her proclamations. "I see the car. I see the homeless guy. I see the young man dressed in gang colors. Chill out, old girl, I've got this."

As I circled the fountain in front of the cinema, I seemed to slip into the spaces between moments, and while in there a DATA bus pulled up to the stop. Doors opened and he stepped down to the sidewalk. He took just a moment to hoist his backpack, then he hefted his staff, the one with the white knob on the end, and like a tai chi master taking up his bang! he strode into the Darkness.

The Darkness I write of was his personal slice of the dark materials. He was blind. But blind or not, this man moved fearlessly toward his goal. His movements arrested my attention if that's the word I want,  and I felt a strange attraction causing my ankles to pick up the pace. It was hard to be mindful at this speed but I was compelled to follow along.

You are familiar with quantum realities, of course, who isn't these days? Well, think about that bit of Q reality that describes the way entangled particles experience the same event simultaneously. I'm sure smoke and mirrors figure into it someway. But for this example, let's say that this man is Particle A and that the Genome is Particle B. Oh, forget that. Let's just say that I felt entangled with this man. 

As we moved through the ether I was witness to another Q effect--the one that tells us that material objects appear only when the observer notices one of the infinite numbers of probabilities. I'm paraphrasing but I'm sure you follow me. You can't expect me to do the dialect. To be perfectly clear, if I can be clear, as he walked by familiar objects, he did not tentatively reach out for them with his cane. No, what he did is this, and he did it with authority, he gave each of the landmarks a great Whack! as he passed them by.

Let there be a park bench, he seemed to say, and Whack! There was a park bench. Let there be a flower planter. Whack! And there was. Let there be a fountain. Whack! Ditto. And he saw that it was all good. I realized that to this blind man, first there was no park bench, then Whack! there was a park bench, and passing on there was no park bench.

"Are you watching this, Amy?" I asked. "This guy doesn't allow his limbic system to be in control. He lives fiercely; he's ready for whatever life has in store. He shows me that life is good and that I must not hesitate. I must go forward and never stop. What do you say to that?"

She was silent. Doesn't happen very often and I felt pretty good about it.

"That assurance comes from his refusal to give up when surrounded with adversity," I continued in order to make the most of my temporary advantage.  "It's not when everything is going our way that we grow. That way leads only to complacency and stagnation. It is when circumstances take away all the easy choices and we are left with only two--give up or step out into the Darkness. That's what Fierce Living is all about."

Still nothing from Amy. She seemed to have turned the shingle around and closed the shop window. Probably tea time for her and that was alright with me. I was happy to have been entangled with this guy's morning, as he moved like Alexander toward Egypt. I made a note to find a wizard's staff just like the one he had.

Walking the Dog

"Poopsie!' I said.

'What?'

Considering the verve and umph I'd put into my opening remark, I found her response, weighed in the balance, to be lacking in luster. I mused on this mystery, and it could only be deemed a mystery when this Wonder Woman fails to rally round. After due consideration, I decided to give it a miss. It was her snit and she was entitled to it but I didn't let this detain me.

'Do you realize,' I said, 'and I'm sure even as I ask that you do know all about it in those Slavic bones, that towels have two different sides?' 

'It would be impossible to have a towel with only one side,' she said.

'Exactly!' I cried, 'And each side has its own purpose.'

'Each side has its own purpose?'

'Just so,' I said, 'you're doing great. Two out of three. Now if you can answer the next question correctly, you will win the prize.'

'The prize?'

'Your brain is a finely tuned instrument,' I said, 'We've never been so synchronized, you and I. Now, tell me what are the two sides used for?'

'Used for?'

'Yes, what are their specific purposes?'

'Are you alright?' she said. And at this precise point it became apparent to me that, although we had seemed to be in complete agreement throughout, we had somehow jumped the rails at the crucial point. It was the same with King Harold when Windy Bill breezed in at Hastings.

'Poopsie, have you been paying attention? I mean really close attention? Remember, when we are not mindful, we fall into the default mode where there is weeping and gnashing of teeth, and that never works out well.'

'You're driveling,' she said.

'And you're yanking the dog's chain!' I said and I meant it to sting because the memory of that guy and his dog was still green.

'What are you talking about?' she demanded. Yes, I think "demanded" is the very word, the mot juste. She demanded that I enlighten her and I did. I let her have it.

'I'm sure I told you about the man training his puppy to heel and each time the puppy pranced ahead of him, doing a little doggy dance, the man would jerk the chain and pull the front half of the puppy's body off the ground. He had an angry scowl on his face when he did it too--the man, I mean, not the dog.'

'What does this have to do with anything?' she asked.

'Everything,' I said, 'Don't you see? The dog lives only to please the master. This is the defining characteristic of dogs, I believe. Shakespeare noted it in one of his plays. And yet the man was not simply training the dog. The man lacked patience. The man was telling the dog that he was bad just because he had not yet learned to heel. And the intensity of the move indicated a very bad dog--a stupid dog. Not the right tone if you ask me.'

'And,' said the Wonder.

'Well, you know how Princess Amy is.'

'You're limbic system,' she said.

'That's right. She hotted up when she saw this abuse and descended on me like one of those goddesses in the Iliad that descend from clouds and spur their favorite on to action. Amy spurred me. She rode me like a Voodoo loa.'

'You didn't?' said she.

'Of course, I did. Am I a man to stand around and watch animals abused? The emotions surged upon me like the seventh wave. A voice inside me shouted kawabunga! . Of course I did something. Not much. I simply asked the guy how he would like it if someone treated him that way. It was only later that I realized that someone had treated him that way. That's the only explanation for mistreating animals.'

'I'm disappointed in you,' she said.

'Me!' I said. 'What about that man?'

'He was minding his own business.' she said.

'So was I,' I said.

'No, you were minding his business,' she said.

'Exactly,' I said, 'I am my brother's keeper.'

'You're not even your keeper,' she said.

'You don't see the irony in Princess Amy controlling me like a goddess and then me controlling a total stranger? I'm a very powerful person, although not as powerful as you, Ms. Wonder. Still.'

'You're a Looney Tune,' she said but in a kind and caring way, I'm sure. I thought this would be a good time to get back to the subject. Side issues can be very distracting, or don't you think so?

'One side is for drying, it's the more open and fluffy side,' I explained. 'You use that side first and then the smoother side is used for buffing and invigorating.'

'You're crazy,' she said. 'Towels don't have two sides.'

'Manic-depressive,' I said, 'and you've already admitted that it wouldn't be a towel without two sides.'

She gave me a look then she said, 'I love you anyway,'

'Thank you, Poopsie.'

'Not at all.'

The First Lesson for Authors

Having re-read the half dozen pages I’d written in the middle of the morning when the large family next door was still having the time of their lives, I lovingly saved the pages to the cloud, like a mother goose tucking her goslings into the nest. I had that feeling that often comes upon authors when they know the blog entry they're working on is just the stuff to give the troops.

Happiness, a wise man or woman once said, comes from making others happy. It’s possibly one of Shakespeare's gags. He made a career of writing stuff like that. But no matter who came up with the little thing, it was someone with a finger on the nub, because I was happy and all because I knew that little story I'd just written would bring joy to many.

One of the first lessons we writers learn is that you can’t please everybody but this particular story was sure to please even the dourest reader. It’s the story I call Cabbage Head and it’s the details of an encounter between my dear old friend, let us call him Gandolf, we did call him that, and a guy in Ireland’s Bar out in the West End district of Nashville when we were in school there. 

I won’t go into details now. You will have to wait until the book is published for that, but the gist of it is that Gandolf thought he’d met the girl of his dreams only she’d arrived with someone else that night. After the exchange of a bit of name-calling, "Cabbage Head" being the one I remember most fondly, and a jostle or two--I still think management made too much out of a few broken dishes--and yet the bouncers competed for the privilege of throwing us out.

With only that sketch of the thing, I'm sure you understand why I was so happy with the morning's output. I rose in the best spirit of morning, I stretched well, and I remember thinking to myself, 'Life is good'. If I fully expected to enjoy a perfect day, why shouldn't I? 

The day’s work was done at an early hour and the trademark-pink sunrise of Cocoa Beach was flooding the village as I made my way to Ossorio’s for a cup of Jah’s Mercy. The lark was on the wing, as Browning said, and the snail on the thorn—doesn’t appeal to me but it takes all kinds—and then there was a bit more muck of that kind, followed by the punchline—all’s right with the world. And so it seemed.

As soon as I entered the café, I spotted Ms Wonder staring fixedly at a plateful of bagels—Ms W. was doing the staring, not me. For several days prior she’d behaved as though she had something on her mind. If I didn’t know her as well as I do, I might have suspected her of stealing someone’s pig, for that was just the kind of look she wore. I'm sure you know just what I mean.

“Poopsie,” I said.

My voice startled her. She jumped a couple of inches and gave me the look most of us reserve for the ghost of Hamlet’s father. It was Hamlet, wasn’t it? I doubt they read those stories in school anymore. Probably scares the children, in the same way, I seemed to have frightened the Wonder.

“Get hold of yourself,” I said. “It’s bad enough that I frighten old ladies and small children on the sidewalks. I don't have room for scaring the whatsit out of my wife. Do you realize that when I stopped in the park to qigong this morning, a small child started crying and the mother rushed into Thai-Thai’s to tell the manager that a man was in the park having seizures?”

“Sorry,” she said, “I was lost in thought.”

“You were lost in the movie playing in your mind, is where,” I said. “Lost in the default network and that never turns out well. It leads to negative thinking and unhealthy behavior. It’s a scientific fact. You can read all about it on my blog.

“You’re probably right,” she said, “and I think I’ve caught a chill too.”

“That’s why you wobble is it?”

“I think so,” she said.

“You’re not practicing the steps of your new line dance?”

“No.”

“Try a stiff whiskey toddy,” I said, “I understand they'll put you right in no time.”

“I don’t drink,” she said, “remember?”

“So I do,” I said on reflection, “and if I remember correctly, neither do I.”

The next few moments were filled with silence. Finally, she said, “Oh, I almost forgot. I picked up your phone by mistake and someone texted you a few minutes ago about your book. It was someone named Kayser.”

“My agent,” I said.

“He was asking how the book’s coming.”

“Yes, but it's not a book. It's my blog and he’s interested in selling the rights to dramatize it to a theatrical consortium in New York.”

“Someone wants to turn your blog into a play?” she said.

“That’s right. You don’t think it a good idea?”

“It doesn’t seem to be the kind of thing that becomes a play,” she said.

“That’s what I keep telling Kayser,” I said. I considered saying more on the subject but realized that there was no profit in it. Besides, now that I was in the company of the wonder worker, I felt in mid-season form and ready for whatever life sent my way. My plan was to wait for the right quantum wave to rise up, then get up on my mental surfboard and ride it all the way to shore. Wherever and whatever shore means in this context.

"Kowabunga?" asked Ms. Wonder.

"Did I say that out loud?" I said, and then without waiting for a reply, I said it again.

"Kowabunga, Poopsie!"

"Kowabunga, Genome!"

Some days are made for letting go of the anchor and sailing into the sun. Too many metaphors? Perhaps you're right. But still, doesn't change the fact that this, was one of those days.