Living On a Prayer.

I suppose I should apologize upfront. It's all my fault you see, just like so many other things gone wrong in the world today. Ms. Wonder, of course, is fond of telling me that it isn't all about me, but if she only knew. You see, it's like this...

       

"My friend, Luminita," I said to Ms. Wonder as she packed for the morning commute downtown. You surely remember that this Wonder is one of those savants you're always reading about. She has the answer to any question, the solution to any problem. I think it's all that fish she eats. Brain food. Has to do with the healthy oils. 

I said to Wonder, "My friend, Luminita, sent a link to an article about the future construction of floating cities, and it was that term, floating cities that...well, you can easily guess the thought that came into my mind." 

"This velcro gets caught on everything," she said much to my amazement.

"Did you say velcro?" I asked. "You know it must be the trademarked "velcro" if you want to use the word."

"Yes, I know. See, at the bottom of the shoulder strap?" she said as she held the problem strap in her hand for me to see. "Every time I putit on or take it off, it gets caught on something. Drives me crazy."

"Wicked!" I said. "Leave it off is my suggestion," I said. "Don't wear it."

"That's all you've got?" she said.

"Back to the subject," I said because I remembered in the nick of time that this Wonder, although a fount of ancient wisdom and modern enlightened thought, is also a master of the arts of subterfuge and misdirection. She wasn't going to throw me off track with this velcro motif.

"Floating cities," I said to establish the point d'appui, if that's the term, meaning the main ingredient. "Your first thought I'm sure, when you hear that term, are the floating colonies being proposed for the upper atmosphere of Venus."

"That's not my first thought," she said. 

"Oh, don't be silly," I said. "Of course, it's your first thought." And I added a little chuckle to press it home. "What else?" As soon as these last two words were out of my mouth, I knew I'd passed the kite string to her, and now all I could do was stand and watch her fly the thing.

"Well, my first thought," she said "was of the floating villages in Halong Bay, Viet Nam. You remember. That James Bond flick, Tomorrow Never Dies, was filmed there. At least the boat chase was."

She grew silent for a few seconds and the look on her face told me that she was enjoying a little time travel that included pleasant thoughts of sailing on Halong Bay.

"Remember that little boy and his mother selling bananas boat to boat?" she said.

"It wasn't bananas," I said.

"Yes it was bananas," she said with just a hint of a scowl.

"Yes, I remember now," I said. But you understand it was only because I didn't want to spoil her fond reverie.

"My first thoughts were not of Viet Nam," I said. "My first thoughts are seldom of Viet Nam. It isn't Halong Bay that I associate with that sovereign nation, it's General Westmoreland and President Tricky."

Silence ruled between us as I took a few moments to remember that episode of my life, so long ago and so far away. Then coming back to the surface, I added, 

"They gave me a letter of gratitude."

She gave me a look that said, let's not go into this again, shall we? Let's move on to something more fitting to an early morning chit-chat. It's a lot for a look to convey, I realize, but it's a look that I've come to know well.

"I immediately thought," I said in order to take her by the hand and gently lead her onto the right path, "of the floating colonies of dirigibles that certain visionary minds at NASA have proposed to be established in the skies above the surface of Venus. 

They call it Cloud City. And with that for a first thought, I don't need to tell you, my chakras began vibrating at higher frequencies. I'm tingling with excitement even now."

As my first attempt at this conversation collapsed into a heap on the floor, I really didn't expect much of a reaction from her. I didn't get much.

"Damned velcro," she said.

"Scurge of the 21st century," I said.

"Don't you mean, scourge," she said, "a cause of great affliction--Webster?"

"I mean scurge," I said, "nothing worse; as low as you can go--Urban."

"Ah," she said. 

"You're welcome," I said. She nodded.

"The article in Luminita's link was about French Polynesia planning to build floating islands to escape the ongoing rise in sea level," I said.

"Oh, interesting," she said. "Much like the floating villages on Halong Bay."

"Yes, well, you have a talking point," I said. "But those floating Polynesian islands may work to keep the tourists out of the waves while the sea levels rise, but when the collapsing ice caps generate 30-meter tsunamis, it's going to be the fall of Atlantis all over again."

"Goodness!" she said. "Didn't mean to get you all hotted up. Don't let your knickers get in a wad."

"Knickers in a wad are just what I don't have at present," I said. "I just wonder if the plans for floating cities are living on a prayer. Or perhaps it's wishful thinking." 

And thinking that discretion is the better part of valor, I exited the kitchen before she could reply.

Irrational Exuberance

You may remember, if you've been here before, that I'm teaching myself videography. I create videos to promote the districts that make up the city of Wilmington. You won't be surprised to learn that my videos feature many coffee cafes. 

The newest caffeine den to open in the city is the Egret Cafe and it's located in the Soda Pop District. It's quite unique, at least to my knowledge it's unique, in that on weekends there is a disc jockey playing vinyl albums provided by Vintage Vinyl located in Castle Street Arts District.

I love the idea of a coffee shop dance club and I love the collaboration of two businesses from different districts. It's something that I'd like to see more of in my world. And so I want to promote them in my online travel magazine, Carolina Roads.

I arrived just before nightfall because I wanted to experience the changing atmosphere in the cafe as the scene transitioned from coffee shop to dance club. I was looking for a fast and sure pick-me-up before darkness enveloped the Carolina Coast and by association, Princess Amy, who does not like nighttime, not even a little.

I stopped just inside the door to absorb the energy and what to wondering eyes should appear but my god-niece Lupe, seated at a table in the center of the room.

She was wearing her night uniform, the on-duty upholstery of s Mistress of the Night for the Greater Soda Pop District. I seldom see her in this official role because I'm usually in bed at this hour.

"What are you doing here, Genome?" she said to me as she pushed a vacant chair out to meet me. I sat.

"Making a video and most importantly celebrating life," I said.

"Well, please don't do it here. I'm enjoying the coming of the evening and the spirit of darkness."

"Lupe! Not only is it springtime, the season of something Wodehousian. But I have escaped the surly bonds of the past and I now soar above the clouds, so high it seems I can reach out and touch the face..."

"Careful," she warned.

"...of the Universe."

"Well, good for you, she said, but I don't believe any of it. You're engaging in a pep rally to make yourself feel better. All the irrational exuberance annoys me and the profane joy weakens my power."

I shrugged but only slightly. I wasn't immediately sure that I was ready to acknowledge the truth of her words. But once I did, I felt better about it. 

"Life sucks," I said.

"Just one damn thing after another," she said.

Silence filled the space between us for several moments. It wasn't uncomfortable for me; I was numb from depression. But it must have been different for her because she began setting boundaries.

"Listen to me, douche-nozzle, you and I both know that life is a disappointment. We're lied to and peer-pressured to keep everyone content with the low-level something that is daily life.

That's why I look for something in quantum physics and mathematics to have a reason to get out of bed in the morning. You, I would think, would be absorbed in being Death's assistant."

"Not really Death's assistant, Lupe. I've explained before that I, and others like me, simply facilitate the soul's ascension by getting it from one person to the next in line."

"Archer, just accept the compliment, please. Don't water it down."

"Then don't call me Archer. I am not Charlie Archer."

"Ok, so you're not Death's assistant. No biggie. You do have an evil plan to dominate the world. That's one of the things I like best about you."

"But it's not really evil," I said. "It's just a plan to finally get to a place of contentment before I'm too old to enjoy life." 

"Again, Asher! Accept the compliment. And what a massive downer, by the way. Look, I behave on your terms, more or less, in the mornings when we meet at Native Grounds because Castle Street Arts District is your neighborhood. If you can't accept my terms here in the Soda Pop District, then you'll just have to leave."

I thought about her words for a moment and then I rose from my chair. 

"Lupe," I said. "I like having you on my team. There's no one I'd rather have my back."

And I meant what I said to her. She's the best and the world can't have too many of her.

She nodded and then, "I suppose you'll do in a pinch too, you big jamoke. Now get out of here before Claudia shows up and gets even more confused about what makes us tock."

Some days, we have little choice but to accept what life brings to us and get on with it. I don't like it. But fighting it only makes it worse.

My Secret Mission

Some days begin with a bang, which is the way I like to think the Universe will end or, if not the Universe itself, then the end of the Genome. Banging, I mean, not whimpering. Give me a bang over a whimper any day. This particular morning got off to a banging start. It happened like this:

South Durham Renaissance District 

I was on my way to Dulce Cafe, looking forward to a caffe Americano and possibly an apple-walnut muffin. The morning was cool and refreshing and the windows of Wind Horse were down, the music was up, and Billy Squire assured me that everybody wants me. 

One can never be in a dark mood knowing that everyone wants you, of course. The song isn't one of those uplifting tunes that assure you that everything's going to be alright, but somehow, someway, just those words--everybody needs you, everybody wants you, make me feel good. There may be a moral in there somewhere but let's skip it for now.

For no reason in particular, I was thinking of a time, years past, when I'd just completed my duty to keep the western world safe from the Red Menace. We did our duty in those days. It was a way to repay just a little part of the benefits of living in a free world. Not like today when everyone is a hero in uniform. But that's another bit of derailment, what I want to talk about is Rome. I know. You didn't expect that.

My NATO assignment was completed in Stuttgart. If you happen to be American and have never served in the armed forces, let me explain that Stuttgart is a city in Germany. When my assignment was done, I was surprised to hear that I'd been reassigned to Rome. I speak now of the city in Italy, not the one in Georgia. And when I say, Georgia, I mean the one in...oh, never mind. 

I was feeling pretty good about Rome and when my Top Sargent told me that the mission was classified, I was pumped! Can you say, secret mission?

Now, I think I should point out that Master Sergeant Bones--not his real name--didn't actually say the mission was classified. His exact words were that he didn't know what the mission was about. But isn't that how these secret missions are discussed? No one comes right out with the goods. Loose lips and all that.

When I arrived in Rome, the lieutenant there told me that I was the first team member to arrive and that I should hang out somewhere nearby and report in each day. And so, that's how I came to live in Rome, about four blocks from the Spanish Steps, in a day and time when people were allowed to sit right down on the steps without fear of being fined.

Those were my thoughts this morning as I listened to Billy Squire and drew near the intersection where I would turn left. But before I could get into the turning lane, a maniac in a white pickup truck passed me in the turning lane and rocketed through the intersection.

Yes, I'm pretty sure that rocketed is just the word to describe it. As soon as he was past the intersection,  he suddenly made a sharp u-turn, as though remembering an errand and careening up onto two wheels, he came back toward that same intersection.

By that time I was halfway through my turn, which put us on a collision course. Well, you know how it is when two virile men confront each other, one fueled by testosterone, and one driven by a spoiled little brat of a limbic system. Someone's going to be unstoppable and someone's going to be taught a lesson. 

But I've been taught that lesson before, so I told Princess Amy to calm down and I slowed to allow the truck to make the turn.

Now we were driving down Fayetteville Street in single file. I was marshaling my insults and arranging what I hoped would be a withering, if not blistering, verbal attack on the fool. But before I finished the composition, this white-trucking, tattooed, bearded, MAGA-man turned into the Duke Fertility Clinic. 

Apparently, he'd been on his way to Chapel Hill, passed me at the intersection, and then realized at the last moment that the sperm was hot and couldn't be kept waiting. Knowing all that, how could I hold a resentment?

By the time I arrived at Dulce Cafe, I was cool, calm, and ready for my espresso, and besides, everybody wanted me. 

If you aren't familiar with the Market Place district of South Durham, let me explain that it's filled with what passes, in this part of Carolina, for Italian architecture. It's not actually Italian, of course, but it's pleasant enough and it brought Rome back to mind. 

It's not Italian but it's pleasant enough 

At the counter, Delores asked for my order. "Americano," I said. "I know you are," she said. She laughed and immediately, my memories returned to Sant'Eustachio il Caffe in Rome when I would walk up to the counter and say, "americano" and the barista would say, "I know," and all the guys behind the counter would laugh. It happened that way every morning. It never got old. 

Sant'Eustachio il Caffe

The secret NATO mission turned out to be not so secret and not really a mission. I spent several weeks in Italy waiting to hear something but it was a bust. A bust for the army but not for me. That mission turned out to be one of the best times of my life.

Dulce was quiet this morning and I became bored halfway through the coffee. As I drove back past the fertility clinic, I looked for the white truck, but it wasn't there. I guessed that the driver had gone through the drive-thru to make his deposit. 

For some reason, as I considered the fertility clinic, I thought of how I used to sit in Vatican Square and look for nuns wearing unusual habits--unusual to me. Some of them are quite amazing and amusing. 

I don't know why the fertility clinic made me think of the Vatican but it did. Maybe it had something to do with conception. What goes on in that clinic may not be immaculate but at least it's in sterile surroundings. That must count for something.

It was quite a morning--lots of banging--and of course, that's what we prefer, right?

Dark Side is the Fun Side

"Where do you wanna celebrate tonight?" said the Smurfette in the passenger seat. If you haven't been following along, then I should tell you that this Smurfette is my 13-year-old, god-niece, Lupe. 

"Celebrate what?" I said.

"Your first night back in the Village after all that excitement last Christmas," she said.

I gave her one of my patented looks. Wasted on her, of course. She ignores all my looks. Knows me too well.

"First,  you young geezer, I've driven down from Durham today and I've got no energy left for celebrating. Second, I don't respond to references to last Yuletide. It's the dead past and I intend to let it stay dead."

She grew pensive if that's the word, and quiet. She looked down at her hands. I don't know why. A whim? Then her expression changed dramatically. It hotted up.

"What then?" she demanded. "You finally come back for a visit and I get my hopes up that something fun will finally happen in this moldy, old, village, and now you're going to bed. You've gotten old!" 

A moment of silence passed while she waited for the gravitas of her comment to sink in and I waited for... I'm not exactly sure what I waited for. I just waited.

"First, you little goober, you know that every time I come into this blotted village, the earth opens up and swallows me whole and I'm never heard from again."

More silence. She sighed and gazed out the window to keep from looking at me.

"Fine," she said. "But can't we do something tonight--anything?"

"Tales of the Dark Side is on television tonight," I said. "The feature is How to Kill a Vampire. It's a BBC production."

She mused on this morsel and I took it as a good sign. I decided it couldn't hurt to continue with it, "Did you know the best way to rid yourself of a bothersome vampire, is a stake through the heart? The vampire's heart preferably. You could do it the other way but it's a much bigger production." 

Without going into all the details, let me just summarize by saying that any movie with stakes through the heart is right up this little ninja's alley. She gave in without a struggle.

We met in the party room of the Inn of the Three Sisters to watch the movie on the big screen TV. I was relieved to know that my first day back in the village would wrap up neatly without incident.

Ha!

We know, you and I, that it's just when you think all is well and stop looking for it, that the Universe sneaks up behind you and lets you have it behind the ear with a sock full of wet sand. But one can hope.

Lupe and I sat on the floor in front of the TV, a bowl of popcorn between us. Midnight was only minutes away. The movie began at 11:30 so we'd already learned of the vampire, although we hadn't yet been introduced. And we'd learned that the townsfolk had resolved to rid themselves of the thing. Or rather, the local doctor was cajoled into doing it.

The doctor and one unfortunate villager had entered the old mansion on the hill and had descended into the cellar. It was a silly thing to do, of course, but they did it even though Lupe and I were telling them, No, no, you stupid twerps!

There was no light in the cellar, other than the single candle the accomplice carried. Now when I say cellar, I mean just that. This was no self-respecting basement with recessed lighting, a second fridge, and beanbag toss. This was a dark, damp, rat-infested, cellar. And it had a casket in the middle of the room with a vampire in it. 

We learned that the vampire's name was Daisy. Really? Daisy? It's true; I don't make these things up.

The two heroes crept up to the coffin. The doctor pulled a sharpened wooden stake from his coat with his left hand, and then a wooden mallet with his right. The other guy just held the candle. But it wasn't his only purpose; he also opened the lid of the casket.

Inside the coffin, illumined by the candle, lay Daisy, beautiful in her vampire sleep, except for the blood that trickled from the corners of her mouth. The doctor placed the tip of the stake on Daisy's left breast and raised the mallet. Just at that moment Daisy opened her eyes and saw the mallet about to fall. She took it big!

Daisy's mouth opened in what I knew would be a prolonged, unearthly shriek. But that didn't happen. No shriek from Daisy.

At the same instant Daisy opened her mouth, so did Lupe open hers, and although Daisy's scream was stopped short by the stake, Lupe actually did a passing imitation of a prolonged, unearthly shriek. 

Lupe's scream was inches from my ear and the sound of it electrified me. I was moved to action. But there was nothing for me to do except kick the popcorn bowl into the TV screen. I did it expertly.

The noise woke my Aunt Cynthia, whose bedroom was at the top of the stairs, and she shouted to her husband, although there was no reason to shout since he was sleeping next to her, "Paul, wake up and put your pants on! The Lord has come back and Judgement Day is here!"

Well, you can't expect the sleeping members of the household to remain calm with all that going on. And remaining calm is just what they didn't do. 

My grandfather, a veteran of the Great War, had told me the story of the Battle of the Bulge many times. His unit, in preparing for the German onslaught, referred to it as, Judgement Day.

When Grandpa Will, sleeping in a room down the hall from Aunt Cynthia, heard her shouting, he assumed the Nazis had begun the final push, and he immediately took steps to buy time for the allies. 

His service revolver, the one he brought home as a souvenir of the war, was quickly warmed up and he began firing out his bedroom window into the night. I'm not sure what he was shooting at but there you have it.

As you've probably guessed, the gun-play aroused the neighborhood to the man, and to the dog. They took it big too! Men and dogs alike. For their part, the dogs were inspired to create a rousing serenade to serve as a theme song for the on-screen action. 

The men, who were no less hotted up than the dogs, demonstrated their patriotism in this perceived hour of crisis by exercising their Second Amendment rights. The sound of gunfire and barking dogs could be heard as far away as Dallas Bay. 

It took some time for things to settle down. I could still hear sporadic gunfire as late as 2:00 AM. I don't know when it actually stopped. It may have just moved out of hearing and continued to move around the globe like daybreak.

Something resembling calm was eventually restored. Family and guests were returned to their beds. When peace and quiet reigned once again, Lupe and I were raiding the fridge in the main kitchen.

"Wow!" said the shrimp with a mouthful of butter-pecan ice cream. "That was exciting. I don't know when I've had more fun."

"It's certainly been the most eventful summer solstice I can remember," I said.

"Me too," she said. "We've had a few winter solstices that come close." With that comment, a wince creased my face, and a smile that simply could not be held back creased the corners of her mouth. 

I'd gotten a big kick out of the evening, and that's not a reference to the popcorn bowl. I especially enjoyed being interviewed by Constable on Call, Vickie Mason, in her vain attempt to pin the whole ranygazoo on me. It was a refreshing change to have nothing to hide and I was almost looking forward to the rest of my stay.

I decided to give the little Hobbit (Lupe) a pass for that reference to exciting winter solstices.

"We've had some exciting winter solstices," I said to her. "But this one wins the Oscar because it didn't require starting an unfortunate conflagration to burn down the fishing guides dormitory."

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.