A Tide In Affairs

I woke this morning to that old familiar feeling that in about a minute, I was going to explode. You're surely familiar with that feeling. Your legs seem restless and anxious to be up and doing. 

You feel that no matter what comes of it, you need to get out on the road and go somewhere--doesn't matter where. Instead of caffeine, your thoughts turn to cruising down Ocean Highway with Whitney Houston singing I Will Always Love You. 

Do you remember...of course you do, we're not animals after all, that it was Dolly Parton who wrote and first recorded that song. If you're aware that Dolly Parton is the avatar of Shady Grove, my ancestral home, then you might suspect that the old familiar feeling comes around like this only because the Ghost of Shady Grove wants to be remembered. 

The ghost I speak of isn't the spirit of someone long past. It is instead, the spirit of all that was perfect in a small boy's life and that has become lost forever due to the passage of time.

It isn't to be feared unless an overwhelming homesickness and near panic caused by thoughts of love lost forever are to be feared.

To face the ghost requires a steeled resolve if that's the term. And resolve, steeled, jellied, or crocheted has been in short supply in recent days. Remembering an old saw I heard somewhere--it may be one of Ms. Wonder's--I decided to gather what little resolve I had. 

The gag I mention goes something like this (I paraphrase, of course): There is a tide in the affairs of men, which taken at the flood, leads on to fortune. 

With the still green memory of the first time I faced the ghost, at the tender age of 5 years, I took the tide at the flood and, with a burst of resolve, threw back the duvet and sat up in bed to face the rainbow and claim the pot of gold. 

Oh, I'm sorry, I think I'm mixing metaphors or whatever it is that people do sometimes mix when facing difficulty. What I'm trying to say is, I don't know if you've had the experience, but the spirit indeed was willing but the flesh weak.

There was no pot of gold and no ghost. The anxiety I felt was caused by the fact that Beignet, the unprecedented winner of the Cat of the Year award for 5 years running, wasn't in bed next to me, and not because I was still in Shady Grove. I was back home in Chatsford Hall. Now you know why I felt incomplete.

Wen, the Eternally Surprised, my once and future martial arts master, taught me that it's always a good idea to accept whatever life throws your way. 

"Don't make a drama of it," he said, "make a musical comedy instead."

Not his actual words; I'm paraphrasing. The methods one might use to make it happen he never said exactly but I gathered that it required sucking it up and getting on with it.

And so, I'm getting on with it. Blogging is the only musical comedy that I have at hand and I'm looking for the bright spots in my day, every day, to share with you.

And so we come to the present moment where I sit at Native Grounds writing this post. I feel better now after having crossed the Memorial Bridge and seen Wilma's Downtown Business District stretched out along the Cape Fear River. Always inspiring and just a little bit exciting for who knows what wonderful new opportunities are waiting there?

By the time I motored into the Castle Street District, everything had been transformed. The birds that had seemed to be in an unending argument, were singing as though spring were around the corner rather than summer, which as we all know is undoubtedly the case.

Though things came within a toucher of falling apart this morning, the flame of fierce qigong never died and I was able to extricate myself from the looney bin without a stain on my character. Almost no stain. Very little stain. No stains that won't come out in the wash.

What was the turning point? It's no secret. Music, blue skies, birdsong, and remembering what Beignet taught me about taking the tide at the flood. That's right. The phrase belongs to Ms. Wonder, or if not, I'm going to consider it hers anyway. She's the closest thing I have to Jeeves.

No matter who claims the copyright, Beignet always comes to mind when I think of the quote. So thanks, Ben. I needed that.

And so, my friends, there you have another little episode in the final season of The Circular Journey. The details of the episode, which my biographers will probably call, "Down the Waterspout at Midnight" are perhaps not perfectly clear to you, but neither are they clear to me. 

Memories played a larger part in my salvation than I've acknowledged. Sometimes memories are all we have to rely on and that's all I'm going to say about it. I will wrap up by saying that it's good to be home again. There's no place like it.

Roll the credits!

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.

Cafe Lunacy

I'd come to Café Luna in the middle of the afternoon in the middle of the week because being in the Castle Street Arts District always lifted the spirits but I didn't expect to find anyone I knew at this time of day on this day in the week. 

"Wow, Uncle Genome," said an unexpected voice. "You look like something the cat dragged in after a big night out with the neighborhood raccoons."

"Lupe!" I said. "I'm surprisingly happy to see you."

"You mean that having me here is a happy surprise for you," she said.

"Do I?" I said. "Oh never mind that. Sit. I have something I'd like to run up your flag pole."

"I'm only 15," she said.

"Lupe, you're looking at a man who is living in the Twilight Zone." 

"I'll bet it's nothing more than quantum fluctuations," she said.

"Can I get you something?" asked a nearby voice.

"A double cappuccino, please," said the godneice.

"Sir?" asked the barista.

"Oh, yes," I said. "A flat white with oat milk, thank you."

"You were saying?" said Lupe.

"Lupe, the most unusual things have been happening," I said. "Synchronistic events have been occurring at abnormal frequency."

"There are so many things wrong with what you just said that I don't know where to begin," she said.

"Then don't," I said. "Let me give you just a few examples."

"No need," she said. "I understand well enough that you've experienced almost simultaneous occurrences of events that seem significantly related but have no discernable causal relationship."

I must have taken on an expression of lost in translation because without waiting for a reply she said, "Synchronistic events have been occurring at abnormal frequency."

"Exactly!" I said.

"Well, you're in luck," she said, "because I watched the latest episode of Hack Your Mind on YouTube last night and the topic was Quantum Consciousness. I'll bet what you're experiencing is nothing more than your mind playing tricks on you."

"One double cappuccino and one flat white," said the barista placing the cups on the table.

"Excuse me," I said. "Did I ask for oat milk?."

"No you didn't," she said. "I'll remake it for you."

"Are you saying that I don't actually see what I think I see?"

"According to Dr. Mindbender, hallucinations are often the result of stress. Have you tried relaxation techniques like deep breathing for example?"

"I'm taking deep breaths now," I said. "It seems necessary to get through this conversation."

"Good," she said after sipping her cappuccino, "Take three is my suggestion. And then close your eyes and visualize a peaceful beach. Hear the soothing sounds of the surf and the call of seagulls."

"Ok, I closed my eyes and all I saw were sandcastles with the faces of flying fish."

"Ah," she said, "not a problem. Dr. Dreamweaver teaches us to remain calm in the face of the bizarre and ask the hallucinations to explain the message they have for us."

"I've tried that and all I get is an order for coffee. And speaking of coffee, where's mine?"

"My goodness, you are demanding this morning, aren't you?"

"I'm not demanding this morning, I have this morning. What I'm demanding is caffeine."

"Chill, brah, I'll get your coffee," she said as she stood and headed for the Order Here spot.

"You're a dear, Lupe. I'm so happy that you've finally rallied round."

"I'm always looking out for you, you helpless jamoke," she said. "You just don't always see it."

"Maybe I should close my eyes and take more deep breaths," I said.

"What you need to do, is embrace the absurdity of life's little quirks and stop making a big deal out of every little thing."

"How old did you say you are?" I said.

"Fifteen."

"Is everyone your age as smart as you?" I said.

"We rage against Babylon," she said, "and that pays dividends. But only if you pay attention." 

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?