Urban Kayaking

Those who know me best are fully aware of the Genome's background. In that remote and isolated land that biographers will undoubtedly call my childhood, I was immersed in a world where unchanging sameness was the ideal. And yet, I  stood apart from the local fauna in that I talked and behaved as if I'd had thousands of strange and rare experiences. All from reading books, of course. I traveled through space and time simply by turning the page.

I still do it today.

That childhood of mine fathered a man who is not afraid of poverty of any kind; not financial, not thought, not curiosity. What does frighten me is boredom.

This morning as I completed the usual chores and drove the usual Ocean Highway to get to my usual Globally Grown, Carolina Roasted, I began to feel a little agitated. The day was bright and clear and no appointments were scheduled but that sameness that can sometimes feel comforting didn't feel that way this morning. It felt a little too near boredom.

And so I decided to turn the page. Instead of taking the usual drive-through, I decided to park and ankle into the cafe under my own power. Who could have imagined the excitement waiting inside?

'Good morning,' she said as I neared the stand-here spot. 'The usual?'

'Yes, please,' I said, and then as I pulled at my clinging shirt, 'It's getting hot out there.'

'You want this chilled?' she said.

I waved a hand back and forth to dismiss the suggestion of iced coffee and then, thinking about keeping the pages turning, I said, 'The recent renovations make the cafe look bigger and more inviting. I think I'll sit for a while and write.'

'You're a writer? What do you write fiction or non?'

'Well,' I said and then inserted a theatrical pause to better give the question some thought and determine which direction I wanted the conversation to take. 

'I write travel articles,' I said, 'but only to make my life seem relevant....' I paused again to add just a touch of tension and I raised an eyebrow, which is a French technique intended to spike the other's attention. 

She raised a brace of eyebrows, making me aware that she too was attuned to the French conversational nuances. And she added a slight nod as if to say, I get it. I believe the raising and nodding were done in concert with a moue. Is the word, moue; where one pouts slightly to indicate a thoughtful comparison of possible alternatives?

Then, feeling that I had found an empathetic audience, I delivered the punchline, 'but I blog for fun.'

'Oh,' she said.

I'd hoped for a bit more interest but realized that my intro was to blame--too weak. So I added more explanation.

'I try to find humor in everyday affairs,' I said, 'and then exaggerate the humor to make a more interesting story. Sometimes I throw in a dragon or a few elves if the subject can handle it. I think of it as fictionalizing my life. Makes me feel like the main character in my own novel and helps me to cope with a mood disorder.'

Her face lit up. I mean, it didn't light up like the dawn of a new day; but her eyes twinkled and she smiled as if she'd just had a juicy idea.

'If you're looking for humor in everyday events, have I got something for you,' she said.  Then looking at the male half of the coffee sketch she said, 'Tell Genome about your traffic accident.' And then for clarification, she said, 'He tangled with a kayak in a traffic accident yesterday.'

I stared at her with no little amazement. Had I understood her correctly? Surely not. I searched the database for an automobile with a name that rhymes with kayak. It was a bust. Cadillac came to mind but not close enough. I turned to speak to the star witness.

'Did she say kayak? I said.

'That's right,' he said.

She wasn't by any chance thinking of kayak car rentals or kayak hotel accomodations?

'Nope, it was a kayak alright,' he said. 'Crushed the side of my car and broke all the windows. I have a photo on my phone.'

And he did have a photo on his phone; lots of them; and when he spoke of crushed and broken, he was spot on.

'Holy hell!' That's what I said even though I realize the term makes no sense; still, I'm certain that I've heard others use the expression in similar circumstances and so I keep it in my list of spur-of-the-moment exclamations.

'I'll bet you're going tell me it was one of those whitewater paddlers,' I said. 'I've done my share of kayaking. In fact, I once wrote an article for Carolina Roads Magazine on kayaking the Intracoastal Waterway. And I can assure you, those white-water kayaking addicts will take every unnecessary risk that happens to wander by. And they do it just for the fun of it!'

'No white water,' he said. 'In fact, there was no water anywhere near the accident.'

'Hell's bells!' I said and I'm aware that I did it again; using a term that makes no logical sense but, in my defense, I simply use the language, I don't put this stuff in the writers' guide. 

'Isn't it enough that we must deal with all the cabbage-heads who run red traffic lights on Ocean Highway without having to watch for kayaks on the road too?' I said and I remember shaking my head as if to imply, What is this world coming to?'

'Was he fully insured? Did you get all his info?' I asked.

'He just paddled away,' he said. 'The investigating officer reported it as hit and paddle.' But he had a twinkle in his eye when he said it.

'Wait a minute,' I said, recognizing the twinkle for what it was. 'That's a good line. Wish I'd thought of it. But I'm beginning to feel that I'm missing out on the pertinent details. Before we get too far along with this story, begin with the beginning and spare no detail, no matter how small. I'll bet you hold me spellbound.'

'Actually, the kayak was in the bed of a pickup truck,' he said, 'and the guy was backing out of a parking space.'

'You mean to tell me that he was using that kayak like the rostrum or if you prefer, battering ram, on an ancient Roman war galley? That's surely illegal even in Brunswick County where almost anything goes.'

He shrugged.

'But now I understand how the accident happened. I hope the repairs work out to your satisfaction. But why it's called a truck bed is still a mystery to me. I mean what do beds have to do with trucks anyway?'

And so you see how this page-turning technique can pay off big time, under the right conditions. It's often the only tool you need to avoid boredom. 

Speaking of the right conditions, don't ignore the fact that the above took place near the steaming needful, the frothed best of the roaster's art, the brimming cup of Jah's Mercy. It often happens that way. I believe it has something to do with the Universe looking out for our best interests.

 

 

Never Felt So Alive

"How was your massage?"

The words surprised me because I didn't realize that anyone else was in the house. It was Ms. Wonder, of course, but she's normally not home so early in the afternoon.

"Oh, you're here, are you?" I said. How often do we say things like that and then immediately wish that we'd thought of something better? One day I'm going to memorize a handful of zippy comebacks so that I can be a little more interesting when someone puts me on the spot.

"I take it the massage was unremarkable," she said.

"Not at all," I said. 'It was an incredible massage."

"Incredible? An incredible massage? Do tell, please."

"Oh, you're going to hear more," I said, "and you'll hear it now. It was life-changing."

"A massage? Life-changing!"

I walked to the doorway because I wanted to see her face when I told her about my transformation, and there's no other word for it, it was transformative.

"I am a new man, Poopsie," I said.

"You don't look different," she said.

"But I feel different," I said. "In fact, reborn!"

No reply from the Wonder but both eyebrows raised to full limit and the eyes...oh those green eyes.

"I walked into that massage studio like a man on a wire," I said.

"You mean a bird on a wire," she said.

"I mean like a man walking a high wire," I said. "A man who knows that one little mistake will land him in the soup, and not just any soup, onion soup."

"You hate onion soup," she said. "Got more than enough onion soup in the army."

"One of many things I had too much of while being all that I could be," I said. "But I strode out of that studio...is studio the word?"

"Massage studio or massage parlor," she said. "I believe that either is correct. But you strode out. You didn't walk out on a wire."

"I strode, Poopsie, like a man sure of himself."

"Not full of himself?" she said.

"Sure of himself," I said" And although I was aware of her testing the puppet strings, I decided to give it a miss. "I was the man who needs no safety net," I said. "I never felt so alive."

"You've got my attention," she said. "Enough build-up, let's have the goods."

"Well," I said, "It's like this...

Amber worked her magic beginning at the neck and shoulder," I said.

"Amber isn't her real name," she said.

"Of course not," I said. "These massage therapists never use their real names."

"Like pole dancers never use the name that could be used as proof against them in court," she said.

"I don't know what that means," I said, "but I'm not going to take the bait. Let's get back to the incredible massage."

"As she worked a particularly tight spot in the shoulder, I winced with the pain. It was a hot, searing pain. Then at the lower spine, I winced again. The pain was loud and exploding. At the back of my thigh, I winced so tightly, I thought my eyelids might be stuck permanently. It was a big day for wincing."

"But then we got to the left calf muscle. Oh, that left calf..."

"Not the fatted calf," she said.

"Once again, Wonder, I will not fall for your attempts at misdirection. The pain in that calf muscle was so intense that it served the same purpose as the sacrificial calf, offered up to guarantee the answer to my prayers."

"Did you breathe into the pain," she asked and I was happy to know that she remembered those meditation classes that I taught so many years ago.

"I breathed into it and I breathed through it," I said. "I redirected the focus of the mind to fill up some of the bandwidth and hopefully negate some of the pain."

"And did it help?"

"The pain increased," I said. "I broke out in a cold sweat. My fists were clenched and my knuckles were white. I saw exploding stars!"

"Oh, my goodness!" she said. "Did you make a wish?"

Right about now, dear reader, you're probably wondering how I was able to stay focused when my Number One was offering up these verbal roadblocks, but to my credit, and you would have been proud of me if you'd been there, I ignored her remark and continued with my story.

"Suddenly, I was in a dark tunnel, floating alone in the void. Then a blinding white light appeared in the distance."

"You had a near-death experience," she said. "Did you see the spirits of a dear departed loved one?"

"At that moment, I thought I was a dear departed loved one," I said.

"Did you cry out?" she said.

"A Genome never cries out," Wonder. "We are men of steel. Departed or not. But no, the pain left as suddenly as it came. But one millisecond more and I wouldn't be here to tell the story."

"Now I understand," she said. "You strode out a changed man--a man transformed--because we never feel so alive as when we are face-to-face with death. Incredible!"

"That's what I said. Do you remember the last time I came face to face with D?" I asked. Now it was her turn to ignore me.

"Will you make another appointment with Amber?" she said.

"Not in this life, Poopsie, not in this life; once is enough."

"Wise choice, I think," she said. "Nothing to gain. You've won that contest. Why risk it with a return visit? Thank you for sharing that with me."

"It was a reminder for us all if we choose to accept it, that life comes hard and fast," I said, " and we must always be ready for what comes our way."

"Ain't that the truth!" she said.

Never Surrender, Never Give Up

"Run for your life! Run! Run! Run!"

I'll give you one guess who said the above. That's right, the princess herself, limbic system Amy.

Minutes before it all began, I'd taken possession of the table near the window but not too close to the band in the Port City cafe. My morning coffee was brewing and I had pen and paper at the ready to begin this post.

You will be able to appreciate the importance I placed on this little ritual especially after reading my previous post about how I rely on this blog to help me cope with my personal mood disorder.

"Amy," I said, "chill old girl. The storm has passed." 

I searched for something more to drive the point home but I admit that my heart wasn't it. The thought running through my mind was, Oh, no! Here we go again. But I tried to keep control of the situation.

"The bright sun," I said. "The blue sky." You can see that I was struggling to come up with something convincing. Finally, just to end the thought, I said, "And all the fixings."

"But you don't understand," she said. "You must run and run fast; as fast as you can."

"But why?" I said.

"Because," she said, "if you don't run, you'll be left behind. You'll never amount to anything and you'll be forgotten."

"Cappuccino." 

This last comment threw me into the interstitial space. I thought WTF Amy! I was completely nonplussed. Cappuccino?

"Sir?" said a voice in my right ear and it was then that I realized the barista had brought the coffee to my table.

"Oh thank you," I said. "Did you call my name and I didn't hear you?"

"Yes, sir," she said. "You seemed to be involved in a phone conversation."

"Ah-ha," I said because...well, you probably don't need an explanation.

"Thank you," I said. She smiled a sympathetic smile.

"Run now," said Amy.

I'd had enough of this drivel from the seat of my emotions if the amygdala is truly the seat of emotion. One might say that I was mad as hell and wasn't going to take it anymore.

"I'm not going to run," I said, and I tried to keep the voice calm and the atmosphere low-key because I had a plan and didn't want the little blister catching on to my scheme. "But I will go for a brisk walk around the block," I said. "Fresh air and a little boost to the blood flow will be good for us."

"What do you mean, us?" she said, showing just a tad of suspicion.

"An energetic walk is recommended for mental and physical health," I said and wished I hadn't as soon as it came out of my mouth.

"Oh, no," she said. "You don't involve me in any of that mental health rigamarole."

"Come on," I said as I pushed the chair back and stood. I placed the beret on my head with it tilted slightly down over the right eye, which makes all the difference in bolstering my confidence. "I'm going for a walk and you're coming with me," I said.

"Don't walk fast," she said.

"We're walking fast," I said.

"But...but,"

"But what?" I said picking up the pace.

"En...end..."

"Endorphins?" I said. "What about endorphins?"

She opened her mouth as if to answer but nothing came out. Instead, her eyes became slightly unfocused, her breathing became more regular, and she lay back in quiet repose.

And so Ms. Wonder saved the day again it seems. She wasn't there of course but that suggestion of hers that I keep the blood flowing at a smart clip to keep the mood above the mid-line worked like a charm. I'll have to incorporate it into Fierce Qigong.

Yes, Ms. Wonder is an amazing gal. I'm sure you agree. I do have to draw the line however when she gets on that too-much-coffee rag. Coffee habit indeed! Just because my largest monthly expense is Port City java, doesn't mean there's a problem. Just means that I like coffee. I can quit anytime I want to. 

The Next Best Thing

I was out and about early today. The sun was only so high when I decanted at Brunswick Forest for my morning constitutional. And I could imagine no better day for it. Even so, the usual serenity was missing; the heart was troubled.

 

Not long after arriving, as I neared the lake, I began thinking happy thoughts about the egrets, the herons, and all creatures great and small that reside nearby, but as the minutes passed, I became increasingly attuned to the sounds coming from the construction site on the other side of the treeline.

Queen Boudica of the Iceni 

How much destruction must we endure in the name of progress, is the question I asked myself. I took a deep breath. I took another. I focused my attention on the tranquil surface of the lake, hoping to mirror that serenity on the surface of my mind. It was a bust. Tranquility was nixed by the sounds of heavy progress. 

Princess Amy, as I'm sure you've surmised, took it big. And it will come as no surprise that she made sure I took it bigger, and when I do that, it's generally bigger than most.

I reminded myself that one must ask a higher power for serenity to accept what can't be changed. Courage, on the other hand, is required for making changes where one can. However, in circumstances like those described above, it requires all the courage I can muster to simply remain still.

What I really wanted to do was shout and leap about like my Celtic ancestors must have done when Caesar brought his legions to the shores of Britain for spring break. I was no doubt being influenced more than I realized by Amy who behaved like Boudica must have done when she first saw the Roman eagle on the beaches of Cornwall.

I've been told that I overreact to Amy's influence because of my artistic nature. The idea is that artists are sensitive spirits and are affected more strongly than pedestrians. Maybe. Who knows?

No matter the reason for my anxiety, I knew that I must contact a higher power for advice and counsel. I immediately left the path that follows the lake and ankled instead on the path leading to the Rock. Not that Rock!

You remember the rock from a previous post where I described my discovery that the psalmist, David, referred to his god as a rock. I realize that the man was a poet but I can overlook that in a best-selling author like David. 

The message given to me on my visit with the aforementioned Rock was (no surprise here either) to take proper steps through the proper channels. It's the path of all right-thinking people. It has been the solution to countless problems since solutions were invented. And so, it was for me the work of a moment to phone the Witch of Woodcroft. 

The witch hasn't figured much in recent posts, so you may want to search for her in earlier missives.

The idea was to enlist the aid of a top-notch fussbudget to make sure that the proper complaints were filed with the Universe and to do that without becoming personally steamed up and combustible. And I know of no bigger f. b. than Gladys Ironarrow. 

Oh please! So many comments coming in now asking, Gladys who? Throw your mind back and you'll remember her. If not, you can click on the link below but don't do it now! Finish this post first.

As soon as I had the cottage witch on the phone, I put her in possession of all the pertinent facts. Her first response was to tell me that I was worked up over minor infractions of the human race due to me being, as she put it so succinctly, barking-at-the-moon batshit crazy.

It goes without saying that this was not the response I was looking for. I told her about the OSHA backup signals but her response to that was one of cold condemnation. No good, of course. Not hot enough.

I told her about the golf course poisoners of weeds and whatnot and she warmed up a bit in her complaints but not with any real enthusiasm.

I reminded her of the inalienable rights of animals, trees, worms, and microbes. I mentioned specifically the rights to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. That did the trick. The thought catapulted her into a higher dimension where she hotted up to incandescence.

Suddenly I could relax. I leaned back against a tree and propped my feet up on a nearby stump. The sun was warm, the sky blue, and the coffee still hot. I could enjoy the egrets, the herons, the mallards, et. al., while Gladys gave the Universe a piece of her mind.

Some days it just doesn't get any better than doing the best you can with what you've got.

Changed My Life

I promised in an earlier post to explain in a future post all that rigamarole about being Death's assistant and this post is that post. The explanation isn't as easy as it might seem. This is my nth attempt and I've come to realize that a full explanation would require writing a book and that book has already been written. I'll point you to that book shortly in case you still need some splaining.

So, if you feel lost, leave a question in the comments below, and if you have a firm grasp, then leave answers to the questions below. Now, before we begin make sure the lap bar is locked into position and keep your arms and legs inside the vehicle at all times. There will be turbulence.

It all began when I found Mom's Big Book of Death. You remember that post, I'm sure, but if not, you can follow the link at the end of this post. Wait! Don't go running off on a new adventure now. Finish this post first. You'll get there soon enough.

Mom's book reminded me of the Big Book of Death in Christoper Moore's book, Dirty Job. That's how I gave Mom's book a similar name. OK, identical name. 

Unrelated to anything that Mr. Moore wrote, I've always had a love for thrift stores. See? Turbulence already. I warned you. My love began back in the day with used book stores in Charleston. From used books, I moved on to vintage clothing, then vintage electronics, and I now have a full-blown addiction to thrifting. Don't let anyone try to tell you that collecting old and rare books is harmless. Used books are a gateway!

As anyone with my addiction will tell you, thrifting begins with collecting things that you're interested in and plan to use in some way. But you soon find yourself collecting things that you have absolutely no use for but seem strangely attracted to anyway. Strike that. I can only speak for myself. I should have said, I am strangely attracted to things that I have no use for. In little time, those things began to clutter up my shelves, tabletops, bureau drawers. You get the idea.

Recently, I made updates to Mom's Big Book of Death and was reminded again of Dirty Job. It happens to be one of my favorite books and is easy to be reminded of. And so I decided to read it again. 

That's when I realized that my strange attraction to objects in thrift stores was not too unlike the main character, Charlie Asher, and his attraction to soul vessels. Don't get your knickers in a wad, soul vessels are...no! I'm not going to go down that rabbit hole again. Suffice it to say that when a person leaves the earth to sleep among that stars, his or her soul takes refuge in a favorite possession. That object, known as the soul vessel, gets passed on to someone who's been selected to assist the soul in its journey toward destiny.

Now, if you haven't gotten into loose gravel on the shoulder and slid into the ditch, then you may have jumped ahead to realize that the way that soul vessel gets to the soul's next ride, is with the assistance of a Soul Merchant. Charlie Asher is a Soul Merchant in Dirty Job.

And now for the punchline. I'm Charlie Asher in my timeline. I'm a Soul Merchant. It all fits. The story that Christoper Moore tells in his book is my story. Why do I think that? Let me count the ways:

1. Charlie buys all sorts of objects (ones that glow) at estate sales and sells them in his thrift store. I buy objects (ones I'm strangely attracted to) in thrift stores and sell them online.
2. Charlie sells objects (some are soul vessels but most are not) to the appropriate person as chosen by destiny. He doesn't play any part in making sure the right person gets the soul. I sell objects to the appropriate person as chosen by destiny and some of them write me to tell me how much getting the object means to them (soul vessels?).
3. Charlie has to deal with the three Celtic goddesses of war and death. I have to deal with that spoiled little brat of a limbic system that I call Princess Amy.
4. Charlie has a connection to the Big Book of Death. I have a connection to Mom's Big Book of Death.

Still not convinced? Pay close attention to this:

As I re-read Christopher Moore's Dirty Job, I came to a part of the story that I'd forgotten. Charlie Asher is writing a check at an estate sale and realizes that the check is the last one in the ledger. He begins to cry because he shared that checkbook with his recently deceased wife and he will no longer see her handwriting in the ledger. He feels he's losing another part of someone loves.

That part of the story is where I realized that Charlie's story is my story. You see I still have my mom's checkbook and I keep cash tucked inside it because each time I took my mom shopping or to an appointment, she would buy a coffee for me with the cash she kept in that checkbook. I do it because I feel that I still have a little part of her with me. She still buys me coffee.

Several days ago, when I first began writing this post, I remembered something else that had slipped my memory. A few years ago, I was introduced to an online game that was designed to help people like me deal with their emotional disorders. The game is called SuperBetter. It helped me immensely but I stopped using it quite some time ago. Why mention it here?

Here's why. To play the game, you choose an avatar based on the main character of a favorite movie, play, TV show, or book. Then you tailor the principles and challenges of the game to mimic the events and challenges faced by your chosen avatar. Years ago, long before my mom died and long before I found her Book of Death, I chose Charlie Asher as my avatar.

That may not impress you but it impresses the hell out of me every time I think of it.

Link to Mom's Big Book of Death