Not Like A Melon

"Not like a watermelon?" I said.

"Certainly not," she said and I felt much of my anxiety fade away as soon as she said it. "If anything it's more like a honeydew."

I knew she meant well and was trying her best to reassure me because the little geezer has a soft spot in her heart for her favorite god-uncle. 

Although speaking from a place of goodness and light, and I was touched by her words, they left me non-plussed for the moment. I mean, it isn't every day that one of the nearest and dearest tells you, in a soft caring voice, that your head resembles one melon more than another.

I looked to Claudia who had just that moment joined us at our sidewalk table in front of Ibis Coffee Cafe and Dance Bar on Princess Street. She's one of those whip-spart urban girls who always knows just the thing to say in any situation. 

She didn't fail me in this situation. Apparently overhearing the recent conversation, she sat, and gave my hand a light pat as if to say, there there.

"Not at all like a melon," she said.

"Not like a melon?" I said hoping for more encouragement.

She gave Lupe a look that carried a light reprimand if I read it correctly.

Then turning back to me she said, "Not like a melon." Her eyes turned up and to the right, as if she'd find something more to say in that corner of her head. "More like the dome of St. Catherine's," she said.

I was struck mute and could only return her look, which immediately softened, and took on something resembling what I've heard described as, that hangdog look of a native English speaker who is about to attempt French.

"Are you familiar?" she said. "With St. Catherine's I mean."

"Of course," I said, "it's the cathedral on 3rd Street."

She brightened when she heard my words and said, "Yes, that's the one! Good." With that she patted my hand, excused herself, and went inside to order what I assumed would be a steaming cup of Jah's Mercy.

I followed, feeling that I could use another cup of his mercy myself.

Under Pressure

I often write about Ms. Wonder in my missives here on The Circular Journey. And why not? After all, I do write about actual happenings in my version of reality, and the one known as Wonder figures into a lot of happenings.

My public often asks questions that can be summarized as, how do you two remain such a happy couple?

I could try to list all the ways we navigate married life but that would run into several pages. However, an example of how we work together might provide a better explanation.

"How did you get it that hot?" she asked after sipping the freshly brewed vanilla-flavored, oat-milk latte. It was my first attempt to make one at home.

"Just clear your mind," I said and with my eyes closed, I formed a mudra with my fingers and brought my hands up to the level of my lower dantian.

Let's pause here for station identification. If mudra and dantian are new words for you, let's suffice by saying I touched my thumbs with my index fingers and brought my hands to waist level.

Now, where were we? Ah, yes... "Just clear your mind," I said.

"No, get past that," she said giving me a look that served as a warning that she was in no joking mood.

"Alright," I said, without mudras and with my eyes looking into her eyes. "Fix in your mind the concept of hot."

"No! No! No!" she said pointing a finger at me and shaking it back and forth. "I have eleven minutes before a conference call. Just spill it."

We Genomes are quick on the uptake and I dedeuced that she meant business. Although I hate to do such a thing, I divulged the unadorned (read boring) version of what I knew about the process. No dragons figured into it. No elves were involved. The mythic quest was only implied.

"Now make me one," she said, "hot like yours."

"How many ounces," I said.

"I want one just like yours," she said.

"Just like mine," I said and I meant it to give me a few seconds more to remember how I'd made the first one. It was a bust, of course, too much pressure.

"Just like mine?" I said. Another attempt to allow a few seconds more for magical inspiration. It sometimes works; not often I admit but sometimes.

"Exactly," she said.

Well, no time was wasted in getting everything laid out and filled up. Of course, I felt pressure pushing down on me; the kind of pressure that one feels when white-knighting it for the precious damozel. The kind of pressure that David Bowie and Freddy Mercury sang of in the 1980s; pressure that can bring a building down.

All I could do, under the circumstances, was appeal to my Higher Power, commend my soul to God, and leap into it.

 

Tripping the Light Fantastic

I don't know if you've had the same experience on the days around the end of June and the beginning of July when the sky's a light blue with cotton-wool clouds and cooling breezes drift upriver from the Atlantic. It's an uplifting feeling that makes me want to be out among the doings.

On this particular morning, what I wanted most was some stimulating conversation, a cinnamon scone, and a steaming mug of arabica grown on the east-facing hills of Peru but brewed right here in Port City. 

Unfortunately, I'm still afflicted with inner ear issues, the kind of issues that apparently go by the name of vertigo. That's the word people often say to me when I mention my lack of balance.

It's as though the word explains everything but I'm blowed if I get the meaning. I've always thought vertigo had something to do with a fear of heights.

Due to my intermittent woolly-headedness, Ms. Wonder volunteered to drive me to Castle Street to meet Island Irv for coffee. Isn't she sweet? Irv and I have a standing appointment to sip Jah's Mercy while comparing notes on the cultural and business elite in the old metropolis and Wonder didn't want me to miss it.

"When must we leave to be there on time?" she asked.

"I think about 8:30," I said.

"I'll lay out something suitable for you to wear on Sunday in the city," she said. Did I mention that I'm woozy-headed and wobbly? 

At exactly 8:23 I was shirted, trousered, booted, and adjusting the hat to tilt slightly over the left eye, which makes all the difference of course.

"Poopsie," I said giving the word a little extra oomph to get it up the staircase and into her office. "I'm dressed and prepared to slip down the waterspout at your command."

Seconds later she appeared at the top of the stairs looking like the goddess Diana come to judge the worthy. She gave me a concerned look. She seemed to find my appearance that of a man who has passed through the lion's den but with a much different result than Daniel. 

"Do you expect me to be seen in public with you in those boots?" she said.

I looked at my feet. I found them shod in what seemed to me to be perfectly respectable manly footwear. 

"Well, I thought I would," I said. "Too much, do you think?"

"I suppose it depends on what you're going for. I once saw Mr. Gotrocks wearing boots like that while tripping the light fantastic on the dance floor in a Myrtle Beach music hall." 

Leave it to the Wonder to know the preferred styles for appearing in any social situation. There are no others like her. The angels broke the mold and whatnot.

"Tell me, Poopsie, were you always like this, or did it come on suddenly?"

"Did what come on suddenly?"

"That magnificent brain of yours. Were you a gifted child?"

"My stepmother thought I was intelligent. I remember she often told me that I was too smart to behave this way or that. Or did she say too pretty? I forget."

"Hmmm," I said giving her remark the thought it deserved. "We can't really judge by that though. My mother thought I was a smart kid too."

"Ever been hit over the head with a chair?" she said.

"Once or twice," I said, "but it happened so long ago, that I barely remember it."

She placed a hand on her hip. Akimbo, I think it's called. She didn't say anything but she did raise one eyebrow so high I worried it would get stuck.

"Thank you for driving me, Poopsie," I said because it occurred to me that given her body language, something, I forget what at the moment, is the better part of valor. "I realize it's a bit of a bother for you and I'm truly grateful."

The eyebrow relaxed. "Don't mention it," she said. "The boots are fine, just straighten the cuffs of your pants to break evenly over the tops. The way you're wearing them now gives a Willy Nelson vibe."

I did what she asked. "How's that?"

"Perfect," she said. "Now you look like the man I married." She smiled and took my arm in hers to help steady me. "I like the hat," she said.

On hearing her words, I had the momentary illusion that I'd been struck by lightning. I felt an infusion of spirit that seemed to fill me to the bursting point. I felt like a man living the dream as another day in Paradise unfolds. And I liked it.

Charlie and The Extra

It's all a multi-layered, convoluted, mash-up if you want me to be rigorously honest about it. And why would you want anything less? Besides, I've made a promise to be completely upfront with my public and what follows is as upfront as the orchestra seats.

If you've been following along this season, you're aware that after the last of my entourage retired and moved to gentler climes, I was lost. I mean, now that it was all over, just who was I? Life is a stage after all and each of us has our role to play. But I'd been a main character in the current production since opening night and suddenly I found myself cast as an Extra. 

I was open to suggestions and Amy took advantage of my weakness to convince me that I was called to collect the soul vessels of the recently departed. I'm sure you're up-to-date and all that.

Fortunately for me, and follow me closely here, Amy doesn't give me clear instructions. She likes to make me work for it. What she actually told me, and you will remember this, is that I should become a reseller of vintage items.

Let's not go into all that now. I've written about it often and you can find all you want to know in the archives.

The purpose of reselling, according to Amy, was to keep the world safe from the dark forces of the Underworld striving to take over the Upperworld. I embraced her suggestions because there’s nothing more bracing than seeing the forces of darkness stubbing their toe.

Eventually, it became clear that Amy's true purpose was to drum up as much mania as possible. She's addicted to the stuff. Oh sure, she claims she can quit anytime she wants but, in truth, it only takes one and she's off on some bender and God only knows when she'll hit bottom.

Yes, it's all heiness, underhanded, skullduggery known as feeding one's monkey. That's what it is.

Turns out that Amy used one of Christopher Moore's books to manipulate me and it was, to be blunt, a dirty job. Fortunately, for me, that same book held the solution.

The Emperor of San Francisco explained that my true purpose was to be out among the people of the city when they were just beginning to stir. My job was to greet the day, setting the stage for the shape of things to come, and do a bit of mood-lifting for the people I met. 

When the opportunity arose, I was to lift the mood of their little dogs too. You might say that I was to become the antidote to the Wicked Witch of the West.

"Sometimes," the Emperor said to me, "a man must muster all of his courage to simply be calm, quiet, and present in the moment. Only then can one be kind to all without judgment."

Life is much better now because somehow, some way I have more space for the love that Ms. Wonder sends my way. If that's all there was to look forward to, it would be more than enough.

Of course, I still see things. You've read about most of them, but one there is that you haven't heard of. Recently, I've seen squirrels peeking over fences as if to spy on me. I know! It's hard to credit but I swear it's true. And I'm not so sure they aren't filming me. I wouldn't swear to it. It's just a feeling I have.

Now, I should probably mention that the squirrels may be monitoring my movements because they've seen me in the company of Charlie. Have you met Charlie? You'll read more about him in future posts but for now, here's the essence.

Charlie is a member of the Doggy Nation, and like his cousins, possesses a hyper-active amygdala and has a less than enlightened opinion of coexistence with any rodent. 

Considering the above, you can easily understand why being seen with him may cast me in a suspicious light among the squirrel community. Still, I completely agree with Charlie that the tree monkeys are just way too goofy for a self-respecting terrier to tolerate.

There you have the gist of the current state of affairs. The multi-layered, convoluted, mash-up that is my new life. I'm still learning the ins and outs, and I'll do my best to keep you informed on developments. 

Until next time; Good morning! Have a wonderful day and most importantly, be happy, be healthy, and be safe!

More Joy in the Morning

His response lacked any real enthusiasm and this got right by me. Why? That's the question I asked myself. Consider the circs I mean. 

Going about his business on what was presumably a typical day for a rock troll--he's a personal injury lawyer in Uberwald--and then Biff! without warning, he finds himself sitting here in my studio. 

You would think, wouldn't you, that he would rally round and support the team in doing something about it?

"Life comes hard and fast," I suggested in an attempt to make him appreciate the importance of our work--Abbie's and mine.

"And sometimes it takes us by surprise," he said.

"You took the words right out of my mouth."

"Sir?" he said and I remembered that English isn't his native tongue and he's not fully equipped with all the gags and wheezes in the language.

"I was just about to say that," I said.

"My concern," he said, "is that fighting the negative forces seems ill-advised. It's well known that struggling against magic, we become more entangled."

"Ah," I said, "having found a talking point. "We do not struggle. We do not fight."

"We?" he said.

"Abbie and I," I said.

Abbie sat up to receive the recognition.

"Yes," he said in a soupy sort of voice, "the cat."

Abbie squeaked and directed one cold eye in his direction. This cat is a weapon when annoyed and channels the ancient Irish hero, Chuhulain, when in fighting mode. When one eye becomes larger than the other and steam escapes from the seams, the wise observer gets into the lead-lined jacket.

"We don't oppose the Witch of Woodcroft," I explained. "She's full of good works. She pulls the elements of decay from our environment and uses them as compost to feed a garden of wholesome and healthy delights. It's all on her website.

"I don't consider it delightful to be pulled away from very important business with the court," he said.

"Yes, I fully understand," I said. "The dross of her distillation, if it is dross, accumulates to critical mass. Then a loud report is heard and something that would rather not, pops in or pops out of one world and into another.  Like you. It's all very disturbing."

"You'd go so far as that would you--disturbing? Well, what can you possibly do about it?"

"That's where our plan comes into play," I said and Abbie Hoffman, who seemed to have calmed somewhat, stopped washing a paw and gave Feldspar another warning look to make it clear that he would harbor no backtalk about cats.

 "We will intercept the dross as it accumulates and replace the negative charge with a positive one--an effect greatly to be preferred because it will be healthful and enjoyable."

"How do you intercept the accumulation of dross?" he said.

"Ah, there you have me. It's something that Abbie Hoffman does but it's a trade secret and known only to him. But intercept it he does and then we use the raw material of it, he and I, to build a humorous story and then have a laugh. You can't be hurt by something that makes you smile."

"That sounds like Fierce Living," he said. "It's the solution you write about for managing runaway emotions. You're writing a book, aren't you? Is it finished?"

"Almost," I said. "Thank you for asking and yes, I am talking about Fierce Living. It works on everything. It's unbounded; it's wild and free; it's as wide as the sky and as deep as the sea. Why don't you join us, Feldspar? It will be like old times. We will make a team of three and nothing can stop us."

"Well," he said, and then looking at Abbie he added, "I don't know."

Abbie sat bolt upright at this, leveled a gaze at the troll and began washing the right paw with the intention, no doubt, of being prepared to deliver another single whip or possibly a repulse-the-monkey or a white-crane-spreads-her-wings. I'm sure you would know better than I.

Then suddenly Abbie Hoffman jumped down from the desk and approached Feldspar. I wondered if he was advancing to attack but then realized he was sniffing the chair. It was at this very moment that I noticed a distinctive odor.

"What is that smell?" I said.

"When the curtain between the worlds was rent," began Feldspar, "I was meeting with a gaggle of goblins and I fear that one of them fell through with me and I inadvertently sat on him."

"A goblin is beneath you?" I said leaning forward to get a better look.

"I'm afraid it's true," he said.

"Shouldn't you let him up?"

"On no account will I be responsible for releasing a goblin into your world. Remember the Middle Ages, sir."

"Right," I said. "So when you pop back home, he will pop back with you, is that it?"

"We can only hope, sir."

"I'm never going to get the smell out of that chair."

"I suggest burning it," he said.