I'm An Influencer!

"What are you working on?" said the woman sitting next to me at the window counter. It was Claudia, one of the regulars at Luna Caffe'.

"My blog," I said.

"You've got a blog?"

"Sure, everyone's got a blog."

"I don't," she said. 

"Well, you should start one,” I said, “and get a cat if you don't have one. Cats make blogging easier--they make everything easier. Come to think of it," I said, "you should get two cats. You need a makeover anyway."

A concerned wrinkle furrowed her brow. She looked down at her shoes. She shot her sleeves. She smoothed the front of her jeans. Then she stroked her hair and glanced about the room.

I immediately realized I’d blundered in my choice of words. I didn't want to be rude. After all, she’s a regular here, like me, which makes us practically members of the same social club.

"I meant to say do-ver, not makeover. You would benefit from a change in your life,” I said. “That's why I recommend two cats."

I thought that would smooth things over, but the atmosphere remained strained, calling for a change of subject matter.

"I have a blog," I said, “and it has changed my life in so many ways. In fact, I'm thinking of becoming an influencer. Many bloggers are, you know."

"How do you become an influencer?" she asked after finally settling in at the window.

"I don't know," I said, "but there are people on YouTube explaining how to do all sorts of things. And if anyone can influence the hell out of stuff, it's me. I'm a natural influencer."

"No doubt," she said but her words didn't have zing.

"Can I help you," said a voice from behind me.

"Maybe," I said.

"I was talking to her," said Bijou, the master barista and the artist who painted the Caffe's murals. She's a true artist, which you can confirm from the image attached to this post.

Claudia took Bijou's appearance to shake her head and walk away into the throng of customers. A lost gazelle, I thought.

"What's your blog about," asked Bijou.

"My daily life," I said. "My blog is about my daily life," I repeated the daily life part in case she'd forgotten what we were talking about or had misunderstood my meaning the first time I said it.

"Oh, like a memoir?" she said. Damn! I thought. I was so careful to be understood and still missed the mark.

"Not a memoir," I said. "I write about my everyday life; the people I meet, the conversations we have--stuff like that."

"No way!" she said. "You can write a blog about everyday stuff? That's like Seinfeld! A blog about nothing."

Nothing? I thought. Really! Does she think my life amounts to nothing? I'll have to check with Kierkegaard and Nietzsche to see what they say. Better yet, I'll defer to Sabine Hossenfelder--she wrote a book about existential physics.

"I write about the barely tolerable loonies I meet," I said. "I exaggerate the absurdities in my social interactions to make them funny." My unspoken words were, I’ll make her think nothing!

Her ears perked up at hearing some of the nitty-gritty of The Circular Journey, and I began to warm up to the subject even more.

"For example," I said. "The general public strikes me as those who have bust-ups with their families and run away to places like California or New York to recover. Human beings can be so disappointing." 

"Disappointing, for sure," she said, "but I guess that's why God made hair extensions and purple hair dye--sometimes the only option is to compensate."

"But no matter the extent or degree of the nonsense," I said. "I always close each post by distributing happy endings all around. Always spread goodness and light, is my motto.”

"Dope!" she said, and I would have been offended if not for the upbeat way she said it.

"I want to write a blog," she announced, and her words instantly lifted my mood to one of silly joy. 

"What's your blog called?" she said. "I want to read it to see how you do it."

And just like that, I became an influencer. I never thought it could be so easy. It's another example of what I always say, “In the course of life, you just never know!"

Keep On the Sunny Side

Sunshine stole across the mews from the general direction of the Atlantic Ocean, not that it was remarkable in any way. I mean, I'm damned if I know how it's done--smoke and mirrors probably--but that old sun rises each and every morning and has done so for a good long time if what I read is true. 

Statistically, it has to fail one day soon, of course, but the Genome doesn't plan to be around when it does. If you're smart--and I readily accept that you are smart because you frequent these pages on The Circular Journey--you'll book your getaway with me.

But, as I say, sunshine stole across the mews, and then it oozed its way onto the grounds of Chadsford Hall. It made its way up the outside wall to the second-floor bedroom window, and if you're wondering how such a thing could happen, you won't be surprised to learn that I, too, wonder how. Perhaps it climbs up the waterspout. the gates and o

The morning was a perfect ringer for the one we'd been waiting for, and we had a song in our hearts when we rose and began preparing for our trip. I'm not exaggerating when I say the general mood was bumpsie-daisy.

Twenty years ago this month, Ms. Wonder and I published our first travel article in the Birmingham News. And now we were on our way to those same Eden-like gardens to do yet another article, one that our biographers may refer to as "Brookgreen Gardens: Then and Now."

The Genome that waded through a half-dozen cats and padded across the Persian carpet was not the usual Genome. The spirit was soaring. I may have sung a few lines of "59th Street Bridge Song" and if I didn't sing them, I surely hummed a few bars.

When I reached the sal de bains, I entered a world of mists and fruitful mellowness, and I expected to find Ms. Wonder in attendance. I was not disappointed. She was there, bubble-covered and lilac-scented to the core.

"Good morning," I called into the billows of steam.

"Oh, you startled me," she said.

"Not like you startled me," I said, "I thought you were Venus, rising from the sea."

"You came to bed late," she said.

"Went for a walk in the garden," I said.

"Good for you," she said, "the garden is nice late in the evening. Very soothing."

"That's your view, is it?"

"And the stars," she said.

"What about the stars?"

"You know," she said, "the floor of heaven is thick inlaid with patens of bright gold."

I immediately realized the conversation was coming dangerously close to saying something about the blessed damozel leaning out from the gold bar of heaven. I decided to take prompt action through the proper channels to prevent it.

"Poopsie," I said.

"How does it go?" she asked, "the smallest orb in his motion like an angel sings..."

"Poopsie."

Such harmony is in immortal souls..."

"Poopsie!" I cried and the sound of my voice dislodged a cat from a bubble cloud at the foot of the tub. It turned out to be Eddy. The cat I mean, I don't have names for bubble clouds.

"What?" said the Blessed Damozel.

"You couldn't possibly put a sock in the floor of heaven, could you?"

"Sorry," she said. "Not in a good mood then?"

"I've been loonier," I said.

"I'll say," she said.

"Pardon me?" I said.

"Looney to the eyebrows," she said.

"I'm in the room," I said. "I can hear you."

"Sorry," she said, "Are you still thinking about the lost opportunity at Straw Valley?"

"Definitely, not," I said. "I work through these little setbacks and then get on with life. Live for today, is my motto."

"Still," she said, "It's a sad thing to lose a gazelle."

"Ms. Wonder," I said, "don't try me too high. I'm not in the mood to discuss losing gazelles."

"Over it then?" she said.

"No doubt about it. Fierce living is the thing you know. Take life just as it's hurled at you." I said.

"Good," she said, holding out a shapely arm with the expectation that the Genome would put a towel in it. "That means it's a good day for a trip to the low country. Let's get ours while the getting's good."

"I'm with you," I said. Sometimes all it takes to turn the tide is being with people who are on your side. Try it now is my suggestion, and if you have trouble finding someone, don't worry; I'm here for you.

Perfectly Correct

"What a beautiful day!" I said to Ms. Wonder who waded knee-deep in suitcases and socks, like a goddess of the sea cavorting on the rocky shore. "Packing?" I asked as if the ritual was unfamiliar to me. 

"Un-packing," she said for we keep no secrets between us. And it was at that moment the dirty work of yesterday raised its ugly head and laughed at the false joy that had greeted me when I woke. 

Every year, starting about the middle of November, there's a flurry of anxiety and apprehension among owners of the better-class country houses throughout coastal Carolina, waiting to hear which one will get the Genome’s patronage for the holidays.

This year we had decided early, and a sigh of relief went up from a dozen stately homes, all listed on the Historic Register, as it was announced that the Garden Inn outside Savannah had drawn the short straw.  

And yet, scarcely 10 hours earlier, this daughter of the Russian steppes and I had lunch at On Thyme Cafe, located a few blocks down Castle Street Cafe Luna—"it's not fast food; it’s awesome food fast"—and we faced the terrible news that the outing was off.

Shakespeare captured the sentiment perfectly when he said, just when you're feeling really good about the way things are going, Fate sneaks up behind you with a blunt instrument. It's not a direct quote, but it conveys the idea nicely. 

As if waking from a dreamless sleep, I gradually became aware that Ms. Wonder was looking at me as if expecting an answer. 

"Hmm?" I said. 

"Did I hear you say something about the Orlovs?" she said. 

"Did I say that out loud?" I asked. She nodded. 

"I was thinking about how Count Orlov must have felt," I said, "after Katherine the Great told him she never wanted to see him again in this world or the next. Then when he opened the cupboards, he discovered there was no more vodka." 

A deep silence ruled the next several moments after my crack about the Count. Then Ms. Wonder spoke. "Are you going to stand there all morning?" 

"There are times, Poopsie," I said, with a small tremble in the voice, "when one asks oneself if there is any point in making an effort." 

"The mood will pass," she said but I still had my doubts. 

I nodded in response, but it had no chirpiness to it. It was the nod that Napoleon might have given in the Paris coffee shop on a morning in 1812 when a barista asked, Back from Moscow so soon?

"You know how it is," I said, "I'm in agreement with the general principle but I seem to be in neutral gear and having a little difficulty following through.

"I understand," she said, "it was much the same with Hamlet."

I nodded as though she'd put her finger on the nub, but I had no clue as to what she meant. I mention it here only because it may mean something to you.

"Don't play the victim," she said. "We may not be able to visit Savannah, but we can still enjoy the holiday lights in Airlie Gardens. We can use the extra time to refresh, rebuild, and reinvigorate."

"Poopsie," I said, and if there had been a bystander, my mood would have noticeably brightened. "You wrap the whole thing up very neatly," I said. "You make it sound like fun. I'm looking forward to it."

"Good," she said and she raised a glass of pomegranate juice. "Here's to the new year."

"I suppose you know, you have me feeling positively bucked and ready for everything that 2025 has to offer! Thank you." 

"Not at all," she said. "You see, no matter what the Fate sisters have in store for you, there's no need to let them steal your joy."

And I had to admit that, once again, she was perfectly correct.

Still Anonymous

"What's that noise?" asked a voice from somewhere in the darkness. I opened my eyes, thinking I was in the slot canyon I told you about--the one in Escalante National Monument, Utah. You remember that I saw the puma's paw print in the dust there. Possibly. 

But I wasn't sleeping in a canyon--I was in my bedroom and the voice...are you ready for this? It was the magical, mystical Ms. Wonder. Before I say more, let me explain that I was still dreaming.

"That's just Sagi," I said.

Sagi M'Tesi is the caramel-colored tabby who lives with us. One of several beings living with us that are also magical, mystical wonders.

"Sagi?" she whispered and I began to think that she wasn't fully awake.

"That's right," I said. "Sagi--he's shredding a roll of toilet paper."

"Shredding toilet tissue?"

"Toilet tissue or toilet paper," I said, "both are correct."

"Why?" she mumbled.

"There you have me in deep waters, I'm afraid, but it's his favorite pastime," I said.

"Past what time?" she said.

"Pastime," I repeated. "He finds it nearly impossible to resist, but he swears he can stop anytime he chooses," I said.

"That's what they all say," she sighed. I'm pretty sure it was a sigh.

"Well, nothing to do about it except wait for him to hit bottom and possibly conduct an intervention," I said.

I suddenly felt the urge to be outside. I don't know why. Just one of those things, I supposed. I hastily pulled on the outer crust and hied for the crepe myrtle alee.

In the early morning stillness under starlight and buoyed up by aromatic pine straw, I was serenaded by a mockingbird singing a selection of Frank Sinatra melodies. Quite pleasant.

In the middle of "I've Got You Under My Skin," the dawn bloomed in all her coastal rosiness, and soon the sun was hot-dogging above the horizon. What a show, I thought. It was a pippin of a mood lifter.

Had Ms. Wonder been with me, not that she's ever with me before 7:00 AM, but had she been with me, I would have said, "I've got a feeling everything's going my way!" She wasn't with me, but I said it anyway.

The walk worked its magic on me. Not actually magic--something to do with endorphins if I remember correctly. And for several minutes, I was caught up in the beautiful ephemera of life.

Keeping on the sunny side isn't easy for me. And who can say why? It may be the path deviates from the dotted line connecting A to B. Or perhaps, as Scott Peck made clear, life is difficult.

Once I arrived at the northernmost edge of Waterford Village, I turned and looked back across the glen, up the terraced hillside, and into the second-floor window of the cottage. From this distance, I could see Sagi sitting in the window, looking my way. Had he been watching me all this time?

I realized as I watched him watching me that my heart was in that window with Sagi. I could feel the heartstrings tugging me back home. He and Uma Maya would be waiting for breakfast when I got back. And there is nothing more satisfying than caring for a cat. Caring for two cats brings twice the satisfaction.

Sometimes life seems full of problems and just one damn thing after another. But if we pause and take a few deep breaths, we often realize that love puts the purpose and the meaning in life. And keeping love in the forefront makes all the difference.

It may be true that I can't always be on the sunny side of life, but with a little effort, I can stay on the loving side.

Thank You, Lucy!

The sun appeared in the sky this morning like a poached egg, bright and warm and wiggly. The mists rose from the lowlands in gray and gold streamers, moist and ragged around the edges like the fading fragments of dreams.

I like to sleep late but never do, and this morning was no exception. I was up at 5:30, wandering around the lower levels of Chadsford Hall. It's a mindfulness technique, really. Walking around with attention focused on nothing—aimless. Still, I could sense the magic filling up the place.

It's nothing new to have magic in the air of the Hall; it's usually full of the stuff, but it's normally the old, comfortable sort of magic that's about as exciting as pilling a cat. The magic I felt rushing underneath the doorjambs was the new stuff, the newly minted variety fresh from the Source.

Not a good thing for me, new magic, that is. I'm allergic. Ms. Wonder says that everyone is allergic to magic. She says that's the point. But it's different for me. The general background magic that supports all thaumaturgic activity is harmless, but the new stuff clings to me like static. It builds to a critical mass, and then BANG! It's not pretty, and it never turns out well.

The distraction from bright, cold drafts of the stuff wafting about the rooms of the Hall, glistening like Empyrian electrum and shimmering with octarine green and blue, was too much for my aimlessness. I needed advice, and I needed it fast. I headed upstairs, where I heard gushing torrents of water filling a bathtub. "Poopsie," I said, "I need your advice. Rally 'round."

"What's up?" she said.

"What's up?" I said, "That's the point, isn't it? You know that new magic is rolling off the press even as we speak and that it's coming from Woodcroft?"

"I noticed," she said. "Are you puissant?"

This went right by me, of course. Puissant? Is that a word? What could she possibly mean by it? Must have something to do with magic. There was no time to muse on this mystery. I felt the need to get right down to it, so I gave her the best response I could.

"Probably not so puissant as you," I said, and I thought it pretty good. Don't you agree?

"That's sweet of you to say," she said, "and probably very true, but what is it you wanted to ask?"

"Well," I said, choosing my words carefully. "You know that Gladdis..."

"Witch of Woodcroft," she interrupted.

"Yes, all that," I said, "but put that out of your mind for the nonce. Let me finish my thought, or I'll wander off the path. We can't afford distractions. You'll be leaving for work shortly, and where will I be then? Lost among the lilies, that's where.

"Lost among the lilies? Is that a saying?"

"Isn't it?"

"One of yours then," she said.

"Ah," I said because I'd lost the thread. "What was it we were talking about?"

"Something about Gladdis," she said.

"That's right. Gladdis has published the seminal installment of Rogue Star. Is seminal a word?"

"Seminal," she said, "or carrying the seeds that will develop into the fruit of the work."

"Wonder," I said.

"Yes?"

"What the hell are we going to do about it?"

"Do about it?"

"You know what I mean. How to stop the overflow of magic and all the strangeness that follows."

"Relax," she said. "I know this is one of Princess Amy's hot buttons, but everything will be OK."

"It will?"

"Of course, it will. Just take a deep breath and let life happen. Don't you remember Lucy once telling you that it's not your job to be in control of everything?"

"She did, yes, that's one wise kitten, Wonder," I said. "Well, she's no longer a kitten, but she was when she told me that. Animals have a certain wisdom, don't they?"

"Humans too," she said.

"Well, some humans," I conceded. "Thank you for reminding me, Poopsie, I feel much better now."

"Don't thank me; thank Lucy," she said. And so I did.