My dog is jealous of my cat. Very! Our corner shop has the solution, so off I went. Sit!
Returning, clutched to my doggie’s bag along with a goodie bag containing a little sup’n special for moi, I noticed the moon, how very close it is. It must’ve moved.
This brought back rich memories.
I remembered roaming the lavish woods of Mount Roraima. Ah! Countless glorious hours chasing lizards, gazing into the milky way, marveling at shooting stars, though puzzled by those gazillion eyes blinking at innocent little me – small comfort they were far away. And that moon – how it used to howl through windy nights – too close for comfort, yet, thankfully, far, far away!
I remembered how, magically, that very moon transformed, glistening the night of my first kiss, a night of ten thousand tingles. And the thrill of other nights – rolling around flowering meadows experiencing the wisdom of King Solomon:
“Your lips drop sweetness as the honeycomb, my love;
Kiss me with the kisses of your mouth —
For your love is more delightful than wine.”
Ooo-ya-ya! The moon hasn’t howled since; I don’t think.
Now! There it is – a slingshot away – triangulating my clandestine path to Target No.2 of my Book-Hunter mission – Amor Medetur Omnia – that Book of Poems by Ala of Bethany, the phenomenal woman of the jar.
Oh, moon! You’ve seen me in my bloom. And followed me. You’ve watched me, lured by the enchanting adventures of Orion, and by Cygna’s magnificent friendship, unequalled sacrifice and honor, and by Leo’s legendary cunning. You’ve seen how sweetly their stars have sucked me into their gleam, my eyes sparkling with sublime joy at the beauty of this awesome vastness, so young – barely fourteen billion – and so vibrant, still in the stage of its resiliency. And you’re jealous. So jealous you are, you’ve inched closer. But my sweet you’re barely in your bloom. You think me young, but time does not favor us equally. Zip-zap and I’m a blip; then you’ll be in tears, so don’t be jealous; be faithful!
It was the moon that slipped me clues to the possibility of Ala’s ‘Amor Medetur Omnia’ – that’s Ala of Bethany, whose beginning story mere patches of the world are barely acquainted, these having often been reminded of how unreservedly she poured all of her rich oils on The Master then wiped his feet with her tears. Men still look upon her suspiciously. Enviously. Seeing her from this side, they see a free woman. Too at ease! Some see a remarkable woman. A precious few, those who have experienced glimpses of her from the inside out, think her a most phenomenal woman. And that, she is! “For to be free,” Nelson Mandela did say, “is not merely to cast off one’s chains, but to live in a way that respects and enhances the freedom of others.”
Uh! The things Ala must have known! Her experience. Millions are dying in their desire for but a bit of it. What if they knew of Amor Medetur Omnia – her book of poems. For surely it must be. Even so, it is no special revelation that what the world needs now, even those who are free, is a solid dose of real love – that healing touch – Curatio Tactus. That’s not the revelation; the recipe is what’s gone missing. And I’ve got the clue to it! Shhh. Don’t need a stampede.
More than mere conjecture, close scrutiny suggests Amor Medetur Omnia is the source material for four of the most pristine passages in all of literature on love, thought, health and wealth.
I’ll cite two well-known clipped renditions; any more will lure intrepid hunters in search of its secret trail:
Love is patient. Love is kind. It does not envy. It does not boast. It is not proud. It behaves well. It is not selfish. It is not provoked. It keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices in the truth. It bears all things, always trusts, always hopes. Love endures. Love never fails.
Whatsoever things are true, whatsoever things are honest, whatsoever things are just, whatsoever things are pure, whatsoever things are lovely, whatsoever things are of good report; if there be any virtue, and if there be any praise, think on these things
I like that! But oh, if only we can get our hands on that recipe!
Not all of the seven books I am hunting have biblical connections. This one has, of course. By our calculation this one, Book No. 2 on the list, survived a number of earth-shattering tragedies as it passed through the hands of quite a few in Greece, India, Egypt, Persia, many of whom had no clue what it is they were carrying. And that’s all I’ll reveal at this juncture. Even now, I surmise that those who have it have no idea what it is they have. That’s a Book Hunter’s dream opportunity.
All that aside, on my way home I heard a horrendous howl. A dog? My dog? Meanwhile Salt, that’s my cat, coyly seated on the ledge of my balcony, seemed to be gazing at the moon, as if to say to me, “Me no-know-nothing. I mind my own business.” But I knew something was up. That puddy-cat is just too smart. Trust me.
In my hand was that special doggie’s bag alongside my bag of nuts and seeds and special items highly recommended by New York Poet and author of Musings from Outside The Universal, Ric Couchman, recommendations to virile and not so virile men, he said: regular servings of properly prepared avocado, cucumber, cantaloupe and whole grains; special preparations of cayenne, ginseng and nutmeg, etc., plus lavish touches of aroma, particularly, cinnamon and lavender, which increase exponentially the chances of having that special Marvin Gaye moment. So he said. And I like that!
I opened my door.
Now I’m quite aware that dogs have immaculate olfactory organs. But, good God, the way that dog jumped my left leg as soon as I opened my door! Uh! Beyond embarrassing.
Down! Down! Down! I’m not your bitch! Sit.
That dog cowered to the floor and whined me into guilt. Meanwhile, Salt had already slipped through the door and was coiled by the fireside, as if nothing ever happened. I set my purchases down, ignoring the whiner, took out my aromatic sprays and stepped into my bedroom to give it a good swish. That’s when I noticed my bed.
Let me just say this: never let your cat into your business when you know your dog wants a piece of your business. That’ll spoil your night. Marvin will not be singing for you. And, I tell you, that cat didn’t give two hoots worth a pawn. It was back out on that balcony with a friend, as if to say, “Me no-say-nothing the moon no say to me, so don’t you keep looking at me; I’m just minding my own business. If dog stupid, dog stupid. You don’t take me for no walks.”