Captains Log: Coastal Odyssey

Today’s mission was simple: acquire three pots for the citronella plants in the front garden. Today’s obstacle was a familiar one: the Fate Sisters find nothing more entertaining than watching humans make carefully detailed plans.

"We need to leave earlier than you think," Princess Amy announced, materializing in my imagination as I contemplated my third cup of coffee. She had assumed her Captain Kirk persona, seated in the commander's chair on the bridge of the recently retooled and refitted Wind Horse, which is now a Voyager-class mindship named GMS Coastal Voyager.

"It's Tuesday morning. The roads will be clear," I countered, confident in my knowledge of the traffic patterns in all of coastal Carolina.

Amy's eye roll was so profound, I was concerned they might get stuck. "There's construction on Highway 17," she said. "Plus, it’s a holiday weekend and tourist activity is frantic.”

“You must factor in the Shallotte Delay Zone.” This comment came from Chief Engineer Anxiety, somewhere in the engine room of my brain, which I believe is near the hippocampus.

"The what now?” I asked because I’d never heard of this delay zone anomaly.

"The twenty-minute delay trying to get onto Main Street in Shallotte,” Amy said. “It's a metaphysical conundrum described by math too complicated for you to understand."

I dismissed her insult with the cheerful arrogance that has preceded every disaster since the little tyrant entered my life. "We're just making a quick run to Home Depot for flower pots," I said. "Two hours, tops."

As predicted by my imaginary oracle, Highway 17 south soon became more parking lot than thoroughfare. Traffic congealed like chilled molasses around the exit for Shallotte. 

“Chief,” barked Amy, "traffic report!"

“Take the Cousins Beach exit and navigate the back roads,” he responded.

"Civietown Road will be our best option," I said to no one in particular.

"Absolutely not!" Amy responded. "Stone Chimney Road is clearly superior."

"Based on what evidence?"

"Statistical analysis of traffic patterns that are in Lt. Reason’s report.

“That’s not true,” I said. Reason doesn’t analyze traffic patterns.

“No, but I've been mentally analyzing them since we left Waterford."

"Civietown is more direct," I insisted.

"Stone Chimney has fewer tractors per mile,” Reason quipped from the life support station.

"Also," Amy added, and then launched into an elaborate conspiracy theory involving the Department of Transportation and alien technology. Her argument was so absurdly compelling that I missed my turn at Civietown Road. 

"You did that on purpose," I said.

"I merely provided a conversational distraction. You're the one driving."

Instead of backtracking, Amy suggested an alternative route. "It's almost noon, and Snarkies has those fish tacos you like. We could lunch at Cousins Beach, then swing back to Home Depot."

"That's completely out of the way, and I need to get to the hardware store soon."

"Yeah, but studies show that shopping on a full stomach improves decision-making by approximately seventy-three percent."

"You made that up."

"All statistics are made up at some point," she countered philosophically.

"I need to get back to planting the herbs before the afternoon heat."

"It's low tide," Amy observed, glancing at her phone. "Perfect for finding a few seashells for Ms. Wonder's collection. You know how she loves them."

I conjured up an image of Ms. Wonder's delighted face when presented with beach treasures. It was a powerful negotiating tool, and Amy had taken full advantage of it. 

Cousin's Beach in late morning was a study in blues and golds; the ocean stretched like hammered silver under a cloudless sky. I immediately felt the release of tension that always comes with the first breath of salt air. I became lost in the timeless ritual of beachcombing when a text message jolted me back to the present.

"Have you become one with the hardware store? Should I send provisions?" Ms. Wonder inquired.

Reality crashed in like a rogue wave. "Slight detour," I texted back. "Acquired shells. Heading to Home Depot now. ETA fifteen minutes."

Minutes later, navigating the narrow aisles, we found the garden section, but the planters were nowhere to be found.

Another text from Ms. Wonder: "Success?"

"The quarry remains elusive."

“Have you considered that plastic pots are equally effective?"

"Blasphemy," I replied.

After thirty minutes of fruitless searching, we approached the service desk oracle. Larry answered all questions about hardware, sitting behind the counter, reading glasses perched on the end of his nose.

“Red wood planter boxes," I said. "Ten-inch. The square ones with the brass bands."

"Don't carry those anymore."

My gardening dreams withered like unwatered seedlings. “Can you suggest a reasonable alternative?”

"In the midst of chaos, there is opportunity," he offered. Did I mention that Larry is a disciple of Sun Tzu? “Ceramic, not wooden, but functional nonetheless," he said.

"Oh, I don't know about ceramic for my plants."

"The greatest victory is that which requires no battle,” he said. 
We found the pots exactly where he indicated: ceramic pots in various sizes, glazed in colors ranging from earthy brown to cobalt blue. 

"These will look better anyway," Amy observed. "The blue ones match the kitchen window trim. They’re not what you wanted, but they’re exactly what we need.”

“The Rolling Stones said it better,” I replied.

Ms. Wonder was in the garden when we arrived home, an appreciative smile playing at her lips as I proudly displayed both the blue ceramic pots.

And so, what began as a simple two-hour mission to acquire three flower pots transformed into a four-hour odyssey involving imaginary starship crews, metaphysical delay zones, and seashell detours. 

Princess Amy, channeling Captain Kirk from the command center of my limbic system, had orchestrated the entire operation to get me into just enough chaos to remember that the journey matters more than the destination. 

Captain’s Log Supplemental:

Mindfleet Academy trains her captains well, and as Mindfleet Captain First Class, I knew all along that sometimes you don't get what you want, but if you try sometimes, you might find exactly what you need—in this case, blue ceramic pots that match the kitchen trim, and a pocketful of shells for Ms. Wonder. 

Once again, mission success was ensured by guiding Ambassador Genome to decisions he thought were his own. This is a tactic that has proven so successful, I plan to submit it to Mindfleet as the Secondary Directive.

Like A Russian Doll

Yesterday was one of those days you want to take home to meet Mom. And when I say yesterday, I mean the whole long day. It began with a bright sky and mockingbirds singing, not just one of their Billboard Top 10 tunes, but an entire album of deep tracks.

Bean Trader's Family

That may not seem like a big deal to you, but it's a rarity for me. I told Ms. Wonder about it this morning over coffee at Port City Cafe. No real point in telling her; she already knows all there is to know about the Genome. Still...

"Let's hope today is the same," she said with her usual optimism. She's a gem, that one, with her positive outlook and her moxie. I wonder why the Universe allowed me to get ensconced in her life. It seems too good to be true, and yet there I am, ensconced like a Russian doll.

The whole thing seems wondrous to me even after all these years. You've probably read the previous post about getting trapped by the safety belt in my car on the first date with her. If you haven't read it, look it up now. You can always come back to this post when you're up-to-date with current events.

If you're one of the regulars who hang onto every word I write, then you'll understand why, after that first date, on the very next visit to her office with the corporate rent check (it's something we did back in the day), she told me that she knew I loved her and that I wanted her for my own and that she would--and she made it perfectly clear--that she would be my wife.

I was surprised, considering I'd demonstrated that my mechanical abilities fell short of using a seat belt. Also, it wasn't what I expected when delivering the specie to the landlady. But what could I do? She had stated in no uncertain terms that she would walk the aisle with me while the organ played "The Voice That Breathed O'er Eden." 

I did what any parfit gentil knight would do. "Oh, that's settled then," I said. "Do you prefer a large or small wedding?"

Unfortunately, that particular wedding wasn't to be; not right away, at least. A hurricane was spotted loitering in the Gulf of Mexico, right off the coast of Houston, and we made hasty plans to hightail it to Arkansas. Hot Springs, it was, as I recall. The nuptials came about a year later.

But as I was saying earlier, on this fine day, she offered her blessings for the day to remain in statu quo, and I was grateful as always. She and the Universe share a special bond, being best friends since they first met on this side of the veil. Still, I was a teeny bit doubtful, and I told her so.

"I'm not expecting the day to turn out so pleasant," I said. "The feeling I have is like the one I felt on the day I entered Doyle Jaynes's apartment in Crystal Cove and found every flat surface covered in pizza boxes and the floor strewn with soda cans."

"I'm sorry," she said. "Maybe another cappuccino?"

"The worst part is that the air is heavy with the stench of stale tobacco and Frank Sinatra is singing something about round and round, down and down.”

"What are you talking about?" she said, looking as though I'd just admitted to keeping ferrets. "Stale tobacco? Sinatra?"

"Oh, sorry," I said. "What I mean is that the air in my mind smells of tobacco, etc."

She nodded and then stirred her cappuccino thoughtfully. "Can I ask you something?" she said.

“Of course," I said.

"Are you ever happy? Really happy, I mean?"

We looked at each other for a long moment while I searched the data banks for the most recent spot of happiness.

"I was happy when Port City made me the customer-of-the-month for April," I said.

"Yes, but that was fleeting. Do you ever have extended periods of happiness?"

"We had this discussion just recently," I said. "Remember, the dogs in the park, sniffing butts, carrying sticks, and chasing balls?"

She gave me a look like the one she wore when her best girlfriend decided to quit her job in Houston to go wait tables in an ice house in Bandera.

"Where can I go but to the Lord?" she said, and I thought it must be a rhetorical question and so I left it lying there. My tai chi master used to say, 'If it don't belong to you, don't pick it up.'

And so, there we were, Ms. Wonder stirring her cappuccino thoughtfully while I fumbled through my mental filing cabinet for evidence of sustained joy—a search that yielded little more than a customer-of-the-month certificate and some dubious philosophy about dogs and butt-sniffing. 

It's a peculiar thing, really: the Universe saw fit to ensconce me in the life of a woman who shares a first-name basis with cosmic forces, who announced our marriage before I'd even mastered the seat belt, and who weathered a Gulf Coast hurricane just to eventually say "I do." 

And here I am, decades later, still explaining why my internal weather forecast calls for stale tobacco and Sinatra when the morning mockingbirds are performing their entire catalog. 

Perhaps that's what happens when you're a Russian doll ensconced in the life of someone too good to be true—you become acutely aware that you're nested in grace you probably don't deserve, which makes the whole business feel wonderfully impossible and faintly terrifying, like being trapped in a seat belt on your way to forever.

Happily Ever After

"How was your morning at Ocean Isle?" asked Ms. Wonder when I walked in the door.

"Do you have a minute?" I said. "What I have to say may come as a shock."

She smiled. "I doubt that anything you say will shock me," she replied. "I'm used to your antics, but I bet you hold me spellbound."

"It all began as I brooded at a table outside Casa Blanca Cafe," I said, slowly setting the atmosphere for dramatic effect. "This wasn’t my usual brood," I explained. "It was a deeper, more focused anxiety, triggered by your insistence that I interview mental health therapists today."

"You and your therapist interviews," she scoffed, but then abruptly moved into the salient subject matter. "What in heaven's name brought you to Casa Blanca?" she asked. 

I recognized the reference immediately because we Genomes are addicted to vintage pop culture, especially music and film, but I had a story to tell and I was determined to brook no distractions.

"Two double espressos failed to improve my mood, and even my new beret gave little comfort. It did lift my spirits somewhat, but what I truly wanted was a red hat like the French revolutionaries wore, symbols of their defiance against the status quo."

She nodded supportively while ignoring the French imbroglio reference. With her tacit approval, I went on.

"I gradually became aware of a commotion taking place in the alley behind the cafe, and decided to investigate. But when I got there, it was strangely quiet."

"I walked on across the street and onto the beach, eventually making my way to the Memorial Dunes where I planned to honor the memory of our Once and Future Tribe--the cats who now wait for us at the Rainbow Bridge. But you know how those well-laid plans gang aft agley."

"Oh, no. What happened to prevent your memorial?"

"It was the arrival of Princess Amy."

"Not Amy again!" she exclaimed.

"Tell me about it," I said. "Of all the limbic systems in all the heads in all the world, and she had to take up residence in mine."

"Don't tell me," said the Wonder, "let me guess. I'll bet she drove her panel truck into the pier."

"Oh, she made another dramatic entrance to be sure, but not in her signature truck wreck. This time, she washed up in the surf and began flopping around on the beach like a confused mackerel."

"You don't see that every day," said The Wonder.

"That's what I said."

"What next?"

"I complimented her on her entry, thinking it might help to put her in an appreciative mood."

"Good thinking. Did it work?"

"It seemed to work because instead of yelling, Run for your life! ' the way she usually does with a grand entrance, she simply thanked me and said that she felt better for it."

"Excellent."

"But then she started messing with my head." 

"I'm still not shaken," Wonder assured me, "and I can't wait to hear what happens next." 

"You may be shaken yet," I said, and I quoted Princess Amy's exact words. "Amy suddenly shouted at me: Listen up! I have a special job for you. I need you to become my principal agent of redirection, disruption, and subterfuge."

"Had you hoped to be the agent of whatever she said?"

"I may have entertained the idea once or twice, but I don't remember mentioning it to her."

"Let's not get hung up on that," the Wonder said. "What happened next?"

"I had no idea what she might be talking about, so I guess I just stared at her like a dumb chum."

"Wait a minute," Wonder said. "Stared at her? Isn't Amy just an imaginary avatar for your limbic system?"

"My amygdala," I said, because I like to be precise.

"Well?" said the Wonder, shaking her head a bit in that way that means, explain please."

"You can work it out," I said. So, picking up where I left off, Amy said: 

"She said it was time for me to get to work and stop asking so many questions. In fact, she put it like this: 'You might just as well question why we breathe.'"

Wonder remained silent, but her brow wrinkled, and her lips did that thing I've heard described as a moue. It means pushing the puckered lips out and then drawing them back in. 

"Yeah, and when I asked What if..., she interrupted to say that I should let her worry about that. When I asked, Yes, but what about.... She said, I'll take care of that."

"I finally got to tell her, these schemes of hers never end well. and she denied it, saying, 'We'll always have Houston.'"

Suddenly, Poopsie, I recalled Amy's catchphrase when in her aspect of the Red Queen, ‘Run for your life!’. Those words are supposed to stir my anxiety and drive me to action that I later regret. This time, those words reminded me of a recent TEDx Talk, when Dr. Euan Ashley, head of the Department of Medicine at Stanford University, was quoted as saying:

"Exercise is the single most potent medical intervention ever known."

Strenuous exercise, running included, releases endorphins and dopamine, the body's natural 'feel good' hormones, which contribute to feelings of happiness and have overall mood-lifting effects.

"Here's what I'm going to do, I said to the princess, I'm going to run for my life, the very thing you often advise, and we're going to do it together."

"The look on her face told me that I'd gotten her attention, and don't ask how I can see the face of an imaginary princess."

"I would never," the Wonder assured me.

"She tried to talk me out of it, but I stood fast. 'We're going to run right now,' I told her, 'so get ready,' and then I started jogging."

"I told her that everything was going to be fine and that I'd take good care of her. In about five minutes, she was visibly relaxed, and shortly after, she rested peacefully and seemed to enjoy the outing. 

I assured her that I would always be there for her. I promised to accept her just as she is when she's angry, frightened, and anxious. I'd be understanding and supportive no matter what. On hearing my words, she relaxed even more and seemed to be enjoying herself.

"I want you to be happy and free of limitations," I told her, and she smiled, as much as an imaginary person can smile, and she squeezed my hand.

I laughed when she asked if she could still be the Captain and sit at the control console of GSS Wind Horse on our Mindspace missions, and I told her I wouldn't want it any other way.

"Princess," I said, "I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship."

Alright, she's imaginary, so in the everyday three-dimensional world, she did none of that, but in my head, it all happened just as I've described.

"Who would have imagined it," said the Wonder, "you and Amy arm in arm. And to paraphrase that old saw, if Amy's happy, you're happy, and if you're happy, I'm happy. Just like in the movies, happily ever after."

"Say it again."

"Happily ever after."

"Here's looking at you, Poopsie."

 

Two-Tumble Tuesday

"Look at me!" I said to Ms. Wonder as we sat on the lanai, basking in a Tuesday afternoon so beautiful that recommending any sort of self-improvement program would have felt offensive. 

The sky was that special hue that we in the islands call Carolina Blue. The clouds were white, puffy, and towering, just the way I like them. The breeze was light, the humidity low, and the bluebirds filled the air with mood-lifting tunes. In short, it was a typical day in County Brunswick.

"What about you?" she said, but she didn't ask it with any real pizazz. I wisely decided to allow it because she, like the Pope, possesses a higher level of wisdom, and unlike Princess Amy, she doesn't share my internal emotional world. Still, while I had the floor, I continued with my presentation.

"I'm living a new life, Wonder. "I'm taking it one day at a time, as recommended in the book, and I'm living in paradise."

"Oh, really?" she replied.

"Don't do that," I said gently.

"Do what?"

"You know what I mean," I said. "Don't use that tone of voice that says you've heard it all before. This time is different for me. I've had five full days of normalcy, and it's all thanks to a new attitude."

"You do seem a bit chipper," she said, "but I've seen this before. What makes you think this is a new beginning?"

"Because I've got Princess Amy on board," I said.

"Get out!" she exclaimed with full incandescence, and just for emphasis, I assume, she placed her hands on my chest and pushed.

Of course, not expecting it from her, my defense shields were down, and  I fell base over apex across the potted palm, causing Sagi, the caramel-colored tabby, to fix me with a wide-eyed stare similar to the one that Hamlet must have given his father's ghost.

Once I picked myself up and dusted myself off, I raised myself to full height and stared down with bruised dignity. I saw in her eyes that she felt somewhat responsible for my tumble, even though it was clearly unintentional. This, I reasoned, gave me the high ground.

"I'm feeling good about it," I said, returning the palm to its upright position.

"Of course," she replied gently. "You should feel good about it." 

"Yes, I'm feeling good from my head to my shoes," I added, revealing my uncertainty about what to say next.

She gave me a knowing look. "I think I know where this is going," she said in a manner that hinted at her Pope-like wisdom.

"Yes," I said, "it was a difficult lesson, but now the wires are uncrossed and life is finally going my way."

"Any worries?" she asked.

"Very few," I said.

"Just be ready," she said. "You know that dark skies and rain will come."

"Life comes hard and fast," I said. "The only thing that's changed is me, not the world around me. Tears may fall, but what do I care as long as I have you?"

I was on a roll now, and it felt great, so I continued, "I think I've been given a new life," I said. "I've got a brand new attitude. Obstacles may come, but we'll get through them, as long as we have each other."

With that, she gave me a playful punch on the arm with far less emphasis than the earlier push. Unfortunately, Sagi startled me by leaping from the ottoman to the sofa, causing me to lose balance and take another tumble.

Ms. Wonder's first reaction was a gasp, her expression a mix of surprise and concern as she reflexively reached out to help. Still, despite her worry, she couldn't hold back a laugh that sounded like a paper bag exploding.

After two surprising tumbles, I'd learned another important life lesson. Walking through Paradise can be like trodding the cobblestone streets of Charleston. Sometimes the footing is uneven and unordered, but it's never dull. The real beauty of dealing with life one day at a time is that you get to count your falls as character-building exercises. 

The uneven footing tends to keep one in the moment, which provides a certain degree of safety, but as our post titled, Mission to Mohs, taught us, it's a good idea to have Anxiety continue running preventive diagnostics, just in case.

 

Daybreak

There’s something about daybreak that feels like the universe’s way of apologizing for the night before. That’s how I described it to Island Irv this morning as we sat outside The Circular Journey Café, sipping our coffee and watching a jogger arguing with a Canada goose about sidewalk right of way.

“The goose is going to win,” Irv said, nodding toward the honking bird, which had assumed a power stance and refused to yield the path.

“The jogger might as well take the long way around,” I agreed. “It’s better to respect the wildlife hierarchy. They carry a grudge for a long time.”

We both leaned back, letting the morning light fall across our faces like a kindly grandmother’s shawl. This was daybreak as it should be—golden, a little smug, and just humid enough to remind you of your laundry situation.

That’s when Lilly appeared, wearing sunglasses that suggested she either hadn’t slept or had just come from a press conference.

“Good morning,” she said, drawing the phrase out like it owed her money. “Why are you two sitting here like you just solved world peace?”

“Because of daybreak,” I said.

“Because of the goose standoff,” added Irv.

She directed a long, suspicious look at our coffee mugs, but then said, “Are those egg sandwiches I smell?”

“Indeed,” said Irv. “I ordered the Signature Sunrise Delight. Genome here went for the Cheddar Nest.”

Lilly narrowed her eyes. “Brave choices. Have you met the new barista? Her name's Serenity.”

“I liked her,” Irv said. “She called me ‘chief’ and asked if I wanted my sandwich to feel cozy or adventurous.”

“She looked like someone who might have taken a weekend ayahuasca workshop,” I said. “The kind where they talk to raccoons about forgiveness.”

Just then, Serenity herself emerged from the café with a steaming mug and a single pastry balanced on a plate. She had the aura of someone who spoke fluent tarot and possibly knew what our credit scores were.

“I brought you a chai,” she said, ceremoniously handing the cup to Lilly with the solemnity of a moon priestess. “And a lemon scone with rebellious energy.”

Lilly stared at it. “Is it safe?”

“It has the consciousness-expanding power of a shot of turmeric," Serenity explained.

I gave Irv a look that I had practiced to the point of perfection--you surely know the one I mean--and he raised an eyebrow in an effective, if somewhat amateurish, manner.

“Well, alright then,” Lilly announced and eagerly set in on the scone.

“Signal if you need anything else,” Serenity said. "You do know how to signal, don't you, Lilly. "Just open your texting app, put your finger on whatever you want, and push." She turned and floated back inside.

“I miss the old barista,” Irv muttered. “He couldn’t steam milk to save his life, but he never insisted on knowing my birth sign before handing me a bagel.”

We lapsed into silence again, watching the goose chase a squirrel, abandoning the pursuit halfway through in what appeared to be a mutual agreement.

“I think this is what Barry Manilow meant,” I said eventually. “About the moment when the night is through. You know—that feeling you sometimes get that things are actually okay, despite everything you dreamed about in the third REM cycle.”

Lilly nodded. “Barry Manilow also said to 'get up and look around,' so how about handing me a napkin?” Then, while dabbing delicately at lemon filling that had escaped the scone, she said, "You two are ridiculous.” I'm sure her comment was driven by pastry on her blouse.

“But it’s daybreak ridiculous,” Irv said. “The best kind.”

We all fell quiet again, watching the light move slowly up the street as the sun climbed higher in the sky. A gentle breeze stirred the trees on the riverbank and carried bird gossip to our ears. The coffee warmed us. The scone, as it turned out, wasn’t cursed. I've heard it described as 'all's right with the world.'

Suddenly, as if by magic, Vintage Vinyl, the record shop next door, turned up the outdoor speakers to play an old vinyl recording of Daybreak itself.

As Mr. Mannilow crooned, Lilly excused herself to enter the cafe, where she took up her duties as emergency backup barista. Irv seemed lost in Let's Remember, and the goose and squirrel seemed to mellow out. 

I said, 'goose and squirrel,' even though you may have thought I said, 'moose and squirrel,' completely understandable.

“Let’s stay here forever,” I said, "like Sugar Mountain." Irv nodded in agreement because at daybreak, anything feels possible—even miracles.