Living Life Big!

Welcome back to The Circular Journey, where we savor the thrill of mixed emotions, racing along without guardrails. My mind feels like an all‑night triple feature: part sci‑fi intergalactic mission, part behind‑the‑scenes film documentary, and part backyard wildlife special.

Regular followers know what to expect; it’s the same show you’ve come to know since 2010. For our new friends, it’s wonderful to have you here. Sit back and enjoy the show; it’s guaranteed to raise a smile. It’s a thrill for me just having you here, and with a little luck, it may even be thrilling for you.

Those of you who hang on my every word already know Princess Amy, the spoiled little brat who rules my amygdala and controls my emotions, especially the ones skirting the edges of civilized behavior. Fewer of you, however, are familiar with the Sewer Harpies: nasty little demons, powered by bitch dust, who haunt the darkest recesses of my mind, waiting to mess with me at the times I can least afford.

Hiding from the harpies’ slings and arrows has left me practically a recluse for the last few months, and that isn’t mentally healthy. So once again, following the principles of Fierce Qigong: staying calm and laughing at life’s adversities, I’ve resolved to share my life experiences with you, even the embarrassing ones.

The story I’m sharing today is a perfect example of the fresh hell those harpies bring to my everyday existence. If you’re new here, don’t worry; I’ll spin the episode to make it amusing, if not amazing.

Yesterday morning, on my way to the Episcopal yard sale in Shallotte, I stopped at Jumping Java for a cup of the steaming bean. My craving for a bit of Jah’s sweet mercy came with a touch of topspin from a natural urge well known to old men.

So far, it probably sounds simple and straightforward, but thanks to a particularly mischievous prank orchestrated by the harpies, I stumbled into a chain of events that will go down in the annals as one of my most memorable blunders.

I stepped into the caffeine emporium and was greeted by cheerful baristas calling their view‑halloo across the floor. After placing my order, I headed for the restroom, blissfully unaware of the comedy of errors awaiting me.

In a fit of what I considered precaution, I used the toe of my shoe to lift the toilet seat, a reasonably sensible act, don’t you agree? As I lifted the seat, I discovered that only one side was actually attached. In an unfortunate twist of fate, my shoe slipped a little too far into the loop, leaving me balanced on one foot with no other visible means of support. Time slowed,  as it usually does just before disaster strikes. I think it’s the Universe’s way of rubbing it in.

Particle quantum mechanics once again showed off its famously deterministic side. With a loud crash, the toilet seat tore free from its porcelain throne, and I slammed into the wall with a boom‑cacky‑lacky that reverberated through the once‑serene coffee shop. I swear to you, it was like the Fourth of July without the fireworks.

The manager rushed to the scene and called through the door to check on my well‑being. We Genomes maintain the sang‑froid of chilled steel in situations like these, so I calmly explained the calamity and apologized for the damage I’d done.

To my astonishment, the manager replied with easy nonchalance: “Don’t worry about it,” he said. “Happens all the time.”

I’m not sure what you make of his remark, but I seriously doubt that ripping a toilet seat off its hinges is a routine occurrence. Still, I chose to accept his nonchalance as a gift. It was a rare and genuine delight to feel, just for a moment, that life was behaving like an old friend.

By laughing at life’s absurdities, we find the freedom to live fully and completely. I think of it as living big. If we fill our days with the actual experience of living, rather than regretting the past or rehearsing the future, there’s precious little room left for doubt or fretting.

We’re all on this journey together. I’d love to hear about your own bugaboos in the comments. When you chime in, it reminds me I’m not alone, and I love the feeling that comes from knowing you’re here with me.

Captain's Log: Southport Sector Activity

Captain's Log: Stardate 2026.182

Attention Federation Auditors: The GMS Coastal Voyager is holding position above the Southport Sector this morning for an on-site training exercise.

Intelligence reports indicate that a Federation-class production unit established a forward base in Southport overnight to create what the local population calls a "movie." 

Five of Five, our onboard Adaptive Intelligence system, reports the movie's code name refers to a cinematic adaptation of something called "The Summer I Turned Pretty."

Our mission parameters are simple: Ambassador Genome, supported by Communications Officer Joy, will observe and document the production from a respectful distance, then return without being noticed and without interfering.

Pre-Dawn Departure

Earlier that morning, Chief Anxiety ran the pre-mission checklist three times: once for assurance, twice to confirm the first run-through, and a third time because, why not?

"Captain Amy," said Five of Five, "the away team has left already."

"What the hell! Doesn't anyone on this mindship wait for my authorization anymore?"

"The chronometer records the team departed ahead of schedule," confirmed Officer Reason.

"Of course they did," replied the captain. "Especially with that airhead, Joy, on the away team."

"I suspect the Ambassador's Elevated Mission Anticipation had something to do with it," added Reason.

"At least we'll be ready when they arrive," the captain muttered. "Five of Five relocated the lower-deck remote sensor node to the Ambassador's equipment bag. Not my idea, but I approved it after the fact."

"The feed is coming in clean," reported Major Reason, "aside from what appears to be the edge of a granola bar that has, according to remote sensors, been in the bag long enough to achieve consciousness."

The Bridge Watches the Bridge

The Cape Fear Memorial Bridge appeared on the viewscreen as Coastal Voyager, a mile overhead, crossed the Cape Fear River.

"Beautiful," remarked Dr. Downer, who'd joined the bridge to watch the away team's work. She hummed a tune Five of Five couldn't find in its databanks, but it didn't question her; to do so would have been like diving headfirst into a rabbit hole on purpose.

"Morning light luminosity is nominal," said Major Reason, reviewing dawn-light spectra with the focus of a man who has found, at last, an assignment worthy of him.

"I've filed contingencies for fog, rain, equipment failure, crowd interference, and one specific scenario involving seagulls," said Chief Anxiety from belowdecks. "I'd like it noted I have computed no contingencies involving a ferret. The probability calculation was overtaxing the processors."

"Cadet Reginald has nothing to do with this mission, Chief."

"I'm aware, Captain. I'm simply establishing the record. I don't trust that ferret."

Captain Amy stared at the streaming video. Cables ran across the cobblestones like tributaries of an electrical river. Equipment cases were stacked with the logic of people who know exactly what they'll need. Crew members moved with the purposeful efficiency of specialists who've done this before and will find it no less meaningful for the repetition.

"It's perfect," Joy's voice was the first heard from the away team, and for once no one on the bridge could argue.

Perimeter Established

"Perimeter holding," Five of Five reported, mostly to itself, because presuming to be important is how Adaptive Intelligence systems stay sane.

"The Ambassador is filming," Reason confirmed. "Joy is providing…" he paused, choosing the word with visible care, "appreciative commentary. All readings nominal."

"Bag status?" asked the captain, who'd learned over countless reconnaissance missions to constantly check on the away equipment.

"Bag is secure," said Five of Five. "Bag contents are…" A pause is merely a pause, but a pause from an A-5 system is as concerning as a five-alarm fire. "Bag contents are in motion."

The Reginald Maneuver 

"Somebody check the bag!" The instruction was reasonable, logical, and useless, arriving several seconds after the bag had stopped moving.

On the view-screen, something small, furry, and determined emerged from the equipment bag, paused to assess the production team, then set off across fifteen meters of Southport waterfront with the unhurried confidence of something determined to see what's up.

"It's Reginald!" said Joy, sounding almost delighted.

"That's a violation of Federation Directive Section F4, paragraph 2B," Reason declared. "Hail the Ambassador!"

"I don't think it will help," said Anxiety, with the terrible calm of a man watching a chess clock run out.

A production assistant, wearing an expression of professional efficiency and carrying an official-looking clipboard, said something into her headset. A camera operator turned. A second crew member pointed toward the equipment bag. Two other crew members approached the bag with body language that proved they were enjoying the diversion, but trying to look professional. 

"Is that…?“ said one of the team.

"Dook," said Reginald, confirming the team's suspicions. 

"RAT!" shouted the first production assistant, and the perimeter popped like a soap bubble, all at once and without ceremony.

"Sensor data indicates the Ambassador is no longer on the perimeter," reported Five of Five.

"I can see that."

"He is, in fact, now part of the story."

"I can see that too."

After-Action

"I'd like it entered into the log that I predicted this," said Anxiety. "Not the ferret specifically. But this random fluctuation in the quantum wave."

“So noted, Chief," said Captain Amy without warmth. "I feel so much worse now."

On the main viewer, the Ambassador was no longer recording production activities. He was handling his unscheduled celebrity, not well, and yet with tremendous confidence. He was laughing with the production assistant while Reason's "optimal shot window" datastream showed the cameras recording the kind of footage that can't be scheduled, and can't be faked.
 
"Mission status," Captain Amy dictated for the record. "The away team has made unauthorized contact with the observed population. “The Prime Directive of non-interference has been…” She paused, stiffened her lip, and set her chin. “…revised. By Mindfleet Cadet Reginald.”

Captain's Log, Supplemental: 

Cadet Reginald's presence on the away mission was unauthorized. His methodology was unorthodox. His results were undeniable.

As per Federation protocol: Prime Directive has been compromised. The perimeter was breached, and unauthorized contact was made with the indigenous population. Mission TSITP is a failure.

Field Study Addendum:

Cadet Reginald, via MaT-1 Adaptive Translation System

The Captain logged the mission a failure, but what I do is merely my nature. It may be unorthodox, but failure is procedurally impossible.

The Southport sector is exciting. I plan to return. I'm not saying I have, but I may have already hidden something in the equipment locker.

Reginald out.

“Dook.”

Wonders of Wonder!

Ms. Wonder joined me for breakfast this morning, and it brightened my mood. This is the way to start a new year, I thought: a weekday breakfast with my alter ego, the one person guaranteed to tell me the truth. I knew she’d have something useful to say, and I was eager to hear it.

“I have a question for you,” she said.

“Let’s hear it,” I said without hesitation. A question from her is usually the gateway to some sage advice—something I don’t get enough of.

“Are you happy?” she asked.

I admit the question took me by surprise. I wasn’t sure what to make of it, and even less sure how to answer it. I paused, intending to give it mindful attention.

“Did you hear the question?” she said.

“I heard it,” I said, “but it’s not an easy question to answer. It requires careful thought.”

“It’s an easy question,” she said. “You’re either happy or you’re not.”

“Well, if it’s so easy,” I said, “what’s your answer? Are you happy?”

“No,” she said, “but we’re not talking about me. I asked you first. So what’s your answer?”

“No, I’m not,” I said, and I said it with some topspin.

“Why not?” she asked.

This was the part I hadn’t wanted to visit over breakfast. Still, I decided to take it to the limit. One more time.

“Frankly,” I said, “I’m madder than a wet hen. There, I’ve said it. I don’t like saying it, and I know you don’t like hearing it, but nothing else says it quite as well.”

“Rem acu tetigisti?” she said, remembering to stress the italics. “But why are you so highly peeved?”

“Why? You know why," I said, showing my agitation. "I constantly struggle with Princess Amy mucking about with my emotions. It’s maddening. Everyone keeps telling me to get help, but the only help I find is the fleeting kind. I don’t seem to make any real progress.

“I meditate, I exercise, I practice tai chi, I work with therapists, and each of the above makes me feel better temporarily. Then Amy tells her little minions to start randomly throwing switches on the neurotransmitters.”

“And what are you going to do about it?” she said.

“Do?” I shrugged. “By the way, very well done with that rem acu thing," I said. "How do you come up with these things?”

“It’s a knack,” she said, “but don’t change the subject. What are you doing about your problems?”

“I’m working on my Evil Plan,” I said. “That’s what I’m doing.”

“Ah,” she said, “but is working on the plan actually doing something about the problems?”

Right about now, if you're new to this blog, you’re probably thinking that living with someone like Ms. Wonder, who sees through the fog and cuts to the quick, isn't always as easy as it first seems. Talk about holding you responsible! Talk about taking you to task when the task must be taken. She works in mysterious ways her wonders to perform.

“I see now,” I said. “I see what you’re getting at. It’s that old thing about taking action rather than over-thinking it, isn’t it?”

“That’s right,” she said. “Forming a plan may be important in the great scheme of things, but even more important is actually taking the steps.”

“But don’t I need the plan before I take action?”

“New plans usually don’t work very well at first and must be amended after some action. The planned events and results must be updated with the actuals.”

“And so taking action while I’m formulating a plan should result in a more efficient process—one feeds the other.”

“One informs the other,” she said.

“Yes,” I said, “that’s what I meant to say. It amazes me the way you can come up with these things on the spur of the moment.”

“And so what are you going to do?” she asked.

“I’m going to take action,” I said. “I can’t think of exactly what I’ll do, off the top of my head, but I can tell you that I’m taking some sort of action.”

“It’s not what you do that’s most important,” she said. “Doing something—anything—is more important than what you actually do.”

“Didn’t Wen the Eternally Surprised say that?”

“That’s what you told me,” she said.

I looked at her across the breakfast table, my coffee cooling, the day waiting just outside the window.

“Then stand back, Poopsie,” I said. “I’m taking action, and it just might get messy. Full speed ahead and damn the torpedoes.”

She smiled. “I’d suggest proceeding with caution,” she said.

And that's how I came to begin writing and living the book, the one I call Genome's Book of Life, for lack of something better to call it. I've started the outline. Give it a quick look-over and let me know what you think in the comments:

The Book of Life

            The Meditation
            You are perfect the way you are...
            And you could use a little improvement.

~~ Shunryu Suziki

OK, I know it's not much, but it's a start, and Wonder assures me that's the most important part, and I had to begin somewhere. Wonder's words were a blessing: move forward, start small, keep going.

As I cleared the dishes and stood up to meet the day, I realized I might not be happy yet, but for the first time in a long time, I felt genuinely hopeful and already moving forward.

Greatest Rock Band of All Time

I should tell you upfront that the new Rolling Stones album, Foreign Tongues, hasn't been officially released yet. It's currently in the hands of reviewers only, professional critics, industry insiders, and, through a chain of contacts I'm not at liberty to identify, yours truly.

Princess Amy raised a questioning eyebrow when the tracks first appeared on my laptop.

"How exactly did you come by these?" she asked.

"I have people," I said.

You have one person, she said, and that’s Ms. Wonder who has no music industry connections. I’ve asked her.

I neither confirmed nor denied this, which is the mark of a professional.

“Foreign Tongues”: A Review by Someone Who Was There

I've been a fan of the Rolling Stones since the summer of 1965, when "Satisfaction" came out of a transistor radio and rearranged something in my central nervous system that has never quite settled back into place. I was young. The world was loud and new. Keith Richards had written that riff in his sleep,  on a bedside tape recorder, which tells you everything you need to know about a man who has lived as though tomorrow is someone else's problem.

That, in the end, is what I love most about them. Not the catalog, extraordinary as it is. Not the longevity, miraculous as that is. What I love is that for sixty years, these men have looked the future squarely in the eye and decided, collectively and without apparent discussion, to ignore it entirely. They have lived for today with a commitment that most of us can only admire from a safe distance.

Foreign Tongues, their 25th album, is proof that this philosophy has not wavered.

The opening notes of "Divine Intervention" made me sit up straight. It's a cheery song, and I mean genuinely cheery, about ignoring the apocalypse. In the song, Mick confesses he once consulted a Hollywood psychic about end times. 

"Through the gloom, I asked her, 'What's my future?' Well, she threw up." The chorus announces that even as the world ends, "Dystopian values are too hot to handle, and I'm going out in a blaze."

Princess Amy, who had been characteristically skeptical and critical of my review up to this point, said: Now THAT is a man who has his priorities straight.

I couldn't argue with her. Ronnie Wood's bluesy solo on that track is worth the price of admission by itself, and I've chosen it as the album's standout. Not bad for a band that some people, never me of course, suggested might be running out of road.

"Ringing Hollow" is a loping country rocker and, improbably, a love letter to America. "I was madly in love with you before we ever met," Jagger sings. "I saw all your movies. I smoked your cigarettes." But Lady Liberty, he notes, is wearing a frown these days. When the Stones see injustice, they're going to shout it down. It’s that brave and reckless spirit of the late 60s, and I love it.

Amy was speechless, her rarest characteristic, when I placed the Spotify needle in the groove of "Never Wanna Lose You," a disco heartbreaker featuring Bruno Mars on cowbell. Bruno Mars on cowbell. I want you to sit with that for a moment before reading more.

Is that Bruno Mars? she asked.

"On cowbell," I confirmed.

She considered this. And yet it works, she said with a dreamy look in her eye. That's the Stones for you.

The guest list runs deep across the album, just as it did in Hackney Diamonds: McCartney, Patti Smith, Steve Winwood, Benmont Tench of the Heartbreakers, but the most affecting appearance belongs to Charlie Watts, gone from us since 2021, who turns up on "Hit Me in the Head," recorded that same year. The late, great Charlie Watts, who was, in my firmly held opinion, the reason the Stones always sounded like themselves and not like anyone else. Hearing Charlie in the pocket one more time is the kind of gift you receive quietly and don't talk about too much afterward.

And then there is the ending.

The album closes with Mick and Keith,  friends since the age of five, inseparable across wars and decades and the particular chaos of being the Rolling Stones, singing Chuck Berry's "Beautiful Delilah."

It’s a full-circle moment of the highest order. Jagger was carrying Berry records under his arm when he ran into Richards at the Dartford train station all those years ago. Their very first single, as a band that barely existed yet, was a cover of Berry's "Come On." For four minutes, they were Blues Incorporated again. Their first band. The original spark.

Jagger has said that each new album might be the last. If Foreign Tongues turns out to be the final word, it’s a worthy one. It’s an album that lives up to everything they promised us back in 1965, when a guitar riff came out of a transistor radio and permanently altered the course of at least one young life.

Their fidelity to the blues, to R&B, to early rock and roll, remains intact. More than intact. Alive.

Ms. Wonder, when I told her about the review, said quietly, "They really are incredible, aren't they."

It wasn't a question.

"They really are," I said.

And then, because it was that kind of afternoon, I played "Satisfaction,” just to remember where it all began.

Downtown Camelot

Survival instinct drives a cat to seek safety in the high places far above the vague perils that lie hidden in lower levels. At least that’s the word on the street. Abbie Hoffman, for example, often views the world from a place of safety atop the kitchen cabinets, knowing that any hullabaloo arising below can't touch him.

For those who're new to The Circular Journey, I should explain that Abbie Hoffman in this story is not one of the Chicago Seven. This Abbie, a.k.a. Abracadabra, is a stylish cat, always dressed in black and white formal wear, who adds a dash of elegance to the laid back atmosphere of Chatsford Hall.

Downtown Wilma rises several feet as it climbs away from the Riverwalk and up into the middle of downtown. It must have been an instinct shared with Abbie that sent me up into the Brooklyn Arts District this morning

From Egret Café, the elevated view looks out over the shops and restaurants lining the Cape Fear River and continues out past Memorial Bridge until it reaches the gates of Chatsford Hall on the edge of Brunswick Forest.

The change in elevation did nothing to lighten my sultry, overcast mood. The drought that plagued the countryside in recent weeks was washed from memory by the current week-long string of thunderstorms that had rushed in from the Atlantic and now refused to leave. The lack of sunshine gives Princess Amy the pip. If you haven’t met her, you’re most fortunate. She’s that small cluster of brain cells, disturbing my sangfroid like a spoiled brat in a royal household.

As I was saying, the city was shrouded by a sullen sky and had taken on a brooding atmosphere, much like my mood, which was in the third act of a festering bipolar sketch.

I stepped into Egret Café, hoping the atmosphere inside was brighter than Princess Amy’s forecast. As I moved to the order here spot, Amy remarked, Pointless to try lifting the spirit on a day destined to end in frustration and anxiety.

Still, as I’m sure you’re aware, we Genomes are made of sterner stuff than the standard model.  Chilled Damascus steel is how my grandfather Claudus put it. I placed my order for a double cappuccino with a flourish I perfected learned in the caffès of the Holy City, near the Spanish Steps but not too near the fountain. Then I chose a small table near the window but not too near the door. I played Jimmy Buffett tunes on Spotify. 

I was the only customer in the cafe and the barista seemed bored with nothing to do other than watch the early morning dogs walking their people. She decided to take steps; the kind that generate diverting conversation. She wasn’t a buzzer, bless her heart, and lacked the skill to follow Michael Jackson’s advice to start something. 

"Out for a walk this morning," she said.

"Yes," I said. I knew it was lacking a certain something but I thought it best to warm up slowly.

"It's muggy out there, isn't it?" she said and her words stirred Amy to ask, What the hell is this? Conversation about weather? Again?

For my part, I was silently praying, Oh no! Please, God, deliver me. What I actually said was, "I try to get a good walk in every morning.”

"Do you like exercise?" she said and I remember thinking at the time, Where the hell is this conversation going?

 "Me?" I said. "Are you kidding? I don't know when to stop." I was sure the remark had given me the home field advantage.

"Are you a runner then?" she said. And if I was a little confused before, I was astounded now. What was this young geezer thinking? "I love running. Five miles every morning. What do you do for exercise?"

"Oh, exercise," I said. "That explains it then. I thought you asked me if I liked extra fries."

Her face took on an expression worn by someone who felt strongly and had much to say. I couldn't hold in the laughter. I came close to slapping my knee and shouting 'Huzzah!' This hard-working tiller of roasted coffee beans may not be a buzzer but she'd started something anyway.

"I can see why you were confused," said a voice behind me.

"Oh, I didn't hear you come in," I said.

"I overheard the conversation," she said. "And I'm like you. I run like a herd of turtles is chasing me."

This comic relief appealed to the barista and she burst into laughter like a paper bag exploding.

When she caught her breath, she asked the newcomer, "So you only run when you're being chased?"

"Let me put it this way," she said. "If you see me running, you better start running too because whatever is chasing me is nothing you want to be introduced to."

It was magical. Suddenly it mattered little that a storm was brewing outside. Inside it was sunny and set fair.

"I think I love you," said the barista.

"I know," said the newcomer.

In all of the Carolinas, there is no sweeter spot than the districts of downtown Camelot. Looking out on the world through the windows of Egret Café, I felt as safe and cozy as viewing the world with Abbie Hoffman from atop the kitchen cabinets.