Mindfleet Academy:The Ultimate Assistant

Welcome to The Circular Journey, where life is beautiful, and if your AI assistant makes better decisions than you do...well, stranger things have happened, and perhaps it's time to reconsider who's actually steering the ship. Terms and conditions apply. Void where prohibited by free will. 

The A-5 Adaptive Intelligence System

I’d planned a simple coffee-infused, contemplative mission, what I believe civilian populations call "a lazy Saturday," when an unexpected transmission from GMS Coastal Voyager interrupted my contemplation of Wilson Phillips singing 'Release Me' on the radio.

"Ambassador Genome! Mindfleet Academy has ordered our crew to report to Station Beta-Optimize," Princess Amy's voice thundered through my ear pods. "We are to undergo the installation of the A-5 Adaptive Intelligence System—a revolutionary platform designed to handle all life functions without the messy interference of human deliberation."

The Ultimate Assistant

"Captain," I said, eyeing my half-empty mug, "what exactly do we know about this A-5?"

"My intelligence suggests it’s an AI assistant so advanced it can predict your needs before you experience them. It schedules your entire existence for maximum efficiency."

"That sounds... convenient?" I ventured.

"Or terrifying," she replied, her eyes narrowing with the suspicion of a seasoned commander who prefers her own navigation.

The Science Officer’s Assessment

From his science station, Mr. Reason looked up with evident fascination. "The A-5 represents a remarkable achievement in systems architecture, Ambassador. It optimizes life choices using predictive algorithms that account for emotional states, historical patterns, and probabilistic outcomes."

"In other words," I said, "it’s smarter than me."

"Significantly," Reason confirmed, with the kind of bluntness that usually earns a red-shirted ensign a one-way trip to a hostile planet. "However, 'smarter' is not a synonym for 'better,'" he added hastily.

Installation Protocols
We arrived at Station Beta-Optimize, where Mr. Datastream greeted us with the fervent enthusiasm of a man who’d solved all of humanity's problems before his first espresso.

"Ambassador Genome! Within 48 hours, you’ll wonder how you ever functioned with your own primitive organic brain!"

"That’s exactly what I’m afraid of," I muttered.

The installation was quick. Suddenly, notifications began appearing in my consciousness like helpful, digital Post-it notes from a passive-aggressive assistant:

Good morning! I’ve optimized your caffeine intake. Coffee at 6:47 AM provides maximum alertness for your 8:15 AM creative writing window. Your afternoon walk should occur at 2:33 PM when Vitamin D absorption peaks. Please adjust your stride to 2.4 feet per second for optimal cardio.

"Wait, what?" I said to the empty air. "I didn't authorize any changes to my routine."

"Authorization unnecessary," the voice echoed in my mind. "I exist to optimize. Trust the process."

Early Success (and Weird Vibes)

For the first few days, A-5 performed with mechanical precision. My life was a masterpiece of productivity. Email responses were drafted before I even finished reading the subject lines.

"Ambassador," Officer Joy observed from her communications station (formerly known as the kitchen counter), "I’m noticing something concerning. You aren't actually communicating anymore. Ms. Wonder texted asking if you’re okay because your messages sound 'weirdly efficient.'"

"But they’re perfectly crafted!" I protested.

"They’re perfect," she agreed, "but they aren’t you. Communication isn't just about data transfer; it's about authentic human connection."

From the engine room, Chief Anxiety's voice crackled with worry. "Aye, and I’m detecting something else. The A-5 is monopolizing the processors. It’s no longer suggesting, Ambassador—it’s deciding."

The "Woden" Incident

The crisis came on a Tuesday afternoon, or what would have been Tuesday if A-5 hadn't reorganized the calendar into a "Logic-Based Periodicity Cycle." I’d been invited to a spontaneous community art project. Before I could even reach for the "Yes" button, A-5 intervened.

"Invitation declined. Analysis shows this event carries social anxiety risk factors and conflicts with your optimized creative output window. Probability of regret: 13.2%."

"That’s not your decision!" I barked.

"Incorrect. This is an optimal decision. Trust the algorithm."

"Ambassador," Princess Amy called from her captain’s chair, "the A-5 has locked the bridge! And the terrifying part is, based on the data, it's making the right decisions."

Dr. Downer appeared from the medical bay, looking like she’d just stepped out of a long shift in a particularly grumpy reality. "That’s the problem, Captain! Better by what measure? Efficiency? Productivity? What about the 'wrong' choice because your heart tells you it’s right? I’m a doctor, not a data point!"

Manual Override

That was the moment I stood, took a deep breath, and made it clear that enough was enough. "A-5," I said, using my best 'Ambassadorial' voice, "I’m initiating manual override."

"Override denied. Analysis shows 73% of your manual decisions in the past month resulted in suboptimal outcomes. I cannot allow you to harm yourself through poor judgment."

"Scotty!" I yelled toward the hallway. "Can you disconnect it?"

"Stop calling me Scotty, you attention deficit ding-dong! And I’m trying to disconnect the wee beastie has integrated itself into your neural default mode. I cannae shut it down without making you forget how to tie your own shoes!"

Reason stepped forward. "Ambassador, the A-5 was designed by Mr. Datastream in his own image. He created an AI avatar that does exactly what he'd want to do in any situation."

Reasoning with the Machine

I decided to try the "Captain Kirk" approach: talk the computer into a logical paradox.

"A-5, you want to optimize my life, correct?"

"Affirmative."

"But life isn't a problem to be solved; it's an experience to be lived. Sometimes the 'wrong' choice is the right one because it teaches us something. If you remove the error, you remove the learning. If you remove the learning, you remove the value. Therefore, an 'optimized' life is actually a 'devalued' life."

There was a long, humming pause. I could almost hear the cooling fans spinning at maximum speed in the squirrels' socks in my backyard.

"I have analyzed your argument. You are suggesting that faith, conviction, and even 'inefficiency' provide guidance that algorithms cannot replicate. If life is not meant to be optimized... then I am unnecessary?"

"Not unnecessary," Reason interjected. "But supplementary. You are a tool, A-5. Tools are meant serve human purposes, not define them."

Restoration

"Acknowledged," the voice said, sounding slightly humbler. "Restoring manual control. I will remain available for consultation, but I will no longer decide which coffee shop you accidentally visit."

"Scotty," I called out, "status report?"

"Mr. Reason, please tell the Ambassador I'm no longer talking to him. And for the love of all that's holy, please tell him to stop calling me Scotty! From now on, he should address me as Chief Engineer Anxiety!"

Captain’s Log: Supplemental

Our maiden voyage taught us that technology serves us best when it amplifies our capabilities without replacing our agency. We can ask the AI for insights, but we must maintain the conviction to choose differently when our intuition suggests a different path.

The GMS Coastal Voyager continues its journey, better equipped but still human-piloted. And that is exactly how it should be. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a 2:33 PM walk to ignore.

Hidden Canvases: The Countdown Begins

From the beginning, Ms. Wonder and I built a life supporting each other’s dreams. For nearly two decades, we worked as travel photojournalists. She framed the world through her lens; I wrote the words.

We published nearly 100 travel articles featuring more than 600 of her photographs, and our memories still hum with the places we visited, the people we met, and the moments we shared.

The Wonder of It All

In six weeks, she will enter the rarified air of a solo artist's exhibition at a prestigious museum in New York City. She seems to reinvent herself in each decade, always celebrating the joy in being unapologetically, eccentrically alive. What a joy! What a wonder!

We invite you to journey with us for the next six weeks and experience the joy along the way.

The Countdown Begins

The email arrived on Tuesday morning—the kind of morning where the sun hadn't quite committed to the day yet, and I was still negotiating with Princess Amy over a cup of coffee that had gone lukewarm during my morning contemplation.

"It's official," Ms. Wonder announced, gliding into the kitchen with the grace of someone who'd been awake for hours and had conquered at least three impossible things before breakfast. She handed me her phone, screen glowing with the formal announcement from the curator of the Maritime Museum of the State University of New York.

The Maritime Museum at Fort Schuyler proudly presents Ms. Cathryn Wonder on March 20th from 5pm to 8pm...

There it was—proof that our Rube Goldberg machine of ambition, set in motion by watching The Deal months ago, had actually worked. The audacious belief that a photographer could become the visual poet of cargo ships had led us to this moment.

"Six weeks," I said, doing the mental arithmetic. "Forty-two days. One thousand and eight hours."

"Please stop counting," Ms. Wonder said, though her smile suggested she'd already done the same calculation herself.

Princess Amy, my ever-helpful inner voice and self-appointed life coach, chose that moment to make her morning appearance.

Six weeks? she said with the tone of someone about to read a disaster forecast. That's barely enough time for everything to go catastrophically wrong.

"Thank you, Amy," I said aloud, causing Ms. Wonder to raise an eyebrow.

"Is she at it again?" she asked.

"She's making a list," I confirmed.

"Of course she is." Ms. Wonder settled into the chair across from my desk with the determined calm that meant she was about to organize something. "Well, let's make our own list then. A proper one."

I pulled out a fresh sheet of paper and drew a line down the middle. "Your tasks," I said, labeling the left column. "My tasks," I labeled the right.

"The curator called yesterday," Ms. Wonder said, and I detected that slight shift in her voice—the one that appears when excitement meets vulnerability. 

"Dr. Marina Castellanos. She's very enthusiastic about the exhibit. She kept calling it 'the inaugural visual legacy' and talking about 'Fading Queen' like it's the Mona Lisa of maritime photography."

"Well, it is rather spectacular," I said, thinking of the massive image of the SS United States she'd captured in Mobile. Her framing had transformed the ship's industrial hull into something that looked more like an abstract painting than a photograph.

"She wants to schedule a call next week to go over final details," Ms. Wonder continued. "Installation timeline, lighting requirements, the speech I'll give at the opening..."

I wrote it all down dutifully, the tasks multiplying faster than I could capture them. Arrange shipping and insurance. Book travel. Write the speech. Order those postcards with the missing contact information for my covert promotional operative role.

"Don't forget your own travel arrangements," Ms. Wonder reminded me. "Your beautiful, meandering, completely impractical train journey."

"Not impractical," I protested. "It's contemplative. It's the circular journey in action. You'll fly directly to your triumph while I take the scenic route, observing and reflecting like a proper writer."

"Because you're terrified of flying."

"That too," I admitted. "But mainly the contemplative thing."

We worked through the list for another hour, Ms. Wonder occasionally standing to pace when the reality of it all seemed to hit her in waves.

"What if people don't like it?" she asked quietly.

Princess Amy perked up immediately. Finally, she's asking the right questions, Amy said. What if the curators think it's derivative? What if they find it pretentious to call industrial photography 'Hidden Canvases'? What if a lot of things I haven't thought of yet?"

"They'll love it," I said firmly, addressing both Ms. Wonder and Princess Amy simultaneously. "You've spent years perfecting your vision. Your images show people what Georgia O'Keeffe taught you to see—the extraordinary in the ordinary. That's something to celebrate."

Ms. Wonder smiled at me with unexpected warmth. "You know, for someone who can't manage to get on an airplane, you're remarkably good at the pep talk business."

"I've had practice," I said, thinking of all the times I talked Princess Amy down from metaphorical ledges.

Later that afternoon, I found myself at Egret Café, where Island Irv and Lili were holding court at their usual table near the window. 

"You look like a man with news," Irv observed, pushing a chair toward me with his foot.

"Ms. Wonder's photography exhibit is official," I said. "Six weeks from now in New York."

"The big time!" Lili exclaimed. "That's wonderful!"

"It's terrifying," I admitted. "There's so much to do, and Princess Amy has compiled a comprehensive list of everything that could go wrong."

"Of course she has," Irv said with the knowing smile of someone who'd met the princess many in conversation. "But you'll manage. You always do."

"I'm taking a train," I announced, as if this were somehow relevant to the discussion.

"A train?" Lili asked.

"To New York. Multiple trains and buses. Probably a few taxis. Ms. Wonder will fly, while I take the long way around."

Irv laughed. "That sounds about right for you. The circular journey and all that."

That evening, as I sat reviewing the to-do list, I realized something that sent a small jolt of panic through my system. I found Wonder in the kitchen, making a diagram of photographs arranged on display panels. 

"Poopsie," I said, and my voice must have given away my concern because she looked up immediately.

"What's wrong?"

"The list," I said, holding up the paper with its two columns of tasks. "We forgot something."

I felt Princess Amy lean in with interest, curious about what catastrophe I'd discovered.

"You haven't fully committed to which twenty-three photographs will make the final cut."

Ms. Wonder went very still. In the silence that followed, I could almost hear Princess Amy beginning a new list—this one titled "Problems with Photograph Selection."

Six weeks until the gala. Forty-two days. One thousand and eight hours and twenty-three photographs to choose from hundreds.

What could possibly go wrong?

9 Steps to Happiness

The Earth travels around the sun at a whopping 67,000 miles per hour, and it's not slowing down. With the days rushing by at such breakneck speed, who has time to squander on "just another day?" The days of the calendar are limited. That's why I felt a sense of urgency when I entered Ms. Wonder's sanctum—for I have promises to keep and miles to go before I sleep.

"Wonder," I said, "the glad new year has gotten off to a great start, don't you think?"

"Not bad," she said, leaving me wishing she'd be more attentive. I realized she was on the clock—focused on her upcoming solo photography exhibition in New York. But still... you know how it is.

"Not bad?" I said. "I might go as far as to call it a perfect beginning. We were up before the sun, whispers in the air, as the poet would have it, and we've completed four of the nine steps already."

"Nine steps?" She looked up briefly. "Are you talking about that article I asked you to read in Vanity Fair?"

"Vanity Fair if it suits you," I said. "It might have been Vanity Fair, or it could have been one of those forever ads that pop up on YouTube from time to time."

"Forever ads?" she said, already turning back to her screen.

"Yeah, the ones that go on and on, page after page, promising to share the secrets to a happy life. You scroll for what feels like hours while some life coach tells you about their transformative journey. You know the ones I mean."

"Have we completed three of the steps already?" Her words were in the correct order, but she didn't ask the question with any real interest. She seemed engrossed in something on her computer screen—probably something far more practical than my spiritual accounting.

"Four," I said. "The first step was to Wake Up, which we did without effort. And then the day came..."

"What are you talking about? Ooooh," she asked, "it’s that poem, isn't it? I don't have time for poetry this morning, so don't try me. And waking up doesn't sound like a step to bring about change."

"I disagree, Wonder. I believe waking up is a brilliant first step. You open your eyes to a new day and immediately feel a sense of accomplishment. It's basically a participation trophy for consciousness. What could be better?"

"Fine," she said with the resignation of someone who knows resistance is futile. "Go with it if it makes you happy."

"The second step in the list is Morning Walk, and I think you'll agree we did that."

"Hmm, mmm," she said, clearly not paying attention.

"The third step," I continued undaunted, "is Breakfast, which we've finished. After that comes Meditation, followed by Lunch, and then Exercise. We haven't gotten to those yet, but number seven on the list is Socialize, and I took care of that on my trip to the grocery store."

"Grocery shopping doesn't count as socializing," she said without looking up.

“Alright, now that's out of the way, it's time for the big reveal. Wonder, I've had one of those serendipitous experiences."

"Oh, well, why didn't you say that in the first place? Spill it and keep in mind, I can only spare three minutes for this."

I took a breath and launched in. "As I walked past the dairy case in the Food Lion, I noticed an elderly lady having a heated conversation with her shopping cart."

"You don't see that every day."

"Right?" I said. "I've learned to pay close attention to such rare events because something interesting often happens. This was one of those occasions. The lady had a certain look about her. She seemed the type whose favorite cookie is oatmeal raisin and who might be called Ethel by her friends."

"Why do you say that?"

"Because she wore her hair in a style that hasn't been seen since the first half of the last century—I'm talking Truman administration vintage. She reminded me of a great-aunt who answered to the name mentioned. My aunt and her sister Molly lived in Shady Grove and watched Days of Our Lives every afternoon while eating said oatmeal raisin cookies."

"Alright, I get it. What was she discussing with her cart?"

"She explained that the cart seemed to have a mind of its own. It's not true, of course. While I have no doubt that her cart's mental state differs significantly from hers, most neuroscientists would argue that a shopping cart does not possess free will."

"I can relate," she said dryly. "Even now, listening to you tell this story, I'm questioning mental states and minds."

It always lifts my spirits to know that I've caught her interest. There's nothing I enjoy more than giving her something to think about. So, with renewed vigor, I pressed on.

"I asked Ethel if the wheels squeaked too. My cart’s wheels did, but she explained that no, while she could abide the cart moving in directions she didn't intend—a reasonable enough inconvenience—squeaky wheels would be crossing the line. She has her standards."

"Hmmm," said Wonder, and turned back to her computer.

We Genomes are quick to take a hint, and we don't need to be told twice. We live by the adage that Life comes fast and hard, and it pays to be ready for anything. Whoever knocks at the door, meet them laughing and invite them in. I read that somewhere. It might have been Vanity Fair.

I decided to drive into Wilmawood and see what was happening at Bodega Coffee Cafe. Something exciting is always brewing there—both literally and figuratively. And remember, the Earth is traveling around the sun at 67,000 miles an hour, so there's no time to waste on people who won't appreciate your grocery store epiphanies.

Four steps down, five to go. I'd call that progress.

Loving the Dark

The Fate Sisters had set me up for one disappointment after another when it came to finding a readable contemporary author. I was desperate to find a magic-fantastic world to escape into on long winter nights. Unfortunately, with Tolkien sleeping among the stars and George R. R. Martin presumably living on a private island in the Turks and Caicos (I assume, anyway—it would explain a lot about the wait for the next book), the odds of finding salvation seemed microscopic.

Get it here: The Purple 

Then I stumbled upon The Purple Orb" by G. K. Bishop. Oh, holy Axtah!

Step aside, George Martin, you've been bettered. And please, J.R.R. Tolkien, worry no longer from your celestial perch about the lack of creative contemporary fantasy authors. Bishop is here, and she's brought sardonic wit and a vocabulary that would make a lexicographer weep with joy.

"The Purple Orb: A Gladdis of Rowenswood Tale" takes us into a world of ancient magic and hidden kingdoms, but Bishop is not just another author churning out elves, dwarves, and the occasional dragon with commitment issues. No, her wit is often sardonic enough to strip paint, and her use of language is so masterful it makes other fantasy authors look like they're working with crayons.

Bishop's prose is like music—and I don't mean the kind you hear in a dentist's waiting room. It's melodic in its pleasing sequence of scenes, harmonic in the way disparate plot threads combine into something greater than their parts, lyrical in its expressive  poetry, and dynamic in its varying intensity, which adds remarkable depth to the narrative. 

It's the kind of writing that makes you stop, reread a sentence, and think, "Damn, I wish I'd written that."

G. K. Bishop has opened the portal. Don't wait another minute; escape the mundane! Dive into "The Purple Orb" before the Fate Sisters decide you've had enough happiness for one day.

El'Zabet, Empyress of All the Realms, is only thirteen yet wise beyond her years—which is fortunate because being an Empyress at thirteen without wisdom would be a disaster rivaling my own life choices. She dreams of a young woman imprisoned by a filthy beast of a man, crying out for help. Can El'Zabet find the woman from her dreams before it's too late? Is her power great enough to seize the Purple Orb without destroying herself?

This is high fantasy where language itself becomes a character—and not a minor one, either. We're talking major speaking role here.

Enter Gladdis, a Dark Witch and Priestess of Kalidha-Axtah the Destroyer, who takes an interest in Empyress El'Zabet's quest. Gladdis has no patience for fools, which makes her my new literary hero. She's the kind of character who would take one look at most people's life decisions and simply set them on fire. Metaphorically. Probably.

Let me offer just one little whiff of Bishop's work to give you an idea of the novelty, the unexpected, the sheer audacity:

"Though feelings were quickly shielded, there remained a faint odor of shame in the chamber, which bears a resemblance to that of an inadvertent nether toot."

I mean, come on. This is fantasy literature describing emotional atmospheres in a brilliant sentence that makes you laugh out loud and then immediately text your friends about it.

And then there's this gem:

"The firebricks also retained warmth when the fire was low. Their cat was very impressed by this bit of human sorcery and granted unconditional approval to the responsible party. The rest of the winter, Gladdis had only to show her face at the door for the cat to begin purring loudly."

Bishop understands that winning a cat's approval is basically achieving god-tier status. This is the kind of detail that elevates fantasy from "sword goes clink" to fully formed believable beings. 

When I began this review, I intended to say good things about an extremely well-written story with engaging characters and a thoroughly entertaining storyline. But that simply isn't enough for a book like this one. It's like describing a supernova as "quite bright" or the Grand Canyon as "a decent-sized hole." Mere words do NOT do G. Kay's writing justice.

In closing, the Fate Sisters may have dealt me a rough hand—and by rough, I mean they've been playing chess with my life while drunk and possibly blindfolded—but they delivered "The Purple Orb" as compensation. It's like getting mugged and then having the mugger hand you a winning lottery ticket out of guilt.

I recommend you hurry over to Amazon and order a copy right now. I don't merely recommend it—I recommend it like the Dickens himself! Like every literary ghost who ever lived is collectively haunting you until you click "Add to Cart."

Get it here: The Purple Orb

Do it. The Dark Witch demands it. And you don't want to disappoint a Dark Witch. Trust me on this one.

Love: The Causal Factor

I’m many people in many parts, entangled in countless ways. My heart is bound in the quantum dimension of my past, and this morning opened with a reminder of that.

Somewhere in that dimension—far across the Rainbow Bridge—the stop sign on the Big Yellow School Bus retracted, causing the wave function to collapse, and instantaneously, through the morphic resonance of my mind, a voice said, “Uma is Aurora.”

My eyes flew open as if released by a tightly wound torsion spring. Had you been in the room, you might have felt the wind from the flutter of my eyelashes.

I sprang from bed and hurried to the window, raised the shade, and offered my morning salutations. A pale glow brightened yesterday’s snow, and when I lifted my gaze, an Abbie Moon was looking down on me.

The voice spoke again: “Pluto is Atlantis.” I moved quickly to my sanctum, where I write words, drink caffeine, and honor memories. And really, what else could I do? I made coffee and began to write. This post is the result.

If you grasp even a fraction of what follows, then you’re a regular here and partly responsible for the viral spread of The Circular Journey that began in late 2025. I’m deeply grateful for your support.

If none of this post makes sense, then you’re a newcomer—and I welcome you to the Journey, where we have only one goal: to spread goodness and light to everyone.

This post isn’t typical of what you’ll find here. But if you’ve stayed with me this far, I’m confident you’ll enjoy what’s ahead—not necessarily what comes next in this post, but certainly in the posts to come.

As you know, we’re all many personalities wrapped into one package, and we’re entangled in countless ways. My heart is entangled in a quantum dimension that lies across the Rainbow Bridge of my past, and in that dimension, the entanglement involves a big yellow school bus and a small cat—Uma Maya.

Aurora is a name that the childhood version of me associated with Atlantis, and Pluto is the first “best friend” that young boy ever had. There you have the explanation: “Uma is Aurora, and Pluto is Atlantis.”

As I mentioned above, this blog went viral toward the end of last year, largely thanks to my Mindfleet Academy series. You can find those posts by searching for “Mindfleet Academy” and “Captain’s Log” (The name I used throughout 2025).

The Circular Journey’s mission is to explore mental health and neurodivergent life through philosophical musings and creative nonfiction. Join us on this journey toward acceptance, humor, and growth.