The Purple Orb: A Gladdis of Rowenswood Tale

The Fate Sisters had set me up for one damned thing after another, so I needed a magic-fantastic world to escape into. Yet, with Tolkien sleeping among the stars and George R. R. Martin living on a private island in the Turks and Caicos, the odds seemed microscopic.

Then I found "The Purple Orb" by G. K. Bishop. Oh, holy Ashtaragh! Step aside, George Martin, you've been bettered. And please, J.R.R. Tolkien, worry no longer about the lack of creative contemporary fantasy authors; Bishop is here!

Get it here: The Purple Orb

 "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 of a fantasy novel. Her wit is often sardonic, and her use of language is masterful.

Bishop's prose is like music: 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, emotional poetry, and dynamic in its varying intensity, which adds remarkable depth to the narrative.

G. K. Bishop has opened the portal. Don't wait another minute; escape the mundane! Dive into "The Purple Orb."

El’Zabet, Empyress of All the Realms, is only thirteen yet wise beyond her years. 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 a high fantasy novel in which language itself becomes a character. Gladdis, a Dark Witch and Priestess of Kalidha-Axtah the Destroyer, takes an interest in Empyress El’Zabet’s quest, and Gladdis has no patience for fools.

Let me offer just one little whiff of her work to give you an idea of the novelty, the unexpected, the humor:

"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."

And ….. "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."

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. Words DO NOT do G. Kay's writing justice.

In closing, the Fate Sisters may have dealt me a rough hand, but they delivered "The Purple Orb" as compensation. 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!

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.

Best Songs of the 80s: Part 2

Here’s the second half of the countdown, rewritten to match our "Circular Journey" vibe. I’ve leaned into that blend of critical confusion and the inevitable triumph of a good synthesizer.

Synthesizers, Staring Contests, and Critical Confusion: Rolling Stone’s Top ’80s Hits Part 2

Welcome back to the bridge of the GMS Coastal Voyager. Earlier, we saw how the "pros" almost talked Michael Jackson out of his best bassline. Now, we’re diving into the rest of the Top 10, where the critics faced off against New Wave, big hair, and the daunting task of figuring out what Kate Bush was actually doing on that hill.

Let’s pick up where we left off—with more evidence that time is a much better judge than a man with a deadline and a bad mood.

6. Whitney Houston - "How Will I Know" (1985)

Critics called it "pure pop of the highest pedigree" and "nigh untouchable," with Whitney demonstrating raw vocal power done right. Billboard ranked it among the greatest pop songs of all time, and it became her second number-one hit.

Dave Rimmer of Smash Hits was savage, calling it "this dreary bit of disco" that was nowhere near as good as her other work, adding it "sounds positively snooze worthy, in fact." 

Another critic complained about the "annoyingly bouncy" production and "clunky, thudding drum sounds" that were "as unmistakably Eighties as Joan Collins' Dynasty wardrobe." 

The song that was originally intended for Janet Jackson (who passed on it) became Whitney's breakthrough hit and won Best Female Video at the MTV Video Music Awards. Janet's loss was Whitney's gain.

Calling Whitney Houston's vocals "dreary disco" is like calling the Atlantic Ocean "a nice ditch"—technically words, but wildly missing the point.

7. The Go-Go’s – "Our Lips Are Sealed" (1981)

Critics loved the "shimmering pop" and the fact that a group of women was actually playing their own instruments (imagine the shock!). It was hailed as the perfect summer anthem.

Some reviewers dismissed it as "bubblegum fluff." One particularly grumpy critic called it "an exercise in vacuity," basically suggesting the song had the intellectual depth of a puddle.

That "vacuity" has kept us humming along for over four decades. It wasn't just fluff; it was a blueprint for indie-pop. The Go-Go's proved that you can be catchy as a cold and still be a legitimate rock band.

The only song on this list that was so undeniably perfect, critics had to wait 23 years and a Hilary Duff cover to find something to complain about.

8. Duran Duran – "Hungry Like the Wolf" (1982)

The "New Romantics" were finally taken seriously for their sleek, cinematic production. Critics called it "the ultimate MTV track"—a song built for the visual age.

Oh, the visual age was exactly the problem for some. Critics accused the band of being "style over substance," focusing more on their expensive hair products and exotic music videos than the music. One reviewer called the lyrics "nonsensical animal metaphors."

Maybe it is a bit nonsensical, but have you heard that bassline? It doesn’t matter if the metaphors are fuzzy when the groove is that sharp. Duran Duran didn’t just bring the hair; they brought the hooks. 

When your song is called "lifeless" in 1982 but wins the first-ever Grammy for Best Music Video, clearly someone's pulse-checking skills need work.

9. Kate Bush – "Running Up That Hill" (1985)

This was hailed as a "sonic masterpiece." Critics marveled at the Fairlight CMI synthesizer work and Kate’s ability to turn a deal with God into a Top 40 hit.

At the time, some critics found it "too experimental" or "impenetrable." They struggled with her vocal delivery, which—to be fair—is an acquired taste if you’re used to standard-issue pop. One critic wondered if it was "too weird for American radio."

Fast forward to 2022, and thanks to a certain show about Upside Down monsters, a whole new generation discovered that "too weird" is exactly what we needed. Kate Bush didn’t just run up that hill; she built a house on top of it and waited for the rest of us to catch up. 

Being called "precocious, dated, and dull" in 1985 only to become the oldest woman with a UK number-one hit in 2022 is the ultimate long game.

10. The Smiths – "There Is a Light That Never Goes Out" (1986) 

This was the "indie-rock national anthem." Critics praised Morrissey’s dry wit and Johnny Marr’s jangly, perfect guitar work. It captured that specific '80s feeling of being romantic and miserable at the exact same time.

Some critics couldn't get past the "morbid" lyrics. I mean, singing about a ten-ton truck crashing into you isn't exactly "Good Morning" energy. They called it "self-indulgent gloom."

Self-indulgence never sounded so good. It’s a song for anyone who’s ever felt like a bit of an outsider—or a carpenter woodpecker with technical difficulties. It remains a masterpiece of the "unoptimized" life. 

Refusing to release your best song as a single while the band is together is the most Smiths thing The Smiths ever did, and somehow it worked anyway.

The Final Lesson 

Looking back at these ten tracks (Parts 1 and 2), a theme emerges: The critics were almost always wrong about the "weird" stuff. They wanted efficiency and standard protocols, but the artists wanted to slap the back of the SUV and see what happened. 

I think I’ll stick with the music and let time do the reviewing.

What about you? Which '80s song did you initially hate, only to realize later it was a masterpiece? Drop a comment—unless you’re a cardinal or a bailiff, in which case, keep it down. 

Best Songs of the 80s: Part 1

Well, hello again! I’ve taken a look at the "Rolling Stone" rankings, and some of these critical takes are more baffling than a dream about woodland creatures in footwear.

Tripping Over Their Headsets: Rolling Stone’s Top ’80s Hits Part 1

The 1980s gave us shoulder pads, hair that defied the laws of gravity, and some of the most enduring music ever pressed to vinyl. But here’s the funny thing about "iconic" tracks: at the time, even the professional critics couldn’t decide if they were hearing a revolutionary masterpiece or a total dumpster fire in a neon suit.

This is my deep dive into the love-hate relationship between music critics and the songs that defined a generation. Think of this as the follow-up to my look at the "Worst Songs of the 80s"—only this time, we’re celebrating the good stuff and wondering what the reviewers were drinking.

Before we get to the heavy hitters, let’s set the stage. The '80s were a wild neural network of genres. You had the Superstars (MJ, Madonna, Prince), the Hip-Hop Pioneers (N.W.A., Public Enemy), and the New Wave brooding types (The Smiths, The Cure). It was a decade where synth-pop and gritty rap somehow shared the same radio dial without the universe imploding.

Buckle up, because we’re counting down Rolling Stone’s top five. Let’s go!

1. Prince – "Kiss" (1986)

Most critics loved how Prince stripped everything away. Just a guitar, a few keys, and that voice. It was minimalism at its peak.

One reviewer apparently woke up with an attitude that morning, declaring the song "overrated" and Prince’s signature falsetto "annoying as all hell." They even suggested this song was the "beginning of the end" for the Purple One.

Calling that falsetto annoying is like complaining that the sun is too bright. It’s Prince! 

Turns out the falsetto that made critics cover their ears in 1986 is now the sound we all try (and fail) to hit in the shower.

2. Madonna – "Like a Prayer" (1989)

Rolling Stone called it "as close to art as pop gets." Which feels like a backhanded compliment to me, but they went on to praise her evolution from pop princess to a serious artist.

The Vatican wasn't a fan, and Pepsi pulled a $5 million ad campaign. Some critics complained the video was "vague." Honestly, with all that fuss, you’d think she’d tried to jaywalk behind a sheriff's SUV.

Controversy is just free PR in a short skirt. Madonna kept Pepsi’s millions after all when the song hit Number One, and getting condemned by the Vatican is basically the ultimate badge of honor for a pop star. 

Nothing says "I've made it!" quite like getting condemned by the Vatican and keeping Pepsi's money.

3. Grandmaster Flash & The Furious Five – "The Message" (1982)

It was as close to pure consensus as it ever gets. Critics hailed it as a searing protest and a brilliant funk track. It was like they’d finally discovered that rap had a soul.

The surprise for music fans is that Grandmaster Flash himself didn’t want to do it! He was worried about moving away from "party rap." Imagine being skeptical of your own legendary contribution to history.

The song is now in the National Recording Registry. Flash was eventually convinced, proving that even the artist can occasionally misread the map on the Circular Journey. 

When even the artist thinks it's a bad idea but 75% of critics put it in their top five, maybe trust the critics just this once.

4. Michael Jackson – "Billie Jean" (1982)

Another song met with universal acclaim. Sleek, post-soul pop that turned Jackson into a Gen-X Elvis.

This time, the surprise floors me: the legendary Quincy Jones actually wanted to cut that 29-second bassline intro. He thought it was too long. Michael had to fight for it, saying, "That’s what makes me want to dance."

When the King of Pop tells you it's what makes him dance, you listen. If Quincy had won that round, we’d be missing one of the most iconic openings in history. 

Always trust your gut (in this case, your feet) over the producer’s stopwatch.

5. Public Enemy – "Bring the Noise" (1987)

This song is credited with validating rap as a "legitimate" art form for the rock-and-roll crowd. It was like getting the HOA to admit your river tour boat actually adds that certain something that makes the Riverwalk a classic destination.

A few listeners did find the sound "abrasive" or "scary." But isn't that the point? If your art doesn't make someone a little uncomfortable, are you even trying?

The song clocks in at a blistering 109 beats per minute and changed rhythm forever. It paved the way for metal-rap collaborations and proved that "noise" is often just music the critics haven't learned to dance to yet. 

Who knew that making metal fans and hip-hop heads finally get along would start with a song some thought "should've been left off the LP"?

The Pattern Emerges

The moral of the story? Critics in the ’80s had plenty of opinions and access to a word processor, but time had the last laugh.

The songs that aged the best are the ones that took the biggest risks. The critics who aged the best were the ones who were willing to admit, "Hey, I might have missed the boat on this one."

Forty years later, we’re still listening to these tracks regardless of what the critics wrote in the music magazines. That’s the ultimate review: the one written by time itself.

Watch for Part 2 of this report, where we’ll tackle the New Wave revolution and find out why critics had stronger opinions about synthesizers than I do about my choice of coffee shops.

The Heirloom’s Whisper

What a ride! Hang on tight! In this post, we're revisiting the "Jackson Synchronicity," a sequence of events so statistically improbable that even a "wild neural network" of squirrels would find it suspicious.

Between the voice of Nancy Sinatra on the radio and a woodpecker figurine with a resume from Jackson, Tennessee, I’ve become convinced that the universe has, in addition to a sense of humor, a particular, repetitive playlist.

I haven't been able to forget finding that figurine, and I can't shake the feeling that the story is unfinished. If you're thinking you must have arrived in the middle of the story, let me clarify that I'm talking about Woodrow, the carpenter woodpecker.

I apologize to the regulars, who read every post and have been with me since the beginning. If you will bear with me for a moment, I'll provide the backstory for newcomers.

I never know where to begin when revisiting a published story. I don't want to bore the regular followers and cause them to start looking for the channel selector, but if I jump right into the thick of the story, newcomers become cross-eyed.

Here’s the short of it: Woodrow is a hand-painted woodpecker in overalls who, by all indications, is “experiencing technical difficulties”—and whom I rescued from a thrift store shelf. He came from Jackson, Tennessee, the same Jackson that had been haunting my radio dial like a persistent hitchhiker for more than three hours. He wasn’t just a tchotchke; he was a cosmic souvenir. 

The reason I can’t let him go is that lately, Woodrow has been staring at me from my desk with a look that seems to whisper, "I’m not just here for the aesthetic, Cowboy." How he knows I was a 'space cowboy' in a former life is part of the mystery.

Here's the thing: I recently sat down to edit a podcast—a task that, as you know, is the digital equivalent of herding cats. I was struggling with a particularly stubborn audio glitch. Every time I tried to level the track, the software would freeze. I would then lean back, sigh a breath of pure, unadulterated "Why Bother?" and my gaze would immediately land on Woodrow.

There he was in all his glory, hammer in hand, his bill stuck in that piece of wood. The title on his base, "Experiencing Technical Difficulties," felt less like a whimsical label and more like a direct critique of my afternoon.

After the third locked screen, I reached out and tapped Woodrow's little ceramic head. "What do you know that I don't, Woodrow?"

Instantly, a notification appeared on my screen, telling me an automated update was being installed for the editing software. The version number?  J-206-FM-80.

Now, I’m not saying the "J" stands for Jackson. That would be leaning a bit too far into the Franklin & Bash side of my personality. But still, stranger things have happened. I read the software update notes, and the very first bug fix listed was for "syncing issues between disparate audio tracks."

Disparate tracks. Like a song by Nancy Sinatra, a log of turtles, a county sheriff’s SUV, and a woodpecker from Tennessee all suddenly playing the same tune at the same time.

It occurred to me then that Woodrow isn't just a soul vessel; he’s a reminder that the 'technical difficulties' of life are often the very things that lead us to the next chapter of the Circular Journey. We spend so much time trying to "optimize" our lives (sorry, A-5, I’m still the pilot here) that we miss the beauty of the glitch.

So, I’ve decided to take Woodrow’s advice. I stopped fighting the software, closed the laptop, got a refill of caffeine, and headed down Ocean Highway to Ocean Isle. Because if the universe is going to go through the trouble of alignment—using everything from satellite radio to ceramic birds—the least I can do is be present for the show.

I still haven’t found the Creature of the Brunswick Lagoons, but I have a feeling Woodrow knows exactly where it’s hiding. He’s probably just waiting for the right song to come on the radio before he lets me know where to look. And I'm OK with that. It's cold here today, and looking for cryptids requires warm weather.