Walk Like a Duck

The day had been a magical spring Saturday, flourishing with promises of a dream life in paradise. As difficult as it was to say goodnight to such a wonderful day, I knew it was time to unwind and abandon myself to the soothing embrace of sleep. Just as I laid my head on the pillow, ready to let nature work its magic, I heard that mysterious voice:

"We're off to see the lizard," the voice said.

I know what you're thinking: Genome, what the hell, the mystery voice has always been a morning visitor? I know! That's what I thought, too. Apparently, mysterious voices aren't constrained by time. They must be elements of the fifth dimension.

Yes, I found it odd to hear the voice before going to sleep but my care-worn sleeves were coming unraveled, so I decided to think about it tomorrow. The tomorrow I had in mind came this morning.

After a deep, restful sleep had allowed sweet nature to complete a lot of mending, I woke and rolled out of bed.

It was a quiet, welcoming Sunday morning, reminding me of something Ms. Wonder once said, which goes something like this: I've seen glorious mornings flattering the mountaintops and kissing the meadows green. I'm paraphrasing, of course, but I'm amazed at how she comes up with these things and off the cuff, too.

I stumbled to the dressing room to get upholstered for the day, and once dressed, I re-entered the bedroom when Ms. Wonder stirred beneath the blankets, stretched, and mumbled,

"You walk like a duck."

Is it polite do you think to criticize someone's lack of physical grace, or any other lack for that matter, at the beginning of the day without so much as a Good morning? No, I think not!

As I drank it all in, it became clear that discussing it before she was fully awake would be futile. I said nothing but left for the Circular Journey Cafe and my regular Sunday morning coffee with Island Irv. I thought of nothing but Wonder's words on the Cape Fear River crossing.

Fortunately, the Islander was present when I arrived because I couldn't wait to get his reaction. 

"Irv," I said, "I hope you've had a pleasant week and all that but I have something to discuss with you that won't wait."

"Of course," he said. "Tell me all; ask me anything. Remember what Shakespeare said: if you intend to do something, jump into it without delay and get it over with quickly."

"I doubt it was Shakespeare," I said, "but I'm not here to talk about poets; here's what I want to ask--do I look like a duck?"

"Certainly not," he said immediately, with a confidence that became him well.

"Sorry," I said, "I meant to say, do I walk like a duck, not look like one."

"Walk like a duck?" he said. "That depends."

"No it doesn't," I said. "A man either does or does not walk like a duck. Now answer the question, please."

"Hmm," he said thoughtfully, "Give me an example."

"Oh, for goodness sake," I said. "A duck waddles from side to side, swinging the caboose, as it were."

"Hmmm," he repeated.

"And they have flat feet. Their feet slap on the floor with each step they take."

"Oh, right, and they bob their heads when they walk," he said, nodding his head forward and back.

"No, Irv! Chickens bob their heads; not ducks." 

"Oh, that's right. Yes, I knew that. Well, on the whole," he said, "considering this and that, I'd say no, you don't walk like a duck."

I breathed a deep sigh of relief. The pent-up anxiety began to subside. "Thank you for humoring me. Ms. Wonder told me I walked like a duck this morning, and, just as Shakespeare advised, I had to get a second opinion without delay. Walking like a duck would not do at all. I'm sure you understand."

"Not like a duck," he said again. "More like a loon, I'd say. Loons are a sort of duck, of course, but they do walk differently."

I didn’t wait around to hear more. Amy was rolling on the floor of my mind laughing hysterically and I'd bust a giblet. The day was ruined—nothing like an easy Sunday morning at Lionel Richie’s house.

When I finally returned home, I found Ms. Wonder on the lanai listening to the birds competing for a spot on Backyard's Got Talent. I escalated the conversation immediately and got the whole thing cleared up.

"Wonder!," I said. "Just what do you mean telling me I walk like a duck?" 

"What, if anything are you driveling about?"

"When you woke and stretched this morning, you distinctly said I walk like a duck."

"Oh, yeah," she said. "Now I know what you're talking about. I did not say you walk like a duck." She was laughing when she said it, but I didn't see anything funny about it, and I began to tap my foot to indicate that I was heated up and not about to take it anymore.

"I was just waking up and I mumbled something like, Oooh...gotta wake up." Sounds a little like "You walk like a duck." Right? That must be what you misheard.

It was an easy mistake to make, of course. Anyone might have misunderstood her words mumbled into the blankets. It's not a big deal. I only mention it in passing.

Becoming Authentic Genome

My recovery from the burden of conformity and becoming my true self, the authentic Genome, is the central theme of The Circular Journey. It's the reason this blog exists. Occasionally, the core message can get lost in the self-aware humor I use to lighten up the work of personal growth.

As a child, I was taught to be quiet and obedient, which translated to the holy trinity of childhood virtues: sitting still, staying silent, and avoiding trouble—particularly in the hallowed arena of family gatherings. Consequently, during those Sunday afternoon congregations of extended family, I stood out from my same-age cousins like a librarian at a heavy metal concert.

My behavior was so dramatically different from the other kids that I might have registered a decimal point on the Richter Scale—technically present but nothing of seismic significance. No wonder I was regarded as mentally questionable and distressingly "different." 

When I entered the grand theater of public education at age six, I felt like the only actor who didn't receive a script or character description. I discovered it was easier to pretend to be like everyone around me than to be true to the person inside. So I improvised with the desperation of a man attempting to build a parachute after jumping from the plane.

Throughout my early life, I studied the behavior of my peers, adjusting my performance accordingly. By high school, I'd refined my chameleon act to perfection. I collected personalities like some collect baseball cards.

Oddly enough, this exhausting act propelled me toward what society terms "success." By my twenties, I'd mastered the art of being precisely what each situation demanded. 

Job interviews became performances where I was The Perfect Candidate, and romantic relationships thrived as I took on the role of the man my partners were searching for. My elaborate maze of personas left me questioning whether I would ever reconnect with my original self.

Around my late thirties, the facade began to fracture, culminating in a chaotic incident that resulted in what my therapist would later delicately term "an episodic break from consensual reality." I've always liked her way of describing what's usually thought of as an emotional breakdown.

Through court-mandated therapy, I slowly began a journey of self-discovery and self-awareness that helped me become re-acquainted with my authentic self, after years of pretending to be someone I never was.

My therapist—a woman with the patience of a geological formation and a refreshing ability to never be impressed by my performances—became my guide on the journey to authenticity. 

With her help, I learned to accept that my true self was never lost. Now, I embrace this rediscovered self like new shoes—initially awkward but surprisingly fitting. I may not fully understand who I've become, but I've found comfort in being myself.

Dawn Chorus at Airlie Gardens

Up early with words to write...

You probably think morning begins early where you live but let me tell you, the morning begins far earlier than you can imagine when you promise to accompany Ms. Wonder to experience the dawn chorus at Airlie Gardens. 

Perhaps I should explain the "dawn chorus" is a symphony performed by a collection of different bird species, joining together to welcome the dawn in early spring. Think of it as America's Got Talent and you're the judge. The male birds sing a collection of favorite love songs to impress the females.

I've got a hunch that females sing too but their contribution is overlooked by male researchers. Sounds about right, doesn't it?

Airlie Gardens is a 67-acre Eden that lies along the Cape Fear River in Wilmington, North Carolina and dates back to the eighteenth century. It's a popular destination for residents and visitors--people and birds.

Ms. Wonder explained to me the experience would be "transformative," a word that always makes me uneasy. When Dr. Coast, and every other therapist in recent memory, uses that word she usually means it's going to require a lot of hard work over an extended period of time.

Dark green a branch ascends a garden wall...

Nevertheless, I found myself fumbling for clothes in the dark, trying not to wake the sensible part of my brain that was still enjoying its REM cycle. Twenty minutes later, I was trudging through dew-soaked grass toward our selected viewing spot--the "spring garden," wondering if transformation always required this much yawning.

Ms. Wonder, always the consummate artist, provided a lyrical description of the changing light and awakening landscape.

"I love the way the world is revealed in stages," she said. "It's like a painter slowly adding color to a vast canvas."

"Yeah," I said but not in a sour way; I simply wasn't yet fully awake. "No longer night, and not yet day," I continued because once I get started, it's hard to stop. "

Silence followed. Not awkward exactly, more like embarrassed. "Can we just be quiet and enjoy the morning?" she said.

As we stood there underneath the oaks, the water of the garden ponds transformed from black mirrors to liquid silver. Mist hovered above the surface, performing its morning dance before surrendering to the sun's inevitable arrival.

Oh, no! Somebody stop me. Do you see what I mean when I say once I start, it's nearly impossible to stop. But I'll try, really I will. I'll take a few deep breaths.

As dawn's embrace begins to wane...

It was about this time that Princess Amy decided to make her move. My internal monologue cycled between grudging appreciation and righteous complaint. 

"So it's beautiful," Amy said. "But it would be just as beautiful at, say, 9 AM?" 

A cardinal's clear whistle cut through the morning air, and I thought, "Okay, that was worth hearing." 

"You would have enjoyed it more at a reasonable hour after eating pancakes," said Amy.

The debate continued and the jury in my mind remained stubbornly deadlocked on whether this early rising qualified as wisdom or madness.

And Nature's secrets grow...

That's when a memory from years ago came back to me—a great blue heron standing still as a sculpture at the edge of a lagoon. For fifteen minutes, I watched it in perfect stillness. Then, with a strike so swift it barely registered, the heron speared a fish and lifted it to the sky. It almost seemed an expression of gratitude.

Perhaps she was distracted by a shadow passing overhead. Whatever her reason for pausing, it seemed like a gesture of thankfulness, leaving me speechless. I'd come to observe nature; I hadn't expected to witness grace. 

Ms. Wonder had wandered off earlier, camera in hand, leaving me to my bird-watching and Amy's running commentary. I'd been so engrossed in the heron memory that I hadn't noticed her return until I heard her say, "Sometimes, all it takes is being in the right place at the right time." 

She was watching another heron as she spoke, and I suddenly realized that I was in the right place at the perfect time at that very moment.

Mystery of life...

Walking back to the car, now fully awake and oddly energized, I found myself reconsidering the value of my standard morning routine—the news headlines, email checks, and social media scrolling that typically launch my day. 

Nature's rhythms happen with or without human audience or approval, yet we rise early, fighting our desire to stay snug in our beds, to experience the rituals—not because they need us, but because we need them. 

As Amy finally quieted in my mind, I realized that witnessing the world wake up had, in fact, been transformative. I'd just have to avoid telling Ms. Wonder she was right until after my nap.

Bird Feeder Diplomacy

When I announced my intention to install a "squirrel-proof" bird feeder, Ms. Wonder, ever the documentarian, readied her camera with the enthusiasm of a National Geographic wildlife photographer. Her objective was to get images for my planned articles on 'attracting birds to a feeding station,' 'keeping squirrels out of bird feeders,' and 'interspecies interaction at bird feeders.'

Mimi the Mockingbird arrived first, perching on the fence post with the air of a seasoned diplomat. Her posture suggested she had been elected—or perhaps had elected herself—as the official ambassador for the avian community. I imagined tiny diplomatic credentials tucked beneath her wing.

The negotiations began precisely at 3:15 PM, Eastern Daylight Time. Mutter and his nephews Twizzler and Ziggy observed from the sidelines, their expressions a mixture of challenge and curiosity. The squirrel contingent clearly viewed the new bird feeder as a personal affront to their gastronomic rights.

"This," Mimi seemed to announce to no one and everyone, "is a matter of international—or perhaps inter-nations (animal nations)—importance."

The first breach came not from the expected squirrel suspects, but from Chester, a chipmunk who had apparently been taking notes during advanced engineering classes. While the birds and squirrels engaged in heated debate, Chester performed a series of acrobatic maneuvers that would have made a Cirque du Soleil performer weep with professional jealousy.

With a combination of precision climbing, strategic leaping, and what could only be described as pure rodent ingenuity, Chester accessed the supposedly impregnable bird feeder. But here's where diplomacy took an unexpected turn: instead of hoarding his discovery, he began sharing seeds with his fellow creatures by scattering them on the ground.

The Cardinal family watched with regal interest. Mr. Woodrow, the Red-bellied Woodpecker, ever the curmudgeon, looked on with what I can only describe as a mixture of derision and grudging respect. The doves from the Order of Sisters of Brunswick exchanged meaningful glances that suggested volumes about cooperative problem-solving.

Ms. Wonder, meanwhile, captured every moment. Her camera clicked with the urgency of a photojournalist whose editor emphasized the need to meet a short deadline.

Mutter, the HOA representative for the squirrel community, seemed both impressed and slightly annoyed. Chester's diplomatic approach undermined his planned objections. Twizzler, Mutter's nephew, fell off the fence with a mix of laughter and admiration on his face. Ziggy, his sister, chased him underneath the fence and out of sight.

As the afternoon progressed, what had begun as a potential territorial dispute transformed into a remarkable demonstration of community problem-solving. Birds and squirrels shared the feeder with the help of Chester and a degree of cooperation that would make human diplomats blush.

I was reminded of a quote I once heard: Some solve problems. Some create problems. And some, like Chester, redefine the entire concept of problem-solving. An example of inter-nations diplomacy at its best.

By noon, the backyard looked less like quantum chaos and more like a model of interspecies harmony. Chester, the unlikely hero, continued his seed distribution with the calm efficiency of a UN peacekeeping mission.

Just another morning in our little corner of the world, where diplomacy and good news come in the most unexpected packages—and sometimes, with very fuzzy ears.

Accidental Conspiracy

Jack invited me to meet him for coffee at Circular Journey Cafe this morning, promising to share some hot news about the latest film production in town. After the ill-fated attempt to video the production crew at Flaming Amy's, I was ready for some good news.  

“I hope you’re prepared for some really inside stuff," Jack said as I slid into the seat across from him. “I'm talking about the hot stuff, not that warmed-over gossip we've been going over recently.”  

I raised an eyebrow. “You mean something bigger than the announcement of the latest batch of young actors who will be the real stars of Driver’s Ed? I've got the list on my phone.”  

I started swiping left, looking for my notes. "Here it is," I said. "Sophie Telegadis from One Stupid Thing, and Mohanna Krishna from..."  

"Not that," Jack interrupted, stopping me mid-sentence. "That's the run-of-the-mill crap. I've got the goods."  

I took a sip of my coffee, steeling myself. “I'm beginning to think you actually have news.”  

“Exactly,” Jack replied. “Here’s where this Driver's Ed film production really gets interesting. There’s gossip of production schedules being deliberately fabricated to throw off fans and reporters.”  

I blinked. “Fake production schedules?"  

Jack nodded. “Yesterday’s filming was supposed to be at Flaming Amy’s. You went, right?”  

I hesitated. “Well, I tried. I took a wrong turn and then had to park at Whole Foods, which made me walk half a mile through heavy traffic. By the time I got there, nothing was happening. Not a single film crew in sight.”  

Jack grinned. “Exactly. Because the schedule posted online is fake.”  

"There was a posted schedule?"  

Jack stopped grinning. He didn't say anything but gave me a look I couldn't identify. I haven't known him long and don't know him well, but I didn't like the look.  

I sat back, considering. “You’re telling me they’re planting false information just to keep people like me from showing up with a camera?”  

“Not just you,” Jack said. “The entire fanbase. They don’t want crowds swarming the sets.”  

I frowned. “That’s… honestly kind of brilliant. I can't imagine why it isn't routine. But it's also deeply frustrating.”  

Jack shrugged. “Welcome to the new era of movie secrecy.”  

“So what now?” I asked. “Do we crack the code? Find out the real locations?”  

Jack smirked. “That’s the spirit. Let’s see if Hollywood East can keep its secrets from us.”  

I pulled out my phone and opened a new note titled Operation: Reel Truth. “Alright,” I said, tapping away. “Let’s start with the basics. If they’re planting fake locations, how do we find the real ones?”  

Jack leaned back, thinking. “We cross-check permits. The city has to approve street closures for filming. That’s public record.”  

I nodded. “Good start. What about crew sightings? If we track the locations of crew members posting on social media, we might catch a lead.”  

“And local businesses,” Jack added. “If they suddenly close early for a ‘private event,’ that’s a dead giveaway.”  

I grinned. Suddenly, chasing movie crews around town had gotten a lot more exciting. “So we’re agreed? We find a way to expose the truth?”  

I raised my coffee cup in a toast. “To investigative journalism. Or at least, extremely nosy coffee shop gossip.”  

Jack clinked his cup against mine. “To Hollywood East’s best-kept secrets—may they never stay secret for long.”

Flaming Amy

The Plan

My mission this morning was to track down the filming location for Driver’s Ed, the new Jonas Pate movie, and get behind-the-scenes photos.

Mr. Pate has described the show as "The Breakfast Club" in a car. Naturally, I must witness this firsthand and share the experience with followers of The Circular Journey.

If you're a regular follower, you know I missed the first day of shooting due to rain. The filming wasn't rained out; my participation was cancelled. I don't like getting wet, and rain in my coffee tastes like regret.

The morning was dry and sunny. Drawing on my knowledge of probability theory, I had previously calculated the likely distribution of potential filming locations. The place most likely to be chosen was the well-known taco stand, Flaming Amy’s. Just to clarify, the Amy of Flaming Amy's is not related to Princess Amy, the resident delinquent in my mind.

A Roundabout of Doubt
Theoretically, I know how to get to Flaming Amy’s, but you know how it is when you have a non-stop conversation running in your head with a chatty limbic system. Well, maybe you don't, but take it from me, it's easy to take a wrong turn.

Driving down Independence Avenue toward the Port of Wilmington, I can't tell one cross street from another.  Shipyard Boulevard looks so much like Carolina Beach Road, it's mind-boggling. I'm just saying.

I decided to take a shortcut up 17th Street, but instead of dropping me where I wanted to be on Oleander, it became a scenic tour of unfamiliar side streets. Princess Amy, riding shotgun as always, slipped into her usual role: Minister of Negative Commentary. 

“We’re lost,” she declared five minutes into our unexpected detour. "We don't have time for your foolishness," she added. "You have a therapy appointment on Pleasure Island this afternoon." 

The irony of needing therapy after this drive wasn’t lost on me.

A Parking Miscalculation
I'm a master of mathematical algorithms, as mentioned above, and I've spent many years designing computer software systems. That's probably new info for most of my followers, but it's a side issue, and we must put that conversation on hold for another time.

At any rate, I knew we were getting close to Whole Foods, and I calculated that it would be an advantageous spot to park, giving me an easy stroll for a couple blocks to Flaming Amy's. Very convenient and quite ingenious of me to think of it at short notice.

Need I say it wasn't a convenient distance, and it wasn't an easy stroll.

The walk became an urban endurance challenge, featuring broad cross streets with few traffic lights and no pedestrian crosswalks. It required sacrificing personal dignity by sprinting for my life to reach the other side.

Princess Amy's complaints reached a dramatic peak long before I realized I'd walked into a closed parking lot and needed to backtrack. At that point, she was so aggravated that she said nothing more and continued to fume. Eventually, I noticed a smell reminiscent of overcooked shrimp. Just saying.

Smells like a Conspiracy
It was then I saw Flaming Amy's. I'm not talking about Princess Amy's over-heated circuits in my head. I'm talking about the actual taco stand. My arrival after the arduous trek from Whole Foods and the even more stressful drive from Chatsford Hall, was not the triumphant arrival that might be expected.

There was not a single film-logoed vehicle in sight. Not one member of the production crew was on location. No cameras were positioned outside the restaurant, and there was not one anxious assistant clutching a clipboard. Nada!

Princess Amy, never one to let the opportunity to imagine a conspiracy go to waste, immediately lept to a theory:

"That stupid film schedule you found online is fake," she announced. "It's intended to mislead fans and nosy bloggers like you, Genome."

"I didn't find a schedule," I said. "I deducted the location from several notices of closed streets and police-controlled traffic. And I also noted that Flaming Amy's is closed on Mondays."

"You poor sap," she said, and please remember that she speaks to me like that only when she's overwrought. She's not responsible for what she says when her anxiety reaches incandescence.

"The real filming locations," she continued, "are probably kept secret to prevent onlookers from ruining the magic. It's a massive disinformation campaign—pure Hollywood."

The Aftermath

I contemplated my next move. I'm still contemplating. Do I go on a

city-wide hunt for the film locations? Do I accept defeat and console myself with an unreasonable number of tacos? We know that's not going to happen, don't we? Does the Genome ever give up? Of course not.

There is one thing we can agree on that will happen. I will write an exposé on the lengths filmmakers go to, hoping to avoid hordes of fans and press. We know because that's what I'm doing now.

I look forward to my next update. The production crew will be filming again this week, and I promise I will be there, regardless of the effort required to get the story. However, I must be careful; I don't usually do well in the aftermath.

One of the followers of The Circular Journey expressed it well in a comment on the post titled "It Was Raining Cats." Her comment was:

"My favorite line from this post is, 'I don't do well in the aftermath, do you?' I actually answered aloud, 'Me either!' I tend to summarize the entire event from both points of view (always leaning toward mine) to anyone who will listen."

I try to always remember that I do exactly that. But I'm sure you knew that already.

Dreams, Dreams, Dreams

I fell asleep tonight listening to a podcast about the measurement problem in quantum mechanics. If you're not a student of the fundamental nature of reality, you may not be familiar with the subject, which is sometimes called the "hard problem" of quantum mechanics.

I could take a short break here to explain the concept but I'd risk putting you to sleep, and I'd rather tell you my story—though admittedly, a podcast that knocked me unconscious hardly makes a compelling advertisement for the topic.

I slept through most of the 90-minute podcast and continued to sleep through the following program, which was about ancient history—specifically Rome during the reign of Tiberius Caesar and the end of the Roman Republic. If you aren't familiar with that particular species of Caesar, and if you aren't familiar with the hard problem, may I ask: What the hell have you done with your life?

Please take no offense; I meant none. I just wanted to remind you that we live in a fascinating world full of exciting opportunities, and that world is all there is—there's nothing more. To make the most of this marvelous gift, you must follow your natural curiosity about anything that intrigues you.

Am I lecturing? I am, aren't I? Forgive me. I should be more careful. You see, I woke in the middle of the night--only a few minutes ago, and I'm a bit wooly-headed like a sheep in a wind tunnel. Probably not the best time to write a blog post, and yet, if I wait until my head clears, I'll forget the details. Come to think of it, I'm forgetting the details now. Let's get back to the dream.

In the dream, I was a child surrounded by playmates and we stood on the veranda of my home perched on a hillside overlooking a protected harbor in Atlantis—yes, that Atlantis, the one that sank faster than my attention span during quantum physics podcasts.

We were engaged in watching a sailing ship in the harbor below us. The ship's painted sails dropped as soon as it entered the harbor, and several rows of oars appeared to move it to the loading docks. I was five when I first had this dream. It comes back regularly as if to remind me that I've had another life.

See? Aren't you happy I kept you awake? The alternative was missing this riveting account of how I fell asleep during an intellectually stimulating podcast only to dream about a mythical civilization. But don't let it fool you. My dream isn't about the life I've lived--it's about a life I wish I'd lived.

Oh, the stories I could tell you, and yet the stories I do tell are about squirrels in my backyard, my espresso klatch at Circular Journey Cafe, and sometimes I tell you stories about writing my blog posts.

All very entertaining stuff to be sure. It must be exciting to be you--looking forward to a new Circular Journey blog post to start your day. It must be like anticipating a mystery gift box from Amazon Prime.

Oh, yes! The Circular Journey blog post of the day! What a gift. It sounds like a music video and smells like a shopping mall food court. Enjoy it, my friend. I do it all for you. I do it for me too but, for me, it's never a surprise.

Genome Journalist

A crisis of sorts has emerged in Wilmawood journalism. I'm scheduled to be away for the next few days, exploring New Bern, which will keep me too busy to update The Circular Journey.

Most patrons of downtown districts won't notice my absence. Life in the Port City will carry on as usual. Trolleys will zip happily through the central districts. Police cruisers will continue to demonstrate their authority by disregarding the ordinary matters of this world. Furrowed brows will remain scarce in coffee shops and bakeries along Castle Street. In short, little visible evidence of the crisis at hand will exist.

Princess Amy has agreed to monitor comments and reply appropriately should any reader express concern over a missing post. Messages of a congratulatory or complimentary nature will receive a hearty thank-you. Everything in between will be ignored.

The average Wilmawood citizen is constantly seeks the latest updates about happenings in their fair city. You see them everywhere, reading their favorite print and digital periodicals while indulging in their preferred stimulant—caffeine, sugar, doggie treats. 

Every class of society is accounted for in the periodicals of our fair city, and The Circular Journey is highly regarded by its audience. After all, it serves as home base for the lightest and brightest.

The Journey presents a different way of living—a more enlightened approach to engaging with those who have evolved a higher level of consciousness. It is, essentially, a guide to leaving the dream life here in paradise.

Writing it is an essential part of my day, helping me combat the melancholy that hovers around my head like a persistent storm cloud. However, I must admit that, up to now, melancholy has maintained a commendable success rate.

Nevertheless, The Circular Journey thrives. It has an ever-growing audience, and its contents are mildly interesting—if you enjoy that sort of thing. Regular features include updates from Crystal Cove, reminiscences of Happy Cats, and the ongoing sagas of Princess Amy. Motion Picture Masterpieces appear from time to time, and of course, Fierce Qigong pops up intermittently—like the demon king of a Thai water opera.

Whether it’s the strain of diving into classic literature every week, or the effort of editing my soon-to-be-published book The Cat Healthcare Advocate, or the relentless arrival of early pollen season, my energy has been utterly drained. My fitness trainer, Ms. Wonder, ordered one week of complete rest in the mountains.

I could have endured this exile from blogging if that were all there was to consider. There are worse places to be stranded than the Carolina mountains in early spring. But fate had another twist in store.

At the last moment, it became painfully clear that pollen would be even more formidable in the hills. Thus, a new plan emerged: we would journey east to the coastal town of New Bern, the colonial capital of Carolina. On a clear day, the pink sands of Bermuda may be seen on the horizon, or so I'm told.

"You must not so much as glance at the blog for one week," declared The Wonder. "Forget it exists. Dismiss it from your mind. Get out in the open and enjoy the sunshine and fresh air."

With tears in my eyes and a tremor in my voice, I entrusted my final instructions to Princess Amy.

"Well, I think that’s everything, Amy," I said. "You understand what I mean about monitoring the comments?"

Amy nodded. She is, of course, an almond-shaped cluster of brain cells, but she's well acquainted with the peculiar way my brain operates.

"Just one more thing," I continued. "Ms. Solveigh Bensen Petersen has a slight tendency—I may have mentioned this before—"

"You did," said Amy.

"And one other thing. You may want to give special attention to my humor. Not that it’s risky exactly, but perhaps a tad… pointed."

"If I notice any humor, I'll know what to do," she said.

"My sense of humor," I explained, "occasionally strays slightly beyond the bounds. So, if anyone complains, you might consider being—well—apologetic."

"Duly noted," she said.

At the door, I paused with the air of a migrating sunbird bidding farewell to its favorite stretch of coastline. I sighed deeply and closed the door.

And so, dear readers, I embark on this journey of enforced relaxation, leaving The Circular Journey in capable hands. I expect to return rejuvenated, brimming with newfound wisdom, and free of pollen-induced despair.

Either that, or I will be found frantically scribbling notes on the back of a New Bern café napkin, unable to resist the siren call of the written word. Only time will tell and we'll find out soon enough—if Princess Amy hasn’t deleted all my drafts in a fit of artistic rebellion.

Coffee Shop Chronicles

Jack invited me to meet him for coffee at Circular Journey Cafe this morning. He promised to share some exciting news about the local movie scene to make up for the fiasco at Barbary Coast Bar, which I wrote about in a previous post—where the arrival of a cask of Jamaican rum led to some unreliable gossip.

When I entered the coffee shop, I spotted Jack seated at a corner table with a man I recognized as Harvey, a featured columnist for the Wilmawood Gazette.

"Genome, my friend!" Jack greeted me with a boisterous enthusiasm that made me question his sincerity. "I hope you came ready to be impressed."

"Oh, I came ready to impress," I countered with a playful arching of my eyebrows. "I'm sure you know about Jonas Pate's new movie, Driver's Ed, being filmed in town. Jonas recently described it as 'The Breakfast Club in a car.' Captures the imagination, don't you think?"

Jack smirked and exchanged a knowing glance with Harvey, sending a familiar twinge of social anxiety up my spine. I'd need to elevate my game up a few notches to be seen by Harvey as a peer and a colleague.

"The big news," I said, adjusting my sleeves, "is that Pate's latest Prime Video series—The Runarounds, the story of some high school seniors who ditch college plans and start a rock band instead—wrapped its first season and is expected to premier soon." I paused for effect. "But, get this, Amazon has green-lit a second season without waiting for audience response."

"That's rare," said Jack. "Good snooping, Genome."

"Almost unheard of," Harvey said. "And they're keeping the filming local—New Hanover High, The Eagle's Dare, Cinespace Studios. They're keeping the local film community thriving by bringing jobs to Wilmington."

While their reaction was acceptable, it fell short of what I'd hoped for. I marshaled my thoughts to find another way to establish myself as Harvey's equal. I sipped my coffee, wincing slightly at the temperature and wondering if they'd used filtered water.

"It's no wonder," I began, "that Moviemaker magazine named Wilmington one of the best small cities in the country for filmmakers to live and work." 

"Tell him, Harvey," Jack said, tilting his head in my direction.

Harvey chuckled. "That's last week's headlines, Genome. The real story is that Jonas and his wife, Jennifer, have started their own production company—and they're planning a series of projects to be filmed here."

"A series?" I asked, my voice rising to a pitch that even I found embarrassing. I cleared my throat and continued more composedly. "They've got plans for more than one project to be filmed here in Wilmington?"

Jack nodded. "That's right. Driver's Ed is just the opening scene. The've hinted about shooting three to five movies a year in Wilmington. It ain't called Hollywood East for nothing."

"What?" I exclaimed, nearly knocking over my coffee before catching it with reflexes that surprised even me. "Three to five movies? That's enough cinematic activity to require a new datebook!"

"Exactly," Harvey confirmed. "And they're sticking with the young-adult theme."

"Yep," Jack said. "According to Jonas, they're taking inspiration from John Hughes' films, quote: ...trying to bring back that timeless magic."

Harvey leaned in, glanced around the room with the air of a conspirator, and with a lowered voice said, "But that's not the real scoop we have for you."

"There's more?" I asked, hardly believing it to be true.

Still leaning in, he waved me closer. "The real scoop is Kildare."

"What's a Kildare?" I asked, now genuinely curious despite my general aversion to leaning into someone's face. I have strict rules about personal space.

"It's a sort of prequel to Outer Banks," Harvey said, savoring the moment. "It'll dive into the origins of the Pogues and Kooks, the class divide, and all that drama—but with a whole new cast. And it'll be filmed right here in the old metropolis."

I sat back, impressed. "So, the Pates are doubling down on Wilmington." I couldn't help adding, "I hope they upgrade the craft services. The last set I visited didn't offer custom coffees. I had to run back and forth from the set to Port City Cafe and back again."

"Did you say, doubling? Tripling is more like it," said Jack. "Keeping Wilmington safely ensconced in the role of Hollywood East."

"Jonas has deep roots here," Harvey added. "He and his brother filmed their indie movie, The Grave, in Wilmington back in the '90s. That movie premiered at Sundance and launched their careers."

I whistled softly. "Yes, I know, but three to five projects are a lot of projects—and a lot of opportunity for the local industry." I cleared my throat; the coffee bean dust seemed to be getting think in the air. Or was I just getting fidgety? 

Jack raised his coffee mug. "Here's to the Pates. Keeping Hollywood East on the map, one film at a time."

"To the Pates," Harvey echoed.

"Yes, and to the local film community," I said, raising my cup with a slightly trembling hand. "Opportunities for entertainment writers are just beginning, and there will be plenty more to talk and to write about."

"Speaking of plenty of work," said Jack, "did you get good footage of the first two days of filming Driver's Ed?"

"No," I admitted, my voice suddenly small. "Rained out."

"Rained out?" he said. "Genome, I drove by the South Street location on the first day and saw them working."

"I didn't mean the filming was rained out," I explained, fidgeting with my napkin. "I meant I didn't want to hang out in the rain. The humidity affects my sinuses."

"But you got some good stuff on the second day, right? It seemed like an easy find for you, especially since you were at Circular Journey Café every day.”

 

“I'm not there every day,” I protested, feeling my face flush. “And no, I missed that too—I thought filming was scheduled for the following week. I recently started using a color-coded calendar system, and I’m still getting the hang of it.”

"The boys at Barbary Coast Bar are going to be disappointed to hear it," Jack sighed. "They think you can put something readable together even though you have nothing but crumbs from the shoot to write about."

I'm sure you can imagine how I felt after that. The silence became awkward.

"I'll text you the night before the next scheduled shoot," Jack said. Harvey only smiled.

"Oh, almost forgot," I said suddenly perking up and feeling like the gods had bestowed a last-minute gift. "You're aware, I'm sure, that the Wilmington Regional Film Commission recently announced a new initiative providing training workshops for aspiring filmmakers. That should go a long way to further solidifying the city's commitment to ensuring the sustainability of its thriving film industry."

Silence followed my announcement. The two of them looked like Republicans who just realized the man they voted for had taken away their Social Security check. 

"Why didn't you know about this?" Harvey demanded of Jack. 

"Me?" said Jack. "You should have known before me."

Their argument escalated to the point that they were unaware of my leaving. I'm not proud of the fact, but I left the cafe with a smiling. Some days, life comes hard and fast. That's why God created music, coffee, and individually wrapped sanitizing wipes.

It's All About Attitude

She sprang it on me during our morning walk. I'd only recently awakened and was still fumbling for the mental light switch when, turning the final corner and coming into the home stretch, Ms. Wonder asked if I had plans for the day.

I sensed trouble. You know how it is when you have your day planned and someone casually asks for what seems like a simple favor? Somewhere between the thought of it and the actual doing of the thing, something goes terribly wrong. I imagine that’s what Shakespeare experienced right before running errands for his wife.

“You bet," I said with pretend confidence. "I'm booked solid until 5:00 PM.”

"Can you make time to run an errand for me this morning?" She asked.

"Well, I suppose I could shuffle out to Port City for an espresso. Can I get a coffee for you?" I offered this as a peace treaty, hoping to escape with minimal commitment.

"Nope, but you can pick up a few things for me at HT’s while you're out."

"I'll try to fit it in," I said cautiously, "but I'll need to check my calendar first to see if it's possible." 

"Oh, good, you have nothing important to do," she said, seeing through my charade with characteristic ease. "I'll make a list for you.”

This is going to be awesome…

I gathered my shoulder bag and other essentials for a visit to the caffeine dens of Ocean Isle, then walked out to where Wynd Horse was parked in the driveway, patiently waiting for another day of adventure.

Amy was waiting on the sidewalk and climbed into Wynd Horse alongside me. I placed my water bottle in the cup holder and slung my shoulder bag over the back of the passenger seat. Mom's checkbook took its ceremonial position on the passenger seat. I performed my pre-journey ritual, part superstition and part performance art, and we were set to go.

Amy greeted me with a smile and turned to look at me with sparkling eyes. She said, "This is going to be awesome. I love road trips." Her enthusiasm seemed genuine, which is rare for her—like a solar eclipse.

"I brought some snacks and games we can play in the car. And I left a note for Grendel telling him to stay out of our bedroom and go haunt someone else."

"First, just to get things straight between us," I said, feeling the need to establish boundaries with my own imagination. "The snacks are mine; I want nothing to do with those so-called games to play in the car; and Grendel isn't real. He's someone you made up trying to get a rise out of me, and that's not happening. Are you buckled up?"

"Ha!" she exclaimed with the smug satisfaction of a figment of imagination who's bamboozled her host. "Gotcha! I don't buckle up, remember? I'm...let me see, how do you write in your blog? I'm just a pea-sized cluster of gray cells in the middle of your brain.”

On the road to find out…

I pretended to ignore her while plugging the addresses into the navigation app and then backed out of the drive. 

"We're on our way to find out," I said aloud as we drove through Magnolia Gardens. My navigational decisions have always had that improvisational jazz quality to them.

"Siri, send a message," I said. "To Poopsie Wonder. Tell her we're headed to HT's to pick up her goodies."

Minutes later, a message came in from Wonder: "You're going the wrong way," she said. She either put a tracking device in my car, or she's developed a sixth sense about my whereabouts.

I messaged back, "Waterford Coffee Cafe is the first stop. I need one for the road." A perfectly reasonable detour—no expedition should begin without proper caffeination. I imagined Wonder trying hard not to laugh. 

"Stay in touch," she finally replied, which translates as, "Try not to end up in South Carolina."

Sailing down Ocean Highway, we passed a road crew asphalting the entrance to a new convenience store, and traffic on that side of the road was backed up to the Middle Ages.

Soon, a message from Wonder asked, "How's it going?"

"Siri," I said, "Message Wonder. Tell her traffic is forcing us to bypass the recycling center and go to Shallotte for the shopping." 

The change of plans wasn't entirely necessary, but why waste a perfectly good excuse to rearrange the journey? Flexibility is the essence of adventure, after all.

Always look on the bright side...

“Twenty-two more miles," Amy said. "Is this trip ever going to end? My legs are asleep, and I'm hungry, too. I need an egg and feta sandwich from PCJ Cafe. Please tell me we’re almost there."

 

"We're almost there," I replied cheerfully, even though I was lying. "We've set a course for Southport. I think it's a better option than Shallotte—there’s too much traffic on Ocean Highway this morning."

 

"Omigod," Amy groaned dramatically, as if she were Pauline tied to the railroad tracks. "Southport? There's road construction on 211 where the bridge washed out. I can't feel my legs anymore, Genome. Please, make this misery end!

"You don't have legs," I pointed out, hoping that one logical comment would encourage her to stop complaining. I know that logic seldom wins against imagination, but hope springs eternal.

"I wasn't meant to be trapped in a car," Amy continued. "I'm one of those women who's got to be out and about. I'm a mover. Let me out here. I'll walk the rest of the way."

"Look on the bright side, Amy,” I said. "When we get home, you can apply for a disabled parking sticker.”

"I've always wanted one of those," she said, and by her tone, I knew she was cheered by the thought. The imaginary are easily distracted by imaginary perks.

"Ha!" I exclaimed with the smug satisfaction of a host who's bamboozled a figment of his own imagination. "Gotcha! You can't apply for a sticker of any kind, remember? You're just a...let me see, what did you say before? You're just a pea-sized cluster of gray cells in the middle of my brain."

It's all about attitude...

It was nearly 2:00 PM when we finally completed our errands and arrived home. Amy had fallen asleep, so I was careful not to wake her. She had a challenging day dealing with heavy traffic, roadwork, and the roundabout route we took to get everything done.

 

Despite the challenges, I had a great day. It may surprise you to hear that Amy can be fun as long as I maintain the right attitude. I especially enjoy her company on days when I manage to catch her off guard with something she didn’t see coming. 

I’ve recently come to realize that Amy is an essential part of my life. If I were to lose her, I would truly miss her, just like I miss many other things I’ve lost over the years. I value having Amy around; she brings her own sweetness and light to every situation.

I appreciate having you around, too. Please come back often and leave a comment to let me know I haven't lost you.