Seeking The ONE

Alright, buckle up, buttercups, here's your blog post for the day, and we're about to dive headfirst into the philosophical deep end, without inflatable arm floaties. But don't despair, it's the same Genome you've come to know over the decades, the same slightly bewildered yet vaguely enlightened yours truly, with helpful input from Ms. Wonder and Princess Amy.

ONE CYGNUS sailing under the flag of Japan

We were in Southport yesterday, which Coastal Living Magazine once called The Happiest Seaside Town in America. My name for it is Coastal Camelot. You can find my previous posts on Southport using the search feature on the home page.

It was a slow, lazy, joyful Easter Sunday afternoon, and we were there seeking the One. No, not that One, silly! The one we sought is the container vessel ONE CYGNUS.

I was scrolling through memories of yesteryear as we walked the quiet oak-lined streets near the Intracoastal Waterway, and I remembered a time many years ago when we were on vacation in Southport, accompanied by a new kitten.

We'd rescued Eddy Peebody only weeks before and didn't want to leave him with a sitter so soon. He became quite ill on the trip, and we took him to the veterinary clinic. The doctor treated Eddy and then explained that his health problem was a genetic one and that he'd probably have recurring issues for his lifetime.

I can't explain how much that prognosis crushed our spirits (even those words don't come close to describing how we felt). The next day, I was sitting alone outside a coffee shop, considering how to begin learning to care for him.

All I knew for sure that morning was that no matter what it required, we would give Eddy the best life possible. And we did. Our primary roles became health care advocates for Eddy Peebody. Eventually, Happy Cats Wellness grew out of our experience caring for him.

Walking toward the sea wall yesterday, I was reminded of a profound nugget of wisdom from Master Wen, the wuquan master at Zen Center of West Houston. Apparently, when you stop all the frantic seeking and striving, life just… unfolds, like a children's fairy tale.

Now, my immediate reaction was, "Yeah, right," because my life usually unfolds like a toddler attempting origami – lots of crumpled frustration and the vague shape of something that might have been a swan if you squinted hard enough.

But this wasn't some motivational mantra. This was about the "genuine absence of desire and effort." Which, let's be honest, sounds a lot like an existential "meh."

It's in this state of blissful nothingness that all the stuff you were desperately chasing suddenly appears. Like those lost earbuds that I haven't given up on finding. If only I could stop caring about whether they show up or not. It's a constant source of frustration and, like Jimmy Durante, I've got a million of 'em.

I've been obsessed for years with finding the book my mother used to teach me to read. The book was her third-grade "reader," and she loved that book so much she kept it and read the stories to me until I practically memorized the text. 

I remember the mule in "Old Kate's Nightmare" about the bright-eyed monster that turned out to be an automobile. I remember "Jo-Jo the Clown," and I remember so fondly the story of Flopsy, Mopsy, and Cottontail waiting in the pumpkin patch on the night of a full moon for the "Man in the Moon to Come Down Tonight."

I've searched all the rare and used bookstores of Houston, New Orleans, Savannah, Charleston, and Durham. And what's the result? Nothing. Nada. Zip. I was the persistent Tweeter, and the universe just hit "block."

If I understand the principle correctly, you become more noticeable when you stop seeking attention. It's basically like the girl in my college biology lab, who I asked to accompany me to the freshman mixer. I practically begged her to go, but she was skeptical. I don't blame her--she probably thought I had ulterior motives. 

She was right, of course. My best friend had told me, on the day of the dance, to find a date or stop hanging around with him and Denny Poo because they couldn't be seen in public with a guy so uncool as to not attend a school dance. 

But when one lets go, that's when the unfolding begins, and life responds to your absence of need. It offers abundance when you stop grasping. And so it happened that in the lab the next day, the reluctant dancer announced that she would be my girlfriend and attend all the dances with me for the rest of the year.

Do you see the problem? I had given up all need for a dance partner. I told her thanks, I'll call you. It never happened. 

I'm not ready to embrace full-blown, Zen-master-level detachment. I'm not sure I'll ever be ready for that. But maybe there is something to this "wanting nothing gets you everything" thing.

I've decided to float a trial balloon, as I believe it's called, and embrace the art of the gentle shrug. To cultivate a profound indifference to the chaos swirling around me. And I'm prepared to accept that it might not work and that maybe it's just a cosmic joke.

Either way, I'm going to try "not trying" for a bit. Worst case scenario? I get really good at doing nothing. Best case? Well, the truth is, I have no clue what the best case might be.

Stay tuned for my next blog post. For the next few weeks, I expect to provide updates on reaching enlightenment through extreme Whatevering.

By Royal Decree

Hello, readers, I'm known to you as Princess Amy. It's not often I get to speak directly to you. My thoughts are usually filtered through Genome's perception, which isn't the most reliable lens. Today, however, I've taken control of this blog to set a few things straight. Let's not get caught up in how I did it. Let's just get on with it.

We met at Ibis Coffee Bar and Dance Cafe, Genome and I, though he thought it was his idea and expected to be alone with his lavender latte. The barista claimed the foam art on his coffee was a dancing flamingo, but looked more like a drunk stork to me—just saying. Only Genome could see me sitting there, of course, which was tragic because my tiara and purple robes were particularly resplendent.

"You're unusually quiet," Genome muttered into his coffee.

I adjusted my robes and leaned forward, the better to get his attention. "I'm not quiet. I'm contemplating."

He jumped slightly, spilling coffee on his notebook. I choked back a laugh. Obviously, he'd forgotten about me. A few customers gave him concerned glances. Ibis patrons, unlike the Circular Journey Cafe crowd, don't expect to see people talking to empty chairs.

"Contemplating what?" he asks, dabbing at the spill with a napkin that's clearly inadequate for the task.

"Our antagonistic relationship," I reply. "It doesn't serve either of us well."

Genome raises an eyebrow. "You're the one who's always telling me I do everything wrong."

"That's not entirely accurate," I say, watching a couple awkwardly attempting to dance to the bossa nova while keeping one eye on Genome."I'm simply... quality control."

"Quality control?"

"That's right. Like those people who hold eggs up to a light to look for cracks or imperfections."

"So I'm an egg now?"

I sigh. This is precisely the problem. He wants to blame others for his mood swings, ignoring his contributions, even going so far as to blame the universe itself.

"No, you're not an egg. You're a complex human with a mood disorder that sometimes makes navigating life difficult. But I am not your enemy, you big jamoke."

He looked skeptical, stirring his cooling latte, but I expected it. He'd probably never heard me say something like that. "Could have fooled me with all your judgments and criticisms," he said.

"That's just it," I say, leaning closer. "You see me as 'Princess Amy, the Royal Pain in the Ass,' but that's not who I am. I'm an integral part of you—the part that's trying to protect you."

The dance floor is nearly empty now. The bossa nova has given way to something more melancholy. It matches my mood.

"When depression descends," I continue, "you think I'm there to make it worse, to point out all your flaws and failures. But I'm there to help you recognize what's happening, to put a name to it."

"By making me feel worse?"

"By being honest. Depression lies to you, Genome. It tells you everything is hopeless and always will be. I'm the voice that says, 'This is temporary, even though it doesn't feel that way.'"

He's listening now, which is progress, and more than I'd hoped for. He usually presses the mute button when I get philosophical or try to reason with him.

"And grief?" he asks quietly. "What about when I'm drowning in that?"

I remove my tiara—something I rarely do—and place it on the table between us. "Grief is different," I say. When grief comes, I'm not there to judge you for feeling it as deeply as you do. I'm there to remind you that you're still alive, that feeling this pain means you have loved deeply, and it's important to remember that."

He's not trying to interrupt me, which feels like I'm making even more progress, so I continue.

"And when anxiety has you in its grip, I'm the one reminding you to breathe. I point out potential dangers, but not to paralyze you—to help you prepare and move forward."

"So you're saying..." he pauses, uncertain.

"I'm saying we're not enemies, Genome. When you fight against your moods and see them as battles to be won, you're also fighting me, and I'm exhausted from the civil war in our head."

He's quiet for a long time, watching the dancers who've returned to the floor.

"So what are you suggesting?" he finally asks.

I place the tiara back on my head, adjusting it slightly. Oh, how I love that tiara. "A truce. No, more than that—an alliance. Instead of seeing your moods as enemies, see them as messengers. I'm the royal interpreter. I can help you understand what they're trying to tell you."

"And then what?"

"And then we honor the message, but we don't let it rule the kingdom. Depression tells us to slow down and reflect—but not to give up. Anxiety alerts us to potential threats, but it doesn't mean we should live in constant fear. Grief reminds us of what matters most—but shouldn't prevent us from finding joy."

Genome sips his now-cold latte, grimacing slightly. "So when I was talking to you about accepting my mood disorder..."

"You were on the right track," I nod, "but missing a crucial element. Acceptance isn't resignation. It's acknowledging reality so you can work with it rather than against it."

"And you're offering to help with that? The same you who tells me my outfit is ridiculous or that my blog posts need serious editing?"

I laugh, the sound causing the nearby plants to tremble slightly—what's up with that? Strange world, huh? 

"It's all about quality control, remember? Yes, I'm proposing we work together. When depression comes, we sit with it for a while, then move on. When anxiety visits, we listen to its warnings, take what's useful, and leave the rest. When grief envelops us, we honor it without drowning in it."

The cafe is starting to empty now. The barista gives Genome a look that suggests they'd like to close soon.

"So," he says, gathering his things, "you're saying you want to work with me?"

"Precisely."

The night air is cool against our skin when we step outside. The stars are visible despite the city lights, tiny pinpricks of hope in the darkness. Yeah, I get philosophical as much as the next guy.

"Same time tomorrow?" he asks.

I adjust my tiara one final time. "The royal court is always in session. But perhaps tomorrow we could meet somewhere with better coffee and fewer amateur dancers."

He smiles, and I can feel something shift between us—not a complete transformation, but the beginning of one. 

Sometimes the true victory lies in changing how the conflict is viewed. It might be a battle, or it might be a complex and messy but beautiful dance.

(With apologies to no one, because a princess never apologizes for speaking her truth.

The Great Escape

We were sitting at a table near the windows—Amy and I—at the Circular Journey Cafe, nursing a double cappuccino and trying to determine what the foam art depicted. I decided it was the continent of Australia.

Princess Amy was in my imagination, of course, not literally in the chair across from mine. The other cafe patrons gave me sideways glances for smiling and nodding at the empty chair. In my mind's eye, Amy wore a judge's robe and a tiara that would make British royalty wince with envy.

"You're looking particularly judicial today," I observe.

"Well," she said, adjusting her tiara, "The mood you were in when you woke this morning..." She gave me a look and shook her head slowly. "I knew I'd be presiding over some questionable proposals this morning."

I sipped my coffee, which had cooled to a temperature that matched my enthusiasm for coping with life's shenanigans. "I've been thinking ..."

"Always a dangerous thing for you," Amy interjected. "I don't advise it. You'd best leave the thinking to me."

I ignored the barb. "I'm  going to quit therapy."

Amy's eyebrows shot upward like startled cats encountering a cucumber. Her eyebrows should have their own Instagram account.

"Bold choice," she said, "And the reasoning behind this grand plan?"

I said, leaning forward as if sharing classified intel, "I've been striving to improve my mental health for years. And yes, sometimes I feel I've made progress, but somehow I always return to where I started. It's a futile exercise. Why bother?"

"And what do you propose doing instead—medication?"

"Please!" I said, and I may have said it aloud, because people at nearby tables turned to look at me with questioning foreheads. 

"No, not drugs. My plan is simple—I'll stop thinking of myself as broken or sick and accept myself as whole and accept myself as I am. I'll take whatever action is required to feel better, but not make a Broadway production of it."

Amy tilted her head, the tiara glinting in the sunlight coming through the window. "So you've decided to stop trying?"

"Exactly! Why keep trying to 'fix' what's apparently an intrinsic part of who I am? Accept the mood disorder as normal and move forward. I'm not broken, I'm just neurodivergent."

"Fascinating," Amy says, in a tone suggesting she'd found an interesting specimen under a microscope and was considering poking it with a stick. 

"So instead of actively managing your condition, you're proposing to simply...live with it? Like deciding the red warning lights in your car are just cheerful interior decoration."

"Not unmanaged," I protest. "Just... managed by me using the principles of AA, mainly gratitude."

"Let me get this straight," she said in a way that suggested she might actually be considering my idea. "You want to abandon the professionals who've studied for years to help people like you, because you're tired of doing the work?"

"It sounds like a stupid idea when you say it like that, but yes, that's pretty much what I'm saying."

A quick glance around the cafe confirmed that no one was staring at me—no more than usual, anyway, except for one toddler with an expression that made me think he might be able to see Amy.

"I'm just tired of it," I continued quietly, "I've run, I've crawled, I've climbed the highest mountains, and I've scaled city walls. But I still haven't found what I'm looking for."

Amy studied my face with an intensity that would be unnerving if she were a real person and not just neural activity in my prefrontal cortex. Then, slowly, a different expression appears on her face.

"U2," she said with a slight smile. It seemed an odd thing to say even though we share the same mind and she must have similar feelings to mine. 

"You know what? Maybe you're right," she said.

I spewed lukewarm coffee across the room in startled surprise, causing more than a little excitement among the other customers.  

"I am?" I said aloud, and I should be forgiven for the slip—her attitude had changed shockingly fast. Nearly gave me whiplash.

"Sure," she said, with a noticeable gleam in her eye. "Why bother with all that hard work? You know what you need to do. Just do it!"

"Are you being sarcastic?"

"Not at all," she replied. "I think it's a brilliant plan. While you're at it, why not stop doing laundry? Your clothes will only get dirty again. Keep wearing the same outfit until it develops its own ecosystem, and eventually it might achieve sentience. You could beat the artificial intelligence boys at their own game. At the very least, you'll have something new to blog about."

"Washing clothes is not in the same category," I protested, while making a mental note to do laundry when I got home.

"Isn't it, though? Mental health maintenance is health maintenance. Would you stop treating a chronic physical condition because you got frustrated that it was inconvenient to manage?"

"I don't care," I said. "It's my decision, and my mind's made up. Our minds are entangled like two fundamental particles, so you'll have to go along with it, like it or not. Nothing you can do about it."

She sat back in her chair and folded her arms. "I'm sorry, Genome," she said. "I'm going into a tunnel now—we're breaking up."

Amy's expression took on the tenor of a cat who's spotted an unattended tuna sandwich. "Although...," she said.

"Although what?"

"Well, if you're really determined to abandon therapy, it might be interesting to see where it leads. Perhaps down the yellow brick road to the Emerald City, where the great and powerful Oz will grant you perfect mental health without any effort on your part."

I tried to suppress a smile, but it slipped out. Deep down, I like the imaginary young geezer.

"Or," she continues, in a dramatic whisper, "you might tumble down the rabbit hole and straight into the court of the Red Queen. 'Off with his head!' 

I laugh despite myself, drawing more curious glances from nearby tables. The toddler is now convinced I'm some sort of clown and begins throwing jelly beans at me.

Later, as we walk to the car, I ask Amy, "Same time tomorrow?"

"Of course," she replied, adjusting her tiara. "Court is always in session in your head. And, don't forget the laundry when you get home."

The circular journey isn't about arriving somewhere—it's about moving forward, even if the path brings me back to where I began. And so here I go again, going down the only road I've ever known. But unlike a drifter, I don't have to go alone. I have a snarky little princess for a navigation system, and it's not as bad as it might seem—I know what it means to walk along the street of dreams. 

(Apologies to Whitesnake and to U2)

Looking for the Light

I recently found myself back in a very familiar place. It's a place we've talked about here before—more than once in fact. I'm struggling with coming to terms with the direction I want to take The Circular Journey. 

Inspiration often strikes when I'm not actively searching for it. Sometimes the best approach is to get quiet and let my mind wander. I believe that my authentic voice and local perspective make The Circular Journey unique, so I trust that ideas will come with little effort on my part.

It is for me a fascinating aspect of creativity! When I say inspiration often comes when I'm not actively searching for it, I'm talking about how my mind often works best in the background.

When I deliberately try to force creativity, I can end up with a kind of mental gridlock—staring at a blank screen and feeling increasing pressure to come up with something brilliant. But my best ideas usually emerge during moments of mental relaxation or when we're engaged in something entirely different:

• During a shower or bath
• While taking a walk
• Just before falling asleep or right after waking
• When doing routine tasks like driving familiar routes
• During exercise when my mind can wander

When I'm not deeply engaged in problem-solving, my brain shifts into default mode. This network helps make unexpected connections between various ideas and experiences stored in my memory. It's why one of my best blog posts occurred to me while grocery shopping!

The default mode is also filled with a majority of negative thoughts so it's wise to be continuously vigilant, especially if you have a mood disorder like me. Need I say that seldom do I get truly worthwhile ideas when Amy is stirred up?

Success usually comes when I put aside the pressure to create and let my observations about local culture, my experiences with film productions, and my conversations with people like Ms. Wonder, Island Irv and yes, even Princess Amy, naturally coalesce into fresh perspectives.

My most reliable approach seems to be planting the seeds of what I'm interested in writing about, then deliberately turning my attention to something else and letting my subconscious work its magic. When I return to my blog, I'm sometimes surprised by the ideas that bubbled up while I wasn't paying attention.

And that's what I'm doing now and I'll keep on doing until it something interesting turns up. Until then, enjoy my latest burst of creativity and, as always, leave a comment or two. I love hearing from you.

Dance Like a Bee

I recently received a comment from a self-proclaimed regular follower who suggested that The Circular Journey should have a recognizable theme. Without one, he said, the blog feels like “a random collection of stories and essays about nothing in particular.”

To which I mentally replied, and with great flair: Exactly!

I genuinely enjoy hearing from readers. It shows they're paying attention and they care. That alone feels like a win to me. And to be fair, the reader isn't wrong. I’m not a life coach and I’m not a mental health expert. 

I write this blog mainly to laugh at the absurdities of my personal life. My goal is for readers to be amused, entertained, or at minimum, mildly confused but curious to read more. 

I aim to build a community of like-minded souls—people who understand that a squirrel on the windowsill might be a sign from the universe, or maybe just a squirrel making prolonged eye contact. I believe I’ve achieved my goal.

Many blogs indeed have themes. And I admire those who can say 'yes' to one and leave the others behind. I really do. Did you ever have to do that? Make a decision I mean. Give the nod to one and let the others ride?

The Circular Journey is deliberately about nothing in particular. It's like free-form jazz or interpretive dance. In that sense, it's like my favorite form of late-night entertainment—The Circular Journey is the podcast of blogs.

Take SmartLess or Conan O’Brien Needs a Friend—two of my favorite podcasts. They meander. They digress. They are, frankly, all over the place. And they are wildly successful. I'm also a big fan of StarTalk and Mindscape, which are science-themed but still manage to wander off-topic with humor and charm.

I’ve mentioned before that The Circular Journey owes a creative debt to Seinfeld, the beloved sitcom famously described as “a show about nothing.” It became one of the most popular TV shows of all time. Coincidence? Accident? I think not. 

I'm proud of my wayward little blog. And I hope you like it too. It doesn't have a theme and, perhaps even more surprising, it has an imaginary princess on its advisory board. And what's the upshot of that? It has a vibrant heartbeat, a lively spirit, and a distinct personality, and that's enough for me.

The Circular Journey is to nothing in particular, what Muhammad Ali was to boxing, what Michael Jackson was to choreography, and what your favorite Hawaiian shirt is to an otherwise respectable outfit: unexpected, unnecessary, but absolutely essential. 

And so I say, float like a butterfly, dance like a bee, and always circle back home.

Essentially Prepared

We've become a society of pack animals, though I suspect donkeys would file complaints with their union if asked to carry as much as we do. Everywhere I go I see people hauling bags of "essentials" that would make a wilderness survivalist feel unprepared.

Car keys, credit cards, hand lotion, face lotion, tissues to wipe off the lotions (apparently we're concerned about leaving a moisturizing trail), breath mints, medications, and nail clippers; these are only a few of the items we need with us when meeting friends for lunch. 

My imaginary critic—known to regulars as Princess Amy—insists that "these aren't unnecessary items; they're preparation for life's uncertainties." Amy rides shotgun in my brain, my resident Minister of Doom, always ready with unhelpful observations like, "You'll regret not having tweezers when you get a splinter in line at the post office."

Specialized Essentials

The list of essential items grows exponentially depending on personal concerns. The truly prepared among us—and I'm not judging, merely observing—insist on carrying umbrellas, all-in-one tools, a toothbrush, or wordle books in case of an attack of boredom. Heaven forbid we take an elevator without wi-fi and no puzzle book handy.

I have a friend who behaves as though civilization may collapse during her trip to the grocery store. This isn't theoretical; I've witnessed her unpack her bag to find a bandage for a paper cut, producing enough supplies to stock a modest field hospital.

This compulsion to be perpetually prepared creates a secondary problem: The psychological burden of carrying a smartphone that contains all our banking information and pay apps.

And it doesn’t end there. We need something to carry all these things. Hence the proliferation of backpacks, messenger bags, duffels, satchels, and totes. Some purses now rival carry-on luggage in size and capacity. I've seen people nearly topple over from the gravitational pull of their own accessories.

Rather than simplifying, we've literally added weight to our daily existence. The physical burden is evident in hunched shoulders and strained expressions of passersby. We're "essentially" turtles, carrying everything we need with us; but our shells are made of canvas and contain hand sanitizer.

My Downsizing Experience

I attempted to solve this problem for myself by minimizing it—simply tucking my credit card and driver's license into my front pocket and deciding to carry a cross-shoulder bag for my other necessities.

Immediately, I felt unburdened, lighter, and more agile—ready to leap into action should any emergency arise while purchasing stamps or shopping for fiber supplements. Amy remained suspiciously quiet during this experiment, which should have been my first warning.

Practicality quickly took over when I nearly lost the credit card between the pharmacy and the coffee shop. I calculated the probability distribution of where I might have dropped it ultimately decided to simply retrace my steps.

If not for honest strangers—a concept Princess Amy finds statistically improbable—my simplification experiment might have proved costly. 

Recently, I decided to compromise with reality. I calculated through sophisticated algorithms (counting on fingers) that the traditional leather back-pocket wallet must go, replaced by one of those thin, streamlined wallets with just enough compartments to hold actual necessities.

It's a bright idea—but finding one thin enough is more complicated than I imagined. Apparently, the age of thin and streamlined is over. Plus-sized is in vogue today.

Need I say that this wallet-hunting expedition has become its own circular journey? I keep looking for the solution but, so far, nada. I'm still contemplating my next move. Do I give up? Do I design my own minimal wallet? Does the determined minimalist ever give up? Of course not.

I haven't completely given up on finding the perfect item. Something a little larger than a credit card, driver's license, and medical insurance card. If you have any suggestions please leave them in the comments. Until then, I'll wear shirts with button-down pockets and keep my goods there.

The Accidental Chronicler

How We Stumbled into Wilmington's Spotlight 

Against my better judgment, I became an entertainment writer. But the path to this questionable distinction wasn't mapped out with Hollywood stars on the sidewalk.

Until a few years ago, Ms. Wonder and I were happy to contribute stories and photographs to travel magazines. We strived to make a name for ourselves in the best magazines, which meant something in the world of journalism until the mid-2000s. In those days people actually flipped physical pages instead of swiping screens.

We believed the job was important—a sort of public service— introducing readers to people and places they may not have known about and perhaps had no way to visit. 

Our stories made a small splash in a large pond, and even though the ripples didn't last long, that didn't bother us. By the time an article appeared in print, we were already caught up in something new, eagerly chasing the next feature with the enthusiasm of Island Irv pursuing happy hour specials.

Our work was most often featured in regional magazines like Mid-Atlantic Travel, Our State, Country Magazine, South Carolina Magazine, Pee Dee, and EZ Street Magazine. We also appeared in many newspapers across the south from the Raleigh News & Observer to the Austin American-Statesman.

It was the best job in the magazine business and it still is. Or was. Past tense becomes necessary when discussing print media these days, doesn't it?

Eventually, the internet began taking advertising revenue from print magazines with the systematic efficiency of a digital grim reaper. The big fish magazines ate the small ones, probably laughing about it in boardrooms and secretly fearing the day they would be eaten.

Generic stories off the wire replaced the tailored freelance ones. When original pieces were published, they were written by NY Times bestselling authors. People didn't buy the current issue for the travel destinations. They bought it for the name of the writer.

In our target region of the Carolinas, it was people like Pat Conroy, Nicholas Sparks, Leigh Ann Henion, and Sue Monk Kidd who sold magazine subscriptions and as a result, advertising copy. On the upside, this historical fact gave me an excellent excuse to explain why our bylines don't appear in Condé Nast Traveler.

Came the day we relocated to Wilmington. Nothing to do with writing, we simply wanted to be near the coast and the vibrant artist community in the city by the sea. What better place to heal my wounded journalistic pride than with the salt air and the occasional overpriced coffee from places like The Circular Journey Cafe?

Wonder quickly discovered that art connoisseurs on the Silver Coast couldn't get enough of her abstract photography, which showcases life along the Cape Fear River. For me, the big news came when MovieMaker magazine named Wilmington the Number 2 city for living and working as a moviemaker. It was like discovering spring flowers after a particularly chilly winter.

And that, dear readers, is how I ended up chasing film schedules around Wilmington instead of exotic destinations around the globe. The pay is worse, the coffee is better, and the stories? Well, let's just say Hollywood East—or "Musicwood" as Jack is desperately trying to rebrand it—never fails to deliver material.

It's not exactly the glamorous transition I had in mind while attending creative writing classes in Winston-Salem. However, my biggest supporters tell me I have an opportunity to boost my writing to the level of three out of five Goldblums on The Jeff Goldblum Scale™ of writing excellence.

As for Ms. Wonder, she's well on her way to the photographic art retrospective in New York that her biographers will refer to as her Blue Period, just as her biggest supporter predicted.

Hit the Right Notes S2 E9

Against my better judgment, I accepted an invitation from Jack to visit the Circular Journey Cafe on the promise that he would provide the actual film schedule for Jonas Pate’s upcoming television series, The Runarounds. But curiosity—and the lure of a decent flat-white—got the better of me.

I arrived to find not just Jack but the entire coffee shop crew: Lupe was intently Googling something that she'd probably use to cause severe shock to some unsuspecting bystander. Island Irv was wearing dark sunglasses indoors, which was strangely disturbing. Claudia was examining the coffee menu with the intensity of someone decoding the Rosetta Stone. Knowing her, she was probably near comatose with boredom.

"There he is!" Jack announced with the enthusiasm of a game show host. "Wilmington's premier entertainment blogger—the man, the myth, the legend!”

I raised an eyebrow. Wouldn't you? I gave him my patented scoffer's look, leaving no room for misunderstanding.

"Someone's in a mood," Claudia observed, stirring her coffee with surgical precision.

"I'm not in a mood," I countered, sliding into a chair. "I'm simply wary of Jack's overwrought enthusiasm. It typically leads to a request for a favor..." I paused for theatrical effect, raised an accusing eyebrow, "or sharing dubious information from Barbary Coast Bar.”

"No Jamaican rum involved this time," Jack assured me, raising his hands defensively. "This is legitimate intel about 'The Runarounds.’"

That caught my attention. "Jonas Pate's new Amazon series? The one about the Wilmington high school band who decided to make a run for musical stardom rather than attend college?”

"Not just any high school band," Lupe chimed in, looking up from her laptop, "A band that Jonas auditioned for 'Outer Banks' and then decided to build a whole television series around.”

"Lupe," I said a bit too defensively. "I may have missed filming at Flaming Amy's, and I botched the 'Driver's Ed' schedule pretty badly, but I do read the trades.”

"And by 'the trades,' he means the Wilmawood Gazette entertainment section," Jack stage-whispered to Irv, who chuckled in response.

I ignored them both. "They've been filming all over town, from the South Front District to Reggie's 42nd Street Tavern, to Greenfield Lake Amphitheater. I've been meaning to check it out but was trying to squeeze in Driver's Ed.”

"Meaning to check it out?" Lupe repeated, her eyebrows disappearing beneath her bangs. "It's the biggest thing to hit Wilmington's music scene since... well, ever! This show could put our local bands on the national radar.”

"That's exactly what I was going to write about in my next blog post," I lied, reaching for my phone to make notes. "The transformative potential of 'The Runarounds' on Wilmington's music ecosystem.”

Jack snorted. "You were going to write about how you couldn't find the set again. You don't have the schedule--yet. But that's all in the past, Bucko, I have the filming schedule for next week right here.” He placed his hand over his jacket pocket.

That perked me up considerably. "The real schedule? Not the fake one they post online to throw off rabid fans?”

"The genuine article," Jack confirmed as he took a folded paper from his pocket and slid it across the table. "We agreed to work together to track down the secrets behind their production plans, and I followed through. Not sure what you were doing but here it is. They're filming at The Rusty Nail on Wednesday. The scene features the band getting their first gig.”

"I've been suffering from pollen allergies," I said to explain why I hadn't been in touch. While that was true, the real reason I hadn't texted him was that I expected him to dredge more of the rum-fueled nonsense from Barbary Coast.

I wasn’t entirely convinced that what Jack presented was the real goods. I wavered as I reviewed the schedule, but I needed a win like this to restore my reputation as an entertainment journalist. I remembered my father saying: Take the risk only when the potential reward outweighs the potential loss. With that in mind, I decided to act on Jack's info.

Even if it turned out to be bogus, it was a small price to pay for the possibility of being on the inside track of the latest and hottest film project in town.

Jack must have read my mind, “It didn't come from Barbary Coast," he said. "This is the goods."

"How did you get it?” I ask scanning the single page of notes.

"Let's just say I know someone who knows someone who delivers coffee to the production office," Jack replied with a mysterious air that did nothing to inspire more confidence.

"And you're just... giving this to me?" I asked, suspicious. "What's the catch?”

"No catch," he said. "Didn't we agree to dig up the hidden plans of the production company? Well, I've been out doing just that. And why are you so suspicious? You've got The Circular Journey's reviews into the yellow zone lately, right?”

I narrowed my eyes and looked around the table to see how the others reacted to this news. "Who told you about my traffic metrics?”

"You did," Claudia interjected. "Last week, right here in this cafe, after your third espresso.”

"Right," I mumbled, vaguely recalling a caffeine-fueled rant about SEO strategies.

"Look," Island Irv said, finally joining the conversation, "you've got two options. You can sit here questioning Jack's motives, or you can use that schedule to get a decent scoop on The Runarounds. If you're lucky, you might write something that hits three Goldblums on your weird rating scale.”

"The Jeff Goldblum Scale™ is not weird. It's an elegant system for measuring journalistic excellence.”

"Whatever," Irv waved dismissively. "The point is, this show could be huge for Wilmington. Not just Hollywood East anymore—Musicwood, too.”

"Musicwood?" I repeated. "That's a terrible moniker. Please don't repeat it, we don't want that to catch on.”

"Too late," Jack grinned. "Already mentioned it to Harvey at the Gazette.”

Wouldn’t you know it? Just when you think you’ve struck gold, you learn that someone else has already staked their claim. It’s just as Shakespeare said, “When you believe everything is finally going your way, Fate is lurking in the shadows, ready to throw a punch.

The Day the Wi-Fi Vanished

Ms. Wonder was at her desk, artfully arranging pixels into promotional materials for her fine art photography exhibition. I was at my keyboard, wrestling with metaphors and trying to coax a new blog post into existence.

And then, without so much as a farewell flicker, the internet vanished.

One moment, I was riding the information superhighway at full throttle, much like I ride Ocean Highway with Wynd Horse and Quinn; the next, I was stranded on the digital equivalent of a deserted country road with nothing but crickets for company.

The Apocalypse, According to Amy

"This is it," Amy announced, materialising inside my head with the dramatic flair of a soap opera villain. "The technological apocalypse we've been warned about. First the internet, then the power grid, then civilization itself."

"It's probably just a temporary outage," I offered.

"Temporary?" Amy's eyebrows shot up like startled caterpillars. "That's exactly what They want you to think. This has government interference written all over it. Or aliens. Probably aliens conducting government interference."

I sighed with the resignation of a man whose imagination has its own zip code. "Amy, please. I need to think."

"Think?" She snorted. "While the extraterrestrial intelligence agency is downloading your browser history? Good luck with that."

The Tech Support Odyssey

Ms. Wonder appeared in the doorway, her expression a perfect blend of concern and annoyance—an expression she wears when she thinks I'm about to complicate a simple problem.

"Internet's down," she announced. 

I've noticed," I replied, performing the checklist that's become a modern ritual: Check the router. Unplug the router. Count to ten. Plug in the router. Watch the little lights. Repeat.

"Any luck?" Wonder asked, leaning against the doorframe with the patience of a saint monitoring a particularly slow miracle.

"The lights are on, but nobody's home," I muttered, staring at the router as if it might respond to intimidation.

The Zwiggy Conspiracy

Having given up on the checklist, I stood by the French doors watching the birds at our new feeders. Zwiggy the squirrel sat perched on the fence, looking suspiciously smug for a Tuesday morning.

"I've got it!" I declared, with the certainty of a detective in the final episode. "Zwiggy did it."

Wonder joined me at the window, skepticism radiating from her like heat from the mug of coffee she held in her hands."The squirrel ate through our internet cable?" she said.

"Look at them," I insisted, gesturing at the backyard parliament. "This is a calculated move designed to increase their evening rations. 

"Or," Wonder countered, with the calm rationality that suits the wonder that she is, "they see us standing by the door and think we're coming out to feed them. Because that's what we do every day at this time."

"Of course, I knew the squirrel had nothing to do with our Wi-Fi outage. But it felt good to declare, "I've solved the mystery!" after the past week of just one damned thing after another.

The Crisis Management Committee

"We need to address this systematically," I announced, pacing the living room like Sun Tzo plotting business strategy. "First, we need alternative connectivity. Port City Java has dependable Wi-Fi."

"You can set up a temporary command center there," said the Wonder, smiling as if she were beginning to enjoy my production.

"Command center?" Amy interjected, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "It's a coffee shop, not the Pentagon."

"Shut up," I said.

"Was only trying to offer moral support," said the Wonder.

"Oh, no, not you," I said. "I was telling Amy to shut up."

"Does that ever work?"

"No, but..." I paused hoping to find something sensible to say. "We should probably report the outage," I said.

Wonder looked up from her phone. "Already did," she said. "I reported it to Duke Power earlier, while you were accusing the wildlife of cyber terrorism."

"Excellent," I nodded, focusing on the solution rather than the subtle jab. "Now, I know you're worried about Zwiggy having chewed through some cables—"

"I'm really not," Wonder interjected.

The Grocery Store Sanctuary

Twenty minutes later, Amy's theories had evolved to include Russian hackers and vengeful AI.

"Why don't you go to the grocery store?” Wonder suggested, “They have Wi-Fi, and it's closer than Port City."

"The grocery store," I repeated. "Of course. Peace, quiet, connectivity, and snacks."

"And maybe pick up some bread while you're there," she added, proving once again that multitasking is her superpower.

I grabbed my keys and headed for the door, pausing only to cast a suspicious glance at Zwiggy, who seemed to be smirking from her perch on the fence.

"I'm watching you," I mouthed through the window. The squirrel flicked her tail, scoffing at me.

The Digital Nomad

Wynd Horse, my faithful automotive companion, hummed to life and we began cruising through a quiet, suburban landscape where spring gardens were in full bloom. 

"Maybe disconnection isn't entirely catastrophic," I mused aloud.

"Now you're just rationalizing," Amy replied. I imagined her in the passenger seat, her arms crossed in disagreement.

"I'm being philosophical," I countered. "There's a difference."

"There's really not," she sniffed.

The Digital Reunion

A triple caffeine later, my phone chimed with a text from Wonder: "Power company found the issue. Working on repairs. ETA 2 hours."

I texted back: "Any mention of squirrel involvement?"

Her reply was swift and unamused: "No. But we're out of bread."

By late afternoon, our digital lifelines were restored and I was scattering seeds and nuts for our backyard companions. Zwiggy approached cautiously, accepted a peanut with surprising gentility, and retreated to a safe distance.

"Truce?" I offered.

She paused, peanut clutched in tiny paws, and appeared to consider my proposal. Then, with what I swear was a nod of agreement, she scampered over the fence and disappeared into the gathering dusk.

"You realize you're imposing a personality on a rodent with a brain the size of a grape," Amy commented dryly.

"And you realize you're imaginary and yet you provide a running commentary on every move I make. We all have our quirks."

In a world where disconnection can feel like isolation, there was something unexpectedly refreshing about the forced pause—a reminder that in the moments we disconnect from technology, we get in touch with ourselves.

Works For Me

Along the canals, Mimi the Mockingbird serenaded dogs and their walkers with popular tunes from the '40s and '50s. Palmetto palms swayed to the rhythm of her songs. Azaleas primped in the early morning sunlight to be ready for next week's festival celebrating their beauty. The ducks in the lagoons, well honestly, the ducks were simply goofing off, shamelessly duck-like.

A recent rain had left the air smelling of the sweet perfume of early summer, and the fence around our little Eden served as a backdrop for the soothing coos of mourning doves. It was that gentle hour, loved by all, nestled between dawn and mid-morning. A refreshing pause to allow Nature to get her second shot of caffeine before the big push into the afternoon.

Wyatt, the poodle-ish dog next door, was alternately running out into the backyard where he would turn to the house and begin barking as though calling someone to come out and play. With that done, he would run back into the house, where he was silent for several seconds, no doubt getting his ears scratched before running back outside to do it all over again. It usually works for him. It doesn't work for me when I want to get Ms. Wonder's attention.

Wyatt repeated the sequence several times before Princess Amy noticed him. "There's a household that might benefit from living with cats," she said as if cats weren't just little feudal lords using the art of strategic indifference to get what they want. 

"Amy, don't you like dogs?" I asked and I instantly regretted joining her in conversation so early in the day.

"Dogs, I like," she said. "I have two of my own. It's people who own dogs that I have a problem with."

"You don't have dogs," I said emphatically although I realized I should have stayed quiet. I have trouble stopping once I start.

"Chihuahuas," she said. "Butch and Killer."

"Fitting," I said imagining Amy strolling through the park with two pint-sized swaggers.

"What do you mean by that?"

"Figure it out," I said because I wasn't up for any smash-mouth from her on such a beautiful morning. I'd had enough and I wasn't going to take it anymore. (I say that often and I don't know if it makes a difference but I know that it makes me feel better when I say it.) It's a personal mantra--less 'OM' and more 'Oh, come on.'

Inspired by Wyatt's persistence, I pulled out my phone and opened the SiriusXM app to play easy-listening hits from the 1980s. It's my version of Wyatt's routine--my way to bring someone out to play with me or more often to get Princess Amy into a playful mood. It's the next best thing to living with cats.

When I hear music it changes my mood. Don't ask me why. I can't explain it and I no longer look for answers to life's mysteries. I've become like the Tin Man--not equipped to find answers, just searching for a heart to feel the music instead of analyzing it. It works for me, and that's all I need.

Michael Jackson's singing Human Nature fills my heart with that same peaceful feeling I find in our backyard Eden. It's like magic.  As Shakespeare said, "Don't ask why; just do it and let it be." Not a direct quote, but in my defense, the Bard never had to deal with two chihuahuas that collect insurance money from local canines.

Behind the Scenes S2 E8

When I learned that a movie production company was filming 'Drivers Ed'—a comedy with Molly Shannon and Kumail Nanjiani—in downtown Wilmington, I knew I had to be there! I set off on what I hoped would be the first of many exciting movie-set adventures.

The Naley Bench

Not everyone shares my excitement! Wilmington feels divided between the enchanted and the inconvenienced. At Circular Journey Cafe, baristas rave about Molly Shannon ordering a triple shot latte—"She was so nice, she even remembered my name!" 

Meanwhile, business owners are grumbling about closed streets and blocked parking. The city is experiencing a collective emotional rollercoaster that makes my internal dialogue with Princess Amy seem positively stable by comparison.

On the first day of filming, I positioned myself on Second Street, where crews prepared for an early morning shoot. I approached a harried-looking production assistant, flashing my virtual press badge (a potent combination of determination and high-octane espresso). With her arms full of walkie-talkies, she barely slowed down. 

"Press package already went out," she said, clearly mistaking me for someone with actual credentials. I took the hint. Besides, it was beginning to rain, and my coffee was being watered down—a greater tragedy than being turned away from the movie set. Princess Amy enjoyed the encounter. Whenever I get shot down in any setting for any reason, it brightens her day.

Small Victories

The first day of shooting was unproductive, but I didn't give up. At the start of the second day, I was outside Flaming Amy's on Oleander. You can read about that fiasco by searching for "Flaming Amy" on this blog. Spoiler alert: my internal GPS skills failed me spectacularly, reminding me of my childhood attempts at divining the future with Magic 8-Balls.

Persistence can sometimes yield great rewards, according to Ms. Wonder, and so on the third scheduled day of filming, I made my way from Circular Journey Cafe on Castle Street to film set on Orange. Fifteen minutes and one suspicious glance from security later, I was greeted by Tom, the Production Manager for Outer Banks Media. Persistence had paid off, and I felt I'd struck gold.

"Tell him about all the other movie sets we've visited," Amy said. "You want him to know that you're not just another curious noob." I ignored her.

Tom and I talked about our mutual love of film production, and I showed him my blog. He scanned it politely and nodded with the practiced neutrality of someone who sees far too many blogs written by aspiring pop-culture journalists. 

"We're using this place as a fraternity house set on the UNC campus in Chapel Hill. We're filming a fraternity party."

We continued our conversation, swapping stories about filming events around the area. Tom even shared gossip about upcoming shoots. Princess Amy tried to re-interpret everything Tom said to mean we had unlimited access to the set.

And then he did extend an invitation. I was surprise to the point of shock. He gave me permission to visit the sets and get all the photos and videos I wanted for my blog. 

"As long as you don't get in the way and don't take photos when the actors are on set."

Amy squealed so loudly, that I thought Tom might have heard her.

"Any of the production assistants will brief you on upcoming scenes, and you'll have to follow the same rules of conduct that everyone else on set follows."

"This is my dream," I told him. "I can hardly believe you're inviting me to observe what's usually treated as a secret, off-limits operation with signs that say 'Restricted Area' and 'Authorized Personnel Only'."

He laughed. "We think it's easier to not make a big production of it." A film production manager making an unintentional pun—I'd reached the pinnacle of insider status!

"Oh, one correction," he said, pointing to my blog post, "the crew that works overnight to get the set ready for an early morning shoot is called the Swing Gang." 

Then he excused himself to talk with a boom operator waiting for instructions. I nodded knowingly as if I hadn't just mentally pictured a group of night-shift workers doing synchronized dance routines with lighting equipment.

"Conga!" shouted Amy.

Rumors and Anecdotes

I spoke to a crew member hanging around the food truck, who described the vibe on set as "surprisingly chill for a comedy!" He gave Director Bobby Farrelly all the credit. "The director allows actors to go off script, improvising their lines, before honing in on the funniest moments."

"We're burning through stacks of memory cards because nobody wants to cut when they're on a roll!" he said. The bit about memory cards got past me—possibly a technical film term that my brain filed under "Pretend You Understand and Google Later." Maybe it means something to you?

"Let's check out the food truck," Amy said. She seemed to be particularly interested in a table of snacks in front of the truck.

Rumors are plentiful in the peanut gallery. The most persistent is one concerning a climactic scene set for Nathan and Haley's Bench, a beloved spot from 'One Tree Hill'! It's said to be a last-minute idea. Specialized camera gear was unloaded there, leading to speculation about a sunset or night scene. 

My mathematical probability calculations suggest an 87.3% chance this information is accurate, give or take whatever percentage makes me sound most authoritative.

Hits and Misses

I didn't get any footage from the Orange Street location, but I saw enough, even from a distance, to give readers a glimpse into the creative process! Sometimes witnessing movie magic is like trying to photograph a unicorn—the evidence is elusive, but the experience is enchanting.

"This is going to be great!" said Amy, who had remained quiet long enough for me to wonder if she'd found another brain to torment.

"I'm happy to hear you say that, Princess. It's going to be fun."

"Yeah, we can hang around all day and eat all we want from the service wagon," she said, her priorities suddenly crystal clear.

"What are you talking about? We can't eat the crew's food."

"Tom said we'd be treated like crew members," she countered.

"Not exactly. Just because we're allowed on set doesn't mean we can eat free.  You pay attention to what people say with the selective hearing of a teenager being told to clean her room"

"Why do you always spoil everything? We can eat all we want, and if anyone says anything, we'll say we didn't know we weren't allowed." Her logic, as usual, was a blend of opportunism and plausible deniability.

"It's that big dish of M&M's, isn't it?" I said. "You've got your eye on all those little candies."

"And the Coca-Cola," she said, not even trying to hide her scheming. "It would be so nice to hang here and scarf the goodies."

That's Princess Amy for you. She seems like a tyrant most of the time, but when it comes to 1980s foodstuffs, she becomes a little girl. I'm not saying I understand the psychology behind an imaginary royal's nostalgia for Reagan-era snacks, but then again, I don't understand most of what happens in my head on the best of days.

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.