Remember Me

Some days, I wake up feeling like the world has wrapped me in a foggy, melancholy blanket. This particular weekday morning was one of those. Hoping to shake it off, I set off for downtown Wilmington to meet my friend Island Irv, fully expecting coffee and camaraderie to lift my spirits.

Wilmington is a city conveniently situated on the edge of America. On a clear day, from the Memorial Bridge, you can see most of the way to Jamaica. Some may disagree with me, but I'm sure I'm right. I feel it in my heart.

When you cross the Memorial Bridge, the road drops you off right onto the streets of downtown without breaking a sweat. You're immediately embraced by the city's charm, though I’ll admit that the suddenness with which you arrive can leave even the most seasoned traveler blinking and shaking the coconut. 

My downtown excursions are usually reserved for lazy Sunday mornings, not the midweek hustle. But this wasn’t a usual day—I needed a pick-me-up, and Cafe Luna was my go-to.

The plan was simple: grab coffee, caffeinate my mind, slap the Islander on the back, and get Ms. Wonder to Oak Island in time for low tide. On Holden Beach we would join other like-minded treasure hunters scouring the sands for buried bounty, or as Wonder calls it, sea biscuits. But plans, as you are aware, have a way of unraveling.

I arrived at the cafe, and scanned the street for Irv’s car--nothing. Not a trace. My spirits, already teetering, leaned like the famous tower. I entered the cafe and found it buzzing with energy—the hum of conversation, the hiss of espresso machines—but I felt oddly alone. There was no Irv.

What now? Early mornings aren’t my strong suit. My brain doesn’t hit its stride until the late afternoon, so I was at a loss. But some instinct led me through a door at the back of the lobby, and I found myself in a large room dominated by an enormous mural stretching across one wall. Baristas bustled beneath the mural, serving drinks to the caffeinated masses.

I wandered to the counter and unburdened myself to a friendly barista, spilling the whole sorry tale. He nodded sagely and suggested a “quantum leap,” a concoction of his own invention. He assured me it was the kind of drink that could get a rabbit in shape to take on a grizzly bear. 

I dimly remembered hearing that story somewhere else in a faraway time. Perhaps I heard it in another universe. (If you're unfamiliar with the bit of transdimensional skulduggery involving the multiverse, stay tuned; I'll explain in another episode. For now, it's enough to know that the bears in the matchups never make it past three rounds.)

Desperate times call for desperate measures, someone said, and so I ordered a double. The man was not wrong. By the time I finished the second, the fog had lifted, and the scene around me was warm and bright. Outside, the day seemed new. My feeling of being alone and lost was replaced by a buoyant sense of possibility, and I felt braced to take on the day.

Back on the street, I felt infused with the city’s energy. The streets were alive—people bustled as if it were some reasonable hour, tramcars overflowed with commuters, and a palpable buzz filled the air. 

At first, the sheer activity was jarring, but soon it felt invigorating. There’s something about Wilmington—maybe it’s the salt air or the hidden pockets of charm—that makes you feel that anything is possible.

Mick Jagger was spot on when he commented about looking for things. You don't always find what you want but you often find what you need. 

I walked into that cafe looking for a friend and a cure for my low spirits. Irv wasn’t there, but I found something unexpected: a moment of connection with a kind barista, a jolt of caffeine-fueled inspiration, and a reminder that even on the greyest mornings, a little adventure can turn your whole day around.

It reminds me of something we learned from our cats, and I'm speaking of the Chatsford Tribe. Long after they left pawprints on the furniture, their lessons still linger in our hearts and minds. The sweet truth they left with us is this:

Life is better when you embrace it with curiosity and a healthy dose of mischief. And if you ever need help, accept the help that comes to you, no matter its source.

Write Like Shakespeare

"Duck and cover," said a familiar voice as dawn slipped through my bedroom window. My dreams faded as I adjusted to the waking world and I realized that, in about a minute, Ms. Wonder would rise in all her glory and deliver the morning weather report—to prepare me for our morning constitutional.

It was a beautiful morning. After completing our walk, I headed to Castle Street and entered Luna Caffè, hoping for a slow, dreamy Sunday vibe, Lionel Ritchie style. Instead, I spotted them—Lupe and Claudia—seated dead center, radiating chaos. This, I thought, is TNT in late-teenage form.

I've learned that having a compelling topic at the ready makes surprise encounters smoother. It wards off awkward silences and provides an escape if the conversation veers into dangerous waters. I had one—yesterday's coffee crawl in the Brooklyn Arts District. These two would eat it up. I took a deep breath and approached their table.

"Good morning, Kitten," Lupe grinned.

It was as though an invisible DJ scratched the vinyl to bring me to an abrupt stop. How did she know about the mysterious voice that woke me each morning? (If you’re not caught up, search my blog. Top right.)

"How do you know about that?" I asked, rattled.

Lupe smirked. "I read your blog, silly."

"Oh. Right." Of course she did. She followed The Circular Journey—or at least skimmed it.

"You’ve been posting a lot lately," Claudia observed. "You might want to check your coffee consumption."

"Or your blogging compulsion," Lupe added.

"What’s that supposed to mean?"

"Do the math. You’re addicted."

"Get real. I can stop anytime I want."

"That’s what all addicts say," Lupe said.

"And maybe focus on quality over quantity," Claudia suggested.

"Like Shakespeare," Lupe added.

"Don’t talk to me about Shakespeare and quality," I huffed. "The man couldn't even spell his own name."

"Maybe because there was more than one Shakespeare," Claudia said. "Bacon, Marlowe, the Earl of Oxford—"

"Drivel!" I'd heard enough of the theory that Shakespeare was a front for someone else. "He was the Bard of Avon, born April 23, 1564, in Stratford-Upon-Avon."

"But he never left England," Lupe countered. "How’d he know so much about foreign cultures?"

"Please. He just slapped English sensibilities onto exotic backdrops. He knew squat."

"And the theory that his writing reflects his mental state?" Claudia pressed.

"Poppycock," I said.

A woman at a nearby table, watching Ferris Bueller’s Day Off on a VCR, murmured, "Interesting word choice." That’s Luna Caffè for you—a vintage-minded Twee haven where even the furniture has opinions.

"His work is different from mine," I said, "but there are certain passages I wouldn’t mind being attributed to me. Like that bit about life being a walking shadow."

"That struts and frets his hour upon the stage and then is heard no more," Claudia recited.

"Exactly. Just the right amount of topspin. That alone puts him in the Genome class of writers."

Silence. Maybe time to bring up the coffee crawl? Then inspiration struck.

"Why do critics assume a writer’s work reflects their personal struggles? My own writing is often the opposite of my mental state. 

"Yes," Lupe said, "but given recent evidence, you may want to reconsider that opinion."

She and Claudia exchanged smug looks. I sighed but smiled. This was why I loved meeting up with them. The conversation was always sharp, and they kept me on my toes.

"Fine," I said, raising my mug. "I admit I might be a little enthusiastic about blogging and may underestimate the Bard."

"A little?" Claudia snorted.

"It’s not a problem," I said sweetly.

"Again," Lupe grinned, "that’s what all addicts say."

I rolled my eyes and took a sip of coffee. I was happy. Life needs people who call you out, keep you honest, and save you a seat at the coffee shop every Sunday.

Driving home, This Must Be the Place playing, I reflected on our conversation. Beneath all the teasing lay a serious question. Sure, I was writing a lot—but was I writing well? Was I chasing likes and comments, or was I saying something that mattered?

Shakespeare probably never worried about such things. He just wrote—brilliantly, recklessly, with no concern for how his name was spelled. The lesson? Write because you love it, and surround yourself with people who challenge you but never expect you to write to please them.

Crossing the Memorial Bridge and seeing downtown Wilmington stretched out along the riverfront, I felt a small but distinct surge of joy, and I thought--

Home is where I want to be but, I'm already there. And you (Ms. Wonder) are standing here beside me, sharing the same space for a minute or two. What could be better?

Get Help Too

A damp Monday afternoon last week found me in my usual booth near the window but not too near the door at the café on the corner of Highway 421 and Independence Avenue. My coffee, which aspired to be a blonde roast, had instead slipped into the neighborhood of burnt barbecue. I sipped it with the resignation of a man who has long since stopped expecting life to deliver on its promises.

It was an unremarkable moment, yet suddenly, as if struck by divine inspiration—or perhaps just heartburn caused by the coffee—I remembered a recommendation from Dr. Coast, my therapist. In our last session, she suggested that my life could be vastly improved with one of those artificial intelligence mental health apps. Apparently, they’re all the rage, much like kale smoothies and minimalist furniture.

Now, to be clear, I wasn’t looking for one of those apps that peddle serenity through zen-inspired synthesized music and stock photos of people gazing wistfully at the horizon. No, I needed an app designed to navigate the tangled jungle that Dr. Coast refers to as my mental state. Preferably an app equipped with a machete.

Dr. Coast is quite fascinated by the rise of artificial intelligence. Her recommendation came to her during our last session when she advised me to "Take a deep breath," and I, in the fog of my existential crisis, heard, "Take a deep nap." An easy mistake to make, really, and arguably the superior option.

A quick Google search turned up the very app she'd named. The advert proudly described it as a "breakthrough in the mental health space." It promised "instant clarity and algorithmic wisdom," which, to my caffeine-addled mind, sounded just the ticket.

The tagline, "Instant results with minimal effort," was the clincher. As a modern man, I hold certain principles dear, one of them being that if enlightenment can be achieved without making an effort, all the better. I’m sure you share my sensibilities. After all, you’re a regular here on The Circular Journey, so we’re kindred spirits of sorts.

In the blink of an eye, I downloaded the app, canceled my therapy appointment, and prepared to bask in the glow of my new, algorithmically-enhanced mental clarity.

I won’t spoil the ending, but allow me to provide a touch of foreshadowing: picture a bulldozer in a china shop, wearing a blindfold, and whistling merrily.

One week later, I was back in therapy with Dr. Coast, grateful to be in the presence of someone who did not suggest chanting verbal mudras for serenity or rearranging my bookshelf for emotional realignment. It had been a trying time.

Over the week, I learned that life’s deepest questions cannot be answered by an AI-powered oracle, no matter how many reassuring push notifications it sends. The truth, as it turns out, is far simpler: real conversation, human connection, and the occasional chat with a cat are the true pillars of emotional well-being.

A profound revelation, no doubt. However, when Dr. Coast suggested I delete the app—presumably to avoid being bested by a talking algorithm—I hesitated. That’s right, I demurred. Not because the app had worked wonders (quite the opposite), but because the entire fiasco had led me to an even greater epiphany:

Not all of life’s complexities are solved in therapy. Sometimes, the path to enlightenment involves outdoor escapades, physical challenges, or noble pursuits like learning a new language, documenting local graffiti, or launching a highly questionable AI experiment just to see what happens.

Most importantly, the best approach to mental well-being is rarely a binary choice. It’s a grand, multifaceted adventure. And no matter which path you take, you must include the holy trinity of happiness: a good cup of tea, a hearty laugh, and a friend who doesn’t judge you for occasionally talking to your shoes.

One final thought: While human therapists have the distinct advantage of warm handshakes and sympathetic nods, they do not, regrettably, come with a convenient FAQ section. Apps, for their part, cannot provide the comfort of a reassuring pat on the shoulder or a well-timed "There, there."

There’s a word for that, but it escapes me at the moment. No doubt, Wonder will know.

Ad Blockers

The Great Ad Blocker Paradox

Ad blockers are all the rage on the Internet recently, and frankly, I get it. Search for something simple—like how to get chocolate out of a white carpet—and you might find one helpful article buried under hundreds of ads trying to sell you industrial-grade stain remover or carpet dye. 

And not surprisingly, among all those ads, you’ll find promotions for apps that promise to block ads.

Ads for ad blockers are designed to be like shiny objects--they grab your attention. And I must admit, some of them do sparkle. Admit it, you’ve clicked at least one. And when mild curiosity causes you to click, you're suddenly spiraling down the rabbit hole of pop-ups, testimonials, and big flashing buttons that scream, “Click here for a free trial!” Irony, thy name is digital advertising.

Here's my point and my confession: I don’t use ad blockers. I know, shocking, right? Why wouldn't I want to make life easier by eliminating those annoying ads? But consider for a moment: if I blocked ads, I’d lose easy access to some of the most valuable—and hilariously absurd—content the Internet has to offer. Let me explain.

• Simple, natural cures for every ailment. Did you know a paste made of parsley and moonlight can cure hiccups and probably fix your credit score? Neither did I until an ad told me so.
• True, lasting weight loss without sacrifices. Yes, it’s possible to shed pounds without giving up donuts or breaking a sweat. You just have to buy a $99 eBook called Lose Fat While You Nap!
• Saving hundreds, even thousands, on insurance. I don’t know how switching my car insurance will net me a new yacht, or a swimming pool, or a cruise around the Aegean islands on a luxury liner but the people in the ad were thrilled about it.
• Making a 7-figure income from my phone. And the best part? I can do it in my “spare time.” Apparently, billion-dollar empires can be built between episodes of Emily in Paris. Who knew?

My personal favorites are YouTube videos that promise enlightenment in 30 seconds or less. They're the fortune cookies of the Web. Then there are promises of great achievements with no effort--"Become fluent in French while you sleep." Others tempt you with headlines like, “This discovery changes everything! Learn why doctors don't want you to know!”

Sure, the avalanche of ads can be frustrating, but it’s also endlessly entertaining. It's all about attitude, isn't it? Rather than annoying ads, I think of it as a steady stream of pop-up soap operas. 

Dr. Coast put her finger on the nub when she said, "Think of all you'll miss if you install one of those ad blockers!"

And so, I’ll pass on the ad blockers for now. After all, without that steady stream of advertising soap operas, I'd never have learned about the revolutionary power of Himalayan goat milk to reverse aging.

Emergent Surprises

Emergent behaviors are system properties not present in their lower-level components. They arise when those components interact with each other. The technical name for emergent behavior is “surprises.”

“Ah, I see,” said Ms. Wonder. “Now it becomes clear why you associate emergent behavior with our squirrels--surprises! You got that right. In the good old days, we had seven of them, and their silly antics were fun. You even blogged about them.”

“What you call silly antics,” I said, “is what I call disordered behavior.”

Ms. Wonder had graciously agreed to hear one of the ideas I was considering for my new SubStack blog. I’m thinking about writing on emergent behavior in the context of systems theory and biological organisms. It sounds terribly nerdy, I admit, but my goal is to make it interesting—dare I say, even fun—for the layperson.

But don’t roll your eyes just yet! This new project won’t interfere with The Circular Journey, the blog you’ve come to love and depend on. It’ll continue as it always has—equal parts wisdom and squirrels, with the occasional cameo from Ms. Wonder herself.

“One familiar example of emergent behavior,” I said, “is when a group of starlings flies in synchronized formation in the evening sky. Each bird in the flock merely mimics its nearest neighbors—a fairly simple act that results in a surprisingly complex behavior.”

“Yes, but what does that,” she said, “have to do with our squirrels?”

“Bear with me,” I said. “I’m getting there. When the squirrels moved into our backyard, resources were abundant, and competition was limited. That’s why they chose our yard in the first place.”

“Yes, I see,” she said, nodding. “Makes sense.”

“Those favorable factors allowed them the freedom to reproduce at full capacity.”

“In other words,” she said, “our squirrel neighbors are enjoying an orgy of fruit and nuts, carousing all evening—sex, drugs, and rock and roll about sum it up.”

I thought of many things I could say in response—perhaps too many things—so I let that one slide.

“Chaos theory,” I continued, “you probably remember me mentioning. It tells us that small changes in a system’s initial conditions can trigger drastic changes over time. It’s called the butterfly effect.”

“I've heard about the butterfly effect,” she said, “but what I’d like to know is why Texas. What’s Texas got to do with it?”

“Never mind Texas,” I said. “It’s not germane. Molecular chaos tells us that confined molecules, even in something less than complete disorder, will inevitably move toward greater disorder as they collide.”

“I’m listening,” she said, and I was relieved to finally have her attention. I get a little wound up trying to impress this woman. She’s the family member with the superior cognitive powers, and when she really lets that brain loose, she’s a force to be reckoned with.

“So you see,” I said, “it all boils down to this...”

“Do tell,” she said, leaning forward. “I’m holding my breath.”

The part about holding her breath sailed right past me, but I was buoyed by her attention and pressed on.

“A few squirrel families arrived in our yard and enjoyed abundant food and freedom from predators. Sitting atop the fence day after day, leisurely enjoying a feast of fruit and nuts—they were soon noticed by other squirrels.”

“And crows,” she said. “Don’t forget the crows. They sat in the tall dead tree and announced the feast to all of Waterford. It was like free Dunkin’ coffee and doughnuts.”

Once again, the Dunkin’ motif caught me off guard, but I let it pass.

“The ‘components’ of the squirrel population,” I said, “began to interact exponentially. The more excited they became, the more disorder they achieved, until reaching total chaos.”

Her eyes grew bigger as I approached the punchline. By the time I stopped talking, she was out of her chair.

“The result was inevitable,” she said. “Quantum determinism realized once more. Where we once had seven quiet little tree monkeys playing in our backyard, we now have 20 components interacting in total chaos.”

“In other words,” she added with a smirk, “surprises have emerged!”