Baby Come Back

"Have a nice morning?" she said as I entered the front door.

"Hardly," I said.

"Too bad," she said, "I thought you'd be cheered by a walk on this beautiful morning. Did something go wrong to spoil it?"

"Just Mabd up to her old tricks," I said.




"Mabd?" she said."

"One of the Morrigan sisters," I said. Immediately, her twin eyebrows lifted, and wrinkles appeared on her forehead. It was the kind of look I'd expect if I had told her I was giving up qigong. 

"Celtic goddess," I continued. "A triune, in fact: Mabd, Macha, and Nemain. You probably haven't heard of them."

“No, I haven’t,” she replied, but I decided to move on anyway, recalling a lesson from the day I lost control of my bike in loose gravel—it seemed like a good idea at the time, but it ended with me in a heap in the ditch.

"Yesterday, driving down Ocean Highway listening to the 60's station..."

"You mean 60's on 6, the SiriusXM station."

"You're behind the times, Poopsie. It's, the SXM station, but it's Channel 73 now."

"Why did they change the channel?"

"It's something people do when they're bored," I said. "Let's stay on topic or I'll never get this story told. The programming schedule has recently been changed and the only song they play by Sonny and Cher is Baby Don't Go. I've heard it every day for several days in a row."

"Oh, too bad," she said. "I'll bet you're tired of it."

"Wonder," I said. "Princess Amy was spot on when she said that with all the hit songs that fantastic duo had in the 60s, surely SXM could find room for some of their other hits."

"Princess Amy is in your head," she said.

"Right," I said, "she sits atop my medulla oblongata, next door to the hippocampus. She's bicameral, you know. There are two sides of her--one for each hemisphere, making it impossible to escape her influence."

"My point is that she's your amygdala," she explained. "You often say she's a spoiled little brat, and I like to remind myself that you know the difference."

"Spoiled little brat, my ass," said Amy. "I'll make her think spoiled little brat."

"Calm down," I said. "No need to get your knickers in a wad."

"I am calm," said the Wonder, "and just what are you implying when you say knickers? You're getting distracted."

Well, now I was distracted. I didn't want Wonder to know I actually have conversations with the defendant. My next remarks were carefully chosen, but Wonder spoke before I could say anything.

"Amy is nothing more than a cute name for your limbic system," she said. "It's fun, just like your lagoon creatures are fun, but they're pure fiction."

"Drivel!," Amy said." I may be obliged to listen to drivel now and again but I'll be damned if I'm going to listen to pure bilge. Tell her to put a sock in it!"

I bit my tongue because the urge to calm Amy down combined with the urge to correct Ms. Wonder on the subject of lagoon creatures was great. I'm sure you understand.

"Don't have anything to say? Does that mean that we're in agreement?"

"Back to the subject," I said, "it's a sad song--Baby Don't Go-- and I don't want to listen to sad songs. When I get sad, Amy finds more sad stuff to pile on until my cup overfloweth."

"Sorry, Babe," she said with a look that backed up her statement."

"Thanks," I said, "and to get back to the subject at hand, this morning driving down Ocean Highway listening to the 60's station, guess what happened?"

"Baby Don't Go?"

"No, Sonny and Cher singing Baby Come Back."

"You see? It's a sign--a sign that things have taken a positive turn."

"And you consider it proof that the Universe has your back. Mabd isn't in control."

Did you notice how she seemed to have accepted my theory about the sewer hapies. I can't say I wasn't pleased. But she continued.

"The Morgan sisters are no match for a positive attitude," she said."

"Not the Morgan sisters, Poopsie. The Morgan's are gospel singers who, I'm told, devote themselves solely to doing good in the world. No, it's not the Morgan's, it's The Morrigan Sisters. Their names are Nemain, Macha, and Mabd, and they're sewer harpies, the lot of them!"

She gave me a stern look and took a deep breath, but I hardly breathed. What happened next, I realized, would set the course for the rest of the day. 

"There's a much better explanation for all this," she said. "Would you like to hear it?"

"Absolutely," I said, "but before you speak let me make you aware of the last bit of my story. Just so you have all the facts."

"By all means," she said. "Spill it."

I told her about seeing the sign for Crawl Space Ninjas in the turning lane coming home from the post office. Looking back, I think it might have been better left unsaid.

She gave me a look that wasn't one of her familiar patented looks. It was a look that I would expect if I told her I'd decided to raise cocker spaniels.

"Well," she said, "I suppose there's no arguing with that."

And without further comment, she shimmered and seemed to float up the staircase. Minutes later the sounds of her personal Spotify playlist floated down to me. 

I went out onto the lanai with a cup of espresso, where Amy and I continued our discussion of the SiriusXM program schedule.

Cats Are Forever

Eternal Companions

The bond between humans and cats is as unshakeable as faith. Ancient Egyptians revered them as gods. We may not be as worshipful as the Egyptians, but we still rearrange our lives to accommodate each cat's unique preferences.

Beignet Lafayette, one of our personal deities, claimed three thrones in our house: my pillow when I wasn't using it, my keyboard when I was using it, and when he felt particularly benevolent, my lap.

I've learned that cats have a universal set of priorities. The top place is eating. The second place priority is sleeping. Everything else comes in a distant third to the first two. It makes me wonder if cats may have been sent to remind us that true lasting joy is found in simply existing?

The Joys of Cat Logic

Cats have an internal logic that defies explanation but demands admiration. For instance, a cardboard box on the floor is instantly more appealing than the $40 bed I bought online after reading countless glowing reviews from cat owners.

Similarly, Sagi M'Tesi would paw at the door to go out on the screened porch, only to sit on the threshold for ten minutes as though caught between existential dread and the allure of a slightly warmer breeze.

We may consider these quirks puzzling, but to cats, they’re the foundations of a good life. They may be onto something--why settle for the expected when an unexpected surprise is so much more entertaining?

Life Lessons

If cats had mottos, they’d be deceptively simple: ‘Do what feels right, when it feels right, and only on your terms.’ For example, the unapologetic way they claim space teaches us about setting boundaries. My writing chair? It was claimed by Eddy Peabody, and any protest was met with a slow blink of feline indifference.

They also remind us to live in the moment. When a cat naps in the sun, they nap fully, unbothered by the to-do list piling up around them. It’s not laziness; it’s mindfulness. It may look like laziness, but the lesson is there for anyone willing to pay attention. As my meditation master used to say, "When you nap--nap! Don't plan your future."

Love, Cat Style

Love in cat language is a many-splendored thing, often hidden beneath a veil of dignified aloofness. A headbutt against your hand is not just affection but an official claim: ‘You’re mine now.’”

Cats often express their affection in surprising ways. One common gesture is a slow blink, which indicates complete trust. Lucy, the feral Siamese kitten who watched over our front door at Chatsford Hall, frequently showed her love by leaving a mouse for us to find. Each day we found her gift was Valentine's Day.

Another sign of devoted love is the midnight serenade at the bottom of the staircase. It was Abbie Hoffman's way (no, not that Abbie Hoffman) of saying, I love you.

But make no mistake—cats love deeply and silently, demonstrating that true affection doesn’t need to be flashy. Sometimes, it can be as simple as having a warm, purring presence beside you on a cold evening. Uma Maya had a talent for nestling with me in a way that was so comforting, I looked forward to it every night.

Cats Are Forever

Cats quietly enter our lives and soon fill every corner with their unique quirks, wisdom, and steadfast companionship. They teach us to slow down, find joy in the little things, and bask in the warmth of love—whether it’s the sunbeam they’ve claimed as their own or the spot on the couch next to you.

Long after they leave paw prints on the furniture and in our hearts, their lessons continue to resonate. Cats are eternal because they remind us of a simple truth we often forget: life is better when we embrace it with curiosity, comfort, and a healthy dose of mischief.

Genome in La La Land S2 E1

Let's face it - The Circular Journey's views are stagnant, and I don't like it. I'm used to seeing views increase as I become more consistent. But I've been consistent as dammit for the last few months, and no response. While ups and downs are normal in blogging, the current malaise, while not in the red zone, is deep into the yellow. 

"Merv" is a Belgian malinois

I'm not expecting Fitzgerald or Faulkner's numbers. On the Jeff Goldblum Scale™ of literary excellence, those guys are solid fives. The Journey deserves a rating of two Goldblums, and honestly? I'm proud of that, and I intend to defend that rating.

After some deep diving (aka frantic Googling), I stumbled upon publishing's oldest trick: nothing sells like scandal. American publishers dream of getting banned in Texas or Florida, while their British cousins pray for angry bishops denouncing their books from pulpits. 

One good "This is outrageous!" from clergy, and boom - 10,000 new readers faster than you can say "forbidden fruit."

I never thought I'd say this, but I'm taking the first step on my quest for infamy. After considering all options for being banned from polite society (my usual strategy of bad puns having failed spectacularly), I've settled on a simple plan--simplicity is essential. I'm going to praise Hollywood East.

So here's my master plan for infamy: I'm going full Hollywood East fanboy. That's right - I'm embracing the film industry in Wilmington, aka "Wilmawood." 

Some people believe that Hollywood is the express route to moral decay, so perhaps singing the praises of our local film scene will finally earn TCJ the condemnation it needs to bring the attention it deserves. What one person sees as a den of iniquity, another may see as a smart SEO strategy.

My own forays into local showbiz have been... memorable. Like the time I nearly got kicked off "The Waterfront" set for stalking actors portraying DEA agents, hoping for a video. (Shoutout to that angel of a Production Assistant who hid me in plain sight - genius move!)

 Then there was my spectacular failure to get anywhere near "The Runarounds" - a show about struggling musicians that, fittingly enough, gave me nothing but the runaround.

The first step on my quest for infamy will be the next blog post. The scoop on the heartwarming romantic comedy, "Merv," the tale of a depressed dog playing cupid. Writing about a clinically depressed pooch restoring broken relationships has got to ruffle someone's feathers, right? 

Zooey Deschanel (Queen of Twee herself) is in the starring role and she's joined by some other people--just kidding--Charlie Cox plays opposite Deschanel.  

Downtown Wilmington was the location for much of the film and some scenes were filmed right outside Luna Cafe! Kure Beach, south of the city, doubled as the setting for Florida. Don't question a North Carolina beach becoming the setting for sunny Florida. Ocean Isle Beach, near my home, has become Atlantis for me. 

Wilmawood's turning our city into something special - a place where talent meets opportunity and where you sometimes find zombie extras standing in line at your local cafeinery. 

It's time for individuals with exceptional talent and determination to make a difference. Or in my case, when a blogger with mediocre talent and questionable judgment can at least make people laugh while trying.

So here's to my new mission: championing Wilmawood, one possibly controversial post at a time. Best case? New readers. Worst case? An angry letter from someone who takes themselves way too seriously. Either way, I'm calling that a solid 2.5 Goldblums.

Queen Esther

"I'm going out to Queen Esther's place in Bayshore this morning. I want to get some custom tea. You want to ride with me?" These were the words Ms. Wonder said to me when I emerged from the dream machine one weekend morning.

"I'm sorry," I said. "I'm not quite fully awake and I thought I heard you say something about Queen Esther?"

"Yes, I've run out of the custom tea she makes for me, and it's such a nice day, I thought we'd take the scenic view."

Here we go again, I thought. So many things in so few words. You know how I like to get things right. I mean, Queen Esther? As far as I'm aware, there was only one Queen E., and 'she came to her position for such a time as this,' according to King James.  However, I doubt the original Queen Esther came to her position by brewing custom tea blends for her husband.

The Wonder had me at "ride with me." I never refuse an opportunity to ride shotgun when she drives--I was all in. Beyond that, I happen to know that Bayshore is just off Ocean Highway, and that highway is the most scenic on the coast. 

It's difficult, if not impossible, to choose an ocean route that isn't scenic. In fact, you'd have to deliberately drive with your eyes closed to avoid the scenery, which I don't recommend for reasons I don't recommend riding bicycles using no hands.

Fortunately, I'm discovering there are times to speak up and there are times to shut up. This time was one of the latter. By the way, are you impressed with my personal growth? I know I am, even if I'm alone in thinking it.

The scenic route took us to Queen Esther's Apothecary, where the namesake provided us with a jarful of sea moss and a couple of bags of custom tea tailored to our individual needs. Mine was labeled "Shut Up and Listen Blend"--apparently Esther is not just an herbalist; she's also psychic.

As we exchanged goodbyes, Kendel and Buster entered the shop. Buster held a placard (I think that's what it's called--maybe it was a poster or even next week's lottery numbers for all I knew). He began urging me to hold the thing and pose for photos. Then, swinging a hidden camera from his hip like some sort of artistic gunslinger, he began focusing the lens and giving me directions.

"Yeah, that's it," he said, snapping the shutter. "Now smile--give me a big ole' smile. Right there! Perfect." It seems I'll be the model for next week's social media campaign, called 'Just Make Art.' I couldn't help but think Buster might just as well have said, 'Just stand there looking confused.'

Finally, he put the camera away and took the placard out of my hand, and Kendel held up a swag of t-shirts. "Help yourself to a free shirt," he said. "Which one do you like?"

"I'll take the red one," I said.

"Yeah," said Buster. "Red is good. The green might be too much color for you."

It was the first time I'd heard that green is more colorful than red. You may be better informed about the color hierarchy. It's a mystery to me, but it didn't matter; it was a free t-shirt and who am I to question the color philosophies of someone who gives me free clothing?

"What a great day," I said to Wonder as we drove away.

"Let's stop at River Pottery," she said. "They're going out of business and selling everything at discount prices. "Well, you heard her--I had no choice; she was driving. The words "discount prices" have the same effect on Wonder that "free food" has on a college student.

She decided to walk the store in one direction, and she sent me in the other. I wasn't looking for anything in particular, but apparently, it's better if I don't accompany her when she's shopping. Something about my sighs being "too dramatic."

As soon as I turned the first corner, I heard someone yell, "Genome!" But I ignored it, thinking I hadn't heard correctly--the thought never entered my mind that I might stumble over someone I know.

"Genome!" said the voice again. This time I assumed there was another Genome in the store and kept walking. Because what are the odds of running into someone you know in a pottery store? Now I think about it, the odds must be about the same as finding two people called Genome.

But the voice didn't give up easily. He circled around and headed me off at the pass. It was my old friend Cisco from Chatsford, proving that either the world is smaller than we think, or I'm not as invisible as I sometimes want to be.

You may not remember Cisco—he's mentioned in some of my older posts—but I'm sure you remember Chatsford. I wrote some of my best work there and have fond memories of the place. We had a great old meetup at the Pottery, and he agreed to meet Island Irv and me at Egret's next Sunday.

What a day! It began as a simple tea run but turned into an impromptu photo shoot, a lesson in color theory I'm still trying to understand, and a surprise reunion. Some might call it just another day in paradise, but I call it another adventure with Ms. Wonder--where even a "quick errand" becomes a story worth telling. 

I'm beginning to suspect, between my "Shut Up and Listen" tea blend and my apparently-not-too-colorful red t-shirt, the universe might be trying to tell me something--she often does try, but I never understand what she's talking about. I'll ask The Wonder about it, I'm sure she'll have some useful insight to share.

Morning Has Broken

Gray skies pressed against my kitchen window as I scattered sunflower seeds for the backyard wildlife. The squirrels were conspicuously absent—probably huddled in their cozy tree nests, avoiding the morning's damp chill. Just like me, they seemed reluctant to fully embrace another depressing day.

Not a single bluebird sang in the forest and I suddenly felt the need for guidance from a higher power, and so I went indoors to seek advice from my personal oracle of wisdom--that's right, Ms. Wonder.

At the bottom of the stairs, I called out, "I've reviewed the work opportunities you suggested!" All I received in response was silence. Typical. When Wonder is in her photography studio, she can tune out the sounds of the Apocalypse or the onset of Judgment Day, and remain focused on adjusting lens apertures.

I entered her workspace, where organized chaos reigned supreme. Abstract photographs on stretched canvas lay strewn across the floor along with camera bodies and lens cases, creating a landscape of professional creativity. She looked up, one eyebrow arched—and a look that implied, What is it this time?

"I've shortlisted three potential career paths," I explained. "But Princess Amy has... concerns."

Ms. Wonder's lips twitched—the closest she ever comes to actually laughing at my concerns. "Let's hear it," she said.

"Your first suggestion seems promising," I said. "Responding to online surveys is appealing, and ZipRecruiter tells me sharing my opinions could bring in as much as $30 hourly. I like the sound of that."

"But Amy has other ideas?" she said.

"She thinks the surveys are used by the Illuminati to harvest thoughts from unsuspecting participants, and then the data is used for their nefarious porpoises."

"Purposes," Ms. Wonder corrected.

"Tonsils," I muttered. "They got in the way. Sorry."

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath—so deep I worried she'd hyperventilate. "Market research isn't mind control. Those survey rates are likely inflated, but they might provide pocket money while you explore more substantial opportunities."

"That is true," I said. "I'll keep surveys on the shortlist. As for option two, freelance writing, the market shows solid growth and reasonable compensation. But Amy's worried about "word demons."

"Like in Stephen King's 'The Dark Half'?" asked The Wonder and her disbelief filled the room. "Word demons?"

I nodded. "She's convinced they might control my creative thoughts. Of course, she's thinking of the sewer harpies, not word demons. She suggested they might cause me to write trashy romance novels--like bodice-rippers--instead of thoughtful essays."

"Let me get this straight," she said, holding up her hand in a universal gesture indicating don't try me too high. "You're worried about mind control and word demons. Now, let’s complete the triad. What’s your concern about temp work? I know you must have one."

"Amy is really worked up about that one. She says temp agencies are modern fairy courts. Unsuspecting mortals sign contracts for light office work, only to find themselves in eternal servitude to the Seely Court."

Ms. Wonder's reality check was swift and surgical. "Temp agencies are businesses matching workers with short-term opportunities. Not portals to alternate dimensions."

Having methodically dismantled Amy's elaborate conspiracy theories, she posed the critical question: "Which option best matches your skills and schedule?"

The answer, suddenly, was crystal clear. "Freelance writing," I admitted. "I can work from home without risking eternal bondage in service to supernatural entities."

"Excellent," she said, returning to her portfolio. "By the way, if you write trashy romance novels, I expect the first one to be dedicated to me."

I smiled. Ms. Wonder had once again transformed my scattered anxieties into a clear vision of the path forward. A new morning had indeed broken, reminiscent of that first morning we shared in Brookgreen Gardens.

A new chapter opened in my life--one filled with possibility. As for Princess Amy, she remained suspiciously quiet—probably plotting her next conspiracy theory.