Dream Hangover

"Guess whose hand you're going to shake today?" asked the voice in my head when I woke up this morning. If that sentence makes no sense to you, imagine how I felt when I heard it.

Some mornings begin with a smile; others start with a sneer. I may stumble into the loo only to discover I forgot to buy toothpaste. That's a bother. Other mornings, my search for espresso finds only empty boxes. That's disaster. 

I was awakened this morning by that taunting mystery voice. And as if that wasn’t bad enough, Princess Amy was in a snit. Earth's foundations were crumbling.

Amy followed me to the kitchen, looking like she’d had a rough night. Her shoulders drooped, accentuating the downturn of her lower lip. To be fair, I hadn’t exactly waltzed out of bed refreshed either, but I was doing my best to shake it off—not an easy task with morning breath and no coffee.

"Cheer up, Amy, old girl. Why the long face?" I said, adopting my most cheerful, back-slapping tone. I refrained from any actual back-slapping—she’s not equipped with a dorsal side.

"Oh, I don’t know," she replied, her tone full of the kind of melodrama I’d rather avoid first thing in the morning. "Could it possibly have something to do with being bored as far as manic psychosis?"

My ears pricked up. Amy, when bored, is a dangerous thing. When her mind idles, she has a habit of engineering pranks so diabolical they border on intergalactic warfare. Death Stars come to mind. Immediate action was required.

"What would you like to do?" I asked, emotionally preparing for damage control.

She shrugged. "Got any ideas?"

"I'm going out to scatter peanuts for the squirrels. You can join me if you like."

Another shrug, but she followed me outside, where we scattered squirrels by scattering nuts. It’s impossible to stay glum when surrounded by a squirrel circus, and by the time we re-entered the kitchen, Amy’s mood seemed to have lifted.

"What I don’t understand," I said, "is how you woke up in a foul mood, and I didn’t."

"I had bad dreams," she said. "Several of them."

"Ah," I nodded sagely, like one of those world-weary detectives in an old black-and-white film. "A dream hangover."

"Describes it pretty well," she admitted. "I dreamed of the cats. Sad dreams."

"Oh, our cats?"

"Of course, our cats. I don’t have memories of any other cats."

At that moment, out of nowhere, I had a stroke of brilliance—the kind of idea that arrives unannounced and has nothing to do with the conversation at hand but is, nevertheless, an absolute winner. It's quite a common occurrence for the Genomes. I remember my great-uncle Carl did it often.

"I have just the thing!" I declared. "Wonder keeps one of her special elixirs in the fridge in case I get blue and need a pick-me-up. You should try it. It’s one of the wonders she’s known for."

Amy eyed me warily. "What’s in it? I’m not drinking anything with a raw egg in it."

"She keeps the ingredients secret," I admitted. "I’ve identified a few, but the rest remain a mystery."

I poured a small measure into a tumbler and handed it to her.

"Don’t sip it," I warned. "Bottoms up!"

Now, when I drink the stuff, I often feel as if the top of my head has blown off, and my eyes seem to bulge like Slick Joe McWolf's. These effects are accompanied by the sound of the Flintstones' steam whistle signaling the end of a work shift. Judging by Amy’s expression, she was experiencing much the same effect.

"What is that?" she sputtered, shoving the glass back at me.

"Well, I know for certain there's cayenne," I said, "and I suspect turmeric, ginger, and lime juice. What else is in there remains a mystery."

"Yeah, well, it’s got Blenheim’s ginger ale in it, too. I’m sure of that."

"Feeling any better?" I asked.

She considered. "A bit, yeah. Give me another shot."

I questioned the wisdom of her drinking another glassful. She'd already had more than the recommended dose for anyone over the age of twelve. Still, I felt really bucked from the effect of spreading goodness and light. 

I poured a second tumbler and handed it to her, asking myself, What could possibly go wrong?

The Last Parking Space S2 E4

The filming location for the Driver's Ed movie is in downtown Wilmawood this week. Bobby Farrelly is directing another Netflix young adult film, and the entire area is a madhouse of production trucks, extras, and onlookers hoping to catch a glimpse of someone famous. When I arrived this morning, the place looked like a monster truck rally.

I planned to report behind-the-scenes activities in a post on The Circular Journey. I stopped at the light on Fourth Street, trying to maintain a zen-like composure in stark contrast to the anxiety building in my chest. I was about to commend my soul to God and turn onto Orange Street to enter the quest for the elusive parking space.

"Breathe," I said to myself. "Just breathe."

"Look at them," whispered Amy, my internal play-by-play announcer, her voice dripping with sardonic glee. "The wild parking warriors in their natural habitat."

A massive grip truck swooped into a space I'd been eyeing as Wynd Horse  (my trusty vehicle) cruised up the street. 

"Vultures, I tell you. Production parking vultures," said Amy.

"That's the third space we've missed," she observed in a more reasonable tone. "Maybe we should park on Castle Street and walk."

"What?" I said, "Are you suggesting surrender? Not today, Amy." I could hear her giggling and realized she was playing both ends against the middle. Hedging her bets--hoping to get the best of me no matter what I did.

The area was a gladiatorial chess game of automotive positioning. Production assistants in headsets, crew members with coffee, actors in costume—all weaving through a labyrinth of vehicles. A location scout wearing a day-glow orange headset appeared to be practicing some form of parking meditation, waiting with impossible patience.

A minivan backed out near the catering trucks. Victory was within reach! But no—another vehicle, seemingly materializing from thin air, slid into the space with the precision of a stunt driver.

"Oh, come ON!" Amy screamed internally.

And then, something unexpected happened. The location scout in the headset was waving to me. She pointed to a space I hadn't seen, tucked behind a massive equipment trailer. A small gesture, a moment of unexpected kindness in the Wilmawood parking jungle.

I maneuvered Wynd Horse into the space. I was equally grateful for the help finding parking and embarrassed by my earlier parking lot aggression.

"See?" I could hear Ms. Wonder say as if she were in my head instead of being back home in Chatsford. "Persistence and patience are the keys," she seemed to say.

Princess Amy grumbled something about star parking and strategic positioning, which got way over my head. She began muttering something about an actor who refused to play his part--probably Shakespeare. She clearly wasn't speaking to me, so I ignored her. When she's in these moods, the best response is no response.

The parking area continued its manic dance as we navigated our way through the automotive maze. Trucks weaved in and out as drivers made their own rules; it was a mobile madhouse.

As I walked through the chaos of vehicles and film production assistants, it occurred to me that we're all just trying to find our own space in the parking lot of life. Keeping that in mind helps foster a little more patience and understanding, rather than forcing events to go our way.

The production buzzed with life. Cameras, lights, the hum of controlled creativity filled the air. And somewhere behind us, the parking lot warriors continued their gladiatorial quest for that most elusive of urban treasures—the perfect parking space.

Back at Chatsford Hall, near the end of the day, Wonder was packing her photography gear for an evening river tour. She boards the Henrietta from the River Walk downtown to capture abstract images of the ships in port.

"What's the parking situation like downtown?" she asked stuffing her tripod into a shoulder bag.

"I had no trouble parking on Orange Street," I said. "It's a little congested, but a little patience works wonders. She gave me a knowing look and a half smile. I think she got the hint. But she's a wonder worker; a little traffic won't get in her way.

Know Myself

Mimi the Mockingbird takes up her post on the east bank of the backyard fence as soon as I enter her world. She eyes me with a wild, penetrating glare. In her brief glance, she comes to know me, wholly.

Her eye is like any other if she looks away for a second. But when she turns to look at me, the eye lights up with a wild intelligence like a living lighthouse flashing through a dark, Atlantic night.

She seems to know my intentions, mood, and character in a single, lightning-quick glance. I suspect she knows me more thoroughly than most of my human acquaintances ever could—and certainly far better than I know myself, which, to be fair, isn't a high bar by any means.

She isn't afraid of me, not in the slightest. She follows me as I ladle birdseed on the fence posts, fully confident in her ability to easily outmaneuver me. She's like a chess grandmaster who realizes I don't know how to play the game.

Her keen awareness reminds me of Master Wen's teachings in the dào chǎng—those intense martial arts sessions where understanding your opponent was as essential as understanding yourself. Mimi would have been Wen's favorite student, capable of seeing through any pretense and likely correcting my form while she was at it.

The young squirrel, Zwiggy, peeks cautiously through the fence, tempted by the walnut pieces I placed on the fenceposts. His little body quivers excitedly, suggesting he can hardly wait for me to move farther away. It's a common struggle shared by squirrels and people—concern for our physical well-being versus the temptation of snacks.

He keeps me company as I walk the fencerow but always out of reach. He lacks the level of confidence that defines Mimi. He doesn't know me enough to trust me. To him, I am unknowable, like quantum computing.

His relationship with me is like the relationship I have with most of my human acquaintances. I feel confident enough to spend time in their company but not enough to let them really know me. 

My fear isn't rooted in any specific knowledge about my associates but in my uncertainty. I lack Mimi's self-confidence, that assuredness that comes from truly knowing one's abilities and recognizing one's limits. It's a peculiar form of existential stage fright—being on stage in front of the audience and unsure of your next line.

Master Wen would undoubtedly raise a questioning eyebrow at my current state of uncertainty. He would be right to do so. This is precisely why I'm returning to the Brunswick dào chǎng tomorrow morning—not as a retreat but as a pilgrimage back to self-understanding.

I intend to know myself as thoroughly as Mimi knows me, with a lighthouse's unwavering clarity. In tomorrow's post, I'll let you know how it goes. I'm happy you're here. See you tomorrow.

The Starting Line

Welcome back to The Circular Journey!

It's great to see you again, but I see that you're here after sunset, which usually means your cable's down or the streaming service is jammed. I do hope that's not the case with you. I'll do my best to keep you entertained until bedtime.

I should mention this isn't a typical Circular Journey post. This one is delightfully unplanned and unrehearsed. You see, I usually write about the absurd events of my day, outlining the details to shape a mildly entertaining story.

Next, I develop the outline into a sort of screenplay. Once I've memorized the script, I complete the final draft. I then let it sit for a day or two, allowing time for all the ingredients to become fully seasoned. Finally, I sprinkle in Princess Amy or the sewer harpies to give it extra zip.

You're probably thinking about now that Ms. Wonder developed this style of blogging for me. I completely understand why you'd think that. But I actually came up with the tactic myself through much trial and error. And I'm quite pleased with the results. I enjoy reading my posts immensely.

It's not only me who enjoys this nonsense. Thousands follow The Circular Journey, and I often receive flattering comments, which, let me tell you, make my day. I hope you leave one when you finish today's post. Here's a recent one from Hal K.:

"I particularly enjoyed reading this post. It has such a strong, distinctive voice. I especially loved the part about the writers 'frisking in perfect masses' and the clever "fake to the right" technique with the inflected vowels."

Thanks for your continued support Hal K.

The trigger for this missive comes from a bit I heard on the Late Late Show with Craig Ferguson. In his monologue--he calls it a monologue but it's actually a conversation with his gay robot skeleton and 'not-a-real-horse'.

"The four-man bobsled teams are comprised of specialists with specific responsibilities," Craig said. "One man is called the pusher, responsible for getting the bobsled off to a fast start. The other three are the pimp, the hustler, and the player."

You're surely wondering why that silly joke stuck with me, and I'll tell you. As soon as he said it, I thought, "Why don't I think of stuff like that?"

Let's be honest, the joke isn't funny. Still, it's a thought that fits my style of comedy, and if I'd thought it, I'd have polished it right up to the starting line (or punchline). I'd turn that little nugget into comedic gold.

And there's the rub, isn't it? We creators are our own worst critics, comparing our behind-the-scenes footage to everyone else's highlight reel. I'm losing sleep over a joke about bobsledding, while Craig Ferguson is probably lying awake wondering why he never thought of my bit about a GPS that gives directions in riddles.

Creativity isn't a competition. It's more like... imagine a four-person bobsled team where one person is the writer, one is the inner critic, one is the procrastinator, and one is the coffee maker. Sometimes, they work in perfect harmony. Other times, the inner critic gets too loud, the procrastinator refuses to push, and the coffee maker is too depressed to froth the milk.

But you know what? My bobsled team keeps showing up, and I'll bet your team does, too. We keep pushing that sled to the starting line, and sometimes, we get brilliant ideas that make others say, "Why didn't I think of that?"

I'm writing this raw, unedited post at an hour when sensible people are binge-watching their favorite shows. Maybe I should be doing the same--stop striving for perfection and simply wing it. I'd have much more time for YouTube clips of the Late Late Show.

Thank you for joining me tonight. I love having you here, so please come back soon. Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to work on my new bit about a meditation app narrated by a passive-aggressive qigong master. Unless Ferguson beat me to that idea, too.

A New Movie Masterpiece S2 E3

I hadn't planned on stopping at the coffee shop that morning. But fate, as it often does, had other ideas—like an overzealous cousin who insists you attend a gathering of relatives you've been dodging since Christmas.

The moment I stepped inside, I spotted Jack holding court at a corner table while Lupe, Claudia, and Island Irv watched with expressions ranging from amusement to weary resignation.

 You will remember Jack as the writer I met recently who assured me I'd love Hollywood. Apparently, he moved there to become a screenwriter but left for reasons unknown to this writer—I'd guess he was either fired or indicted.

"That hasn't been proven yet," I heard Claudia say, stirring her latte with the air of a woman who's heard one too many questionable stories before lunch.

"Not yet! But it will be!" Jack announced, nearly upending his espresso with the flourish of an orchestra conductor on his fourth coffee.

"Jack is telling us about the latest movie to be filmed in Wilmington," said Lupe, in the tone of someone reporting their neighbors believe they've been abducted by aliens.

"I have a friend at Cinespace Studios with a copy of the screenplay," Jack said. "He called offering me a scoop for the New Hanover Review."

Lupe turned to me. "What do you think?"

I understood the reason for questioning the facts of the story. "Well, my first reaction is 'no way'—there should have been press coverage by now. But assuming it's true, who's in it?"

"Oh, it's true," he said, glancing around with a furtive air before lowering his voice. "Scarlett Johansson and Channing Tatum."

"That's surely not true," I said. "Fresh off 'Fly Me to the Moon,' they're one of Hollywood's hottest pairs."

"That's what everyone says," Jack said, and I swear to you, he puffed up like a peacock.

"And that's not the half of it," he said, and suddenly, his eyes took on a dreamy look. "This production is going all out—creating a helluva wardrobe for her. This picture will have glitz."

I looked at the others around the table. Everyone shrugged. I sought frantically for something to say that wouldn't bring him down. Goodness and light is what I'm known for.

"Audiences are dying for glitz," I said.

"Tell Genome the storyline," said Claudia, placing her spoon on the table with a precision that became her well.

Jack stood and began pacing around the table like a barrister about to deliver the summation that would save his client from the gallows. "Johansson plays Zaira Nazarie, a quantum theorist at the IBM Watson Research Center."

"That's well and good, but what's the story?"

Jack clapped his hands with the ecstatic look of a writer who's just heard that the studio wants to option his screenplay.

"Quantum computers suffer errors unknown to classical computers--errors that standard techniques can't fix," he intoned, as though reading from an invisible teleprompter. "Scarlett is summoned to develop technology to detect and correct these errors as they occur."

"Good start," I said, nodding like a dashboard ornament.

"No one else understands the technology, but her leadership prevails. Before she's done, she and her staff accomplish heroic labors and save the free world from communist-dominated error correction."

My eyebrows climbed toward my hairline as though trying to escape the wonderland we seemed destined for.

"She turns up at a high-level Washington meeting in a truly divine outfit. In one scene, she says to the President, 'Hello, kiddo. Can't you just see it?'"

"But where does that lead?" I asked.

"The plot asks: 'Can a girl from New Jersey direct a high-security political scheme without becoming disenchanted with the government?'"

"Sounds like a crisis of confidence."

"Absolutely. When subordinates led by a Marine lieutenant colonel, portrayed by Tatum, attempt to sidestep the project with the Russians, our heroine manages it like a strong, empowered woman."

"How's that?" I asked, feeling like Alice tumbling down that rabbit hole.

"She uncovers a Russian spy on her team who's working for the Chinese. The climax features a hair-pulling catfight between our gal and the Chinese spy on the Capitol steps."

He looked at us as though expecting our comments but we sat there with our confusion hanging like fog over the Memorial Bridge.

"Oh, is that the time?" he suddenly exclaimed, glancing at his watch. "I'm late!" 

He gulped his coffee and exited the cafe before anyone could throw a napkin dispenser at him. After his departure, my companions turned to me. "Well?" they said in syncopation.

"I don't feel good about it," I admitted.

Later, as I went about my day, I kept thinking about his bizarre story. I drove past the café in the afternoon and recognized Jack's car parked across the street. I found him inside looking as blue as heartache.

"My friend didn't have the screenplay," he said. "The studio's keeping everything locked up."

"Who is your source, anyway? The guy who works at Cinespace?"

"You wouldn't know him. He hangs out at Barbary Coast Bar with the other movie reviewers."

"Barbary Coast? Was Jamaican rum involved?" I asked, seeing the whole picture with clarity.

"He was drinking rum," he admitted finally.

"Jack," I said with more sympathy than I'd felt before now. "You should have read my blog post titled, 'Time for a Cool Change.' Intel from the Barbary Coast Bar will be sketchy at best when Jamaican rum is on hand.

He didn't take the news well. "Don't be too upset, bro. A new movie will begin filming in Wilmawood soon. It's called 'Driver's Ed' with Molly Shannon and Kumail Nanjiani in the lead roles. It's directed by the Farrelly Brothers. It should be fun. Start reading The Circular Journey blog to stay updated."