Don't Go Too Far

I was driving home from Wilmington, mind wandering like a toddler in a toy store.

I'd stopped at the Food Lion grocery store on Oleander because Ms. Wonder asked me to pick up Downy Dark Defender. No, it's not a Marvel superhero; it's merely laundry detergent that promises to defend dark colors from the villainous forces of fading.

I was having one of my interior conversations with Princess Amy, the sort that would have onlookers dialing the nearest mental health facility had I been conducting it aloud.

"Do I want to stop at Circular Journey Cafe for coffee on my way home?"

"No, it's out of the way, and besides, we were there yesterday. Why don't we blow off going home entirely? We have time to get to Ocean Isle Beach like proper delinquents."

I thought it best to ignore her comment; she was beginning to sound like trouble.

"Should I take Highway 74 to the Food Lion or Ocean Highway to Harris Teeter? Food Lion will have the Defender at a lower price, but Harris Teeter is a more direct route."

"Take 74!" Amy insisted with the confidence of a demanding GPS. "It has less traffic. And blow off Defender altogether. We don't need no stinkin' Defender."

"Oops, I missed the turn," I said. "The road forked, and I, like the man in the poem, took the turn no one else seemed interested in. "Oh well, Harris Teeter has easier parking, and I don't excel at spatial reasoning anyway."

I was suddenly inspired to change the subject altogether, the better to nudge Amy off-track.

"Amy, I miss the 1980s, don't you? I miss them every day."

"What do you miss about them?"

"I remember small jazz combos in the Montrose and tiny almost-hidden clubs in League City that booked unheard-of Depeche Mode cover bands—places where the cool factor was inversely proportional to the square footage."

"The good old days weren't always good," she said.

"I know," I said. "I remember the drugs, the barrio, the fights, the laughs, the crying, the screaming. I remember the bouncers at Gilley's playing rock-paper-scissors for the thrill of throwing me out."

"That's right," she said, "Every silver lining has a touch of grey."

"Yeah," I said. "It kinda suits me anyway." I shrugged twice with nothing else to say, like a man who'd rehearsed a clever retort only to find the moment had passed.

"I will get by," Amy said. "I will survive."

Her remark caused me to raise a few eyebrows questioningly. "Is that a Gloria Gayner reference?"

"Grateful Dead," she explained.

"I'm lucky I'm Alive," I countered, "—Jimmy Buffett." That made Amy raise a couple of eyebrows.

She didn't really, I hope you know. Amy doesn't have eyebrows; she's a small clump of gray cells in my brain. She's actually two clumps connected by a sort of electrical pathway, like a biological Ethernet cable. But I think of her as a real person.

That must be the ninety-ninth time I've tried to explain Princess Amy. I think I'll never explain her again. Some mysteries are best left mysterious, like how they get the caramel into the chocolate bars.

"I hear the music, and it changes my life," I said to her, waxing poetic in that way people do when they're avoiding decisions about laundry detergent.

"Without music, life would be a mistake," I added, though I really didn't know what I meant by it, other than it sounded profound in the way only borrowed wisdom can. "Music can change the world because it can change people."

"Music is the strongest form of magic," she said, then added, "Aug 27, 2023," though I don't know why she mentioned it.

I didn't ask her for an explanation because, somehow, our seemingly nonsensical banter felt meaningful, relevant, and wise all on its own, without any need for clarification—like discovering an ancient coin in your pocket and choosing to see it as an omen rather than just a laundry oversight.

We indeed have the freedom to choose how we see reality and, in that way, change reality to suit our needs. Sometimes. I mean, I don't want to get too deep into the woo-woo. I haven't forgotten Santiago's realization at the end of The Old Man and the Sea: 'I went too far out.' 

I understand Santiago's reasoning. I've done it myself—gone too far out. It's easy to do, and it seldom works out well.

As I pulled into the driveway, Defender in hand and memories of the 1980s swirling in my head, I was reminded again that life's journey is truly circular. We chase detergent, miss turns, reminisce about the past, and have philosophical debates with the Amys of our minds—all to the rhythm of a musical soundtrack. 

Perhaps that's the magic of The Circular Journey blog: no matter how far we wander, we always return home, slightly changed but somehow exactly the same, with or without the stinkin' Defender.

Transformation

Experience has taught me to never trust the Universe to follow through on her promises. Wasn't it Shakespeare who said, 'Just when we're feeling our best, Fate is sneaking up behind us with a party horn.' If he didn't say it, he should have.      

So when Wonder encouraged me to finish the book I started about 3 years ago—the one about feline preventive healthcare—I conceded. My agent tried to sell the thing before I was even halfway through it, first to a movie production company and then as a stage adaptation. Nothing came of it.

Can you imagine a musical comedy about feline preventive healthcare making the rounds off-Broadway? Neither can I, though, in fairness, cats are responsible for half the Internet’s traffic, and I suspect the other half is devoted to people trying to figure out what the government will do next.

But let’s not get distracted. The important thing is that I finished the first draft of the manuscript yesterday. More importantly, it’s not just a book to Wonder and me—it’s a promise we made to Eddy Peebody back in 2019. If you’ve read the posts, you know the story. If not, let’s just say it involved a cat, a vow, and no small amount of dramatic flair.

And so, with the draft completed, I was on top of the world—floating, basking, celebrating the triumph. But as Shakespeare (or at least my version of him) warns: don’t hold your breath.

This morning, still reveling in my literary victory, I warmed up Wynd Horse and set sail down Blandings Highway toward the Port City. 

John Cougar was singing Pink Houses on the eighties channel, and I was singing along, belting out the line: 'There's a young man in a t-shirt listenin' to a rock-n-roll station.' The next song to come out of the dash was Come Dancing by the Kinks. If you know anything about Genome, you know what that song means to me.

We Genomes are tough stuff, tempered steel as it were, hardened by the slings and arrows. Stalwart. Unshakable. But we have our limits. Before they came to the end of the first line, 'They put a parking lot on a piece of land where the supermarket used to stand,' I was a blubbering wreck behind the steering wheel.

I cried so hard I was a hazard to myself and the road. I would have pulled over, had it not been for a sudden distraction: a man walking a dog, and that dog was a spaniel mix- part Cocker Spaniel, I'm sure.

A Cocker Spaniel was my first dog. I was six years old, and he was 8 weeks when we first met. We became instant friends, and he was my best and only friend for the first several years of my life.

And just like that, the grief lifted. One moment, I was drowning in a sea of nostalgia; the next, I felt like an unseen hand had pulled me out of a dark hole into the light. I felt like I was on top of the world, sitting on a rainbow. It was as though I'd been rescued from a world where I didn't belong and restored to the world that was mine. In short, I was transformed. 

Is it permanent? Of course not. Nothing is. But the experience was so vivid that the memory will be more than just a mental construct—it will be an emotional landmark. Like the scent of cedar and peppermint at Christmas, the memory of this day will bring it all back.

And when I’m feeling down—when anxiety creeps in or melancholy sets up camp—I’ll read this post and remember. I’ll remember Pluto, my childhood dog. I’ll remember Eddy, my cat. I’ll remember my sister, Delores.

Their memories will restore the love and light that filled my world when they were here with me. It's not everything. It's not perfect. But it's enough, and isn't that all we need? 

 

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 Picture Show Parking Space

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.