Bird Feeder Diplomacy

When I announced my intention to install a "squirrel-proof" bird feeder, Ms. Wonder, ever the documentarian, readied her camera with the enthusiasm of a National Geographic wildlife photographer. Her objective was to get images for my planned articles on 'attracting birds to a feeding station,' 'keeping squirrels out of bird feeders,' and 'interspecies interaction at bird feeders.'

Mimi the Mockingbird arrived first, perching on the fence post with the air of a seasoned diplomat. Her posture suggested she had been elected—or perhaps had elected herself—as the official ambassador for the avian community. I imagined tiny diplomatic credentials tucked beneath her wing.

The negotiations began precisely at 3:15 PM, Eastern Daylight Time. Mutter and his nephews Twizzler and Ziggy observed from the sidelines, their expressions a mixture of challenge and curiosity. The squirrel contingent clearly viewed the new bird feeder as a personal affront to their gastronomic rights.

"This," Mimi seemed to announce to no one and everyone, "is a matter of international—or perhaps inter-nations (animal nations)—importance."

The first breach came not from the expected squirrel suspects, but from Chester, a chipmunk who had apparently been taking notes during advanced engineering classes. While the birds and squirrels engaged in heated debate, Chester performed a series of acrobatic maneuvers that would have made a Cirque du Soleil performer weep with professional jealousy.

With a combination of precision climbing, strategic leaping, and what could only be described as pure rodent ingenuity, Chester accessed the supposedly impregnable bird feeder. But here's where diplomacy took an unexpected turn: instead of hoarding his discovery, he began sharing seeds with his fellow creatures by scattering them on the ground.

The Cardinal family watched with regal interest. Mr. Woodrow, the Red-bellied Woodpecker, ever the curmudgeon, looked on with what I can only describe as a mixture of derision and grudging respect. The doves from the Order of Sisters of Brunswick exchanged meaningful glances that suggested volumes about cooperative problem-solving.

Ms. Wonder, meanwhile, captured every moment. Her camera clicked with the urgency of a photojournalist whose editor emphasized the need to meet a short deadline.

Mutter, the HOA representative for the squirrel community, seemed both impressed and slightly annoyed. Chester's diplomatic approach undermined his planned objections. Twizzler, Mutter's nephew, fell off the fence with a mix of laughter and admiration on his face. Ziggy, his sister, chased him underneath the fence and out of sight.

As the afternoon progressed, what had begun as a potential territorial dispute transformed into a remarkable demonstration of community problem-solving. Birds and squirrels shared the feeder with the help of Chester and a degree of cooperation that would make human diplomats blush.

I was reminded of a quote I once heard: Some solve problems. Some create problems. And some, like Chester, redefine the entire concept of problem-solving. An example of inter-nations diplomacy at its best.

By noon, the backyard looked less like quantum chaos and more like a model of interspecies harmony. Chester, the unlikely hero, continued his seed distribution with the calm efficiency of a UN peacekeeping mission.

Just another morning in our little corner of the world, where diplomacy and good news come in the most unexpected packages—and sometimes, with very fuzzy ears.

Accidental Conspiracy S2 E7

Jack invited me to meet him for coffee at Circular Journey Cafe this morning, promising to share some hot news about the latest film production in town. After the ill-fated attempt to video the production crew at Flaming Amy's, I was ready for some good news.  

“I hope you’re prepared for some really inside stuff," Jack said as I slid into the seat across from him. “I'm talking about the hot stuff, not that warmed-over gossip we've been going over recently.”  

I raised an eyebrow. “You mean something bigger than the announcement of the latest batch of young actors who will be the real stars of Driver’s Ed? I've got the list on my phone.”  

I started swiping left, looking for my notes. "Here it is," I said. "Sophie Telegadis from One Stupid Thing, and Mohanna Krishna from..."  

"Not that," Jack interrupted, stopping me mid-sentence. "That's the run-of-the-mill crap. I've got the goods."  

I took a sip of my coffee, steeling myself. “I'm beginning to think you actually have news.”  

“Exactly,” Jack replied. “Here’s where this Driver's Ed film production really gets interesting. There’s gossip of production schedules being deliberately fabricated to throw off fans and reporters.”  

I blinked. “Fake production schedules?"  

Jack nodded. “Yesterday’s filming was supposed to be at Flaming Amy’s. You went, right?”  

I hesitated. “Well, I tried. I took a wrong turn and then had to park at Whole Foods, which made me walk half a mile through heavy traffic. By the time I got there, nothing was happening. Not a single film crew in sight.”  

Jack grinned. “Exactly. Because the schedule posted online is fake.”  

"There was a posted schedule?"  

Jack stopped grinning. He didn't say anything but gave me a look I couldn't identify. I haven't known him long and don't know him well, but I didn't like the look.  

I sat back, considering. “You’re telling me they’re planting false information just to keep people like me from showing up with a camera?”  

“Not just you,” Jack said. “The entire fanbase. They don’t want crowds swarming the sets.”  

I frowned. “That’s… honestly kind of brilliant. I can't imagine why it isn't routine. But it's also deeply frustrating.”  

Jack shrugged. “Welcome to the new era of movie secrecy.”  

“So what now?” I asked. “Do we crack the code? Find out the real locations?”  

Jack smirked. “That’s the spirit. Let’s see if Hollywood East can keep its secrets from us.”  

I pulled out my phone and opened a new note titled Operation: Reel Truth. “Alright,” I said, tapping away. “Let’s start with the basics. If they’re planting fake locations, how do we find the real ones?”  

Jack leaned back, thinking. “We cross-check permits. The city has to approve street closures for filming. That’s public record.”  

I nodded. “Good start. What about crew sightings? If we track the locations of crew members posting on social media, we might catch a lead.”  

“And local businesses,” Jack added. “If they suddenly close early for a ‘private event,’ that’s a dead giveaway.”  

I grinned. Suddenly, chasing movie crews around town had gotten a lot more exciting. “So we’re agreed? We find a way to expose the truth?”  

I raised my coffee cup in a toast. “To investigative journalism. Or at least, extremely nosy coffee shop gossip.”  

Jack clinked his cup against mine. “To Hollywood East’s best-kept secrets—may they never stay secret for long.”

Flaming Amy S2 E6

The Plan

My mission this morning was to track down the filming location for Driver’s Ed, the new Jonas Pate movie, and get behind-the-scenes photos.

Mr. Pate has described the show as "The Breakfast Club" in a car. Naturally, I must witness this firsthand and share the experience with followers of The Circular Journey.

If you're a regular follower, you know I missed the first day of shooting due to rain. The filming wasn't rained out; my participation was cancelled. I don't like getting wet, and rain in my coffee tastes like regret.

The morning was dry and sunny. Drawing on my knowledge of probability theory, I had previously calculated the likely distribution of potential filming locations. The place most likely to be chosen was the well-known taco stand, Flaming Amy’s. Just to clarify, the Amy of Flaming Amy's is not related to Princess Amy, the resident delinquent in my mind.

A Roundabout of Doubt
Theoretically, I know how to get to Flaming Amy’s, but you know how it is when you have a non-stop conversation running in your head with a chatty limbic system. Well, maybe you don't, but take it from me, it's easy to take a wrong turn.

Driving down Independence Avenue toward the Port of Wilmington, I can't tell one cross street from another.  Shipyard Boulevard looks so much like Carolina Beach Road, it's mind-boggling. I'm just saying.

I decided to take a shortcut up 17th Street, but instead of dropping me where I wanted to be on Oleander, it became a scenic tour of unfamiliar side streets. Princess Amy, riding shotgun as always, slipped into her usual role: Minister of Negative Commentary. 

“We’re lost,” she declared five minutes into our unexpected detour. "We don't have time for your foolishness," she added. "You have a therapy appointment on Pleasure Island this afternoon." 

The irony of needing therapy after this drive wasn’t lost on me.

A Parking Miscalculation
I'm a master of mathematical algorithms, as mentioned above, and I've spent many years designing computer software systems. That's probably new info for most of my followers, but it's a side issue, and we must put that conversation on hold for another time.

At any rate, I knew we were getting close to Whole Foods, and I calculated that it would be an advantageous spot to park, giving me an easy stroll for a couple blocks to Flaming Amy's. Very convenient and quite ingenious of me to think of it at short notice.

Need I say it wasn't a convenient distance, and it wasn't an easy stroll.

The walk became an urban endurance challenge, featuring broad cross streets with few traffic lights and no pedestrian crosswalks. It required sacrificing personal dignity by sprinting for my life to reach the other side.

Princess Amy's complaints reached a dramatic peak long before I realized I'd walked into a closed parking lot and needed to backtrack. At that point, she was so aggravated that she said nothing more and continued to fume. Eventually, I noticed a smell reminiscent of overcooked shrimp. Just saying.

Smells like a Conspiracy
It was then I saw Flaming Amy's. I'm not talking about Princess Amy's over-heated circuits in my head. I'm talking about the actual taco stand. My arrival after the arduous trek from Whole Foods and the even more stressful drive from Chatsford Hall, was not the triumphant arrival that might be expected.

There was not a single film-logoed vehicle in sight. Not one member of the production crew was on location. No cameras were positioned outside the restaurant, and there was not one anxious assistant clutching a clipboard. Nada!

Princess Amy, never one to let the opportunity to imagine a conspiracy go to waste, immediately lept to a theory:

"That stupid film schedule you found online is fake," she announced. "It's intended to mislead fans and nosy bloggers like you, Genome."

"I didn't find a schedule," I said. "I deducted the location from several notices of closed streets and police-controlled traffic. And I also noted that Flaming Amy's is closed on Mondays."

"You poor sap," she said, and please remember that she speaks to me like that only when she's overwrought. She's not responsible for what she says when her anxiety reaches incandescence.

"The real filming locations," she continued, "are probably kept secret to prevent onlookers from ruining the magic. It's a massive disinformation campaign—pure Hollywood."

The Aftermath

I contemplated my next move. I'm still contemplating. Do I go on a

city-wide hunt for the film locations? Do I accept defeat and console myself with an unreasonable number of tacos? We know that's not going to happen, don't we? Does the Genome ever give up? Of course not.

There is one thing we can agree on that will happen. I will write an exposé on the lengths filmmakers go to, hoping to avoid hordes of fans and press. We know because that's what I'm doing now.

I look forward to my next update. The production crew will be filming again this week, and I promise I will be there, regardless of the effort required to get the story. However, I must be careful; I don't usually do well in the aftermath.

One of the followers of The Circular Journey expressed it well in a comment on the post titled "It Was Raining Cats." Her comment was:

"My favorite line from this post is, 'I don't do well in the aftermath, do you?' I actually answered aloud, 'Me either!' I tend to summarize the entire event from both points of view (always leaning toward mine) to anyone who will listen."

I try to always remember that I do exactly that. But I'm sure you knew that already.

Dreams, Dreams, Dreams

I fell asleep tonight listening to a podcast about the measurement problem in quantum mechanics. If you're not a student of the fundamental nature of reality, you may not be familiar with the subject, which is sometimes called the "hard problem" of quantum mechanics.

I could take a short break here to explain the concept but I'd risk putting you to sleep, and I'd rather tell you my story—though admittedly, a podcast that knocked me unconscious hardly makes a compelling advertisement for the topic.

I slept through most of the 90-minute podcast and continued to sleep through the following program, which was about ancient history—specifically Rome during the reign of Tiberius Caesar and the end of the Roman Republic. If you aren't familiar with that particular species of Caesar, and if you aren't familiar with the hard problem, may I ask: What the hell have you done with your life?

Please take no offense; I meant none. I just wanted to remind you that we live in a fascinating world full of exciting opportunities, and that world is all there is—there's nothing more. To make the most of this marvelous gift, you must follow your natural curiosity about anything that intrigues you.

Am I lecturing? I am, aren't I? Forgive me. I should be more careful. You see, I woke in the middle of the night--only a few minutes ago, and I'm a bit wooly-headed like a sheep in a wind tunnel. Probably not the best time to write a blog post, and yet, if I wait until my head clears, I'll forget the details. Come to think of it, I'm forgetting the details now. Let's get back to the dream.

In the dream, I was a child surrounded by playmates and we stood on the veranda of my home perched on a hillside overlooking a protected harbor in Atlantis—yes, that Atlantis, the one that sank faster than my attention span during quantum physics podcasts.

We were engaged in watching a sailing ship in the harbor below us. The ship's painted sails dropped as soon as it entered the harbor, and several rows of oars appeared to move it to the loading docks. I was five when I first had this dream. It comes back regularly as if to remind me that I've had another life.

See? Aren't you happy I kept you awake? The alternative was missing this riveting account of how I fell asleep during an intellectually stimulating podcast only to dream about a mythical civilization. But don't let it fool you. My dream isn't about the life I've lived--it's about a life I wish I'd lived.

Oh, the stories I could tell you, and yet the stories I do tell are about squirrels in my backyard, my espresso klatch at Circular Journey Cafe, and sometimes I tell you stories about writing my blog posts.

All very entertaining stuff to be sure. It must be exciting to be you--looking forward to a new Circular Journey blog post to start your day. It must be like anticipating a mystery gift box from Amazon Prime.

Oh, yes! The Circular Journey blog post of the day! What a gift. It sounds like a music video and smells like a shopping mall food court. Enjoy it, my friend. I do it all for you. I do it for me too but, for me, it's never a surprise.

Genome Journalist

A crisis of sorts has emerged in Wilmawood journalism. I'm scheduled to be away for the next few days, exploring New Bern, which will keep me too busy to update The Circular Journey.

Most patrons of downtown districts won't notice my absence. Life in the Port City will carry on as usual. Trolleys will zip happily through the central districts. Police cruisers will continue to demonstrate their authority by disregarding the ordinary matters of this world. Furrowed brows will remain scarce in coffee shops and bakeries along Castle Street. In short, little visible evidence of the crisis at hand will exist.

Princess Amy has agreed to monitor comments and reply appropriately should any reader express concern over a missing post. Messages of a congratulatory or complimentary nature will receive a hearty thank-you. Everything in between will be ignored.

The average Wilmawood citizen is constantly seeks the latest updates about happenings in their fair city. You see them everywhere, reading their favorite print and digital periodicals while indulging in their preferred stimulant—caffeine, sugar, doggie treats. 

Every class of society is accounted for in the periodicals of our fair city, and The Circular Journey is highly regarded by its audience. After all, it serves as home base for the lightest and brightest.

The Journey presents a different way of living—a more enlightened approach to engaging with those who have evolved a higher level of consciousness. It is, essentially, a guide to leaving the dream life here in paradise.

Writing it is an essential part of my day, helping me combat the melancholy that hovers around my head like a persistent storm cloud. However, I must admit that, up to now, melancholy has maintained a commendable success rate.

Nevertheless, The Circular Journey thrives. It has an ever-growing audience, and its contents are mildly interesting—if you enjoy that sort of thing. Regular features include updates from Crystal Cove, reminiscences of Happy Cats, and the ongoing sagas of Princess Amy. Motion Picture Masterpieces appear from time to time, and of course, Fierce Qigong pops up intermittently—like the demon king of a Thai water opera.

Whether it’s the strain of diving into classic literature every week, or the effort of editing my soon-to-be-published book The Cat Healthcare Advocate, or the relentless arrival of early pollen season, my energy has been utterly drained. My fitness trainer, Ms. Wonder, ordered one week of complete rest in the mountains.

I could have endured this exile from blogging if that were all there was to consider. There are worse places to be stranded than the Carolina mountains in early spring. But fate had another twist in store.

At the last moment, it became painfully clear that pollen would be even more formidable in the hills. Thus, a new plan emerged: we would journey east to the coastal town of New Bern, the colonial capital of Carolina. On a clear day, the pink sands of Bermuda may be seen on the horizon, or so I'm told.

"You must not so much as glance at the blog for one week," declared The Wonder. "Forget it exists. Dismiss it from your mind. Get out in the open and enjoy the sunshine and fresh air."

With tears in my eyes and a tremor in my voice, I entrusted my final instructions to Princess Amy.

"Well, I think that’s everything, Amy," I said. "You understand what I mean about monitoring the comments?"

Amy nodded. She is, of course, an almond-shaped cluster of brain cells, but she's well acquainted with the peculiar way my brain operates.

"Just one more thing," I continued. "Ms. Solveigh Bensen Petersen has a slight tendency—I may have mentioned this before—"

"You did," said Amy.

"And one other thing. You may want to give special attention to my humor. Not that it’s risky exactly, but perhaps a tad… pointed."

"If I notice any humor, I'll know what to do," she said.

"My sense of humor," I explained, "occasionally strays slightly beyond the bounds. So, if anyone complains, you might consider being—well—apologetic."

"Duly noted," she said.

At the door, I paused with the air of a migrating sunbird bidding farewell to its favorite stretch of coastline. I sighed deeply and closed the door.

And so, dear readers, I embark on this journey of enforced relaxation, leaving The Circular Journey in capable hands. I expect to return rejuvenated, brimming with newfound wisdom, and free of pollen-induced despair.

Either that, or I will be found frantically scribbling notes on the back of a New Bern café napkin, unable to resist the siren call of the written word. Only time will tell and we'll find out soon enough—if Princess Amy hasn’t deleted all my drafts in a fit of artistic rebellion.