Becoming Authentic Genome

My recovery from the burden of conformity and becoming my true self, the authentic Genome, is the central theme of The Circular Journey. It's the reason this blog exists. Occasionally, the core message can get lost in the self-aware humor I use to lighten up the work of personal growth.

As a child, I was taught to be quiet and obedient, which translated to the holy trinity of childhood virtues: sitting still, staying silent, and avoiding trouble—particularly in the hallowed arena of family gatherings. Consequently, during those Sunday afternoon congregations of extended family, I stood out from my same-age cousins like a librarian at a heavy metal concert.

My behavior was so dramatically different from the other kids that I might have registered a decimal point on the Richter Scale—technically present but nothing of seismic significance. No wonder I was regarded as mentally questionable and distressingly "different." 

When I entered the grand theater of public education at age six, I felt like the only actor who didn't receive a script or character description. I discovered it was easier to pretend to be like everyone around me than to be true to the person inside. So I improvised with the desperation of a man attempting to build a parachute after jumping from the plane.

Throughout my early life, I studied the behavior of my peers, adjusting my performance accordingly. By high school, I'd refined my chameleon act to perfection. I collected personalities like some collect baseball cards.

Oddly enough, this exhausting act propelled me toward what society terms "success." By my twenties, I'd mastered the art of being precisely what each situation demanded. 

Job interviews became performances where I was The Perfect Candidate, and romantic relationships thrived as I took on the role of the man my partners were searching for. My elaborate maze of personas left me questioning whether I would ever reconnect with my original self.

Around my late thirties, the facade began to fracture, culminating in a chaotic incident that resulted in what my therapist would later delicately term "an episodic break from consensual reality." I've always liked her way of describing what's usually thought of as an emotional breakdown.

Through court-mandated therapy, I slowly began a journey of self-discovery and self-awareness that helped me become re-acquainted with my authentic self, after years of pretending to be someone I never was.

My therapist—a woman with the patience of a geological formation and a refreshing ability to never be impressed by my performances—became my guide on the journey to authenticity. 

With her help, I learned to accept that my true self was never lost. Now, I embrace this rediscovered self like new shoes—initially awkward but surprisingly fitting. I may not fully understand who I've become, but I've found comfort in being myself.

Dawn Chorus at Airlie Gardens

Up early with words to write...

You probably think morning begins early where you live but let me tell you, the morning begins far earlier than you can imagine when you promise to accompany Ms. Wonder to experience the dawn chorus at Airlie Gardens. 

Perhaps I should explain the "dawn chorus" is a symphony performed by a collection of different bird species, joining together to welcome the dawn in early spring. Think of it as America's Got Talent and you're the judge. The male birds sing a collection of favorite love songs to impress the females.

I've got a hunch that females sing too but their contribution is overlooked by male researchers. Sounds about right, doesn't it?

Airlie Gardens is a 67-acre Eden that lies along the Cape Fear River in Wilmington, North Carolina and dates back to the eighteenth century. It's a popular destination for residents and visitors--people and birds.

Ms. Wonder explained to me the experience would be "transformative," a word that always makes me uneasy. When Dr. Coast, and every other therapist in recent memory, uses that word she usually means it's going to require a lot of hard work over an extended period of time.

Dark green a branch ascends a garden wall...

Nevertheless, I found myself fumbling for clothes in the dark, trying not to wake the sensible part of my brain that was still enjoying its REM cycle. Twenty minutes later, I was trudging through dew-soaked grass toward our selected viewing spot--the "spring garden," wondering if transformation always required this much yawning.

Ms. Wonder, always the consummate artist, provided a lyrical description of the changing light and awakening landscape.

"I love the way the world is revealed in stages," she said. "It's like a painter slowly adding color to a vast canvas."

"Yeah," I said but not in a sour way; I simply wasn't yet fully awake. "No longer night, and not yet day," I continued because once I get started, it's hard to stop. "

Silence followed. Not awkward exactly, more like embarrassed. "Can we just be quiet and enjoy the morning?" she said.

As we stood there underneath the oaks, the water of the garden ponds transformed from black mirrors to liquid silver. Mist hovered above the surface, performing its morning dance before surrendering to the sun's inevitable arrival.

Oh, no! Somebody stop me. Do you see what I mean when I say once I start, it's nearly impossible to stop. But I'll try, really I will. I'll take a few deep breaths.

As dawn's embrace begins to wane...

It was about this time that Princess Amy decided to make her move. My internal monologue cycled between grudging appreciation and righteous complaint. 

"So it's beautiful," Amy said. "But it would be just as beautiful at, say, 9 AM?" 

A cardinal's clear whistle cut through the morning air, and I thought, "Okay, that was worth hearing." 

"You would have enjoyed it more at a reasonable hour after eating pancakes," said Amy.

The debate continued and the jury in my mind remained stubbornly deadlocked on whether this early rising qualified as wisdom or madness.

And Nature's secrets grow...

That's when a memory from years ago came back to me—a great blue heron standing still as a sculpture at the edge of a lagoon. For fifteen minutes, I watched it in perfect stillness. Then, with a strike so swift it barely registered, the heron speared a fish and lifted it to the sky. It almost seemed an expression of gratitude.

Perhaps she was distracted by a shadow passing overhead. Whatever her reason for pausing, it seemed like a gesture of thankfulness, leaving me speechless. I'd come to observe nature; I hadn't expected to witness grace. 

Ms. Wonder had wandered off earlier, camera in hand, leaving me to my bird-watching and Amy's running commentary. I'd been so engrossed in the heron memory that I hadn't noticed her return until I heard her say, "Sometimes, all it takes is being in the right place at the right time." 

She was watching another heron as she spoke, and I suddenly realized that I was in the right place at the perfect time at that very moment.

Mystery of life...

Walking back to the car, now fully awake and oddly energized, I found myself reconsidering the value of my standard morning routine—the news headlines, email checks, and social media scrolling that typically launch my day. 

Nature's rhythms happen with or without human audience or approval, yet we rise early, fighting our desire to stay snug in our beds, to experience the rituals—not because they need us, but because we need them. 

As Amy finally quieted in my mind, I realized that witnessing the world wake up had, in fact, been transformative. I'd just have to avoid telling Ms. Wonder she was right until after my nap.

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

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

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.