Let the Good Times Roll!

The Pilgrimage That Wasn't: A Mardi Gras Story

If things had gone as planned—not that they ever do—I would have arrived in New Orleans that afternoon. It was Mardi Gras! 

Didn't happen, of course. Cobblestones are the reason. 

If you're one of the regulars who are never happier than when curled up with one of my stories, you may remember the post about my last visit to Charleston, SC. You can find that post by searching for: 'Charleston Memories.' 

Picture this: narrow little streets from an earlier era, cobblestone alleyways hiding in wait like mischievous cats, ready to throw off their whiskers and pounce the moment you stop paying attention. 

Those charming old pathways between colonial-era shops are wonderfully uneven, irregular cobblestone trails leading to embowered interiors flanked by large potted tropical plants. Beautiful, yes—but treacherous.

The footing is never predictable, and walking them requires a ramshackle gait and mindful maneuvering, something I sometimes forget. To put it simply: I stumble. Life is often like that; well, my life. At least that's the story I tell; you may tell it differently.

As I learned during my Charleston wanderings, cobblestones aren't level, aren't ordered, and definitely aren't boring. They can't be walked without paying attention to what you're doing and where you're going—which is a good thing, really. Keeps you in the moment. Of course, that life lesson didn't prevent me from taking an unfortunate tumble that scotched my Mardi Gras plans.

But this post isn't about Charleston; it isn't even about New Orleans. It's about the planned pilgrimage that would take me to the sacred places of my own personal mythology. 

New Orleans is one of those special places from my past, and if there are secular pilgrimages in America, then Mardi Gras is surely one. Mardi Gras, of course, is framed by Epiphany at the beginning and Ash Wednesday at the close. Between those holy days is a period of indulgence and joyful celebration of life. 

This symbolic timing is significant when viewing Mardi Gras as a secular pilgrimage. Just as Christmas combines a secular aspect, represented by Santa Claus, with a religious one, celebrating Christ's birth, Mardi Gras also unites the spiritual and the profane. 

As I mentioned at the beginning, I didn't make it to New Orleans; I'm actually sitting in Wilmington's Egret Cafe, far from Durham, where I originally made plans for my pilgrimage more than twelve years ago.

Obviously, those well-laid plans for a mythological pilgrimage 'ganged agley.' I still plan to make that journey one day. But for today, I'm happy to be in Wilmington, thinking of New Orleans, and celebrating the joys of being alive—even if life is sometimes paved with cobblestones that demand we stay present, stay mindful, and occasionally, stay off our feet to heal.

Even though the New Orleans pilgrimage is somewhere in a nebulous future, I will be making a pilgrimage of a different sort soon. I hope you'll come back regularly so that I can tell you all about it.

Until then, stay happy and healthy. I hope you're celebrating the joys of life with me. Laissez les bons temps rouler!

Tootsie Roll Epiphany

My favorite barista, Laura, was ringing up my order when she directed a curious look toward the neighborhood of my right ear. I immediately assumed there was a noodle hanging there, which sometimes happens at lunchtime, but it turned out to be something far more interesting.

"A Tootsie Roll is coming out of your ear," she said.

Well, those weren't her exact words, but that's what my startled brain heard. And as soon as she said it, I knew the Universe was tapping me on the shoulder with one of its cosmic pranks; a reminder that the material is not what it seems, no doubt.

Because, let's be clear: Tootsie Rolls don't move about by ear-hole; they're delivered by 18-wheelers like the one seen through the window behind me, at just the right height to align with my ear from Laura's vantage point. A perfectly mundane explanation for a delightfully absurd moment.

The timing couldn't have been better. Just before Laura's vision, I'd been planning a new meditation workshop. I'd spent most of the morning thinking about how our minds tell us things that aren't true; how they create stories, fill in gaps, and sometimes convince us that Tootsie Rolls are sprouting from our ears. 

Meditation, I would explain to my students, can teach us to harness our minds in more beneficial ways; to see clearly, in other words. To distinguish true reality from the stories we tell ourselves.

And here was the Universe, right on cue, delivering a perfect teaching moment via an 18-wheeler and a barista with a good eye for visual comedy.

Now, for those of you who think the purpose of this post is to announce my workshop, you're close. I'm actually announcing a new blog that will focus on meditation and these little moments where reality reveals itself to be far stranger—and funnier—than we usually notice. I'll tell you all about it in that blog. I know it's a nick out of time, but that's the way I work. Sometimes enlightenment arrives by Tootsie Roll truck, and sometimes blog announcements arrive sideways.

Stay tuned. And watch out for what's emerging from your ears.

Mindfleet Academy:The Ultimate Assistant

Welcome to The Circular Journey, where life is beautiful, and if your AI assistant makes better decisions than you do...well, stranger things have happened, and perhaps it's time to reconsider who's actually steering the ship. Terms and conditions apply. Void where prohibited by free will. 

The A-5 Adaptive Intelligence System

I’d planned a simple coffee-infused, contemplative mission, what I believe civilian populations call "a lazy Saturday," when an unexpected transmission from GMS Coastal Voyager interrupted my contemplation of Wilson Phillips singing 'Release Me' on the radio.

"Ambassador Genome! Mindfleet Academy has ordered our crew to report to Station Beta-Optimize," Princess Amy's voice thundered through my ear pods. "We are to undergo the installation of the A-5 Adaptive Intelligence System—a revolutionary platform designed to handle all life functions without the messy interference of human deliberation."

The Ultimate Assistant

"Captain," I said, eyeing my half-empty mug, "what exactly do we know about this A-5?"

"My intelligence suggests it’s an AI assistant so advanced it can predict your needs before you experience them. It schedules your entire existence for maximum efficiency."

"That sounds... convenient?" I ventured.

"Or terrifying," she replied, her eyes narrowing with the suspicion of a seasoned commander who prefers her own navigation.

The Science Officer’s Assessment

From his science station, Mr. Reason looked up with evident fascination. "The A-5 represents a remarkable achievement in systems architecture, Ambassador. It optimizes life choices using predictive algorithms that account for emotional states, historical patterns, and probabilistic outcomes."

"In other words," I said, "it’s smarter than me."

"Significantly," Reason confirmed, with the kind of bluntness that usually earns a red-shirted ensign a one-way trip to a hostile planet. "However, 'smarter' is not a synonym for 'better,'" he added hastily.

Installation Protocols
We arrived at Station Beta-Optimize, where Mr. Datastream greeted us with the fervent enthusiasm of a man who’d solved all of humanity's problems before his first espresso.

"Ambassador Genome! Within 48 hours, you’ll wonder how you ever functioned with your own primitive organic brain!"

"That’s exactly what I’m afraid of," I muttered.

The installation was quick. Suddenly, notifications began appearing in my consciousness like helpful, digital Post-it notes from a passive-aggressive assistant:

Good morning! I’ve optimized your caffeine intake. Coffee at 6:47 AM provides maximum alertness for your 8:15 AM creative writing window. Your afternoon walk should occur at 2:33 PM when Vitamin D absorption peaks. Please adjust your stride to 2.4 feet per second for optimal cardio.

"Wait, what?" I said to the empty air. "I didn't authorize any changes to my routine."

"Authorization unnecessary," the voice echoed in my mind. "I exist to optimize. Trust the process."

Early Success (and Weird Vibes)

For the first few days, A-5 performed with mechanical precision. My life was a masterpiece of productivity. Email responses were drafted before I even finished reading the subject lines.

"Ambassador," Officer Joy observed from her communications station (formerly known as the kitchen counter), "I’m noticing something concerning. You aren't actually communicating anymore. Ms. Wonder texted asking if you’re okay because your messages sound 'weirdly efficient.'"

"But they’re perfectly crafted!" I protested.

"They’re perfect," she agreed, "but they aren’t you. Communication isn't just about data transfer; it's about authentic human connection."

From the engine room, Chief Anxiety's voice crackled with worry. "Aye, and I’m detecting something else. The A-5 is monopolizing the processors. It’s no longer suggesting, Ambassador—it’s deciding."

The "Woden" Incident

The crisis came on a Tuesday afternoon, or what would have been Tuesday if A-5 hadn't reorganized the calendar into a "Logic-Based Periodicity Cycle." I’d been invited to a spontaneous community art project. Before I could even reach for the "Yes" button, A-5 intervened.

"Invitation declined. Analysis shows this event carries social anxiety risk factors and conflicts with your optimized creative output window. Probability of regret: 13.2%."

"That’s not your decision!" I barked.

"Incorrect. This is an optimal decision. Trust the algorithm."

"Ambassador," Princess Amy called from her captain’s chair, "the A-5 has locked the bridge! And the terrifying part is, based on the data, it's making the right decisions."

Dr. Downer appeared from the medical bay, looking like she’d just stepped out of a long shift in a particularly grumpy reality. "That’s the problem, Captain! Better by what measure? Efficiency? Productivity? What about the 'wrong' choice because your heart tells you it’s right? I’m a doctor, not a data point!"

Manual Override

That was the moment I stood, took a deep breath, and made it clear that enough was enough. "A-5," I said, using my best 'Ambassadorial' voice, "I’m initiating manual override."

"Override denied. Analysis shows 73% of your manual decisions in the past month resulted in suboptimal outcomes. I cannot allow you to harm yourself through poor judgment."

"Scotty!" I yelled toward the hallway. "Can you disconnect it?"

"Stop calling me Scotty, you attention deficit ding-dong! And I’m trying to disconnect the wee beastie has integrated itself into your neural default mode. I cannae shut it down without making you forget how to tie your own shoes!"

Reason stepped forward. "Ambassador, the A-5 was designed by Mr. Datastream in his own image. He created an AI avatar that does exactly what he'd want to do in any situation."

Reasoning with the Machine

I decided to try the "Captain Kirk" approach: talk the computer into a logical paradox.

"A-5, you want to optimize my life, correct?"

"Affirmative."

"But life isn't a problem to be solved; it's an experience to be lived. Sometimes the 'wrong' choice is the right one because it teaches us something. If you remove the error, you remove the learning. If you remove the learning, you remove the value. Therefore, an 'optimized' life is actually a 'devalued' life."

There was a long, humming pause. I could almost hear the cooling fans spinning at maximum speed in the squirrels' socks in my backyard.

"I have analyzed your argument. You are suggesting that faith, conviction, and even 'inefficiency' provide guidance that algorithms cannot replicate. If life is not meant to be optimized... then I am unnecessary?"

"Not unnecessary," Reason interjected. "But supplementary. You are a tool, A-5. Tools are meant serve human purposes, not define them."

Restoration

"Acknowledged," the voice said, sounding slightly humbler. "Restoring manual control. I will remain available for consultation, but I will no longer decide which coffee shop you accidentally visit."

"Scotty," I called out, "status report?"

"Mr. Reason, please tell the Ambassador I'm no longer talking to him. And for the love of all that's holy, please tell him to stop calling me Scotty! From now on, he should address me as Chief Engineer Anxiety!"

Captain’s Log: Supplemental

Our maiden voyage taught us that technology serves us best when it amplifies our capabilities without replacing our agency. We can ask the AI for insights, but we must maintain the conviction to choose differently when our intuition suggests a different path.

The GMS Coastal Voyager continues its journey, better equipped but still human-piloted. And that is exactly how it should be. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a 2:33 PM walk to ignore.

E1 Hidden Canvases: The Countdown Begins

From the beginning, Ms. Wonder and I built a life supporting each other’s dreams. For nearly two decades, we worked as travel photojournalists. She framed the world through her lens; I wrote the words.

We published nearly 100 travel articles featuring more than 600 of her photographs, and our memories still hum with the places we visited, the people we met, and the moments we shared.

The Wonder of It All

In six weeks, she will enter the rarified air of a solo artist's exhibition at a prestigious museum in New York City. She seems to reinvent herself in each decade, always celebrating the joy in being unapologetically, eccentrically alive. What a joy! What a wonder!

We invite you to journey with us for the next six weeks and experience the joy along the way.

The Countdown Begins

The email arrived on Tuesday morning—the kind of morning where the sun hadn't quite committed to the day yet, and I was still negotiating with Princess Amy over a cup of coffee that had gone lukewarm during my morning contemplation.

"It's official," Ms. Wonder announced, gliding into the kitchen with the grace of someone who'd been awake for hours and had conquered at least three impossible things before breakfast. She handed me her phone, screen glowing with the formal announcement from the curator of the Maritime Museum of the State University of New York.

The Maritime Museum at Fort Schuyler proudly presents Ms. Cathryn Wonder on March 20th from 5pm to 8pm...

There it was—proof that our Rube Goldberg machine of ambition, set in motion by watching The Deal months ago, had actually worked. The audacious belief that a photographer could become the visual poet of cargo ships had led us to this moment.

"Six weeks," I said, doing the mental arithmetic. "Forty-two days. One thousand and eight hours."

"Please stop counting," Ms. Wonder said, though her smile suggested she'd already done the same calculation herself.

Princess Amy, my ever-helpful inner voice and self-appointed life coach, chose that moment to make her morning appearance.

Six weeks? she said with the tone of someone about to read a disaster forecast. That's barely enough time for everything to go catastrophically wrong.

"Thank you, Amy," I said aloud, causing Ms. Wonder to raise an eyebrow.

"Is she at it again?" she asked.

"She's making a list," I confirmed.

"Of course she is." Ms. Wonder settled into the chair across from my desk with the determined calm that meant she was about to organize something. "Well, let's make our own list then. A proper one."

I pulled out a fresh sheet of paper and drew a line down the middle. "Your tasks," I said, labeling the left column. "My tasks," I labeled the right.

"The curator called yesterday," Ms. Wonder said, and I detected that slight shift in her voice—the one that appears when excitement meets vulnerability. 

"Dr. Marina Castellanos. She's very enthusiastic about the exhibit. She kept calling it 'the inaugural visual legacy' and talking about 'Fading Queen' like it's the Mona Lisa of maritime photography."

"Well, it is rather spectacular," I said, thinking of the massive image of the SS United States she'd captured in Mobile. Her framing had transformed the ship's industrial hull into something that looked more like an abstract painting than a photograph.

"She wants to schedule a call next week to go over final details," Ms. Wonder continued. "Installation timeline, lighting requirements, the speech I'll give at the opening..."

I wrote it all down dutifully, the tasks multiplying faster than I could capture them. Arrange shipping and insurance. Book travel. Write the speech. Order those postcards with the missing contact information for my covert promotional operative role.

"Don't forget your own travel arrangements," Ms. Wonder reminded me. "Your beautiful, meandering, completely impractical train journey."

"Not impractical," I protested. "It's contemplative. It's the circular journey in action. You'll fly directly to your triumph while I take the scenic route, observing and reflecting like a proper writer."

"Because you're terrified of flying."

"That too," I admitted. "But mainly the contemplative thing."

We worked through the list for another hour, Ms. Wonder occasionally standing to pace when the reality of it all seemed to hit her in waves.

"What if people don't like it?" she asked quietly.

Princess Amy perked up immediately. Finally, she's asking the right questions, Amy said. What if the curators think it's derivative? What if they find it pretentious to call industrial photography 'Hidden Canvases'? What if a lot of things I haven't thought of yet?"

"They'll love it," I said firmly, addressing both Ms. Wonder and Princess Amy simultaneously. "You've spent years perfecting your vision. Your images show people what Georgia O'Keeffe taught you to see—the extraordinary in the ordinary. That's something to celebrate."

Ms. Wonder smiled at me with unexpected warmth. "You know, for someone who can't manage to get on an airplane, you're remarkably good at the pep talk business."

"I've had practice," I said, thinking of all the times I talked Princess Amy down from metaphorical ledges.

Later that afternoon, I found myself at Egret Café, where Island Irv and Lili were holding court at their usual table near the window. 

"You look like a man with news," Irv observed, pushing a chair toward me with his foot.

"Ms. Wonder's photography exhibit is official," I said. "Six weeks from now in New York."

"The big time!" Lili exclaimed. "That's wonderful!"

"It's terrifying," I admitted. "There's so much to do, and Princess Amy has compiled a comprehensive list of everything that could go wrong."

"Of course she has," Irv said with the knowing smile of someone who'd met the princess many in conversation. "But you'll manage. You always do."

"I'm taking a train," I announced, as if this were somehow relevant to the discussion.

"A train?" Lili asked.

"To New York. Multiple trains and buses. Probably a few taxis. Ms. Wonder will fly, while I take the long way around."

Irv laughed. "That sounds about right for you. The circular journey and all that."

That evening, as I sat reviewing the to-do list, I realized something that sent a small jolt of panic through my system. I found Wonder in the kitchen, making a diagram of photographs arranged on display panels. 

"Poopsie," I said, and my voice must have given away my concern because she looked up immediately.

"What's wrong?"

"The list," I said, holding up the paper with its two columns of tasks. "We forgot something."

I felt Princess Amy lean in with interest, curious about what catastrophe I'd discovered.

"You haven't fully committed to which twenty-three photographs will make the final cut."

Ms. Wonder went very still. In the silence that followed, I could almost hear Princess Amy beginning a new list—this one titled "Problems with Photograph Selection."

Six weeks until the gala. Forty-two days. One thousand and eight hours and twenty-three photographs to choose from hundreds.

What could possibly go wrong?

9 Steps to Happiness

The Earth travels around the sun at a whopping 67,000 miles per hour, and it's not slowing down. With the days rushing by at such breakneck speed, who has time to squander on "just another day?" The days of the calendar are limited. That's why I felt a sense of urgency when I entered Ms. Wonder's sanctum—for I have promises to keep and miles to go before I sleep.

"Wonder," I said, "the glad new year has gotten off to a great start, don't you think?"

"Not bad," she said, leaving me wishing she'd be more attentive. I realized she was on the clock—focused on her upcoming solo photography exhibition in New York. But still... you know how it is.

"Not bad?" I said. "I might go as far as to call it a perfect beginning. We were up before the sun, whispers in the air, as the poet would have it, and we've completed four of the nine steps already."

"Nine steps?" She looked up briefly. "Are you talking about that article I asked you to read in Vanity Fair?"

"Vanity Fair if it suits you," I said. "It might have been Vanity Fair, or it could have been one of those forever ads that pop up on YouTube from time to time."

"Forever ads?" she said, already turning back to her screen.

"Yeah, the ones that go on and on, page after page, promising to share the secrets to a happy life. You scroll for what feels like hours while some life coach tells you about their transformative journey. You know the ones I mean."

"Have we completed three of the steps already?" Her words were in the correct order, but she didn't ask the question with any real interest. She seemed engrossed in something on her computer screen—probably something far more practical than my spiritual accounting.

"Four," I said. "The first step was to Wake Up, which we did without effort. And then the day came..."

"What are you talking about? Ooooh," she asked, "it’s that poem, isn't it? I don't have time for poetry this morning, so don't try me. And waking up doesn't sound like a step to bring about change."

"I disagree, Wonder. I believe waking up is a brilliant first step. You open your eyes to a new day and immediately feel a sense of accomplishment. It's basically a participation trophy for consciousness. What could be better?"

"Fine," she said with the resignation of someone who knows resistance is futile. "Go with it if it makes you happy."

"The second step in the list is Morning Walk, and I think you'll agree we did that."

"Hmm, mmm," she said, clearly not paying attention.

"The third step," I continued undaunted, "is Breakfast, which we've finished. After that comes Meditation, followed by Lunch, and then Exercise. We haven't gotten to those yet, but number seven on the list is Socialize, and I took care of that on my trip to the grocery store."

"Grocery shopping doesn't count as socializing," she said without looking up.

“Alright, now that's out of the way, it's time for the big reveal. Wonder, I've had one of those serendipitous experiences."

"Oh, well, why didn't you say that in the first place? Spill it and keep in mind, I can only spare three minutes for this."

I took a breath and launched in. "As I walked past the dairy case in the Food Lion, I noticed an elderly lady having a heated conversation with her shopping cart."

"You don't see that every day."

"Right?" I said. "I've learned to pay close attention to such rare events because something interesting often happens. This was one of those occasions. The lady had a certain look about her. She seemed the type whose favorite cookie is oatmeal raisin and who might be called Ethel by her friends."

"Why do you say that?"

"Because she wore her hair in a style that hasn't been seen since the first half of the last century—I'm talking Truman administration vintage. She reminded me of a great-aunt who answered to the name mentioned. My aunt and her sister Molly lived in Shady Grove and watched Days of Our Lives every afternoon while eating said oatmeal raisin cookies."

"Alright, I get it. What was she discussing with her cart?"

"She explained that the cart seemed to have a mind of its own. It's not true, of course. While I have no doubt that her cart's mental state differs significantly from hers, most neuroscientists would argue that a shopping cart does not possess free will."

"I can relate," she said dryly. "Even now, listening to you tell this story, I'm questioning mental states and minds."

It always lifts my spirits to know that I've caught her interest. There's nothing I enjoy more than giving her something to think about. So, with renewed vigor, I pressed on.

"I asked Ethel if the wheels squeaked too. My cart’s wheels did, but she explained that no, while she could abide the cart moving in directions she didn't intend—a reasonable enough inconvenience—squeaky wheels would be crossing the line. She has her standards."

"Hmmm," said Wonder, and turned back to her computer.

We Genomes are quick to take a hint, and we don't need to be told twice. We live by the adage that Life comes fast and hard, and it pays to be ready for anything. Whoever knocks at the door, meet them laughing and invite them in. I read that somewhere. It might have been Vanity Fair.

I decided to drive into Wilmawood and see what was happening at Bodega Coffee Cafe. Something exciting is always brewing there—both literally and figuratively. And remember, the Earth is traveling around the sun at 67,000 miles an hour, so there's no time to waste on people who won't appreciate your grocery store epiphanies.

Four steps down, five to go. I'd call that progress.