Coming Soon: Back on the Road

Many of our followers have been with us long enough to know Ms. Wonder and I didn’t land here by accident. Don’t roll your eyes; I’m getting to the point. Before I started documenting the film and television industry in our fair city, and shortly after Wonder became a certified documentary photographer, we worked as freelance travel journalists, published in magazines and newspapers along the eastern seaboard from New York to South Carolina.

For nearly two decades, we worked the Atlantic coast and beyond—she with her camera, I with my notebooks, and together we published nearly one hundred travel articles showcasing more than six hundred of her photographs. 

We wrote about Charleston and Savannah, the Outer Banks, and the small towns and back roads that never make the guidebooks but stay with you long after the trip ends. It was the best kind of work, the kind you can’t quite believe you’re getting paid to do.

Eventually, as it reliably does, life moved us in other directions. Travel journalism gave way to other adventures. Carolina Roads Magazine, our travel blog and the original home of our companion documentary pieces, settled into a quieter pace.

That brings me to why I'm writing this post; all that's about to change.

A Road Trip, Properly Considered

In the coming weeks, Ms. Wonder and I will head south, down along the Atlantic coast through Georgia and Florida, all the way to Miami, then back up the Gulf coast. It’s a route we’ve traveled before, and that’s exactly the point. We’re going back to familiar ground on purpose: to places that hold thirty years of shared memories, to coasts we photographed and wrote about when we were younger and, frankly, better rested.

When I say “better rested,” I really mean we’ll slow our pace, just enough to move more deliberately and give each place the time it deserves. As Wonder often reminds me, Georgia O’Keeffe believed that to truly “see” requires slowing down and taking one’s time. That’s exactly what we plan to do.

***********

This trip takes us back to our roots as travel journalists and signals the reinvigoration of our blog, Carolina Roads Magazine. We plan to bring the same attention and affection to the road as always: Ms. Wonder with her camera, finding beauty in the places I’d otherwise walk past, and me with my notebooks, capturing what the journey feels like from the inside.

I’ll also be scouting film and television production locations along the way, because the Southeast has provide a backdrop for more TV and movies than I can count, and that thread runs through everything I write. If there’s a film location anywhere within a reasonable distance of our route, I intend to find it—or at least have a very interesting time trying.

The Usual Suspects

Regular readers of The Circular Journey will not be surprised to hear that Princess Amy has already inserted herself into the planning. She has opinions about the route, strong feelings about certain destinations, and a shortlist of non-negotiable stops she describes as culturally essential. I'm sure she has plenty of surprises in store for us in whatever she has in mind.

Ms. Wonder will, as always, be the steady hand keeping the whole enterprise from drifting into absurdity, and she will mostly succeed; she always does.

I will be doing my best, but we all know about best laid plans.

Watch This Space

The series will launch a few weeks before we leave for Savannah and continue with two to three posts each week for the length of the trip. If you’ve followed us for a while, consider this the journey we’ve all been heading toward. If you’re new here, welcome—you’ve joined us at a good moment.

Carolina Roads Magazine started as a record of what the southeast coast looks like. This series will be a record of what it means to us, after all these years and everything that has happened in between.

We’ll see you on the road.

Hidden Canvases: The Maritime Musical

"I owe you an apology," she said. "I thought the reason you were having trouble reviewing my promotional letters was self-sabotage."

"What do you mean, self-sabotage?" I said with a good bit of theatrical indignation.

“Don’t get me wrong,” she said. “I’ve walked away from business deals before. I once left a hunting trip in South Texas because my client sat there with a tub of popcorn, and when he wasn’t stuffing his face, he pointed and laughed at the other hunters. But that’s another story. Did they have everything I asked for?”

If that dialogue seems confusing, imagine how my brain did Olympic gymnastics trying to keep up. I was sure this otherwise brilliant woman had lost a few pages of script between her thoughts and her mouth. Then, in that peculiar way it happens, a memory surfaced and let me catch up with her runaway train of thought.

The previous day, Ms. Wonder had asked me to review letters she’d written to six different maritime museums. The letters proposed an exhibit of her abstract photography—mesmerizing images that transform marine cargo vessels into floating geometric poetry. They were part of her plan to introduce her work to a larger audience.

"Oh, I found everything," I told her, "but what I'd like to know is what I'm supposed to do with all this junk?"

“First,” she said, as confidently as if she were explaining how to breathe, “you write the proposal letter for my new exhibit on a puzzle, break it up, and mail the pieces. When the curators open it, they may think it’s from a psycho—until they see my name and credentials, put the puzzle together, and realize the proposal is from an unusually creative artist.”

"I don't know, Poopsie, it all sounds very high school to me."

"That's why it works. It makes them feel they're back in high school, receiving a Valentine from a secret admirer. Of course, you probably never got valentines from secret admirers, so you can't appreciate what I'm saying."

"Hey!"

"Just kidding," she said with a smile that suggested she wasn't entirely kidding. "And I have another idea."

"I can't wait," I said, managing to contain my enthusiasm to homeopathic levels.

"You'll love this one. Remember that online service that does business cards?"

"I don't use business cards," I said.

"You'll use these business cards. Order a box of cards with nothing on them but my photograph of the S.S. United States on them. Then when you hand out the cards..."

"Me! Why me? I'm not planning on running around the East Coast handing out business cards. I have a full-time job, disappointing you right here in Carolina."

“I know you didn’t plan on it, but you’ll do it for your Poopsie Wonder, won’t you, sweetie?” She patted my hand. “The museum curator will say, ‘But your contact information isn’t on here.’ Then you add my number and website to the card. That shows her we don’t work with just anyone—only people who meet our standards. And she’s one of them.”

"A lot of people prefer to I-gram," I said, desperately seeking solid ground in this quicksand of marketing concepts.

"Too chatty," she said, "Besides, staying low-tech will set me apart."

"Ecaterina," I said, resorting to the formal address that means I'm about to put my foot down. "No offense, but just what am I supposed to do with this Magic 8-Ball?" 

"I haven't figured that out yet," she said, "I just thought it couldn't hurt to have one."

The next few moments were filled with silence. Finally, I said, "Oh, I almost forgot. Your agent phoned a moment ago."

"Oh, what did she want?"

"She asked about our progress on the New York project."

"But it's only in the planning stages; it isn't really a project."

"She suggested we sell the rights to dramatize the exhibit to a theatrical consortium."

"She thinks we should turn the photography exhibit into a musical?" she said, eyebrows reaching for the ceiling. "It doesn't seem to be the kind of thing that lends itself to becoming a play. '

"That's what I told her, but she insisted that we change the tone of our promitions to make them sound more like musical theater..."

"Despite my better judgment, I've got to hear more of this hairbrained scheme."

"Her suggestion was that we write something to catch the curator's attention, like, "Dear Maritime Museum," and I imagined it would use a bold font, "PREPARE TO BE BOARDED! By abstract art, that is!"

"Oh, yes?" said the Wonder, but not with any real zip.

"Yeah, and she thought the heading could be followed by a promotional ad that could be sung to the tune of a popular show tune."

"Can you imagine a musical comedy about abstract marine photography making the rounds off-Broadway?" Wonder asked?

"Not really," I said.

"Neither can I, though, in fairness, the subject of domestic cats is responsible for half of all internet traffic, and I suspect the other half is devoted to people trying to figure out what the government will do next. So who knows?"

We were quiet for the next few moments. I was unsure of what I should say, and she seemed deep in contemplation, forehead wrinkled and chewing her lower lip.

I don't know how I did it with so little notice, but I had one of those surprising ideas that make the Genomes the kind of men we are.

“Poopsie,” I said, “the Cape Fear River photography collection might not be the stuff of theater legend, but in abstract art it’s what Tiger Woods is to golf, and Taylor Swift is to pop music: not strictly necessary, but absolutely essential.”

She beamed at me with unexpected approval. Perhaps I was finally getting the hang of being her promotional partner.

“Here’s my suggestion—brace yourself, this idea may cause swooning. You have an exhibit scheduled for June in the Arts District. We can make it the premiere of your off-Broadway, Maritime Musical, so to speak. It happens all the time; just yesterday I heard that the John Cougar Mellencamp musical will debut in Whatsapocket, Maine.”

She looked at me in silence, and I took it as proof that my suggestion had left her speechless. Clearly, I thought, wooing maritime museum curators would be easier than I’d imagined, and I’d done it without even consulting the Magic 8-Ball.

Continue following The Circular Journey for updates on the premiere of Hidden Canvases: The Musical, coming soon to a thespian hall near you.

Mindfleet Academy: Strategic Intercept or Cosmic Stowaway?

"Attention, all organic lifeforms. Please cease all non-essential biological functions. A foreign EMF signature with non-standard bio-electric oscillation has been detected in the lower decks. Sensor telemetry indicates a high concentration of... musk. This is not a drill.”

The announcement came from the A-5 Adaptive Intelligence System, a revolutionary platform designed to manage all life functions aboard the ship without interference of human deliberation. On its inaugural flight aboard the Coast Voyager, it was agreed that it would perform the role of Senior Security Officer. 

“Fivey,” said Captain Amy, “mute the existential crisis!” Turning to face the science station behind her, she barked, “Major Reason, talk to me. What are we looking at? If it’s another subspace rift leaking 1980s synth-pop into the ventilation, I’m locking myself in the ready room.”

"Negative, Captain,” said Science Officer Reason. “Scanners are picking up a Class-M Mustelid frequency. It's scrambled, but it closely matches the telemetry from our recent clandestine operation at Cinespace Studios on planet Earth.”

The Reconnaissance Recap

“Ah, yes. The Genome Project,” said Ambassador Genome as he entered the bridge. “My undercover observational clone was stationed in the Wilmington Sector when scanners found him pinned down behind a dented sanitation receptacle—or ‘trash dumpster,’ as the civilians have it.”

“You don’t need to remind us, Ambassador,” said Major Reason, “we only completed that mission at 0400 today. The salient point is that our scanners at the time identified a secondary signal huddled with your clone. We tagged it as 'Anomalous Furry Object 01.' We assumed it stayed behind in North Carolina to pursue a career in indie film. It appears our assumptions were... flawed."

"Captain, I’ve tracked the signal to the Jefferies Tubes,” grumbled Chief Engineer Anxiety. “Major Reason, check your tricorder; this stowaway is a ferret but not just a common one. He’s masking his bio-signs using Feline Sub-Harmonics.”

"Great Galactic Birds, he’s right!” Exclaimed Reason. “The subject has successfully repurposed the 'Social Pain' protocols. He’s purring, Captain. A ferret! Purring! He’s bypassed our entire security grid by pretending to be a 'Happy Cats Wellness’ consultant. It’s a total subversion of the Cambrian Agency Arms Race!”

“Dook!” Reginald the ferret was heard over the ship’s intercom via the MaT-1 translator. “Not pretending; I optimize! Ship is deficient in shiny objects, but shoelaces on Major Joy’s boots are 98% match for 'Excellent Chew-Toy' parameters. Don’t blame me; simply exercising my instinctual rights.”

The Negotiation

"Captain, I think we should hear him out,” interrupted Communications Officer Joy. “He’s offering his services and his audio spectrometer readings indicate that he’s expert in Pre-Cognitive Instinctual Linguistics. When we encounter civilizations that evolved through raw agency rather than abstract logic, we usually struggle. He can be great help. He speaks 'Slinky' and ‘Chaos' fluently. He could be out primary consultant for non-humanoid instinctual diplomacy.”

"It is highly illogical to employ a consultant who sleeps in a ventilation shaft and steals the Ambassador’s stylus,” countered Major Reason, “however... his ability to navigate the 'Static' of the lower decks is statistically superior to our current drone fleet."

The Captain’s Verdict

Captain Amy sighed resignedly. ”So, let me get this straight. We went to Wilmington on a 'Hard-Boiled' noir mission, and we came back with a Junior Cadet who thinks the ship’s lower decks are his personal playground. 

“Ambassador, you’re responsible for the effectiveness of our diplomatic missions. What’s your take?”

"Captain, he survived the Cape Fear Bridge Inspection traffic and a Scott Speedman hunt. He’s already demonstrated more 'We' cohesion than half the recruits at the Academy. He’s a survivor of the Silt. My opinion is that he belongs in Mindfleet Academy.”

“Fine,” said the captain with an audible sigh. “Fivey, register Cadet Reginald to the roster. Assign him to Major Joy. And for heaven's sake, someone get him a smaller fedora.

“Dook, dook!” Exclaimed Cadet Reginald. The non-literal, idiomatic translation of the phrase, according to the MaT-1 translator is, ‘I’ll take that as permission to stash Major Joy’s boot laces above ceiling tiles. Engaging Stealth Mode. Reginald Out.’

The Entity Formerly Known as E-5

First officer Reason cleared his throat, a clear indication that he was about to correct the captain.

“Captain, I must point out an obvious technicality. While ‘Fivey’ is a linguistically efficient pseudonym for the E-5, that unit’s primary heuristic core is composed of five distinct adaptive sub-processors.”

“So…it’s like a collective?” Said the captain. “Like Seven of Nine? Like the Borg, but without the invasive nano-probes? Ambassador, care to chime in?”

“I agree with Major Reason, and I like your analogy, Captain. I think we should refer to the AI as Five of Five.”

“Processing, processing… ‘Five of Five’ is accepted,” said the AI formerly known as E-5. “It satisfies the need for numerical symmetry and boosts perceived authority by 15%. I will no longer answer to any other name—unless the request includes praise for my processing speed.”

“Dook? Five of Five!” Said Reginald via MaT-1. “Lot's of fives. I have four paws, but I have five toes on each. Now I feel like Five of Four and that makes me statistically superior. I like it. I think I’ll hide Ambassador’s keys to celebrate.”

Captain Amy, resigned to make the best of the situation, summed up the day’s work when she said, “Going forward, we must all keep in mind something Jean-Luc Picard once said:

“Seize the time... live now! Now will never come again.”

Captain’s Log Supplemental:

The Coastal Voyager resumed its deep-space cruise; the bridge crew settled into the strange new normal of a “mustelid-augmented” reality.

While recalibrating the Mustelid-Alpha Translator, Major Joy detected a low-frequency oscillation in Reginald’s whiskers, a directional pulse aimed at the unexplored sectors of the Unconscious. Our new cadet, it seems, isn’t here to hide in the vents; the sensor readings are correlated with a directive that Ambassador Genome’s clone had only hinted at, the trail of the Speedman Paradox.

The Decker Diaries 2026

“Meet me at Luna in twenty minutes,” the voice commanded. It was sharp, regal, and vibrating somewhere behind my left ear. 

“Amy,” I said to the empty passenger seat. “You’re my limbic system. You're literally housed inside my head, so you're with me wherever I go. And I’m concentrating on driving, so keep quiet.”

“Don’t get technical with me, Genome. It’s gauche. Get me to the Circular Journey Cafe now if you want the R J Decker updates. And try to act like a professional. The radio is so loud it's frightening the local seagulls.”

I was tracking set locations for R J Decker, the new ABC TV series based on Carl Hiaasen’s novel, 'Double Whammy.' It has turned Wilmington into a sprawling, 1980s version of South Florida. Amy’s updates are usually spot on, so I sighed, pulled an NCDOT‑defying U-turn, and headed for the cafe.

The Cafe Standoff

Minutes later, disappointed and a little defeated, I parked, went into the cafe, and sat by the window. A flyer on the glass offered a reward for a lost ferret named Reginald. I remember hoping he’d find his way back home soon.

“I’ve failed again, Amy,” I admitted. “I’ve been up and down Princess Place Drive. I loitered by the Alton Lennon Federal Building until a security guard shooed me away. Nothing like a film set anywhere, and no sign of Scott Speedman wandering the Riverwalk.”

“That’s because you’re not a pro like me,” Amy sniffed. I could sense her straightening an imaginary tiara as she spoke. While you were riding aimlessly around town, I was tracking filming permits.”

The barista appeared and set a latte on the table. 

“This must be someone else’s order,” I said to her. 

“Pistachio latte with an extra shot,” she said. “It’s yours; I made it when I saw you park.” 

She shook her head and waved her hands when I reached for my card. “No charge,” she said. “It’s on the house because you found Reginald.” 

“Reginald?” I asked, genuinely confused. 

“The ferret,” she said, pointing to the one sitting on his haunches, watching me with the brightest eyes I’d ever seen. “The poster on the door is a little joke we use to give regular customers a free drink.”

“Have you even checked TW Cast & Recruit?” Amy asked when Lilly walked back to her ‘order here’ post at the counter. 

“I checked them at 4:00 yesterday afternoon.” 

“Amateur!” Amy shrieked, causing me to jump and splash espresso on my notes. “The call times drop between 6:00 and 8:00 PM! That’s when the secrets are revealed.” 

“You have to be vigilant, Genome,” Amy continued. “Hover like a hawk. Or in your case, hover like a very determined mosquito.” 

The Cinespace Illusion

Fired up by Amy’s insults, I drove into the West End looking for Cinespace Studios. The movie, 'For Your Consideration', was playing in my mind as I drove, specifically the scene where a studio guard insists he recognizes Catherine O’Hara from another movie. 

“That wasn’t me,” O’Hara says to him. 

“Yes, it was,” he insists. “You played an actress named Marilyn Hack. You were nominated for a SAG award.” 

It’s a perfect moment of Hollywood absurdity, and I found myself hoping for similar recognition from the gate guard at Cinespace. 

“This is it!” I whispered, seeing the guard gate in front of me. “The high-stakes world of Florida crime. I bet Decker is right around that corner, wearing a linen suit and brooding over a murder.” 

“I don’t see any palm trees, Genome,” Amy noted dryly. “Or ’80s cars."

The “Pretty Ugly” Incident

I ignored her and began to hover. I leaned against a brick wall, wearing sunglasses and a baseball cap with King Ranch embroidered on it. I was going for the Ron Howard look. 

Instead of a movie star, a woman with a handheld camera and a very determined ponytail stepped into the street. She was directing two actors who looked disarmingly contemporary. Just raw, Wilmington-grit drama. 

“Excuse me,” I hissed to a nearby Production Assistant. “Is this the RJD set? Is Speedman in the building?”

The PA looked at me as if I’d just asked for directions to the moon. “Not at all. We're doing pick-up shots for 'Pretty Ugly,' Erica Dunton’s feature.” 

My shoulders slumped. I looked at the PA, and the ghost of Catherine O’Hara possessed me. 

“I wasn’t in that movie,” I said. 

“What movie?” the PA asked, checking her headset. 

“For Your Consideration,” I said, and then added, “That’s the name of the movie.” 

“I haven’t seen it,” she replied, her patience thinning. 

“No matter,” I said with a heavy sigh. “I wasn’t in it anyway.” 

“Okay… now please,” she pointed toward the curb, “move behind the dumpster, please; you’re in the shot.” 

“I told you,” Amy’s voice rang out in my skull, sounding suspiciously like she was eating popcorn. “You aren’t in Miami, Genome. You’re in a nuanced character study about the American Dream. And move aside, you’re blocking the light.” 

The Bridge to Nowhere

Defeated, I headed back toward the Cape Fear Memorial Bridge. 

“WECT said there was intermittent traffic control!” I whined, looking at the line of cars. “They didn't say traffic was stopped!” 

“That’s not a film crew, Genome,” Amy sighed. “That’s the NCDOT preservation project. You aren’t looking at a film set; it's a bridge inspection.” 

“Don’t worry,” Amy said, her voice softening a fraction. “There’s always tomorrow. Just… maybe change the hat, so the locals don’t recognize you as the man hiding behind a trash dumpster.” 

“Thanks, Amy.” 

“Don’t thank me. Just get me an almond. I’m starving.” 

Roll the Credits

I arrived home having found no sign of a film crew nor an actor, not even a stand-in, and I’m sure the crew of 'Pretty Ugly' is still talking about the man who tried to interview their dumpster. 

“Complete failure,” I muttered. 

“Was it?” Amy asked. “You didn't find fictional South Beach, but you found the very real soul of Wilmington. You found a ferret named Reginald and enjoyed a free coffee. Maybe it's just me, but you may have found an authentic Double Whammy.” 

Was she right? I wondered. It's true that on The Circular Journey, we often set out for a specific destination only to realize the true value of a day was in the detours. I didn’t find the set, but I lived the journey, and that is my motto for 2026. 

“Now,” Amy added, “write the post. And for heaven’s sake, mention the ferret. It ups the stakes.”

Everyone Is An Editor

I was on the phone with my editor as I walked to the hair salon, discussing how to make articles on The Circular Journey more appealing. I’d had my first viral post a couple of months earlier, and new readership records had been set each of the last three months. I was on a roll, and I didn’t intend to slow down.

“As you work on tightening your narratives,” she said, “remember that your longer, more meandering style also has genuine charm—it’s part of your voice. The goal isn’t to eliminate that quality but to be more intentional about when to let the story breathe and when to pick up the pace.”

You’ve probably guessed by now that I wasn’t actually on the phone with a real editor. I was in my head, talking to Princess Amy, who's not only my editor but also my most critical critic.

“Your readers follow The Circular Journey because they enjoy spending time in your company,” Amy continued, “not because they’re in a hurry to get to the end.”

I could tell her comments were building up to a punchline.

“Of course, you could focus on a different creative pastime altogether,” she said.

“Like what?”

“You’re smart. You’re intuitive. You’re resilient.” She paused. “And you’re stubborn.”

“Stubborn is a good thing?”

“Not necessarily, but I ran out of good stuff to say.”

I was still smiling when I walked into the salon and found Island Irv settling his bill at the counter.

“How is she?” I asked, nodding toward the stylist’s chair that he'd vacated as I walked through the door.

“I think she’s coming around,” he said. “Her eyes are back in their sockets, and she’s breathing normally now.” He lowered his voice. “She’s got Spider-Woman’s mojo. You try to make small talk, and then suddenly she has life advice. When you respond, she gets irritated with you.”

“Her control room listens to the police scanners,” I said, having thought of absolutely nothing else to say. It seemed to work.

“That was my second guess,” Irv said. "It's just as well, the less you know, the better.”

“Deniable plausability?” I said.

“Exactly.”

The Islander then paid and gave me a thumbs up as he left, and I settled into the chair, bracing myself.

“Do you have fun plans for the weekend?” the stylist asked.

“I’ll be blogging all weekend,” I said.

“Oh, what do you blog about?”

“I document the movie and television projects in Wilmington and Southport.”

“Oh, like Ken Burns," she said, showing what looked like interest. "He does all those documentaries on YouTube.”

“Yeah,” I said, knowing it isn’t like Ken Burns at all, but it’s easier to go with it than to explain. Besides, people are always disappointed when I tell them what I really do every day.

“Do you sneak around the film sets and get candid photos of the stars to sell to magazines?”

“Nope.”

“It would be cool if you did. It would make a much better story. You should try it.”

I didn’t respond, hoping she’d move on.

“If you're afraid of getting punched, you could pretend to do it,” she said, scissors pausing mid-snip. “In your blog, I mean. Who would know?”

Suddenly, I saw her in a completely different light. Instead of feeling vulnerable in conversation with her—as though I were an inexperienced con artist and she were an experienced professional—I instantly felt like an innocent bystander being targeted by a scammer.

Princess Amy had spent the morning telling me to be more intentional about my storytelling, to think carefully about when to let things breathe and when to move along. And here was a hair stylist offering editorial advice: Just make stuff up; it’ll be more interesting.

I thought about Amy’s comment that my readers follow The Circular Journey because they enjoy spending time in my company, not because they’re racing to the end. They’re not here for paparazzi photos that I don't take, or the celebrity gossip that I don’t manufacture. They’re here for the actual journey—meandering pace and all.

“I think I’ll stick with what I’m doing,” I said.

She shrugged and went back to cutting my hair. “Suit yourself.”

Walking out of the salon twenty minutes later, I pulled out my phone—not to call Princess Amy this time, but to make a note for the blog: Sometimes the best editorial advice is knowing which advice to ignore.