Mindfleet Academy: Stardate 2026.1

It was 23:00 hours on New Year's Eve when Princess Amy's voice crackled across all channels with the unmistakable edge of controlled panic: "All senior staff report to the bridge for Year-End Threat Assessment!"

I materialized on the bridge with a sigh. "Amy, it's New Year's Eve, not a tactical emergency. Can't we just have a peaceful transition into 2026?"

She spun her command chair to face me, eyes wide. "Ambassador, we're about to cross into completely uncharted temporal coordinates! We have zero intelligence data about what's waiting for us in 2026. This is literally 'to boldly go where no one has gone before'—and I don't like it!"

Before I could respond, First Officer Reason stepped forward from his science station. "Captain, while I understand your concern about insufficient data, I must remind you that in the original Star Trek television series, Mr. Spock once said, ‘Change is the essential process of all existence'. Despite what we might prefer, the new year will commence at precisely midnight regardless of our preparedness protocols."

"That's exactly my point!" Amy exclaimed. "Everything could change! What if—"

"Captain," Mr. Reason interrupted with Vulcan-like calm, "I've conducted a comprehensive analysis of our 2025 mission logs. We encountered forty-seven major crises that you initially classified as 'civilization-ending events,' and yet current status reports indicate civilization remains operational. The statistical probability that you've overestimated 2026 threats is approximately 94.7%."

Amy's shoulders relaxed slightly. "But what about the other 5.3%?"

Reason's eyebrow arched. "That, Captain, is where the wisdom of Captain Kirk applies: 'Risk is our business.' We cannot eliminate all uncertainty. We can only prepare logically and proceed with available data."

Engineering's Concerns
Chief Engineer Anxiety's voice burst from the intercom, thick with worry. "Aye, but Mr. Reason, what if the ship's systems cannae handle what 2026 throws at us? I cannae change the laws of physics! If 2026 brings challenges beyond our current capacity—well, stranger things have happened.”

"Scotty," I interjected, "you kept this ship running through every crisis 2025 threw at us. Remember the Mohs surgery mission? The terracotta pot odyssey? The doomsday clock panic?"

"Aye, but those were 2025 problems!" he exclaimed. "And don't call me Scotty! I know what you're insinuating when you call me that. And the question still has merit, Ambassador. What if the Mindfleet Academy training missions require capabilities we don't have?"

Reason turned toward the engineering station. "Chief, your concerns demonstrate appropriate caution. However, I would direct you to Scotty's own wisdom from that same television series: 'The more they overthink the plumbing, the easier it is to stop up the drain.' Perhaps simplicity serves us better than elaborate contingency protocols."

The Weight of Memory
Dr. Downer emerged from the medical bay, her expression contemplative. "You want to know what I think about 2026? I'll tell you what I think: I'm a doctor, not a crystal ball! But I can tell you what I saw in 2025..."

She paused, and the bridge fell silent.

"We faced disappointments. We watched plans crumble. Oh sure, we avoided catastrophe, but barely. And it hurt. It still hurts." Her voice carried the weight of every sorrow the year had held. 

"Here's what I know about 2026—it won't be paradise. And maybe we weren't meant for paradise. Maybe we were meant to struggle. That's what 2026 will be. More struggle. More loss. More—"

"More life, Doctor," Communications Officer Joy interrupted softly, turning from her console. "More chances to connect. More opportunities to grow."

A Message of Hope
Joy stood, facing the assembled crew, and addressed us with warmth in her voice. "Dr. Downer is right that we'll face challenges. Princess Amy, excuse me, Captain Amy is right that we can't predict them. Chief Anxiety is right to be concerned about our capacity. And Reason is right that change is inevitable."

She smiled. "But here's what I know about communication, about connection, about being human: we're all works in progress. Every single one of us. 2025 didn't finish us—it added chapters to our story. Mindfleet Academy will add more."

"But what if those chapters are bad, what if we fail?" Amy asked.

"You know what I've learned monitoring communications this year?" Joy replied. "I've learned that the suspicions people have about each other disappear when they get to know each other. And we're usually wrong about our capacity to handle what comes."

Crew Reflections
With thirty minutes until midnight, we gathered for what Starfleet would call an "informal briefing" and what I call necessary honesty.

Chief Anxiety spoke first. "I suppose there's truth in what you say. Most of my worst-case scenarios didn't happen. And there's evidence that we're more resilient than I supposed."

"Fascinating observation," Reason added. "I would note that I've learned that my calculations can predict probabilities, but they can't account for the human capacity for adaptation and creativity under pressure."

Dr. Downer nodded slowly. "I learned that sadness isn't the enemy. It's the price we pay for caring about things. For loving people. For trying. And that's not a bug in the system—it's what makes us human."

Princess Amy's voice was barely above a whisper. "I learned that sometimes a feeling is all we humans have to go on. Even when it's anxiety or fear. It just means we're paying attention."

Joy's smile brightened the bridge. 

I took a breath. "I learned that it is possible to commit no mistakes and still lose, and that's not a weakness; it's just life. Much of 2025 didn't turn out the way I planned, but the detours sometimes led exactly where I needed to go."

Five Minutes to Midnight
Amy checked the chronometer. "Five minutes to temporal shift. Ambassador, as captain of this vessel and chief of emotional operations, I need to know: what's our strategy for 2026?"

"Strategy?" I said. "Amy, I don't think we need a strategy. I think we need a change of attitude."

"That's not reassuring!"

"No, but it's honest." I moved to stand beside her command chair. "We will face 2026 together. With Reason's logic, Anxiety's vigilance, Downer's honesty, and Joy's hope. With your leadership, even when you're terrified. Especially when you're terrified."

The chronometer ticked down. One minute.

"Ambassador?" Amy's voice was small. "I'm scared."

"I know, Captain. Me too. But you know what Captain Picard said at the end of his journey?"

"What?"

"'Let's see what's out there.'"

She stared at me. "That's it? That's your big inspirational moment?"

I smiled. "That's it. We can't predict what 2026 will bring, and we can't control it. All we can do is face it together and see what's out there."

"It'll probably be harder than we expect," Dr. Downer added.

"And more beautiful than we can imagine," Joy finished.

The chronometer hit midnight. And here we still are--the crew and you, our followers--hoping for the best year of our lives, and ready to face whatever comes our way. 

Captain's Log, Supplemental
We have successfully crossed into the year 2026. All systems are operational. Crew status: anxious but functional. Uncertain but together.

The GMS Coastal Voyager continues its ongoing mission: to explore strange new challenges, to seek out new solutions to life's mysteries, and to boldly go where this mind has never gone before.

The Year of Second Chances

Welcome back to the Circular Journey Cafe. I’m so happy you’re here, because I have some exciting news to share. I wish I could shout it from the mountaintops—but coastal living doesn’t offer many of those. So instead, the towering heights of the 600 block of Castle Street will have to do, if you’ll join me that is.

"Finally!" exclaimed Princess Amy, my imaginary critic and part-time life coach. Her tiara was practically vibrating with excitement. "We can dust off our press credentials and get back to what we do best."

“Remind me, exactly what it is we do ?" I asked, genuinely curious about her assessment of our track record.

She mused on the question before answering. “Well, I’d say eating craft services food and taking abstract photos of background extras is our specialty."

She had a point. Our previous attempts at documenting film productions have gone about as smoothly as folding a fitted sheet. I’m sure my track record hasn’t helped: getting lost, parking illegally, and being turned away by security guards is basically my signature move. Still, we learn from our mistakes if what I hear is correct.

"This could be our big break," Amy continued, "We could become the unofficial chronicler of Wilmington's film scene!"

"Unofficial being the operative word," I reminded her. "And let's not forget that 'big break' and 'spectacular failure' have been virtually synonymous in our recent attempts."

“Still,” I hurriedly added, “I’m cautiously optimistic. Ms. Wonder has been coaching me on what she calls ‘strategic preparation.’ Just yesterday, she said, ‘Genome, maybe this time you could research the filming locations a little more thoroughly. Maybe even contact the production office ahead of time.’”

"She even suggested investing in a proper camera instead of relying on my phone for 'professional' documentation. Amy, I'm telling you there's none like her. She..."

"No, don't say it," said Amy. "I know all about her wonders and the mysterious ways she works them. You don't need to say that every time you mention her name."

"I do repeat myself a lot," I said. "I'm working on that."

Amy simply nodded, sipped her cappuccino, and left the table to reorder or something—she sort of evaporated from my imagination the way she often does.

The truth is, I’m genuinely excited about RJ Decker. For months, we’ve watched other cities land the big productions while Wilmington’s soundstages stayed quiet. So having an ABC pilot choose our fair city feels like a much-needed vote of confidence in our local film industry.

The new series is described on IMDB like this: 

"Ex-con photographer RJ Decker reinvents himself as a private investigator in South Florida, chasing down bizarre cases with backup from his journalist ex-wife and her cop wife. It's questionable whether his newly invented self will save him or destroy him." 

When do we begin stalking the production office?" Amy asked, returning to our table, where I imagined her eating a cheese danish and sipping a fresh coffee. 

"We observe," I corrected, although I knew shed nailed what we actually do. "We observe from a respectful distance. After obtaining proper permissions."

"That sounds like a suggestion from Ms. Wonder," she said, "and to be honest, it sounds boring." My ears pricked up when she said, 'it sounds boring,' and I knew right away that she was already planning our reconnaissance mission.

That's about all there is to report from our fair city at the beginning of 2026. And so, I say, here's to RJ Decker—may it bring thrills to our screens, jobs to our community, and with any luck, blog material that doesn't end with me being escorted away by security.

Houston, We Have a Problem

Several years ago, just before we moved to Houston, my friend Pooh and I decided we needed cheap office space. Rather than shop around, we accepted an offer to sublet a little room in a questionable business collective housed in a dilapidated storefront in downtown Chattanooga.

It was the kind of place where the sketchy-but-legal world of bail bonds collided head-on with the outright fraudulent, darkly comic schemes of a rogue real estate broker. The air carried the musty aroma of whispered arrangements, questionable offhand comments, and a shared commitment to maintaining plausible deniability.

The Three-Ring Circus 

The business sat on Georgia Avenue, high on a bluff overlooking the Tennessee River. It was a strategic location, only a few blocks from the city jail, which gave it a distinct competitive edge in the “bonding out” business.

Originally a private residence in the 1940s, the building had since been carved up into a nesting doll of businesses. The front door opened into the realty company’s reception area, a depressing room outfitted with scarred imitation leather and folding chairs. Gayle, the receptionist, sat at a desk that might as well have been a fortress built to repel irate clients.

A door behind Gayle’s desk led to Otto, the broker and landlord for the other tenants. Another door, centered on the back wall, opened into Scooter’s bail bonds office. Scooter was a longtime friend from high school and college, and he was the one who invited Pooh and me to sublet the small room off his office.

To get to our desks, we had to run a daily gauntlet: enter through the realty office’s front door, greet Gayle and explain our presence as we passed through reception, nod to Scooter while threading our way past the ex-cons who frequented his place, and finally slip into the storeroom—our “office.”

The Nuts and Bolts 

Our small room held two small desks facing each other. It was otherwise crammed with the literal collateral of the bail bonds trade: televisions, VHS players, sets of sterling tableware, a velvet painting of Elvis, and a startling collection of George Foreman grills. Otto kept a personal stash back there too: a few guns, some ammo, and a box of regulation handcuffs he’d scored on eBay. Curiously, our “office” also had a small back door hidden behind a Japanese shoji screen, in case we ever needed to disappear in a hurry.

The amenities were few but serviceable: a tiny bathroom that Gayle miraculously kept spotless, a coffee maker she kept perpetually hot and full, and a box of maple-frosted Dunkin’ doughnuts that she had shamed Otto into providing every morning. She hid the doughnuts in a different spot each day, but always let Scooter, Pooh, and me know exactly where the treasure was buried.

The Cast of Characters 

Daily entertainment came courtesy of the steady rotation of Otto’s “real estate” clients. Their conversations were impossible to ignore, drifting into our small room on a warm front of cheap cologne, bad decisions, and sweaty desperation.

I distinctly remember the woman in the ancient fur stole asking about the replacement value of a hypothetical “missing” heirloom, accompanied by a man who specialized in appraising things at suspiciously high valuations. But the character who really deserves his own credits sequence was a man known only as “Spoon.”

Spoon never introduced himself, and no one ever saw him enter; he simply appeared. He was usually dressed in jeans, an ill-fitting blazer, and work boots. One afternoon, after a hushed, intense meeting behind the closed door of Otto’s office, Spoon emerged and addressed the reception area with the weary professionalism of a man headed to a boring corporate seminar.

“Well,” he said with a deep sigh, shooting the cuffs of his shirt like a CEO addressing the board, “I’m off to park a man’s car on the tracks of that railroad crossing out in St. Elmo.”

He walked out without waiting for a reply. The whole scene lasted ten seconds, leaving Pooh and me in a state of synchronized, silent dumbfoundment. It confirmed everything we’d suspected about the nature of Otto’s “work” and left us pondering the difference between a defense of plausible deniability and simply being very, very convincing.

The Danger Zone 

Pooh and I left that office after only a few months and relocated to Houston. Not long after, Scooter called. He had tracked a high-value FTA—a defendant who had “failed to appear” in court—to a residence in Houston. Scooter was on the hook either to haul the guy back to court or kiss his bail money goodbye. He explained over the phone that he wanted Pooh and me to help him apprehend the “skipper.”

When Scooter showed up and asked for a meeting to discuss the plan, I wasted no time defining my role in the operation: “I’m not going, Scooter. If you get shot, you’ll need to crawl out to the sidewalk, because I’m not coming inside to retrieve you.”

He looked genuinely wounded. “I thought we were friends,” he said. “I’d walk on fire for you. I’d bitch-slap the devil for you. You wouldn’t catch me sitting in a car while my friend goes into the danger zone to uphold the law of this great land!”

“I didn’t say I wouldn’t back you up,” I countered, leaning into the peculiar spirit of our friendship. “I’ll be right behind you, ole buddy. I’ll be so far behind you, I might as well be in Louisiana.”

I don’t know whether he ever took the FTA back to Chattanooga. He never spoke of it again, and I didn’t ask. Sometimes it’s best to simply never know. However, the episode confirmed a vital life lesson for me: while some friends are willing to walk on fire, I’m perfectly content to maintain a safe, astronomical distance from the flames. It’s a policy I rely on to this day. I recommend it highly.

Happy You're Here

"You know what your problem is?" Princess Amy said as I stared at the blank screen this morning, trying to figure out how to say what needed saying.

"I have a feeling you're about to tell me," I replied.

"You're overthinking gratitude. Just say thank you and mean it."

For once, she was absolutely right. So here it is: Thank you.

Thank you for being here for the New Year.  Thank you for coming back, week after week, to visit this little corner of the internet where mood disorders meet mockingbirds, and quantum consciousness debates happen over cappuccinos.

How This All Began
The Circular Journey started in June 2009 as a sort of journal—a way to help me cope with mood disorder. I needed a place to process the chaos, to make sense of the storm. But it almost immediately became something more than that.

I discovered I wanted to spread goodness and light to others, knowing that life comes hard and fast to all of us. If I could brighten someone's day, soften the blows with a hint of insight and a dash of humor, then maybe this blogging thing was worth the effort.

The blog wouldn't be here today if not for you. The Circular Journey isn't just me typing away at a keyboard. It's a cooperative effort involving me, you, and the cast of characters who've become the recurring players in these stories: Ms. Wonder with her infallible judgment, Princess Amy with her calibrated snark, Island Irv and his cosmic consciousness, and Lilly the all-knowing barista.

Your Comments Mean Everything
From time to time, I receive comments that make it clear some readers really "get it." You appreciate not just the stories, but the spirit behind them—the attempt to find humor in the absurd, meaning in the mundane, and connection in the chaos.

I created Princess Amy to transform something abstract and complex—like stormy emotions and intrusive thoughts—into something that could be understood in everyday terms. The fact that she resonates with readers means I've somehow managed to externalize the internal struggle in a way that makes sense.

Life is best described as better than the alternative. It's coffee shop conversations, traffic mishaps, and debates about whether your head resembles a melon or a cathedral dome. But within those ordinary moments, there's magic if you know how to look for it.

The Cast of Characters
Ms. Wonder deserves special mention. In my stories, she represents clarity, cutting through confusion, the voice of reason when everything else is chaos. She's the person who sees past the fog and reminds you to just be yourself, to live in the moment.

Island Irv brings a cosmic perspective when I'm drowning in the mundane. Lilly knows exactly what I need before I do. And Princess Amy—dear, brilliant but confused, Amy—serves as a reminder that wisdom is sometimes found in the most unlikely places. 

The Journey Continues

I truly enjoy our collaboration and look forward to continuing to work with you. Whether it's another adventure with Ms. Wonder, more chaos with Princess Amy, Island Irv dropping cosmic wisdom over cappuccinos, or something entirely different—I'm ready to dive in.

As Shakespeare might have said, "Gratitude is the heart's memory, and a blog without readers is just shouting into the void." Not really a quote, is it? But I'm confident the Bard would appreciate the sentiment.

One More Thing
If you're new to The Circular Journey, welcome. I hope you'll stick around. Read the archives if you're so inclined—there are hundreds of stories about everything imaginable, and nothing at all. 

If you've been here from the beginning, or anywhere in between, thank you for being part of this cooperative effort. Thank you for keeping The Circular Journey flourishing. Thank you for your comments, your page views, and your silent companionship.

Strange and Wonderful

The New Year is here! I have a perennial expectation for nothing but good things at the start of a new calendar, and this year is no exception. Still, even though it lifts my spirits, it doesn't really change anything in the outside world, at least not immediately.

The sky overlooking the Port of Wilmington may be bright and beautiful for those connected to the outside world. But my inner world is filled with a gray mist. My world has been steeped in sadness since last Tuesday.

It's all Amy's fault. I refer to Princess Amy, of course. She granted me almost two weeks of unbridled boredom—a record length of time for this mood warrior to be free of anxiety. Now, today, for no discernible reason, I'm wearing a broken front tooth, and I'm sunk in depression.

I should probably admit that the tooth broke when I chomped down on an antacid tablet. Do you see why I said there was “no discernible” reason? I mean, an antacid tablet! It's not like I was chewing up the sidewalk. Try discerning that!

Before I say more, I suppose I should make it clear that I'm really blaming Amy; well, I am blaming her, aren't I? Ok, I'll just say that I've "gotten used to her face," as the old song goes. By that, I mean that I like having her around. After all, she puts up with the very worst of me, even though Ms. Wonder doesn't trail her by much. 

Today, though, I'm striving to be philosophical, or maybe poetic—perhaps even fantastical (and yes, I confirmed, that it's a word, meaning "strange and wonderful, like something out of a fantasy story," which is exactly what I aspire to write).

It's no fun being in touch with my true self. I have to look hard just to see my astral body, lying in a heap on the Riverwalk, held down by enormous wings that, on sunlit days, carry me above the clouds and put a smile on my face.

If you're thinking the Genome is having a bad morning, you're absolutely right. A bad morning isn't the half of it.

But even as I write this, I've just ordered coffee at Circular Journey Cafe, the caffeine emporium in the heights of downtown Wilmington.

Yes, I have a steaming cup of Jah’s Mercy and a Spotify playlist streaming through my earbuds, and I can feel my spirit stirring, and not in the best way. I'm actually mad as hell, and I’m not going to take it anymore! Damn the torpedoes! Full speed ahead! I'm breaking through the clouds and into the sunshine. I will soar above the abyss!

I think I'm beginning to tire of hearing that. If I am, then you're probably tired of it too. I'll give that some thought as I drive home.

Yes, I'm rambling. I do that sometimes when I'm looking for exactly the right words. I apologize if you find it annoying, and, after all, why shouldn't you find it annoying?

I don't know much, but I know I've had it with the familiar path. I'm going to throw myself into the chaos of the unfamiliar. Right now, I feel like a mindfleet commander, ordering my crew to run an enemy blockade.

"Amy!", I hear myself say, "direct Engineer Anxiety to rev up the hyperdrive to warp speed and make the jump to hyperspace! We're going through!"

I'll keep you updated regularly on my progress. Check back often, because I can't do this without you—you know that. Leave a comment so I'll know you were here.