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.

Morning Has Broken

I had to do some creative problem-solving to get the birds fed this morning. It wasn’t easy, but after rummaging through the pantry and gathering the last of the seed and suet cakes, I managed.

Morning has broken like the first morning.

I stood at the French doors and watched the birds swarm in from the forest to the early morning buffet. Seeing those jewels of the animal kingdom feasting there made my heart glad. I smiled—it was reward enough for getting up early.

When I woke this morning, the sewer harpies once again reached for a sad memory to pull me out of bed before I was ready. I began to think this new pattern is something I should bring up with my therapist, Dr. Coast.

Oh, no!, Amy said from somewhere inside my head. Don't go whining about me to her again. The problem is your anxiety issue. It has nothing to do with me.

"Amy, you literally decide when I'm going to be anxious."

Just doing my job, she said. Look it up if you don’t believe me; I’m not called the seat of emotions for nothing. Those memories of yours are your legacy. You earned them by making all those mistakes. And besides, you take yourself too seriously. Talk to your therapist about that. Great Caesar’s ghost, Genome! It’s only life; it’s not supposed to be serious.

Praise for them springing fresh from the World.

“You’re nuts!" I said aloud, causing the birds to scatter from the feeder. "It’s my life we’re talking about—and life is serious.”

I thought of asking why she'd quoted Perry White, Clark Kent’s boss in the original Superman comics, but I managed to stay on topic and said instead.

“You’re probably thinking of Billy Joel, when he sang, ‘We’re only human; we’re supposed to make mistakes.’ Nothing is more serious than life, Amy.”

Well, you're right about being human, she said. We can agree on that 'cause all you do is make mistakes. 

"That's not true, and you should be so snarky this early in the morning."

Quiet! I've got the floor. Shakespeare said that life's a circus, and I know you can't argue with anything your precious Bard wrote.

Shakespeare never said that life is a circus. What he said was..."

Yeah, yeah, whatever. He said that life's a circus. Don’t get your knickers in a wad. Sit back and enjoy it. 

"All the world’s a stage, Amy. That’s what Shakespeare actually said. You’re confusing Shakespeare with George Carlin, who said that life's a circus, so enjoy the show.”

Like the first dewfall, on the first grass.

I don’t make silly mistakes like that, she said. George Carlin wore his hair in a ponytail and talked about the hippy-dippy weather. Shakespeare is the schoolteacher from a country village who got above himself and stole ducks from the city park.

"We've had this conversation before," Amy. "The story, and I'm not sure it's been confirmed, is that he poached deer in the Royal Park." She rolled her eyes when I said it, or she seemed to, at least. I only see her in my imagination.

Genome, what the hell does poached mean? It sounds deranged. I'm sure rural schoolteachers don’t do that.

"They poach deer if they teach school in rural Tennessee," I said.

Silence returned, giving me the hope that I'd stymied her.

Wow, she said, remember those days in Tennessee? That was a world apart, am I right? Remember that guy who used to say ‘perzactly’? I never knew if he was joking or if he thought that was the real word.

Silence had the floor once more, and this time, I was the stymied one.“I hated it when I was growing up there—couldn’t wait to get away,” I mused.

Praise for the sweetness of the wet garden.

Well, we got away, and if you ask me, that wasn’t one of your mistakes.

“Hated it then,” I said, “but I love the memories now.”

You know what they say: it’s better to be from there and have the memories than to still be there.

"We've done alright, Amy."

Are you kidding? We’ve done ourselves up good. We got above ourselves, like Shakespeare, and we didn't need to steal ducks from the king to get here.

Speaking of being from there,” she continued, do you realize what it took to bring you where you are today, standing here enjoying those birds? Do you have any idea why it makes you happy to watch them enjoying the breakfast you prepared?

She didn't wait for an answer. She rarely does.

I’ll tell you, she said. Ancestors, that’s what. Ancestors who struggled to live long enough to reproduce. And by ancestors, I mean your parents, grandparents, and everyone else all the way back to the rodents, the fishes, and the insects. That’s what it took, Genome—and your joy in watching those birds is an ancestral memory of all that.

When I didn't immediately respond, she said, You bolt!

We were both quiet. Silence was becoming a familiar part of the morning.

"Dolt," I said, coming out of my reverie.

What did you call me?"

“Not you,” I said. “You called me a ‘bolt,’ but what you meant was ‘dolt.’ I’m a dolt.”

Well, you’re finally owning it. That’s progress, I guess.

Mine is the sunlight, mine is the morning.

It was turning out to be a big day for silences; we enjoyed another extended one.

“I’m glad you were with me, Amy. It hasn’t always been pleasant, but somehow you and I got to where we want to be. And just to be clear, George Carlin wore his hair in a ponytail, that much is true, but he didn’t talk about hippy-dippy weather; he was the Hippy Dippy Weatherman.”

Praise with elation, praise every morning. God's recreation of the new day.

Life is a circus, Genome, she said, sweetly this time, don't take it seriously."

I didn't say anything, I only nodded, and I imagined the little brat standing on the bridge of GMS Coastal Voyager, looking through the viewports of my eyes, and smiling back at me.

Major Change of Plans

Change of Plans — and We Couldn't Be More Excited!

If you've been following along, you know that we've been counting down the days to Ms. Wonder's solo exhibit at the museum in New York. We've loved sharing the journey with you — the preparation, the anticipation, and the excitement of watching her vision come to life. So we want to be upfront with you about a major change of plans: 

Hidden Canvases, the art photography exhibit, has been rescheduled for Autumn.

For about five minutes, we were disappointed. Then we looked at each other and smiled, because we realized that we'd been given a reprieve from the hectic, hurry-up-and-get-it-done frenzy we'd been living with for the last several weeks.

An autumn show means more time to anticipate something truly special: the inaugural exhibit at Ft. Schuyler. The museum team has been wonderful to work with throughout this process, and we know the extra time will only make the show more extraordinary. Ms. Wonder's work will be worth every moment of the wait, and you can experience the preparation, the travel, and the opening gala with us by following us here on The Circular Journey.

Ms. Wonder has poured months of creative energy, passion, and hard work into this exhibit, and before autumn arrives, she deserves something wonderful. So we're celebrating early, and we're doing it in style.

We're hitting the road!

Starting May 28th, we're embarking on a grand journey along the southeastern seaboard, from our home in Wilmington, NC, down through the Florida coastlines to Miami. Our return trip will take us across the Everglades and up the Gulf coast. And we're inviting you to accompany us along every mile.

Our adventure begins with the Southern Prologue. We'll ease into the trip with a night in charming Summerville, which served as 'home base' for many of our low country travel articles. On our next stop, we will settle in for a few days in the magnificent Savannah, Georgia, one of the most beautiful and storied cities in America, and one of our favorite destination cities. From there, we'll pause on the serene shores of St. Simons Island before crossing into Florida. 

We're calling it our Springtime Floriday!

Then comes the Florida Atlantic Coast. We'll step back in time in the ancient, sun-drenched streets of St. Augustine, America's oldest city, before making our way south through Melbourne and on to the glamour and energy of South Beach in Miami Beach — four nights of color, culture, and coastline.

And then the journey takes a turn we're especially looking forward to, the Florida Gulf Coast. We'll wind our way up through the elegance of Naples, the arts and culture of Sarasota, the waterfront magic of St. Petersburg, and a final stop in Lakeland before a gentle return home through beautiful Beaufort, South Carolina.

Three weeks. More than a dozen destinations. Ms. Wonder will have her camera with her every step of the way.

We'll be sharing updates, photographs, and stories as we go — the hidden gems, the unexpected discoveries, the meals we're still talking about days later. And knowing Ms. Wonder's eye for beauty, we have a feeling this trip is going to produce some remarkable images — perhaps even a glimpse of the creative energy she brings to her art photography.

Stay with us — the best is absolutely still ahead.

You'll be able to come along with us as I write each day's story in Carolina Roads Magazine, which you can follow on Facebook, and right here in The Circular Journey. All stories and blog posts will be illustrated with Wonder's original photography. It'll be just like the old days when we worked as travel journalists.

The exhibit festivities may be waiting for autumn, but the adventure starts now! 

We'd love to hear from you! Have you visited any of these destinations? Do you have a favorite restaurant, a not-to-be-missed sunrise spot, or a hidden gem we absolutely must see? Drop your suggestions in the comments — we're all ears and genuinely excited about having you explore with us.

Mindfleet Below Decks E1: Crew Evaluations

Author’s Note: While the senior officers of the GMS Coastal Voyager are busy being "legendary," on the mental bridge of my limbic system, formerly known as my mind, the junior-grade officers on the lower decks are busy having nervous breakdowns. It's a common pastime.

At 0700 hours, every junior officer’s PCD shrieked in Neon Pink Comic Sans, the font reserved for mandatory compliance and psychological warfare.

Crew Eval-Protocols Commence Immediately
Emotional Integration (40%)
Crew Cohesion (40%)
The Unresolved Incident Review (20%)
Note: Failure to participate results in automatic demotion.

Ensign Regret stared at the screen until the pixels burned into her retinas. She found Ensign Anger in the mess hall, where he was aggressively stabbing a pile of lukewarm scrambled eggs.

"They know," Regret whispered, sliding into the booth.

"They don't know," Anger snapped, though his left eye was twitching.

"The 'Unresolved Incident!' It can only mean that time we accidentally swapped the Captain’s personality matrix with a sentient toaster. The bridge smelled like burnt sourdough for a week!"

"That was a hardware glitch!"

"You threw the toaster out the airlock, Anger. That’s a 'humanware' glitch."

The Paranoia Corridor

As they hurried to their duty stations on Deck 7, they spotted Captain Amy and First Officer Reason lurking near a maintenance hatch.

"These performance levels are offensive," Amy barked. "I’ve been patient long enough. I want these useless dregs purged before we begin the evaluations."

"Agreed," Reason replied. "I'll speak to Chief Engineer Anxiety. He will know what to do with them without violating the Prime or any other directive."

Regret and Anger froze. "We’re the dregs," Regret whimpered.

"They'll not assign me to the deepest pit of Engineering," Anger hissed. "I'll resign my commission first!"

Do you think she could be talking about the ventilation filters?" asked Regret. "Do you think the filters have exhausted her patience, Anger?"

The Assessment

Later, Regret and Anger were scheduled to meet the evaluator, Commander Clarity, in a room that was entirely too white and smelled suspiciously of lavender and judgment.

"Ensigns," she said, her voice like a cool breeze that makes you realize you forgot your jacket. "Tell me about the incident. You first, Regret."

Regret cracked immediately. "It was all my fault! I wavered! I over-processed! I made the toaster feel inadequate about its browning levels!" She covered her face with her hands.

Anger slammed his fist down. "Blame me!" he said. "I used 'Percussive Maintenance' on a sentient appliance! I'm a disaster, but I will not go quietly into the darkest reaches of Engineering. You can turn me into space dust first!"

Commander Clarity looked blindsided and remained quiet for an uncomfortable minute or two, blinking too often and too quickly.

"I was actually referring to your failure to file a 'Deep Space Litter' report after an unidentified toaster was reported drifting past a viewscreen on the bridge."

She slid an official-looking document across the table with malicious grace and explained, "You were recorded on by the security imaging system tossing the toaster into an airlock, so there was never any question; only the lack of a report from you." Silence filled the evaluation room for several million picoseconds. "However," she eventually said, "Your self-reported 'Humanware Glitches' are fascinating."

The Verdict

Immediately, upon being dismissed by Clarity and entering the passageway, Anger stepped in front of Regret and demanded, "You didn't file a litter report! You told me that you did. Why oh why did you lie about it?"

"I'm sorry, I don't know why. I guess I hoped that no one would notice a missing toaster; not even one that takes requests for pop songs while it browns bread."

"Yeah, well, because you didn't want to bother with a report, we've been ordered to spend 20 hours in group therapy with Dr. Downer."

"At least we aren't assigned to Engineering," Regret said, trying to be optimistic and failing so hard she pulled a muscle.

"Dr. Downer?" Anger whispered, his face turning a shade of gray usually reserved for moon rocks. "The man whose therapeutic motto is 'It’s probably going to get worse'?"

"Do you think it's going to get really bad? I mean, we might enjoy it. We might even learn to work together without bickering."

"Enjoy it? I've got news for you, Regret. There's a sign on Dr. Downer's door that says, 'Bring your own tissues. Dr. Downer does not believe progress is made inside your comfort zone."

Captain Amy's Resolution

On the bridge, Captain Amy sipped her coffee with a rare expression of delight on her face.

"Lieutenant Reason, Engineering finally got things done properly. That 'Ensign-Grade' coffee has been replaced with an exceptional roasted blend that has been married to a new, sentient espresso machine; far superior to the old coffee replicator."

"Yes, Captain. The performance levels are back to 'Legendary.'"

"Superb!" said Amy. "I don't have the patience for more bad caffeine."

Down on Deck 7, Regret and Anger shared a silent, relieved cafeteria muffin; one made from recycled ground coffee beans. They were headed for Dr. Downer’s office, and they were headed there together.