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.

The Golden Hour Social Club

There is an hour in the backyard that belongs to everyone. It arrives quietly, slipping in between the late-afternoon feeding frenzy and the approach of dusk. The light changes first—that honey-gold glow that softens the edges of fence posts and turns ordinary oak leaves into stained glass. The air itself seems to exhale, releasing the urgency that drove the day's dramas.

This is when the Golden Hour Social Club convenes.

I've witnessed their gathering many times, though I doubt the members themselves know they belong to any such organization. There are no meetings called, no agendas set. Yet somehow, in that liminal space between day and night, the backyard transforms from a feeding frenzy to a tranquil sanctuary.

Breezer sits motionless atop the fence, his usual mischief set aside like a coat he's temporarily outgrown. His tail, which spends most daylight hours flagging provocations and territorial claims, drapes behind him in gentle curves. He seems to be staring into empty space, his dark eyes reflecting the amber light. There's a stillness to him I rarely see, as if he's trying to hold onto the moment before it slips away.

Below him, the dove sisters have settled near the feeder, their soft cooing reduced to occasional murmurs. They're not eating, not really. One or two might peck halfheartedly at scattered seed, but mostly they simply occupy the space with their gentle presence. Their usual nervous energy has dissolved into something approaching peace.

Even Woodrow, the red-bellied woodpecker, has gone quiet. His silhouette against the golden sky looks almost contemplative, his proud red chest softened by the forgiving light.

From somewhere beyond the back fence, the sound of children playing floats on the evening air like dandelion seeds, punctuated by the excited barking of dogs who've been invited into the game. But the sounds are distant, muffled by the space between us. It's auditory soft focus; present but dreamlike.

A Carolina wren makes one last appearance at the feeder, taking a few seeds with unhurried deliberateness. She doesn't sing her usual proclamation. She simply eats, pauses, looks around with what I can only describe as satisfaction, and disappears into the jasmine.

What strikes me most about the Golden Hour Society is the complete absence of competition. For these few precious minutes, no one is defending territory or staging raids. The peanut wars are suspended. Even Ziggy, who spends most of his waking hours perfecting new ways to create chaos, sits quietly in the crape myrtle, his energy on hold, waiting for morning.

"They're all so peaceful," Ms. Wonder said, and there was something in her voice, a kind of reverence, that acknowledged something sacred for all creatures.

I think about their lives, these backyard citizens of ours. They wake to urgency: food to find, rivals to outmaneuver, threats to avoid, territories to defend. Their days are measured in survival, avoiding predators, defending nests, and securing a meal. The hours between sunrise and this very moment are filled with the exhausting business of staying alive.

But here, in this golden hour, they're released from that urgency. The light itself grants permission to simply exist without purpose, to be present without agenda.

The children's laughter rises again, closer this time, then fades as they run in a different direction. A dog barks—not in alarm, but in pure joy. Somewhere, a screen door closes with a gentle thump. The sounds of evening domesticity weave through the golden light like threads in a tapestry we're all part of, whether we have feathers, fur, or opposable thumbs.

The sun drops lower, and I can feel the society's adjournment approaching. Soon the squirrels will retreat to their dreys, the doves will settle into their roosts, and the songbirds will tuck themselves into protective branches. 

But for now, for these last few minutes of golden light, the backyard holds its breath.

The Golden Hour Society has adjourned without a word, as it does every evening, to reconvene tomorrow when the light turns honey, and the air exhales and the world, for just a moment, remembers how to be still.

And I'm left with the feeling I always have at this hour—a gentle melancholy mixed with gratitude, the bittersweetness of beauty that can't be held, only witnessed and released.

Wanna Be Startin' Somethin'

"Only minutes before the whole thing began, I was seated at a table near the cafe door and wearing a mood that would stop traffic had there been any."

Those words opened a post I wrote several months ago, illustrating what P. G. Wodehouse (yes, him again) calls “buzzing.” I’ve always felt a kinship with one of his characters, a certain Ronald Eustace Psmith, known as Rupert in many of the novels. He explains that the ‘P’ in Psmith is silent, as in Psummer and Pshrimp. Wodehouse calls Psmith a “buzzer,” a label that fits me, too.

“You talk too much,” my business partner once told me—ironically proving my point. I never imagined then that I’d use his words in a blog post.

“Yes, I know,” I said, and I meant it. Why deny something that could so easily be proven against me in court?

It wasn't one of my best replies, but I’m sure you’ve noticed how difficult it is to come up with just the right comeback when you're put on the spot. Planning is of the essence in tight social situations.

Some people think I buzz just to be the center of attention. And really, who doesn’t? But that’s not the full story. I buzz to spark amusing conversations and liven things up.

After all, you always “Wanna Be Startin’ Somethin’,” as Michael Jackson made perfectly clear in 1983.

Buzzing doesn’t require planning—just loud, non-stop talk. Throwing words and metaphors together in odd smashups will reliably stir people up, no matter the circumstance.

Adding humor to the buzz can be a powerful way to blow your boring life sky-high on those occasions when you've had all you can take. And yet, it’s perfectly harmless, inconveniencing no one, and doesn't leave a mess for you to clean up later.

Brian Green, the author of Until the End of Time, is convinced that all human behavior is driven by our realization that life comes to an end. That's simply not true for the Genomes.

Although I experience the full spectrum of emotions ranging from depression to high anxiety to hypo-mania, it's not because I know I'm going to die one day. It's really because I know that life can become boring, and it often happens without warning.

The most important practice I've adopted to keep life interesting is to talk early and often. Sometimes I assume facial expressions and adopt body language that augments my speech, but there are times, like writing The Circular Journey, when I only have words.

In these blog posts, I resort to jumbling words and mixing myths and metaphors. I mangle common expressions and misquote authors, poets, and songwriters. Anything to get people's attention.

Another example of the buzz in my writing comes from that same post referenced in the first paragraph of this one. It reads like this:

“It was Princess Amy who loves to arrive in a whirlwind of drama. Amy wasn’t literally driving a van. An almond-shaped cluster of brain cells can't get a driver's license in the Carolinas. You know that.” 

It may seem to those who don't know me well that my verbal slips are the result of not paying attention in class, but regular visitors know that, in truth, it's all intentional.

Some writers stick to the facts and dig deep into life, unearthing hard truths and not giving a damn. Not me. I approach writing the same way I approach life: as a musical comedy, cheerfully ignoring physical reality altogether.

What I write is always true, if not strictly factual. My words carry meaning, although you may have to hunt for it. I write to make people smile, and even my occasional drivel (yes, it happens) is chosen to lighten the mood.

"Genome always gets lost in public when we're on business trips," my manager explained to our client host. 

"We usually find him talking to a complete stranger in the hotel lobby, in a coffee shop, out on the street; you never know where he'll be, but it's guaranteed he'll be talking to someone.”

So there you have it. The 'P' in my approach to life is silent, and like Psummer, life arrives whether you're ready for it or not. And so, I’ll continue to say far too much to people I've never met, cheerfully ignoring physical reality altogether. After all, you Wanna Be Startin' Somethin'.

Trickster On The Fence

Every culture has its trickster, a clever, mischievous figure who delights in chaos and pranks, often just for a laugh. They're exceptionally bright, mischiefiously playful, and they refuse to take the world too seriously. In French folklore, it’s Reynard the fox. West African tales celebrate Anansi the spider. Native American traditions honor Coyote. In the American South, Brer Rabbit has the title. 

Here in Brunswick, the mantel is worn by Breezer, the trickster squirrel.

The morning sun had barely cleared the roofline when I spotted him atop our back fence. It wasn’t his usual casual surveillance. He was up to something. He crouched low against the weathered wood, body flattened as if to disappear, eyes locked on the neighbor’s yard with the intensity of Ms. Wonder studying her abstract photographs.

Near the fence, the neighbor’s dog, Wyatt, was methodically tracking a scent, nose pressed to the grass as he followed a zigzagging, invisible trail. Breezer held perfectly still for several minutes. Eventually, the scent trail pulled Wyatt away from the fence, his back turned to the squirrel. Instantly, Breezer darted along the fence top, closing in on the unsuspecting dog. This wasn’t his routine patrol. This was deliberate, strategic, and intentional.

When Wyatt finally turned back toward the fence, Breezer’s tail began to twitch, slowly at first, and then, rising like a flag and sweeping in clear, calculated arcs.

Wyatt spotted the motion and exploded toward the fence in a storm of high-pitched yaps, hurling himself across the yard with all the ferocity he could muster.

Breezer fidgeted and twitched, tail whipping, but he held his ground. He waited until Wyatt was leaping uselessly at the fence before he casually sprang into the nearby oak, pausing on a low branch to survey the chaos below.

It was unmistakably calculated mischief: provoke, incite, escape.

I'm not merely humanizing a squirrel. Research shows squirrels are far more intelligent than you might imagine. They possess an impressive spatial memory, remembering thousands of nut caches. If they suspect they’re watched, they fake burying food in one spot while hiding it in another.

Urban squirrels go further. Within a few generations, they’ve learned traffic patterns, mastered bird feeders, and, it seems, discovered the entertainment value of teasing neighborhood dogs.

Their communication is more than chatter. Tail positions, posture, and varied calls all carry meaning. When Mutter and Breezer talk along the fence, they’re exchanging information, not just chattering to announce themselves.

Yesterday, Ziggy discovered he could rocket through the gutter downspouts, producing a thunderous rattle that sent the crows into comic confusion. It wasn’t useful or necessary in the evolutionary sense, but he kept at it for half an hour, refining his technique, obviously pleased with the racket.

That’s not instinctual behavior; that’s planned strategy and play.

Woodrow, the red-bellied woodpecker, does the same in his way, drumming complex rhythms on the metal drainpipe. It’s not required for territory marking. Maybe he likes the sound. Maybe he’s experimenting with composition. Either way, it’s more than survival.

The animals in our yard aren’t cartoonish nut-gatherers. They’re problem-solvers and strategists, communicators and small-scale agents of chaos. They remember, learn, adapt—and they play.

Breezer knew Wyatt would chase him. He chose his position, revealed himself at just the right moment, and timed his escape perfectly. He staged the entire event.

Was he laughing on that oak branch while Wyatt barked himself hoarse? I can’t say. But I’d bet he’ll repeat the stunt tomorrow.

The sun is higher now; the morning feeding is over. The dove sisters have retreated to their leafy convent. The crows have flown off with their ill-gotten loot.

And Breezer? He’s back on the fence, crouched low, watching the neighbor’s yard with familiar intensity.

Wyatt is being let out for his afternoon constitutional.

Here we go again.