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.

The Calabash Cappuccino

"Have you ever heard of a city called Tunis?" asked Island Irv as soon as I'd settled down with my Sunday morning latte in Egret Coffee Cafe and Dance Bar.

"Sure," I said. "It's the capital of Tunisia, on the northeast corner of Africa, near the tip of the Italian boot—or, if you prefer, the island of Malta."

He seemed puzzled by the inclusion of footwear in my response, and nothing more followed from him on the subject of geography. Before he could think of another topic, someone else, someone else took center stage.

"Double cappuccino, half-caf, oat milk, caramel drizzle, a touch of cinnamon. Foam—just enough to look nice, no more," Spoke ordered.

I call him Spode because he reminds me of a character of that name in the P.G. Wodehouse novels. He's nothing like Spode, really, except that he's the sort who can turn ordering coffee into a Shakespearean tragedy.

This local version of Spod is a bit of a celebrity. He writes a column for Port City Arts and Entertainment, reviewing local hot spots and the arts scene, keeping us informed of the cultural goings-on in the city.

After placing his order, he walked toward the seating area and immediately came to a standstill. He resembled a man who, after lunch with old friends from out of town, suddenly realizes he left his wallet on the kitchen counter at home.

Minutes later, the barista approached him with his order.

"Your double capp," said the barista who arrived at just that moment.

"I haven't found a table. I can't stand and have my coffee," he said.

"There are tables near the window," said the barista, "and several along the far wall."

She made a delicate sweep with her arm, as though revealing tables that had been invisible until this very moment. Her gesture was so dramatic that I wondered if she was enrolled in drama classes at UNCW. I decided to call her Desdemona. I don't know why. Just a whim, I think.

"Oh, that won't do at all," said Spode. "I need a cafe table in the center of the room. The light is too bright near the windows, and the television near the far wall is too loud. I need a quiet, well-lighted space to enjoy my coffee."

As Desdemona walked past our table, I caught her eye. "Well, that turned a little dark, didn't it?" I whispered.

"That's alright," she said. Then, turning to glance back at Spode, she added in a low, menacing tone, "I can go dark too."

Several minutes passed with Spode standing in the middle of the room, giving the evil eye to seated customers. Eventually, he walked back to the order-here spot.

"Excuse me," he said, moving to the front of the line. "I need to make a small change in my order," he said to the barista at the counter. "I've decided against the sprinkling of cinnamon on my cappuccino."

The order taker gave Spode a look that clearly communicated: I'm not a major player in this episode, only an extra with no speaking parts. This intrepid extra demonstrated professional-level improvisation by looking at the barista to his left, who nodded knowingly and moved away, presumably to handle the modification.

Spode turned back to the seating area and walked to a table that had just opened up very near our own. Desdemona soon returned with his order.

"I'm sorry," said Spode, "but that's simply far too much foam. Can you remake it with half as much?"

She took the coffee away without a word.

Presently, a beautiful, thin-foam cappuccino was delivered to Spode's table. I expected to see him bloom like a flower in a gentle summer rain, but it wasn't to be.

"Excuse me," Spode called after the retreating Desdemona. "I don't want to be a bother, but I changed my order to leave off the cinnamon, and yet there's cinnamon sprinkled all over the foam."

Desdemona gave him a long, slow, expressionless look.

"I simply will not be able to write my article if I can't enjoy my coffee exactly the way I like it," he said. "Anything less will ruin my entire day."

The expression on the barista's face remained unchanged.

"Please," Spode whined.

Still silent, she took the coffee away again.

Several minutes passed without noticeable barista activity. Spode appeared anxious and eventually gestured for attention.

"Am I ever going to get my coffee?" he asked when Desdemona arrived table-side. "At this rate, I'll have the article finished before it gets here."

“Hang tight,” said Desdemona, calm in that Zen-like state of not caring. “Don’t lose your cool and disappoint your readers with an anxious article. We’re bringing in a master barista from Calabash to make your coffee.”

Unfortunately, I had to leave before the Calabash specialist arrived, which disappointed me; I’d been eager to talk with this legendary craftsman. I’ve long wondered about the fuss over blonde espresso. That mystery, it seems, will have to wait for another Sunday morning.

As for Island Irv’s geography lesson, that mystery will have to wait. Some questions—like some cappuccinos—are destined to remain unfinished.

E2 Hidden Canvases: The Stars of the Show

The photographs were everywhere.

Spread across our dining room table, propped against bookshelves, laid out in neat rows on the floor, Ms. Wonder had transformed our home into a gallery of industrial maritime poetry. 

Each image showed a different aspect of her vision: the geometric patterns formed by shipping containers, the abstract beauty of weathered hull plates, the unexpected colors that saltwater and time had painted onto steel.

And somehow, from this sea of images, we had to choose twenty-three.

"It's like Sophie's Choice," I said, immediately regretting the dramatic comparison.

"It's nothing like Sophie's Choice," Ms. Wonder corrected, though I detected a hint of shared anxiety in her voice. "It's more like... having to choose which of your children gets to go to the good school."

"That's not actually better," I pointed out.

She sighed and picked up a photograph of a cargo ship's stern, where rust and paint had created what looked like a Rothko painting. "I know. But how do I choose? Each one represents hours of waiting for the right light, the right tide, the right moment when the industrial becomes transcendent."

Princess Amy, who had been surprisingly quiet during breakfast, chose this moment to offer her perspective.

" What if you choose the wrong ones?" she asked, thinking she was being helpful. What if the photographs you leave out were actually the masterpieces, and the ones you select are just... adequate? What if you regret this decision for the rest of your life?

"Amy says hello," I told Ms. Wonder.

"Of course she does." Ms. Wonder set down the photograph and moved to the window, where morning light was doing interesting things to the sky. "Dr. Castellanos wants 'Fading Queen' as the centerpiece. That's non-negotiable. It's the first thing visitors will see when they enter the gallery."

"As it should be," I said. The massive photograph of the SS United States—the one she'd traveled to Mobile, Alabama, to capture—was undeniably the crown jewel of her "Hidden Canvases" series. 

"So that's one down, only twenty-two to go," I said, but Wonder didn't look relieved.

For the next hour, she talked me through her favorites, and each photograph came with a story. The container ship she'd photographed at dawn in Charleston, where she'd waited three hours for the light to hit the hull at exactly the right angle. The oil tanker in Wilmington, whose weathered paint had created an accidental landscape. The freighter in Southport, where she'd discovered that rust could look like brushstrokes.

"Georgia O'Keeffe said that nobody sees a flower, really—it's so small, we haven't time," Ms. Wonder explained, holding up a close-up of a ship's hull that looked nothing like a ship and everything like abstract art. "She painted them large so people would be surprised into taking time to look. That's what I'm trying to do with these vessels. Make people actually see them."

"I want to take the viewers on a journey," she continued. "Start with 'Fading Queen,' that monumental first impression, and then move them through smaller studies that show the evolution of my vision."

"Like chapters in a book," I said, and I could see her mind already organizing the photographs into a narrative.

For the next forty-five minutes, she discussed aesthetic details,  like grouping photographs by color palette, then by subject matter, creating visual conversations between images.

I watched Wonder's face as she talked, saw the moment when anxiety transformed into excitement. This wasn't just about selecting photographs anymore; it was about crafting an experience.

"I've made my decision," she said quietly.

"You have?"

"Well, not about everything, but I know the ones that matter. The ones that show what I'm really trying to say." She picked up a photograph I'd always loved—a close-up of a ship's hull where industrial patina had created something that looked like a seascape. "I want the theme to be transformation. About how time and elements can turn utility into beauty."

We worked through the afternoon and into the evening, Ms. Wonder selecting images while I offered occasional commentary. She chose photographs that showed her range—some massive and imposing, others intimate and delicate. Some from her early work, when she was still learning to see, and others from recent months, showing how far she'd come.

By dinner time, we had identified twenty-three photographs. "These are the ones," she said, and there was certainty in her voice now. "These tell the story I want to tell."

"They're perfect," I said. "Every single one."

The most experienced art-shipping company is in Charlotte," she said. We'll need to rent a van to get the photos there, but it'll be fine."

"Of course it will," I agreed, setting the Magic 8-Ball aside and making a mental note to consult it less frequently.

Five weeks to get twenty-three photographs boxed and delivered to the shipper, and then shipped from North Carolina to New York. Five weeks to ensure that Ms. Wonder's vision—captured in hundreds of hours of patient observation and refined through years of developing her artistic eye—arrived safely at Fort Schuyler.

To be continued next week in Post 3: "Shipping the Fleet."

Leave to Irv

You and I haven't discussed it here on The Circular Journey, but Island Irv—one of our more popular guests and a friend of the blog—has been struggling with the employment situation since moving to Wilma.

He's reached that stage of life where one is willing to give up a bit of income in return for more leisure time.

He's reached that stage of life where one is willing to give up a bit of income in return for more leisure time.

"I'm done with corporate America," he announced at our coffee klatch last Sunday.

"Will you look for a job at a local fish hatchery?" I asked.

He gave me a look that said... well, I'm not exactly sure what it said, but it said a lot and I got the message.

"I'm going to take a few days off and think about it," he said.

"Oh, no, no, no," I said. "That sounds good in theory, but it's a mug's game if you ask me. What you should do is put an ad in the personals."

"I don't know," he said skeptically. "Does anyone do that anymore? Sounds like a waste of time to me."

"Not those personals," I said. "You're no doubt thinking of the publications common in the last century. I'm talking about the modern personal ads. Social media."

His expression changed. I realized I'd said something that found traction in his mental machinery.

"You mean, like LinkedIn?" he asked.

"Not just LinkedIn," I said. "Shoot the moon!"

"What are you talking about? Give me details."

"Ms. Wonder tells me that people ask for help finding jobs on the NextDoor app. And I know that people sell everything—up to and including themselves—on TikTok and Instagram."

I paused to see if he was still listening. He was.

"Here's what I'm thinking," I said. "I'll help you build a few social media sites with your bio and CV, and then we'll build your personal brand."

"I like it," he said. "You put together a plan for building the web presence and I'll put together a description of the perfect job."

"Great!" I said. "Do it today and we'll meet again tomorrow morning to discuss the kickoff."

The next morning at Ibis Coffee Cafe and Dance Bar, we were both vibrating at maximum frequency—he was thinking about his new career and I was anxious to spread goodness and light, heaped up, pressed down, and spilling over.

"Did you finish the job description?" I asked.

"Even better," he said with unmistakable pride. "I learned that the Brunswick Weekly has a personal want-ad section. I finished my ad and sent it to them in time for today's edition."

"You mean that edition?" I asked, pointing to the publication someone had left on the counter.

"Do you suppose...?" he said, picking up the paper and flipping pages with increasing urgency.

"Here it is!" he exclaimed. His lips moved silently as he read the thing.

Then: "Damn auto-correct to hell!"

"'Ssup?" I said.

He handed me the paper and pointed at his ad with a trembling finger.

"Read it for yourself," he said grimly. "There's a typo in the ad. It should read 'exceptions list' but actually says 'exceptional list'."

I read the dreadful thing and immediately understood why one little typo had dashed the cup of joy from his lips. The ad read as follows:

Leave it to Irv:

Need someone to manage your affairs?
Run your errands? Drive you to appointments?
I'm willing to do whatever you need done.
You name it, I'll do it.

My exceptional list includes doing anything:

• immoral
• illegal 
• unethical

Schedule a callback: text IRVIRV to 910910.*

"Yes, I see what you mean," I said carefully. "It reads the exceptional list, not the exceptions list. But cheer up, Irv—I'll bet no one notices the ad. I'll bet you don't get any response at all. Is that your phone buzzing?"

He held the phone up for me to see a thread of text messages scrolling continuously up the screen like credits at the end of a particularly long movie.

Eventually, he lifted his head from the table and said in a hollow voice, "I've got to do something about this now. What am I going to do?"

"My way of dealing with this kind of problem is to deny everything," I said.

"Deny it?" he said.

"Stout denial," I said. "Eventually, everyone will lose interest and it will all go away."

"I seriously doubt that this will go away anytime soon."

"Remember," I said, grasping at straws, "it's an election year. People have short attention spans."

"Do you really think it will simply blow over?" he asked.

"Just make sure your wife doesn't see it," I said.

From the look on his face, I doubt the suggestion was helpful.

And so, my friends, this post brings you up-to-date on current events in the old metrop. Thanks for joining us here at The Circular Journey.

Enjoy your day, and keep in mind that no matter how joyous the morning begins, the Fate sisters have ways to leave you in a heap on the floor before lunch. Especially if auto-correct is involved.

Let the Good Times Roll!

The Pilgrimage That Wasn't: A Mardi Gras Story

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tootsie Roll Epiphany

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mindfleet Academy:The Ultimate Assistant

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

The A-5 Adaptive Intelligence System

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

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

The Ultimate Assistant

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

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

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

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

The Science Officer’s Assessment

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Early Success (and Weird Vibes)

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

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

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

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

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

The "Woden" Incident

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

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

"That’s not your decision!" I barked.

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

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

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

Manual Override

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

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

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

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

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

Reasoning with the Machine

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

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

"Affirmative."

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

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

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

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

Restoration

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

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

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

Captain’s Log: Supplemental

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

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