Captain's Log: The Felt-Tipped Crisis

Captains Log: Stardate 2026.117

As per Federation protocol, the FMS Coastal Voyager is maintaining station in the Melancholy Nebula, awaiting Mindfleet instructions.

The bridge of the Coastal Voyager was enjoying a rare moment of structural serenity—the kind of silence that usually precedes a hull breach or the sudden realization that one has forgotten a password, again.

Lieutenant Joy hummed a pleasant tune at her station. She called it Venus; it was roughly 90% Bananarama and 10% Shocking Blue, but it made her happy regardless.

“Captain,” she chirped, peering at her console, “there’s a soft, fabric cylinder on my desk. Did you see someone come by my station this morning?”

Captain Amy didn’t look up from her padd. “Is it ticking, Joy?” she asked, getting to the only part of Joy’s story that might have any interest to the captain of a Federation mindship.

“No,” Joy said, tilting her head and poking the thing in her hand. “But it’s labeled ‘DYNAMITE!,’ and it has a cute little white fuse on the end.”

She tapped it lightly against the edge of her desk.

The bridge lights instantly shifted to a frantic, nauseous amber. A klaxon began to wail with the persistence of a toddler hoping for a snack.

“Warning!” the cool, detached voice of Five of Five, the A-5 security system, echoed throughout the ship. “Explosive threat detected at Communications Station. Initiating Level 4 containment. Suggesting immediate evacuation of all non-essential hope.”

Chief Engineer Anxiety’s face burst onto the main viewer, looking like a man who had just seen the heat death of the universe and was already halfway through a personal apocalypse.

“Captain! The A-5 system is reporting a high-yield incendiary device on the bridge! Confidence generators are redlining! I cannae bypass the alarm; the logic is locked in a feedback loop of pure terror!”

Major Reason adjusted his spectacles, his surprised eyebrows making a credible attempt to escape his face.

“Captain, I'm scanning the object now. While the labeling is indeed alarming, the chemical composition appears to be… eighty percent polyester fiberfill and twenty percent high-potency Nepeta cataria.”

“Catnip?” Amy, eyes beginning to narrow, finally looked up from her PCD’s text messages.

The medical bay doors slid open, and Dr. Downer shuffled onto the bridge, carrying a stack of digital death certificates.

“Did someone say ‘explosion’?” he asked. “I’ve already pre-filled the ‘Cause of Death’ forms for the bridge crew. I decided on ‘Ambushed by Whimsy.’ It’s a depressing way to go, but statistically, we were overdue for a catastrophe.”

“Nobody is dying, Doctor,” Amy said, rising. She crossed the bridge, snatched the red cylinder from Joy’s hands, and held it up. “This isn’t an explosive. It’s a memory jogger. It belongs to the Ambassador.”

She sniffed it once.

“Yep. It reeks of the ‘scent of 2026.’”

Right on cue, the Ambassador strolled onto the bridge; that's me, Ambassador Genome, and if you'd have been there, you would have marveled that I radiated the kind of calm typically reserved for people who are not currently under explosive-threat alerts.

“Ah, good,” I said to no one in particular, “I see Cadet Reginald has completed his diplomatic mission. He was feeling guilty about stealing your sparkly boot laces, Joy. I suggested he bring you a sort of peace offering. It's jokingly called a dynamite stick; it was Uma Maya's favorite toy back on Earth.”

“Ambassador,” Amy said, her voice dropping into its court-martial register, “Five of Five is currently calculating our survival rate at zero percent because your ferret is distributing cat toys on my bridge.”

A moment passed before she continued, “We do not have cats. We will never have cats. This vessel is a feline-free zone by order of the Federation, the laws of physics, and my personal sanity.”

Lieutenant Joy hugged the toy to her chest. “But Captain, Reginald has such a sweet soul. My PCD translator says he wants more furry peers to assist with Jefferies tube operations.”

“PCD?” Chief Anxiety yelped from the screen. “Is that what we’re calling Personal Communication Devices now? I haven’t finished the manual for the long version! You people can’t simply abbreviate my anxiety while I'm in mid-crisis!”

Amy ignored him and stepped into my personal space because she knows it's something that immediately puts me on the defensive. 

“Nice try,” she said give me the laser eye. “But you should know this qualifies as cultural infiltration; it's a violation of Federation Directive Section F4, paragraph 2B. You’re trying to normalize cat culture on the Voyager. You want me to see a cat toy and think How charming instead of This is a violation of Federation protocols.”

I opened my mouth to deny any and all accusations. If I remember correctly, I was going to offer a Wodehousian defense involving the milk of human kindness, but Amy raised a hand.

“Here’s my deal,” she said. “You will cease this clandestine Operation Meow immediately, or I will assign you to a permanent post on 21st-century Earth, chasing film production crews in the Calabash Sector.”

I winced; Emotional pain, as I'm sure you know, is treated as physical pain in the Genome brain. “That seems… disproportionate, Captain.”

“However,” Amy continued, softening by about two percent, “I am prepared to offer a compromise. Each time we pass Moon City, you will receive a four-hour R&R window. You may visit the Federation animal shelters and conduct as much diplomatic feline outreach as you like.”

I felt my face light up. Why hadn't I thought of that earlier, I wondered. “Really? You’re willing to do that for me?”

“As long as you give up your obsession with having felines aboard the Coastal Voyager,” Amy said, turning back toward her chair. 

“But you will undergo a Level-5 decontamination scrub before re-boarding."

"Okay," I said. 

"If I find so much as a single stray whisker on your uniform, Five of Five has my authorization to classify you as a biological hazard, and you will be restricted from using the transporter for Sunday morning visits to Egret Cafe.”

Another moment passed, much like the first.

“Five of Five," she called in her commander's voice, "reset the alert level to zero. The ‘threat’ has been neutralized.”

Dr. Downer sighed a long, theatrical exhale. “Typical,” he mumbled. “Another morning saved by compromise. I don’t know why I bother to get out of bed.”

From the ventilation shaft above the science station, a small furry head appeared.

“Dook?” said Cadet Reginald.

I glanced up toward the ventilation grill. “Exactly,” I whispered, giving the ferret a discreet thumbs up. “Mission accomplished.”

Captain's Log Supplemental:

The FMS Coastal Voyager runs on reader goodwill and the occasional espresso. If you'd like to support the mission, swing by the ship's commissary via the sidebar link to view our T-shirts, no dilithium crystals required.

Happy Birthday, Mom! Va Apr 27

My mom’s birthday is April 27. I write this to honor that day—to acknowledge the gift of having her in my life, and to release the emotions that feel ready to spill over.

Others may never fully understand what I'm trying to say, and I'm not sure I can fully explain. I try, but the right words always seem just out of reach.

In the quiet darkness of night, I dream of you, struggle to express all that still lives within my heart. I’ve tried in so many ways, sometimes through fantasy, sometimes in ways that might sound like fiction. But it’s all real to me.

This is for you, wherever your spirit now resides. Nothing has felt the same since we were separated by that unseen veil. This is for the love we shared, and from everything I have left within me. I love you.

On the surface, my life appears complete. And in many ways, it is. But beneath it all, I still find myself mourning what time has taken, still singing quietly of memories that once colored my days.

Each night, before sleep finds me, I wonder if you might miss me, too. So I shape these thoughts. I weave them into something like a melody, something I hope can reach you. They are the words I wish I had said when I still had the chance.

All I can do now is hope that somehow, somewhere, you can hear the quiet music of my heart and know this:

I am endlessly grateful for everything I've become, because it all began with you.

Mindfleet Stardate 2026.112 The Podcast Wormhole

The bridge of the Coastal Voyager had been unusually quiet for approximately four minutes, a new personal record for the Ambassador. If Nature abhors a vacuum, the ambassador detests silence.

"Captain, I've had an enlightening discussion with Five of Five.” He said the words with the measured diplomacy of someone who knows he's about to lose an argument. 

“The AI unit’s deep dive analysis of crew morale may have merit. Introducing a feline presence aboard ship could offset the psychological turbulence generated by our new mustelid crew member. Cats are calming. Statistically speaking.”

Captain Amy didn't look up from her command console. “Ambassador."

“Captain?"

“No; don’t even think about it.”

"You haven't heard the full…“

"No cats." The words arrived with the finality of a photon torpedo. "Not on this ship. Not in this sector. Not in this lifetime or any adjacent one.”

Major Reason cleared his throat from the science station, which, as the crew had learned, meant he was about to be helpful in the most inconvenient way possible. 

"Captain, with respect, the A-5's recommendation is supported by a Purdue University study on the human-animal bond. The data indicate measurable reductions in cortisol levels and demonstrable boosts to immune function in the presence of domestic felines.”

"Major Reason," Amy said, her voice dropping to the register usually reserved for diplomatic incidents, "do not talk to me about human-animal bonds. The ambassador has no restraint whatsoever when it comes to cats. None. Zero. He once had six of them living with him. We’d be overrun before we cleared the Cape Fear sector.”

The Ambassador took a deep breath and opened his mouth.

"Don't," said Amy.

Lieutenant Joy, monitoring crew morale from the communications console, assumed her brightest face and swiveled in her chair to face the captain. 

“Captain, the reason Five of Five raised the idea is rather interesting, actually. Our adaptive intelligence has been listening to a podcast on the subject. A very compelling one, apparently. Let me see; yes, here it is: Happy Cats Wellness, it's called.”

Major Reason's eyebrow arched with Vulcan precision. "Podcasts, Lieutenant? Surely you're mistaken. That medium hasn't been active since 21st-century Earth.”

"Those are the ones," Joy confirmed cheerfully.

A brief silence fell over the bridge as that information settled like space debris through an atmosphere.

Chief Engineer Anxiety, who had been stress-monitoring the ship's confidence generators from his station, spun around with the expression of a man who has just spotted a hull breach. "How is that possible, Lieutenant Joy? Subspace reception is unreliable at distances over two centuries. The signal degradation alone would be… Wait!” He lowered his voice. "Unless the A-5 has found a wormhole.”

"Or opened one," said Major Reason, with the quiet gravity of someone dropping a matter/antimatter device onto a conference table. He turned slowly toward the ventilation shaft where, somewhere in the Jefferies Tubes, Cadet Reginald was presumably reorganizing Comm Officer Joy’s sparkly boot laces. 

"Could it be," Reason continued, "that our new mustelid crew member is not merely a stowaway? Could he be an anomalous lifeform? Perhaps planted here by the Romulans?”

"I want to be very clear," said Amy, raising one hand, "that I am not having this conversation." She stood. "All hands, listen up. This discussion ends now. There will be no further mention of wormholes, subspace continuums, or felines on this bridge.” 

“Ambassador,” she said, “my ready room. Now.”

The Ambassador rose with the dignity of a man who has been summoned to the principal's office many times and has made peace with it.

After the ready room doors closed with a decisive whoosh, Joy looked around at the remaining crew. "What do you suppose that was about?”

Reason, looking intently at the data scrolling down his screen, said, "It would appear the Captain and the Ambassador share a history that predates our current mission parameters. I've noted several glitches in the system’s overrides aboard this vessel that seem to reference the 21st century directly. As though the ship itself has memories.”

Joy considered this. “Hm."

Reason nodded. “Indeed."

Chief Anxiety stared at the ventilation panel as if something there had sparked his curiosity. "You can say that again.”

The moment hung there, ripe and unresolved — right up until the medical bay doors slid open and Dr. Downer materialized on the bridge like a man who had been waiting for exactly this cue.

"Did someone mention a wormhole?" he said. "Because I wasn't consulted. Do you have any idea what an uncharted temporal aperture could do to crew morale? To structural integrity? To me? 

We may have opened a portal to a dimension populated entirely by worst-case scenarios, and I want it on record that I flagged this risk.”

Joy patted her console soothingly. "No danger, Doctor. No wormhole. You can go back to rest.”

"I wasn't resting," Downer said, with the mild offense of a man accused of something perfectly reasonable. "I was listening to a podcast. The Conan O'Brien Needs a Friend podcast, if you must know. Very illuminating. He also appears to need a friend.”

The bridge crew turned as one.

“Podcast?" they said in unison.

From somewhere inside the ventilation shaft above the science station came a single, muffled: “Dook?"

The 80s Are Back; They Never Went Away

This morning, the Universe decided to stir me up by mixing music and memory; in other words, she hit shuffle.

It began, as these things often do, with a perfectly innocent intention. I had no plans beyond coffee. That’s the danger. When a man enters the Circular Journey Café with no plans, the universe tends to assign him some.

The morning was behaving itself; sunlight filtering through the windows as if it had read the handbook, the hum of conversation low and agreeable, the espresso machine performing its sacred rites without protest. Ms. Wonder and I had just settled in beneath the trees on the outdoor terrace and  I’d just opened my phone to check messages when the first note hit.

Not from the café speakers. From somewhere deeper; like a radio signal from deep space.

My memory has its own sound system, and it had queued up the 1980s. Not the decade, exactly, but the 1980s as a force, a synth-driven, emotionally sincere, slightly overproduced force. And here’s the curious thing I’ve noticed: the 1980s didn’t stay in the past. They keep coming back to remind us of our glory days, and when I way remind us, I mean remind me, of course.

As the songs played on the sound stage in my head, I started assembling a Spotify playlist: six songs, all from the 1980s, all Billboard Top 10 hits in their day—and all of them, through some cosmic loophole, finding their way back onto the charts in the opening of the 21st Century. 

1. “Running Up That Hill” – Kate Bush (1985)

There are comebacks, and then there are resurrections. This song from 1985 reached No. 3 on the Billboard Hot 100. But then in 2022, due to its unforgettable appearance in the Netflix series Stranger Things, it did more than resurface; it rocketed back into the Top 10.

I was just beginning to appreciate the wonder of this when Ms. Wonder herself returned to our table, set her coffee down with the quiet precision of someone who had something to say.

“You look like you’re about to explain something unnecessarily complicated,” she said.

I responded by mentioning how the hit songs of the 1980s never seem to fade into the past. “That’s not simply nostalgia, Poopsie. That’s time travel with a synthesizer.”.

She took a sip of her latte. “Or,” she said, “it could simply be a popular TV show, accessorizing with a popular song.”

“Yeah,” I said. “That too.”

2. “Africa” – Toto (1982)

There are songs you remember, and then there are songs that refuse to let you forget them. 

Africa reached No. 1 in 1983, and for decades it lingered in that pleasant corner of memory that I reserve for songs that I sing badly but loudly, driving down Ocean Highway with the windows down. I recounted it all to the Woman of Wonder.

“Then, in 2018," I continued, "Weezer covered it, and here's an amazing thing about that. Apparently, it was initially intended as a joke of some sort. I can’t quite get my head around that, but there it is. At any rate, joke or not, it was suddenly back on the Billboard Hot 100.”

Wonder took another sip from the cup but remained quiet. Like Nature, I hate a vacuum, and so continued enjoying the wonder that is pop music.

“A resurgence of pop culture like that is collective unconscious expressing itself through ironic appreciation that becomes sincere over time. And when I say collective unconsicous, I'm talking about the consciousness of the collective.”

Ms. Wonder didn’t even look up. “It's a nice song. People like to sing along with it,” she said.

3. “Fast Car” – Tracy Chapman (1988)

If the 1980s had a quiet corner, a place where sincerity sat without irony, it belonged to Tracy Chapman. Fast Car reached the Top 10 in 1988 and became one of those rare songs that doesn’t age so much as deepen. Then in 2023, Luke Combs covered it. 

He didn't reimagine it; didn't reinvent it; he just respected it. Bam! Another Top 10 hit.

“That proves something I’ve long suspected,” I said. “Authenticity, just like good coffee, doesn’t go out of style; it just waits for someone to appreciate it again. I'm sure your maritime photography will do the same.

Wonder took another slow sip of her latte, “Good songs remain good songs.”

4. “Livin’ on a Prayer” – Bon Jovi (1986)

This No. 1 hit in 1986 has resurfaced repeatedly in the streaming era, reentering charts and remaining culturally relevant.

“This song is about resilience,” I said. “It's musical persistence embedded in the cultural psyche.”

Ms. Wonder stirred her coffee. “It’s about people singing loudly at cultural events,” she said.

5. “Total Eclipse of the Heart” – Bonnie Tyler (1983)

There are songs designed for special moments, and then there are special moments that seem designed for songs. When the solar eclipse of 2017 swept across the United States, this song, which was already a No. 1 hit in 1983, returned to the Billboard charts.

Because of course it did.

If the moon is going to block out the sun, you might as well have Bonnie Tyler narrate the emotional implications. I remember that day. People stood outside, wearing protective glasses, staring at the sky. And somewhere, inevitably, someone pressed play.

“That,” I said, “is the universe aligning symbolism with sound.”

“That,” she said, “is marketing and opportunity getting together for a jam fest.”

Closing Statement: The Coffee Was Never the Point

After discussing that fifth song, I realized the sunlight had shifted. The terrace had filled with the quiet hum of people living their lives in real time, unaware that the past was gently playing all around them, if only they chose to tune in.

I felt something stirring in my limbic system, somewhere in the vacinity of the amygdala, that’s when Princess Amy appeared. 
She seemed to be musing, giving something a moment of consideration. I was about to ask what arrested her attention, but I didn’t get the chance.

Ah, she said. I see what's happened now; you've had temporal leakage. I hope it's cleared up now, I've heard enough about music from the decade of decadence.

“It’s only passing nostalgia,” I replied.

“Did you say something?” Wonder asked.

“Only that the 1980s aren’t gone forever,” I said. “They revisit me, when the conditions are right, and remind me of the glory days.”

Ms. Wonder finished her coffee and set the cup down.

“I think they don’t revisit you,” she said, “as much as they haven’t ever left.” 

No one can put a period at the end of a sentence like Ms. Wonder. There's nothing like her. She towers above mere mortals.

Nobel Prize Acceptance Speech

For a college physics assignment, I once set out to design an alternative to the Big Bang theory, not the television show, but the explosive origin of the universe. Our professor explained that an international organization had established strict criteria for such proposals: any student theory that met those standards and avoided the usual mathematical pitfalls would be added to a prestigious compendium of plausible explanations for how the universe began.

I believe these collegiate projects are necessary to keep international organizations off the streets and out of trouble.

I’m fairly certain my theory was published in the Journal of the International Society that year, if only because I cross‑checked every variable against their requirements with the kind of obsessive precision usually reserved for airlock maintenance aboard the International Space Station.

I never heard from the organization, but I did get an “A” in the course. So I’m convinced my theory is now gathering dust on a shelf somewhere, probably in that secret chamber buried beneath the paws of the Sphinx on the Giza Plateau.

I'm sure you've seen the Google video. According to 2025 INXS scans and radar surveys, there are undiscovered chambers and tunnels beneath the Great Sphinx, particularly near the right paw. Yet the site remains untouched, because the Egyptian Antiquities Office refuses to allow any disturbance.

Rumor has it that the refusal is a personal directive from Zahi Hawass, the former Minister of Tourism and Antiquities. And I know why he refuses; I know him like the back of my knee. Haili (my nickname for him) and I have been locked in a long‑standing feud ever since my remark about Queen Hatshepsut. I’ve moved on, but Haili nurses a grudge with the tectonic weight of a pharaoh. 

So my theory simply waits to be discovered, patiently biding its time until Egyptian Antiquities finally gets over the historic “relocation” of their treasures by European collectors and allows a proper investigation of those chambers.

When my paper is finally unearthed, a posthumous Nobel Prize in Physics is, of course, a mathematical certainty. To streamline things for the future committee, I’m already drafting my acceptance speech.

Stay tuned, and you’ll be the first in your neighborhood to read my speech on The Circular Journey. BTW, I've written about craving my very own Nobel on another post. Read the rest of this post before you click this link. You can read it later: Nobel Prize, Possibly?

If you live long enough to attend the Nobel ceremony, feel free to tell the people you meet there that you knew me. The fact that you don’t actually know me is irrelevant; human memory is a faulty holographic projection at best. Even when you aim for honesty, you’re not reporting the past; you’re simply replaying a glitchy simulation. 

Under those circumstances, lying won’t be any less accurate, and as sure as Isis loved Horus, it will be far more entertaining.

You might as well embellish it to make the story more entertaining. That’s what I do.

Multi-media Cat Friendly Empire

I was back at the Circular Journey Café, staring at my saltwater taffy latte and wondering what I was thinking when I ordered it. Today, the foam art looked less like the Strait of Gibraltar and more like a cat napping in a sunbeam. 

Princess Amy sat across from me, her tiara refracting the light into judgmental laser beams. In my head, her expression said, I’m listening, but I’m already prepared to correct or overrule you.

“You’re doing it again,” she said, pushing the sleeves of her Mindfleet uniform to her elbows. This episode isn’t about Mindfleet; she just likes the importance that comes with wearing a Commander’s uniform.

“Doing what?” I asked, carefully sipping the cat’s left ear.

“Striving. Seeking. Building a ‘media empire.’ It’s a bit much for someone who just wrote a blog post about the spiritual benefits of doing absolutely nothing. What’s it called again, Oooh Way?”

“It’s Wu Wei, and it’s the Daoist art of effortless action.”

“Whatever,” she said, fussing with her sleeves again.

“And it’s not an empire,” I protested, apparently loud enough to cause a woman at a nearby table to glance my way and pull her croissant closer. “It’s a cross-platform synergy of wellness,” I added, more softly. “I’m connecting the dots, Amy.”

“Dots,” she sighed. “You mean the various ways you’ve found to talk to yourself in public?”

“No,” I said, leaning in. “This blog is where I document the messy reality of living with a mood disorder. It’s my boots-on-the-ground report from the front lines of my own mental health. But the secret weapon,” I dropped my voice, “the thing that keeps the ‘check engine’ light from blinking 24/7 is the Chatsford tribe.”

Amy tilted her head, as if trying to see the argument from a new angle. “Cats? You mean those small tigers that live in your house and treat you like a mobile treat dispenser?”

“My bond with them is a biological anchor for my anxiety," I protested. "When the world feels like a glitchy streaming service, a purring cat is the only thing that's rendered in high definition. That’s why I started Happy Cats Wellness in the first place.”

“Now, I see what you’re doing with this episode,” she said, royal skepticism dripping from every word. “This blog post is nothing more than thinly veiled propaganda to promote the Happy Cats Wellness podcast.”

“It isn’t propaganda. I’m certified in Pet Preventive Healthcare through Partners for Healthy Pets. I’m a Cat Champion with credentials. I teach people how to use the latest research in preventive care to keep their cats healthy and sane, and in return, the cats can help keep their humans sane. It’s a closed-loop system of mutual survival.”

Amy sat back, fingers toying with the Mindfleet badge on her uniform. “You’re shameless, Alley Oop, you know that, right? I’ve seen the drivel you feed your Substack followers. The new article reveals ... what? The science behind the purr?”

“Princess, don’t pretend you don’t live in my head and know every thought that runs through my mind," I said. “That essay is where I dig into the fundamentals of the human–animal bond and how it helps us cope with mood disorders. 

“And you think people can follow this trail of breadcrumbs?”

“If they like cats and enjoy a laugh, they’ll follow it anywhere,” I said.

The toddler who enjoys throwing food at me wandered past and dropped a half-chewed gummy bear onto my table. I took it as a cosmic endorsement of my multimedia project.

“Fine,” Amy said, standing and smoothing her tunic. “Nice dream, Bucko, but even emperors do their laundry at the end of the day. Here’s a tip: write more Mindfleet episodes, they’re the only posts that go viral on The Circular Journey.”

“And this is coming from someone who inducted a ferret into the Federation cadet corps,” I said, my exasperation slipping through.

And so, at the end of the day, the circular journey continues. Sometimes it’s a podcast, sometimes a deep-dive Substack article, and sometimes just me and my inner critic sharing a cold saltwater taffy latte. 

Werewolves of Wilmington

If you once thought that number 2 pencils were designed for rewinding cassette tapes, then The Circular Journey is the place for you. Welcome back.

Wilmington is a perfectly civilized place and a top destination for Set Jetters. But every now and then, the moon rises over the Cape Fear, the vape clouds gather, and somewhere in the distance an engine revs in a convenience-store parking lot.

That’s when you know: 

The werewolves of Wilmington are out again.

 

A Study in Urban Feralism 

I first spotted the phenomenon in the Cargo District. It was raining, and the vibe was moody indie music. 

He walked through the rain clutching a coffee menu, asking for directions to Egret Caffè, desperate for twenty ounces of lavender-and-sweet-cream frappé.

Oh no! I thought. The werewolves of Wilmington!

The Habitat and Territory 

These creatures aren’t confined to our trendiest blocks. They’re adaptive, migrating with the shifting supplies of Monster Energy and Red Bull. 

He’s the tattooed gent in Walmart with the patchy neck beard. Get near him, and he’ll start explaining something. And beside him, always, "she" is there, smiling at the person he’s just inconvenienced, touching their arm and saying, “Sorry, he’s just…” and then never quite finishing the sentence.

Terms of Service (and shiny objects)

Every day can be better than the last, but it doesn’t happen automagically. It’s not guaranteed; we have to insist on our fair share and, above all, activate the stubborn gene. We shouldn’t obsess over every bump in the road, but to be completely transparent, I must warn you: there will be turbulence in today’s post. 

Regulars on The Circular Journey know how to prepare for bumpy rides, but I feel it would be prudent to tell all newcomers to fasten their shoulder harness and keep their arms and legs inside the vehicle at all times.

I continue struggling to remain prolific on The Circular Journey, contending with distractions like depression, anxiety, and shiny objects. Speaking of shiny distractions, I opened this post to correct an error and, once opened, I felt that irresistible urge to "improve" it. I added an HTML snippet to give it the "cute" behavior you'll see below. 

Terms of Service

By continuing to read, you agree to all terms set forth below. If you do not agree, exit now.

Sharing information contained herein with anyone outside the Inner Circle is strictly forbidden. If confronted on any detail, you should always resort to stout denial.

I have read and understood the above. Check the box to continue reading.

You may continue.

Early in today’s post, I found myself mid-sentence, reaching for the next right word. I am rigorously scrupulous about the fragments of reality in the dimensions I frequent, and every word is chosen for clarity, simplicity, and precision.

This time, the word I wanted was “seque,” meaning, I’m told, a smooth transition from one topic to another. However, the word was instantly underlined in red: “Unknown word.” That surprised me!

I finished the sentence and read it aloud. Rhythm matters; without it, a sentence is dead. The cadence held up, so I turned back to that red squiggle. I’m not above misusing a word, but I always strive to avoid it.

So I did what any thoughtful author would do: I Googled it to see whether it was, as Bertie Wooster would say, the mot juste.

Google delivered the usual suspects in the result list, but the following stood out from the rest:

What does seque mean? – Definitions.net

Did you actually mean segue or sequoia?

I was nonplussed—and not in the modern, fake way, but genuinely nonplussed. A supposedly reputable site, high in the listings, had weighed in on my word and offered two helpful alternatives.

But how was I to choose between seque or sequoia? If I’d misunderstood seque, what hope did I have with sequoia?

I remain stumped. The puzzle feels a conundrum of Gordian proportions.

It only confirms my suspicion that the world doesn’t work anymore. The matrix is broken, and our usual 4-dimensional reality has merged with some other higher (or lower) dimensionality.

Which brings us back to the beginning. Some days, the only way to face the vicissitudes of life (yes, I looked it up) is to muddle through, refuse to fret, activate the stubborn gene, and keep moving forward. Fierce Qigong!

Author's Note:

P.S. “Vicissitudes,” according to Google, means a change of circumstances, typically unwelcome or unpleasant.

P.P.S. You can say that again, Google!

Ambassadors Log: Stardate 2026.81

Captain Amy ordered Chief Science Officer Reason to take command of the GMS Coastal Voyager’s bridge, while she and a group of ensigns assisted Ambassador Genome with what he described as “mitigating circumstances” created by a series of “emergency errands” to appease the mysterious Ms. Wonder.

The Bridge: Pre-Flight Jitters

The mission profile sounded deceptively simple: navigate the Wilmington Sector, withdraw cash from the Harris Teeter ATM, secure lemon balm tea at Lovey’s, and acquire no-waste birdseed at the Wild Birds nebula.

“We still have time to film some B-roll, Cowboy,” Captain Amy said, adjusting her uniform as we boarded the Ambassador’s personal shuttle, Wind Horse. “The production crew is filming near Flaming Amy’s, and I’m the queen of distraction. I’ll distract security while you sneak onto the set.”

The plan jolted me into remembering that another film project was already underway in Wilmawood—and I hadn’t made a single attempt to document it. I sighed and asked the replicator for a double cappuccino. As I looked around the docking bay, it struck me that the junior officers all looked younger and happier than I did.

“My life sucks, Amy.”

“What are you complaining about, Cowboy? Your life could be a prime-time sitcom," Amy replied. "There's nothing more entertaining." 

The Transit: Cool Change Turbulence

Once aboard, we jumped to warp, at least that's the lingo we use. In truth, we just rolled down the windows of Wind Horse and turned up Little River Band’s “Cool Change” until the fillings in my teeth vibrated like they were on the verge of structural failure.

As we followed Ocean Highway toward the Memorial Bridge, Ensign Doubt asked, “Ambassador, are you sure about this route? What if the bridge is up? What if the empty port and lack of cargo ships mean a localized vacuum collapse?”

“Ignore her,” Amy said. “By the time we reach Drift Coffee, you’ll be ecstatic. It’s Federation law.”

The Intercept: Wild Birds and Pillow Lips

Outside the Wild Birds nebula, a departing lifeform warned us about a species inside, describing them as having “enormous, puffy, red-smeared pillow lips.” He summed it up with, “I thought they might explode.”

That color description put us on immediate alert; in the Federation, that particular red was reserved exclusively as a warning of imminent danger. Amy hailed Major Reason aboard the Coastal Voyager and ordered a scan of the establishment for any signs of radiation, then advised that we keep our distance, just in case.

Once inside, I fell into conversation with an employee who had a biology degree. Our nerdy back-and-forth conversation outlasted the average Romulan ceasefire.

“You talk too much,” Amy said as we drove to our next destination. “And you’re getting us lost again.”

“Me? You’re the one giving directions!”

“My directions are correct,” Amy replied. “You’re just executing them with ‘mitigating circumstances.’”

The Cantina Incident: Crystal Cove Surfaces 

We finally reached Drift Cafe, and when my coffee was ready, the barista called my name. As I stepped up to the counter, a local lingered nearby, waiting to order. “Genome?” he asked, his voice tilting with curiosity. “I’ve heard of you. Didn’t you once live in Crystal Cove?”

“I never actually lived there,” I said diplomatically. “The Cove is the ancestral home of the Genome clan, and I often visited family there.”

“So you really do talk like that,” he chuckled. “Now I remember...there was something about a fire…”

“If it’s about the fire,” Genome said, “it wasn’t my fault. It’s a complicated story; there were wheels within wheels. And I seldom start Branigans, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“Branigans?”

“Bar fights,” I explained. “You see, I like buzzing just to see what happens, and sometimes the excitement escalates, and things get a little out of hand. You never really know what to expect of people.”

Ensign Nostalgia chimed in over subspace. “Ah, the Great Branigans of the 1980s! Back when fires could actually burn things to the ground instead of being snuffed out by internal suppression fields. Those were the days. So tactile!”

The Wrap Up: The Toll of the Journey

Comm Officer Joy’s voice crackled over her personal subspace communicator. “Has anyone seen my sparkly boot laces? I’ve searched everywhere and still can’t find them.”

“Relax, Joy,” said Chief Engineer Anxiety. “They’re probably in the conduit tubes. Cadet Reginal, our new ferret cadet, stashes all the shiny, sparkly booty in there.”

By the time we reached Independence Avenue, sunset had painted the sky like one of Ms. Wonder's photographs, and Amy’s “positive karma stockpile” was overflowing.

“When you were a kid, you read Donald Duck and Uncle Scrooge comics,” Amy said as I navigated the residential outskirts, wondering how this topic would morph into some fresh hell. “Uncle Scrooge was rich and kept getting richer. Why didn’t you follow his example when you reached adulthood?”

“I do my best, Amy,” I said. I’d asked myself that question often enough, but I resented her bringing it up.

“Oh, don’t blame yourself, Durango. It’s not your fault; you were just born that way. But I must say, living with you takes its toll on a girl. I’m going to need a mental health day soon. Why don’t we detour to Carolina Beach and play the claw machine?”

“You don’t fool me, Amy. You just want to watch me act like an idiot trying to win you a teddy bear.”

I could sense she’d taken offense at my rebuttal; I could almost see the consternation on her face.

“I’m under-realized in this Earth-centric role,” Amy declared. “My horoscope said I should expand my horizons, and today I helped two lost souls. That’s got to be good for my horizon.”

Dr. Downer’s voice crackled over the final log entry. “Ambassador, Captain… your personal elevators don’t quite go all the way to the penthouse anymore, do they? It’s fascinating. Like salt cake—a big surprise, and generally hard to swallow.”

Ambassador's Note:

Even when the mission parameters call for nothing more than birdseed and B-roll, the universe conspires to make it an epic adventure whenever Amy is involved—Princess or Captain, it doesn’t matter.

Maybe our elevator doesn’t quite reach the top floor, but I still rely on Amy to steer me through the circular journey of life. I have no choice in the matter, it seems. It may be true that people can be total surprises; like salt cake, they can surprise and sometimes a bit much to swallow all at once. But they keep your stardates from ever being dull—and isn’t that the real Prime Directive?

My Blog, My Life

I love my life, and why not? Not that I haven’t had my share of disappointment, heartache, and trauma. But hold on, I’m veering off track; I’ve crossed the yellow line, haven’t I? I must remember what Dolly Parton said: "If you want the rainbow, you gotta put up with the rain."  

From where I sit now, sitting on a sunbeam with a rainbow wrapped 'round my shoulder, it’s easy to see my life as a magical, fantastical mystery tour.

My blog is a celebration of that life. Sure, it has other purposes, but the big megillah is this: when I write these posts, I remember the fun, the joy, and the simple reasons to get out of bed every morning. After all, Princess Amy is always there at dawn, even before my feet hit the floor, murmuring her usual, “Why bother, Genome? The day will only end like yesterday.”

I have to do something to ward off her negativity. The secret to my success? A willingness to take risks and a stubborn refusal to give up on my dreams. Or, as I like to say, “I will not eat pine needles!” Seriously, Google it. I did, and this is what returned as the Number 1 hit; the top of the list:

Am I being self-indulgent? Of course, I am; I've been writing this blog since 2008.

That’s why I started a blog in 2008. Amy said, “Why bother, Genome? Everyone and his aunt’s uncle has a blog. You’ll just get lost in the noise.” At first, it seemed she was spot on with her prediction. But no matter, I wasn’t writing for the masses. I was writing for me, and since I was the target audience, my “reach” was massive, with total retention and 100% engagement.

By now, you’re probably wondering, “So how’s that working out for you now, Genome?” It’s a fair question, and one I’m more than happy to answer.

In recent years, you and your friends have found The Circular Journey, and my posts have steadily grown in popularity. Over just the past year, we’ve even gone viral (When I say we've gone viral, I mean you and me.) Readership has doubled in the last six months, with several thousand of you and your closest friends reading my posts. According to Google Analytics, you even have friends in roughly 80 different countries.

In the closing weeks of 2025, it seems you’ve been clamoring for TCJ and even competing for access. It takes me back to the Cabbage Patch doll and My Little Pony kerfuffles of the ’80s. Weren’t those great times? And just to be clear, by great times I mean the ’80s themselves, not the Cabbage Patch–Little Pony rumbles. Those are better remembered as the “recent unpleasantness.”

In closing, I want to say how deeply I appreciate you. Your support, your encouragement, and your steady inspiration have catapulted The Circular Journey into the rare atmosphere of recognition as a blog of substance. Just before the holidays last year, a friend suggested I submit posts to the Tadpole Press writing contests. That friend, of course, was Ms. Wonder. She believes in me to the brim, pressed down and running over.

Because of that nudge (and because of you), The Circular Journey was recognized as a blog delivering "Writing Excellence." I’m honored—and I’m grateful we’re on this journey together.