Monarch of Halloween

Welcome back, and thank you for helping me set an all-time record for monthly views. In September, The Journey recorded 408,759 views, our fifteenth consecutive month of record-breaking traffic. More than 90,000 people visited in a single day. It was incredible, and hard to believe, especially since I'd done nothing to trigger a viral event of that magnitude.

"Which is exactly why it happened," Amy said from her usual seat behind my left eyebrow. "Your strategy of doing nothing finally paid off. But pace yourself, Genome. Don't peak early."

"Fifteen months, Amy," I retorted. "That's hardly early."

"It is for you."

Now, I know your time is valuable, and your attention, like mine, has been diverted by the news that Apple TV is offering It's the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown free all weekend, October 17 and 18. We're not alone in our excitement. People lined up outside Starbucks before dawn to be the first on their block to own one of the new Snoopy cold cups, inspired by that same 1966 television classic. Somewhere, in some lonely javaporium, a barista has seen things.

As an aside, I'm not a fan of the horror motif that has dominated Halloween over the last decade. The official position of The Circular Journey is that the Peanuts franchise is Halloween's rightful monarch.

I say this as a man who receives a daily dose of dread from the princess. She's in the horror business, much like Stephen King. She can replay something I regret saying in 1994, or convince me that my front-left tire has critically low air pressure while I'm crossing the Cape Fear Bridge. She has turned my mind into a haunted house, which she prefers to call a "Fun House."

"Peanuts is the rightful monarch?" she asked when I finished the previous paragraph. "Fine, Bucko, but I'm Lucy. I hold the football, you try to kick it. That's our agreement."

But wait, I've jumped the rails again. I promised to get into the gist of this post without rambling. So, in that spirit, I'll quote Sean Carroll: "Let's go."

This morning, only minutes before I began writing this post, I was asleep in bed, wearing an expression that would have alerted a dream researcher that the Genome was deep inside a dream. Amy was off duty, which I mention only because she insists on clocking out at midnight and leaving me with whatever skeleton crew runs the subconscious. Then, in the interstitial space between sleep and waking, the Voice spoke to me.

"Reality is speculative," is what she said.

"Excuse me?" said Amy, who clearly wasn't clocked out as advertised. "Who is that? Is that a woman? Why is there someone in here who isn't me?"

"Go back to sleep, Amy. I've got this."

"I'll go back to sleep when you explain who's been moonlighting in my head. Hey! Show yourself, interloper. I'm in charge here."

Well, I ask you: what was I supposed to do with that? It's not as if I have a superpower or receive pronouncements like this every day. So I did the only thing I could think of. I wrote down what I remembered of the dream before it faded, while Amy muttered something about unionizing.

Here is the transcription of my handwritten notes:

October 17, 4:30 a.m.

Speculative reality: The word speculative means based on guesses, theories, or incomplete information rather than hard facts. Speculative fiction is a broad genre that departs from everyday realism. It asks, "What if?" by introducing supernatural, fantastical, or counterfactual elements into a narrative.

If reality is speculative, then our daily experiences are based on incomplete information and may be confusing, contradictory, or simply wrong. That certainly sums up my reality.

In the dream, I walked onto a baseball field from the far right-field corner. Even from that distance, I could clearly see a batter at the plate with a Louisville Slugger resting on his shoulder. He tossed a ball into the air and swung. The baseball arced high above the outfield and landed beyond the left-field fence.

I was awestruck because the field was at least twice the size of a regulation ballpark. The anomaly fit the idea of speculative reality, and the concept suddenly made sense: the oddball events I experience almost daily may be based on incomplete information. They seem wrong, or so improbable that they approach the impossible.

This dovetails nicely with the Voice's declaration. As for what it means in the larger sense, I'll be damned if I know. If you have any clues, leave a comment. I read them all.

Amy has asked me to make it perfectly clear that she is the only voice in my head. Anyone claiming otherwise is speculating based on incomplete information. Should the Voice return, Amy says she can take her place in line with everyone else and wait her turn for a Snoopy cup. She added that she'll be there holding the football.

A Tide In Affairs

I woke this morning to that old familiar feeling that I was about to explode. You're surely familiar with it. Your legs feel restless, eager to be up and moving. 

You feel that no matter what comes of it, you need to get out on the road and go somewhere; it doesn't matter where. Instead of caffeine, your thoughts turn to cruising down Ocean Highway with Whitney Houston singing I Will Always Love You. 

Lifetime Achievement Award

Beignet Lafayette

Do you remember... of course you do, we're not goldfish after all... that Dolly Parton wrote and first recorded that song? If you're also aware that Dolly Parton is the avatar of Shady Grove, my ancestral home, you might suspect that the old familiar feeling comes around like this only because the Ghost of Shady Grove wants to be remembered. 

The ghost I speak of isn't the spirit of someone long past. It is instead the spirit of all that was perfect in a small boy's life, now lost forever to the passage of time. The specter isn't to be feared unless an overwhelming homesickness and near-panic caused by thoughts of love lost forever are a concern. 

Facing the ghost requires a steeled resolve, if that's the term. And resolve, whether steeled, jellied, or crocheted, has recently been in short supply for the Genome. However, upon waking and remembering something Ms. Wonder once said, I decided to gather what little resolve I had and face the specter. The gag I mentioned goes something like this (I paraphrase, of course): 

There is a tide in the affairs of men, which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune. 

With the still-green memory of the first time I faced the ghost at the tender age of 5, I took the tide at the flood and, with a burst of resolve, threw back the duvet and sat up in bed to face the rainbow and claim the pot of gold. 

Oh, I'm sorry. I think I'm mixing metaphors, or whatever it is people do sometimes when facing difficulty. What I'm trying to say is that the spirit was indeed willing, but the flesh was weak. That one isn't one of Wonder's; I just heard it somewhere.

Sitting upright, as though ready to face the day, I wasn't surprised to find no pot of gold and no ghost. The anxiety I felt stemmed from the fact that Beignet, the unprecedented Cat of the Year winner for 7 years running, was not in bed next to me. I felt sorely incomplete and eager to be out on the open road, singing I Will Always Love You at full blast. 

Still, the small, quiet voice of reason reminded me of advice from my once-and-future martial arts master, Wen, the Eternally Surprised, who taught me that it's always wise to accept whatever life throws your way. 

"Don't make a drama of it," he said. "Make a musical comedy instead."

He never actually explained the methods one might use to turn a Hollywood drama into a Broadway musical, but I gathered it required sucking it up and getting on with it. Blogging is the only musical comedy I'm familiar with, and, as you know, I'm constantly looking for the bright spots in my days to share with you in The Circular Journey.

And so that brings us to the present moment, where I sit at Egret Cafe and Dance Bar, writing this post. I feel better now after crossing the Memorial Bridge and seeing Wilma's Downtown Business District spread along the Cape Fear River. Always inspiring and just a little exciting, with who knows what wonderful new opportunities waiting there?

By the time I motored into the Castle Street District, everything had been transformed. The birds that once seemed to be in an unending argument were singing as though spring were around the corner rather than fall, which, as we all know, is undoubtedly the case.

Though things came within a hair of falling apart this morning, the flame of fierce qigong never died, and I was able to extricate myself from the looney bin without a stain on my character. Almost no stain. Very little stain. No stains that won't come out in the wash.

What was the turning point? It's no secret. Music, blue skies, birdsong, and remembering what Beignet taught me about taking the tide at the flood. That's right. I first heard the phrase from Ms. Wonder's lips, but no matter who claims the copyright, Beignet always comes to mind when I think of it. So thanks, Ben. I needed that.

And so, my friends, there you have another little episode in the closing quarter of the 2026 season of The Circular Journey. The details of the episode, which my biographers will probably call Down the Waterspout at Midnight, may not be perfectly clear to you, only because they aren't clear to me. 

Memories play a larger role in my salvation than I mention on these pages. Sometimes memories are all we have to rely on, but that's all I'm going to say about it for now. I'll wrap up by saying that it's good to be home again. It is so true what they say: there's no place like it.

Roll the credits!

Still Crazy After all These Years

There are mornings when the universe aligns with such alarming clarity that a man knows, with the bone-deep certainty of someone who has given the matter far too much thought, exactly what he was put on this earth to do.

This very morning was one of those.

I entered Egret Cafe and Dance Bar with my earbuds in, singing along to a song I won't name because naming it invites commentary. The point is, I was enjoying it when my internal auditor’s voice, that’s Princess Amy, cut through the music with the surgical precision of a laser aimed directly at my dignity.

"People are staring," she said.

"Let them stare," I replied, with the serene detachment of a man at peace with his morning.

"Your earbuds aren't plugged in, Duffel Bag."

I looked down. She was right, of course. The cable jack was dangling freely, in a state of cheerful, absolute abandon from the device it was meant to serve.

"But I can still hear the song crystal clear," I offered.

"You can hear it because you know the lyrics by heart. That's your imagination you hear. What everyone else hears is you."

I processed this information, surveyed the pained expressions of nearby patrons, and decided the only dignified response was to pivot briskly and pretend nothing unusual had transpired. It’s a technique refined over a lifetime of practice.

"Never mind that," I said, plugging the jack in with the unhurried calm of someone who had nothing to be embarrassed about and who intended to rely on stout denial if anyone asked questions. 

"I have news. Significant news. I’ve found my 2026 initiative."

"You and your initiatives."

"Don't scoff."

"Fine," she said, using the tone reserved for holding a scoff in tactical reserve. "Where did you actually go, anyway?"

"The distinction is purely academic.”

“You went to Ocean Isle, didn’t you? You always go there when thirsting for a vision.”

The point is, I’m back, and I’ve found my purpose. Are you ready for this?"

"Probably not, but let’s have it."

I leaned forward, striking the pose of a man about to deliver a statement that demands physical gravitas.

"I’m going to become a bounty hunter."

A heavy silence followed.

"A bounty hunter," Amy repeated flatly.

"A bond enforcement agent, if you prefer the technical term. Though 'bounty hunter' has a certain sort of, oh, I don’t know—"

"I’ve warned you," she interrupted. “I’ve warned you so many times about that imagination of yours. I told you that one day it would carry you right over the edge, and now here we are, free-falling."

"I haven't come close to the edge of anything. I’ve done the research."

"You probably watched a movie."

"I read thirty-two novels," I said, drawing myself up. "The complete Stephanie Plum series by Janet Evanovich. Thirty-two, Amy. That’s  a substantial body of professional literature."

"Those are fiction."

"They are extensively researched fiction, written by someone who clearly knows the trade. And furthermore…" I raised a finger to signal my knockout point. "I’ve  nearly finished the entire run of Teenage Bounty Hunters."

"That's a television show," she said. “A series that lasted only one season."

"It deserved a second!” I said with considerable heat because I'm still extremely miffed that Netflix cancelled the show. “I’m certain the pandemic is the cause of its short run," I said. "The timing alone—"

"The timing had nothing to do with it, and you know it."

"The point," I pressed on, maintaining the momentum of a man fully committed to his vision, "is that if teenagers can do it, I can do it. That’s an entirely reasonable position."

"It is an absurd position."

"There's no licensing exam, Amy! No formal qualifications required. It is something a person can simply decide to be."

"And yet," Amy said, "even though there are no obstacles to becoming one, most people don't."

"Most people haven't read thirty-two books on the subject."

When she spoke again, her voice carried the quiet sympathy reserved for someone delivering bad news to the hopelessly optimistic.

"Genome," she said, "the Universe may well be leading you by the hand. I’m just suggesting you might want to ask where it's leading before you have to explain yourself to a judge."

I paused there to muse on her words because I was genuinely charmed by the whole exchange. This is what Amy does, and she does it magnificently: she engages every debate with the same fierce, loyal, completely unreasonable opposition, as though the quality of her resistance is itself a form of love. I've come to treasure it, even when I have absolutely no intention of changing course.

I sat with that for a moment, observing the morning rhythms of the coffee shop: the barista, the patrons who had just witnessed my live unplugged performance, and I pondered destiny, initiative, and the thirty-two paperbacks currently stuffed into my nightstand.

"That's a fair point," I admitted.

"It's the only point," she said. "But I appreciate you acknowledging it."

I inserted the earbuds and Dolly Parton’s "9 to 5" was playing. The song speaks volumes and, if I know anything about manifest destiny, it fully vindicates my strategy.

There are mornings when the universe aligns with perfect clarity, and there are afternoons when it plays reruns of Jack Parr's Tonight Show. I've decided to trust mornings. After all, a man who can sing an entire song with his earbuds unplugged has already proven he can perform without a net. 

My 2026 initiative needs no further research. Stephanie Plum managed just fine, and if she explained herself to a judge more than a few times. That's a detail best saved for volume thirty-three.

Mindfleet Contagion

The dashboard metrics spiked in June of 2025, about one week after posting the first episode of Mindspace: Into the Melancholy Nebula. In my line of work, a sudden steep incline on a traffic chart usually means one of two things: a server script has gone rogue and is trapped in an infinite loop, or a botnet in Eastern Europe has developed an inexplicable, burning passion for my vintage vocabulary.

I waited for the page to freeze or the blog to crash. Neither happened. The number of viewers just kept rising, with the calm indifference of a tide with no particular place to go.

Naturally, an investigation was required. Why had all of you suddenly decided to congregate inside The Circular Journey Cafe? The forensic analysis confirmed the numbers were clean. It marked an organic, honest-to-goodness surge of actual human eyeballs. Viewers became followers. Followers became a real audience. Writing into the digital void is the accepted standard formula, but having the void respond with enthusiasm is a joyful plot twist that exceeded my expectations.

To those of you who hit the subscribe button, forwarded a link, or simply lingered long enough to finish a paragraph, I am over-the-top grateful. Thank you.

The Viral Spike

The analytic evidence points to episodes having a few recurring themes that seem to have done the heavy lifting. Here is how the numbers broke down, and the storylines that prompted the universe to ratchet up the viewer response.

The Captain’s Stardate Log

A massive portion of the new crowd arrived because of Captain Amy, the highly critical, easily alarmed commander of my internal mindship, the FMS Coastal Voyager. Amy is tasked with leading a volatile crew of Mindfleet Academy officers through the roiling emotional storms of the Melancholy Nebula. Think of this series as a mashup of the original Star Trek television series and Pixar's animated movie, Inside Out, and filtered through the sensibility of someone who has read far too much and slept far too little.

In a perfectly neuro-stable universe, the amygdala, that almond-shaped cluster of brain cells responsible for threat assessment, is supposed to maintain calm during emotional turbulence. Amy’s preferred protocol, however, is to bypass the logic gates entirely and open fire with emotional phasers on full scatter-shot.

Apparently, a remarkable number of you deeply identify with having a reactionary commander shrieking unhelpful, panicked orders from the command console while the ship-wide alert system flashes pink. Why pink? Because Amy decided it was a far more psychologically catastrophic color for an emergency than conventional red. None of the other bridge officers were consulted.

The Amazing Ms. Wonder

Then there is Ms. Wonder who maintains the calm, unflappable anchor of reason, logic, and absolute level-headedness to every crisis Amy touches. When the Captain screams Abandon ship!, Wonder quietly materializes and solves the problem.

She is, in every meaningful sense, the Jeeves to my utterly bewildered Bertie Wooster. She extracts me from whatever existential tight spot Amy drags me into and restores order with the composed efficiency of someone who has never once lost her car keys.

A legion of you came, and stayed, simply to watch her effortlessly clear the structural wreckage left behind by the rest of the internal crew.

Some of you, I suspect, are lingering in the comments section hoping to get the secret recipe for her magical restorative elixir. I am reasonably certain it contains Blenheim's ginger ale, a dash of citrus, and something else that cannot legally be named in a public forum.

Whimsical Wilmawood Logistics

You clearly enjoy the misadventures that Amy and I fall into while traipsing around Hollywood East, whether we’re hunting for production crews filming The Summer I Turned Pretty or blindly submitting to the low-to-the-ground chaos of a GPS that has made very different plans for our afternoon.

In my ongoing effort to satisfy your appetite for this particular brand of local mayhem, I’ve learned a profound literary truth: a rogue, stowaway ferret named Reginald is the ultimate narrative hook. If you are ever struggling to hold a reader's attention, just add a ferret. Amy says it “ups the stakes,” and I’m telling you, it works every time.

Addendum

This blog has always been an exercise in looking at the mundane through a slightly warped lens. Knowing that this particular cocktail exploring neurodivergent life, through observational irony, and creative non-fiction has actually found a permanent home in your inbox makes the late nights, the existential parsing, and the extra coffee entirely worth it.

The surge is organic. My gratitude is immense. The journey remains circular, and as Amy would say while white-knuckling the armrests of her captain’s chair, we’re just getting started. Engage!

Captain's Log: Southport Sector Activity

Captain's Log: Stardate 2026.182

Attention Federation Auditors: The GMS Coastal Voyager is holding position above the Southport Sector this morning for an on-site training exercise.

Intelligence reports indicate that a Federation-class production unit established a forward base in Southport overnight to create what the local population calls a "movie." 

Five of Five, our onboard Adaptive Intelligence system, reports the movie's code name refers to a cinematic adaptation of something called "The Summer I Turned Pretty."

Our mission parameters are simple: Ambassador Genome, supported by Communications Officer Joy, will observe and document the production from a respectful distance, then return without being noticed and without interfering.

Pre-Dawn Departure

Earlier that morning, Chief Anxiety ran the pre-mission checklist three times: once for assurance, twice to confirm the first run-through, and a third time because, why not?

"Captain Amy," said Five of Five, "the away team has left already."

"What the hell! Doesn't anyone on this mindship wait for my authorization anymore?"

"The chronometer records the team departed ahead of schedule," confirmed Officer Reason.

"Of course they did," replied the captain. "Especially with that airhead, Joy, on the away team."

"I suspect the Ambassador's Elevated Mission Anticipation had something to do with it," added Reason.

"At least we'll be ready when they arrive," the captain muttered. "Five of Five relocated the lower-deck remote sensor node to the Ambassador's equipment bag. Not my idea, but I approved it after the fact."

"The feed is coming in clean," reported Major Reason, "aside from what appears to be the edge of a granola bar that has, according to remote sensors, been in the bag long enough to achieve consciousness."

The Bridge Watches the Bridge

The Cape Fear Memorial Bridge appeared on the viewscreen as Coastal Voyager, a mile overhead, crossed the Cape Fear River.

"Beautiful," remarked Dr. Downer, who'd joined the bridge to watch the away team's work. She hummed a tune Five of Five couldn't find in its databanks, but it didn't question her; to do so would have been like diving headfirst into a rabbit hole on purpose.

"Morning light luminosity is nominal," said Major Reason, reviewing dawn-light spectra with the focus of a man who has found, at last, an assignment worthy of him.

"I've filed contingencies for fog, rain, equipment failure, crowd interference, and one specific scenario involving seagulls," said Chief Anxiety from belowdecks. "I'd like it noted I have computed no contingencies involving a ferret. The probability calculation was overtaxing the processors."

"Cadet Reginald has nothing to do with this mission, Chief."

"I'm aware, Captain. I'm simply establishing the record. I don't trust that ferret."

Captain Amy stared at the streaming video. Cables ran across the cobblestones like tributaries of an electrical river. Equipment cases were stacked with the logic of people who know exactly what they'll need. Crew members moved with the purposeful efficiency of specialists who've done this before and will find it no less meaningful for the repetition.

"It's perfect," Joy's voice was the first heard from the away team, and for once no one on the bridge could argue.

Perimeter Established

"Perimeter holding," Five of Five reported, mostly to itself, because presuming to be important is how Adaptive Intelligence systems stay sane.

"The Ambassador is filming," Reason confirmed. "Joy is providing…" he paused, choosing the word with visible care, "appreciative commentary. All readings nominal."

"Bag status?" asked the captain, who'd learned over countless reconnaissance missions to constantly check on the away equipment.

"Bag is secure," said Five of Five. "Bag contents are…" A pause is merely a pause, but a pause from an A-5 system is as concerning as a five-alarm fire. "Bag contents are in motion."

The Reginald Maneuver 

"Somebody check the bag!" The instruction was reasonable, logical, and useless, arriving several seconds after the bag had stopped moving.

On the view-screen, something small, furry, and determined emerged from the equipment bag, paused to assess the production team, then set off across fifteen meters of Southport waterfront with the unhurried confidence of something determined to see what's up.

"It's Reginald!" said Joy, sounding almost delighted.

"That's a violation of Federation Directive Section F4, paragraph 2B," Reason declared. "Hail the Ambassador!"

"I don't think it will help," said Anxiety, with the terrible calm of a man watching a chess clock run out.

A production assistant, wearing an expression of professional efficiency and carrying an official-looking clipboard, said something into her headset. A camera operator turned. A second crew member pointed toward the equipment bag. Two other crew members approached the bag with body language that proved they were enjoying the diversion, but trying to look professional. 

"Is that…?“ said one of the team.

"Dook," said Reginald, confirming the team's suspicions. 

"RAT!" shouted the first production assistant, and the perimeter popped like a soap bubble, all at once and without ceremony.

"Sensor data indicates the Ambassador is no longer on the perimeter," reported Five of Five.

"I can see that."

"He is, in fact, now part of the story."

"I can see that too."

After-Action

"I'd like it entered into the log that I predicted this," said Anxiety. "Not the ferret specifically. But this random fluctuation in the quantum wave."

“So noted, Chief," said Captain Amy without warmth. "I feel so much worse now."

On the main viewer, the Ambassador was no longer recording production activities. He was handling his unscheduled celebrity, not well, and yet with tremendous confidence. He was laughing with the production assistant while Reason's "optimal shot window" datastream showed the cameras recording the kind of footage that can't be scheduled, and can't be faked.
 
"Mission status," Captain Amy dictated for the record. "The away team has made unauthorized contact with the observed population. “The Prime Directive of non-interference has been…” She paused, stiffened her lip, and set her chin. “…revised. By Mindfleet Cadet Reginald.”

Captain's Log, Supplemental: 

Cadet Reginald's presence on the away mission was unauthorized. His methodology was unorthodox. His results were undeniable.

As per Federation protocol: Prime Directive has been compromised. The perimeter was breached, and unauthorized contact was made with the indigenous population. Mission TSITP is a failure.

Field Study Addendum:

Cadet Reginald, via MaT-1 Adaptive Translation System

The Captain logged the mission a failure, but what I do is merely my nature. It may be unorthodox, but failure is procedurally impossible.

The Southport sector is exciting. I plan to return. I'm not saying I have, but I may have already hidden something in the equipment locker.

Reginald out.

“Dook.”

Tracking RJ Decker

We had the production schedule. We had the address. We had eighty-five confirmed crew members, a police presence, and a City of Wilmington filming permit with our names practically engraved on it.

This was, as Amy describes it, the easiest assignment we’d ever been given.

Hold on to that sentence the way you hold on to a receipt for something you’re pretty sure you’ll have to return.

It started somewhere around Carolina Beach, which has apparently decided to renovate every road on Pleasure Island simultaneously.

Wynd Horse Has Opinions

Wynd Horse’s GPS did what any reasonable navigation system does when the world stops matching its internal map: It panicked quietly and started making decisions I can only describe as creative.

“Recalculating,” it said, with the tone of someone who had given up but was contractually obligated to report its status.

“That’s not comforting,” Amy said. “That’s the voice of a system in denial.”

Instead of delivering us to the quiet residential parking near the filming set for this episode of the R. J. Decker television series, Wynd Horse deposited us in a retail district on the edge of the Carolina Beach Boardwalk.

Traffic was thick enough to make one what to chew the rug.

Amy made the executive decision to park and walk rather than take our chances in traffic.

This was the same stretch of Boardwalk where we’d previously suffered the humiliation of the teenager and the ice-cream sprinkles. Returning to the scene of an old embarrassment on the way to a brand-new one felt less like bad luck and more like the universe reusing a set.

The Man with the Lighting Rig

Then hope appeared. Real, tangible hope, wearing a backpack.

A young man emerged ahead of us, pushing a sophisticated-looking lighting rig mounted on a rolling tripod. An equipment bag hung from his shoulder. He moved with the brisk, purposeful walk of someone who knew exactly where to find a film set.

“Eureka!” I said.

“Don’t say Eureka,” Amy replied. “You haven’t discovered anything. You’ve found a man pushing a lighting rig.”

“A man with a lighting rig who clearly works in production.”

“Fine. Follow the man. But I want it noted in the log that I have reservations.”

For a while, following the lighting rig felt like genuine detective work: the quiet, purposeful trailing of a suspect in a movie, except that in movies, the trail usually leads to what you’re looking for.

Ours led steadily away from the residential neighborhood where filming was supposed to be happening.

“He probably knows a shortcut,” I said.

“A shortcut to nowhere, like that swamp road we took after a local told us not to.”

“Amy, production people know all the back routes. This is probably faster.”

Amy didn’t respond, which, in Amy terms, is the verbal equivalent of crossing her arms and pouting.

The man led us behind shuttered beach shops and down a service alley that smelled faintly of low tide and bad oysters.

I want to be clear that at no point did I consider this a bad sign.

“This is clearly a route the production assistants use to avoid congestion,” I said. “Very savvy.”

“Or he’s cutting through here to buy a sandwich.”

“Production people don’t stop for sandwiches mid-shot, Amy. There’s a whole department for that. Craft services. I’ve read about it.”

The alley gave way to a gravel lot designed, apparently, for turning an ankle. The cart’s rollers began making a sound like a shopping cart with a personal grudge.

“He’s slowing down,” I said. “We must be really close now.”

“Or gravel is hard to push a cart through.”

“Both things can be true at the same time, Amy. That’s a very good sign, structurally.”

Nothing tracks

“We’re now four blocks past the last residential structure,” she said. “There’s a bait shop to our left. It’s closed. It’s been closed, I would guess, since before you were born.”

“Bait shops are exactly the kind of unglamorous local color a location scout loves. This tracks.”

“Nothing tracks. You’re tracking someone going somewhere but you don't know where.”

“I am tracking a man with a lighting rig, Amy. That’s the single most trackable thing a person can track.”

Fifteen minutes later, the man arrived at an equipment truck parked so far from both the filming location and the original traffic jam that it might as well have been in another county.

He loaded the lighting rig into the truck, latched the door, and walked away in a direction that had nothing to do with us.

“He wasn’t going to set,” Amy said. “He was leaving set. We followed a man in the exact opposite direction of the thing we were trying to find for fifteen minutes, with total confidence.”

“In my defense—”

“There is no defense. There is only geography, and you have failed it.”

The Great Debate

“There’s only one thing to do,” I said. “We backtrack to Wynd Horse and drive around the construction. We still have hours of filming left today.”

“Or,” Amy said, “we accept that this outing has been cursed since that lame excuse for a navigation system decided it knew better than the actual roads. I say we cut our losses and head back to Coastal Tacos.”

“That’s not the spirit of The Circular Journey.”

“The spirit of The Circular Journey,” Amy replied, “is that we set out for one destination and end up somewhere else entirely. I’m suggesting we lean into that theme a little early today.”

We compromised, in the loosest possible sense of the word, by asking strangers for directions.

This turned out to be its own special category of disaster.

Everybody Is an Expert

“Oh, they wrapped that weeks ago,” one confident stranger told us. “You can watch it already. It’s on NBC. No, wait—CBS. One of those.”

RJ Decker is an ABC production. Nothing about his information was correct, yet he delivered it with the certainty of a man reading from a teleprompter.

Someone else insisted the production was filming downtown, near the courthouse.

“It’s a crime drama, you know. The police are always going to the courthouse to see the judge.”

He was wrong, too, but I admired his confidence.

The Verdict

By the time we made it back to Wynd Horse, defeated, sunburned, and no closer to South Churchill Drive than we’d been an hour earlier, I felt compelled to put the disaster into words.

“Of all the messes, in all the set locations, in all the film productions we’ve covered,” I said, “this is the worst one we’ve gotten ourselves into.”

Amy didn’t pause a beat.

“You have a very short memory,” she said. “This doesn’t come close to the humiliation of you thinking that teenager on the boardwalk was a star in a Disney movie. He thought you were a cop.”

She wasn’t wrong.

She’s very rarely wrong, which is, as I’ve mentioned before, precisely the problem with Amy.

I’m reminding myself that there’s always tomorrow. So until next time, my friend—assuming Wynd Horse and I are still speaking—see you on set.

First Light Dispatch

The world ends every night. Most people don’t mention it, probably because it ends so quietly and returns so reliably that we’ve stopped noticing the miracle. 

I notice because I always wake before the day finds its rhythm, pulled from sleep by a feeling I can only describe as dread with no return address, courtesy of Princess Amy, my amygdala, who interprets the ordinary darkness of 5 a.m. as proof that something has gone permanently wrong.

Amy is the neurological equivalent of a car alarm triggered by a leaf falling on the hood. She means well, of course. In fact, she spends approximately eighteen hours a day trying to save my life. But in the small hours of the morning, her assessment of the situation rarely matches mine. So I do the only sensible thing: I leave her to it, make coffee, and take up my position at the French doors.

The backyard has a particular quality at this hour that resists description but insists on being witnessed. The darkness isn't fully dark; it's that deep blue-grey that belongs exclusively to the half hour when the night has spent itself but the day hasn't yet committed. The oak trees are silhouettes. The fence is a suggestion. The bird feeders hang motionless, empty of visitors, patient as monks.

I stand there with my first cup of Jah’s mercy, waiting for the world to reconstitute itself. It always has, but for a moment, Amy and I wonder whether this will be the morning it doesn’t. It’s one of the few things we agree on at this hour.

A lone dove arrives first. She descends from the scrub oak before any other creature stirs and lands on the feeder platform with a soft, decisive thump. She doesn’t begin eating right away. She simply sits in the pewter light, as though appointed to verify that the backyard is still where they left it. The First Dove of Morning. Inspector of Dawns.

Satisfied with her report, she begins to eat, and her presence seems to give the others permission to follow. A cardinal appears in the crape myrtle, not wearing the vivid red of his afternoon self, but a muted, sleepy crimson, as though he, like me, needs a moment to find his full color. A chickadee arrives, then another. From somewhere in the jasmine, the Carolina wren announces herself with a single declarative note, as if to say, “I’m here!"—which is really all any of us can say for sure.

The light shifts. It begins gradually and then erupts all at once, the way important things do.

Then Breezer appears: the spokesperson for the squirrel homeowners association. Breezer of the first light is not the same Breezer who stages afternoon raids from the fence top or wages campaigns against the crow gang. This Breezer moves deliberately, almost cautiously, as though the morning were something to be handled with reverence.

Breezer follows his usual route from the oak to the fence to the feeder, but without his customary theatrical flourish. No tail-flagging. No pausing to survey his domain with that particular squirrelly expression suggesting he’s already three moves ahead of everyone else. He simply arrives, chooses his breakfast with quiet discernment, and settles on the fence post to eat.

I watch him and think about the night he's just come through, tucked into his drey with the darkness outside and the world temporarily dissolved. What memories does a squirrel carry into sleep? What, if anything, follows him out of it?

He pauses mid-meal and looks directly at the French doors; directly at me. We regard each other across the silver morning air. A moment of mutual recognition passes: two creatures who have once again made it safely to the other side of the night. Amy observes the exchange in uncharacteristic silence. I take that as agreement.

Mr. Woodrow, the woodpecker, lands in his breakfast tree with the gravitas of a judge taking the bench. He surveys the assembled company: the Dove Sisters of the Immaculate Order of Brunswick, now gathered in full congregation; the cardinal, restored to the proper red of day; and Breezer, finishing his breakfast with quiet efficiency. Woodrow delivers three measured drumbeats against the bark. The day may proceed.

From beyond the fence, a dog offers a single bark. It's not an alarm, just an announcement: I'm still here!

The light is fully golden now. The dove sisters glow in it. The cardinal blazes. Even the fence posts look distinguished. Something in my chest, braced since approximately 4 a.m., loosens by a degree or two. Amy, I notice, is begining to pace the floor of my limbic system in anticipation of something that I can only imagine.

And then I see the signal that the opening act is winding down: Breezer’s tail begins to twitch. Slowly at first, just the tip, a subtle oscillation that could almost be mistaken for the morning breeze. But I know better. The twitch is the squirrel equivalent of cracking one’s knuckles, rolling up one’s sleeves, or offering the faint smile that precedes an opening gambit.

 The contemplative creature of five minutes ago has vanished as completely as the blue-gray darkness. In his place is the Breezer I know best: alert, calculating, and radiating the particular energy of someone who has just had a very good idea.

He glances back at me briefly, then races along the fence at breathtaking speed, disappearing into the oak branches in a rustle and flash of tail.

The dove sisters watch him go with what I can only interpret as resignation. Mr. Woodrow delivers another measured drumbeat, which my intuitive neurons recognize as meaning, Here we go again. The cardinal retreats to the crape myrtle. The day has officially begun, and apparently, so has whatever Breezer has planned.

I finish my coffee at the French doors, watching the backyard settle into its daytime rhythms: the negotiations and skirmishes, the territorial claims and peanut politics, the ongoing saga of creatures engaged in the urgent business of being alive.

Deep within my midbrain, Amy clears her throat, which can only mean she has thoughts about the day ahead. She always does.

For a few minutes, as the blue-gray world turned golden, Amy and I were in agreement. The world had remembered how to begin again. And that, on balance, seemed to call for a squirrel causing some trouble. Life is good.

George Takei Believes in Me

Life comes hard and fast, and if we aren't prepared, it can flatten us like a Roomba meeting a sock. But it doesn't have to be that way. Fierce living keeps me free of the tyranny of emotional overload, and I'm convinced it will work for anyone. That’s right, even you, reading this in your pajamas at 11 a.m., silently judging me for oversharing on the internet. 

Sharing my personal life with the general public is a little scary. It's the vulnerability equivalent of walking into a party and announcing, "So, let’s talk about me." But this morning I feel much better about it, because I've been reading George Takei's blog. That's right. George Takei, who navigated the Starship Enterprise to destinations where no one had gone before, using nothing but confidence, a velour uniform, and remarkable comic timing.

He didn't stop there, either. Decades after boldly going, he's still boldly going—posting, advocating, charming millions of people on the internet, which is a feat roughly as difficult as commanding a starship, possibly harder, given the internet's crew is mostly comprised of trolls.

George believes in the power of people to change the world. And I've decided, somewhat unilaterally, that this means he also believes I can reach my goals, provided I set a course and don't waver. I recognize this is a slightly aggressive interpretation of a man's blog, but at this point in my healing journey, I'll take my motivational support wherever I can beam it in from.

Several years ago, I met a man who understood the pain and hopelessness that filled my life at the time. He suggested a different way of living, one that had completely transformed his own. I told him I was afraid to try; afraid I'd fail and be left even more hopeless, which felt like betting my last dollar on a scratch-off ticket.

"You don't have to believe it will work for you," said this man, who I would later recognize as one of life's actual winners, the kind of person who probably alphabetizes his spice rack for fun, "you only need to believe that I believe it works for me."

Which is, when you think about it, an oddly elegant loophole. I didn't need faith. I just needed to borrow his.

He explained that his life had changed dramatically and all for the better, because he'd followed a specific set of guidelines. If I followed the same guidelines, he said, I'd get the same results. It sounded suspiciously like a recipe, and I have burned enough dinners in my life to be skeptical of recipes. But I followed his suggestions anyway, because I believed in him even when I couldn't yet believe in myself.

And it worked. Today I'm free of yesterday's limitations—mostly, and I'd try to be an instrument of healing for others who've suffered emotionally the way I did, but without the burnt-dinner metaphors.

Here's the most curious part of this whole path: when I do my best to help others, I reap the same benefits myself. It's a strange, almost cosmically inefficient-sounding economy, the kind where giving something away somehow leaves you with more of it. I've stopped questioning it and started just showing up for it.

That's why I share the events of my life with others: to help them, and, not coincidentally, to help me. It's sometimes funny, sometimes embarrassing (there have been incidents), and always a little scary. But hey! I believe in George Takei, and George Takei, in my head at least, believes in me. So I just keep on keeping on.

Life is good my friend. Live long and prosper.

Mindfleet Mission Report: Shatner's Puppy

A Mindfleet Mission Report
Stardate 2026.265

Three days ago, FMS Coastal Voyager was in geosynchronous orbit above Douglass Park in Chicago. The promotions board had agreed to reschedule Captain Amy's hearing, not because I was especially diplomatic, but because Captain Amy was annoyingly persistent. Amy was already on the surface, anxious to connect with her hero, William Shatner.

I was left in command of the bridge. Everything that could go wrong was about to do exactly that.

"Status report," I requested, trying to get comfortable in the command chair. The bridge felt entirely different without Amy’s theatrical presence dominating every cubic meter.

"Away team has successfully transported," confirmed Major Reason from his science station. "Captain Amy and three fleet officers are approaching the VIP meet-and-greet. No complications.”

"Famous last words," muttered Chief Engineer Anxiety from the engine room. "Give it time, Ambassador. Something always goes wrong when the Captain leaves the ship.”

"Anxiety's concern is statistically unfounded," Reason countered. "We currently have a 67% success rate for away missions under Captain Amy."

"That's a 33% failure rate," Dr. Downer interjected from her clinic. “Medical Bay is prepped for trauma, injury, and whatever's about to explode in Chicago.”

Lieutenant Joy monitored communications. "Away team is in position. Captain Amy's personal communicator is... very excited.”

Through her speaker, Amy's voice crackled: “Shatner’s Shag Shack dressing room is exactly as specified. Actual shag carpeting! I may weep.”

"There's also an unidentified signal in the comm channel," Joy added. "Some kind of anomaly.”

"Captain is entering the meet-and-greet," said Major Reason. "Shatner's on stage, checking the sound equipment. Visual contact is imminent.”

Through the comm: Amy's sharp intake of breath. Then, reverently: "He's... magnificent. His stage presence. It's everything I've ever— does anyone have a tissue?“

Static cracked through the channel followed by Amy's quivering, almost blubbering voice.

"I'm synchronizing our neural patterns, demonstrating the kinship we share as commanders and—“

“Captain!" Reason interrupted sharply, "What exactly are you transmitting?”

"Emotional affirmation. Letting him know I understand the burden of leadership..."

"Oh no," Anxiety groaned. "She's doing that thing. That emotional synchronization thing. This is not good.”

Major Reason announced, “She's activating his emotional resonance patterns. Broadcasting directly to Shatner's amygdala.”

Joy's console erupted. "Shatner's stress hormones are spiking!"

Through the comm, Shatner's voice cracked with confusion: "What is that? Why do I suddenly feel like I'm about to miss a crucial starship maneuver?”

"Captain," I said carefully, "dial it back.”

"Negative," Amy snapped. "I'm close to parity. He's responding.”

Shatner was now pacing on stage like an actor who'd forgotten his lines.

"This is unprecedented," Reason muttered. "She's causing interference in William Shatner's emotional state.”

Suddenly, Cadet Reginald’s MaT-1 Adaptive Translation System bled through Joy’s comms.

"Yo, this is genius," Reginald whispered. “Imma be so deep in these puppy layers, nobody gonna find me. Peak Reginald energy right here.”

"There's a ferret in here!" someone shouted. "There's a ferret in the puppy basket!”

Alarms shrieked. Festival security converged.

"Away team!" I called. "Emergency evacuation! Transport authorization granted!”

Chaos erupted: "Acknowledged!" Amy yelled. "Moving to beam-up location!”

"Wait, ya’ll!" Reginald panicked. "I'm still in the basket! I'm tangled with the puppies! I got puppy breath all up in my translator!”

"Reginald, where are you?" Joy called.

“In the basket with adoptable puppies in Shatner’s Shag hangout! Security be comin’ now!”

"Captain!" I called. "Reginald is in Shatner’s dressing room. Delay transport!”

"Negative, Ambassador." Amy's voice was tight and pained. "Perimeter's locked down. If we don't evacuate now, we're detained.”

"But Reginald—“

"Is a highly resourceful ferret," Amy clipped. "Transport the away team. Now.”

The transporter engaged. A flash of light over Douglass Park, and the away team materialized. Reginald was not among them.

The bridge fell silent.

"Status," I finally said.

"Away team accounted for," Reason reported quietly, "except Cadet Reginald.”

"This is bad," Anxiety said in his thick Scottish accent. "We left the wee beastie behind. Captain Amy is going to be in deep—“

“Don’t say it; I’m aware," came Amy's voice as she strode onto the bridge, hair disheveled, mascara running down her face like a deranged clown, her whole countenance a knot of devastation and defiance. "We had no choice. The perimeter was sealed.”

"Cadet Reginald's signal is still transmitting," Reason reported. “He's escaped security and moving through the festival at high velocity.”

Through the open comm, Reginald's escape soundtrack played:

"Got security on my tail. These humans don't understand ferret physics; I'm going under the bleachers, they're going over, perfect tactical divergence! DOOK!”

"Reginald!" Joy called. "Where are you heading?”

“Don’t know, but I'm gettin’ there fast! I can see Shatner on stage, and I think we done broke his brain, y’all!"

Amy turned immediately toward the transporter room. "We're going back.”

"Captain," I said carefully, "Chicago authorities are on high alert. Another transport operation will—“

"Confirm we're serious about retrieving our crew member," Amy finished. "We are not leaving Cadet Reginald behind. That ferret is one of us.”

She turned to Reason. "Localize his signal, Major. We need precise coordinates.”

“Way ahead of you," Reason said. "But sending an away team into an active police perimeter risks escalation. May I suggest a covert extraction?”

Amy looked directly at me. An unspoken acknowledgment passed between us; we'd already broken the Prime Directive three times over.

"The Ambassador is going down," Amy said. “Prepare the transporter. Tell Reginald rescue is on its way."

I stood from the chair. "I'm going to get our ferret back,” I said weakly, heading for the transporter room, with Amy's words echoing in my head: the Ambassador is going down, down, down.

Amy came to see me off, her jaw set. "Bring him back, Ambassador.”

“That is the plan," I replied in an undiplomatic tone. I didn’t like the plan and didn’t care who knew it.

Major Reason's voice chimed in: "Coordinates locked. Reginald's signal is highly mobile. You're going in hot, Ambassador.”

“You don’t know the half of it,” I muttered.

Through the comm, Reginald's voice breathed: “...deeper in the park now; security’s circlin’, sirens wailin’. DOOK—it’sa gettin’ real!"

I looked at Reason through the viewport. He nodded.

"Energizing," he said.

The platform hummed beneath my feet.

Captain's Log: Stardate 2026.265

Mission status: Cadet Reginald remains stranded in Chicago, pursued by festival security. The Ambassador has just been transported to Douglass Park for a rescue operation.

Stand by.