The Card Game

I was troubled yesterday by the thought that my blog posts aren't as uplifting as they once were and far less inspirational than I remembered.

I apologize for that. I appreciate your attention and support more than you can possibly realize and I do my best to bring goodness and light into my life by first bringing it into yours.

My troubling thoughts spilled into troubling dreams. You see, I often dream about the obstacles and absurdities that I encounter in life, and many times the dreams bring some new understanding or some helpful enlightenment. 

I call those dream revelations, Hello Kittens. I'll explain why later, perhaps in another post. But for now, let's just go with it. This morning's dream woke me at 4:45.

Hello, Kitten, said that familiar voice in my head.

I walked into Egret Cafe, in the dream. It was Sunday morning and, just like most Sunday mornings, I was to meet Island Irv there for our weekly recap of the social and economic goings-on of the Port City.

Sunday mornings are usually slow in the coffee shops of the Castle Street Arts District. Most patrons want to sit quietly and let caffeine flush the cobwebs from their minds and restore them to something resembling human. But it's never boring. 

Walking through the gathering of the Twee who filled the seating area, I nodded to three regulars, all women of a certain age. They were playing a game of cards. 

"What a nice shirt," said one of the relics. Let's call her Barbie Espresso, which is the drink she always orders.

"Thank you," I said. "I like it too; my favorite shirt."

"You always wear the nicest shirts," she said. "Why don't you join us. We need a fourth hand.'

You will understand, I'm sure, that all I really wanted was to meet up with the Islander and enjoy our usual deconstruction of the week's news. But what could I say after the nice compliment? I sat and picked up the cards in front of me. Oat Latte leaned over and looked at the cards in my hand.

"Oooh!" she said and then looking at her hand for comparison, she said, "Let's be partners." 

"You'll need to ante up to get in the game, Hon," said Barbie.

"I'll need a new set of cards," I said. "Oat Latte has seen my hand."

"It doesn't matter," said Medicine Ball, the third member, "we don't know how to play anyway."

"The ante is fitty cent," said Oat, pronouncing it like the name of the rapper. "But it has to be an actual half-dollar coin."

The last remark got a laugh around the table but I didn't join in. I was feeling more and more like I'd made a mistake by accepting their invitation.

"Yeah," said Barbie, "and we'd prefer a Flowing Hair Liberty dated 1794 or 1795."

The laugh was much bigger this time. I felt the need to respond and I worked up something like a laugh but it had no real pep. 

"Well, I never see half dollars anymore," I said, "and I'm certain I don't have one of those in my pocket."

"Honey," said Oat, placing her hand on my shoulder, "if we thought you had one of those in your pocket, we'd be your new best friends."

Once more there was laughter all around and this time I felt compelled to join in. It was painful.

"Don't worry about the ante," said Oat Latte. "I think we can accept a little sweat equity in place of hard cash, right girls?"

"Equity?" I said. "How does that work?"

"Here it comes," said Medicine Ball. "Are you ready?"

I looked around the table as Princess Amy began to stir in my head. Amy was saying, "Uh-oh, this isn't good."

Medicine leaned forward across the table. The cafe had become silent as if waiting for the other shoe to drop. She looked hard into my eyes and said, "I wouldn't put that shirt on the bottom of my cockatoo's cage."

Laughter exploded from the three women like a Biblical pestilence. The effect was felt around the room. Dogs barked. Babies cried. A loud pop sounded behind the counter and the cafe was filled with the aroma of burned coffee grounds.

"Cheer up, dear," said Oat picking up the undealt deck of cards. "That was your sweat equity. How many cards do you want?"

"Good morning," said Island Irv coming on the scene. "Good to see you, Genome. He seemed to ignore the three women when he said, "Let's order coffee."

Suddenly, I realized why he didn't acknowledge the women. They had disappeared. It was all a dream and I woke.

"Hello, Kitten," said the familiar voice in my head.

I'm told that dreams such as these are sent to teach and guide us. To help us become our best selves and help to reach our destiny. If that's true, then I say again, Who the hell is Kitten?

Another Motion Picture Masterpiece S1 E2

Many thanks to everyone who left comments about my visit to Southport and the set of The Waterfront, the new Netflix television series. It's good to know that so many of you share my love of behind-the-scenes cinemagic.

I was back on the same set of The Waterfront this morning but much to my dismay, no one was there. What! Even though my sources, who are never wrong btw, my sources say filming will take place today--but nada. I don't know what to tell you. I promise to get updates soon and post them here on The Circular Journey.

But all is not lost. I strive never to let my public down. You are much too important to me. My sources made me aware that another film project is underway in Southport. You may have heard the name, Capsized?

And so, with my brain working like a finely tuned large language model artificial intelligence chatbot, I left the familiar Southport yacht basin and headed down the barricaded Brunswick Street to Morningstar Marina, the set for Capsized.

The last time I was on the set of The Waterfront, I asked Vee about the signs declaring the place a restricted area. She's the production assistant who taught me about hanging around a film crew, and she told me, "That's just to scare away civilians."

And so this morning as I walked down the barricaded Brunswick Street toward the Morningstar, the thought that I wasn't just another random civilian allowed me to become a little full of myself. And it felt good. 

Closer to the actual marina, I could see what appeared to be the entire crew assembled on the deck overlooking the bay. I recognized it as the party that kicks off the first day of filming on any set. It was exciting. I was pumped!

Consequently, when I arrived I walked onto the set like I was walking aboard my yacht. My beret was strategically dipped above one eye, which made all the difference in presentation.

I suppose this is the place where I might write, What could possibly go wrong? Or I might tease you with, Hilarity ensues.

I might have written something like that but the words would have misrepresented the heavy-hearted feeling that filled me when a security guard blocked my way and asked me,

"Didn't you see the signs that say, closed set; authorized personnel only?"

Well, what could I say? What was there to say except maybe, "Oh, ah," and that's what I said.

All the magic happens behind the curtain.

You know that I'm addicted to the magic of film production, and the thought of being turned away, like Adam and Eve from the Garden, reminded me that at times like these, what's called for is a higher power. I pulled my magic 8-ball out of my pack and consulted it about my prospects for success. 

I turned the ball over, and the answer floated up out of the darkness. Time will tell, it read. I was more disappointed if that's even possible. It's this kind of nonsense, I thought, that makes people seriously doubt the reliability of magic balls and whatnot.

But the mood soon passed because the atmosphere on set was festive and the excitement was contagious. I hung around the general area trying to put together an alternate plan for salvaging something from the day.

As I walked around the dock, kicking sticks and leaves into the water, I was approached by someone coming from the direction of the kick-off party.

"Hi," he said. "You're not part of the production team are you?"

"How does everyone know that?" I asked. "Is it that obvious?"

"Yeah," he said, "it's easy to tell you're a civilian. Would you like to help me with my lines?"

I didn't like that crack about being a civilian and I thought of several juicy comebacks but decided it was best if I wanted to hang around a while longer, to be helpful in any way I could. 

"I suppose so," I said.

And so he told me all about his part in the upcoming scene. He was an extra and would play an employee of the rental agency. He would be casting off the mooring lines to allow the houseboat to leave the dock. 

Beau, that's his name, told me the storyline includes a dysfunctional family that rents a houseboat for a vacation on the Carolina coast. That's the first scene to be filmed today. 

He didn't tell me the entire story but when I hear the words, dysfunctional family, I suspect the father has a problem with platinum blondes and bathtub gin. It's a common problem I believe. In my younger days in Shady Grove, I heard it referred to as a problem with "dames and hootch."

In the upcoming scene, the family would be preparing to launch their vacation by launching the houseboat. What could go wrong? Hilarity ensues.

Beau and two other extras would provide a believable facsimile of a boat rental crew. He had only two lines to rehearse. He was to tell the other workers to "Cast off the lines," and when the ropes had been untied and stowed, he would say, "Good job, boys."

Not exactly Hamlet but you wouldn't have guessed it from the way he went on about it. I'll bet I heard his lines at least a dozen times before the Second Assistant Director sent for him to join the other extras in the staging area. He forgot to thank me but who could complain, he was really pumped! 

"Knock 'em dead," I said as he walked toward the boats.

"What's that supposed to mean?" he said.

"Well, you've got me there. It's something I've heard said in similar situations and I thought it would be a great exit line for you."

He shook his head and gave me a look that implied I was a total waste, taking up space that could be used for better purposes. But I shook it off. I was going to have a great day despite inflated egos and unreliable magic. I took a deep breath and got a lungful of ambient excitement. I was pumped!

I always strive to spread goodness and light to the deserving and undeserving alike. And so, thinking I could improve relations with Beau, I called to him as he walked away. 

"Beau," I said, "you might want to speak up a bit, your voice is a little soft and elocution is what you want on camera."

I don't know how I thought of the elocution gag. It just floated up like a message from a magic 8-ball. Still, I thought it a good bit of fruit cake and congratulated myself for thinking of it.

Listening to Beau during rehearsal, I'd gotten the idea that the action pretty much centered around him untying the boat. He'd given me the impression that the other actors did little more than fill in when he happened to be off-stage. But from what I could tell, watching the action from a distance, things on set jogged along quite nicely without much help from him.

"That's it boys!" said Beau--not in the script, of course--and his loud remark walked all over whatever it was the stars were saying to each other as they boarded the houseboat.

"Cut!" yelled the director.

Immediately, an outburst of dialogue erupted between the stage manager and the director. I couldn't make it all out but it had something to do with Beau being off his mark. The stage manager placed his hands on Beau's shoulders and moved him around a bit.

Again, the action began. I was too far away to hear the calls to "Rolling" and "Action."

The previous scene was repeated and everything seemed to be alright until another stormy exchange between the stage manager and director. This time it was about Beau's lines. It seems his volume control was set too high, as I suspected. 

"Cut!" yelled the director and several crew members repeated the call.

Not exactly Hamlet.

 Normal activity resumed and I could see Beau and the other two extras gabbing on the dock. The director walked out to give Beau some direction and Beau seemed to take it big. He was pumped but not in a good way!

He seemed to think he was judged unfairly and took out his frustration on a crab crate which he kicked off the dock and into the water. It was plain the atmosphere had hotted up and there was a goodish deal of je-ne-sais-quoi on the set.

The directory apparently decided it would be helpful to give the production crew a short break. Beau came over to my table. He looked steamed. Not actually leaking at the seams but not far from it.

"What'd the director say?" I asked.

"Never mind what he said." The whole thing's your fault."

"What's my fault?"

"Me not working out. He told me I'd be paid for a full day but that it would be better if I didn't eat with the crew and best if I leave the set now."

 

"Too bad," I said. "Well, tomorrow's another day."

"Do you think it's funny?" he demanded but then he stomped away without waiting for a reply. I couldn’t help but wonder what his problem was. It wasn’t like he was going to win an Oscar nomination for "Good job, boys."

I began gathering up my things and just as I was about to leave, I heard a voice behind me.

"Hey, you."

I turned to see the first assistant director standing there, her brow furrowed, looking me up and down.

"You've been hanging around here all morning," she said. "Are you an extra?"

I blinked. "Me? No, I'm not an actor."

"Neither was he." She said.

Vee, my personal production assistant, came to mind and I thought, I'm not just another civilian. I passed as an extra in the mind of an assistant director.

Well? Vee said in the movie playing in my mind. Wanna be an extra?

Actually, Vee, I thought, I'm already an Extra with a capital 'E'. I have a team in Waterford who need me more than you guys.

See you tomorrow then?

"Let's see what the 8-ball has to say about it," I said aloud giving the ball a shake.

Count on it, is what the magic ball said. And, everything considered, I'd say it had been a big day for being pumped from start to finish.

Let's Get On With It

The Circular Journey is Mostly true stories of joy, enlightenment, and just one damned thing after another.

Having written this blog for over twelve years, I feel that I'm uniquely qualified to present, explain, and apologize for, if any of that is needed or requested, exactly what the blog is about.

However, I know that your time is important and I don't want to waste it. Let me declare upfront that this post is written mostly for:

 

    1) my personal satisfaction

    2) to share with followers of the blog

    3) to share with my personal friends

    4) to share with social media friends

    5) to share what it's about with new readers

If you're a regular here, then you already know anything I might think to add. If you are new and have questions, please leave a comment.

The Circular Journey has found an audience of several thousand followers. Those followers log in from more than 50 different countries that circle the globe. This blog ranks #3 on the first page of more than 14 pages of hits from a Google search using the keywords, "circular journey". (Oct. 16, 2004 3:30PM EDT)

The blog details listed in the paragraph above may not impress you but they impress me every time I think of it. And I'm proud to say it's all organic--I have never promoted nor paid Google to promote The Circular Journey in the twelve years it's been active.

But that's enough of my self-congratulations. Let's look at what others have to say about the blog. I've taken the liberty of editing some of the comments but only for length and clarity.

A different way of understanding circular journey:

A Circular Journey allows the reader many different experiences with a single pass. Circular journeys are actually made up of many individual journeys that allow for maximum flexibility. You can enjoy the full experience, or if you wish, the partial experience, on your own schedule, taking breaks along the way without missing anything.
                                                                                                        ~~ Indian Rail Enquiry

For the record, I find the paragraph above to be a completely accurate description of The Circular Journey blog as much as the Circular Journey provided by Indian Rail.


Praise for The Circular Journey

I love your brain. Every bit of it. But especially the bits that write gems like this. OMG, Genome, you are a brilliant brilliant man. 

~~Jen E. on "Princess Amy Again"

In your retirement years, you may consider sending your writings to Hollywood. The witty way you 'see the world' and your writing reminds me of the work of Nora Ephron.

~~Karen B. on "Big Night for Surprises"

Enjoy your journey, and may every corner you turn have a pleasant surprise.

~~Cathryn J. on "Share The Joy"

My favorite blog entry OF ALL TIME!! I have sent the link to several friends.                ~~Manimee on "Match Made in Heaven"

This might be my favorite post, although I am sorry to hear of the pain underlying it. I can reassure you this much at least: your audience exists. Unlike (hopefully) Abbie's mouse.

~~Rachael H. on "Strange Case of the Cat in the Night"

My favorite line is, "I don't do well in the aftermath, do you?" I actually answered aloud, "Me either!"

~~Karen B. on "It Was Raining Cats"

I love this story. Truth is in it.              

~~G.K.B. on "Abracadabra, Alakazam!"

I hope to make it to Mardi Gras next year and I don't feel I would appreciate it so much without having read this post. 

~~Brittany H. on "Let the Good Times Roll!"

Happy Journeys

I always wanted to be a writer, and if you think that sounds a bit strange, I assure you that it sounds a bit strange even to me. I mean why would anyone want to be a writer? It's not like authors are admired like firefighters, or idolized like rock stars, or envied like megalo-millionaires. 

When I ask myself that question, I think of something James Joyce once said. If you're a writer, you'll understand the sentiment. I remember the quote as something like this:

"Writing is the most ingenious torture ever devised as punishment for sins committed in a previous life." 

I feel his pain but I'm not ready to fully embrace the sentiment. Still, having a message that one feels the world is in desperate need of would be an excellent reason to entertain a dream of becoming a writer. It may be the only reason now I think of it. And we've already admitted that I have no messages.

When I think of how I came to be a published writer, I can easily think of a long list of possible causes. But there is one that stands out above the others. You see, I've always been more or less disappointed with the world I live in. I know! But let me explain and please, no comments.  

As a child I was bored. Nothing to do and no one to do nothing with. I had to entertain myself and I suppose I wasn't very inventive because, well, I was bored.

One summer my mother's sister came to visit. She lived in another part of the country and we didn't see her often. On the day she was leaving, my mom asked her... 

"Why don't you move back home? All your relatives are here and they'd love to see you more often. Everything you need is right here."

My aunt had the answer up front in her cerebral cortex. Without a moment's hesitation, she replied, "You're right. Everything I need is right here. But," she said with a grand, sweeping gesture of her arm, "there is so much more out there."

 

The scales immediately fell from my young eyes. It was as though an earthquake had shaken the foundations of the world. I realized the solution to boredom, loneliness, and the feeling of emptiness that plagued me.

I simply had to get out in the world where there was so much more.

Today, relatives and friends living in the community where I grew up, ask me the same question my mom asked her sister. Like my aunt, I have the answer ready because today I understand fully what I vaguely sensed in my younger heart. 

It's like this: when I choose to move on, it's not because something is lacking where I currently live. It's simply that there is so much more to experience out there.

That's why travel writing holds such a strong appeal for me. Those of you who regularly visit The Circular Journey are probably thinking, Genome, please! Aren't you forgetting the biggest reason you chose travel writing? 

You're right, of course. I'm not denying that Ms. Wonder played a significant role in my being a published author. You regulars can probably tell the story as well as I can but the gist is this. 

Wonder mailed a book from Houston to me in Carolina. She called to tell me to watch for it and expressed how excited she was for me to review the little volume. When I read it, I knew she'd done it again--is there another like her? I think not. She stands alone. The book was a life changer.

The name of the book is Travel Writing and Photography and the authors are Ann & Carl Purcell. We knew nothing about the subject but the book intrigued us. We followed the suggestions to the letter and in a short time, we were freelance journalists publishing articles and photos in numerous newspapers and magazines.

Some of the happiest days of our lives were spent running around the country, documenting our experiences. We'd still be doing it today if not for the shakeup brought to the publishing industry by the World Wide Web.

We had no messages for our readers but we did provide an important service. We helped people plan their next vacation; we introduced people to interesting places and events in their own communities; we brought vicarious travel experiences to people who were unable to travel.

Still, that's not where our work did the most good. Doing the research, writing the articles, and capturing our experiences in photos had a lasting effect on our lives. We've been able to experience so much more of the wonder that's out there in the world. And that has made our personal world a better place to live.

We've stayed close to home most recently, due to unavoidable circumstances. But we’ll be back on the road soon. Everywhere we go and everything we do will be available in our online travel magazine, Carolina Roads. I'll keep you updated here on The Circular Journey.

Until then, happy trails to you.

It's All Relative

I woke to a morning coming down easy, just the way Lionel Richie said it would be. But it wasn't Lionel who woke me, it was Stevie Wonder singing "Overjoyed" on Spotify. I was happy to be up and about and happy to start my daily constitutional before the paying guests arrived. 

I entered the kitchen singing along with Stevie, "... though I doubt that they do, my dreams do come true." I walked to the French window and I threw back the curtains with a flourish. 

The morning sunlight sparkled on the dew-laden lawn like a sky full of stars. Or if you doubt it, then believe me when I say that it did move me to the brink of writing poetry. I confess that even though I haven't written verse since becoming a member of Poets Annonymous, I still sometimes consider it.

Mourning doves lined the fence row. Crows argued over a few tasty morsels. Rabbits frolicked in the grass. And squirrels busied themselves on the fenceposts. 

It may not have been a perfect utopia but it was a reasonable facsimile and close enough to be getting on with.

The squirrel's behavior interested me strangely. I recognized the two pint-sized delinquents as Twizzler and Ziggy. They seemed to be laughing, playing goosey, and pointing my way if it can be called pointing when done by a squirrel.

Then, out of the corner of my eye, I realized, pointing or not, that I was not the object of interest. It was Mutter climbing the lanai screen. Again!

There he was hanging in space as it were, staring directly into my eyes with a look that said, "Uh oh, what do I do now?" It didn't require an Einstein to realize that Mutter had been entertaining his two young nephews, probably accepting a dare to climb the screen and allow me to catch him in the act. Typical of their shenanigans.

Now that he'd been caught, he seemed unsure of his next move. As usual, he hadn't thought it through. As soon as our eyes locked, he panicked. He was conflicted about whether to climb up to the roof or jump to the ground.  

In the meantime, Twizzler and Ziggy were enjoying Mutter's distress immensely. Did I say they were enjoying it? I should have said they were overjoyed. Twizzler got such a kick out of it that he fell off the fence.

Meanwhile, Mutter had regained his land legs just in time to see Twizzler laugh himself off the fence. The scales fell from Mutter's eyes and he saw all clearly. It was turning out to be a big day for falling.

Mutter raced across the lawn and up the fence with such intensity, that it left no doubt about his lack of appreciation for the practical joke. He laid into Twizzler like an all-in wrestler and in a split second the younger squirrel was scampering across the fence rail with Mutter inches behind him.

Ziggy seemed to think it was a game of catch-me-if-you-can and he began chasing Mutter. The three of them raced across the top of the fence, then turned the corner and continued to the garden gate. Down the face of the fence they flew and then across a section of lawn that brought them back to where it all started.

They continued to chase each other along that three-fold path. As I watched, it slowly dawned on me that from my vantage point, they were traversing all three dimensions that make up physical reality.  

As I watched their antics, the four of us were, in effect, proving over and over again, Einstein's theory of special relativity.

At this point, you may be asking yourself, 'Has Genome finally come unglued? What the heck does Einstein have to do with this post?'

You're justified in asking those questions, of course. But all I can say in reply is that these mindful quantum moments don't come along every day and when they do, I like to take advantage of them.

For some reason, and I don't know why, but for some reason the ranygazoo in my backyard this morning reminded me of a Carroll Bryant quote. I'd like to paraphrase it here: 

"Some of us make things happen. Some of us watch things happen. And then some of us wonder, What the hell just happened?"