Possibility Thinking

Welcome to The Circular Journey Cafe, where life is beautiful, and if you ever experience a day that disappoints you, you can start it over. Terms and conditions apply. Satisfaction not guaranteed. Void where prohibited by the laws of physics.

I woke this morning to the realization that the world was renewed, and I was happy about it. I was slightly concerned that I might have swallowed my mouthguard while I slept. It wasn't in my mouth, and it wasn't hiding in the bed linens. Aside from that minor mystery, the morning was perfect.

I bounded from bed with the enthusiasm of a Price Is Right audience member who's just been invited on stage to play the game. 

"Wonder," I said to the good and righteous woman, "I feel good today. I'm looking forward to whatever comes my way. I would go so far as to say the bluebird's on my shoulder and everything is satisfactory." 

"Not a bluebird, "said Amy, "It's me sitting on your shoulder."

Wonder looked up from her coffee with the expression of someone who suspects pharmaceuticals are involved. "I wouldn't worry about it," she said. "It's probably a side effect of having a few meds on board. When you finish the prescription, you'll feel normal again."

"Ha, ha," I said, in the way people say "ha, ha" when they mean that wasn't actually funny, but I acknowledge you're trying to be funny. "I like the feeling, and I think my new attitude is the reason."

"A new attitude?" she asked as if it was the first time she'd heard of it, despite having been subjected to approximately a dozen "new attitudes" in the past month alone, each one heralded as the definitive solution to life's problems.

"Don't do that," I said. "You know perfectly well my new approach to life is to not fight the depression, the anxiety, or the absurdities. Accept them and get on with life." I delivered this with the serene wisdom of someone who has just discovered a profound truth that humanity has overlooked for thousands of years.

"Good for you," she said, with the careful neutrality of someone who's careful not to encourage my philosophical epiphanies. "I'm happy to hear it. Does this have something to do with our conversation about possibility thinking?"

"No, Poopsie, I'm talking about a fresh new world. It's a concept from quantum physics explaining how all the fundamental particles of matter alternately appear and disappear continuously." I waved my hands in what I imagined was a quantum-like fashion, but thinking back on it now, it may have resembled someone trying to dry nail polish.

"Oh?" she said, and it left me wondering if I hadn't explained myself fully.

"I don't mean to discount the philosophy of life espoused by Dr. Robert Schuller, founder of the Crystal Cathedral. Not at all. A big fan of the man since the good old days." I nodded sagely, as if a connection existed between quantum physics and possibility thinking.

Wonder took a sip of her coffee, perhaps to hide her expression, or possibly to brace herself for whatever was coming next. "But even if those particles disappear and instantly reappear without our noticing, doesn't it imply that the new particles begin where the old particles left off? So it's really the same world reconstructed."

I didn't reply right away. I felt cold and empty, like a refrigerator whose light had gone out—still technically functional but lacking any magic. She raised her eyebrows, as if asking whether I had more to say or wondering if her question had encountered a 404 error—page not found.

"Damn!" I said, with the profound disappointment of a child who's just realized Santa's handwriting is suspiciously similar to his father's.

"I know," she said. "Sorry, I didn't mean to bring you down."

"For someone not trying, you certainly are good at it. Your natural, untrained talent must leave the professionals in awe."

Wonder, displaying the emotional pivoting skills that have kept our relationship functional for years, offered, "Hey, that's not nice." Then with a softened expression, she said, "Ride with me to the Riverlights Harris Teeter and we'll get ice cream at the new shop." She delivered this as if presenting the grand prize on that game show.

"Did I hear someone say ice cream?" chimed in Princess Amy, who'd remained silent, likely waiting for the precise moment when her intervention would be most dramatic or involve dairy products.

"Is there a new confectionery at Riverlights?" I asked, beginning to feel better already, which probably offers insight into my mood disorder, but I was too busy thinking about ice cream flavors to explore it.

"Yes, there is, and I've heard it's a pippin," Wonder said, meaning the ice cream place was excellent or that it somehow resembled an apple, but it made no difference to me.

"Maybe it's a new world after all," I said, my philosophical crisis resolving itself with remarkable speed in the face of cappuccina-flavored ice cream.

"Close enough to be getting on with," said Amy, who always has the final word. In her royal wisdom, she understands that quantum physics may not actually create a new world each morning, but ice cream makes it not matter at all.

The Great Boombox Stakeout

I was sitting in my home office, scrolling through a Spotify playlist titled "Ultimate 80s Workout" when Princess Amy materialized, perched on top of my printer. 

She wore a blue leotard over silver tights, a pink headband, and purple leg warmers—the full Jane Fonda package.

"What fresh neon nightmare is this?" she asked, eyeing my screen with the particular disdain she reserves for my nostalgic indulgences. Amy and I share a sort of generation gap because she didn’t appear in my head until 1994.

"Research," I replied, clicking through tracks. "I'm building a playlist for my morning constitutional."

“Research?" Amy repeated, stretching the word like spandex. "You mean procrastinating, don’t you? You're simply revisiting your glory days as the Richard Simmons of Houston."

I bristle at the comparison. "I was nothing like Richard Simmons. I was a certified fitness professional, and my shorts were much more tasteful than his."

"Debatable," Amy said. "I've seen the photos. Your shorts were so short they would've been considered inappropriate in ancient Rome."

This is why I never invite Amy to share in my nostalgia. She has a habit of remembering the inconvenient facts, rather than the way my memory has carefully reconstructed them over the decades.

"What you're looking at," I explained with exaggerated patience, "is the modern equivalent of what used to take me hours—and even days to create in 1986."

Amy settled in, crossing her imaginary leg-warmer-clad legs. "Enlighten me."

"First," I began, warming to my subject, "you had to understand Beats Per Minute. You couldn't just throw a random selection of songs together. An aerobics routine needed precision—warm-up tracks at 110-120 BPM, cardio at 130-150, cool down back to 110."

"And how exactly did you calculate these BPMs? I don't recall a handy Spotify feature in the Reagan era."

"Manual counting! I'd listen to cassette tapes playing for exactly thirty seconds on my boombox and multiply the beats by two."

Amy looked skeptical. "So you're saying you'd sit in your bedroom with a stopwatch and a metronome, timing pop songs?"

"Once I had my song selections," I continued, "came the real challenge—recording them in the proper sequence.

For the benefit of my younger followers, The Great Boombox Stakeout, as I called it then, was a weekly ritual. With my dual cassette boom box on the floor in front of me, one side set to play and one set to record, I’d poise my index finger over the record button and wait for the targeted songs to begin playing.

Hoping for Amy's understanding of my obsession with the past, I tried to describe the experience. "I can still feel what it was like to record 'Physical' by Olivia Newton-John, 'Maniac' and 'What a Feeling' from Flashdance in the right order and with the closing beats of one song blending into the opening beats of the following song."

"And then there was the timing issue," I continued, beginning to get caught up in the moment. "If I needed a song to run exactly 3 minutes and 5 seconds for a specific sequence of moves, I would position my finger above the pause button and be ready to strike."

Amy mimicked depressing a cassette play button with exaggerated precision. "The lost art of manual editing. Today's kids will never know the satisfaction of physically cutting a commercial with their index finger."

I nodded, pleased that she was following along with me. "And the worst part was spending hours getting the songs you needed, and the tape would be nearly perfect, and then…”

"The dreaded tape chew!” Amy finished, making a grinding noise that's unnervingly accurate. "The boom box would suddenly develop a taste for ferric oxide, and a weekend of work would disappear into its hungry maw."

Even more manic, I began to truly enjoy sharing these ancient memories with her. Perhaps for the first time. 

“But when you got it right," I said, leaning back in my chair, "when you finally had that perfect 45-minute mix with seamless transitions and perfectly timed segments..."

"The aerobics students would go wild," Amy concedes. "I'll grant you that. They'd actually cheer when they recognized the opening beats of 'Beat It.'"

"They did, Amy! I’m happy you actually get it. “The immediate feedback from class was incredible."

Amy eyed me with peculiar rose-colored eyes, as though she might be slipping into the glorified past. 

"Let's not romanticize it too much,” she said. “Remember the technical disasters? Like that time your tape suddenly started playing at half-speed, making all the songs sound like Barry White with a head cold?"

I winced at the memory. "The 'Molasses Incident,’ I said.

"And remember the time your boom box batteries died mid-class, and you had to finish the routine by singing the song yourself?"

"My rendition of 'Put Me In Coach' wasn't bad," I protested.

"John Fogerty filed a cease and desist," Amy countered. I ignored the exaggeration.

"There was a certain charm to the imperfection," Amy admitted. "Like when you recorded a song off the radio and mistakenly included five seconds of DJ banter at the end of 'Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go.'"

"Made it better," I said. "More authentic."

"More human," Amy agreed, then realized she was becoming sentimental. "Though your current playlist-making skills leave a lot to be desired. Who puts 'Karma Chameleon' next to ‘Sweet Child O’ Mine'? That's mixtape malpractice."

I looked back at the screen, where my playlist sits, every song complete from start to finish, no DJ interruptions, no tape hiss. “You know what's missing from modern playlists?" I said.

"The charming imperfections of analog technology,” Amy answered.

"The suspense," I correct her. "That moment when you'd press play on a new mixtape in front of thirty people in spandex, and you had no idea if you would finish the class with no errors."

Amy nodded. "The digital age has removed a lot of chills, but it's also removed certain thrills."

"Exactly," I say, suddenly inspired. "Maybe I should go old school for my walking routine. Dig out the old Walkman, make a proper mixtape."

Amy's eyes widen in alarm. "Please don't. You don't still have cassette tapes, do you? Tell me you don't still have cassettes."

I smile mysteriously. "I recently found several in a thrift store still in the unopened manufacturer's packaging."

"No," Amy said firmly. "Absolutely not. There's nostalgia, and then there's disturbing the ancient techno-gods. Those tapes have probably fossilized by now anyway. Playing one might open a portal to 1986, and the world isn't ready for your short shorts to make a comeback."

"Fine," I tell her. "I'll stick to Spotify. But I reserve the right to change my mind later."

"Noted," Amy said, standing and adjusting her imaginary headband. “Now, excuse me while I change this ridiculous outfit. The mental chafing from the leotard is unbearable.” She disappeared as suddenly as she arrived. 

I turned back to my playlist and clicked on the first song. The opening beats of "Physical" filled the room, and for just a brief, shining moment, I saw twenty pairs of leg warmers doing the cross-leg shuffle in unison. Sometimes, the good old days really were as good as we remember them—technical difficulties, tape chew, and all.

Happy Birthday, Mom!

My mom's birthday was April 27, and I wanted to do something to observe the anniversary and to release the emotions that seemed ready to burst out of me.

Others may never understand these words, and perhaps I can't even explain them properly myself—I try, but the right words just don't come. 

In the quiet darkness of night, I dream about you, and I struggle to convey all that remains in my heart. That's why this moment is for you, though I realize it's for my healing too.

I've expressed myself countless times through various forms—sometimes in fantasy, sometimes in what might seem like lies—yet they're all so real to me that I'm left with tears streaming down my face. 

I dream of you in the stillness of night, and I fight to hide the tears, because while these words are meant for you, they also release something within me.

This is for you, wherever your spirit now resides, to tell you that nothing has felt the same since we've been separated by the veil. This is for all the love we shared, and from everything I have left within me, this is for you.

On the surface, my life appears complete, but despite all that, I still find myself singing of things lost to time and memories that used to color my days. 

Each night before sleep claims me, I wonder if perhaps you might miss me too. So I craft these thoughts and weave these emotional melodies for you—to express the things I should have said when I had the chance.

All I can do now is hope that somehow, somewhere, you can hear the melody of my heart and know that I'm eternally grateful for everything that I am, because I owe it all to you.

The Phantom Doorbell

There exists in the medical literature no condition quite so perfectly designed to transform a fully functioning adult into a sodden heap of misery as acute sinusitis during pollen season. I awoke this morning to this precise affliction.

It wasn't the stuffy nose, or the gentle chirping of birds, or the warm rays of the morning sun that woke me. It was the unmistakable chime of a doorbell. Clear as crystal, it rang through the house with the confident authority of someone who knows exactly which button to press and how firmly to press it.

Good Morning, Kitten

I lay there, cocooned in blankets, mentally running through the list of people who might be calling at such an hour. The postal carrier with a package requiring a signature? Unlikely. A neighbor in distress? Possible, though neighbors in genuine distress tend to pound on doors. Jehovah's Witnesses? Too early even for them unless their legendary zeal prompted a prophet to expect the second coming before lunch.

The rational course of action would have been to get out of bed and investigate. However, my body, usually a reasonably reliable vehicle for transporting my brain from place to place, had become an unresponsive sack of sand. My head felt like someone had used a bicycle pump to inflate it to maximum pressure.

I decided to wait for a second ring. Surely, anyone with legitimate business would ring again. Minutes passed. No second ring came.

"Curious," I thought, in the way Captain Smith of the Titanic might have thought "Curious" when the helmsman reported a big white thing looming in the darkness. You might guess the absence of a second ring allowed me to dismiss the matter and go back to sleep, but no. It merely sparked a debate with Princess Amy about whether I'd imagined the first ring the way I imagined all those mystery voices in the past.

Long-time readers of The Circular Journey may recall previous episodes in which my brain manufactured voices, footsteps, and catfights at the moment of waking. My semi-conscious mind has a flair for audio production, causing me to wonder how I might use an AI agent to create a podcast for my imaginary companion.

Still contemplating the doorbell conundrum, I made my first attempt to rise, and it was then my body began complaining of its various ailments. My blocked sinuses turned me into a mouth breather. My throat felt as though I'd gargled with crushed gravel. And when I coughed, it sounded like someone trying to start a rusty chainsaw.

"Not again," I groaned, in blatant denial of the annual ritual my body performs when spring arrives in all its pollen-coated glory.

Acceptance and Commitment

Three hours of self-pity later, I decided that professional medical intervention was warranted. Not because I believed there was any real solution. All allergy sufferers know that seeking medical help during pollen season is largely palliative, because misery loves plenty of other sufferers in the waiting room, and because, unlike Ms. Wonder, doctors are professionally obligated to listen to your complaints.

At the Urgent Care facility, despite its name, I was informed I'd need to wait two hours before a medical professional could confirm what I already knew: that I was suffering from an excess of spring.

Rather than sit in a waiting room absorbing other people's germs, I decided to relocate to a nearby coffee shop. Once there, I nursed an extra hot latte—the hot drink helping to numb the sore throat—and I sat in the sunshine contemplating the injustice of a world where trees' reproductive activities render humans collateral damage.

When I returned to Urgent Care, I discovered they'd been looking for me, presumably concerned they'd misplaced me. Tests were conducted, and eventually, a doctor with the bedside manner of someone who has seen far too many pollen victims confirmed: acute sinusitis, courtesy of the great outdoors.

"Take antihistamines, use a nasal spray, and stay hydrated," she advised, which is the medical equivalent of telling someone whose house is on fire to consider using water and stay far away from the flames.

Shady Grove Chronicles

Back home and feeling even worse than before my medical adventure, I remembered that doorbell. Was it real? Was it the fevered imagination of a brain already under siege from histamines? Or perhaps—and I consider this the preferable explanation—it was the spirit of Grandpa Will, who used to suffer from similar springtime afflictions and might have been making his presence known to express solidarity.

In Shady Grove, where I spent my formative years, Great Aunt Maggie, who approached allergies with the same stern disapproval she applied to modern music and men who didn't remove their hats indoors, had her own remedy involving honey, horehound candy, Three Roses whiskey, and a prayer said under moonlight. It was perhaps more effective than modern medicine because the whiskey helped you care significantly less about your symptoms.

As I sit here, contemplating whether it's possible to flush one's sinuses with the sink spray, I can almost hear Great Aunt Maggie's practical advice: "Stop your whining and take your medicine. People aren't interested in hearing about your sniffling; they have plenty of problems of their own."

She would be right, of course. And yet, here I am, sharing my woes with you, my dear readers. At least I can let those of you similarly afflicted know that you're not alone in your misery. And for those blessed with immune systems that ignore pollen, consider this a reminder of how fortunate you are.

Unsolved Mysteries

As for the phantom doorbell, I consider it one of those mysteries likely to remain unsolved. Still, I can't help but wonder if, somewhere in the great beyond, Grandpa Will is having a good laugh at his little joke. I like to think so; it makes me feel just a little bit better.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to attend to my scheduled appointment with a sinus flush, a dose of self-pity, and a Smartless episode with Zoe Saldana. I was hoping to enjoy an outing for sunshine and coffee with Ms. Wonder, but her working hours have increased since her role was cut from full-time to half-time. Go figure.

Seeking The ONE

Alright, buckle up, buttercups, here's your blog post for the day, and we're about to dive headfirst into the philosophical deep end, without inflatable arm floaties. But don't despair, it's the same Genome you've come to know over the decades, the same slightly bewildered yet vaguely enlightened yours truly, with helpful input from Ms. Wonder and Princess Amy.

ONE CYGNUS sailing under the flag of Japan

We were in Southport yesterday, which Coastal Living Magazine once called The Happiest Seaside Town in America. My name for it is Coastal Camelot. You can find my previous posts on Southport using the search feature on the home page.

It was a slow, lazy, joyful Easter Sunday afternoon, and we were there seeking the One. No, not that One, silly! The one we sought is the container vessel ONE CYGNUS.

I was scrolling through memories of yesteryear as we walked the quiet oak-lined streets near the Intracoastal Waterway, and I remembered a time many years ago when we were on vacation in Southport, accompanied by a new kitten.

We'd rescued Eddy Peebody only weeks before and didn't want to leave him with a sitter so soon. He became quite ill on the trip, and we took him to the veterinary clinic. The doctor treated Eddy and then explained that his health problem was a genetic one and that he'd probably have recurring issues for his lifetime.

I can't explain how much that prognosis crushed our spirits (even those words don't come close to describing how we felt). The next day, I was sitting alone outside a coffee shop, considering how to begin learning to care for him.

All I knew for sure that morning was that no matter what it required, we would give Eddy the best life possible. And we did. Our primary roles became health care advocates for Eddy Peebody. Eventually, Happy Cats Wellness grew out of our experience caring for him.

Walking toward the sea wall yesterday, I was reminded of a profound nugget of wisdom from Master Wen, the wuquan master at Zen Center of West Houston. Apparently, when you stop all the frantic seeking and striving, life just… unfolds, like a children's fairy tale.

Now, my immediate reaction was, "Yeah, right," because my life usually unfolds like a toddler attempting origami – lots of crumpled frustration and the vague shape of something that might have been a swan if you squinted hard enough.

But this wasn't some motivational mantra. This was about the "genuine absence of desire and effort." Which, let's be honest, sounds a lot like an existential "meh."

It's in this state of blissful nothingness that all the stuff you were desperately chasing suddenly appears. Like those lost earbuds that I haven't given up on finding. If only I could stop caring about whether they show up or not. It's a constant source of frustration and, like Jimmy Durante, I've got a million of 'em.

I've been obsessed for years with finding the book my mother used to teach me to read. The book was her third-grade "reader," and she loved that book so much she kept it and read the stories to me until I practically memorized the text. 

I remember the mule in "Old Kate's Nightmare" about the bright-eyed monster that turned out to be an automobile. I remember "Jo-Jo the Clown," and I remember so fondly the story of Flopsy, Mopsy, and Cottontail waiting in the pumpkin patch on the night of a full moon for the "Man in the Moon to Come Down Tonight."

I've searched all the rare and used bookstores of Houston, New Orleans, Savannah, Charleston, and Durham. And what's the result? Nothing. Nada. Zip. I was the persistent Tweeter, and the universe just hit "block."

If I understand the principle correctly, you become more noticeable when you stop seeking attention. It's basically like the girl in my college biology lab, who I asked to accompany me to the freshman mixer. I practically begged her to go, but she was skeptical. I don't blame her--she probably thought I had ulterior motives. 

She was right, of course. My best friend had told me, on the day of the dance, to find a date or stop hanging around with him and Denny Poo because they couldn't be seen in public with a guy so uncool as to not attend a school dance. 

But when one lets go, that's when the unfolding begins, and life responds to your absence of need. It offers abundance when you stop grasping. And so it happened that in the lab the next day, the reluctant dancer announced that she would be my girlfriend and attend all the dances with me for the rest of the year.

Do you see the problem? I had given up all need for a dance partner. I told her thanks, I'll call you. It never happened. 

I'm not ready to embrace full-blown, Zen-master-level detachment. I'm not sure I'll ever be ready for that. But maybe there is something to this "wanting nothing gets you everything" thing.

I've decided to float a trial balloon, as I believe it's called, and embrace the art of the gentle shrug. To cultivate a profound indifference to the chaos swirling around me. And I'm prepared to accept that it might not work and that maybe it's just a cosmic joke.

Either way, I'm going to try "not trying" for a bit. Worst case scenario? I get really good at doing nothing. Best case? Well, the truth is, I have no clue what the best case might be.

Stay tuned for my next blog post. For the next few weeks, I expect to provide updates on reaching enlightenment through extreme Whatevering.