A Maritime Adventure

"I owe you an apology," she said. "I thought the reason you were having trouble reviewing my promotional letters was self-sabotage."

"What do you mean, self-sabotage?" I said with a good bit of theatrical indignation.

"Don't get me wrong," she said, "I've walked away from a business deal before. I once left a hunting party in South Texas because my client sat with a tub of popcorn between his legs and, when not feeding his face, pointed and laughed at the members of the hunting party every time they missed a shot. But that's another story. Did they have everything I asked for?"

If the above spot of dialogue seems confusing, you can imagine how my brain was performing Olympic gymnastics trying to follow along. I felt certain the otherwise brilliant woman had forgotten several pages of script somewhere between her thoughts and her mouth. Then suddenly, in that strange way it sometimes happens, I remembered something that allowed me to catch up with her runaway train of thought.

The previous day, Ms. Wonder asked me to review letters she'd written to six different maritime museums. The letters proposed an exhibit of her abstract photography--mesmerizing images that transform marine cargo vessels into floating geometric poetry. The letters are part of a plan to introduce her work to a larger audience.

"They had everything," I told her, "but what I'd like to know is what I'm supposed to do with this junk."

"First," she said with the confidence of someone explaining how to breathe, "you write the proposal letter for my new photography exhibit on a puzzle, break it up, and stuff the pieces into an envelope. When museum curators open them, they wonder if they've gotten a message from a psycho, but when they see my name and credentials on the envelope, they put the puzzle together, realize the proposal is coming from an unusually creative artist."

"I don't know, Poopsie, it all sounds very high school to me."

"That's why it works. It makes them feel they're back in high school, receiving a Valentine from a secret admirer. Of course, you probably never got valentines from secret admirers, so you can't appreciate what I'm saying."

"Hey!"

"Just kidding," she said with a smile that suggested she wasn't entirely kidding. "Oh, I thought of another good idea."

"I can't wait," I said, managing to contain my enthusiasm to homeopathic levels.

"You'll love this one. Remember that online service that does business cards?"

"I don't use business cards," I said.

"You'll use these business cards. Order a box with nothing but my standard postcard on them in matte finish. Then when you hand out the cards..."

"Me! Why me? I'm not planning on running around the East Coast handing out business cards. I have a full-time job, disappointing you right here in Carolina."

"I know you weren't planning it, but I also know that you'll do it for your Poopsie Wonder, won't you, sweetie?" She gave my hand a pat before continuing. "Your prospective museum curator will say, 'But your contact information isn't on here.' Then you write my number and website address on the card. That lets her know you don't do business with just anyone. Only certain people meet your standards, and she's one of them."

"A lot of people prefer to tweet," I said, desperately seeking solid ground in this quicksand of marketing concepts.

"Too chatty," she said, "Stay low-tech and it will set you apart."

"Ecaterina," I said, resorting to the formal address that means I'm about to put my foot down. "No offense, but I don't know where you're coming from with this. I can't picture someone from Houston, Texas handing out understated business cards."

"You're right about that," she said. "Most people in Houston introduce themselves by honking the horns of their pickup trucks. But I've spent a lot of time in Charleston, South Carolina, and let me tell you they have some slick..."

I can't repeat the rest of her statement, but it left me strangely intrigued. I began to wonder if I'd slipped into an alternate dimension where her marketing strategies made sense.

"So what am I supposed to do with this Magic 8-Ball?" I asked, pointing to the plastic orb she'd placed on my desk alongside the puzzle pieces and postcards.

"I haven't figured that out yet," she said, "I just thought we should probably have one."

The next few moments were filled with silence. Finally, I said, "Oh, I almost forgot. Your agent phoned a moment ago."

"Oh, what did she want?" 

"She asked about our progress on the promotions project."

"Yes, but it's not a project. It's simply a few letters."

"She thought we might sell the rights to dramatize the promotional effort to a theatrical consortium in New York."

"She thinks we should turn the letters into a play?" she said, eyebrows reaching for the ceiling. "It doesn't seem to be the kind of material that becomes a play. '

"That's what I told her, but she insisted that we change the tone of the letters to make them sound more like musical theater..."

"Despite my better judgment, I've got to hear more of this hairbrained scheme."

"Her suggestion was that we write something to catch the curator's attention, like, "Dear Maritime Museum," and I imagined it would use a bold font, "PREPARE TO BE BOARDED! By abstract art, that is!"

"Oh, yes?" said the Wonder but not with any real zip.

"Yeah, and she thought the heading could be followed by a promotional ad that could be sung to the tune of a popular show tune."

"Can you imagine a musical comedy about abstract marine photography making the rounds off-Broadway?" Wonder asked?

"Not really," I said.

"Neither can I, though, in fairness, the subject of house cats is responsible for half of internet traffic, and I suspect the other half is devoted to people trying to figure out what the government will do next. So who knows?"

We were quiet for the next few moments. I was unsure of what I should say, and she seemed deep in contemplation, forehead wrinkled and chewing the lower lip. Finally, she spoke.

"I recently received a comment from a patron who suggested my photography should have a recognizable theme," she said, making it clear she was entertaining some doubt. "Without one, he said, it feels like 'a random collection of images about nothing in particular.'"

I don't know how I did it with so little notice, but I had one of those surprising ideas that make the Genomes the kind of men we are.

"Yes, Poopsie," I said, "the Cape Fear River photography collection may be about nothing in particular, but it is to abstract marine art what Tiger Woods was to golf, and what Taylor Swift is to pop music, and what your favorite sandals are to a day at Holden Beach looking for sea biscuits: unnecessary, but absolutely essential."

She beamed at me with unexpected approval. Perhaps I was finally getting the hang of being her promotional partner.

Clearly, wooing maritime museum curators will be more complicated than I'd imagined. Obviously, I would need to learn to use a Magic 8-Ball to say, "Please display my partner's art photos of ocean-going freighters in your museum," all the while avoiding a Broadway adaptation of "Cape Fear River Vessels: The Musical."

Picture's Up! Rolling!

A Cinematic Confession

Despite my boundless enthusiasm and love for the chase, my documentation of Wilmington's cinematic landscape has proven to be as successful as trying to thread a needle while riding a mechanical bull. (I know this from personal experience—not because I’ve actually ridden a mechanical bull, but because I watched many such riders at Gilley's in Pasadena during the 80s.)

Remember my quest to find the "Driver's Ed" set? The one where I ended up at Flaming Amy's on its closed day, engaged in mortal combat with cross-traffic on busy streets, and returned with precisely zero footage? 

"You've been fumbling around like a toddler in a Toys-R-Us," Princess Amy observed this morning over coffee at Circular Journey Cafe. She was particularly smug today, her imaginary tiara gleaming cheekily in the morning sunlight.

"I've been documenting the process," I said, stirring my latte with what I hoped was a level of dignity that served me well.

"You've been documenting your ability to get lost, park illegally, and eat craft services food you weren't offered," she replied, examining her royal nails. "Remember when you tried to coach Beau with his lines and he got fired?"

I winced. "Not lines," I said. "He had only one line. And take the tiara off, it's reflecting sunlight around the room and getting everyone's attention."

"No one can see it but you," she said. "And the film industry is off to a slow start this year. You might as well relax and find something else to do with your time."

She was right, of course. My cinematic adventures have been more "America's Funniest Home Videos" than "Behind the Scenes with Scorsese." 

Ms. Wonder suggested yesterday, in her gentle but firm way, that I might benefit from a more structured approach.

"Genome," she said, her voice warm with the patience of a saint, "perhaps a map would help? Or possibly writing down the actual addresses instead of just driving around hoping to bump into Molly Shannon?"

"I do not just drive around," I said with a good deal of topspin. "I use my GPS; I use two. Which may be part of the problem because Mildred on my phone GPS often disagrees with Maggie on Wynd Horse."

So here I am this morning, writing to you from the podium of my personal TED-X show--The Circular Journey Cafe, admitting my shortcomings as your cinematic correspondent. I've been as reliable as a Magic 8-Ball in a magnetic field when it comes to finding and documenting film productions.

But that's about to change! I've acquired an actual map of Wilmington (yes, paper—and this bit of vintage technology feels comforting to someone out of the past century). I've programmed Wynd Horse's navigation system with the address of the Cinespace production office, and I've subscribed to all the local media for tracking filming schedules.

Princess Amy insists my new plan will fail, but I reminded her, "That's what they said about the lunar landing."

"No one said that about the lunar landing," was her reply, but I assured her that wasn't true.

"Statistically speaking, someone must have said it would never work," I said. And I thought it was a pretty good comeback considering I had no time to prepare.

My point, dear readers, is this: The next time you read about my adventures chasing film crews around the Carolina coast, you can expect fewer wrong turns and hopefully, although I can't promise, fewer instances of me being kicked off set before lunch.

My previous documentation efforts may have been a blooper reel, but my inner director just called "action" on the 2025 filming year, and this time, I'm determined to nail my lines.

As the First Camera Operator would say, "Rolling!"

Atlantis Rising

How a Lost Continent Found Me

I fell asleep last night listening to "Sleep With Me," a podcast designed to bore you unconscious. Mission accomplished. The host, Scooter, described his hike through an Oakland park, his soothing drone the perfect lullaby. Somewhere in the first hour, I drifted away—not unlike the lost continent of Atlantis, sinking beneath the waves of consciousness.

But unlike the legendary continent, I would return, and Atlantis would rise in my dreams.

When Dreams Become Memories

In my dream, I left my office for the day but was unable to remember where I'd parked. I searched for the enclosed skybridge connecting one office building to another. The dream scenario transformed, and the pedestrian bridge became a gateway. Suddenly, I wasn't simply crossing between office buildings—I was traversing time.

The buildings morphed into magnificent granite structures, and I realized I was walking through the capital city of Atlantis. But I wasn't a visitor, I was narrating a documentary as I guided a film crew through streets I somehow knew intimately.

This wasn't my first voyage to Atlantis. When I was five years old, I experienced what I can only describe as a memory that wasn't mine. I stood on a veranda perched on a hillside overlooking a protected harbor in Atlantis. Below us, a sailing ship entered the harbor, its painted sails dropping as rows of oars emerged to guide it to the loading docks. The vision was so vivid, so detailed, I took it to be real, and that memory has stayed with me for a lifetime.

On the surface of it, I dreamed about a mythical civilization. So what? We all have strange dreams. But don't let it fool you. My dream isn't about the life I've lived—it's about a life I wish I'd lived. Or perhaps, a life I did live, millennia ago.

Bridges Between Worlds

Atlantis dreams visit me periodically, like old friends who drop by unannounced. In one dream, I sailed a small riverboat down one of the canals of the capital city. Other times, like last night, I'm walking through grand buildings whose architecture defies historical categorization.

I wonder now if my first "visions" of Atlantis at age five could have been dreams I had the night before, only remembered at the moment I thought I was "seeing" them. Memory is fickle that way—sometimes what we think we remember is actually a memory of a memory, distorted by time and retelling.

Yet the clarity remains startling. In last night's dream, I wasn't just observing—I was narrating, explaining the significance of these structures to others, as if I possessed knowledge beyond my waking self. The granite buildings weren't just buildings; they were landmarks I knew as intimately as my own neighborhood.

I explained the purpose of each structure, the significance of the carvings adorning their walls, and the history behind their construction. My knowledge didn't seem miraculous—it was mundane, like knowing the location of your childhood bedroom.

The Shaman's Revelation

I once met a shaman in a dream—yes, dreams within dreams, like Russian nesting dolls of the subconscious. After being smudged and rattled (more pleasant than you might imagine), I was granted three questions.

"The remaining question is about some memories I had as a child," I told her. "I remembered a life that was not mine but was not entirely foreign to me. Memories of a previous life."

"Atlantis," she said without hesitation.

Her certainty startled me. "You know about those memories?"

She nodded knowingly. "Atlantis is a memory of a life lived in what you think of as ancient times. Those memories first belonged to one of your ancestors and have been recorded in genetic material passed down to you over millennia."

Could it be? Could memories truly be encoded in our DNA, passed down like eye color or height? Perhaps our most profound experiences leave an imprint not just on cultures but on the very cells making up our memory banks.

Living with Ancient Memories

What does one do with memories of a place that supposedly never existed? A place that historians dismiss as Plato's allegory rather than archaeological fact?

I'm not claiming to be the reincarnation of an Atlantean noble. (Actually, I do exactly that, but I've never told anyone before now.) I'm not starting a cult or writing a manifesto. I'm simply acknowledging that something unusual has happened throughout my life—these persistent visions of a civilization that feels as real to me as the home where I grew up.

Perhaps this is why I'm drawn to ancient history and quantum physics—both fields that grapple with the nature of reality and time. When I listen to podcasts about the measurement problem in quantum mechanics (even if they ultimately knock me unconscious), I'm searching for answers--for understanding. 

How can observation affect reality? How can memory transcend individual experience?

I once wrote that "we live in a fascinating world full of exciting opportunities, and that world is all there is—there's nothing more. To make the most of this marvelous gift, you must follow your natural curiosity about anything that intrigues you."

My curiosity led me to Atlantis—or perhaps Atlantis found me. Either way, these dreams have enriched my life with mystery and wonder. They've reminded me that humanity's story is longer and stranger than our history books suggest. They also hint that there may be more to life than we realize.

The Circular Journey

The shaman in my dream said something else that stays with me: "Love is the most beneficial living condition for humans. Most humans seem to want it and yet have no understanding of how to find it. When they do find it, it's usually accidental."

Perhaps the same is true of connections to the past. We don't seek them out—they find us by accident, rising unexpectedly from the depths of consciousness like a continent thought lost forever.

As I write this in the early morning hours, woolly-headed like a sheep in a wind tunnel, I wonder how many others carry genetic memories they can't explain. How many of us dream of places we've never been, in times we couldn't have lived? 

Einstein would say that as we move through space, we must also move through time. Perhaps, we're all connected by invisible bridges spanning space and time?

The next time you dream of something impossibly familiar, something that feels less like imagination and more like remembrance, pay attention. You might be experiencing the rising of your own Atlantis—memories encoded in the spiraling ladder of your DNA, waiting for the right moment to emerge from the depths.

And if you happen to fall asleep only to dream of other times and foreign places... know that you're on The Circular Journey, connecting us all to what came before and what lies ahead.

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.