Coffee With the Islander

I arrived at Cafe Luna to find Island Irv already settled at our usual table by the window, watching the morning foot traffic with his characteristic blend of amusement and philosophical detachment.

"You're looking contemplative this morning," he said. "Let me guess—you've been thinking about your Wilmywood adventures again."

"If by that you mean movie and television filming activities, then yes, I have. I've spent nearly two years tracking film crews along the Carolina coast, and I'm still not entirely sure how to measure my success."

"Ah," said Irv, leaning back in his chair. "Anniversary reflections. The universe does love its milestones." He took a sip of his coffee and studied me with that knowing expression I've come to both appreciate and slightly dread. "So what's troubling you about your cinematic adventures?"

"Troubling might be too strong a word," I said. "It's more like... confusion. Take that day in Southport when I was trying to get onto the set of 'The Waterfront.' I was convinced I'd be escorted off the set by security, but instead I ended up sitting at a table with the crew like I belonged there."

"And this surprises you because...?"

"Because it shouldn't have happened! My plan was ridiculous. Walk onto a film set as though you belong there? That's not a strategy, that's wishful thinking."

He chuckled. "You know, there's a sparrow outside my kitchen window every morning who sits on top of the feeder station, unmoving, staring blankly into space. She seems to enjoy the view, the peace, and the abundant food supply. She could be thinking of hawks and the need to hurry back to protective cover, but she doesn’t. Instead, she takes a few moments to enjoy life, trusting that the universe will take care of her.

"Are you comparing me to a sparrow?"

“No, in fact, I think you should be more like that sparrow. Do you remember the production assistant who offered you a popsicle on the set of The Waterfront?"

"Of course I remember. How could I forget that?”

"She materialized—and I use that word intentionally—at exactly the moment you needed guidance. Not only did she escort you to the perfect location to observe everything going on, but she also gave you a bottle of water, explained the protocols, and essentially made you part of the crew. You think that was a coincidence?"

I stirred my latte thoughtfully. "I think it was kindness. Human kindness."

"And where do you suppose human kindness comes from?" Irv asked. "You think Vee woke up that morning and decided, 'Today I'll be extra nice to unauthorized visitors'? Or do you think something larger was working through her?"

"Now you're getting mystical on me. It’s not like you. What have you done with the real Islander and where are you going with this?”

“I’ve been watching you stumble into exactly the right situations for over a year," he replied. "Take your 'Driver's Ed' adventure. Three days of attempts. First day—shot down by a harried PA. Second day—completely lost at Flaming Amy's. Third day—not only do you find the right location, but Tom, the Production Manager, invited you to document everything."

"That was persistence paying off, just like Ms. Wonder said it would."

"Persistence, yes. But persistence guided by what? You could have persisted in the wrong direction for months. Instead, you persisted in exactly the right sequence, meeting exactly the right person, at exactly the right moment when he was in the mood to be generous with a blogger."

I had to admit there was a pattern there, though I wasn't ready to attribute it to cosmic intervention. "Are you saying that the universe arranged for me to become Wilmington's unofficial film correspondent?"

"I'm saying the universe arranged for you to become exactly who you needed to become. The film adventures were just the vehicle. Think about what you've learned about yourself through all this."

"That I have terrible navigation skills?"

"That you're braver than you give yourself credit for," he corrected. "That you can walk onto a film set with confidence when you need to. That you can persist through rejection and setbacks. That you can turn embarrassing mishaps into entertaining stories. That strangers will go out of their way to help you succeed."

"When you put it like that..."

"When I put it like that, it sounds like the universe has been running a year-long workshop called 'Genome Learns To Trust His Place In The World,' and you've been an excellent student."

We sat in comfortable silence for a moment, watching the morning unfold outside the window. 

"So you really think there's some grand design behind all my cinematic mishaps?” I asked.

"I think we sometimes survive and thrive despite our clever planning,” he said.

“Because something larger is looking out for us?”

"Does it really matter why? It's all good, and it makes for a better story in any case." 

He raised his coffee cup in a mock toast. "Here's to year three of your cinematic adventures.”

As we finished our coffee and prepared to leave, I realized that sitting here, processing the year's adventures, I felt something I hadn't expected: gratitude. 

“Thanks for being a friend,” I said as we gathered our things. “Same time next week?"

"Wouldn't miss it," he said.

"By the way, invite the real Island Irv along next week. The place doesn't seem the same without him."

Scheming Universe

When the Universe Drops You on Your Head

"You're in such a bad mood. What's happened to you anyway? You had so much promise when you were younger, and we expected much, much more from you, didn't we, Lilly? Did your mom drop you on your head as a child?"

Lilly didn't look up from her phone, but she did snicker—and not in a flattering way. She wasn't reacting to Amy's snarky put-down, of course, because I'm the only person who hears the voices in my head.

I'd driven into town this morning, planning a day at Wrightsville Beach. Halfway across Memorial Bridge, I spotted a dark thunderhead moving upriver toward downtown. Lightning bolts danced in the darkness, and I didn't like what I saw.

Do I take my chances with the weather at the beach? I asked myself. Or drive up Castle Street to have coffee with the regular crowd?

"Choose wisely," said the imaginary Princess Amy.

Moments later, I was parked in front of Vintage Values across the street from Luna Caffe, sprinting through the downpour with a scowl on my face. It must have been the frown that got Amy hot under the collar.

Coffee Shop Confessions

"My mother did drop me on my head as a child," I announced to no one in particular, "and it's not funny. Think what might have happened."

"Excuse me?" said Lilly, realizing she had a customer. "Did you say something? Are you having your regular drink?"

"Dropping you on your head is exactly what I'm thinking about," Amy continued, seemingly pleased with the thought of bashing my head on the floor. "And whatever might have happened did happen. Quantum fact!”

"Oh, shut up," I said.

"Excuse me?" said the barista.

"Oh, sorry, not you. I was momentarily lost in thought and didn't realize I spoke out loud."

It was another embarrassing moment, and I quickly turned and headed to the table where Island Irv waited with what looked suspiciously like a knowing smile.

The Islander's Wisdom

"I didn't expect to see you this morning," said the Islander.

"I didn't expect a freak rainstorm," I replied.

"You look as though you need to revisit your memorial sand dunes and give the Universe another piece of your mind,” he said. “After this surprise thunderstorm, you may need to get really tough. Show the universe you mean business.”

 You may remember the recent post A Day of Reckoning, where I visited those memorial dunes and did my best to reprimand the Fate sisters, but my best wasn't good enough. 

"You know, Irv,” I said, in a voice to let him know I meant business, “I want to believe all that guff about the Universe looking out for my best interests. I really do. But I've tried it, and it doesn't work for me."

"The universe has been taking care of you all your life," he said matter-of-factly.

"She's done a poor job of it," I countered.

"Are you completely loony?" he said. "Forget that—not a question. Of course, you're loony. Looney to the eyebrows, if I remember the full diagnosis."

The Parable of the Earwig

"Look, Genome, you're not a bad guy. I'd say most people like you—just in small doses. Right, Lilly?"

"Stop talking to her! You know she can't hear you."

"I heard him," said the barista from across the café.

"Oh, Lilly, I'm so sorry,” I said once again, “I've had a stressful morning, and I'm not quite myself."

“Don’t listen to him, Lilly, he’s always like this, and I have to put up with it every Sunday morning.”

"You've had a good life, Genome. Lilly and I enjoy hearing your stories. Remember how amused she was about you dancing in the aisles at the Andy Frasco concert? And consider this: Lilly and I are the last people anyone would expect to appreciate your antics."

"You see,” he continued, “all those wonderful things that happened to you over your lifetime occurred without  your help; maybe despite your help.”

"Stop right there," I said. "I know what you're going to say, and I’m telling you, it was and still is random accidents. Nothing more."

"You don't know what I'm going to say," he said with a sly grin. "Consider the earwig on the lanai last week."

"How do you know about the earwig?" I asked, genuinely puzzled.

“Never mind that,” he said, “That earwig is telling the story right now, and his friends are saying, 'You should be grateful that the Universe is taking care of you.' But that old earwig is having none of it. 'It's just random accidents,’ he’s saying. ‘I was lucky, that's all.’"

Irv paused for theatrical effect, then asked, "Now, I ask you, was it just an accident that earwig is still alive?"

"No," I admitted reluctantly. "He survived because of my intentional gift of kindness."

The Grand Theory

"Here's the deal, Genome—there's only one consciousness that provides guidance for us all. Our brains are tuned into it like a universal radio signal."

I didn't know how to respond to this surge of artificial intelligence coming from my old friend. He continued before I could say anything.

"It's a device people listen to for music and talk shows," he added helpfully.

"I know what a radio is," I said with considerable heat.

"Bottom line," said Irv, "the Universe has been looking out for you since you were fetal." Then, as an afterthought, he added, "There's a chance you may still be."

"You'd think," he said, settling back in his chair, "that just having Ms. Wonder share your life would be enough to convince a person that they've been given a special ride."

The Universe's Sense of Humor

As I sat there, watching the storm grow calm outside Luna Caffe's windows, I reflected on the morning's events. A thunderstorm redirected my beach plans, Princess Amy questioned my childhood head trauma, and Island Irv compared me to an earwig in a cosmic consciousness theory.

And yet, after all that, I turned up exactly where I needed to be: in a cozy café, with good coffee, and a trusted friend. All things considered, I do feel cared for, even I'm still a bit “fetal”.

Captain's Log: Sub-Space Anxiety

Welcome to The Circular Journey, where life is beautiful, and if your day disappoints, you can always restart it. Terms and conditions apply. Void where prohibited by the laws of physics. Genome's opinions can sometimes contain errors.

Alert at Dawn's Early Light

The morning opened gray and wet aboard the GMS Coastal Voyager. I'd planned a simple coffee-house reconnaissance mission to the city—what civilian populations call "a fun, relaxing day," but no sooner had the ship's chronometer registered the start of the duty shift than Princess Amy's voice shrieked across all communication channels:

"Pink alert! All hands to battle stations! The sky is falling! This is not a drill!"

Let me pause the story for a moment to explain that Amy dislikes the color pink, so she renamed red alerts to pink alerts. Additionally, these mission logs are not typical entries for The Circular Journey, so you may need background. I suggest searching the blog for "Mind Trek," but please don't do it now. If you fall into a temporal rabbit hole, we may never see you again, so read this post first. 

For now, it's enough to know that Princess Amy commands the bridge from her captain's chair, her hands firmly on the emotional controls that guide our encounters with various psychological challenges on the Coastal Voyager. And by association, I am the one who benefits or suffers. All the emotions named in the missions are mine and mine alone.

"Amy," I called out, hoping to establish friendly communications, for Amy and I are on a first-name basis, "what exactly is the nature of this emergency?"

The Captain's Catastrophic Briefing

"Emergency?" Princess Amy wailed from her command console. "You want details? The planetary heat index has reached 111 degrees! Global warming is rapidly destroying the polar ice caps, exceeding previous predictions! What's next? Scarce resources at fuel stations? Power grid failures? Communication blackouts? This is the beginning of the end of civilization as we know it!"

Well, you must admire her logical thought progression, even if it resembles the tactical analysis of someone who'd never encountered a slippery slope they couldn't navigate at warp speed.

"Tranquilo, tranquilo, mi pequeña capitana," I replied without the benefit of the communication chief's universal translator. "The end of civilization as we know it may not be as catastrophic as current projections suggest."

Princess Amy paused her frantic pacing, apparently intrigued by my alternative assessment. She hadn't yet issued commands to members of the extreme emotional response teams. I took that as a promising sign that we might possibly avoid a full-blown manic episode.

"You see, Captain, my world ended a long time ago," I explained, "and while I admit to missing certain aspects of that previous timeline, the actual experience has been far more pleasant than I anticipated."

Science Officer's Historical Analysis

From his position at the science station, First Officer Reason studied the systems' status displays with characteristic Vulcan-like precision. "Ambassador, your observation about 'worlds ending' triggers an interesting historical analysis. Humans have been calculating doomsday probabilities since they first developed the cognitive capacity to worry about the future."

"Fascinating," Princess Amy said, though her tone suggested she found it more alarming than fascinating. "Continue, Mr. Reason."

"In various cultural-religious contexts, doomsday represents final judgment protocols—the ultimate performance evaluation where biological entities discover whether they've achieved promotion to eternal operational status or permanent assignment to the spare parts department."

From the engineering station, Chief Anxiety's voice crackled with nervous energy: "Aye, but what about the Doomsday Clock, sir? My calculations show it's currently set to 89 seconds from midnight! Though my earlier readings suggested 111 seconds, which means we're accelerating toward disaster at exponential factors!"

Quantum Probabilities

"Mr. Scott," Reason replied calmly, "I've analyzed the temporal device you mentioned. The Doomsday Clock represents humanity's proximity to global catastrophe. The full twenty-four-hour cycle represents either a complete human historical timeline or immediate threat assessment protocols."

I was intrigued by Reason's scientific approach, although I'm not sure exactly what he meant or whether it had any relevance, but I decided to contribute my own analysis anyway. 

"I attempted to calculate probability distributions using Schrödinger's quantum probability functions," I said, "but I won't subject the crew to my complex formulae; instead..." I took a deep breath and was preparing to finish my statement when Dr. Joy chimed in from her medical station.

"Wise decision, Ambassador," she said with characteristic optimism intact despite the nature of our apocalyptic discussion.

"Using original biblical parameters for final judgment protocols," I finally got words in edgewise, "I discovered only this assertion regarding temporal specificity: 

'But of that day and hour knoweth no man, no, not the angels which are in heaven, neither the Son, but my Father only.' Matthew 24:36."

"With the chronometer set to 89 seconds from midnight," Reason calculated, "and considering the constraints from the historical sacred text that you've quoted, the probability equation suggests The End can be expected no sooner than 2:45 PM a week from next Wednesday."

"However," he added with Vulcan logic, "the probability that this temporal coordinate is accurate is much like the probability of choosing the most healthy treat at a gourmet bakery—technically possible but profoundly unlikely."

Command Panic Protocols

"See?" Princess Amy interjected. "Even our Science Officer confirms it! We're all doomed! I demand immediate implementation of emergency stockpiling protocols: paper goods, liquid supplies, and survival rations!"

"Captain," I replied in diplomatic tones, "Judgment Day calculations have been projecting imminent arrival since midnight on New Year's Eve in the Earth year 999, when European Christians climbed trees to be closer to Jesus at the anticipated time of his Second Descent operation."

"So?" Princess Amy demanded, though I detected uncertainty in her command voice.

"Well, if humanity had implemented panic protocols every time we calculated The End was imminent, we'd have expired from anxiety-induced system failures long before any actual apocalypse materialized."

Sub-Catastrophic Thinking

Communications Officer Joy turned from her broadcasting console, offering a professional assessment. "Captain, your approach to potential disappointment reflects the same level of analysis that fiction writers bring to horror narratives, except with reduced productivity and heightened emotional distress."

"But here's what's strangely interesting," Joy continued, "despite your tendency to interpret minor setbacks as opening scenes from post-apocalyptic scenarios, you occasionally identify legitimate concerns."

"Global warming represents an actual planetary threat assessment. Supply chain disruptions do occur with statistical regularity. Sometimes atmospheric conditions actually do present falling hazards."

"It's like having a smoke detection system that activates during bread preparation," Lt. Joy added with a smile. "It's annoying, but you still want it functional when there's an actual combustion emergency."

Sub-Space Silver Linings

"Speaking of environmental conditions," I noted, looking through the viewports, "I've observed that recent thunderstorms and high levels of humidity have resulted in neighborhood botanical systems looking better than ever recorded."

"Fascinating observation," Reason confirmed. "If we're genuinely only 89 seconds from midnight, a logical conclusion suggests we might as well engage in aesthetic appreciation of lawn maintenance and other environmental phenomena while the opportunity exists."

Princess Amy seemed to consider this perspective. "So you're suggesting we continue standard operations despite apocalyptic concerns?"

"Princess," I replied gently, "The End is always approaching. But until it materializes, we'll just navigate through whatever comes our way, and that Wednesday afternoon will be as uneventful as statistical probability suggests."

Captain's Log: Supplemental

"Captain's log, supplemental," Princess Amy recorded, her voice calmer than at the start of the mission. "The investigation into doomsday probabilities has provided valuable insight into distinguishing legitimate threats from projection errors. While anxiety protocols serve essential early warning functions, not every cloud formation should be perceived as threatening."

"We continue our mission through uncertain temporal coordinates, confident that most predicted endings are just another Wednesday."

Between Dimensions

For as long as I can remember, I've felt like I drift between parallel dimensions—not in the quantum physics sense of multiple worlds theory, but in something more personal and immediate. It's as if I live my life bouncing between different versions of reality, moving from one emotional landscape to another at what feels like the whim of Fate.

Rod Serling captured this feeling perfectly in his introduction to The Twilight Zone:

"There is a fifth dimension, beyond that which is known to man. It is a dimension as vast as space and as timeless as infinity. It is the middle ground between light and shadow, between science and superstition, and it lies between the pit of man's fears and the summit of his knowledge. This is the dimension of imagination."

That "dimension of imagination" resonates deeply with me. I seem to slip into it occasionally, remain there for a while, then return to the usual four-dimensional reality most people consider "normal."

The Radio Analogy

My therapist, who specializes in personal mythology, once explained my mood disorder using a perfect analogy: old analog radios. You had to manually adjust the dial to tune into your favorite station, but sometimes the signal would drift into static, and you'd either need to turn the dial to find it again or wait patiently for it to drift back into tune on its own.

That's how my emotional states work. Sometimes my "normal" mood drifts toward one extreme or another. I can either actively retune it by practicing certain intervention techniques. If I don't have the energy to expend a significant amount of work required, I can wait for my emotions to naturally drift back into balance. And it's anybody's guess as to how long that might take.

The Photograph That Changed Everything

Everything shifted last Tuesday morning when I discovered a photograph from my childhood—a picture of my first dog sitting on the porch of the house where I grew up.

In that instant, something extraordinary happened. I was suddenly transported back to that porch, feeling exactly as I had as a child. I was home—and there's no place better than home when you're young. I was with my dog, experiencing that complete, unrestrained, unconditional love that only a devoted pet can offer.

The sensation was more than memory; it was total immersion in a world of love and serenity.

The Discovery of Choice

That moment of transportation revealed something profound: I realized I could access that all-encompassing feeling of love and peace anytime I wanted. This wasn't just nostalgia—it was the discovery that I have more control over my dimensional shifts than I'd ever imagined.

Instead of waiting passively for my emotional radio to drift back into tune, or relying solely on external adjustments, I had found a third option. I could consciously choose to tune into frequencies of joy, serenity, and love by deliberately remembering what those feelings actually feel like and allowing myself to inhabit them fully.

A New Tool for Navigation

The key insight? We can learn to move deliberately between our different emotional realities, choosing serenity over chaos, joy over despair, love over fear. It's not about denying difficult emotions, but about remembering we have more agency in our inner landscape than we might think.

I plan to continue practicing this new form of dimensional travel—consciously choosing to sing in the sunshine and laugh every day. Because in the end, that kind of fierce, intentional living might be the most powerful navigation tool of all.

Sashay in the Shadows

Each morning, I walk the trails of Brunswick Forest. I was there this morning right after sunup. It was a beautiful day, light, bright, full of sunshine and birdsong, but it quickly turned to the dark and ugly side, with birdsong replaced by a rash of ugly hissing from the Sewer Harpies. 

A perfect example of just how true the P. G. Wodehouse quote:

"It's always just when a fellow is feeling particularly braced with things in general that Fate sneaks up behind him with the bit of lead piping."

I try to deny the truth of it, but sometimes the behavior of the Fate Sisters crosses the line, if there is a line, and demands that someone speak out saying, 'I'm mad as hell, and even if I can't do anything about it, I'm going to give the Fates a piece of my mind!'

I began my daily ritual this morning by honoring two special trees that stand on the forest boundary. One of them has obvious windstorm damage. All the limbs on the southwest side have been broken away, and the tree canopy is lopsided. Even so, it grows and flourishes there in the forest. 

I, too, am lopsided due to a vehicle accident that the Fates seemed to think I'd earned while performing my military duty. Because of it, I feel that tree and I share a special bond.

The second tree special to me is a specimen that is as close to death as a tree with green leaves can be. It has a slender trunk and is missing the top half. It has no real limbs and instead only a few small branches that grow directly out of the trunk. The center or heart of the tree is missing from base to apex, probably due to some insect infestation. And yet, this tree sprouts green leaves every spring.

Like that tree, I too am not fully present. My body is in that period of life when it regenerates one measure and decays two. Much of my heart, my spiritual and emotional heart, is missing, and yet I somehow continue to show new growth in season.

After greeting these two friends, I offered my gratitude to the Higher Power that rules life on Earth. I declared myself willing to accept life on life's terms. I usually feel better after doing so, and today was no exception. 

Then, I turned to begin my sashay along the trails, thinking of Mockingbird, who joins me most mornings and encourages me with a sunrise serenade. I looked forward, as I do each day, to visiting with Rock, my strength and my refuge against the slings and arrows that we hear so much about on the news broadcasts. 

I was, in the words of Mr. Wodehouse, feeling particularly braced with things in general. Then...

Bam! Crack! Crash!

I took the first haymaker right between the eyes and then a follow-up blow to the abdomen! The universe had set me up for the one-two combination. I was stunned. I was shaken. The ground rolled like waves on the ocean, much like that earthquake I experienced in San Francisco.

I hesitate to describe the exact nature of the imbroglio because the emotions are still raw, and so I will say only that it involved a landscape crew wielding power trimmers, power blowers and other irksome, noisome tools.

In that instant, the enlightened Genome that you have come to know evaporated and was replaced by the foundation-level, survival-level animal. In the immortal words of my sainted Aunt Cynthia, I gave the Mystic Manager a piece of my mind, and had that manager been present, I would have given him/her a punch in the mystical nose.

You may be shocked by my admission. No doubt you think of me as one of the most delightful people you’ve ever met. You remember me as one who remained quiet and reserved in the company of others; one who listened and spoke only when spoken to. 

Genome, you say to yourself, what has happened to you? 

No doubt, my heated reaction was due as much to the encouragement of Princess Amy as it was to the perceived affront. But since I want to never mislead my public, I must disclose the full list of those who have mentored me in the art of self-defense. 

My early childhood role models are these--Donald Duck, the Tasmanian Devil, Yosemite Sam, and the Red Queen from Alice. If you're among the privileged to remember their reactions to the slings and arrows of life on life's terms, then you will understand my behavior.

And so, without apology nor rationalization, I leave you to make of it what you will. Fierce Qigong!