Day of Reckoning

This post is a re-release of one that was so popular, it deserved to be given another 15 minutes of fame. I hope you enjoy it as much as I do.

A Day of Reckoning

 Across the bridge and into the heart of Ocean Isle I charged, my kung fu fighting cane on the passenger seat beside me, my jaw set like a bayonet, my face, had there been anyone around to see it, was a study in fearsome intensity. 

Today would be a day of reckoning.

My trusty steed, Wynd Horse, a 2011 Hyundai Tucson, flew valiantly into the offshore breeze as I drove across the Intracoastal Waterway. Mighty Quinn, my small plushie travel companion, rested on the dashboard and led the charge. A business card featuring Beignet the cat’s face balanced on the GPS display, serving as our standard bearer, urging us onward. 

Half a mile, half a mile, half a mile onward, as the poem goes, into the Valley of Juice Bars, Beachwear, and Outlandish Hair Highlights, I rode. 

Life's Absurdities

I'd come to the dunes of Ocean Isle, at the edge of the Atlantic, where the veil separating this world and the next is thinnest because in recent weeks, the Universe had messed with me at unprecedented levels of heinous anxiety and emotional weasel-osity.

There’s no justification for the emotional excesses I regularly experience. Mood disorders don't make sense. My limbic system is simply out of whack and acts out in ridiculous ways at the most inconvenient times. It was time for me to kick some Universal ass.

It wasn’t the first time I’d resorted to insurrection, and I’ll continue to do it whenever I've had more than I can bear. I was at the breaking point; I was mad as hell and wasn’t going to take it anymore.

Please don't start questioning me. I'm aware that my AA sponsors wouldn't condone my behavior, and my Buddhist teachers would advise me to return to the middle way.

Despite the objections of my AA sponsor and Buddhist teachers, I can’t remain idle while emotional storms rage around me without a compelling reason to justify them. Sometimes a man must stand up and make his voice heard.

Best Laid Plans

As we crossed the Intracoastal Waterway, my eyes scanned the area near the pier for parking spaces. There were none. I hoped to find an available spot near Drift Coffee Cafe, but that was a bust, too. 

It was the final week before the new school term, and a month of late summer thunderstorms had just ended. It seemed the entire population of three states had descended on the beach this weekend. 

I stopped at Sharky’s Restaurant and parked near a construction site. It was only a quarter-mile walk to board one of those 10-passenger golf carts that tour the island. The cart would get me to the fishing pier, and the dunes were only half a mile onward from there.

The golf cart rushed recklessly into the thick of Ocean Isle at about 5 miles an hour. It wasn’t exactly conducive to the attack I had in mind. The slow ride was draining my anger and increasing my frustration. I tried to envision the cart as a Viking longboat lined with war shields and warriors hanging off the sides, waving long swords while a booming drum drove us into a battle frenzy.

I stood, gripping the back of the seat in front of me, waving my walking cane in concert with the imagined Vikings waving their broadswords. This helped to fan the simmering coals of my fierce intent. I attracted alarmed looks from my fellow passengers and a few gawkers riding rented bikes along the walkways. Why didn’t I think of that?

 The cart paused at the kids’ play area to let a mother and her two children get off before continuing to the pier. The driver mentioned that Netflix was filming a family-oriented movie in the area, and some shops were closed to accommodate filming. However, I cared nothing for ice cream or taffy. I was on a mission and had no time for frivolity.

The Subtle Tricks of Fate

But the ice cream shop at the fishing pier was open, and since I was there anyway, I bought a double-scoop of vanilla bean to soothe my simmering anger. The ocean breeze quickly melted the ice cream, leaving my hands a sticky mess as I walked to the memorial dunes. I rinsed my hands in the sea and realized my day had not gone as planned.

Somehow, something had changed. My anger had dissipated. I came here to kick ass, but now... I would have been satisfied to give someone a piece of my mind, and yet there was a rub there too, namely, who would hear my rant, and who would care?

I arrived armed for cosmic confrontation, fury intact, and kung fu cane at the ready, but the beach had other plans. She worked her subtle magic, forcing me to deal with a lack of parking space, and then taunted me with vanilla bean ice cream and ocean breezes, causing me to feel like my own worst enemy. By the time I arrived at the dunes, my anger had evaporated, and I was left standing on the shore, asking myself, 'What's the point of it all? Why bother?'

Don’t try to convince me there’s a lesson in all this. Don’t leave comments telling me it's a lovely meditation on how our internal storms can be calmed by the most ordinary moments, or how the very act of seeking confrontation can lead us instead to unexpected peace. I'm not in the mood.

Tomorrow will be a brighter day. I will be happier tomorrow; I always am. Tomorrow's magic is the strongest magic of all. Tomorrow gives Love its power. And fortunately, tomorrow is just a day away.

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 GSS Wynd Horse. 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 GSS Wynd Horse. 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, 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, 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

Dr. Joy turned from her medical console. offering 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 medically 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," Dr. Joy added with a smile. "It's annoying, but you still want it functional when there's 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 Official Report

"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."

"The crew has demonstrated that scientific analysis, medical perspective, diplomatic reasoning, and engineering assessments can work together to maintain balanced operational protocols. We continue our mission through uncertain temporal coordinates, confident that most predicted endings are just another Wednesday."

Author's Supplemental

The GSS Wynd Horse continues its ongoing mission to explore strange new anxieties, seek out new probability calculations, and boldly go where this mind has never gone before.

The crew remains on duty, Princess Amy's panic protocols remain on standby, and Wednesday afternoon awaits with all the boring certainty that quantum mechanics allows.