Not A Tourist Attraction

"Not like a watermelon?" I said to myself, looking at my reflection in the mirror as I got ready for my Sunday morning coffee klatch with the Luna Cafe crowd. I was having one of those moments where the bathroom lighting conspires with gravity to reveal truths best left unexamined before 9 AM.

From the depths of my mind, if I can still call it that, came a soft, soothing voice. "Certainly not," said Princess Amy, and I felt much of my anxiety fade away as soon as she said it.

"Not like a watermelon at all," she continued with the reassuring tone of a doctor delivering a prognosis. "If anything, it's more like a honeydew."

I knew she meant well and was trying her best to reassure me because this little geezer and I have come to a sort of truce lately. You may have read about it in a previous post, and if you haven't, I recommend it highly. Search for 'A Glimmer of Hope.' It marks what I believe is called a turning point in our relationship—the kind where your inner critic stops hurling insults and graduates to gentle fruit-based observations.

Although she spoke from a place of goodness and light, and I was favorably touched by her words, they still left me nonplussed for the moment. I mean, it isn't every day that one of the nearest and dearest tells you, in a soft, caring voice, that your head resembles one melon more than another. It's the sort of compliment that makes you wonder if you should call your dermatologist.

When I entered the kitchen, I found Ms. Wonder preparing her breakfast with the methodical precision of someone who has learned not to ask about my conversations with invisible princesses. If you're new to The Circular Journey, I should point out that Wonder is one of those whip-smart urban girls who works in mysterious ways her wonders to perform, and she always knows just the right thing to say in any situation.

She didn't fail me. Apparently, having overheard the conversation that opened this blog post, she took my hand in hers and gave it a reassuring pat as if to say, 'There, there.'

What she actually said was, "Not at all like a melon of any kind."

"No, not like a melon?" I said, and I hoped the question would lead to more encouragement from her. Perhaps something along the lines of "distinguished" or "noble" or even just "adequately shaped for containing an artificial intelligence."

A small, caring smile touched her lips, and she dipped her head slightly when she said, "Not like a melon at all. More like the dome of St. Mary's."

I was struck mute at her words and could only return her look, which immediately softened and took on something resembling what I've heard described as that hangdog look of a native English speaker who is about to attempt French for the first time in Paris.

"Are you familiar?" she asked, and then clarified, "With the Basilica of St. Mary, I mean."

"Of course," I said, "it's the cathedral on Fifth Avenue. The one with the distinctive dome that has crowned the downtown skyline since 1912 and can be seen from several blocks away. The large, prominent, impossible-to-miss dome."

I cringed when I said those words--large, prominent, impossible-to-miss--but, as the meme makes clear, the cringe will set you free.

She brightened when she heard my words—clearly relieved I'd made the architectural connection—and said, "Yes, that's the one! Good." With that, she patted my hand again with the satisfied air of someone who has successfully delivered difficult news, excused herself, and took her coffee out onto the lanai, where I assume she enjoyed watching the doves and squirrels compete for unsalted peanuts.

I followed her, with my own cup of Jah's Mercy, feeling that things always go better with caffeine and Ms. Wonder, even when they involve unsettling revelations about one's cranial topography.

As I settled into my chair, watching the morning light filter through the Spanish moss, I reflected on the curious journey that had brought me here: from watermelon to honeydew to cathedral dome, all before my first sip of coffee. 

It occurred to me that this is what passes for encouragement in Waterford Village—a gentle escalation from produce to historic architecture. At least we were trending upward in terms of grandeur, as we avoided conventional flattery.

Princess Amy, sensing my thoughts, offered one final observation: "You know, the dome of St. Mary's is considered one of the finest examples of Byzantine-inspired architecture in the Southeast. People travel from all over to admire it."

"Are you suggesting," I said aloud, causing a nearby mourning dove to pause mid-peck, "that my head may become a tourist attraction?"

Ms. Wonder, without looking up from her coffee, replied serenely, "Only for very cultured tourists, dear."

And so, I raised my cup in salute to the morning, to Ms. Wonder, and to Princess Amy. Here's to turning points, architectural comparisons, and the strange comfort of knowing that at least my head is more than a common tourist attraction.

My Kingdom for Wind Horse

I love my car. This is not some casual affection, mind you, like one might have for a particularly agreeable houseplant or a favorite coffee mug. No, this is a deep, abiding appreciation for the independence and freedom that four wheels and an internal combustion engine provide.

 

But my love for driving goes beyond convenience and control. As I'm sure you know, I live with a mood disorder. I manage it reasonably well, thank you very much, but there are moments when anxiety, depression, or an inexplicable wave of grief descends like an unexpected houseguest who's overstayed their welcome by approximately three decades. 

In those moments, I'm overcome by an urgent, almost primal need to be somewhere else; anywhere else, really. I just need to get out on the open road and get away! Without a car, I feel trapped, caged, like a particularly anxious hamster who's been denied access to his wheel.

All this brings me...(you knew it was leading somewhere, didn't you?) to last Tuesday afternoon and the curb at Princess Street and 3rd Avenue—a curb that apparently was possessed by demon sewer harpies.

One moment of inattention, one slight miscalculation of spatial geometry, and suddenly I found myself staring at a tire that looked like it had been through a particularly brutal round of reality television. 

What followed was nearly four days without proper automotive mobility, a period I can only describe as my descent into madness, and what Princess Amy called "a perfectly reasonable consequence of my inability to navigate street corners." She’s been in a snit since I called her a menace to civilised society and then told her she’s never going to be a reality TV star.

By Friday morning--and I don't like having to say it--I found myself at Starbucks! The caffeine habit must be satisfied, my friend, and I'd somehow convinced Island Irv to meet me somewhere off Castle Street.

"I've been searching everywhere for a replacement tire," I said, with the weary air of one of Arthur's knights who's just returned from an unsuccessful grail quest.

"That does sound stressful," Irv said with his characteristic reasonableness, which I found irritating in my current agitated state.

"Stressful doesn't begin to cover it," I said. "I've contacted every tire store in Leland. The affordable options must be ordered and have a ten-day wait for delivery."

"Ten days?" Irv repeated, his expression sympathetic in that perfectly reasonable way that made me want to overturn the pastry display.

One of the customers at a nearby table, we’ll call him Buddy, who'd been scrolling through his phone during our conversation, finally looked up and offered, "You know what you should have done?"

"Too late for that now,” I said, hoping to avoid a retrospective analysis."

"What I don't understand," the man said, returning to his phone with renewed interest in absolutely nothing, "is why you didn't just order the tire online. You should remember that next time.”

I counted to ten. Then to twenty. I briefly considered whether it would be socially acceptable to count to a thousand while making aggressive eye contact.

"Because, Buddy," I said with exaggerated patience, "call me old-fashioned, but I assumed that somewhere in this coastal paradise, at least one tire shop would have tires in my size sitting on a shelf, waiting for me to walk through the door with cash in hand."

Princess Amy's voice returned, because of course it did. "This is what happens when you don't plan ahead. Normal people keep a spare tire. Normal people don't drive into curbs like they're practicing for a demolition derby."

I pushed the voice away and focused on my coffee, which makes no judgments about my driving skills lest it be judged.

"So what did you do?" Irv asked, leaning forward with genuine interest.

"I finally found a shop in Leland that had the tire. It cost more than I wanted to pay but less than ransom prices, so I'm calling it a victory."

"Four days isn't too bad," Irv said encouragingly.

"Four days without a car feels like four years trapped in a house that feels three sizes too small."

"That's the anxiety talking," Irv said gently, with that reasonable tone I found mildly infuriating.

"Of course it's the anxiety talking," I agreed. "But knowing it's anxiety doesn't make it feel any less real."

The guy at the neighboring table looked up one final time. "You know, they make run-flat tires now. Next time you buy tires, you should really consider—"

I interrupted him, "If you say 'next time' one more time, I'm going to scream."

He shrugged and returned to his phone, apparently satisfied that he'd fulfilled his advisory quota for the morning.

Princess Amy, never one to miss an opportunity for commentary, whispered one final observation: "You do realize this entire crisis could have been avoided if you'd just paid attention to where you were driving."

I finished my coffee and made a mental note to thank the universe—or whoever was in charge of such things—that the tire would arrive by Monday. Until then, I would practice patience, manage my anxiety, and try very hard not to think about all the places I couldn't go.

And maybe, just maybe, I'd look into that roadside assistance program Buddy mentioned. You know. For next time.

Uma Maya's Gift

I woke from a dream featuring Uma, my beloved, sweet kitty, lounging serenely in her favorite hideaway – the blue box (with the half-moon doorway) in Ms. Wonder's upstairs sanctuary. 

The dream wasn't a narrative, but an image: Uma gazing at me with a peaceful serenity that seemed to whisper, "Don't worry, food guy. I'm with you, always." It felt less like a dream and more like a visitation.

Uma & Me

Awakened by the haunting melody of "Total Eclipse of the Heart," I was initially puzzled. The dream, though tinged with a touch of melancholy, didn't feel entirely eclipsed. This disconnect between the song and my emotions left me unsettled.

Are you as frustrated as I am by these mixed messages the Universe seems to favor?

The early hour felt less like the dawn of a new day and more like the middle of the night. I debated whether to rise, the prospect of coffee battling with the allure of a warm, comfy bed. Finally, I rose, stepped into the kitchen, and pulled back the curtains, revealing a dark backyard illuminated by a single, lonely solar light.

I walked through the lanai and approached the light, gently nudging it with my toe to realign it. The instant I touched it, it extinguished. "What the hell, Louis?" I muttered to myself.

Despite the odd encounter, I brewed coffee and carried it back to the lanai, where I began recording bird calls on the Merlin app. I decided to embrace the unexpected gift of this early morning and savor the arrival of dawn.

Ms. Wonder, I knew, would be awake by now, brimming with ideas for a fulfilling day. But then I remembered she and her friend were on Oak Island, climbing the lighthouse. 

You surely remember Charlie, the terrier with an expression that sometimes says, 'I love you because you're amazing,' and at other times, looks like a Baptist minister rebuking sin in the congregation. I mention it here because Charlie's housekeeper is the friend climbing the lighthouse with Wonder.

Their penchant for these adventurous outings puzzled me – I mean, why climb lighthouses? Is it just because lighthouses exist? I'll ask Dr. Coast about it; she probably studied these aberrations in graduate school.

Determined to shake off the "eclipse of the heart" and elevate my mood, I formulated a plan: to simply enjoy the morning doing nothing in particular. The idea of journaling had some appeal to me. I envisioned myself writing to you, dear reader, and that thought brought a smile to my face.

By half past nine, it was clear that journaling would be nothing but a series of fits and starts. Not what I was hoping for. Time to initiate Plan B: I fired up Wind Horse and crossed the Memorial Bridge, and turned onto Castle Street.

Feathery clouds had sneaked into the sky while I wasn't looking, and a brisk wind caused dry leaves to crab-walk across the street. I drove slowly, half-expecting to glimpse Piglet soaring overhead. Don't scoff; stranger things have happened on Castle Street. 

At the coffee shop, I selected a cozy window seat, not too near the door, and savored a cup of Jah's Mercy. The music was upbeat, the atmosphere relaxed, and the familiar sense that all's right with the world settled over me.

As I sipped my coffee, I remembered the dream and recalled the most important life lesson that Uma taught me:

"Every day is a gift and a reason to celebrate life."

A smile spread across my face. The "eclipse of the heart" began to lift. In this moment, in this place, I realized that life is indeed the most precious gift and a reason for continuous celebration.

Thank you, Uma! I miss you, baby girl. See you on the Rainbow Bridge.

Waiting for RJ Decker

“Did you see the news?” I asked, sliding into my usual seat at Lunar Caffe this morning.

“About the TV show?” he replied, not looking up from his phone, which I’m convinced functions as an external drive linked to his brain.

“RJ Decker got picked up for a full series,” I said, "ABC announced it yesterday. It'll be a 2026 mid-season replacement.”

A moment of silence followed, during which I mused on the fact that it's soon to be 2026. It hardly seems possible for a guy who spent his formative years up to his neck in the 20th Century.

“Hmmm,” said Irving, aka The Islander and my Sunday morning drinking buddy in the Castle Street District. Don't misunderstand; it's coffee we're drinking.

“This could turn out to be even more entertaining than documenting ‘Driver’s Ed,'" quipped Princess Amy, suddenly appearing at the command console in the emotional center of my limbic system. “And that one was your most spectacular failure yet.”

“Shut up, Amy," I muttered.

“Excuse me?” said Irv.

“Nothing—just thinking out loud," I lied. "The Film Commission expects to know the choice for film location soon,” I continued. “With any luck, it will be Wilmington; the pilot was made here.”

“Luck is carrying a lot of weight in that sentence,” said Lilly as she placed a latte and a cappuccino on our table. “Why not film it in Florida, where the story is actually set?”

“Why would they film a show about South Florida in Florida?” Irv asked with a playful smile.

“Exactly!” I said, pointing at him with a confident finger. “Wilmington has been Florida’s stand-in for years. Remember ‘Florida Man’ in 2023? That worked well.”

The Slow Year

“What’s the show called?" Lilly asked, “JR Decker?”

“RJ Decker,” I corrected her. “JR got shot, remember? This one’s about a disgraced newspaper photographer who becomes a private investigator. It’s based on a Carl Hiaasen novel called 'Double Whammy.'”

“This show is really important for the local film scene,” I continued. “It’s been a painfully slow year here for domestic film production.”

“Six in all,” Amy scoffed. “We’ve had that many filming at the same time. This will be as exciting as documenting the death of the eight-track.”

“It’s not like that at all!” I fired back.

“What?” Lilly said with a puzzled expression. Irv raised both eyebrows in solidarity.

“Calm down, Genome. The universe is just testing your dedication,” Irv said, and I sensed his signature cosmic consciousness speech coming on.

“Let’s not go there,” I countered.

The Planning Session

“So, what’s your plan?” Lilly asked, wiping down a nearby table with the focused intensity of someone who’s heard this all before. “Are you going to chase film crews around again when they start shooting?”

“I’m going to be more strategic this time,” I insisted. “I’ve learned from my past mistakes. I connected with local production folks during the ‘Driver’s Ed’ shoot, I know how to work with the film commission, and I even have a proper map.”

“You said proper map but you probably meant to say paper map,” Amy quipped.

“This could be my best effort yet,” I said, nodding confidently.

“Or a spectacular failure,” Amy added.

“You’re finally thinking like a journalist,” Irv observed.

The Cosmic Perspective

“Consider this,” Irv said, leaning back with the air of a philosophy professor, “The universe put you in Wilmington right as its film industry hit a rough patch. Now, at the lowest point, a major network show gets picked up—and you get to document the comeback.”

A thoughtful silence followed, adding weight to his words. Lilly drifted off to clean another table, leaving an awkward quiet in her wake. I finally broke it.

“If they’re aiming for a mid-season slot, they’ll have to start filming soon,” I said. “Until then, I guess all I can do is wait for the announcement.”

The Waiting Game

“In the meantime,” Irv said, “you could reread ‘Double Whammy.’ Get to know the source material—be ready with smart questions if you get access, and show them you’ve done your homework.”

“That’s actually good advice,” I admitted.

“The universe sometimes dispenses wisdom from the most unlikely sources,” Irv said, smiling knowingly, fully aware of how pretentious he sounded.

“You didn’t just call yourself a dispenser of wisdom,” I said with a grin. “Same time next week?” I asked as we gathered our things to leave.

“Wouldn’t miss it,” Irv replied.

"I'll be here next week, too," said the princess.

"Shut up, Amy," I said, but I said it lovingly and with a smile on my face.

Let's Do This!

"Poopsie," I said, "I'm surrendering to Life and I intend to live life on life's terms, as the saying goes. I'm convinced it's the only way to win freedom from the limitations of the past and my only chance to be reborn through the transformative power of Rumi.

"What are you talking about, if anything," she said, "and why are you talking so fast? Have you relapsed? Are you into the fairy dust?"

"Wonder!" I exclaimed,"I'm shocked that you'd think such a thing. I am as clean and sober as damn it. I happen to be a little more sane, if anything. As for talking fast, you'd talk fast too if you were as excited as I am. I am finally free of the tyranny of desire."

"I'm guessing that you're referring to the Buddha's argument that desire is the root of all suffering. I suppose there is truth in it as long as one considers the qualifiers."

A short period of silence followed her words while she waited for my response and I tried very hard to come up with one. It wasn't easy on short notice especially after that crack she made about the Buddha. How does she think of these things?

"Why do you think that giving up your dreams will make you happy?" she asked.

"You talk about dreams," I said, "but what if they're actually illusions? And who needs dreams anyway? Tina Turner said, 'Who needs a dream when it can be broken?'"

And you will hardly believe it but she replied by saying, "Who needs a heart?" It set me back for a moment. A sad thing to say, don't you agree?

I finally got myself together and returned to the point de départ. "I have memories of once having it all, and I shall always treasure them,” I said. “In the mid-eighties, I was the rock star of systems design at the NASA Johnson Space Center in Houston."

Thinking of those days as I spoke to her momentarily took me to my happy place. "Those were the days, Poopsie," I said.

"And so now, you plan to give up the chance of becoming a rock star again and instead, you will eat pine needles for the first time in your life."

"What did you say, Wonder? Eat pine needles?"

“Well, correct me if I'm wrong," she said, "but it sounds as though you intend to give up, right? You're going to surrender to whatever life brings your way. That sounds very much like quitting to me."

"Eat pine needles," I repeated, and I mused as I said it. It was a shocking idea for someone like me who has lived a full life under the flag of I Shall Not Eat Them. 

"But tell me, Wonder, what can I do when a vast conspiracy continues to thwart my best efforts? A conspiracy that involves the complex coordination of multiple interacting agents."

"Have you considered simply following your bliss and forgetting about the outcome?"

"Are you suggesting something along the lines of damn the torpedoes; full speed ahead?

"That's exactly what I'm suggesting. To quote Beignet Lafayette when wearing his magic sunglasses, Let's do this!"

"Do you really think it's possible?" I said.

"I'm certain of it," she said. "I believe in you, even when you doubt, and I believe, as someone once said, 'It's never too late for now!'"

"Well, I'm not completely sure what that means, but it interests me strangely!" I said. "It's never too late! Yes, I like it. One of Shakespeare's gags, I'll bet." 

And with that, I was down the stairs and out the door, but I heard her exclaim, ere I drove out of sight...

"Fierce Qigong, Genome!"