The Unexpected Path

For the better part of my childhood, my professional aspirations were simple: I wanted to be a knight in King Arthur’s court. I didn’t care much for jousting or feasting at the Round Table. Mostly, I wanted to wear the armor, ride the horse, and carry a big magical sword.

As it happens, the knight thing didn’t work out. So, I went to college, graduated, and took a job as a biologist in a pharmaceutical lab. When that didn’t work out either, I bounced around from one job to another until, as a last resort, I headed to Texas to work in the oilfield. Funny how fate steps in—I never did get the horse or the sword, but I eventually landed a cool job at NASA, Johnson Space Center in Houston.

We’ve had some fun…

Back in the days when I was auditioning for the knight gig, I had the occasional run-in with the little tyrant that controls my emotions. I call her Princess Amy. She’s the imaginary avatar for my limbic system. She was trouble then, and she’s still trouble today. As if that weren’t bad enough, we’re apparently stuck with each other until death do us part...

Now, you might be thinking that being saddled with Amy means the Universe has a sore spot when it comes to yours truly. But you can’t really blame the Universe for feeling that way. After all, I’ve been nothing but stubborn trouble since I was so high. Besides taking care of a few needy cats, I’ve done zip, zilch, bupkis (in other words, scratch) to justify my existence.

We’ve had our share of ups and downs…

Amy’s job is to manage my fight-or-flight responses; she tells me when I’m in danger and whether I should take corrective action. I’m supposed to respond to her emotional signals. At least that’s the plan; it’s not as simple as it sounds.

Amy once told me that working together was going to be entertaining. Her exact words were, “We’re gonna be like Cagney and Lacey.” But since she isn’t the best director, and I’m not the world’s best early responder, our collaboration is, more often than not, like Abbot and Costello Meet Frankenstein.

When I asked her what happened to Cagney and Lacey, she explained it this way: “I wondered about that too," she said, "but as a student of human nature, I’ve learned that people believe what they want to believe.”

It was a curious and confusing response for someone claiming expertise in human nature, who insists when we meet someone new, that I introduce the two of us as “ partners just like Starsky and Hutch.” Is it any wonder I stay confused?

We’ve been down that rocky road…

Because our partnership lacks that something—I know not what—to allow me to cope with outrageous fortune, I’ve come to rely on spreading a little cheer through this blog. Writing my life story has become my most important tool for living with that spoiled little brat of a princess. But writing isn't enough; there must be an audience to appreciate my stories if the writing is to truly going to help.

The most important collaboration in all this is with you, my loyal follower. Your presence is an absolute must. I provide the content, and you provide the attention, and you’ve been here with me from the beginning. There’s something genuinely delightful about crafting these warm, whimsical tales in a way that keeps you coming back for more.

And yet we’re still here…

I never became a knight in Arthur's court, but I am following a personal quest, complete with a temperamental royal page named Amy, a mystical navigator called Ms. Wonder, and a fellowship of readers who make the journey worthwhile. Stubbornness is my armour, my horse is perseverance, and the magic sword I wield is in the stories I write.

I’m excited to see what you and I will create together tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow. Whether it's another adventure with the Mindfleet Academy crew, documenting the latest film production, or something completely different, I’m looking forward to it, and I sincerely hope that you are too.

So let's share some stories that will connect us and transform ordinary moments into something worth remembering. Together, we can create something better than a childhood dream, we can create a circular journey where every tomorrow brings another chance for a brighter day.

Not Again, Amy!

My morning meditation often resembles sleeping, and I was deep in The Zone when the phone rang, shattering the fragile peace. By the time I emerged, there was a message from Island Irv, wondering why I wasn't at Luna Cafe.

When I arrived, Lily was waiting at the counter, radiating boredom. "Where's the Islander?" I asked. She shrugged, grabbed a mug, and asked a silent question with one raised eyebrow. I nodded: the usual."

"I wouldn’t know what old men do with their time," she finally said, pushing my latte along the polished wood countertop. "They never do anything sensible."

She placed my latte on the counter. "He’s probably feeding ducks at the riverwalk. That’s what a lot of old men do. At night, they watch television, and during the day, they feed the ducks.”

I could have simply said thanks and walked away, but Lily's a good egg, and I wanted to get her out of her negative mood. But she spoke before I could think of something sufficiently witty.

"How was your drive?" she asked. "Any traffic?"

"None to speak of," I said. "It's been a pretty good morning, so far. I haven’t run over anyone, and my car managed to avoid the curbs. How's your morning?”

“About the same.”

I suddenly thought of the perfect remark to make my exit: "Lily, I'm on my way to Carolina Beach to document the filming of RJ Decker. It’s based on a Carl Hiassen novel—it’ll be like the Coen Brothers come to Carolina Beach."

"Oh, that will be fun," she said. "I wish I could go with you."

"Maybe next time," I said, and I waved a finger in response to her bon voyage. Once behind the wheel of Wind Horse, I took a breath and punched the starter button.

"Maybe I should come with you," Amy said, materialising in the passenger seat of my car. "Skinny runt like you shouldn't be sneaking around a secure film set all by yourself."

"I appreciate your offer," I told her, "but riding shotgun isn't part of your job description."

"Don't think I got much of a job description," Amy countered. "Seems to me I do whatever's got to be done, and right now I've got nothing else to do except sweep the floor."

Her talk of sweeping floors made no sense for a figment of my imagination. I considered rebutting her remarks, but that never works with her, so I gave it a miss.

"Amy, this is photo documentary work," I heard myself say. You don't know anything about that."

"I know other kinds of stuff," she replied, "and besides, I don't think you know very much about documentary work, either."

I was too offended to make an immediate reply.

"Don't get me wrong," she continued, "I'm a firm believer in denial. I mean, why deal with unpleasantness today when you might get hit by a bus tomorrow? But you, Genome, you can't rely on denial alone."

"What are you rambling about now, if anything?"

"It's because you're visually challenged," Amy said.

"You're wrong there, sister. I'm a visionary! If I were visually challenged, would I have created the Artist's Journey podcast?"

"Genome," she sighed. "When I say visually challenged, I mean ugly. When are you going to get that nose fixed?"

I stared out the windshield toward the riverfront six blocks away, wondering if driving into the Cape Fear River would help me feel better.

"Stop!" I said with perhaps a little too much topspin. "We'll both pretend we know something about documentaries."

"Now you're talking," Amy said. "I'm fired up. It's going to be hilarious watching you screw this up again. Talk about entertainment!"

"Yeah, well, let's just focus on getting some usable video. I've got to have a victory today, even a small one; my reputation is getting thrashed by all the failures we've had lately."

"See, that’s the problem with you,” Amy said. “You’re a glass-half-empty person. One of my outstanding qualities is my positive personality. You’ve got to learn to think ahead, like you should have gotten t-shirts printed with Fire Marshall on the back. That'll get you in anywhere.”

"Oh, right," I said in a stinging way, "that's a great idea, and I know one place it will definitely get you, and in a hurry."

"Oh that’s nothing to what I’m capable of, Baby," Amy said, warming to the topic. "Wait till you see me at Carolina Beach being an assistant video documentarian. I'm going to kick butt in that department."

She talks tough, but the truth is, she and I are both pretty wimpy when it comes to actual butt kicking.

"Right," I said as I started the engine. "Let's go pretend to know something about video documentaries."

“Well, you can’t go on site like that,” Amy said. “You’ve got to lose those shoes," Amy insisted. "Never gonna get away with infiltrating the film set with your head and wearing those shoes."

My blood pressure was rising again. "What do you mean by that crack? Ms. Wonder once compared my head to the dome of St. Mary's."

"Isn't she sweet?" said Amy.

And from that point on, the day went steadily downhill. It wasn't as bad as it could have been. It wasn't as bad as it's been in the past. But it wasn't good.

“No disrespect,” Amy said to me when the filming wrapped up and we were back in the car, “but you’ve done better.”

She was right, again. I once drove my mom's Toyota Avalon to Starbucks and got hit by someone who ran a stoplight as I crossed Fayetteville Street. The Avalon got t-boned, knocked into the next lane of traffic, headed in the opposite direction it should have been going. Hard to top that.

On odd days of the month, Amy wakes up wanting to work with me rather than boss me around. I only want to work with her on even days of the month. So, as we left Carolina Beach, the only documented thing was the utter failure of a documentary, but hey, at least I didn't run over anybody, and Wind Horse mostly avoided the curbs. 

That counts as a victory in my thinking, and it’s a definite improvement on the great Avalon incident. Not getting t-boned is something to be grateful for. Now, if you'll excuse me, I think I'll go have a lie-down for some deep meditation.

Rogue Algorithms

I've recently been tormented unmercifully by a spate of heinous pranks that could have come only from the Sewer Harpy sisters. I'm talking about those frustrations that seem too minor for therapy, yet too overwhelming for sanity. 

 My worst challenge this past week, came from malfunctioning technology. I struggled with the recommended image size for the header on my Printify pop-up websites—the instructions specified 1200 by 400 pixels.

That’s not a standard image size, in case you’re unfamiliar with these things. Nevertheless, I carefully followed the instructions—down to the pixel. But when I checked the mobile version, it only displayed the middle third of my carefully designed image. 

It was like presenting a beautifully framed pet portrait masterpiece, only to see it cropped into a close-up of a dog’s ear. No offense to the charm of dogs—I just want my whole design to show.

After going to a lot of time and trouble to create an image with that weird format, I had to then go through a random, trial-and-error design competition against an algorithm that clearly despises me.

But that's just the tip of the iceberg of frustrations. On Friday, I was forced to contend with a rogue garbage truck, which, after months of reliably rolling through in the late afternoon, decided to make an unscheduled 9 AM attack run, when my full can of garbage was standing mournfully on the drive, waiting for me to come out and guide it to the curb.

Now I have a garbage can full of evidence, sitting there like a domestic witness protection unit, waiting in smelly suspense for another seven agonisingly long days.

To add insult to injury, if that's the term I want, the deluge of scam texts has become so constant and so aggressive—begging for money, offering me non-existent prizes, or trying to sell me a warranty for a car I don't own—that I've accidentally overlooked important messages.

I even filed one communication from my bank under "Obvious Financial Fraud" because it was sandwiched between a plea from a Nigerian Prince and a text informing me I’d won a lifetime supply of artisanal yogurt.

This week’s torment by the digital demons and inconvenient schedules can make even the smallest frustrations feel like a coordinated, personal assault—especially when your life coach is a spoiled little brat of a princess.

These minor battles—from algorithm-driven design competitions to surprise early morning ambushes by normally faithful city employees are simply the cost of navigating the 21st Century, if we can believe that’s its real name.

Thankfully, I have help from that modern wonder worker I call Ms. Wonder to help me sort it all out. It’s what I call the witless protection program.

Chaos Theory My Way

Some time ago I posted an article titled, Keeping the Faith, in which I wrote about opening up to the Universe and finding the right path that leads to a satisfying End of Days.

If you're a regular here on The Circular Journey then you probably remember that posting. If you're only an occasional visitor, then you'll probably want to read that earlier article. You can find it by searching for 'Keeping the Faith' in the search field at the top right of this page. But for the love of great Caesar's ghost don't do it now! Finish this post first.

In decades past, I had unbridled confidence in my abilities to do whatever I decided and I trusted in the Universe to work all things to my benefit. My MO was to accept the absurdities of life and abandon myself to the chaos that makes up most of the present moment. I accepted every visitor who came to my door as recommended by Rumi.

It does require a bit of practice. In the beginning, it feels like what I imagine bungee-cording off the New River bridge must feel like.

Fortunately, I was introduced to this way of life at a time when I had nothing left to lose. I abandoned myself to an unlimited life and was transported into another dimension. It was a way of life filled with blue skies, sunshine, and bluebirds.

But one day as I soared into those blue skies of happiness, I began to think that I was the agent of all my good fortune. I was special; very smart; very astute; not like all the other jamokes in the world.

While praising myself for creating the perfect life, I forgot to watch where I was going, and, like Icarus, I flew too close to the sun. The wax that held my wings together melted and I fell. 

When I say that I fell, I mean that I dropped through every energy level in all the atoms making up my body and didn't stop until I reached the basement. I ended up in a heap on the floor. It wasn't pleasant. My biographers will undoubtedly refer to it as the Great Fall. There's more detail in my bio at the top of this page.

My life had become filled with stormy confusion and violent turmoil and I was lost in the maelstrom. I felt powerless and without hope. Then one day, in all that chaos, I bumped into an opportunity for redemption. I met someone who had once lost everything too but had found a solution and was willing to show me how he had recovered. It was a second chance. A chance to start over.

This new opportunity to recover and rebuild a satisfying, productive life required that I accept the absurdities of life and abandon myself to the chaos of the present moment. That moment was the beginning of my transformation. Today, I welcome every visitor who comes to my door and I trust in the Universe to take care of my best interests.

My life is once more filled with blue skies, sunshine, and bluebirds. If it sounds like I've returned to where I began it's because that's the picture I'm painting. That's exactly why this blog is called The Circular Journey.

I'm not writing this particular post for your amazement or amusement. I'm writing it because I sometimes need to remind myself that I'm not in control and I'm not the agent or the cause of anything. In fact, the more I try to control the outcome of any part of my life, the bigger the mess I make of it.

My new mentor tells me that each one of us is just a big, complicated mess, and I think she may be onto something. Perhaps we weren't meant to figure life out on our own; perhaps we were meant to have help from others.

Master Wen used to say, I get lost; but We find the way. Not his exact words, perhaps, but a reasonable facsimile.

Have you had a similar experience? I'd love to hear your comments. I'd love to hear anything you have to say. Here's wishing you a bit of opportunity-filled chaos. Fierce Qigong!

Mining for Information

Thank goodness last week is over. If ever there was a week that tried my patience to an absurd extreme, it was that one. It's as if the universe decided I needed a dose of character-building whether I wanted it or not.

It all began when Ms. Wonder asked me to compare dental insurance plans with the intent of choosing the one best suited for us. Our current plan, while offering everything we desire in a dental insurance policy, is asking ransom prices for renewal.

I approached the task of finding new coverage with the discipline of a seasoned intelligence analyst. Lesser men might have simply skimmed the plan summaries and picked a plan by gut or a coin toss, but not me. I dug deep—information mining at its best. With the nuggets I discovered, I crafted the ultimate comparison spreadsheet, a monument to fiscal responsibility and what passes with me for adulting.

My spreadsheet was a thing of beauty: columns aligned with the precision of a military parade, rainbow-coded, and featuring four major providers: let's call them The Four Horsemen of Preventive Care—standing ready for final, rational assessment.

My initial assumption was simple, almost childlike in its innocence: a PPO is a PPO. Co-pay means co-pay across all providers. Out-of-pocket maximums are just what they sound like: the most you'll pay in a given year. 

I was as naive as a seventh-grader, attending their first school dance, convinced that everyone else had it all figured out. 

As I began the column-by-column comparison, reality crashed over me like a tidal wave of frigid enlightenment. It wasn't a simple comparison spreadsheet. I'd accidentally compiled the Rosetta Stone of insurance gobbledygook.

Every provider had taken basic terms—words that normal human beings use to communicate simple concepts—and warped them into completely unique, often contradictory definitions. It was as though the insurance executives had gathered in a smoke-filled back room and agreed that standard terminology would be bad for business.

Provider A defined "Out-of-Pocket Maximum" as the absolute limit you might pay in a year, assuming the stars aligned and you filed everything correctly.

Provider B defined the same term as "a friendly suggestion" subject to change at any time for any reason. 

Provider C had gone rogue and invented a term called "Annual Contingency Adjustments," which, according to the fine print, seemed to cover whatever was required by quarterly profit projections or the demands of the Fate sisters. 

Every time I thought I had finally nailed down a definition, I was met with a linguistic footnote—an arcane rune that made it abundantly clear that "Comprehensive Coverage" was just marketing-speak for "the bare minimum required to keep you from suing us, plus a free toothbrush."

I spent three hours staring at a column labeled "Deductible," trying to determine if it represented a fixed number, a random variable, or possibly a mythological creature that only appears during leap years when Mercury is in retrograde.

By hour four, I'd developed a theory that insurance plan documents are generated by an AI trained exclusively on legal disclaimers, abstract poetry, and the fever dreams of medieval monks.

"How's it going?" Ms. Wonder asked, passing through the room where I sat surrounded by printouts like a detective investigating a particularly boring crime.

"I've discovered that Provider D offers something called 'Preferred Network Flexibility, meaning you can see any dentist you want, as long as they're in network, accepting new patients, and haven't offended the insurance gods by charging reasonable rates."

"So... it's going well?"

"I've learned that a 'Clean Bill of Health' is the insurance provider's way of saying, 'We sincerely hope you never need to use this coverage.'"

She patted my shoulder with the sympathy of someone who's watched me spiral into obsessive research projects before. "Maybe just pick the cheapest one?"

"The cheapest one defines 'routine cleaning' as 'any dental procedure that doesn't require general anesthesia or a priest.'"

"So which one are we going with?" Ms. Wonder asked the next morning, finding me still staring at my spreadsheet like it might suddenly make sense if I just looked hard enough.

"Provider B," I said. "They're the only ones who didn't use the phrase 'catastrophic dental event' in their literature. I don't need that kind of negativity."

She smiled, kissed the top of my head, and walked away, leaving me to close my monument to fiscal confusion and accept that some battles against chaos are not winnable.

Princess Amy had been silent during most of my analysis, having grown bored with the whole affair somewhere in the first hour. Now she broke her silence. 

"You spent six hours to save maybe twenty dollars a month, right?"

"It's the principle of the thing," I said. "Responsible adults make informed decisions."

"You literally just said you chose Provider B based on marketing schpiel."

I closed my laptop with the dignity of a man who knows he's been defeated but refuses to admit it. 

"We're done here, Amy."

"Oh, we're definitely done," she agreed, "until next year when you do this all over again."

The universe indeed has a sense of humor. I just wish it wasn't always at my expense.