The Year of Second Chances

Welcome back to the Circular Journey Cafe. I’m so happy you’re here, because I have some exciting news to share. I wish I could shout it from the mountaintops—but coastal living doesn’t offer many of those. So instead, the towering heights of the 600 block of Castle Street will have to do, if you’ll join me that is.

"Finally!" exclaimed Princess Amy, my imaginary critic and part-time life coach. Her tiara was practically vibrating with excitement. "We can dust off our press credentials and get back to what we do best."

“Remind me, exactly what it is we do ?" I asked, genuinely curious about her assessment of our track record.

She mused on the question before answering. “Well, I’d say eating craft services food and taking abstract photos of background extras is our specialty."

She had a point. Our previous attempts at documenting film productions have gone about as smoothly as folding a fitted sheet. I’m sure my track record hasn’t helped: getting lost, parking illegally, and being turned away by security guards is basically my signature move. Still, we learn from our mistakes if what I hear is correct.

"This could be our big break," Amy continued, "We could become the unofficial chronicler of Wilmington's film scene!"

"Unofficial being the operative word," I reminded her. "And let's not forget that 'big break' and 'spectacular failure' have been virtually synonymous in our recent attempts."

“Still,” I hurriedly added, “I’m cautiously optimistic. Ms. Wonder has been coaching me on what she calls ‘strategic preparation.’ Just yesterday, she said, ‘Genome, maybe this time you could research the filming locations a little more thoroughly. Maybe even contact the production office ahead of time.’”

"She even suggested investing in a proper camera instead of relying on my phone for 'professional' documentation. Amy, I'm telling you there's none like her. She..."

"No, don't say it," said Amy. "I know all about her wonders and the mysterious ways she works them. You don't need to say that every time you mention her name."

"I do repeat myself a lot," I said. "I'm working on that."

Amy simply nodded, sipped her cappuccino, and left the table to reorder or something—she sort of evaporated from my imagination the way she often does.

The truth is, I’m genuinely excited about RJ Decker. For months, we’ve watched other cities land the big productions while Wilmington’s soundstages stayed quiet. So having an ABC pilot choose our fair city feels like a much-needed vote of confidence in our local film industry.

The new series is described on IMDB like this: 

"Ex-con photographer RJ Decker reinvents himself as a private investigator in South Florida, chasing down bizarre cases with backup from his journalist ex-wife and her cop wife. It's questionable whether his newly invented self will save him or destroy him." 

When do we begin stalking the production office?" Amy asked, returning to our table, where I imagined her eating a cheese danish and sipping a fresh coffee. 

"We observe," I corrected, although I knew shed nailed what we actually do. "We observe from a respectful distance. After obtaining proper permissions."

"That sounds like a suggestion from Ms. Wonder," she said, "and to be honest, it sounds boring." My ears pricked up when she said, 'it sounds boring,' and I knew right away that she was already planning our reconnaissance mission.

That's about all there is to report from our fair city at the beginning of 2026. And so, I say, here's to RJ Decker—may it bring thrills to our screens, jobs to our community, and with any luck, blog material that doesn't end with me being escorted away by security.

Houston, We Have a Problem

Several years ago, just before we moved to Houston, my friend Pooh and I decided we needed cheap office space. Rather than shop around, we accepted an offer to sublet a little room in a questionable business collective housed in a dilapidated storefront in downtown Chattanooga.

It was the kind of place where the sketchy-but-legal world of bail bonds collided head-on with the outright fraudulent, darkly comic schemes of a rogue real estate broker. The air carried the musty aroma of whispered arrangements, questionable offhand comments, and a shared commitment to maintaining plausible deniability.

The Three-Ring Circus 

The business sat on Georgia Avenue, high on a bluff overlooking the Tennessee River. It was a strategic location, only a few blocks from the city jail, which gave it a distinct competitive edge in the “bonding out” business.

Originally a private residence in the 1940s, the building had since been carved up into a nesting doll of businesses. The front door opened into the realty company’s reception area, a depressing room outfitted with scarred imitation leather and folding chairs. Gayle, the receptionist, sat at a desk that might as well have been a fortress built to repel irate clients.

A door behind Gayle’s desk led to Otto, the broker and landlord for the other tenants. Another door, centered on the back wall, opened into Scooter’s bail bonds office. Scooter was a longtime friend from high school and college, and he was the one who invited Pooh and me to sublet the small room off his office.

To get to our desks, we had to run a daily gauntlet: enter through the realty office’s front door, greet Gayle and explain our presence as we passed through reception, nod to Scooter while threading our way past the ex-cons who frequented his place, and finally slip into the storeroom—our “office.”

The Nuts and Bolts 

Our small room held two small desks facing each other. It was otherwise crammed with the literal collateral of the bail bonds trade: televisions, VHS players, sets of sterling tableware, a velvet painting of Elvis, and a startling collection of George Foreman grills. Otto kept a personal stash back there too: a few guns, some ammo, and a box of regulation handcuffs he’d scored on eBay. Curiously, our “office” also had a small back door hidden behind a Japanese shoji screen, in case we ever needed to disappear in a hurry.

The amenities were few but serviceable: a tiny bathroom that Gayle miraculously kept spotless, a coffee maker she kept perpetually hot and full, and a box of maple-frosted Dunkin’ doughnuts that she had shamed Otto into providing every morning. She hid the doughnuts in a different spot each day, but always let Scooter, Pooh, and me know exactly where the treasure was buried.

The Cast of Characters 

Daily entertainment came courtesy of the steady rotation of Otto’s “real estate” clients. Their conversations were impossible to ignore, drifting into our small room on a warm front of cheap cologne, bad decisions, and sweaty desperation.

I distinctly remember the woman in the ancient fur stole asking about the replacement value of a hypothetical “missing” heirloom, accompanied by a man who specialized in appraising things at suspiciously high valuations. But the character who really deserves his own credits sequence was a man known only as “Spoon.”

Spoon never introduced himself, and no one ever saw him enter; he simply appeared. He was usually dressed in jeans, an ill-fitting blazer, and work boots. One afternoon, after a hushed, intense meeting behind the closed door of Otto’s office, Spoon emerged and addressed the reception area with the weary professionalism of a man headed to a boring corporate seminar.

“Well,” he said with a deep sigh, shooting the cuffs of his shirt like a CEO addressing the board, “I’m off to park a man’s car on the tracks of that railroad crossing out in St. Elmo.”

He walked out without waiting for a reply. The whole scene lasted ten seconds, leaving Pooh and me in a state of synchronized, silent dumbfoundment. It confirmed everything we’d suspected about the nature of Otto’s “work” and left us pondering the difference between a defense of plausible deniability and simply being very, very convincing.

The Danger Zone 

Pooh and I left that office after only a few months and relocated to Houston. Not long after, Scooter called. He had tracked a high-value FTA—a defendant who had “failed to appear” in court—to a residence in Houston. Scooter was on the hook either to haul the guy back to court or kiss his bail money goodbye. He explained over the phone that he wanted Pooh and me to help him apprehend the “skipper.”

When Scooter showed up and asked for a meeting to discuss the plan, I wasted no time defining my role in the operation: “I’m not going, Scooter. If you get shot, you’ll need to crawl out to the sidewalk, because I’m not coming inside to retrieve you.”

He looked genuinely wounded. “I thought we were friends,” he said. “I’d walk on fire for you. I’d bitch-slap the devil for you. You wouldn’t catch me sitting in a car while my friend goes into the danger zone to uphold the law of this great land!”

“I didn’t say I wouldn’t back you up,” I countered, leaning into the peculiar spirit of our friendship. “I’ll be right behind you, ole buddy. I’ll be so far behind you, I might as well be in Louisiana.”

I don’t know whether he ever took the FTA back to Chattanooga. He never spoke of it again, and I didn’t ask. Sometimes it’s best to simply never know. However, the episode confirmed a vital life lesson for me: while some friends are willing to walk on fire, I’m perfectly content to maintain a safe, astronomical distance from the flames. It’s a policy I rely on to this day. I recommend it highly.

Happy You're Here

"You know what your problem is?" Princess Amy said as I stared at the blank screen this morning, trying to figure out how to say what needed saying.

"I have a feeling you're about to tell me," I replied.

"You're overthinking gratitude. Just say thank you and mean it."

For once, she was absolutely right. So here it is: Thank you.

Thank you for being here for the New Year.  Thank you for coming back, week after week, to visit this little corner of the internet where mood disorders meet mockingbirds, and quantum consciousness debates happen over cappuccinos.

How This All Began
The Circular Journey started in June 2009 as a sort of journal—a way to help me cope with mood disorder. I needed a place to process the chaos, to make sense of the storm. But it almost immediately became something more than that.

I discovered I wanted to spread goodness and light to others, knowing that life comes hard and fast to all of us. If I could brighten someone's day, soften the blows with a hint of insight and a dash of humor, then maybe this blogging thing was worth the effort.

The blog wouldn't be here today if not for you. The Circular Journey isn't just me typing away at a keyboard. It's a cooperative effort involving me, you, and the cast of characters who've become the recurring players in these stories: Ms. Wonder with her infallible judgment, Princess Amy with her calibrated snark, Island Irv and his cosmic consciousness, and Lilly the all-knowing barista.

Your Comments Mean Everything
From time to time, I receive comments that make it clear some readers really "get it." You appreciate not just the stories, but the spirit behind them—the attempt to find humor in the absurd, meaning in the mundane, and connection in the chaos.

I created Princess Amy to transform something abstract and complex—like stormy emotions and intrusive thoughts—into something that could be understood in everyday terms. The fact that she resonates with readers means I've somehow managed to externalize the internal struggle in a way that makes sense.

Life is best described as better than the alternative. It's coffee shop conversations, traffic mishaps, and debates about whether your head resembles a melon or a cathedral dome. But within those ordinary moments, there's magic if you know how to look for it.

The Cast of Characters
Ms. Wonder deserves special mention. In my stories, she represents clarity, cutting through confusion, the voice of reason when everything else is chaos. She's the person who sees past the fog and reminds you to just be yourself, to live in the moment.

Island Irv brings a cosmic perspective when I'm drowning in the mundane. Lilly knows exactly what I need before I do. And Princess Amy—dear, brilliant but confused, Amy—serves as a reminder that wisdom is sometimes found in the most unlikely places. 

The Journey Continues

I truly enjoy our collaboration and look forward to continuing to work with you. Whether it's another adventure with Ms. Wonder, more chaos with Princess Amy, Island Irv dropping cosmic wisdom over cappuccinos, or something entirely different—I'm ready to dive in.

As Shakespeare might have said, "Gratitude is the heart's memory, and a blog without readers is just shouting into the void." Not really a quote, is it? But I'm confident the Bard would appreciate the sentiment.

One More Thing
If you're new to The Circular Journey, welcome. I hope you'll stick around. Read the archives if you're so inclined—there are hundreds of stories about everything imaginable, and nothing at all. 

If you've been here from the beginning, or anywhere in between, thank you for being part of this cooperative effort. Thank you for keeping The Circular Journey flourishing. Thank you for your comments, your page views, and your silent companionship.

Strange and Wonderful

The New Year is here! I have a perennial expectation for nothing but good things at the start of a new calendar, and this year is no exception. Still, even though it lifts my spirits, it doesn't really change anything in the outside world, at least not immediately.

The sky overlooking the Port of Wilmington may be bright and beautiful for those connected to the outside world. But my inner world is filled with a gray mist. My world has been steeped in sadness since last Tuesday.

It's all Amy's fault. I refer to Princess Amy, of course. She granted me almost two weeks of unbridled boredom—a record length of time for this mood warrior to be free of anxiety. Now, today, for no discernible reason, I'm wearing a broken front tooth, and I'm sunk in depression.

I should probably admit that the tooth broke when I chomped down on an antacid tablet. Do you see why I said there was “no discernible” reason? I mean, an antacid tablet! It's not like I was chewing up the sidewalk. Try discerning that!

Before I say more, I suppose I should make it clear that I'm really blaming Amy; well, I am blaming her, aren't I? Ok, I'll just say that I've "gotten used to her face," as the old song goes. By that, I mean that I like having her around. After all, she puts up with the very worst of me, even though Ms. Wonder doesn't trail her by much. 

Today, though, I'm striving to be philosophical, or maybe poetic—perhaps even fantastical (and yes, I confirmed, that it's a word, meaning "strange and wonderful, like something out of a fantasy story," which is exactly what I aspire to write).

It's no fun being in touch with my true self. I have to look hard just to see my astral body, lying in a heap on the Riverwalk, held down by enormous wings that, on sunlit days, carry me above the clouds and put a smile on my face.

If you're thinking the Genome is having a bad morning, you're absolutely right. A bad morning isn't the half of it.

But even as I write this, I've just ordered coffee at Circular Journey Cafe, the caffeine emporium in the heights of downtown Wilmington.

Yes, I have a steaming cup of Jah’s Mercy and a Spotify playlist streaming through my earbuds, and I can feel my spirit stirring, and not in the best way. I'm actually mad as hell, and I’m not going to take it anymore! Damn the torpedoes! Full speed ahead! I'm breaking through the clouds and into the sunshine. I will soar above the abyss!

I think I'm beginning to tire of hearing that. If I am, then you're probably tired of it too. I'll give that some thought as I drive home.

Yes, I'm rambling. I do that sometimes when I'm looking for exactly the right words. I apologize if you find it annoying, and, after all, why shouldn't you find it annoying?

I don't know much, but I know I've had it with the familiar path. I'm going to throw myself into the chaos of the unfamiliar. Right now, I feel like a mindfleet commander, ordering my crew to run an enemy blockade.

"Amy!", I hear myself say, "direct Engineer Anxiety to rev up the hyperdrive to warp speed and make the jump to hyperspace! We're going through!"

I'll keep you updated regularly on my progress. Check back often, because I can't do this without you—you know that. Leave a comment so I'll know you were here.

Non-Stop In the New Year

Exactly how long an author should be allowed to chronicle the adventures of the same peculiar characters has long intrigued literary critics. My plan to continue doing so into the new year has once again brought this existential question into sharp focus in reader discussion groups.

A Literary Statute of Limitations
It has been over a decade since I began writing about Ms. Wonder, the Genome, and Princess Amy. However, some literary critics apparently believe a certain "statute of limitations" exists for this type of literary behavior. 

If you're a regular here, it won't surprise you to learn that Princess Amy is one of those critics who think my long-running saga should come to an end. She favors writing only the Mindfleet Academy series because, as she puts it, "It's the only series that has reached viral status.

My argument for allowing The Circular Journey to evolve through natural selection, just as God intended, is that all my blog posts are gaining in popularity without limits. In recent months, record numbers of visitors have been reading the posts, and we're now reaching people in 80 countries.

 
Even though I completely and irrevocably disagree with Amy, I thought it best to seek the counsel of a higher authority.

The Confounding Chronicles

“Wonder,” I called as I climbed the stairs to Ms. Wonder’s studio. “Sorry to interrupt, but a crisis is brewing. My critics say ‘enough is enough’ when it comes to documenting the daily lives of the princess, the islander, and even the Amazon and Netflix crews.” 

“They think these chronicles are multiplying like rabbits," I continued, "which is probably true. The thought of it fills them with dread.”

Wonder turned to face me as I entered the studio. She didn't roll her eyes. She didn't sigh. She simply looked at me with a concerned expression.

"First of all," she said. "Stalking the film crews brings you genuine joy, and it keeps you away from Brunswick Beer and Cider..."

"Except for those grouper nuggets," I interjected.

"Yes, except for the grouper," she conceded.

"And, I'd prefer," I added, wanting to get it right, "that we say, 'locating' the crews rather than 'stalking.'"

"Yes, locating,” she agreed, placing odd emphasis on the word. "Given that, I’d say the situation is still beautifully open to debate."

It wasn't the strong, definitive argument I'd hoped for, but, as the saying goes, 'Any port in a storm.' I decided to work with it.

"Despite all the confusion and the heated debates," I said, "one clear fact stands out: as the new year begins, so does my fourteenth year of The Circular Journey."

"Has it been that long?" she asked.

"And I want to stress, Wonder, that I strongly believe anything worth doing is worth doing thoroughly. In that regard, I'm much like Shakespeare—a literary titan who knew the value of a good, long run."

"Hmmm," she said, "I'm not entirely sure about the Shakespeare reference, but I get your point."

"My critics think that multiple stories with recurring characters have a limited shelf life," I said, "but I disagree strongly."

"Well, your comparisons," she said, "the metaphors and the similes might benefit from a little tweaking."

Her comments deserved my careful consideration, and I made a mental note to get to them eventually, but I pressed on with my main objective.

"It's entirely possible, I suppose, to read 'Coastal Camelot,' my most popular post, as a standalone effort and still feel satisfied. But I know there are individuals of a curious spirit—the true devotees—who won't be content until they dig deeper, possibly reading all ten of its most popular companion posts."

"No doubt," she said.

"The blog simply can't be fully appreciated with any less effort, Wonder. Only by reading those specific ten will certain internal references become absolutely clear instead of remaining mystifying and obscure."

"Of course," she said, turning to face her workstation screen again. I realized she'd said all she wanted to say on the matter.

The Power of the Peculiar Word
And now, my friend, after hearing my side of the debate and my defense, I ask you to consider the opening lines from 'Coastal Camelot':

The morning opened with a show so grand and majestic that it made me question Mr. Priddy’s sixth-grade lesson about the Earth’s rotation causing the sunrise. Gazing at this glorious start to the day, I couldn't help but think that only a goddess driving her divine sun chariot could create such a spectacle.

Not bad, right? How could anyone possibly think that such an opening is boring or redundant? And check out these equally un-boring lines from the post I call, 'Life is Good':

I arrived early this morning, riding the shirtsleeves of the sun, who had awakened bright-eyed, rolled up his sleeves, and gotten straight to the point. Not a bad opening for a yellow dwarf star.

I’d personally give that a rating of 5 stars out of 5. And at the risk of overdoing it, let's sample this glorious paragraph from 'Keep On the Sunny Side':

Sunshine stole across the mews from the general direction of the Atlantic Ocean. I'm damned if I know how it's done—smoke and mirrors, probably...

I make these delightful missives available to you, and all my followers, at absolutely no charge, and you're welcome to them. Read the episodes in the most popular list in the column on the front page, and if you're feeling froggy (a technical term for adventurous), try hitting the Random Search button.

Do it now, is my suggestion. Make it a daily habit for the new year. I guarantee that doing so will bring sunshine, blue skies, and birdsong into your inner world—and perhaps even your outer world too, just as it does in mine.