The Voice

I woke up this morning feeling fine; I don't know why. I had nothing special on my mind. In fact, I had nothing on my mind at all, but for some unknown reason, I feel that I'm into something good.

I drifted in and out of consciousness in the first few minutes of the day because I decided to stay in bed a bit later than usual. During that time, The Voice spoke to me three different times, and I can hear the newcomers now asking themselves, 'Who the hell is The Voice?'

As regular readers know, The Voice isn't the afternoon television show where celebrities spin around in big red chairs—though honestly, that would make my mornings considerably more entertaining. The Voice is what I've named the voices that occasionally speak to me when I'm in the first half-conscious moment of waking, like waiting to connect to the WiFi of your own life.

It really doesn't matter what the voice says, but it's fun for me to remember and then mention it in The Circular Journey, because that's what this blog is about—absurd things that occur in a mood-disordered brain that I can laugh about.

The first time I woke this morning, the Voice said, 'Life is on the moon.' It kept me in bed for a few more minutes, pondering the cosmic implications of lunar living. I drifted back to sleep, and when I surfaced the second time, I heard, 'Tracy is Tracy,' which I'm sure is undeniably accurate, although I'm unable to confirm it.

After drifting into sleep once more, I woke to 'It's a beautiful morning!' And so, taking the words as my cue to begin the day, I opened the curtains and repeated the mantra. 

"It's a beautiful morning!" but I added a lot more topspin than The Voice. It occurred to me, standing there looking out on a glorious morning, that I might be onto something good—or if not, I may at least make decent blog material out of it.

Saturated Saturday

The Saturday Forecast: Mostly Sunny with a 100% Chance of Existential Dread (and a Chilly Aisle 5)

I woke up, sunlight streaming through the blinds like stage lighting for my own personal summer spectacular, and a little voice in my head sang, "This is it! Beach day!" No, it wasn't The Voice—that particular auditory hallucination requires prescription intervention—it was just me, channeling my inner Beach Boys with the enthusiasm of someone who clearly hadn't checked the radar.

I could practically smell the sunscreen and the salty air, a heady cocktail of coconut oil and oceanic possibility. The thought of burying my toes in the warm sand filled me with the kind of optimism usually reserved for purchasing lottery tickets. I started humming "Surf City" because I was feeling slightly retro and a tad delusional, maybe.

"Ah," said Princess Amy, materializing on the bridge of Starship Genome. But wait! Have I gone too far? I'm still reveling in the Stardate, Captain's Log post. I really enjoyed writing that one. I hope you enjoyed it too.

Of course, Amy didn't appear on the bridge of any starship; I only sensed her presence because of a barely perceptible breeze in my imagination.

At any rate, she made her presence known, and I imagined her wearing a weather forecaster's blazer and a skeptical expression: "I see we're entering the wishful thinking phase of the morning," she said. "Should I prepare the disappointment speech now, or wait for the weather betrayal?"

"Nonsense," I declared, with the confidence of a man who believes in practical magic. "Today feels like a day to take home to Mother. Today feels... beachy."

Amy snickered. "That's right up there with the phrase, 'Hey, watch this.'"

The Beach Gear Gambit

Optimism, like hope, springs eternal in the human breast—especially when that breast belongs to someone born under the Sign of Leo, determined to make the most of the first day of summer.

I pulled on my beach shorts, a garment that hadn't seen daylight since last summer, and looked a bit confused about its purpose. I crawled into my lucky Bruce Springsteen t-shirt, chosen for maximum comfort and the magical thinking that The Boss might influence the weather. I grabbed my oversized beach towel, adorned with a tropical print so faded it resembled a watercolor left in the rain—an omen that went unheeded.

This was the first Great Beach Gambit of 2025—an act of faith against all meteorological odds, as I convinced myself today would be the day the weather cooperated. I even applied a pre-emptive layer of SPF 50 to send some positive energy into the Universe, slathering it on as if preparing to do battle with the sun itself.

"You do realize," Amy observed, watching me apply sunscreen to my nose with surgical precision, "that you're essentially performing an elaborate ritual of denial? It's like dressing for a wedding when you haven't been invited to one."

"It's called positive visualization," I corrected, admiring my thoroughly protected nose in the mirror.

"It's called delusion," Amy countered. "But please, continue. I do so enjoy watching confidence meet reality in head-on collisions."

After checking for the third time that I was fully prepared, I started the engine of Wind Horse, greeted Quinn and Beignet, and drove to Harris Teeter to get coffee—it was Mia's last day and I wanted to wish her well.

The Dash for Dignity

I pulled into the Harris Teeter parking lot, the sky now almost sunny. The parking lot stretched before me like a concrete savanna, and halfway across it—halfway being the cosmic sweet spot where the universe likes to deliver its cruelest plot twists—I realized my tactical error: a dark storm cloud had snuck around the side of the building with the stealth of a ninja and the malevolent intent of a cartoon villain.

The first fat drops started splattering the asphalt with the sound of tiny liquid applause. "Go, go, go!" I silently commanded myself, beginning what I generously called a dignified jog but which probably looked more like the awkward gait of someone who's forgotten how locomotion is supposed to work.

Then, with no warning—because weather, like all good comedy, is about timing—the downpour began. The last ten feet became a full-on sprint, complete with that awkward little skip-hop you do when you try to avoid puddles while maintaining some semblance of adult dignity. I burst through the automatic doors like a soggy action hero.

"Graceful," Amy commented, appearing in my imagination wearing a rain slicker and a knowing smirk. "I do love watching optimism meet reality. It's like performance art, but wetter."

The Grocery Store Vortex

I looked back outside to witness an even angrier storm cloud, as if the first one had called in reinforcements from the Department of Atmospheric Spite. This was no gentle, sweet summer rain—this was a biblical deluge.

Defeated but not entirely demoralized—I may not be especially smart, but I am exceptionally stubborn. I grabbed a shopping cart, thinking the day didn't have to be a total waste, and how much worse could things get? This, of course, is the kind of question that the universe interprets as a personal challenge.

What awaited me inside, you may have guessed already, was a parallel dimension where the air conditioning units are seemingly calibrated by arctic explorers who found regular summer temperatures disappointingly temperate.

The transition from the muggy exterior to the refrigerated interior was so dramatic it qualified as its own climate zone.

I was shivering, my rain-dampened clothes conducting cold air with the efficiency of a refrigeration system, as I navigated what I can only assume was Aisle 5: Frozen Tundra Produce. The contrast was so severe, I suddenly remembered William Shatner describing how his ship was met by a contingent of diplomatic penguins when it arrived in Antarctica.

"This is delicious," Amy said, now wearing a parka and examining her breath in the frigid air. "You've managed to experience three distinct weather patterns in the span of twenty minutes. That's either a meteorological achievement or grounds for therapy."

"You know what I find particularly amusing?" Amy continued, pulling her imaginary parka tighter. "You started the day dreaming of being too hot on the beach, and now you're fantasizing about avoiding frostbite. It's cosmic irony on a grand scale."

"Well," I said to Amy, pushing my cart toward the electrolyte section with as much dignity as a soggy, shivering man can muster, "at least I'm getting my steps in."

"Silver linings," Amy agreed. "Though at this point, they're probably made of ice crystals."

Blue Skies and Sunshine

“Nothing but blue skies do I see,” go the words to the song, and it’s sunshine and blue skies that make any situation better for me. On a clear, sunny day, I feel happy, joyous, and free, and my spirit soars up into that vast blue dome of heaven.

On a trip out west a few years ago, I found myself high on a ridge, looking down on a small herd of bison that grazed on the plains below. A young bull, not yet fully grown, seemed to be proving his courage and independence by grazing out beyond the fringes of the crowd. 

Every minute or so, he would look back over his shoulder to make sure his family was still where he left them. I can imagine that he felt happy with those blue skies smiling down on him, and safe knowing that his family was close by. 

The sky is falling!

Even so, he would sometimes start visibly and begin swishing his little tail furiously in a way that suggested he was annoyed by something not visible to me. I assumed he was irritated by biting insects. Why not? 

If he was bothered by insects, at least he had help dealing with them--a little buffalo bird was busy pecking around in the fur on his back, shoulders, and head. If that were the full story, then great! But it wasn’t.

Occasionally, for no reason that I could see, the little bird would be frightened by something. Perhaps she saw the shadow of a hawk or some suspicious movement in the grass. 

Each time it happened, the little bird would puff up its chest, open its mouth wide, and emit a high-pitched, “skee-reeeeeeeee,” leaning forward to expel all the air from its lungs until I was sure it would topple over on its face. 

I thought this was great fun, but the little bull had another opinion. He took it big! He thought the sky was falling. In one swift move, he would abandon his dream of independence and race back to the protection of the herd. 

Minutes later, convincing himself that it was safe once more, he would venture back out away from the herd, and the whole sequence of events would be repeated.

Lesson learned

In a lot of ways, I’m like that young buffalo. I too, have fears that I must face each day in order to live the life I want. I too, am troubled by irksome little bug-a-bears that can irritate and distract the way biting insects do. Small as these annoyances are, they can lead me to become very irritable. If I do nothing to prevent it, the pressure can build up to the bursting point.

Something else I share in common with the buffalo calf is that I have my very own little buffalo bird. Not actually a bird but a region of my brain known as the limbic system. 

Although I have all the tools I need to remain in control of my behavior even in stressful situations, I can easily ignore what’s happening around me until my limbic system starts screaming, “The sky is falling!” 

Princess Amy

My limbic system is nothing short of a drama queen. I think of it as a spoiled little brat who throws tantrums when she doesn’t get her way. I call her Princess Amy.

When she's not happy with the way things are going, she starts getting emotional. Her two favorite alarms are "Run for your life!" or else, “Off with their heads!” In almost every case, the person in the most danger of losing his head is me. 

No one can explain exactly what causes mood disorders, but I know who's to blame—it’s the Princess.

I have normal highs and lows like everyone else, but sometimes I break through the happiness ceiling to full-blown ecstasy. I can quickly move from a state of mild depression to a level of hopelessness and despair. 

Anxiety is always around, no matter what else I may be feeling. It may be in the background, adding a little edginess to depression or providing a measure of irritability to a manic episode, or it may be the major player taking center stage.

My buffalo bird

Just like that young buffalo who learned to navigate between independence and safety, I'm still learning to manage my relationship with Princess Amy and her dramatic proclamations. 

The blue skies are still there, even when my limbic system insists the sky is falling. Some days I graze confidently at the edges of my comfort zone, and other days I need to retreat to the safety of my herd. 

Understanding this dance between courage and caution, between my rational mind and my emotional drama queen, helps me find my way back to those moments when my spirit can soar freely under that vast blue dome of heaven.

Where is Jenna Elfman

The faint glow of dawn barely penetrated the blinds, but my eyes were wide open, a strange mix of disbelief and amusement bubbling within me. I fumbled for my phone on the nightstand, its screen a jarring beacon in the dim room, and pulled up my dream journal app. This one, I knew instantly, was too good—too utterly absurd—to let slip away with the morning fog.

Before I'd typed the first word, I received the latest installment of what I shall from now on call "The Voice." The term surely needs no explanation for regular readers, but newcomers may benefit by knowing I'm often greeted upon first waking by voices in my mind; voices that have no discernible rhyme or reason. 

This morning, The Voice said, "Where is Jenna Elfman?" I know! That's all there was. It usually happens that way, one short sentence and then nothing. If my life gets any more entertaining, I may reconsider selling the rights to the theater production company that keeps pleading with my agent.

Well, as you might well imagine, given the production quality of The Voice, added to the completely ridiculous storyline of the dream, I had to get out of bed at 3:15 AM EST and record every detail while it was still fresh in my mind.

For my European audience, 3:15 AM corresponds to 81.9 on the Celsius scale.

Even in my half-awake state, the details remained vivid. I began this blog episode with a self-satisfied smile playing on my lips because I was sure this one would be the one to take home to Ma. 

The Pacific sun glinted off the waves around Catalina Island, a typical Southern California day, but aboard the Coast Guard cutter Guardian, the mood was anything but typical. Today was THE day. After months of hushed development, a sleek, custom-built Apple tablet was finally going to be put through its paces. 

This wasn't just any iPad; this was a device forged at the explicit request of the U.S. Coast Guard, boasting an onboard Wi-Fi system fortified with VPN security—a secure lifeline for real-time data in the unpredictable maritime environment.

Lieutenant Commander Eva Rostova, the lead liaison for the project, ran a hand over the tablet's smooth casing. "Alright, team," she announced, "This is it. Remember, this device is designed to integrate seamlessly with our new secure comms array." 

As she walked away from the desk, she nodded to an older man standing at the front of a small gathering of officers and media correspondents. "Captain Davies, you have the honors of the initial system check."

Captain Davies, a man known for his no-nonsense demeanor, nodded curtly. He approached the table where the tablet rested, its screen a dark, expectant mirror. But before he reached the table, a door opened on the side hatch, and a sudden blur of motion caught everyone's eye.

Seaman First Class Miller, a relatively new recruit with an abundance of zeal and a penchant for strict adherence to protocol, had been meticulously clearing the deck of unauthorized materials. 

It was part of the plan to eliminate any unintended obstacles to the device pre-check. Miller's eyes, trained to spot contraband and unsecured equipment, landed on the sleek, unfamiliar device on the table. To Miller, it wasn't a revolutionary piece of tech; it was just another unapproved gadget cluttering his ship.

Before anyone could react, before Rostova could shout "Stop!" or Davies could even touch the tablet, Miller, with a grunt of exertion and a surprising arm strength, scooped up the device. Without a moment's hesitation, believing he was performing his duty with admirable efficiency, he swung his arm in a wide arc much like an Olympic discus thrower.

A collective gasp echoed across the deck as the Apple tablet, the culmination of countless hours of design and security engineering, arced through the air. It glittered for a brief, agonizing suspended against the azure blue sky before dropping beneath the cobalt-blue waves with a barely audible plop.

Silence descended, thick and suffocating. All eyes were on Miller, who now stood with a look of bewildered satisfaction. "Unauthorized equipment, sir," he stated, a hint of pride in his voice. "Deck clear!" he announced to the small group gathered on deck, and then he disappeared back through the open hatch door.

Lieutenant Commander Rostova's face shifted from pale to a shade of crimson that rivaled a sunset over the Pacific. The Guardian bobbed gently on the swells while the crew and media reporters gradually left the scene. The sea, it seemed, had once again demonstrated its superiority over human endeavors. 

I know, I know. You're probably thinking this sounds too bizarre, too absurd to be a real dream. It certainly feels like something I might have concocted just to get a laugh and a few clicks on a blog post. But I assure you, my commitment here is to be completely transparent and forthcoming. 

My guiding principle is to always present the full truth, however outlandish it may seem, and allow you, my audience, to decide for yourselves if there's any meaning or message to be found. As I always say, take what you like and leave the rest.

Redemption Thy Name is Wonder

I could tell my life story in two words—the two words: "I drank." But I was not always a coffee drinker. This is the story of my downfall—and of my rise—for through the influence of a good woman, I have, thank Heaven, risen from the depths.

The influence crept upon me gradually, as it does for many young men. As a boy, I remember my father offering me a sip of his morning brew, but it didn’t captivate me then. I can recall disliking the bitter taste. 

It wasn’t until I was well into my twenties and serving under NATO status in Germany that temptation struck me. My downfall began when the Army chose to reassign me from my comfortable NATO position to a "special assignment" in Rome.

You can read all about my "secret mission" in a previous blog post.

It was then that I first made acquaintance with the awful power of sidewalk cafes and spent hours sitting at little round tables, watching people walk by who, apparently, had something better to do than drink espresso in romantic little cafes located in centuries-old public squares.

Writing those words so many decades after the fact and remembering my life in Rome, living in Pensione Piazza di Spagna, about three blocks from the Spanish Steps, still makes me wonder why. Why did those people walking by think they had something better to do?

Here we were, living in the Eternal City, in an area so popular and refined that high-fashion brands, like Gucci, Bulgari, and Valentina, have their flagship shops in the neighborhood.

Each morning, before walking to Elissa Gelateria Pasticceria Cafe, I would sit on the rim of the pool surrounding the fountain, watching flower sellers and street artists getting set up for another day. 

By 8:00 AM, I would meet a local writing group at the Elissa. A hard-drinking set, these reckless souls thought nothing of following one double cappuccino with another. They frequented mid-morning coffee houses the way others frequented happy hours.

They laughed at me when I declined to join them and nursed a single glass of orange juice until lunch. I couldn't endure their teasing. Eventually, I accepted their challenge and ordered an Americano. They still teased me for ordering regular coffee rather than espresso. They clapped me on the shoulder and called me "Good old Genome!" I was intoxicated with the sudden acceptance.

How vividly I can recall that day! The gleaming espresso machines lined up on the counter behind the serving bar, and the colorful posters with smiling young people enjoying drinks with Italian names. 

It was a café latte that first rang my bell. I lifted the cup to my lips with an assumption of sophistication, although I felt like a bumpkin from Shady Grove. The first sip was rich and creamy, unlike anything I'd experienced before. The warmth spread through me like liquid comfort itself, and by degrees, a strange exhilaration began to steal over me. I felt that I had crossed the Rubicon; I had burnt my boats along with my bridges. I ordered another round. I became the life and soul of that Roman cafe. I had the habit!

I found myself sinking deeper and deeper into the delightful world of caffeine. I knew all the baristas in the Eternal City by their first names, and they knew my drink by heart. I would simply walk through the door and say, "Il solito, por favore," and they understood immediately.

My consumption increased steadily. What had started as morning coffee became morning, afternoon, and evening coffee. Then late-night coffee. Weekend coffee marathons left me buzzing with energy and unable to sleep. I was consuming six, eight, sometimes ten cups a day. My hands developed a permanent slight tremor. My eyes took on the wide, alert look of the perpetually caffeinated.

But I felt invincible! I was more productive than ever, sharper in briefings, more creative in my reports. I could work sixteen-hour days without fatigue. Coffee had become my fuel, my inspiration, my reason for being.

When my Rome assignment ended, I returned to the States with my habit firmly entrenched. NASA offered me a position in Houston—a dream job working on the space program. I accepted eagerly, confident that my coffee-enhanced productivity would make me indispensable.

At first, all went well. My colleagues marveled at my energy, my ability to work through the night on critical calculations. I was the go-to person for last-minute projects, the one who never seemed to tire. But my weekend rituals had become legendary even to myself. My coffee binge began on Saturday morning—espresso after espresso as I explored Houston's coffee scene, meeting other enthusiasts, discussing beans and brewing methods until the early hours of Sunday morning.

And then came the inevitable Monday morning slam. The first time I overslept, my supervisor was understanding. "We all have rough weekends," he said. The second time, he raised an eyebrow. By the fourth consecutive Monday, the understanding had evaporated.

My dream job was lost to addiction. I was devastated. I wandered Houston in a daze, wondering how I'd let my habit destroy my career. It was during this dark period that I met the Wonder. 

She was a photographer who spent her free time documenting the art scene in Houston. We met at a coffee shop near the Johnson Space Center—ironically, the very place where my addiction had cost me everything. I was nursing a single cup, trying to limit my intake, looking miserable.

"You look like someone who's been told coffee is bad for him," she observed, sliding into the seat across from me.

I poured out my story—Rome, the addiction, the lost job, my attempts to cut back. 

"Let me get this straight," she said. "You lost your job because you drank too much coffee?"

I nodded, feeling like the sad sack I'd become. She leaned back in her chair and smiled—the most beautiful smile I'd ever seen.

"And this is a problem because...?"

"Because I'm addicted to caffeine!"

"Honey," she said, reaching across the table to take my shaking hand, "do you realize that most people lose jobs because they drink too much alcohol, not too much coffee? Do you understand that your worst vice is something that makes you energetic and productive rather than sloppy and destructive?"

It was a revelation. She continued, "So you love coffee a little too much. So you get over-excited on weekends. These are not life-destroying problems. These are scheduling issues."

Her words didn't just change my attitude; they revolutionized my life! Before I knew what was happening, I was lying in bed with her every Sunday morning, listening to smooth jazz on 93FM KKBQ and reading the Houston Chronicle.

 

I hadn't conquered a terrible addiction; I had simply learned to manage my schedule. Coffee was not my downfall; it was my salvation from far worse vices. I drank espresso for energy and joy, and for that, I am grateful.

 

Most importantly, I found a woman who saw my quirks not as character flaws but as interesting challenges to be approached with love and wisdom. I am saved—not saved from coffee, but saved by the understanding of Ms. Wonder.