Welcome to The Journey

Good morning, and welcome back to The Early Show that I like to call The Circular Journey, because if you pay close enough attention, that's what life is! 

I have a great episode for you this morning, full of philosophical musings and amusing anecdotes, delivered in soothing, creaky, dulcet tones. I don't actually know what 'dulcet tones' are, but I heard someone say it and was so impressed that I just had to use the line somewhere, and so there it is. The rest of this paragraph is questionable, too, if you want the truth, and who doesn't? But it sounds promising and uplifting, doesn't it? That's got to be worth something.

Despite all that, I do welcome you and I'm happy you're here. To show you how much I appreciate your attention, I'm up at this early hour, with amazing and amusing words to write—that much is certainly true, and I'm hoping to give you something to smile about. That's the mission of The Circular Journey: to spread goodness and light. Let's get started.

Here in our little corner of the internet, I like to set expectations—or perhaps I should say that I want to lower them considerably. Here at The Journey, you'll encounter many characters, some of them—not all—exist only in my imagination, but they feel more real than many of the solid people I meet at the grocery store. 

There's Princess Amy, my imaginary companion who appears whenever I need someone to deliver perfectly timed sarcasm or point out the obvious flaws in my reasoning. She's the voice of practical wisdom I probably should have been born with but wasn't, so I invented her instead.

You'll also meet The Voice—not the television show with spinning chairs, but the mysterious phenomenon that speaks to me in those drowsy moments between sleep and consciousness. The Voice delivers profound messages like "Life is on the moon" and "Hello, I'm Claudia from Sweden," which I dutifully record in The Journey because, as the saying goes, 'We're only as sick as our secrets.'

Then there's Island Irv, my coffee companion at Cafe Luna, who serves as both friend and unwitting straight man to my daily observations about the peculiar nature of existence in coastal North Carolina. Irv is as real as you or I and my best friend on the coast. We solve the world's problems over lattes, though our solutions rarely extend beyond the front door of Luna.

Our cast of characters wouldn't be complete without Wynd Horse, my trusty vehicle that bears witness to adventures ranging from optimistic beach trips that end in grocery store hypothermia to philosophical journeys through downtown lots.

The topics we explore here are as varied as they are ridiculous. One day, I might ponder the existential implications of weather forecasts that promise beach bliss but deliver atmospheric betrayal. Another day, we might imagine the conversations of birds, squirrels, dogs, and even trees. I justify it all by claiming that animals can be understood by their behavior in the moment, and trees by their "nature."

If that isn't strange enough for you, then consider the fact that I actually believe it. It isn't actually insanity, you know, it's a thing. It really is, and I'm going to write about it on The Circular Journey. Be sure to check back often so you can be the first to hear about it.

We discuss mood disorders on this blog with the kind of humor that only comes from living with them, not mocking the struggle, but finding the absurd comedy in how our brains occasionally decide to throw elaborate tantrums or deliver midnight inspirations that make perfect sense until morning arrives.

You'll read about mornings when I wake up feeling inexplicably fine with nothing on my mind, which somehow becomes the foundation for entire philosophical expeditions. You'll discover how a simple trip for coffee can become a meditation on dignity, weather patterns, and the cosmic sense of humor that seems to govern weekend plans.

The beauty of The Circular Journey is that it truly is circular—we start somewhere, wander through various territories of thought and experience, and somehow end up back where we began, but with a few extra laughs and perhaps a slightly different perspective on the beautiful absurdity of daily life.

Whether you're here for the imaginary conversations, the meteorological mishaps, the philosophical musings, or simply because you appreciate the art of finding humor in the mundane, welcome aboard. The Circular Journey doesn't promise to take you anywhere specific, but it guarantees you'll have some interesting company along the way.

So grab your coffee, settle in, and prepare to explore the wonderfully weird landscape of a mind that finds comedy in climate control, wisdom in half-asleep voices, and adventure in the simple act of getting through another day with curiosity intact and humor engaged.

After all, if we're going to navigate this beautifully ridiculous existence, we might as well have a laugh.

Journey's End? Never!

Ms. Wonder, Ms. Scarlett, and Charlie 

Hit the Road

There's something magical about watching your favorite people embark on an adventure that's been brewing in their hearts for months. When Ms. Wonder announced she was ready to photograph the SS United States in Mobile, Alabama, Ms. Scarlett confessed she'd been dreaming of exploring Jacksonville, Florida. The stars were aligned for the perfect road trip.

And what road trip would be complete without Charlie, that compact bundle of terrier enthusiasm who treats every car ride as if it were personally gift-wrapped just for him? 

The Vision Behind the Journey

Ms. Wonder's passion for her "Ships of the Cape Fear" series has always been about finding poetry in the industrial sublime. She sees these ocean-going vessels as "monuments to human ingenuity" – mechanical poetry written in steel and engineering precision. 

The SS United States represented something special: the largest ship built entirely in America, holder of the trans-Atlantic speed record, now resting in honored retirement in the port of Mobile.

"They're like colossal timepieces," she had explained before leaving, her eyes taking on that faraway look I know so well. "Each gear, lever, and bolt work together at a level of harmony and scale that's beautiful. It's abstract art born of industry."

Always the perfect adventure companion, Ms. Scarlett balanced her own wanderlust with unwavering support for Ms. Wonder's artistic mission. This is what true friendship looks like – two people pursuing separate dreams on the same journey. 

Charlie's Road Trip Philosophy

Charlie approached this expedition with his characteristic enthusiasm. His attitude in regard to Ms. Scarlett's travel plans is always, "If you're going, I'm going."

Charlie's road trip philosophy is beautifully simple: treat each day as an adventure, approach every new experience with tail-wagging optimism, and never miss an opportunity to make friends – even if they outweigh you six to one. 

Jacksonville: Where Dreams Meet Reality

The photos tell the story. That stunning morning shot of Jacksonville's skyline, with the iconic blue Main Street Bridge spanning the St. Johns River, captures exactly why this city captured Ms. Scarlett's imagination. 

There's something about the way the urban landscape meets the water, the interplay of industrial architecture and natural beauty that speaks to the soul.

Perhaps even more telling is their discovery of the Tiki Java Cuban coffee bar – a perfect little slice of tropical charm tucked into Jacksonville's heart.  

The SS United States: Mechanical Poetry in Steel

I can envision Ms. Wonder in her element at the Maritime Museum, viewing the SS United States; she would have seen not just a retired ocean liner, but a masterpiece of American engineering and design. 

Coming Home Today 

As I write this, knowing they're making their way back to North Carolina, I can't help but smile thinking about the stories they'll share. 

They can't get here too soon for me. Welcome home, adventurers. The Cape Fear has been waiting for you, and so have I.

Ferris Bueller's Latte Off

Although it might seem this post is the result of having mushrooms for breakfast, I'm certain the recent summer solstice is responsible. I'm not denying sampling mushrooms—a mere whisper of Reishi, Chaga, and Turkey Tail. Still, I'm sure the magic that occurred at Luna Coffee Cafe last Sunday morning was nothing more than a natural spike in absurdity.

I arrived at the cafe not long after the sun fully exposed a delightful morning. The moment I stepped inside, I felt that certain kind of magic that whispers, 'This is going to be a special day, the kind of whisper that seems to raise a caffeinated eyebrow in your direction and wink.

Normally, I'd be met by Island Irv, my perennial Sunday morning companion and fellow observer of the absurd. But today? No Irv. Just his empty chair and a faint trace of sandalwood and sardonic wisdom lingering in the air.

For a moment, I was tempted to take this as an omen of opportunity. New friends! New whatevers! I told myself bravely, settling in with a modest sense of adventure and a small Americano made with oat milk and aspirations. I'm off the lattes for a while—too much warm milk.

That's when I noticed Ferris Bueller flickering on the old VHS machine. The universe, in its sly way, had placed me in a cinematic parallel dimension. At the precise moment I walked in, Ferris and Cameron were in the garage, facing the moment of Ferrari reckoning—that climax where fate, physics, and bad parenting converge spectacularly.

And for a few glorious moments, it all lined up perfectly. I had a warm cup in hand, a cozy seat by the window, and the kind of sunlight that flatters even the most unforgiving of complexions.

"This is a great scene," someone said from barely off-stage.

I looked to my left and saw a man holding a steaming cup, wearing the expression of a merry jester at a Renaissance fair.

"The best scene in the movie," I agreed, "and that's saying a lot because this movie is one great scene after another."

That's when another oat milk latte appeared on the table in front of me. I was sure it belonged to someone else and looked around to flag down the barista. Before I could explain the mix-up, a very large dog materialized at the table. Apparently, he appreciated a well-made oat milk latte and quickly lapped it up, leaving an incriminating frothy mustache on his snout.

That's when things really began to get exciting.

The dog barked. The espresso splashed. The dog's leash wrapped around someone's leg, and suddenly the entire quadrant of the café began moving like the parade through downtown Chicago in the Ferris Bueller movie.

In the commotion, I ducked out to the restroom—Luna's beloved but beleaguered one-person-only facility. The door was closed. The lock displayed "Vacant." I knocked lightly. No response. I knocked again. Still nothing. I tried the handle. Locked. A philosophical quandary arose: does 'Vacant' describe a state of being or just a prank suggestion?

After several moments of Hamlet-like indecision, the door finally opened and someone emerged, giving me the sheepish nod universally recognized as "sorry, the lock lies."

By the time I returned to my table, the Americano had gone lukewarm, and the spilled latte on the table had congealed into a disappointed frown. That's when a stranger across the table tried to start a conversation about cryptocurrency. I countered with a vague nod and an exaggerated sip of my lukewarm coffee, which only invited further engagement. 

Eventually, I surrendered the idea of being the Ferris Bueller of Luna Café. I was more of a Cameron—well-meaning, slightly overwhelmed, and with a voice no one seems to hear until it cracks under the weight of unspoken anxiety. 

As I slipped toward the door—dodging another dog, stepping around a fresh spill, and passing a barista trying to fix the espresso machine with a pleading gaze—I realized something important:

A perfect day isn't necessarily one where everything goes right. It's the kind of day where everything goes just wrong enough to be memorable.

Sure, I didn't crash a 1961 250 GT Ferrari Spyder through a glass wall. But I did survive an oat milk tsunami, decode a stubborn bathroom lock, and witness a brief but spectacular scene of blueberry scone injustice.

And somewhere in the background of my mind, Ferris Bueller offered his eternal reminder: "Life moves pretty fast. If you don't stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it."

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."