The Not So Great Library Caper

Welcome back to The Circular Journey! I’m glad you’re here. One of the joys of blogging is connecting with others about the common frustrations we all face in our rapidly changing world. A frequent source of confusion for many is library technology, which can be both frustrating and amusing—unless you’re the one struggling at the self-service kiosk!

I pulled into the library parking lot and found plenty of spaces, which felt like a good omen. Surely the universe was aligning to deliver me a large print copy of 'Lights On' by Annaka Harris. My fading vision has developed quite specific preferences lately, and standard print has become about as useful as a whisper in a windstorm.

What I hadn't anticipated was that it wouldn't be my fading vision causing concern, but my relationship with what the library now cheerfully calls "digital enhancement."

The first sign of trouble appeared where the familiar search terminals used to live. In their place stood a row of sleek kiosks that looked like they'd been designed by someone who thought the future should resemble an Atari console running an updated version of 'Space Invaders'.

The help desk was vacant. The only visible staff member was a young man restocking book shelves with the kind of efficiency that suggested he was either very dedicated or trying to avoid eye contact with confused patrons.

"Excuse me," I said. "Could you help me navigate the new system?"

He looked up with the expression of someone who'd fielded this question several times today. "Joyce is probably on an early lunch. I'm just a volunteer, so I can't help with accounts, but I might be able to answer a question."

"I noticed the workstations have been replaced,” I said, gesturing toward the intimidating machines. "I haven't encountered them in their natural habitat before. Could you show me how to use them?"

"It's actually really easy," he said like someone who grew up speaking fluent touchscreen. "All library functions are self-serve now. You can borrow, return, renew—basically all library services."

"Except speak to a human being," I said. He didn't respond but instead returned to his cheerfully efficient re-shelving.

"Do I still use my library card to log in?"

"Oh no, library cards are obsolete. We use QR codes for account management and initial access, but don’t worry—it's very efficient and reliable!"

Those are exactly the words that strike fear into the heart of anyone over forty.

"I only wanted to search for a book in large print," I explained, hoping to convey that my needs were refreshingly analog.

"You can download our smartphone app if that's easier!" he offered as though solving a lack of fluency in technology could be solved with more technology.

Sensing that my volunteer friend had reached the limits of his helpful capacity, I decided to brave the kiosk frontier alone.

A trio of teenagers had colonized the machines nearby, navigating the interface with the casual mastery of digital natives. I positioned myself at the adjacent kiosk, as if I could absorb some of their confidence through osmosis. Don't laugh; stranger things happen in my world every day.

The screen burst to life with the aggressive cheerfulness of a morning TV host, and a robotic voice chirped instructions about QR codes and membership numbers. I fumbled for my phone's camera, accidentally triggering the flashlight, which I then waved around the room like a drunken lighthouse beacon as I tried to turn it off.

After successfully scanning my code—a minor victory I celebrated internally—the machine prompted me to scan an item barcode. This seemed premature, considering I was still in the theoretical stages of finding a book. I pressed what I hoped was a back button, and the machine responded with "Please wait while your request is processed.”

The teenager next to me had been watching me with growing sympathy. "I just want to search for a book," I confessed.

"Oh!" He reached over with the casual confidence of someone helping a grandparent with social media and pressed a button.

A familiar interface appeared—finally, something that resembled the libraries of my youth! I typed in 'Lights On' by Annaka Harris and hit enter, feeling a momentary surge of technological triumph.

The machine informed me the book was available for digital checkout. No mention of physical copies. No options to filter by format. Just a cheerful invitation to dive headfirst into the electronic reading experience.

Rather than admit defeat to my teenage consultant, I decided to follow the path of least resistance. I tapped "Reserve."

What happened next can only be described as a “user friendly.” Apparently, by reserving an e-book, I had enrolled in the library's newsletter, joined their summer reading challenge, and reserved a study room for next Tuesday. I had signed up for total library lifestyle commitment.

"It's ironic," I mused aloud, "that to access humanity's oldest information storage technology, you have to master its newest."

The teenager looked genuinely puzzled. "What does ironic mean?"

I paused, considering my options, and finally decided to say, "Never mind. Just thinking out loud."

"I don't think printed books are technology though," he offered helpfully.

"Of course not," I agreed, recognizing a lost cause when I saw one. "Silly idea. Thanks for your help. Have a nice day."

As I walked toward the exit, wondering how I'd use the study room next Tuesday—I reflected on the morning's adventure. It hadn't delivered a large print book, but it had provided some entertaining tidbits for a blog post.

The future had arrived at my local library, dressed in touchscreen interfaces and QR codes, speaking the language of efficiency and innovation. 

Next week, I think I'll try the bookstore. At least there, when I can't find what I'm looking for, I can blame the alphabetical system instead of my relationship with technology.

Extraordinary in the Ordinary

There are moments in childhood that seem insignificant at the time—a casual conversation, a shared secret, an afternoon spent in imagination—yet they become the foundation stones upon which an entire worldview is constructed. I had two such moments at the age of five, both involving otherworldly visions that would shape the peculiar architecture of my mind for decades to come.

The Art of Seeing What Isn't There

The first lesson in alternate reality came courtesy of my great-aunt Nanny, a woman who practiced the ancient art of believing in things that sensible people dismissed as nonsense. She lived in that enchanted corner of Tennessee that I've come to call Sleepy Hollow, where the very air seemed thick with possibility and the shadows held secrets that daylight couldn't fully uncover.

"Come here, child," she said as we sat on her porch steps during one of those drowsy summer evenings when time moved like honey. "Let me teach you to see the faeries."

You might think this was simply the fanciful whim of an elderly woman indulging a child’s imagination. But, Aunt Nanny gave fairy-spotting the same meticulous attention to detail that members of the Audubon Society applied to bird-watching. She had techniques, you see—protocols and an entire curriculum dedicated to the observation of the supernatural.

"You must look with the corners of your eyes," she instructed, demonstrating by gazing sideways into the gathering dusk. "Never look directly at them, or they'll vanish quicker than your father's good humor when the tax man comes calling."

She taught me to identify the telltale signs: the shimmer of light quite distinct from the bright flash of fireflies, the movement that occurred just beyond the edge of vision, the sudden stillness that fell over the garden when the little folk were about. Within an hour, I began to see faeries everywhere—flitting among the honeysuckle, hiding behind the morning glory vines, dancing to music only they could hear.

A Harbor in Another World

The second pivotal moment came later that same year, though whether it was a dream, a vision, or something else entirely, I'll never know. I saw myself surrounded by playmates on a veranda overlooking a busy harbor. The architecture was neither familiar nor foreign—it existed in that strange territory of the almost-remembered, like a word on the tip of your tongue that refuses to materialize.

Below us, a sailing ship entered the harbor with the graceful precision of a well-rehearsed ballet. The painted sails lowered, and rows of oars appeared to guide the vessel to the loading docks. I watched with the intense focus of a child witnessing genuine magic, which, in retrospect, I suppose I was.

The vision was so vivid, so richly detailed, that it felt less like imagination and more like memory. I could smell the salt air, feel the warm breeze on my face, hear the gentle lapping of waves against the harbor walls. Most remarkably, I felt at home there, not as a visitor to some fantastical realm, but as someone who belonged.

It would be years before I would connect this experience to a past life in Atlantis, but even then, I knew I had glimpsed something significant. Something that would call to me again and again throughout my life, like a melody from a half-remembered dream.

The Architecture of Wonder

These two experiences taught me that reality was far more flexible than most people imagined, that the boundaries between the possible and impossible were more like suggestions than actual barriers.

In the drowsy shades of Sleepy Hollow, we regarded visions and music in the air as normal. The area was steeped in local legends and twilight superstitions. I learned to navigate the everyday world of chores and schoolwork, along with tales of headless horsemen and memories of people and places that could not be.

This dual citizenship in the ordinary and extraordinary became essential when, decades later, my limbic system generated its own characters. Princess Amy, an almond-eyed critic running my mind like a questionable theatrical director, feels as real to me as Aunt Nanny's faeries once did.

The Inheritance

What I inherited from those childhood moments was more than an active imagination; it shaped a worldview that embraces the impossible. Embracing the extraordinary has helped me navigate what others may see as a disordered mind with grace. 

Even my relationship with Ms. Wonder, that paragon of stability who guides me through life's practical challenges, feels touched by the same magic that first revealed itself on that Tennessee porch. She appears in my life with the same mysterious timing that faeries once showed—exactly when needed, bearing exactly the wisdom required.

The Circular Journey

The dreamy quality of Sleepy Hollow has stayed with me, whether I'm at Circular Journey Cafe discussing coffee foam art with Princess Amy or playing ukulele under a magnolia while practicing qigong, I always carry that childhood sense of wonder.

In the end, the greatest gift Aunt Nanny gave me was the understanding that seeing is itself a creative act. The world is a collaborative canvas where consciousness and reality dance together. And in that dance, magic is inevitable, as long as we remember how to look with the corners of our eyes.

Many Worlds Theory

Quantum Physics Solved My Summer Driving Woes

Welcome to The Circular Journey! One hundred percent organic, and crafted in limited quantities by a skilled artisan using traditional methods. Please leave a comment below. I love hearing from you.

This post may not be what you’ve come to expect, but don't worry, and put down that remote control. Have I ever let you down? Of course not! Once you've read it, we'll share a laugh, and you'll thank me for it.

The Great Traffic Transformation

The Carolina coast is a subtropical paradise, but we do suffer from a unique type of stress caused by the summer vacation season. Tourists flock in droves to our beaches, surfing spots, seafood restaurants, and art festivals. You know the routine—you've probably been here yourself, adding to our delightful chaos.

With the tourists comes the inevitable traffic on Ocean Highway—a bumper-to-bumper nightmare that would make a city planner weep. Picture hordes of vacationers rushing from the downtown riverwalk and its seafood restaurants to get to the beaches for surfing and Island Ices. It's like watching salmon swim upstream, except the salmon are in minivans and nobody's going to spawn. On second thought, I’ve heard stories that might challenge that assertion.

This year, the traffic buildup started unusually early, in March. By the time June rolled around, I'd given up trips to the beach because the traffic on Ocean Highway was terrific! And not in a good way. When I say "terrific," I'm thinking of the song "Home for the Holidays" by Andy Williams. Many have sung that song, but none can compare to Andy's holiday magic.

The M. Night Shyamalan Plot Twist

Yesterday morning, I read a news story about a record decline in summer tourism along the Carolina coast from Myrtle Beach to Surf City. The article reported that coastal roads are experiencing lighter-than-expected traffic during what should have been the busiest weekend of the season.

Wait, what? How is it possible that news media are reporting lighter-than-expected traffic, while I'm experiencing heavier-than-expected? My first instinct was to cry "fake news!" But then something extraordinary happened.

Around lunchtime, I left home to visit Dr. Coast on the island. I left early to give myself plenty of time to negotiate the heavy traffic. Are you sitting down? You should sit.

I haven't seen traffic so light since last fall. I couldn't believe it. Not only was it not "terrific," it wasn't even worth mentioning. The highway was practically empty—it was like driving through a post-apocalyptic movie, except instead of zombies, there were just a few confused seagulls wondering where all the French fries went.

The Many Worlds Theory

Now, if you've made it this far, I want to thank you, and I haven't forgotten my promise to make this post worth your time. Get ready for the punchline—and a brief, painless journey into quantum physics. No equations, I promise.

There is a theory in quantum physics known as the "many worlds" or "multiverse" theory. It attempts to explain the collapse of the wave function. I understand! Tranquilo, tranquilo, mi amigo. Take a deep breath.

What it means is that all possibilities exist simultaneously. It's like this: Will you get that job you want or not? According to the "many worlds" theory, both events occur, just in different dimensions. You get the job and are happy, but another "you" in another world didn't get the job and is disappointed. Somewhere out there, there's a version of you celebrating, and another version eating ice cream and updating your resume.

Here's where it gets interesting for our traffic mystery. There's only one sensible answer to how traffic can be both lighter and heavier at the same time: it's both, just in different worlds. See? Simple.

I know! I didn't want to believe it either, but there's no other explanation—the wave function collapsed when I read the article about the drop in tourist numbers. Perhaps reading the article caused the collapse! One moment I was stuck in Traffic World A, and in the same moment I was breezing through Traffic World B, windows down, and the Climax Blues Band singing their hit song, 'Finally Got It Right.'

Living in the Best Timeline

It is possible, my dear and deserving followers, that some members of our community are now reading a different Circular Journey post. In another dimension, I'm blogging about my successful career as a famous travel journalist. I must remember to keep that in mind as I compose future blog posts.

No matter what's happening in all those other worlds, I'm happy you're in this world with me, and not in another. I'd miss you. Besides, this timeline appears to be the one where the traffic finally cooperated—and honestly, that's a pretty good world to be stuck in.

So the next time you're caught in 'terrific' traffic that suddenly becomes perfectly clear, don't question it. Just smile and remember: somewhere in the multiverse, another version of you is still sitting in that traffic jam, wondering when you'll get home.

The Rube Goldberg Deal

It has been my experience that life is what happens when you're not busily engaged with a digital device. In my case, it's the stuff that happens when I'm not staring blankly at a screen and contemplating the peculiar shimmer of dust motes in a sunbeam.

I've been a moderately successful blogger with some minor yet gratifying recognition, but lately, my well of witty observations has been sputtering off and on like an airplane engine running out of fuel. It's not that the Muse has abandoned me entirely. There's plenty to write about here on the Carolina Coast. The problem is that nothing has been resonating with who I am inside.

The Spark

It was during a moment of reflecting on The Deal, the movie I'd watched the night before, starring William H. Macy and Meg Ryan. In the film, the protagonists decide to produce a major Hollywood movie despite lacking funds, a crew, or any knowledge of how to manage such a large and complex undertaking. Yet they decided to do it anyway—audacity masquerading as a business plan.

Little did I know that watching this movie would set off what I can only describe as a Rube Goldberg machine of ambition. You know, that delightful contraption where a candle burns through a string, causing a lever to fall, which makes a ball roll down a slope, which triggers a line of dominoes... well, you know what I mean.

The Setup

Right on cue, as if summoned by her sense of dramatic timing, Ms. Wonder shimmered into my office with an announcement. She'd been accepted into the Shapes and Colors program, a yearly showcase of prominent artists worldwide, and the whole rigamarole had inspired her to aim higher. 

"I want to get my photography into maritime museums," she declared with the confidence of someone who'd just discovered the secret to perpetual motion.

As a well-known figure in abstract photography who works wonders with her camera—capturing the very souls of ocean-going freighters—her ambition wasn't entirely unreasonable. On first hearing her words, I began comparing maritime museum exhibits with making a major motion picture masterpiece with no resources. And not in a bad way!

If a movie could be produced from nothing, as in The Deal, why not stage a solo photography show in a major museum with similar resourcefulness? And then it hit me—if Wonder could pull off her scheme, I could do similar with my writing--go from blog posts to publication in local media.

I'd continue to blog, of course. Nothing will take me away from The Circular Journey.

The pattern was elegant in its simplicity: The Deal's movie project became Wonder's maritime museum quest, which became my magazine article ambitions.

What started with William H. Macy and Meg Ryan's fictional Hollywood gamble had triggered a real-world chain reaction: Wonder pursuing maritime museums, me pursuing local media recognition, and all of us pursuing something bigger than where we started.

This is precisely my element--on the road to Find Out. Thank you, Cat Stevens, for giving me those inspirational words. Thank you, Ms. Wonder, for joining me in the Rube Goldberg approach to life.

We did it before with travel writing and photography. We'll do it again with art photography and local journalism.

My New Reality

Today's post will address a truly weighty subject: my official, wholehearted, truly blissful surrender in the lifelong, often-baffling fight to understand the true nature of reality. Let me explain why, hopefully over a strong cup of coffee that, as far as I know, might just be a delightful figment of my own imagination.

From an early age, I realized that the world isn't exactly as it seems. My first clue came when I was just five years old, during a vivid "vision" of Atlantis. I refer to it as a "vision," but it felt more like a waking dream, filled with dancing dolphins and ships with painted sails. You might expect a five-year-old to forget about it, but it left a lasting impression on my young mind, much like a stubborn sticker.

That was the same idyllic summer my great-aunt Nanny, a woman who inherited her esoteric wisdom from her Celtic ancestors, taught me to see faeries. And let me tell you, it wasn't difficult. The little rascals weren't exactly hiding. They were there, bold as brass, flitting among the azaleas – tiny, gossamer-winged beings, probably discussing the merits of pollen versus nectar. 

After years of fantasizing and delving into any subject that promised an explanation for the "unseen" world, I finally encountered science. Eureka! I thought. I felt much like Archimedes must have felt when he sank into the bathtub and water overflowed onto the floor. Not something I'd normally consider a groundbreaking achievement, but I suppose it could possibly have led to bubble baths.

For many years, science, with its comforting laws and predictable reactions, provided me with a delightful framework for understanding the world around me, making it feel as comfortable and predictable as a Sunday morning coffee at Luna Cafe. Then, just when I thought it was safe to leave the house again and go outside again, I encountered quantum mechanics.

Suddenly, I was presented with the possibility of an explanation for the unseen reality. It seemed to be the final frontier, the shimmering, elusive key to unlocking the universe's deepest secrets. It promised answers! It promised clarity! It promised... well, it promised a lot.

That promise, dear readers, was a false one. It didn't happen. In a sort of cosmic coup de grâce, a final drape thrown over the birdcage of my mind, Ms. Wonder decided to become an abstract photographer. Her artistic calling, and as one who has seen her in action, I can assure you, it is a calling. The woman can not let an ocean-going vessel dock at the port of Wilmington in peace.

"What's that got to do with hidden reality?" you may ask. It's a fair question, and one I've wrestled with myself. But consider this, hot off the press, right there in her artist's bio, she states, with an air of profound, unquestionable certainty: 

"Through my photography, I offer glimpses of an unseen world, that exists in plain sight. My photography goes beyond the obvious and makes visible what is otherwise hidden."

For the sake of my sanity—and probably yours too, since listening to me ramble on about quantum foam, lost continents, and dancing faeries can be quite exhausting—I've decided to embrace my imaginary world as the only reality that truly matters. 

Why struggle with complex cosmic truths, which would make a lesser man take up interpretive dance, when a perfectly comfortable delusion, custom-tailored to my personal whims and desires, is so much more appealing? It's a far less taxing way to live, and frankly, makes for much better blog material.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I believe I just glimpsed something small and curious flitting past the window. It may be a new species of dust bunny, or else, and you may find this hard to accept, it could possibly have been a squirrel in a tutu. Living with an abstract photographer, the mysteries, it seems, never cease, even in a world of one's own making.