Strangers Offering Scones

It was a cool, damp, and windy evening with leaves blowing around and that peculiar electric feeling you get when magic is in the air. I wasted no time in moving the empty garbage can from the curb and toward the darkness of our backyard. That darkness gave me an uneasy feeling for some reason.

I paused halfway around the house to allow my eyes to adjust, the better to see the ghouls waiting for me behind a bush. Glancing overhead, I saw an almost full moon, making an appearance through edgy, fretted clouds. It may sound like a beautiful sight, but its beauty was lost on me. Didn't make me feel one tot better about the sewer harpies waiting for me in the darkness.

For some strange reason, the booming silence from my limbic system made the whole experience feel even more surreal. It seemed that Princess Amy had decided that warning me of impending doom was futile, or else she was hiding behind the hippocampus. *Footnote

The deeper I crept into that darkness, the more I became like that little boy from Shady Grove that I once was. It was as though a grown man returning a garbage can to its storage bin had been transformed into a 10-year-old boy told by his father to go out into the night and move his bicycle from the front yard to the garage for the evening.

Exactly why my brain works this way is not fully understood. Some say it has something to do with serotonin reuptake inhibitors, but I expect it has more to do with a Creator who became bored with the usual routine of evolutionary improvement and decided to have a bit of fun for a change, and, unfortunately, I was next in line.

It's on nights like these that I remember my Great-aunt Nanny McFarland teaching me to see fairies. That's the night she taught me about magic. According to her, it was magic that kept all my personal bits and all the bits making up the entire world from flying off into space. And who can say? The Egyptians believed that magic held the world together and kept everything working smoothly. Maybe Aunt Nanny was right.

But I'm leading you away from the way in which you should go, as the expression has it. Back to the garbage can in the dark, then. The cool, damp air was full of whispers, I remember thinking.

Looking in the direction of the whispers, I thought I could see three stooped figures gathered around the embers of a small fire that gleamed like the madness in a weasel's eye. There was a far-off rumble as if a thunderstorm approached, and I thought I heard a voice say, "When shall we three meet again?" It could have been my imagination.

The point I'm trying to make is that now it's October and we're on our way to Halloween--that time of year when the curtain grows thin between the reality we make up in our head and the reality that's the actual basis of the world we live in. I love this time of year because it makes me feel really alive.

Halloween, or Samhain, if you care about accuracy, reminds me that life comes hard and fast and that I should be ready for anything.

But that's enough about me and my musings on magic, but before I take my leave, let me offer a little piece of cautionary advice. If you're walking the dog after dark between now and Halloween, especially if you live in Woodcroft, Parkwood, or anywhere there have been rumors of magic, do beware. If your dog whimpers at unseen things along the path, turn back home. If you see a reddish light in the woods along the trail, resist the urge to investigate.

And most importantly, if you meet three stooped and hooded figures, who aren't wearing hip-hop fashion, and if they speak sweetly and compliment your dog, and especially if they offer you a scone, don't accept it. Take it from one who speaks from experience: That is NOT A SCONE!

Have a Fun and Happy Halloween!

*Footnote: You may need to Google it.

Captain's Log: Status Update

At random intervals during the blog year, I like to share status updates with my followers, and The Circular Journey has recently enjoyed a delightful surprise that I must share with you because, without your support, it would not have been possible.

We have our first viral blog post! I know! Me too!

Here's what happened: "Captain's Log: Stardate 2025.156"—the first post in my Star Trek/Inside Out mashup series—has exploded beyond anything I imagined in fourteen years of blogging. The post is outperforming the current most popular post by more than thirty times the growth rate! That number still doesn't feel real. *Footnote

But Let Me Tell You How It Began...

The story of Princess Amy's viral success begins, as so many good stories do, in my therapist's office.

Dr. Coast delivered her recommendation with the clinical precision of someone prescribing medicine rather than entertainment. She suggested—not once, but three times (and you know how sensitive I am to the number three)—that I watch Pixar's 2015 animated film "Inside Out."

For those unfamiliar, "Inside Out" tells the story of Riley, a young girl whose mental inner workings are influenced by five personified emotions. The good doctor recognized that the movie mirrors in many ways the inner workings of my own mind, which are influenced by Princess Amy, the personification of my limbic system—the seat of human emotions, thoughts, and actions.

The doctor hoped that watching the movie would help me better understand the Genome's emotional architecture. As you know, I write my life story here in The Circular Journey. It will come as no surprise that I began chronicling the events that followed watching the movie.

Here's where the magic happened: Amy's role in directing the other components of my limbic system has always mirrored Captain Kirk sitting in the chair of command on the bridge of the Starship Enterprise. The framework fit together so perfectly, the Captain's Log series was born—a mash-up of Star Trek and Inside Out.

Why It Resonates (A Shallow Dive into Deeper Waters)

When I shared the news of viral blog activity with Dr. Coast, she responded with such enthusiasm that I must share all that with you, too. The following isn't recounted verbatim, but it's the best I can remember:

"Oh my goodness, that's INCREDIBLE! I'm genuinely thrilled to hear this! The fact that this became your second most popular post in fourteen years of blogging - that's not just success, that's real impact.

This really validates what we stumbled onto together. People don't want to be lectured about mental health; they want to see themselves as the captain of their own starship, with a crew of emotions that all have important roles to play."

What's Next in the Melancholy Nebulae

The GMS Coastal Voyager continues its mission, with new adventures launching regularly. From the delightfully absurd "Klang Ho Incident,” scheduled for publication soon, to the recent "Mission to Mohs: A Dermatological Exploration," Captain Amy and her crew continue to navigate the strange phenomena of daily life.

The viral success of that first Captain's Log has shown me that my regular readers trust my storytelling and will stick with Princess Amy through the whole journey. 

And apparently, thousands of new readers are discovering that they, too, have a Princess Amy at their control console, a Chief Anxiety in their engine room, and a whole crew trying to navigate the Melancholy Nebulae of modern life.

---

Author's Log:

Newcomers to The Circular Journey: Welcome aboard! Use the search field at the top of the page to query for 'GMA Coastal Voyager,' or 'Captain's Log,' or 'Melancholy Nebula' to catch up on previous missions. But be warned—you might fall into the rabbit wormhole, and never be seen again. In the best possible way, of course.

* Footnote: The viral post: 

The all-time most popular post on The Circular Journey is "Coastal Camelot." That post has held the top spot since 2011, when it was published. The new viral post, "Captain's Log: Stardate 2025.156" was published in June of 2025 and is already the second most popular post.

Searching for Avalon

Morning arrives gently in Wilmington, as though the Cape Fear River itself breathes the day into being. In dawn's first moments, the sunrise seems to pause, holding the city in suspense before the first stirrings of downtown activity.

The early dawn stretches a ribbon of rose and amber along the eastern edge, painting the Memorial Bridge in its nascent light. The sun rises over the Intracoastal Waterway, gilding the moss-draped live oaks and drawing long, cool shadows across the river.

As morning deepens, clouds drift in from the ocean, filtering the early morning light. Where the river meets the ocean, and the land touches the boundless sky, the day does not rush. It simply unfolds with the timeless rhythm of the Earth's deep, patient breath.

The Way it Resembles Perfection

It's all very much like those mythical places the poets write about. Eden, Avalon, and Shangri-La were enchanting, but they weren't real. Wilmington offers something genuine, something I've searched for without quite knowing how to describe it, simply because I'd never experienced it before.

This morning opened with a spectacle so grand and so majestic that I finally had to abandon Mr. Priddy's sixth-grade lesson about the Earth's rotation, causing the sunrise. It seems impossible that anything but a goddess driving her divine sun chariot could put on such a display.

We arrived at Luna Cafe in the Castle Street Arts District, hoping to claim the best vantage point to watch the day unfold. When I say we, I mean Island Irv and the regulars. Buddy was out front at a cafe table near the door, and Bijou was dancing around the room with her dad, looking like a pint-sized Flamenco artist. Lilly was there behind the counter to welcome us all; she always opens the shop on Sunday mornings.

Home is Community

These are my people now, or at least, I want them to be. This is what paradise has always meant to me, not just a beautiful, magical place, but a place of community. It's much like the mythical Round Table of Camelot, where everyone has a seat.

While many visitors hope to see film stars downtown—Wilmington being a popular location for movies and television—the Luna Cafe group comes for that calmer, quieter background. The slow pace of a Sunday morning in the heights of downtown is rewarding on its own. Not even a movie production can compete for attention with a scene like that.

The Eternal Search

Humanity has always searched for that perfect, original garden ever since we lost it. The Greeks called it the Hesperides. The Celts called it Avalon. Medieval knights sought Camelot. The Puritans believed they'd found it when they glimpsed America's shores and called it their "city upon a hill." 

We are a species of seekers, forever romanticizing places, projecting our longing for perfection onto real locations. And here I am, doing the same thing with Wilmington. I've found my spot for happily-ever-aftering.

Growing up in Chattanooga, I found my first paradise in Nashville; not a bad choice for an 18-year-old. Music City worked for me over the course of the next six years. I attended my first rock concert there: Bette Midler headlined, with Barry Manilow playing piano, and Jim Croce provided the opening act. 

Late one Saturday evening, at Ireland's Tavern in the West End, I met Kris Kristopherson and Rita Coolidge. Just before leaving Nashville for good, on October 12, 1973, I saw Elton John perform during his Goodbye Yellow Brick Road tour. Nashville was not a bad understudy for paradise at all.

After Nashville, I lived in a variety of cities that were expected to be my Shangri-La, and each of them did nudge me closer to paradise. My early quest fueled my imagination, and I somehow found myself in West Germany, where I explored many cities before taking up residence in Schwäbisch Gmünd, a small town on the edge of the Black Mountains.

After touring Germany, I ventured into parts of Switzerland and France, and finally ended up in Rome, Italy: another fine stand-in for paradise. Back in the states, I lived for extended lengths of time in Chicago, Houston, Washington, D.C., and then the Research Triangle in North Carolina. 

All these places were expected to be my Shangri-La, but each of them seemed to lack something I couldn't quite identify. Of course, it's entirely possible, and maybe even more accurate to say that what was missing was within me, more a matter of timing rather than location.

From all that accrual of time and memories, I've learned something about romanticizing places: you have to allow room for the imperfect, the ordinary, the slightly disappointing. But imperfection doesn't mean failure. Finding paradise isn't about finding perfection; it's about finding that place where you can become the person you imagine yourself to be.

Finding My Avalon

After another Sunday morning in the heart of Castle Street Arts District, we gathered our things and began to drift out of the cafe. Lilly mentioned the weather forecast predicted an afternoon rain shower, but I only nodded and smiled, knowing full well that in Camelot, it never rains till after sundown. 

In short, there's simply not a more congenial spot for me than here in Wilmington. Not because it's Camelot; as enchanting as that legendary realm seems, it fell long ago, if it ever stood at all. Not because it's Eden; that primordial garden was perfect, but perfection doesn't exist in reality. 

Wilmington is my forever home, not because it's perfect but because it's my Avalon, a place of healing and restoration. King Arthur was taken to that golden isle to recover from his wounds, and like Arthur, I too need recovery, restoration, and renewal. 

When I watch the sunrise over the Cape Fear River, gather with friends at Luna Cafe, or walk the Riverwalk at dusk to watch pelicans dance across the sky, I feel something that all those ancient paradise-seekers must have felt: a deep sense that I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be.

Until the End of Time

By popular demand (originally published October 22, 2024)

This morning was another of those near-perfect Camelot-style autumn mornings. I was particularly bucked having come off an evening in Southport mingling with the crew on the set of The Waterfront, the newest movie production to be set in that jewel of the Carolina coast.

 

When Irv arrived at Egret Coffee Bar and Dance Club, I was reading a book Ms. Wonder had recommended.  She said it would 'do me good'. 

She was on a river tour getting photos for her next art show at Sunset River Gallery, and I was to meet her at the docks in a couple of hours. I knew she'd expect me to have started the thing by then.

"What'cha reading?" asked the Islander.

"It's a little thing Wonder recommended," I said.

"Trying to improve you," he said. "Good for her; you could use a little improvement."

I closed the book and was about to respond to that crack about needing improvement, but after giving it a second thought, decided that he was probably right.

Irv turned the book around to better see the cover. "Until the End of Time," he said. "A subject broad and deep."

"Yeah, I suppose so," I said, attempting to convince myself that the book would 'do me good.' "The author also wrote The Elegant Universe, and The Fabric of the Cosmos, both of which received some major horn-tooting in the New Yorker.

"I believe she also wrote Wanderlust, Vanished, and Lightning," said the Islander.

"Wonder didn't mention those, are you sure you're not thinking of "Summer Lightning?" I understand there are over one hundred books with that name. Anyone could make that mistake."

"Nope, not Summer Lightning," he said, shaking the coconut vigorously. Honey has read everything that the author's written; she's the most popular romance novelist in America. I'm surprised you don't know that."

"You think I'm reading a romance novel?" I asked with maximum topspin. "This is a book about the development of the universe from the Big Bopper to the distant future. It's written by a theoretical physicist who teaches at Columbia."

"Are you sure you've got that right? The Big Bopper, I mean."

"Of course, I hear them talk about it on Sirius XM's 50's on 5."

"Yes, but that's a music channel, isn't it?"

"And your point would be?"

"I don't have a point, I'm just saying if your book author works at Columbia University, I would think he's a real physicist and not a theoretical one. I'm sure Columbia checked him out before hiring him."

There followed a moment of semi-awkward silence. It seemed we came to the simultaneous conclusion that our debate was solving nothing and only getting deeper into the weeds. Finally, Irv broke the silence.

"Well, enough of that," he said. "Is the book any good?"

"Is it good?" I said, "Let me tell you something about this book." But I stopped in mid-sentence because I'd suddenly had one of those ideas that pop up, seemingly out of nowhere, like the demon king in a Thai water opera.

"I can't give you a better example of what this book is like than by reading a random passage. Listen to this," I said, and I opened the book to a random page and began to read.

"Every cell division in every organism occupying every nook and cranny of the planet contributed to the Darwinian narrative. Some of these storylines fizzled. But some provided unexpected twists that would develop into their own evolutionary flip-book."

I closed the book and sipped my coffee because I thought it might add a bit of gravitas to the occasion. You, of course, might have a different opinion, and if you do, please leave a comment.

Irv was giving me a blank stare, which prompted me to say more. "Now," I said, stalling for time, hoping to think of something quotable to share. "I'm sure the author is perfectly correct," I said, "but it's a bit much to spring on a guy with a morning head."

On hearing those words, his expression turned quizzical, and I had the strange feeling that he'd given the next question a lot of thought and had wanted to ask it for a while. I don't know why I had that feeling; just a passing fancy, I suppose.

"Why you?" he said. "I mean, with all the people in the world to mold, why does she choose to mold you?"

"It's no mystery," I said. "She sees promise in me. She wants to bring me up to her level mentally. She does her best, too, but I'm more of a physical operator than mental, if you follow me."

"I understand perfectly," he said. "I've always said that the difference in your mental and physical makeup is that physically you have something substantial."

"And you're wrong about there being no mystery," he continued. "Everyone agrees that trying to improve you goes against her usual astute, insightful nature."

"There is no mystery!" I said, heating up to near incandescence. "She believes in me because I try hard to please. And just who the hell do you mean when you say everyone agrees?"

His brow furrowed once more as though he were deep in thought, but I didn't fall for it. He's never been more than ankle-deep in thought as long as I've known him.

"Hmmm," he said, "no, I don't think it's because you try hard, but I do love a good mystery, and I'm going to analyze the thing further until I find the solution." 

"For the last time, there is no mystery!"

Irv opened his mouth to reply, but what he actually said was, "Oh, here she is now."

And despite my doubts that even a woman with her powers could materialize on Castle Street when she was supposed to be on the Riverwalk, Irv was right. There she was.

I wanted to ask how she did it. She makes a habit of shimmering in and out of places. That's where the real mystery lies, if you ask me. But before I could ask, she glanced at the book and her face suddenly took on the look of a vegetarian who had just been served shrimp scampi.

"I read your draft of the magazine article on the boat," she said, "but you haven't even started the book, have you?"

"I don't understand you," I said. "How can you say I haven't started it. Here it is, and you can see by the bookmark that I've read the first several chapters."

"What's the title of that book?" she said.

"Until the End of Time," I said, holding the book up for her to see.

"And which book did I recommend?" she said.

I looked at the book again as if I expected to find the answer to her question on the cover.

"Not Until the End of Time?" I said.

"I recommended ' From Here to Eternity," she said.

Once more, I looked at the book in my hands.

"The names are very similar," I said. "It's a simple mistake anyone could have made."

"You see," said Irv, "an intriguing mystery. I'm going to enjoy working on this one, but it's plain to see that if I'm to solve it, I'll need the help of experts."

How Can I Be Sure?

It may have been Aunt Cynthia who used to say something about a glorious morning that flatters the mountaintops and kisses the meadows. That's all well and good, of course, but have you ever noticed how things can suddenly take a nasty turn?

If you follow these little musings of mine, then you're probably aware that I insist on living happy, joyous, and free, as the saying goes. But damn, if it doesn't often seem that the odds for happy days are slim. It requires constant vigilance and hard work.

Sooner or later, right in the middle of telling your best dinner story to a rapt audience, someone at the head of the table will interrupt to tell you that you've gotten your elbow in the butter dish again.

Take this morning, for instance. It got off to a bracing start, and my heart was filled with birdsong. I expected nothing but happy endings for everyone. And yet, though immersed in the sunshine, I found the mood was mixed--not feeling this way or that. Sort of a dumb, numb mood. And I'll tell you why.

I was faced with a difficult choice. I had to make up my mind. I had to pick one and leave the other behind. You see my predicament? I didn't know which way to turn. It's not an easy task as I'm sure you agree if you've ever had to make a decision of your own.

My predicament is this: It seems that, for some reason, and your guess is as good as mine, Ms. Wonder and I have done magazine work for several years. I know! I mean, what drives people to do such things? And yet, there it is.

So with the slowdown in film production in the old metrop of Wilmington, I'm considering writing an article or two and submitting them to local magazines. The focus would be on the film industry and the current succes of shows like Outer Banks, The Summer I Turned Pretty, The Runarounds, The Waterfront, and all ther others.

I expect journalism of this type, immersed in local industry and popular culture, will be well received, and most of my advisors agree. You may be asking, if it's so hot, what's the struggle about? It's a fair question, and I'll tell you my answer to that, too.

You surely remember Princess Amy--that little almond-shaped cluster of brain cells that bears a striking resemblance to the Red Queen of Wonderland. She's taking my inventory recently, and she thinks as much of me publishing an article in local media as Moses thought of the Children of Israel when he walked in on them worshipping the golden calf.

My defenses are weak when it comes to Amy's work. My weakness goes all the way back to childhood, but there's no need to explain the whole sad story--the lack of moral support as a child, the feeling of loneliness growing up in Shady Grove, etc.

I'm afraid there's no way around it; I'm going to have to finally decide. It's the only way out of my predicament. I'm going to need to submit that article or trash it.

The recommended procedure for dealing with situations like this one is to abandon oneself to the universe. Live life on life's terms and all that rot. But there's the rub; I'm tired of all that abandoning. I want action. I want miracles or magic and I don't care which. I need something that's going to point to absolute answers; I want asurance!

My story is an old one, really. Shakespeare told us that a lack of resolve is understandable when, as he put it, "Between acting on a dreadful thing and the first motion...blah, blah, blah...man...suffers the nature of an insurrection." His words, not mine.

So, here I go again. I have my marching orders. It's a plan that I can follow. I don't want to, but I will because it's the next step, and that's all anyone can do. Is there any more to life than that?