Chaos Theory My Way

Some time ago I posted an article titled, Keeping the Faith, in which I wrote about opening up to the Universe and finding the right path that leads to a satisfying End of Days.

If you're a regular here on The Circular Journey then you probably remember that posting. If you're only an occasional visitor, then you'll probably want to read that earlier article. You can find it by searching for 'Keeping the Faith' in the search field at the top right of this page. But for the love of great Caesar's ghost don't do it now! Finish this post first.

In decades past, I had unbridled confidence in my abilities to do whatever I decided and I trusted in the Universe to work all things to my benefit. My MO was to accept the absurdities of life and abandon myself to the chaos that makes up most of the present moment. I accepted every visitor who came to my door as recommended by Rumi.

It does require a bit of practice. In the beginning, it feels like what I imagine bungee-cording off the New River bridge must feel like.

Fortunately, I was introduced to this way of life at a time when I had nothing left to lose. I abandoned myself to an unlimited life and was transported into another dimension. It was a way of life filled with blue skies, sunshine, and bluebirds.

But one day as I soared into those blue skies of happiness, I began to think that I was the agent of all my good fortune. I was special; very smart; very astute; not like all the other jamokes in the world.

While praising myself for creating the perfect life, I forgot to watch where I was going, and, like Icarus, I flew too close to the sun. The wax that held my wings together melted and I fell. 

When I say that I fell, I mean that I dropped through every energy level in all the atoms making up my body and didn't stop until I reached the basement. I ended up in a heap on the floor. It wasn't pleasant. My biographers will undoubtedly refer to it as the Great Fall. There's more detail in my bio at the top of this page.

My life had become filled with stormy confusion and violent turmoil and I was lost in the maelstrom. I felt powerless and without hope. Then one day, in all that chaos, I bumped into an opportunity for redemption. I met someone who had once lost everything too but had found a solution and was willing to show me how he had recovered. It was a second chance. A chance to start over.

This new opportunity to recover and rebuild a satisfying, productive life required that I accept the absurdities of life and abandon myself to the chaos of the present moment. That moment was the beginning of my transformation. Today, I welcome every visitor who comes to my door and I trust in the Universe to take care of my best interests.

My life is once more filled with blue skies, sunshine, and bluebirds. If it sounds like I've returned to where I began it's because that's the picture I'm painting. That's exactly why this blog is called The Circular Journey.

I'm not writing this particular post for your amazement or amusement. I'm writing it because I sometimes need to remind myself that I'm not in control and I'm not the agent or the cause of anything. In fact, the more I try to control the outcome of any part of my life, the bigger the mess I make of it.

My new mentor tells me that each one of us is just a big, complicated mess, and I think she may be onto something. Perhaps we weren't meant to figure life out on our own; perhaps we were meant to have help from others.

Master Wen used to say, I get lost; but We find the way. Not his exact words, perhaps, but a reasonable facsimile.

Have you had a similar experience? I'd love to hear your comments. I'd love to hear anything you have to say. Here's wishing you a bit of opportunity-filled chaos. Fierce Qigong!

Mining for Information

Thank goodness last week is over. If ever there was a week that tried my patience to an absurd extreme, it was that one. It's as if the universe decided I needed a dose of character-building whether I wanted it or not.

It all began when Ms. Wonder asked me to compare dental insurance plans with the intent of choosing the one best suited for us. Our current plan, while offering everything we desire in a dental insurance policy, is asking ransom prices for renewal.

I approached the task of finding new coverage with the discipline of a seasoned intelligence analyst. Lesser men might have simply skimmed the plan summaries and picked a plan by gut or a coin toss, but not me. I dug deep—information mining at its best. With the nuggets I discovered, I crafted the ultimate comparison spreadsheet, a monument to fiscal responsibility and what passes with me for adulting.

My spreadsheet was a thing of beauty: columns aligned with the precision of a military parade, rainbow-coded, and featuring four major providers: let's call them The Four Horsemen of Preventive Care—standing ready for final, rational assessment.

My initial assumption was simple, almost childlike in its innocence: a PPO is a PPO. Co-pay means co-pay across all providers. Out-of-pocket maximums are just what they sound like: the most you'll pay in a given year. 

I was as naive as a seventh-grader, attending their first school dance, convinced that everyone else had it all figured out. 

As I began the column-by-column comparison, reality crashed over me like a tidal wave of frigid enlightenment. It wasn't a simple comparison spreadsheet. I'd accidentally compiled the Rosetta Stone of insurance gobbledygook.

Every provider had taken basic terms—words that normal human beings use to communicate simple concepts—and warped them into completely unique, often contradictory definitions. It was as though the insurance executives had gathered in a smoke-filled back room and agreed that standard terminology would be bad for business.

Provider A defined "Out-of-Pocket Maximum" as the absolute limit you might pay in a year, assuming the stars aligned and you filed everything correctly.

Provider B defined the same term as "a friendly suggestion" subject to change at any time for any reason. 

Provider C had gone rogue and invented a term called "Annual Contingency Adjustments," which, according to the fine print, seemed to cover whatever was required by quarterly profit projections or the demands of the Fate sisters. 

Every time I thought I had finally nailed down a definition, I was met with a linguistic footnote—an arcane rune that made it abundantly clear that "Comprehensive Coverage" was just marketing-speak for "the bare minimum required to keep you from suing us, plus a free toothbrush."

I spent three hours staring at a column labeled "Deductible," trying to determine if it represented a fixed number, a random variable, or possibly a mythological creature that only appears during leap years when Mercury is in retrograde.

By hour four, I'd developed a theory that insurance plan documents are generated by an AI trained exclusively on legal disclaimers, abstract poetry, and the fever dreams of medieval monks.

"How's it going?" Ms. Wonder asked, passing through the room where I sat surrounded by printouts like a detective investigating a particularly boring crime.

"I've discovered that Provider D offers something called 'Preferred Network Flexibility, meaning you can see any dentist you want, as long as they're in network, accepting new patients, and haven't offended the insurance gods by charging reasonable rates."

"So... it's going well?"

"I've learned that a 'Clean Bill of Health' is the insurance provider's way of saying, 'We sincerely hope you never need to use this coverage.'"

She patted my shoulder with the sympathy of someone who's watched me spiral into obsessive research projects before. "Maybe just pick the cheapest one?"

"The cheapest one defines 'routine cleaning' as 'any dental procedure that doesn't require general anesthesia or a priest.'"

"So which one are we going with?" Ms. Wonder asked the next morning, finding me still staring at my spreadsheet like it might suddenly make sense if I just looked hard enough.

"Provider B," I said. "They're the only ones who didn't use the phrase 'catastrophic dental event' in their literature. I don't need that kind of negativity."

She smiled, kissed the top of my head, and walked away, leaving me to close my monument to fiscal confusion and accept that some battles against chaos are not winnable.

Princess Amy had been silent during most of my analysis, having grown bored with the whole affair somewhere in the first hour. Now she broke her silence. 

"You spent six hours to save maybe twenty dollars a month, right?"

"It's the principle of the thing," I said. "Responsible adults make informed decisions."

"You literally just said you chose Provider B based on marketing schpiel."

I closed my laptop with the dignity of a man who knows he's been defeated but refuses to admit it. 

"We're done here, Amy."

"Oh, we're definitely done," she agreed, "until next year when you do this all over again."

The universe indeed has a sense of humor. I just wish it wasn't always at my expense. 

Sunday Morning Coming Down

Luna Cafe is my Sunday morning sanctuary. On this particular morning, the air was rich with the scent of roasted beans, and the atmosphere shimmered with goodwill to all. I was blissfully entombed in a podcast about the geopolitical history of competitive cat herding. I never knew that cats had such strong opinions about being herded. 

It was the calm before the storm—a moment of peace so fragile, you could hear the distant clink of a teaspoon.

Then, the silence was not just broken; it was vandalized!

A voice erupted, a deafening, gravelly baritone like a drill sergeant auditioning for a heavy metal band. I immediately located the source: a gentleman on the sofa, clearly listening to his smartphone's audio at a volume that could reach low-earth orbit. 

My previous tranquility was detonated with an energy level measured in megatons! Princess Amy immediately took advantage of my vulnerability and encouraged me to ratchet up my moral superiority to eleven. But who could fault her for that? The nerve of the audio heathen! The utter, complete, and terrifying lack of musical grace!

My blood pressure spiked, and I instinctively knew what I had to do; the mothers of Shady Grove trained their sons well. I fixed my gaze past the innocent couple sitting between me and the reprobate sofa-sitter and delivered my most potent weapon: The Look.

It was my signature, high-voltage look meant to imply: "Seriously! Some people don't deserve the privilege of entering a shared public space." 

At that moment, the couple sitting at the table between us caught my eye. It was obvious they had seen The Look, and I expected them to silently nod in agreement, forming a brief, sacred pact of civilized folk against the barbarians. But no! 

"What?" the man demanded, his voice laced with the kind of aggression usually reserved for parking disputes.

My superior, judgmental facade crumbled into fine powder. I’d been tragically misunderstood. I tried to explain, "Oh, sorry," I said. "I was judging that guy over there, the one with his phaser set to disrupt."

Just as I was melting into a puddle of shame and espresso, a drum machine accompanied by electric guitar kicked in. The gravelly voice I’d judged so ruthlessly finished its declaration—"and now, the newest hit from The Decaf Disasters!"—and the cafe’s sound system blasted a shockingly loud 80s synth-pop song.

The voice I'd heard was the pre-recorded intro for the cafe’s music track. The quiet man on the sofa was just sitting there, sipping his latte. The only inconsiderate person in the entire room was me. 

I had publicly accused a volume button of a crime it didn't commit, and now I was embedded in a room with a couple who thought I was just shy of dangerous.

As I gathered my things to leave—staying felt about as comfortable as a pair of skinny-legged jeans—Princess Amy spoke again. 

"Well done, cowboy. You've managed to publicly shame an innocent man, wage war against a sound system, and demonstrate exactly why hermits choose to live in caves rather than cafes." 

She wasn't wrong, even though my performance was partly her fault. I'd entered Luna Cafe to be safe from the slings and arrows and daily life, and I was walking out having learned that sometimes the barbarian at the gates is actually just me, armed with righteous indignation and a catastrophically misdirected glare. 

As Shakespeare might have said, "Judge not the volume of others, lest ye be judged for the selections in your own Spotify playlist."

Maybe not worded in a way the Bard would have appreciated, but I'm certain he would’ve agreed with the sentiment. 

I made a mental note to make amends to the couple on my next visit, though I suspect they've already added me to their mental catalogue of "Reasons We Should Make Coffee at Home."

RJ Decker, On Deck

Princess Amy materialized in my passenger seat this morning as I sat in the Cinespace Studios parking lot on 23rd Street, studying the building where the "RJ Decker" production has set up its offices.

"Reconnaissance," I explained. "I'm being proactive this time."

"You're sitting in a parking lot staring at an empty building," she said, adjusting her imaginary tiara. "This is the kind of activity that will put your name on a restraining order."

"It's called preparation," I countered. "I'm learning from my mistakes."

"Oh, good," she said, settling in with fake enthusiasm,  "Because you have so many to learn from. The most recent one is that you were supposed to be outside the county courthouse today filming the reshoot of scenes from the RJ Decker pilot episode."

She wasn't wrong. My track record of documenting film productions around town reads like a masterclass in what not to do. But with ABC's "RJ Decker" starting production soon, I've decided it's time to step up my game.

A Catalog of Catastrophes

"Let's look at the record, starting with 'The Runarounds,'" Amy said, getting ready to tick items off on her imaginary fingers. Amy is the avatar for my erratic emotions; she doesn’t actually have fingers.

"Where do I even begin with that one?" she asked. It was a rhetorical question, but I interrupted anyway, hoping to stop the barrage of criticism that I knew was coming.

"I managed to wrangle some good video footage," I offered.

"You got footage of the production crew on lunch break," she corrected. "And you coached a local extra with his one line until he overthought it so badly they fired him."

"That's not what happened," I protested. "He asked me to hear him do his lines, and I advised him to speak up, proper elocution being of the essence. Everyone knows that."

"By the way, how's he doing?" she asked. "Have you spoken to him?"

"I think he's coming around. His eyes are focused, and he's breathing normally now."

Hoping to steer our her discussion into a positive direction, I asked, "How about we consider things we’ve learned over the past year?" 

"Really?" she said. "You want to go there? Well, let's see, we learned that craft services is not a networking event, and 'just act natural' is not a valid security strategy. Let me see what else? Oh, yeah, you arrived at Flaming Amy's Taco Bar to film a production crew that was filming on-site at High Tide Tiki Bar on Pleasure Island."

"The internet said they were filming there,” I reminded her.

"The internet is seldom trustworthy," she said.

"Lesson learned," I admitted.

The Turning Point

“Oh, all right," she said. "It's fun to see you squirm, but it doesn't accomplish anything. Let's get to my suggestions for the RJ Decker project. Now pay attention."

The mental image of her counting on her fingers reappeared.

"From here on out," she began, "we double-check dates. We obey traffic laws even at set locations. And not everyone wearing a headset is a crew member."

"You're right," I admitted. "If not for bad luck, there'd be no luck."

"Bad luck?" she said through her laughter, "Genome, you're like a Swiss watch of failure—precise, predictable, and consistent.”

“That's harsh."

"You once tried to interview your own reflection in a store window."

"That was a life-like reflection and only momentary confusion, and you know it. Anyone could have made that mistake."

The New Plan

"So what's your brilliant strategy this time?” Her tone suggested she already knew the answer would disappoint her.

“Well,” I began, hoping to regain some of the credibility I’d lost. “I’ve subscribed to local media outlets, set up Google alerts, and I'm following the casting agent on social media responsible for recruiting extras for the production.”

"That’s actually sensible," Amy admitted grudgingly.

"Thank you!"

"And I'm guessing, since we're sitting outside Cinespace Studios, that you plan to visit possible set locations before filming even starts?" 

"Reconnaissance missions," I corrected. "Like I'm doing now."

"You're sitting in an empty parking lot.”

The New Approach

“Instead of trying to infiltrate restricted areas, I'm focusing on legitimate public viewing opportunities."

"Promising," said the princess.

"The New Hanover County Courthouse is a public building. Carolina Beach has public access. Churchill Drive has public sidewalks. I can document from outside security perimeters, and maybe not create traffic hazards this time.

"This is the first thing you've said that doesn't make me worried for public safety," Amy said.

"Really?"

"Don't get excited. The bar was extremely low."

A moment of silence passed as I waited to see what she was going to say next.

The Final Statement

"Genome," she said.

"Still here, old girl," I said.

"I have a suggestion that you should seriously consider. It’s so obvious, you should have thought of it yourself."

"Sweeten up, princess."

"You have Ms. Wonder in your life, you blockhead. She often takes you by the hand and leads you safely to wherever it is you should go."

"That's true,” I admitted.

"Wonder has completed the documentary studies program at Duke University. She’s the perfect source to help you with your strategy if you only ask. Promise me you'll do that."

"I promise," I said solemnly."

A Confident Conclusion

On November 24th, the curtain went up on the first day of filming for RJ Decker. The cameras rolled. Security was tight. And I wasn’t there, due to several failures, the primary one being that the filming location was Carolina Beach when I was convinced it was downtown.

They have 8 episodes to film for the first season, so the next few weeks are going to be enlightening or entertaining; definitely one or the other. Maybe both.

ELO For Ever

"Oh, joy! Apple crumble, my favorite," exclaimed the thimble-sized tyrant who rules my emotional life.

"We're not having any of that, Amy," I responded.

"Of course, we are; that's why we came into the kitchen."

"Nope, the thought never crossed my mind."

"Cowboy, you do realize that I know every thought you have."

"The crumble is for the ancestors," I explained.

"I am an ancestor," she declared. "I've been around for four million years, Genome! I was rockin' with the dinosaurs. Now there was a fun bunch of yahoos. Talk about getting manic."

A look of pure joy crossed her face as she thought about what it was like to sit in the captain's chair in the Jurassic Era. I felt a little mean having to break her out of that reverie.

"You haven't been here that long. Limbic systems may have developed that long ago, though I doubt they were fully formed with amygdalas, hypo-Ts, hippocampi, and such."

"I have too been here that long! I thought you were a student of consciousness and all that rot. You don't know very much about my history. Limbic systems have been around for 300 million years. If you don't believe me, Google it, bonehead. I and my best friends, Hippocampus and Hypothalamus, are crucial for survival. Chew on that for a while, doofus."

I opened my mouth to respond to her insistence on using all those labels--cowboy, bonehead, doofus. It wasn't like her, and I didn't like it. But she didn't give me a chance to shove in my two cents' worth.

"I've been around from the very beginning, baby. I remember it all too. That's why I'm not just another pretty face; I'm a creative problem solver and a systems designer."

"I'm the systems designer," I countered. "That's your problem, Amy, you think we're the same. You have trouble separating meum from tuum."

"That's because we're not separate, Dummy. We are the same, you and I. You're the fleshy bag of mostly water part, and I'm the brains."

"You have a talking point, I suppose, in some sense we really are the same."

"Exactly, so there's no reason for you to refuse a bit of apple crumble."

"We're not eating apple crumble. Ms. Wonder puts that out every Samhain evening for the ancestors, so put it out of your mind, if you have one. Do you have a mind of your own, or do we share that too?"

"What do you think, Sherlock? If you don't eat it now, I'll make you think about it all night long. You'll dream about it. You'll wake up thinking about it. It's going to be a lot of fun for me."

"I'll play ELO on the radio all night."

"You and your Electric Light Orchestra.” She breathed hard during a momentary silence. “When are you going to put that out of your mind? That disk jockey is smoking joy weed, there’s no intelligent life anywhere in the universe; at least not anymore.”

"Oh, shut up, Amy."

"Oh, do you want me to stop talking? Well, think about this: if I didn't talk to you, where would you be now?"

"Probably still working for the Space Shuttle Program at NASA Johnson Space Center."

"The Space Shuttle Program is defunct, Genome. Has been for decades."

"Right, that's true,” I admitted with no small difficulty. "Nothing stays the same," I mused. "Everything changes."

"Exactly as it should be,” said the princess.