Maggie Lawson

DIGRESSIONS

Maybe this current me is an actual ghost of myself returning on an abstracted plane, or I am an amateurish 3-printed version, or perhaps the old Star Wars robot, R2d2, winding down in slow-motion, like a top spinning its downward spiral, sadly squeaking, lopsided, running out of juice. Did I just write juice? Not TOO subliminal! This may actually be all about prune juice! Please include it with whatever this latest reiteration is as an essential lubricant for my body parts real or imagined.

A much more likely scenario is that (through my love of octopuses, and my history of all-of-my-exposed-body-parts-suction-cup-branding by one I held while they fixed her environment at the aquarium) an octopus’s alienesque ability to adapt with camouflage was transmitted into me to finally awaken 50 years later.  Reread that slowly or, better yet, here’s a summary: I got hickied by an Atlantic octopus and I’m finally realizing that although they don’t live long, I may have received some of their unique and special powers to circumstantially become almost invisible.

Is the concept of oneness with universal energy the pulsing glow I’m experiencing or is it my a-fib? Love it. This, right here, this waning is it. You do know what “it” is, right?

So, there you have it. Ghostly, a faux print, imprinted, embodied with abilities to hide in quasi-plain site. This is me trying to explain the shift; me letting go. Am I being graceful?

This is the extended nowness of aging incrementally. One day I was flying off to Madagascar on a whim (I never explained myself; I just left a sign on my office door: GONE), and the next I’m asking myself if my cane should go in the trunk, just in case the next now includes uneven ground. Oh, and put prune juice on the list, while you’re out, please.

“Mercy, mercy, mercy…” See! There it is. Elders mumble that stuff, their bobble heads shaking with laden acceptance. My Granny used to say, “Oh, my stars and garters!” It meant a bit of amazement, some disappointment, and then acceptance. Acceptance has become part of the slow dance, the shuffle, the slow pivot, the dog circling three times before finally laying down and staying. Good dog. Good grandma. Wait! Ed’s bobble-head just stopped bobbling; it’s hanging by a dangling sprung spring. Ed? You, OK? “Lordy, lordy, lordy!” followed by Granny’s often eye-rolling, wait for it… expected add-on, “The exuberance of youth…”

Can I bring you a drink? No, not you, Ed. You’re dead. I told myself I didn’t have time to explain myself.

I’m now referring to yesterday—Christmas—when my son-in-law asked me if I wanted a drink, not my daughter. She signals for me to get up and get my own drink. She’s working hard to stay in her own lane, nowadays, which I can only admire. She knows I am able, but also incredibly lazy. Do I consciously play the old lady card? I did venture out to the front porch to look for a drink, and here are some of the choices: cocoanut water with was it “Yuma” or “YUNA”, flavored lite beers and sparkling fruit-infused canned bougie-ness. That selection made my head spin and choices null.

In retrospect, this malaise could simply be from sitting much too long and not hydrating enough.

Am I becoming a bit curmudgeonly? It wouldn’t be all bad. Personally, I adore curmudgeons, their grumpy demeanor meant to make even the bravest among us whimper and scuttle submissively backwards in fear. But underneath their gruffness is usually a lovely, sweet, soft-shelled lobstery, not monster-y, soul always with an eye-twinkle. They shiver in either fear or anticipation knowing that if I catch their eye and remain unflappable, they must love me. They have no choice. So fun. Try it.

I may have written that savory, salivating example because I love lobster, with hot butter for dipping, but I digress.

I’m not a planner—except for prune juice and my sidekick, my cane—I’m an evolver, and I’m sticking to it! It’s opposite, digression, is an important skill, though. Earned, this never-expected-to-live-this-long self has realized its allowed; it’s a part of storytelling—these flashbacks, these wandering thoughts.

I’m on a yet another learning curve, trying to be amused by the whirly-gig up-and-downness of this life’s merry-go-round. Today, I can hear the distant carousel’s calliope music box tune slowing down, running its course. Wind it up, again, please. May I ride the octopus, this time?