I'd stopped at the Food Lion grocery store on Oleander because Ms. Wonder asked me to pick up Downy Dark Defender. No, it's not a Marvel superhero; it's merely laundry detergent that promises to defend dark colors from the villainous forces of fading.
I was having one of my interior conversations with Princess Amy, the sort that would have onlookers dialing the nearest mental health facility had I been conducting it aloud.
"Do I want to stop at Circular Journey Cafe for coffee on my way home?"
"No, it's out of the way, and besides, we were there yesterday. Why don't we blow off going home entirely? We have time to get to Ocean Isle Beach like proper delinquents."
I thought it best to ignore her comment; she was beginning to sound like trouble.
"Should I take Highway 74 to the Food Lion or Ocean Highway to Harris Teeter? Food Lion will have the Defender at a lower price, but Harris Teeter is a more direct route."
"Take 74!" Amy insisted with the confidence of a demanding GPS. "It has less traffic. And blow off Defender altogether. We don't need no stinkin' Defender."
"Oops, I missed the turn," I said. "The road forked, and I, like the man in the poem, took the turn no one else seemed interested in. "Oh well, Harris Teeter has easier parking, and I don't excel at spatial reasoning anyway."
I was suddenly inspired to change the subject altogether, the better to nudge Amy off-track.
"Amy, I miss the 1980s, don't you? I miss them every day."
"What do you miss about them?"
"I remember small jazz combos in the Montrose and tiny almost-hidden clubs in League City that booked unheard-of Depeche Mode cover bands—places where the cool factor was inversely proportional to the square footage."
"The good old days weren't always good," she said.
"I know," I said. "I remember the drugs, the barrio, the fights, the laughs, the crying, the screaming. I remember the bouncers at Gilley's playing rock-paper-scissors for the thrill of throwing me out."
"That's right," she said, "Every silver lining has a touch of grey."
"Yeah," I said. "It kinda suits me anyway." I shrugged twice with nothing else to say, like a man who'd rehearsed a clever retort only to find the moment had passed.
"I will get by," Amy said. "I will survive."
Her remark caused me to raise a few eyebrows questioningly. "Is that a Gloria Gayner reference?"
"Grateful Dead," she explained.
"I'm lucky I'm Alive," I countered, "—Jimmy Buffett." That made Amy raise a couple of eyebrows.
She didn't really, I hope you know. Amy doesn't have eyebrows; she's a small clump of gray cells in my brain. She's actually two clumps connected by a sort of electrical pathway, like a biological Ethernet cable. But I think of her as a real person.
That must be the ninety-ninth time I've tried to explain Princess Amy. I think I'll never explain her again. Some mysteries are best left mysterious, like how they get the caramel into the chocolate bars.
"I hear the music, and it changes my life," I said to her, waxing poetic in that way people do when they're avoiding decisions about laundry detergent.
"Without music, life would be a mistake," I added, though I really didn't know what I meant by it, other than it sounded profound in the way only borrowed wisdom can. "Music can change the world because it can change people."
"Music is the strongest form of magic," she said, then added, "Aug 27, 2023," though I don't know why she mentioned it.
I didn't ask her for an explanation because, somehow, our seemingly nonsensical banter felt meaningful, relevant, and wise all on its own, without any need for clarification—like discovering an ancient coin in your pocket and choosing to see it as an omen rather than just a laundry oversight.
As I pulled into the driveway, Defender in hand and memories of the 1980s swirling in my head, I was reminded again that life's journey is truly circular. We chase detergent, miss turns, reminisce about the past, and have philosophical debates with the Amys of our minds—all to the rhythm of a musical soundtrack.
"Do I want to stop at Circular Journey Cafe for coffee on my way home?"
"No, it's out of the way, and besides, we were there yesterday. Why don't we blow off going home entirely? We have time to get to Ocean Isle Beach like proper delinquents."
I thought it best to ignore her comment; she was beginning to sound like trouble.
"Should I take Highway 74 to the Food Lion or Ocean Highway to Harris Teeter? Food Lion will have the Defender at a lower price, but Harris Teeter is a more direct route."
"Take 74!" Amy insisted with the confidence of a demanding GPS. "It has less traffic. And blow off Defender altogether. We don't need no stinkin' Defender."
"Oops, I missed the turn," I said. "The road forked, and I, like the man in the poem, took the turn no one else seemed interested in. "Oh well, Harris Teeter has easier parking, and I don't excel at spatial reasoning anyway."
I was suddenly inspired to change the subject altogether, the better to nudge Amy off-track.
"Amy, I miss the 1980s, don't you? I miss them every day."
"What do you miss about them?"
"I remember small jazz combos in the Montrose and tiny almost-hidden clubs in League City that booked unheard-of Depeche Mode cover bands—places where the cool factor was inversely proportional to the square footage."
"The good old days weren't always good," she said.
"I know," I said. "I remember the drugs, the barrio, the fights, the laughs, the crying, the screaming. I remember the bouncers at Gilley's playing rock-paper-scissors for the thrill of throwing me out."
"That's right," she said, "Every silver lining has a touch of grey."
"Yeah," I said. "It kinda suits me anyway." I shrugged twice with nothing else to say, like a man who'd rehearsed a clever retort only to find the moment had passed.
"I will get by," Amy said. "I will survive."
Her remark caused me to raise a few eyebrows questioningly. "Is that a Gloria Gayner reference?"
"Grateful Dead," she explained.
"I'm lucky I'm Alive," I countered, "—Jimmy Buffett." That made Amy raise a couple of eyebrows.
She didn't really, I hope you know. Amy doesn't have eyebrows; she's a small clump of gray cells in my brain. She's actually two clumps connected by a sort of electrical pathway, like a biological Ethernet cable. But I think of her as a real person.
That must be the ninety-ninth time I've tried to explain Princess Amy. I think I'll never explain her again. Some mysteries are best left mysterious, like how they get the caramel into the chocolate bars.
"I hear the music, and it changes my life," I said to her, waxing poetic in that way people do when they're avoiding decisions about laundry detergent.
"Without music, life would be a mistake," I added, though I really didn't know what I meant by it, other than it sounded profound in the way only borrowed wisdom can. "Music can change the world because it can change people."
"Music is the strongest form of magic," she said, then added, "Aug 27, 2023," though I don't know why she mentioned it.
I didn't ask her for an explanation because, somehow, our seemingly nonsensical banter felt meaningful, relevant, and wise all on its own, without any need for clarification—like discovering an ancient coin in your pocket and choosing to see it as an omen rather than just a laundry oversight.
We indeed have the freedom to choose how we see reality and, in that way, change reality to suit our needs. Sometimes. I mean, I don't want to get too deep into the woo-woo. I haven't forgotten Santiago's realization at the end of The Old Man and the Sea: 'I went too far out.'
I understand Santiago's reasoning. I've done it myself—gone too far out. It's easy to do, and it seldom works out well.
As I pulled into the driveway, Defender in hand and memories of the 1980s swirling in my head, I was reminded again that life's journey is truly circular. We chase detergent, miss turns, reminisce about the past, and have philosophical debates with the Amys of our minds—all to the rhythm of a musical soundtrack.
Perhaps that's the magic of The Circular Journey blog: no matter how far we wander, we always return home, slightly changed but somehow exactly the same, with or without the stinkin' Defender.
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