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In my lobule labyrinth When I turned thirty, Gramps moved in, taking up residence in dark, spongy brain. A stoic, surly gentleman, he tries not to disturb flying neurons and electrons, while ironing long forgotten memories like crisp, cotton shirts and shuffling ear-to-ear, peering out porthole-sockets – What the heck is happening in 1999? Frankly, I had to slow down for him to find me. Between aerobics and loud friends, a love of black-lit clubs, mini-skirts and a barrage of Mr. Wrongs, each as uninteresting as my last three jobs– I could barely hear him knocking on the corner of Then and Now. But this tiny, thoughtful visitor of my lobule labyrinth doesn’t seem to mind perpetual gray matter mess. He rakes livable space amidst a kaleidoscope of moods and awaits our discussions in the quiet of each night. I’ll call to him now, if you’d like. He really is worth meeting– If only it had been this easy to find and claim myself. Yes, I see him clearly now, leaning on a wooden cane, patiently enduring the subdued spinning of my world. For now he seems content here, where the only thing controlled is his monthly lack of rent. He’s welcome to stay– I never knew I missed that old, blue fishing hat, the snow-white whiskers on his chin, the Tiger Balm hugs and body-softened gum– tiny, foil-wrapped charity from supremely pleated pants. So, here’s the deal, Gramps: If you can read my roomy mind as easily as your Sunday paper, please make yourself at home– Perhaps you can remind me how to "use my damned, pretty head every once in awhile" and, keeping with tradition, I’ll do my best to seem preoccupied. |
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