GET LOST by Beth Jackson

Stopped at the lights, she rummages in her bag for her phone … it’s not there … it’s really not there … it’s really really not there … damn, she’s left it at home (hopefully?!).

She pulls over, empties the handbag over the seat, and puts it all back again. She shuts her eyes and clearly remembers having it this morning. She’s just left it at home. It’s all fine … apart from the instant anxiety. An irksome insecure feeling douses her from head to toe.

Her phone’s promise of a more predictable, comfortable, efficient, and enjoyable life has burrowed deep into her psyche. The ruminations begin …

What now? She needs directions … this is the part of the journey she’s unsure about. 

She feels lost – lost without her phone. She slumps forward as a depressing wave of personal failure passes through. The exonerated phone lies gleaming on a far-away kitchen bench while she marches down a mental path of othering and self-estrangement. 

She glances to the left and sees her Self, that glowing digital collection of screen savers, emojis, bookmarks, biometrics, albums, apps, and subscriptions suddenly dump out of its remote auratic chamber and lie slithering and squirming on the passenger seat. Ugh!

 She’s not actually lost. Of course not – this is Brisbane for god’s sake! She squeamishly tries giving her slimy creature-self a little pat. It rolls on its back, revealing a pale yellow belly, and becomes still. She pulls back out into the traffic with a tighter grip on the wheel. She’s been to this place before, though it was a long while ago. She slows down to glimpse the street signs, hoping for recognition. The guy behind her blasts his horn. ‘FUCK!’ she shouts into her echo chamber, ‘Give me a break for fuck’s sake!’ Right or wrong, she takes the turn – whatever! She’ll figure it out. 

She’s gripped by an urge to message, feeling like she’s going to be late, feeling like she needs to apologise for her phone failure. Not possible of course, and she makes that rational case mentally a few more times to quell the unruly impulses. She notices that the quivering self-thing on the seat has what might be ear holes on its otherwise featureless head … a listening device of another kind – still, it’s not going to be sending and receiving messages is it?!

She feels not just lost but disconnected. Handicapped. She rubs the creature behind these ear holes and it wriggles its way into her lap. It’s cold and moist, butting and nuzzling at her thighs with its developing snout.

She doesn’t really know this part of the city. Sensations of self-estrangement bleed into the world around her. What was supposed to be a mindless automated mapped route, now feels ridiculously complex – that house looks kinda familiar, what did that sign say?, oh that’s where that road goes duh, what an awesome tree, ha! the fish’n’chip shop is still there, oh shit I’m sure you used to be able to go right here, you got this, you’re so clueless, I’m a fucking legend … 

She finds the place. According to the car clock, she’s only five minutes late – no big deal. She checks her hair in the mirror, rubs on some lip balm, shoulders her bag, and slips out of the car, forgetting about the creature which falls to the floor. Ignoring a little wave of panic, she slips the squidgy thing into her pocket and heads inside. Crunching across the gravel drive, she feels a bit wobbly on her feet.

Now that she’s here, how long can she stay? She cracks her knuckles. What if people are trying to call or email her? Just because her work hours are flexible doesn’t mean she can switch off. It’s just the opposite. Clinging to bits and pieces of work flotsam to keep her head above water is how it’s worked for years now – the phone as both perpetrator and lifeline in the Stockholm Syndrome system of mobile life. She sighs, distracted, and mutters ‘get a grip woman’ under her breath.

She ‘knows’ that no matter how much she loves her phone, it will never love her back – she’ll only ever be tracked and profiled, reminded and prompted, compared and rated, mimicked and mined, manipulated and played with … insatiably … and yet she keeps on investing because that’s how it all works – her Self as data is the price to be paid, the invisible currency that’s miraculously revealed even as it’s snatched away … lifted by inundating data streams blindly reshaping terrains of all kinds.

Seated and served, she eats the most delicious salad, filled with tasty jewels – nuts, seeds, jubes of pomegranate, lumps of feta, pungent herbs, dressed in oils and vinegars. There are even some nasturtiums from the garden thrown in – golden and peppery. Juices run down her chin and she mops them up with mild embarrassment. She picks with her fingers, sneaking bits into her pocket where the creature snuffles and purrs. She helps herself to seconds.

She’s in good company. She relaxes. She muses more kindly to herself through the sumptuous churning mouthfuls as they dissolve down her throat, into her gut, into her bloodstream, flowing freely and transformatively through all the networked pathways of her biome. She looks across the room and is reminded of another time and another place … on the windowsill a mud wasp travels back and forth meticulously building its nest after the recent rains. The garden glows.

She tamps down on the insistent reflexive urge to take photos, and forgoes the stored and time-stamped images that offer insurance for her hopeless memory – the memory that she now outsources. She can’t help seeing the photos she would have taken hovering all around, making her a little dizzy and a little numb. She’s only had one glass of bubbles …

The creature wriggles free of her pocket and drops to the floor. It now has nostrils and sniffs its way around the room. Startled, she grabs it on the way to the bathroom, putting it in her bag and zipping it up. Awkward! Time to go.

On the doorstep, there are hugs goodbye, warm and steadying, and she steps away lightly, swinging her bag.

At the edge of this old neighbourhood, she passes a road that leads to the river and is reminded of a place she was once fond of. Circling back, she softly hums a tune. 

She parks in the shade. At the river’s edge she unzips the bag and cradles the creature in her arms. It now has a coat of fine fur and is starting to resemble something like a platypus or a baby otter. There’s a mouth now but still no eyes. She nuzzles her face into the soft fur and a long pink wet tongue slithers out and licks her. She laughs, sets it down on the sandy bank, and watches it disappear into the water.

She makes a plan to return, harbouring hopes of seeing the creature again. Would she recognise its next evolution? Perhaps it would recognise her.

Driving home, she can feel something in her pocket and reaches in to find a small handful of tiny dark pellets – the creature’s droppings. Without thinking, she gobbles them down and her whole being floods – concentrated and radiating sensory explosions flushing her skin. What a wonderful place to arrive.