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Serendipity. Fate. Destiny. Harbinger. Predetermination.
I look into the currents of time and ponder the existence of
outside influences. Those nebulous beings who squat on the fringes of the
tapestry of life, spindly fingers stirring the solid matter of reality as if it
were some turgid soup to be spiced according to their tastes.
The portents lie across my path like strewn petals. I stoop
to examine the dissected rose, inhaling its perfume and question its meaning.
Are these signs left for me to purposefully find, or do I create tantalizing
morsels of symbolism to dangle before my nose, like a carrot before a gullible
hare?
Silly boy, why are you asking questions? If you like the
scent of the flower, follow the trail. If intrigued, dare to learn the
destination of the path, risk the time to achieve discovery.
And so I walk. Drawn by curiosity, but casting wondering
glances over my shoulders, vainly attempting to spy the suspected meddlers about
their recreation. Hopefully the marks upon the road are more than coincidence,
not just meaning read into the events around me.
Momentarily I almost feel like the soul I used to be. One
who was not deafened by the endless roar of the big machine, not blinded by the
mundane compromises of everyday life. For a moment, I again dare to dream.
With eyes closed, surrounded by silence, I cast my net upon the waters and
feel.
I feel the weight of the rope in my hands, its rough texture
reading the lines in my palm, measuring, interpreting. The cast is good,
fanning across the air, spreading wide before entering the warm waters I wade
in. The silence is pushed aside with the splash and ripples reach my
midsection, mimicking the nervous hope centered in my belly.
I resist the urge to open my eyes, to leave my most prized
sense in stillness and allow the water to communicate whatever messages it sees
fit. I stand amidst its salty movement and place myself at its mercy. I stand
upon migrating sand and wonder if the waters will suffer my presence or choose
to sweep me along its mercurial pathways.
Eyes closed, the rope grows heavy in my hands as the net
sinks below the surface. Growing taut, the fibers test the depth of the lines,
steadily increasing the tension, perceiving the grip of desire and purpose of
dreams long unfulfilled.
Before I ever learn the results of the cast, I feel this
binding shall be the judge of success. Not the artful coordination of muscle,
not the chance of time and location, rather the topographical indentations I
have had since birth. This shall be the determinant.
My palms sweat with anxiety, clenching tightly to the sole
bond to my fateful cast. Moisture mingles with the vast body of fluid
timelessness about me but I feel the coldness of my questioning tangibly around
my fists. I wonder at my motives and question the validity of the visions
before my closed eyes.
Surely Fate is done with my tired body after years of
rejection. Assuredly I am too jaded to hear the sound of the waves upon the
beach after years spent amid the endless cogs of the city. How could I still be
remembered by the fey trappings of the universe?
I begin to open my eyes in despair, the sand shifting beneath
my feet. Faltering, my attention shifts to regain my balance. Suddenly, amidst
the momentary chaos and self-doubt, a tentative pull on the rope violently yanks
my entire being to again focus on the line in my hands, on the snug fit with the
lines in my hands.
Doubt is pushed backwards within my mind by the signal and
the chorus of the waves returns momentarily to my hearing. Hope drowns
indecision with electric currents of potential and I dig my feet deeper into the
yielding grains below.
Brief is my wait before the message is telegraphed again. I
begin to draw the net towards me, hand over hand, drawing the truth towards me.
Each imprinted grip marked upon my memory as I excitedly wonder if there is
substance within the net and not just a play of the currents sending some false
message of urgency.
The pull seems endless and time stretches before my mind.
With eyes closed the distance is unconfirmed, but the weight seems lighter and I
crazily sort through the possibilities and frequently forget and remember the
questioned existence of the crones outside the weave.
Reentering my thoughts, I fancifully depict them beside a
pool of still water, preparing to stir pure waters into a murky cauldron of
tangled ingredients, like aged kittens left with too much yarn. Their stooped
shoulders deceptively hiding strong sinew backed by ponderous sway of a
pendulum. Their bodies weave around to kettle to a tune I cannot hear, but
whose cadence appears as mesmerizing as eternity itself.
Fantasy I tell myself, this is but another wishful dream spun
to catch the elusive fish named What If. But the net is close to my hands and I
know that I will have my immediate answer soon enough. A brief wait and I will
see if the sea has been bountiful this day.
Of course,
regardless of the net’s contents, my mind will still occasionally peer over my
shoulder and strain to hear the cackle of an old woman’s glee, the soothing of a
middle aged mother’s voice, and the throaty whisper of a young lady’s promise.
Peering for some print along the trail, some telling sign the three destinies
have passed this way before me. Searching for some clue or evidence beyond the
loops and whorls contained in the palm of my hand.
[© 2002 Joseph Wheeler,
all rights reserved]