Witnessing Perspective

The sheer complex randomness that passes for life on Earth sometimes makes my brain stop for a second and marvel - how random is it? Just yesterday I was driving home from a semi-successful, somewhat disappointing, experiment that I like to call "the writing retreat".

Quick backstory: I've been trying to take a retreat for some time and, more importantly, I have continually tried to recruit any and all of my regular writing partners to join me. I have this insane vision of the lot of us sitting around on laptops, each working on our next masterpiece, each ready to discuss or help their fellow writer through the dreaded "Block" or whatever. But life is busy. We all have things to do. And so I took a mini-retreat all by my lonesome -- planned it and went. The others were invited and it should be noted that Michael accepted. His car, however, decided he should stay home (they do that sometimes, unfortunately to the tune of lots of money).

So the writing retreat turned into me, sitting in a fairly nice hotel room, staring at my laptop like a caveman might. Or heck, a statesman from the Continental Congress -- I mean, why is it that when we want to make technology seem uber-tech, we compare ourselves to cavemen when there are plenty of people from any number of centuries - even our own - who would be equally perplexed by the contraption? Just sayin'.

Being totally fair, it wasn't a complete debacle. I did manage to write some pages and plot some more and figure some stuff out for this play I'm aiming to finish and enter in the CP Playwrights Fest this year. I'll just call it "Play #1", in the event that a festival committee member frequents my blog -- wouldn't want to tip my hat as to which entry is mine. And I even scribbled out some more of it later that afternoon while the feral creatures Mary calls Chloe and Elmo napped around me; so yeah...not a complete waste of time.

Still, this wasn't the successful weekend of hardcore writing I'd envisioned (you know, where I hole away in some seedy motel and produce this opus in 48 hours that reeks of my blood and sweat and which people will trample each other just for the chance to read -- so I aim high...) and I was bummed about that. Leaving Marion I felt like I was no further along in the play than when I'd started and driving home from the hotel, I wasn't in a terribly pleasant mood about it.

It was just one of those weekends that followed an odd week. Been having some car issues (as in I'll need a new one soon) and the headset (or the jack) for my phone stopped working and I'll have to get a new one (though new headset or new phone, I know not), and the power cord to my CD player wouldn't fit from the car adapter anymore because a piece of the regular AC adapter broke off inside...oh, for the love...

So I'm driving home from the retreat, talking to Mary, and all traffic on 23 South (and North) comes to a halt. And I mean HALT. No crawling. No inching. The cars are off. We're frying on the pavement. And people are getting out of their automobiles to chat like we're at a bloody high school reunion. It was that kind of traffic jam. So I'm even less enthused at this point (as Mary can confirm).

Now before you smack me for being a whiny baby, you should know that the universe already did it for you.

See, what I found out is this: About ten or fifteen minutes before I began grumbling in gridlock, probably as I was checking out of my hotel, loading my car, and enjoying the light breeze that welcomed me outside after a long night sequestered in a strange place, a woman named Sharon K. Williston from Columbus was cruising along, heading up 23 North on her Harley on an absolutely gorgeous spring day, when she was struck from behind by a GMC Envoy. Knocked from her bike. And was then hit by that very same car.

Puts it in perspective.

On one hand, the tiniest inconvenience can, at the time, seem like the universe is out to get me. But really, as long as I'm healthy and my loved ones are safe, I can't really complain. So I'll buy a new headset. I'll discipline myself to write rather than stare. I'll take my car to the shop.

Etcetera, etcetera.

Every so often the universe smacks me upside the head and reminds me that my day to day worries are, for the most part, not that important. And if I need any further reminding, I only need look towards the hospital where Sharon lies in critical condition, which I can see quite clearly from my office. That's perspective.

Oh, that "other hand" the statement above implies? Well, it really isn't an "other" in the traditional sense as it isn't contrary to the message above or even an alternative view point. It's just my brain thinking about Ms. Williston and how a major event in her life mildly affected a lesser moment in mine, and that made me start to wonder about all the people out there who right now are doing something that will one day ripple through the universe to affect me.

Perhaps there is someone, right this moment, getting a job at a studio which will get them the desk across which a script of mine will pass leading to an option that leads to a produced credit. Perhaps somewhere, someone at this exact moment is breaking out of police custody and the ensuing car chase will end when the fugitive slams a stolen vehicle into mine on my way home from work. Disturbing, yes, but it happens.

The random chain of events in one person's life and how they connect seemingly like fate into another person's random chain just boggles my mind to no end.