The smug like to credit free will; the tragic blame the fates. There is a notable pattern throughout the history of writers, philosophers, and drunks. Reader: I happen to be all three.
I don’t care to choose between free will or fate. If I must dole this out to you, I choose chance.
(As I’ve been doing recently, I will give you a quote:
“Much later, when he was able to think about the things that happened to him, he would conclude that nothing was real except chance. But that was much later. In the beginning, there was simply the event and its consequences.”
–Paul Auster, Moon Palace)
So imagine how surprised I was when … when …–and now I stretch for details, as I am not stupid, or self-important, enough to share the truth– let us just say that I wanted to enter two doors so very badly. Today, one door opened while another decidedly shut.
There goes choice. There goes free will.
Are you still following my poorly drawn analogy?
The day had already felt abnormal. Grey skies, lights fading, headlamps making shadows in the rain. The city embodied March: warm and wet. But something felt off. The office was cold. Then it was hot. Then the lamp light glowed and then fell on my head.
And then my choice was made for me.
And then I walked home in slow-motion. The train shuddered on its track. My ipod, forever stuck on random, played Brick. The sky, perhaps, lightened. As I walked by my fruit and vegetable man, as I walked toward the blue door of my gray apartment I almost stepped on a frog. In Manhattan, mind you. And it was dead. It must have fallen, with the rain, from the charcoal-brushed sky.
When the sunshine don’t work, the good Lord bring the rain in.