Sometimes life is just not fair. Where have you heard that before? Last week started out as a catastrophic, earth-shattering, soul-rendering disaster. Then, it proceeded to go downhill.
On Tuesday, my first short screenplay, the one I’ve worked on for 3 years, received its 9th (yes, 9th) rejection. It’s good if I do say so myself. However, I guess the world doesn’t agree or is just not ready quite yet to see “The Friars Next Door.” Yes, I’ve had it reviewed, edited, and rewritten twice. So, I’m sitting here looking at it today, thinking that maybe this thing has taken on a life of its own. It’ll be ready when it’s ready. I’ll revisit it later.
On Wednesday, my beloved car of 16 years, a 1997 Mazda Miata M – Edition, had its front end smashed to bits by a little old blind lady driving a 2013 Ford F-150 truck. I had been grocery shopping and, when I came out of the store, I saw a lady bending over the crushed car. She asked if it were mine. When I replied yes, she proceeded to yell that I should not have parked so close to her handicapped space. She couldn’t see over the hood of the truck, so the Miata was literally crushed into and under it like a piece of aluminum foil. Enough said.
On Thursday night, I took a taxi to join friends for pizza. What started out as fun evening left me looking like the wicked witch of the west. The pizza was good, but when I bit into a hot wing, a porcelain veneer on one of my front teeth promptly popped off. No, this was not a temporary cover. I paid a small fortune for several veneers years ago, so I guess its time had come. As my dentist was not available until the following Monday (his partner knows nothing about cosmetic work), I spent the weekend at home, alone, looking like a gap tooth wonder. For some unknown reason, I couldn’t stop staring at the empty space.
On Friday afternoon, I went to see a priest. I explained how my week was going. The man prayed over me for a full five minutes. My Latin is rusty (I’ve been a lapsed Catholic for years now), so I’m assuming it was a blessing. All I know is that I felt better after leaving the church.
On Saturday, I went to temple. No, I’m not Jewish, but a good friend is of the faith. He arranged for me to see his rabbi, Dr. Jonas, as part of a backup strategy for living (which he thought I needed). Rabbi told me the story of his life, with all of its trials and tribulations. He decided that my week wasn’t so bad after all, compared to what he’s been through. Then, he sang over me. I don’t understand Yiddish, but it made me feel just as good as the Latin of the priest.
On Sunday morning, my neighbor took me to a good old-fashioned gospel fest at the First Third Abyssinian Baptist church. By the time the singing and the shouting and the stomping stopped, I just knew that I was cleansed of the bad karma that had plagued me all week.
Looking at this photo I took while flying over Mt. Rainier two weeks ago, I realized that I had, indeed, survived. Things are definitely looking up today, although I guess they couldn’t have gone any further down.
The next short play “Colors” is in the works. “The Friars Next Door” is being read by a group of really talented folks that I recently had the pleasure of meeting in Seattle. I’m shopping for a new car, although I don’t think I’ll ever drive another Miata. And, I have my smile back, finally.
Now, bring on King Kong!