Saturday, November 14, 2015
Return of the Sports Car.
As you may recall, some while back I was much taken by this Sports car, which I had seen during a walk:
|A car suitable for "making a statement."|
At the time I was about to advance handsomely in the Publishing industry, with the release of my new volume, A Wonderful Tale. Dreams of operating within the society of the "see and be seen," the "cognoscenti," if you will, were mine, and this dashing car would suit my new lifestyle. But it was not to be. The public was not ready to enjoy my masterpiece. At the time, if they wished to read anything, it was the story of a wizard-boy who got banged on the head by the devil and became the friend of thousands of owls. The tastes of the public are surprising, to be sure, but they cannot be resented. It is simply the job of the Artist to sit and tide until he hits the gusher of public consent.
Today while I was on an errand to the hardware store for a new hacksaw blade, I again saw the Sports car! I take its reappearance in my life to be a great omen. Perhaps an agent, working late into the night in his cramped Los Angeles office—surrounded by towers of unusable screenplays and failed pitches—has finally discovered my manuscript, ripe as it is for film adaptation. Perhaps I am about to write again—this time a blockbuster about a child who sings fire into being. It cannot be said; all that I do know is that this symbol of my dreams is alive and well again:
|The Sports car reappears, this time at the hardware store.|
The car was guarded by a large dog, but he did not make too great a fuss as I drew close to capture this image. In fact, the creature seemed to bear pride in his station:
|I have witnessed the sin of Pride in many forms, but when demonstrated by this simple dog it seems harmless enough.|
I drove home elated, considering what a good turn things had taken on an otherwise plain day of errand-making and simple meals taken standing. What could make this day better?
Why, the appearance of this "beach model" version of my van! I saw it parked near a store that sells second-hand clothing for wealthy children. O how I did picture myself cruising up along a sandy stretch of popular beach, sunglasses calmly resting on my face, a Hawaiian-print shirt indicating that I was right at home. How I could watch the surfers work out their difficult social dynamics among the waves, and notice those who did not make their cut, forced back to shore. How I could wait in the dunes, ready with an easy smile and a few kind words.
Ah, I see it is "National Novel Writing Month." That seals it. I shall begin my new tale tonight, so I can enjoy the spoils of fortune, of dreams.
|The Ford Econoline "Beach Model." Note the many alluring windows, which invite like a jewel-box of delights.|