I love people's turning points, particularly ita's Monday. Nilly's turning point was an important one for many of us.
While thinking about what I wanted to write, I remembered a memorable turning point from one of my favorite books (The Education of Henry Adams), when Henry Adams first meets one of his best friends, Clarence King:
One of these men was Clarence King on his way up to the camp. Adams fell into his arms. As with most friendships, it was never a matter of growth or doubt. Friends are born in archaic horizons; they were shaped with the Pteraspis in Siluria; they have nothing to do with the accident of space. King had come up that day from Greeley in a light four-wheeled buggy, over a trail hardly fit for a commissariat mule, as Adams had reason to know since he went back in the buggy. In the cabin, luxury provided a room and one bed for guests. They shared the room and the bed, and talked till far towards dawn.
King had everything to interest and delight Adams. He knew more than Adams did of art and poetry; he knew America, especially west of the hundredth meridian, better than any one; he knew the professor by heart, and he knew the Congressman better than he did the professor. He knew even women; even the American woman; even the New York woman, which is saying much. Incidentally he knew more practical geology than was good for him, and saw ahead at least one generation further than the text-books. That he saw right was a different matter. Since the beginning of time no man has lived who is known to have seen right the charm of King was that he saw what others did and a great deal more. His wit and humor; his bubbling energy which swept every one into the current of his interest; his personal charm of youth and manners; his faculty of giving and taking, profusely, lavishly, whether in thought or in money as though he were Nature herself, marked him almost alone among Americans. He had in him something of the Greek,—a touch of Alcibiades or Alexander. One Clarence King only existed in the world.
A new friend is always a miracle, but at thirty-three years old, such a bird of paradise rising in the sage-brush was an avatar. One friend in a life-time is much; two are many; three are hardly possible. Friendship needs a certain parallelism of life, a community of thought, a rivalry of aim.
Yes, there's plent of hoyay there, but no evidence they acted on it.
that was damned close to perfection
Cut and paste. And mostly from Allyson's words. If it's in any way a drabble, it's hers, even though it was fateful to me.
One of the problems for me, inherent in writing about my fateful encounters, is that I've now written about most of them, in other drabbles.
I genuinely love the idea of "fateful farewells", although I've written about them as well, for other topics. Screw it, I'l write about them again. Muhahahahah!
Song titles. Oh, lordy, yes.
t makes note to read that book
Fate drabble #2
It's Jim Roush's fault. He said
the next Buffy,
he said,
created by Tim Minear.
Less than two months till Angel ends, and I am looking.
Smush-face lion! Andy Partridge! Google leads me to a board rising from the ashes and a group of strangers deep in discussion with...the real Tim? This is a scam, right? An imposter?
Nice is better than funny. Next thing I know, I'm sending money to Israel.
As a fan of both Belzer and Denis Leary, I feel compelled to say that nice isn't always better than funny...I can't explain it, I just felt obligated. ;)
But other than that, great drabble!
Hey, Teppy, (and Deb, actually) if it's not stepping on toes, maybe a future drabble could be inspired by a song title? Or just a song?
Sounds good to me. Have bookmarked.
He said the next Buffy, he said, created by Tim Minear.
Did he really? How erroneous is his information? I'll bet he thinks Tim created
Buffy,
in addition to writing all those episodes.
Nice is better than funny. Next thing I know, I'm sending money to Israel.
Heh.
Oh, I had a revelation. I just realized that the reason I can't think of any RL fateful encounters is that I don't believe in fate. But, here's an attempt at an encounter that gained significance in hindsight.
Baseball on the brain, sorry.
They pace one another, growling, up the line toward first. Arroyo on the mound shrugs, sorry, slim shoulders and scrawny ribs. His massive catcher stalks, mask hiding his curses from view, inside of the line and always between A-Rod and the mound. His trick works, and A-Rod soon forgets the new bruise on his elbow. His neck cords up; you can read his lips; he invites Varitek to bring it, and is obliged.
When the pandelirium is over, they're ejected, of course. Arroyo on the mound stands aside, and finishes the inning quickly. He tries not to hit another batter.
Months later, in the playoffs, Arroyo leaves the mound to tag on the line to first. Before home crowd, God, and camera, A-Rod slaps away the tag and speeds to second, feigning innocence. The umpires confer, Arroyo crouching in the green, mouth open. Varitek stands up at home and waits, eyes everywhere. When the interference call comes, the crowd howls denial and heaves beer bottles. Arroyo retreats to the mound. He stands there, ignoring second base and the flying debris, waiting for Varitek to throw him the ball.
NUTTY! I saw that on the sports news last night and wanted to beat the umpire with a rock. BAD call. (edit - wait, did they fix it? It was clearly interference.)
Very excellent drabble, too.
My fate, or belief therein, is in the fate I actualise (this is clarification purposes only, mind you - neither lecturing or preaching, just explaining where it comes from for me). So all those meetings were ones that I created, set up, arranged in advance basically, for specific purposes.
