Tag Archives: no such thing as coincidence

Lucky Bastard, or A Glitch in the Matrix


No re-motivator this week, because holy carp am I tapped out. Long week at school. Long week at the novel-writing game. Wife is hella sick. No time to muse on creativity and motivation and inspiration and the darkly wonderful things that happen in the writer’s lizard brain.

But, dude. You guys. GUYS.

I am thirty-something years old, and I have never in my life found a four-leaf clover. And there were times that I looked. I can distinctly remember a younger, high-school aged or maybe even collegiate version of myself spending entire minutes in weedy fields searching for one.

Never happened.

Then, today, this:20160326_185018.jpg

That’s totally my hand; you can tell by the horrible cuticles. I was gobsmacked. We hopped out of the car after a long day visiting with family, and I happened to glance down at my feet, and there it was.

But wait. WAIT.

Not even an hour later, I’d been to the grocery store and come back, and I was reflecting on how strange it was that I should find a four-leaf cloverin my own front yard. I glanced at my feet as I stepped over a totally different patch of clover. And I glanced again.

NO WAY.

20160326_193643.jpg

But yes way. A second four-leaf clover.

You guys.

Either I’m really, really lucky, or my front yard is a glitch in the matrix.

*skitters off to wait for Morpheus to unplug me*

This weekly remotivational post is part of Stream of Consciousness Saturday. Every weekend, I use Linda G. Hill’s prompt to refocus my efforts and evaluate my process, sometimes with productive results.


Moniker Mischance


So one of the books I’m currently reading is Dean Karnazes’s autobiography, Ultramarathon Man. Karnazes is, as the title suggests, a well-known athlete in a particular field (or at least he was at one time … I don’t really follow the charts) in that particular sport (an ultramarathon is in practice any race longer than a 26.2 mile marathon, though the real events are the fifty-milers and hundred-milers).

Yeah, people do that.

I mean, I love running, but there are limits.

Anyway.

It’s 10:30, I’m in bed reading, about thirty pages in. He’s detailing the end of an ultramarathon he ran, where his wife and kids met him and picked him up in their van. His kids, Nicholas and Alexandria.

And I stop. Sit up straight. Read it again. Wake my wife up to make her read it. (She isn’t impressed — she has to work in the morning.) I read it again. I marvel at the bizarre world we live in.

Those are my kids’ names, with a single letter difference between the two of them.

This is a hell of a coincidence, but as Sherlock teaches us, the universe is rarely so lazy. No, this is kismet of the cosmic sort. There is some common thread, some replicated section in our DNA, which has caused both Dean and myself to love running and to give our kids the same names.

Or maybe the commonality is with our wives. Probably we both have really smart wives.

Whatever. It’s weird and freaky and awesome.

*Burrows back into his book-hole*


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