There’s more to the weekend than fishing, but it’s a good start.
The Turtle and the Mustangs:
(Friday’s parable in two parts, neither of which is related to the other.)
I wandered off into the afternoon, no real set destination other than aiming for the post office, just to check the mail. I’ve got one problematic client, several grateful ones, and not a lot of business as the holidays kick into gear. So I was thinking, as I wandered along, pondering a certain planet alignment that will be upcoming for me. It’s a ‘rite of passage’ type of transition, or it’s a slam-dunk, or it’s slam. Over the years, I’ve seen the energy at this type of a transition point go many different ways – which is why a good consultation is usually in order. I was anticipating this, thinking about it, it’s not for several years, but I was getting ready, wondering which way it would go.
Usually, this is a career focus, a focal point wherein the career, that what I set out to do, my agreement about what this lifetime is all about, not so much goals in the physical realm, but more along the lines of the greater good, adding to the food chain, as I like to put it. What’s it all about?
I tend to interpret whatever symbols cross my path as omens, and having enough of a background in literature, I can spin a simple symbol into a large allegory in no time. From ancient mythology right up to current pop culture, anything is open for interpretation. So I rounded a corner on the dusty trial, under a bridge, and the question in my mind, at that moment, was, simply put, “Am I doing the right thing?”
The right thing, as I understood it, what I was questioning, was the art and artifice, the craft of hammering out the horoscopes, week after week, in their present form. Should I be marketing more heavily? If so, how and where? And if I should be advertising myself, how to pay for that advertising? Or skip it all together, and get in another line of work? Maybe the world doesn’t need a Shakespeare quoting scholarly redneck fishing guide set of scopes. Perhaps the idea is too advanced, too weird, or just too something?
So I ambled around the corner and there, in the middle of the trail, was a red-ear slider. A turtle. A turtle of the lake variety. A very commonplace turtle, in the middle of the trail, making headway. Probably looking for a place to either lay eggs, or fertilize eggs. I’m not particularly adept at turtle genders’ ID. But I was wondering, is this the sign I was looking for? Was that turtle, in the middle of the trail, wandering along like me, a symbol?
Like the turtle, I don’t move too fast. The writing career has taken a path, and I just follow what the muse dictates. Slow, almost pedantic at times, progress doesn’t happen overnight. “Overnight success” is usually the result of years of hard work. And like that symbol, the turtle, I’m continuing to move forward.
I’ll take it as a sign, at least for now, to keep on keepin’ on.
The other half of the tale, is about a pair of Mustangs. I’d like for them to both be 1965 Mustangs, but in fact, the nice one belongs to a neighbor, and it’s a 1967 Fastback. I’m guessing, not having talked to the guy, it’s got 289 in it. The other belongs to another neighbor, down the street, and it’s a “for real” 1965 Mustang. The ’67 is sweet. Completely rebuilt, looks like a frame-up restoration job. Must’ve cost a lot. Paint, interior, everything that’s visible, and from the way it purrs? Even the parts that aren’t visible seem to be rebuilt, refurbished and otherwise restored.
It stays under wraps most of the time, and when it’s out and about, the guy usually takes up two parking spots, careful not to mar the finish or get door dings. Despite the motor’s nice noise, it’s not pushed or driven hard, a carefully kept classic.
The other? Daily driver. Right rear quarter panel is slightly mashed. Horrendous door dings, no doubt from the supermarket parking lot, are visible, particularly bad on the driver’s side. Rubber looks good, but they’re black wall, not fancy, just serviceable.
To me, a car, even a classic 1965 Mustang, is nothing more than a way to get from point A, where I’m at, to point B, my destination. For some folks, I suppose, being seen in a beautifully restored vehicle like that gorgeous ’67? Maybe that is the point.
But if I were a car, which would I rather be? The daily driver, which may look a little beat up, but functions every bit as well as the fully restored classic? I’d rather be that 1965 Mustang that gets used – occasionally abused – every day. More fun. Less worries.
Cherchez les poissons:
