I’ve forever been beholden to the number three: as a lucky number, as a sign that things are portended for good, or ill. Therefore, and since the rules governing superstition apply one’s logic toward certain outcomes, I wasn’t surprised when three horrible things happened to me this week. Now, we’re talking 1st world horrible—I feel the need to start any “poor me” perambulation with that disclaimer. To begin, on Friday, my cat went crazy. Quick recap: Persephone—the cat—suffers from bouts of feral personality disorder. I don’t know if that’s the actual term; the veterinarians just call her “fractured”. Well, anyway, she had one of those fits, went wild, and attacked me and my other fur-baby—Zeus, who leapt to my defence. Piss was all over the floor, since with her it’s a rage-and-fear combo that clamps down on the ol’ kidneys. Subsequent to that loveliness, I received a small graze from her teeth, nothing that punctured the skin or drew blood, though I still gave it a thorough disinfection—cat bites, even nips can be fearfully virulent. The maniac managed to chew through the leg of my new pants before I was able to scare her off, contain her in a quiet room, and leave her in peace and quiet in which she could disarm her insanity. Eventually, that bomb diffused itself, and Persey was suddenly very confused about the where/ what/ why preceding her newfound sanity.
It was on that same afternoon that I received an editorial review for Feast of Dreams, which, while not as unsettling as the duality of dear Persephone, caused me further unease. It wasn’t a bad review. Any author knows what those look like. The reviewer actually said some rather lovely things. Perhaps “lovely” isn’t the right word, since most of the praise was so loosely phrased and vague that I had to read the information several times to understand it. Bland, the whole thing was impeccably bland. As in, the review informed neither me nor the reader about anything important about the book: its themes, prose or narrative. It was a masterful evasion of anything but the barest of details: there are some characters (I honestly don’t think any were named), the book’s part of a serial, returning readers will like the story, Brown’s imagination is lush and no conventions are reheated—that last bit was the most identifiable praise I could extract. Indeed, had this review been an exercise in circumvention, it would have been top-class. While wandering my apartment reading the .pdf of Mr. or Mrs. Obfuscatum’s review, I smashed my elbow on a doorframe. Literally, as if I’d meant to do it: saw the frame, thought my elbow is going to hit that. And yet entranced by the inscrutable riddle of words displayed on my phone, I continued to walk into the accident. Perhaps I wanted to subconsciously end the triumvirate of unpleasant tidings.
Whew. I should be done for a while. At least, going by my gypsy wisdom, I’m due for a karmic rebalancing and three wondrous miracles must now occur. I don’t think that I’ll ever shake my superstitious affiliation with “threes”—the number has too strong a resonance with my beliefs. Although, I do believe that I can make that force work for me. I hate to sound like a Pollyanna, but we really are privileged just to draw breath, to be able to speak/ write/ be in a relatively free society. We’re privileged to have these incredible powers of transcontinental communication. We’re privileged to even be able to waste the valuable seconds of our lives pondering inanities like the whims of fate, triumvirates, or whether or not feedback was or wasn’t as perfect as we would have liked it to be. Perspective and gratitude, go hand in hand. It’s been a while since I reminded myself of that truism. Here’s your reminder, too—in case you needed it.
I’m determined, then, to turn this streak of poopy luck around, to create my three-pronged-glory. Funnily enough, I have three surprises planned for next week for Feasts’ Fan Appreciation Event. Keep your eyes on my Facebook and Twitter spaces to partake in my turn-of-fates. Because good luck, unlike bad, should be shared.
All my love,
P.S. While searching my hard-drive and the internet for today’s title image, my original plan had been to use a “lucky” four-leafed clover image to go with the tag. Then I deviated toward the macabre (as I sometimes do) and started looking for images of that old horror franchise: Leprechaun. Remember that movie(s)? I’m sure that Jennifer Aniston would rather you forget.