1/27/12: Actuarial

Yep, "actuarial." Ever heard this word? I have, exactly once, as to be noted and defined in my word ledger, and not much else. But this isn't a ledger synchronicity.

It was on my mind when I awoke yesterday, very clearly and distinctly, in the space normally held by "breakfast" or "toilet." Actuarial, actuarial, I thought, and continued doing so off and on all day, haunted by the word's significant presence and improbable arrival. Short of remembering it had something to do with insurance, I knew nothing of the word.

However, yesterday came and went, and I had no further encounters with actuarial, despite looking all over for it as though I'd called it a name. It was this morning that I realized this, also upon waking, "no actuarial" now replacing "actuarial" and its predecessors, accompanied by a despising sense of disappointment. It might have been the name of a woman. I got out of bed, and the word wasted no time leaving my attentions.

Then, this evening, while reading a book immaterial to this occurrence, I came face to face with none other than"actuarial," in context to something even less relevant. Regardless, it was there. There were neither fireworks nor alarm bells upon its discovery.

(It bears mentioning: the word found me only when I'd ceased expecting it. And, also, the word's dictionary definition: "a person qualified to calculate commercial risks and probabilities involving uncertain future events" (the italics are mine).)

1/17/12: Mass Dissidence

Find my bizarro short, "Jane", in Mass Dissidence, a new, dystopic anthology from Static Movement.

Link

1/10/12: She wore a wimple

I've mentioned word synchronicities, right? When unlikely words pop up in unlikely ways within an unlikely period of time? This was a variation of that.

I went to the market yesterday, and my cashier wore a wimple. Yes, a wimple. A pretty young woman, with bedroom eyes, and hair dyed neon-red, a crafty smile. She looked in no way deserving of a wimple, yet it worked for her. Keep wearing your wimple, miss, if you're reading this.

So, I can now say I've been cashiered by a woman in a wimple. I checked it off my list of things to do before I die.

Now, this morning. While studying my ledger of words to learn, over breakfast, I came to "wimple," which caught my eye -- not so much because I'd just yesterday met the lovely, wimpled cashier, but because I'd written down the word and looked up its definition, as if I didn't know what a wimple was. Sometimes you just have to make sure, I guess. In any case, there it was, and I Just Happened to come across the entry the day after my exciting encounter with the cashier.

But that's not all, folks.

Tonight, while editing a novel of mine, I came across it again, "wimple," one of only maybe two or three times I've used the headwear in my writings.

(Another interesting point: I wasn't initially in Ms. Wimple's line at the grocery store, but while I was waiting, hers cleared and she waved me over. Destiny?)

1/4/12: Birkenstock

Exhibit A:

The day before last, my father gave me a pair of shoes, randomly. I paid the shoes enough attention to see that they were too big, then promptly forgot them.

Exhibit B:

In my thousands of pages of writings, I have, a single time, referenced the shoe company, Birkenstock. And as it happened, I edited that reference yesterday morning, a novel of mine that is fresh from rejection (or, rather, non-reply -- is it a rejection when the publisher just ignores you?).

Closing argument:

Yesterday afternoon, after I'd finished editing my novel for the day, I happened to Notice the gifted pair of shoes that were too big for me. I felt oddly attracted to them then, especially the logo on the side of one, obscured by its positioning. The longer I looked, the more compelled I felt to see the shoe's logo, for no good reason, or even a bad one. I simply had to see the brand-logo on that shoe, or the world would end.

Reluctantly, I went and turned the shoe, and it was a Birkenstock. I have not had experience of anything Birkenstock since the last I'd edited my novel, months ago.