Indeed: I have asked, and I have received. This time, however, I was on the other side of the exchange.
It centered around a chiropractic appointment.
I would call myself a "giver," except that I didn't really give anything. Rather, all I did is show up early for this particular appointment. And, even then, my reasons for doing so were wholly selfish: when the day came, it just worked better for me to get my adjustment at 10:00 AM instead of the appointed time of 11:00 (due to a million little unforeseen logistics, and the other things that life can throw at us on any given day). I almost called to see if I could bump up the appointment, but I had to literally pass right by the chiropractor's after leaving my hotel; it made sense to just drop in and see if the doctor might happen to be free.
That was the extent of my "giving": a selfish, and somewhat importunate, early arrival at my chiropractor's. Yet, "giving" it very well proved to be.
In my chiropractor's office, the man's eyes lit up as soon as he saw me. And then, after I explained why I was early, a smile opened across his whole face, of the bright, beaming variety that you just can't fake. "I love how the universe works," he said then, and proceeded to explain that he had just been hoping that I would come in at 10:00 instead of 11:00. See, he had mistakenly double-booked the 11:00 time slot.
I laughed. He laughed. I got my adjustment at a convenient time, and my chiropractor's scheduling dilemma was nullified in the bargain. Win-win.
If this is "giving," I like it.
Wednesday, July 1, 2015
Saturday, May 30, 2015
Worms & Coffee
I was on the road. It was lunchtime. I wanted some good, fresh, non-convenience-store coffee to go with my meal. So I stopped off and, with my trusty smartphone, searched for "nearby coffee shops."
Out where I was, in the coastal North Carolina countryside, only one result came up: Worms & Coffee.
My first thought was, Interesting name. My second was, Too far away, for the place was, indeed, several miles too distant to be worth the trip. So, back on the highway I went (after which I would soon find a suitable coffee shop, where I lunched and all was well). Before turning around, though, I did have a parting thought: Guess I'll never see the Worms & Coffee coffee shop, then. It was oddly disappointing, like missing out on some rare but unimportant event.
Yes, this being a synchronicity story, you probably know where this is going: somehow, in some profoundly unlikely way, I miraculously find myself at Worms & Coffee. You aren't wrong; but, the real wow of this incident is appreciated only in the details of my arrival.
First, I took a wrong road, when beginning the trip home. Though, this is a bit of an understatement: I took not just "the long way," or "the scenic route," or the road that would leave me on the wrong side of the tracks. Rather, this was the wrong road, in the sense of heading for Maine when you're looking for Florida. Coming out of Wilmington, NC, after having visited for my first time, I'd just continued south on the road I'd ended up on after my stay. I was, after all, just heading back "south," to Myrtle Beach nearby. South is south, I thought. The ocean was to my left and my car's hood was pointed down, so I was bound to hit Myrtle Beach eventually, right?
Unfortunately, I was ignorant of southeastern North Carolina geography. Namely, of the Cape Fear river and its peninsula.
Going blindly "south" for miles and miles, I'd kept expecting an exit to the highway, and wondering why there weren't any. Well, once the southerly road dead-ended at a picturesque beach (and I became enlightened in regards to the Cape Fear peninsula, again thanks to my handy smartphone), my questions were answered. There was one consolation, however: my misadventure had taken me right to a ferry port, and the next departure was in less than a half and hour. Oh well, I thought. Maybe a ferry ride will be fun.
Indeed, I did enjoy the ferry, for all the time my detour had cost me. And, at least I hadn't had anywhere to be (oh wait, I had; thankfully, the doctor was understanding when I called and cancelled my appointment). My butt hadn't even gotten too sore. However, my detour was just beginning.
Back on shore, across the Cape Fear river, I started home to Myrtle Beach ... only to get lost again. How I got lost, I'm still not quite sure; and, besides, it doesn't have much bearing on the synchronistic side of this whole mess (nor does the excruciating traffic jam that I became enmeshed in as a result)). But, in any case, this second navigation mistake introduced a pertinent twist in my story: it made my ill-fated journey back to Myrtle Beach that much more convoluted and roundabout, sending me even further astray into coastal southeastern NC. The same goes for the additional tangle of turns and byroads that was required to correct this latest mistake; by then, I was beyond lost, having shed all sense of direction or location, like a bloodhound with a busted nose. By the time I at last finished my wrong-turning and then got back on course, it was hours after I should've already been home.
At least I kept my cool and had some fun, I thought as I drove on (with a butt that had, by then, grown very sore), as consolation for my "wasted" day. However, my adventure wasn't quite over yet.
Right before reaching the highway I'd been desperately seeking out all afternoon, I passed a lonely little brick building, sitting on a desolate corner in the middle of nowhere. Worms & Coffee read a neon sign in the window, looking out of place in the emptiness. I'd gotten to see it, after all (really "after all," in this case).
I didn't have time to stop and check it out, sadly. But I did laugh. And laugh. And laugh.
Out where I was, in the coastal North Carolina countryside, only one result came up: Worms & Coffee.
My first thought was, Interesting name. My second was, Too far away, for the place was, indeed, several miles too distant to be worth the trip. So, back on the highway I went (after which I would soon find a suitable coffee shop, where I lunched and all was well). Before turning around, though, I did have a parting thought: Guess I'll never see the Worms & Coffee coffee shop, then. It was oddly disappointing, like missing out on some rare but unimportant event.
Yes, this being a synchronicity story, you probably know where this is going: somehow, in some profoundly unlikely way, I miraculously find myself at Worms & Coffee. You aren't wrong; but, the real wow of this incident is appreciated only in the details of my arrival.
First, I took a wrong road, when beginning the trip home. Though, this is a bit of an understatement: I took not just "the long way," or "the scenic route," or the road that would leave me on the wrong side of the tracks. Rather, this was the wrong road, in the sense of heading for Maine when you're looking for Florida. Coming out of Wilmington, NC, after having visited for my first time, I'd just continued south on the road I'd ended up on after my stay. I was, after all, just heading back "south," to Myrtle Beach nearby. South is south, I thought. The ocean was to my left and my car's hood was pointed down, so I was bound to hit Myrtle Beach eventually, right?
Unfortunately, I was ignorant of southeastern North Carolina geography. Namely, of the Cape Fear river and its peninsula.
Going blindly "south" for miles and miles, I'd kept expecting an exit to the highway, and wondering why there weren't any. Well, once the southerly road dead-ended at a picturesque beach (and I became enlightened in regards to the Cape Fear peninsula, again thanks to my handy smartphone), my questions were answered. There was one consolation, however: my misadventure had taken me right to a ferry port, and the next departure was in less than a half and hour. Oh well, I thought. Maybe a ferry ride will be fun.
Indeed, I did enjoy the ferry, for all the time my detour had cost me. And, at least I hadn't had anywhere to be (oh wait, I had; thankfully, the doctor was understanding when I called and cancelled my appointment). My butt hadn't even gotten too sore. However, my detour was just beginning.
Back on shore, across the Cape Fear river, I started home to Myrtle Beach ... only to get lost again. How I got lost, I'm still not quite sure; and, besides, it doesn't have much bearing on the synchronistic side of this whole mess (nor does the excruciating traffic jam that I became enmeshed in as a result)). But, in any case, this second navigation mistake introduced a pertinent twist in my story: it made my ill-fated journey back to Myrtle Beach that much more convoluted and roundabout, sending me even further astray into coastal southeastern NC. The same goes for the additional tangle of turns and byroads that was required to correct this latest mistake; by then, I was beyond lost, having shed all sense of direction or location, like a bloodhound with a busted nose. By the time I at last finished my wrong-turning and then got back on course, it was hours after I should've already been home.
At least I kept my cool and had some fun, I thought as I drove on (with a butt that had, by then, grown very sore), as consolation for my "wasted" day. However, my adventure wasn't quite over yet.
Right before reaching the highway I'd been desperately seeking out all afternoon, I passed a lonely little brick building, sitting on a desolate corner in the middle of nowhere. Worms & Coffee read a neon sign in the window, looking out of place in the emptiness. I'd gotten to see it, after all (really "after all," in this case).
I didn't have time to stop and check it out, sadly. But I did laugh. And laugh. And laugh.
Monday, May 18, 2015
Scooter For Sale
I was in the market for a moped scooter, but not just any. I wanted a Honda Ruckus, and I wanted it locally, and I wanted it cheap.
So it was only natural that the Ruckus in question caught my eye.
I saw it while driving through a small neighborhood that played host to a sprawling apartment complex. The scooter was parked in the complex's lot, and immediately upon seeing it, I had the distinct thought that it was for sale. I had no reason to think so; the scooter had no festive Halloween-orange "for sale" sign, nor any indicator of being for purchase. Yet, illogically, I felt -- knew -- that that Ruckus was on the market, such that, had I not been pressed for time, I would've stopped off and inquired about the asking price.
I drove on, telling myself that my yen for a Honda Ruckus was putting thoughts in my head. Three days later, however, that conclusion would change.
Not having found a scooter in this time, I checked my town's Craigslist page -- and there, posted barely a half-hour earlier, was a listing for a Honda Ruckus. First came excitement, upon seeing a local Ruckus for sale (and at a reasonable price); but that soon gave way to awe, as I browsed the pictures and at once recognized the scoot as that which I'd so memorably spied while out driving the other day.
Just to be sure, I returned to the apartment complex I'd passed. The scooter was still parked there, and after I compared it to the Craigslist pictures, it was indeed one in the same, right down to the parking lot and landmarks in the background.
Once more, I laughed.
(It bears mentioning that I shouldn't have even been driving in that neighborhood in the first place, that one day. I'd had no business there until a random man, seeing me looking at cars just down the road, directed me to his used-car lot, located just nearby, in that neighborhood where the Ruckus was parked. Interestingly, I'd felt Compelled to heed the man's tip ...)
So it was only natural that the Ruckus in question caught my eye.
I saw it while driving through a small neighborhood that played host to a sprawling apartment complex. The scooter was parked in the complex's lot, and immediately upon seeing it, I had the distinct thought that it was for sale. I had no reason to think so; the scooter had no festive Halloween-orange "for sale" sign, nor any indicator of being for purchase. Yet, illogically, I felt -- knew -- that that Ruckus was on the market, such that, had I not been pressed for time, I would've stopped off and inquired about the asking price.
I drove on, telling myself that my yen for a Honda Ruckus was putting thoughts in my head. Three days later, however, that conclusion would change.
Not having found a scooter in this time, I checked my town's Craigslist page -- and there, posted barely a half-hour earlier, was a listing for a Honda Ruckus. First came excitement, upon seeing a local Ruckus for sale (and at a reasonable price); but that soon gave way to awe, as I browsed the pictures and at once recognized the scoot as that which I'd so memorably spied while out driving the other day.
Just to be sure, I returned to the apartment complex I'd passed. The scooter was still parked there, and after I compared it to the Craigslist pictures, it was indeed one in the same, right down to the parking lot and landmarks in the background.
Once more, I laughed.
(It bears mentioning that I shouldn't have even been driving in that neighborhood in the first place, that one day. I'd had no business there until a random man, seeing me looking at cars just down the road, directed me to his used-car lot, located just nearby, in that neighborhood where the Ruckus was parked. Interestingly, I'd felt Compelled to heed the man's tip ...)
Wednesday, May 6, 2015
Page 37
The number 37. I was seeing it everywhere, though this was nothing new. The book page, however, was new.
It happened at the beach.
I'd gone out to sun, which I did, and it was good. Then, as I started back to my truck, something odd happened: I found myself going a different way than I'd arrived. Instead of walking over the stairs and deck to the parking lot, I went alongside them, down in the sand. It struck me as illogical, since the sand was loose and difficult to walk through; but then, I'd been intuitively Compelled to go that way, and I'd long ago learned to obey my Compellings. So I went with it.
There, I found the page.
There was a lot of litter in my path, along the dune I was walking beside; yet I felt Compelled to pick up just one in particular, a small, unassuming piece of paper. I grabbed it up, and felt another Compelling, now to read the paper's black type.
As it turned out, the litter was a single, stray page from a paperback book. In the header, the page number read "37."
Could I have seen that page number on the paper, subconsciously, and been attracted to it? No; I'd been Compelled at distance from it, too far away to read the small, paperback type (plus, I didn't even have my glasses on, being out on the beach). And, what about my being Compelled to walk down there in the first place, before I even had a chance to see the rogue book page at all?
This, after seeing that number no less than two dozen times in the preceding hours, and always in ways such as this, conspicuous and in-my-face and hugely unlikely (and that was just that one day ...).
I laughed. Indeed, I laughed.
It happened at the beach.
I'd gone out to sun, which I did, and it was good. Then, as I started back to my truck, something odd happened: I found myself going a different way than I'd arrived. Instead of walking over the stairs and deck to the parking lot, I went alongside them, down in the sand. It struck me as illogical, since the sand was loose and difficult to walk through; but then, I'd been intuitively Compelled to go that way, and I'd long ago learned to obey my Compellings. So I went with it.
There, I found the page.
There was a lot of litter in my path, along the dune I was walking beside; yet I felt Compelled to pick up just one in particular, a small, unassuming piece of paper. I grabbed it up, and felt another Compelling, now to read the paper's black type.
As it turned out, the litter was a single, stray page from a paperback book. In the header, the page number read "37."
Could I have seen that page number on the paper, subconsciously, and been attracted to it? No; I'd been Compelled at distance from it, too far away to read the small, paperback type (plus, I didn't even have my glasses on, being out on the beach). And, what about my being Compelled to walk down there in the first place, before I even had a chance to see the rogue book page at all?
This, after seeing that number no less than two dozen times in the preceding hours, and always in ways such as this, conspicuous and in-my-face and hugely unlikely (and that was just that one day ...).
I laughed. Indeed, I laughed.
Thursday, April 30, 2015
Ask and Ye Shall Receive -- Yes, Really
Ask and it will be given to you; seek and you will find; knock and the door will be opened to you.
-- Matthew 7:7
A couple months ago, I had a thought: that I would like a new scanner for my computer. What was wrong with my old one, and why didn't I just buy a replacement? Long story, and a quite boring one, and ultimately irrelevant. Anyway, the thought was there: new scanner, vague but distinct. Not quite a request -- not an asking, for a new scanner was by no means a necessity -- but a coherent desire, nonetheless.
The very next day, as I drove past a local dumpster on the way home, I noticed something set beside it: a silver, electronic-looking gizmo. I stopped and investigated. The gizmo was a computer scanner. It worked great, and was precisely what I needed, without the flaws of my old scanner.
I had received, it seemed. I smiled and laughed.
-- Matthew 7:7
* * *
A couple months ago, I had a thought: that I would like a new scanner for my computer. What was wrong with my old one, and why didn't I just buy a replacement? Long story, and a quite boring one, and ultimately irrelevant. Anyway, the thought was there: new scanner, vague but distinct. Not quite a request -- not an asking, for a new scanner was by no means a necessity -- but a coherent desire, nonetheless.
The very next day, as I drove past a local dumpster on the way home, I noticed something set beside it: a silver, electronic-looking gizmo. I stopped and investigated. The gizmo was a computer scanner. It worked great, and was precisely what I needed, without the flaws of my old scanner.
I had received, it seemed. I smiled and laughed.
* * *
And then it happened again.
Same basic circumstances, different thing: a new container for my receipts and records, now. My old one was problematic (in another boring way), and I was adverse to getting a new one (for more good-but-boring reasons). Likewise, this situation, for all its pettiness, culminated in a passive-yet-distinct desire, now for some filing apparatus without the flaws of that I currently used.
And again: the very next day; the very same dumpster; a curious object set considerately beside it, the way we do quasi-trash that someone might conceivably want. A minute later, I was the proud owner of a good, sturdy plastic case with an accordion-style folder inside. For my needs, nothing could've been more appropriate.
Consider me a receiver, I guess.
Sunday, April 26, 2015
Numbers, Numbers, Numbers
I see numbers. The same numbers. Over and over again. A bit unbelievable, even sci-fi? Yes. Worse, cliche? Perhaps. But it happens. Has happened many times. Will probably happen again (unless someone uncrosses the circuit in the Universe's server room).
I see the numbers ever day, more or less. But some days, I see more of them. Today was one such day.
The number 137 was the star, this time, along with its derivatives (173/1137/7031/373, etc). The sightings started when I did: in the morning, with 137 and co flying at me from all directions. On the clock, roadsigns, timestamps on computer files, the license plates of cars that cut me off or otherwise drew my attention -- and on and on. If there was an avenue for the numbers to somehow find their way into my field of awareness (and do so in some unlikely way, as to impress me to the point of taking notice), it arrived within the course of my morning of work and errands.
And then I stopped for gas.
I hadn't planned on getting gas. I didn't even need gas, really (I feel comfortable with a half a tank). But I had a few minutes to kill before a doctor's appointment, and the gas station was literally right across the road. I treasure time, and don't waste it (nor did I want to waste my time in the waiting room at a doctor's office). So I got gas, maybe for the first time before the needle was making love to the big "E." And, the total amount I ended up getting? 11.73 gallons, exactly. And did I intentionally squeeze off just this amount, perhaps in some subconscious attempt to manufacture a "meaningful coincidence" and, hence, feel special? Nope. I'd just fed my truck the nozzle, set it on auto, then returned to my cab and let her fill (I had something to do in there; again, I don't waste time). And, let's not even get anal about the chances of such a hit; considering the circumstances of this number arising in this fashion, after I'd been literally besieged by it all morning (and for years previously), at least a couple dozen times -- just ... no. We're talking astronomical figures, here.
But, it was still morning then. The day was still young.
Next to join the 137 bandwagon: the CD player in my truck. Over the couple hours I spent at the doctor's, the numbers had stopped pestering me (even numbers need rest, you know). But this only made the forthcoming incident that much more noticeable. I was parked in my truck, eating lunch, when I decided to put my window down. So I keyed the ignition (because I'm one of the power-window elite), cracked the window, and then turned the key back as fast -- but not before the CD player blinked to life, just long enough to display the active track's time: 3:36, clicking to 3:37 precisely as I killed the power. Afterward, I sat momentarily with my hand on the turned key, in a quiet shock -- a synchroshock, that is (sorry, couldn't resist).
And were the numbers ready to call it a day? No, they were not. Not at all.
I was next visited at the market -- twice. Or maybe it was just one single, super-sized synchronicity. Anyway, this one began with my returning a vitamin supplement. I went to a register. I told the cashier what I wanted. He tapped some buttons on the fancy computerized checkout (am I the only one still fascinated with these wonderful contraptions? I'm caught back in the days of single-line readouts and dot-matrix-printed receipts). As a matter of course, the man then reached out for my return's requisite receipt, whereupon his watch was placed squarely into my line of vision -- thus forcing me to see that it read 3:17. Again, I was struck with stunned amusement. This time, however, I didn't have the chance to smile and laugh, for a split second later, the cashier read me the total I would be receiving back from the return: $31.73. I never did smile. Instead, I accepted my money and then walked the store in a contained shock, a kind of synchronicity overload.
"Surely that was enough for one day," you're saying now. "No number is that tenacious!!!" Normally, you might be right, for, indeed, numbers do need their rest. But this was no normal day.
The numbers still had one little surprise for me. Recall how I'd gotten gas that morning, when I'd purchased exactly 11.73 gallons by simply letting the tank fill to capacity (after seeing that number or its cousins no less than a couple dozen times on the way there ...). Well, that evening, while updating the spreadsheet of my finance books, I went to enter the new debit I'd incurred from buying gas: $26.95, which I'd paid on a credit card. The card's preexisting balance was $46.18, and so I added these together to get my new bottom line: $73.13.
I couldn't write this stuff, folks (and I'm a writer, for God's sake).
I see the numbers ever day, more or less. But some days, I see more of them. Today was one such day.
The number 137 was the star, this time, along with its derivatives (173/1137/7031/373, etc). The sightings started when I did: in the morning, with 137 and co flying at me from all directions. On the clock, roadsigns, timestamps on computer files, the license plates of cars that cut me off or otherwise drew my attention -- and on and on. If there was an avenue for the numbers to somehow find their way into my field of awareness (and do so in some unlikely way, as to impress me to the point of taking notice), it arrived within the course of my morning of work and errands.
And then I stopped for gas.
I hadn't planned on getting gas. I didn't even need gas, really (I feel comfortable with a half a tank). But I had a few minutes to kill before a doctor's appointment, and the gas station was literally right across the road. I treasure time, and don't waste it (nor did I want to waste my time in the waiting room at a doctor's office). So I got gas, maybe for the first time before the needle was making love to the big "E." And, the total amount I ended up getting? 11.73 gallons, exactly. And did I intentionally squeeze off just this amount, perhaps in some subconscious attempt to manufacture a "meaningful coincidence" and, hence, feel special? Nope. I'd just fed my truck the nozzle, set it on auto, then returned to my cab and let her fill (I had something to do in there; again, I don't waste time). And, let's not even get anal about the chances of such a hit; considering the circumstances of this number arising in this fashion, after I'd been literally besieged by it all morning (and for years previously), at least a couple dozen times -- just ... no. We're talking astronomical figures, here.
But, it was still morning then. The day was still young.
Next to join the 137 bandwagon: the CD player in my truck. Over the couple hours I spent at the doctor's, the numbers had stopped pestering me (even numbers need rest, you know). But this only made the forthcoming incident that much more noticeable. I was parked in my truck, eating lunch, when I decided to put my window down. So I keyed the ignition (because I'm one of the power-window elite), cracked the window, and then turned the key back as fast -- but not before the CD player blinked to life, just long enough to display the active track's time: 3:36, clicking to 3:37 precisely as I killed the power. Afterward, I sat momentarily with my hand on the turned key, in a quiet shock -- a synchroshock, that is (sorry, couldn't resist).
And were the numbers ready to call it a day? No, they were not. Not at all.
I was next visited at the market -- twice. Or maybe it was just one single, super-sized synchronicity. Anyway, this one began with my returning a vitamin supplement. I went to a register. I told the cashier what I wanted. He tapped some buttons on the fancy computerized checkout (am I the only one still fascinated with these wonderful contraptions? I'm caught back in the days of single-line readouts and dot-matrix-printed receipts). As a matter of course, the man then reached out for my return's requisite receipt, whereupon his watch was placed squarely into my line of vision -- thus forcing me to see that it read 3:17. Again, I was struck with stunned amusement. This time, however, I didn't have the chance to smile and laugh, for a split second later, the cashier read me the total I would be receiving back from the return: $31.73. I never did smile. Instead, I accepted my money and then walked the store in a contained shock, a kind of synchronicity overload.
"Surely that was enough for one day," you're saying now. "No number is that tenacious!!!" Normally, you might be right, for, indeed, numbers do need their rest. But this was no normal day.
The numbers still had one little surprise for me. Recall how I'd gotten gas that morning, when I'd purchased exactly 11.73 gallons by simply letting the tank fill to capacity (after seeing that number or its cousins no less than a couple dozen times on the way there ...). Well, that evening, while updating the spreadsheet of my finance books, I went to enter the new debit I'd incurred from buying gas: $26.95, which I'd paid on a credit card. The card's preexisting balance was $46.18, and so I added these together to get my new bottom line: $73.13.
I couldn't write this stuff, folks (and I'm a writer, for God's sake).
(Note the 3:16 timestamp. I guess Johnny the cashier's watch was a minute fast (or the fancy checkout computer was slow).)
(And, because one parenthetical anecdote isn't enough: When I went into my records to fetch this receipt for the above photograph, I encountered two other receipts from the same market, both of which sported prominent 37's (a 3:37 timestamp on one, and a 7337 barcode number on another, these Just Happening to enter my line of sight). If it's not obvious, the numbers' sense of humor is rivaled only by their tenacity.)
Wednesday, April 22, 2015
Signs
I have a fondness for roadside signs. Or they do for me. Or something. Whatever the nature of our romance, the signs and their contents tend to synchronize with my thoughts (or to music, or conversation, or other signs), as to reflect these things in conspicuous ways, coinciding as if cued. (Yes, these incidents are, really, synchronicities. Sarcasm is an addiction.)
Today, for example: as I was driving down the road with the radio playing, Quiet Riot encouraged me to "get wild!" -- right as I passed a big digital sign, precisely as it cycled to an ad that read "GET WILD!" It made me shake my head and blink, like a cartoon character who'd just been socked in the face (which I kind of was).
But there's more to this -- far more. Besides the fact that even the best Broadway choreographer couldn't possibly have timed such a logistically complex coinciding of real-world events (and, the fact that today's sign-synchro wasn't the first time such a "coincidence" had occurred, nor the tenth, or the thirtieth), there are details that further substantiate this incident, devil-style.
First, my having the radio on at all. Upon getting into my truck, soupy and tired after a morning-long medical treatment, I hadn't much felt like listening to music. So, naturally, I made to turn off the radio -- but didn't, being Compelled to leave it on, as if the world might end were I to click off the classic-rock station streaming into my truck. (Another common thread in these incidents, my mysterious Compelling's and Noticing's and Just Happened To's, without which no synchronicity would've taken place.)
Second, my being on that road with the sign that was so enamored with me, or any road for that matter. Also thanks to my medically induced stupor, I'd felt like stopping off at the nearest parking lot and reading the book I'd brought. In fact, I'd had every intention of doing just this (as was my habit in regards to these weekly treatments, to park and read and eat a packed lunch afterward, to rest and regroup) -- except, just like with the radio, I was Compelled to drive thirty minutes to a certain coffee shop, then park there for my dining and reading, against all logic (or any real reason at all). The world would've ended had I not done this, also, so off I went.
Yes, I did leave my radio on, and I did make the drive to the coffee shop -- soupy and overtreated and not looking at all handsome, but I was there. And so I received that eighties-sounding encouragement to get wild, and I was on the road so that I could pass that sign, and I arrived just within that infinitesimal little window of the sign's cycling so that it could echo the radio lyric as if on a switch (and do so in big, red, screaming letters, perfectly reflective of the singer's tone).
I laughed, of course -- and, also, I felt quite loved. The signs were still fond of me, after all.
Today, for example: as I was driving down the road with the radio playing, Quiet Riot encouraged me to "get wild!" -- right as I passed a big digital sign, precisely as it cycled to an ad that read "GET WILD!" It made me shake my head and blink, like a cartoon character who'd just been socked in the face (which I kind of was).
But there's more to this -- far more. Besides the fact that even the best Broadway choreographer couldn't possibly have timed such a logistically complex coinciding of real-world events (and, the fact that today's sign-synchro wasn't the first time such a "coincidence" had occurred, nor the tenth, or the thirtieth), there are details that further substantiate this incident, devil-style.
First, my having the radio on at all. Upon getting into my truck, soupy and tired after a morning-long medical treatment, I hadn't much felt like listening to music. So, naturally, I made to turn off the radio -- but didn't, being Compelled to leave it on, as if the world might end were I to click off the classic-rock station streaming into my truck. (Another common thread in these incidents, my mysterious Compelling's and Noticing's and Just Happened To's, without which no synchronicity would've taken place.)
Second, my being on that road with the sign that was so enamored with me, or any road for that matter. Also thanks to my medically induced stupor, I'd felt like stopping off at the nearest parking lot and reading the book I'd brought. In fact, I'd had every intention of doing just this (as was my habit in regards to these weekly treatments, to park and read and eat a packed lunch afterward, to rest and regroup) -- except, just like with the radio, I was Compelled to drive thirty minutes to a certain coffee shop, then park there for my dining and reading, against all logic (or any real reason at all). The world would've ended had I not done this, also, so off I went.
Yes, I did leave my radio on, and I did make the drive to the coffee shop -- soupy and overtreated and not looking at all handsome, but I was there. And so I received that eighties-sounding encouragement to get wild, and I was on the road so that I could pass that sign, and I arrived just within that infinitesimal little window of the sign's cycling so that it could echo the radio lyric as if on a switch (and do so in big, red, screaming letters, perfectly reflective of the singer's tone).
I laughed, of course -- and, also, I felt quite loved. The signs were still fond of me, after all.
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