Bring the ships to shore...

This morning on the phone, my mother says, "You always have so many exciting projects on the horizon..." I thought it was going to be the prelude to some broad, supportive, cheerleader-like remarks, the kind that children want to hear from their parents. But then she goes, "It's a shame they seem to stay on the horizon. I'd like to see at least one of them make its way into the foreground or once." Ouch! Ah Maman... from your mouth to the god's ears. Of course, no matter how deflating such a passing comment can be to my plate-spinning ego, she's right. It's time for the tall ships to come to shore again, and share the rare spices and booty they've gathered from far-flung corners of Potentialdom. Not to say I don't remember past glory days and fat years of splendor and globetrotting. But I've reached a point on my timeline where at least it "feels" like I'm ripe for something substantial to land with the impact of a bowling ball in wet sand. Then again, Bode Miller felt like he was going to win the gold medal and Lawrence Summers felt like he would make a good president of Harvard. I'm sure Charles Manson feels like he'd make a great camp counselor.

Sometimes the universe gives you a shot, sometimes it doesn't. Sometimes you get the shot and you blow it. As Jonathan Rhys Meyers says in Match Point, "Of course, hard word is mandatory but what really matters is luck." By the way, I'm convinced that Woody Allen has finally been terrified enough by his own mortality to make a very masterful film that transcends his usual orbiting of his anal region. He still gets away with murder, but at least we learn something vital about human nature in the process.

("Barge Haulers on the Volga" by Ilya Repin, 1872)