When life imitates art...

When life imitates art the results are, quite frankly, often disasterous. Like one of those horrid modernistic type things that is simply festering rubbish piled in a stinking mound. (I hope no messy teenage types are reading this; they will probably submit pictures taken on camera phones of their bedrooms for their GCSE art projects, and get triple A * s no doubt...)

But anyway.

I have had an unfortunate brush with life imitating art, the consequence of which leads me to believe I would perhaps be better off staying under the pink eaves and never venturing out again. This is an option which I am seriously considering. I may even make a list of just how plausible an idea it is.

Again, but anyway.

If I could have picked a book (literature is art, isn't it?) or a film or a song or even a sculpture (about which I know nothing), I would have liked this particular period of my life to imitate, it would not have been a morbidly depressing tale of dysfunctional families, a woman's greed, a man's folly and the ridiculous forging of ties that prove particularly difficult to unknot the moment you realise that satin green really doesn't suit you. There's too much of this kind of garbage as it is.

(For the purposes of information, I would have picked The Lord of the Rings and cast myself in the role of Legolas; at least I could have kicked some ork ass and been all wise and mystical.)

Sadly, it was the former, rather than the latter, with which I have been 'blessed'.

Most people have had experiences which they would describe as negative, which they would much rather not repeat, often foisted on them by the cold, gnarled hands of those they really wish they had never met. I am one such person (again, the former, not the latter; my hands are lovely, thank you very much, and particularly well manicured) and have been known to say that, if I stuck a pin in a particularly well defined and accurate map, I would have no chance, no chance at all, of sticking that pin (metaphorically) into anyone with such crone's figures and sackful of crap (for want of a better word).

Suffice to say that I was wrong.

Whatever you do, don't go sticking pins in maps and thinking you'll end up piercing a decent human being. You're just as likely to hit the wicked step mother in waiting as you would be if you went looking for her. More so, probably.

I feel there is probably something deeply significant and karma related to this fact. And it is a fact; trust me on that one. You don't need to suck on the bitter lemon of experience to learn from it. However, what exactly eludes me.

This does not help with the finding and ordering of my marbles which are now scattered all over the place in a dangerous yet attractive pattern.