leap of logic

She said, Freud said there are no such things as accidents. Or something like that. But that we'd save that discussion for another day. (We only ever have 45 minutes at a time, and so we must stay on task.)

Regardless, I didn't know we didn't think Freud was a kook. But then I'm always sort of walking into walls in these conversations. Tripping along happily when I'm stopped up short.

I say, "Uhhh. . . " a lot.

And, "I guess?"

And, defensive, defeated, "I don't know." The frustrating part of which is that I think she does know and just isn't telling.

Usually, though, I'm down with that. Not the not telling, but rather the idea of an intentional universe. I can point to specific examples in friendships, in relationships, in jobs, in travel and in blogging even, that feel so wonderfully, specifically un-accidental. Moments and stretches that feel guided, orchestrated in a perfect symphony of synchronicity. Even if Freud agrees.

But what about when I want off the hook? It's only spilled milk, right? No latent anger there. No hidden sadness. No frustration made manifest. Just milk on the ground.

Can't we leave it at that?

And then this.

Lately, my most concrete acts of good-citizenry are met with bizarro karma.

I help a stranger at the bookstore jump her car.

A few days later, I get a flat tire.

I help a friend jump his car.

A few days later, I get another flat tire.

Yesterday, another friend calls, stranded with a dead battery and could I swing by to help. Of course I oblige, because what am I going to say? The universe says I'm not allowed?

Tires fat with air, I worry them and the meaning of this circle. Am I creating something? Do I mitigate healthy pride with misery? Or can it just be spilled milk?

You know, I just don't know.