It was a hot Saturday, and everything seemed out of step. The art gallery had changed the exhibit I was looking for, I didn't have the veggies I thought I had when I was making dinner, and the "check engine" light started to flicker in my car. Even the song on my stereo seemed out of tune. It was "We'll Make Time" by Hawksley Workman, and it opens with a four-note chant. For some reason, I didn't start paying attention to the song until the second or third note, and the song became the aural equivalent of an optical illusion: off-key and out of sync, and even though I knew the song well, I couldn't convince my brain to listen to it "properly". At this point, though, I'd reached my destination. I parked the car and reset the song so it would start again when I returned. Maybe a second chance was required.
My destination this evening? The Monarch Theatre, to see a screening of "Midnight in Paris", the latest Woody Allen film. I won't go into what the film's about, but while I watched it, my passion of cinema rose from cold ashes. What a beautiful film. Even my love of writing felt the spark. My love of *all* writing. Professionals and amateurs, past and present, novelists, scriptwriters, and yes, even the occasional blog.
I left the theatre with my head feeling clearer than it's been in months, and a smile that I just couldn't help sharing with passersby. All was right with the world, and my place within it.
I got into the car, and Hawksley's song came through perfectly, without any of the dissonance I'd struggled against earlier. I sang along to the parts I knew, and didn't worry about the rest of it.