Lightning Strike

I attended Art Chicago this past weekend. The ur-conscious theme was butterflies. It happens every year. Various artists make something purportedly unique that interests them, like "boats", get it in a show, only to find that every-fricking-body has made boats that year.

"Son of a bitch!"

Jung would have called it synchronicity, or a manifestation of the collective unconscious. I view it as far more complex and interesting. Call it swarm intelligence if you will, it is a still little understood phenomenon , which, by the nature of being not entirely understood, is far more interesting than the late 19th or early 20th century explanations.

Regardless, the really important thing that happened there was a mutual lightning strike. Unfortunately, the chance meeting failed to gel into anything. It happens, more often than I would prefer. It was at Art Chicago, in the NEXT portion of the show. I turned the corner to come face to face with a tall, willowy blonde with  huge luminous blue eyes. Basically, my genetically predisposed type, a Nordic blonde. It's the eyes I always remember.

We smiled and said "Hi" to each other. At that moment, her girlfriend eyed me, grabbed her by the arm, and moved off. At the same time, Newman and his wife, the people I went with, called to me. I turned to see what they wanted, turned back, and she was gone.

Not the first time this has happened to me, and certainly not the last, but these bittersweet lost moments have a way of haunting you that the more lasting moments do not.

"What might have been" may not be the four saddest words in the universe, but they are up in the top ten.