I play solitaire. What technology has wrought for me is a way to play solitaire undreamed by my forebears, who have played solitaire for generations. On tables throughout my family there’s always a hand of solitaire laid out, unless they’re playing cards with each other - or eating.
You should see my mother deal herself a hand. She is a woman at prayer, a master of the art. The shuffle, the deal, chasing fate, moving on. When the doorbell rings, she is living in the present – like she just stepped out of the pool. And she’s glad to see you. After all, she’s been playing solitaire.
The shuffle and the deal I can manage, but the computer has seriously eroded that skill, so I’m left chasing fate without hands. But it’s still a thrill, dwelling in the place where losing is more exciting than winning, watching the elegance of luck played out to the one card which you don’t get, winning and losing at the same time.
If there’s a hot gene in my family, it’s the one that gambles - the will and skill to risk everything because you believe in fate. Big mistake. There’s another gene that sets the limit and luckily, I have that too. So do most of the rest of us. But once in awhile it comes up short, which never turns out too well. That’s why it’s good to play cards with yourself. You learn over and over again that your fate may well be in your hands, but it’s in the hand you’re dealt. Naturally, it’s all in how you play it.
You make your choices in ignorance. Over and over again you choose between winning and losing and at the end you seem to have had nothing to do with it at all. It’s just fate either smiling down on you or sending you to perdition, and either way, it’s fun. Until the doorbell rings, of course.
