Dreams on a Clay Canvas

My world was sent into a tailspin today: Rafael Nadal lost at the French Open, even before he reached the finals. It's not important who he lost to (okay, it was Soderling). All that matters is that he lost. He probably would have also lost to Hanescu, or Cilic, or Acasuso, if he had been playing any of them. It doesn't matter. He lost.

He must have been having a really bad day at the office, because he not only lost, he played poorly. I kept thinking that he would turn it around sooner or later, as he has done umpteen times in the past. But he couldn't. The mistakes seemed to have control of him, not the other way around. I kept thinking that he had been taken over by my own fate in life, with his own demolished before a shocked tennis public.

I saw an interview of Soderling following the match. He appeared self-assured that he had won the match simply by besting Nadal at his own game. Okay, I cannot take anything away from the fact that Soderling won, but his game was nothing out of the ordinary, and I doubt that he will be able to beat a really on Roger Federer or, perhaps just as likely, Andy Murray, or my as-of-today-favorite for this year, Jo-Wilfried Tsonga.

BTW, last year's ladies' winner, Ana Ivanovic, also lost. I suppose this simply wasn't the year for repeat winners.

Hmmm, I suppose that I myself must be doing something right, however: Otherwise, I wouldn't be able to spend so much time obsessing about such inconsequential things. I'm even considering taking up oil painting. I've already got the first two paintings completed, well, in my head at least. All I've got to do is get started. But that shouldn't be any harder than tackling a blank clay tennis court, should it? Give me a brush.