Ruin a Wish- A Game.

Granted. Instead of the terrestrial existence that you have grown accustomed, you are now a jet setter who rides on the latest solar electrified plasma driven greenhouse jet. You chase the sun for 24 hours in the northern hemisphere for six months and then again in the southern.  Sometimes you land for a brief time usually at the equator or poles to pick up traveling friends for bike rides and dance parties.

I wish for an insatiably content companion with a young heart and an old mind.

Granted! One of those little garden Buddhas will be arriving in the mail shortly. Along with some frozen lamb’s heart.

I wish for the skill to make birch bark baskets.

Maieshe Ljin wrote:I wish for the skill to make birch bark baskets.

Granted! You are now the finest birch bark basket maker in the world. Unfortunately it turned into an obsession, causing all the rest of your skills to atrophy, and you now require 24/7 care to survive.

I wish that the black flies would leave me alone when I'm trying to get work done outside.

Granted! They swarm whoever is closest to you in great number, and don’t touch you at all.

I wish for a good soup pot.

Granted! But it is in a HUGE pot in the middle of your kitchen, only makes one type of soup, and is never used up. After a while you get throughly sick of it and can't give any more away either.

I wish for years of being pain free.

Jennie Little wrote:
I wish for years of being pain free.

Granted! You are now an infant again, and will not age, and will not grow up. But it doesn't hurt!

I wish my cars were repaired.

Granted! After being stolen, their new owners make them all cherry.

I wish I was as good at finishing projects as I am at starting them.

Granted! I need only provide a quote from Walden.

There was an artist in the city of Kouroo who was disposed to strive after perfection. One day it came into his mind to make a staff. Having considered that in an imperfect work time is an ingredient, but into a perfect work time does not enter, he said to him-self, It shall be perfect in all respects, though I should do nothing else in my life. He proceeded instantly to the forest for wood, being resolved that it should not be made of unsuitable material; and as he searched for and rejected stick after stick, his friends gradually deserted him, for they grew old in their works and died, but he grew not older by a mo-ment. His singleness of purpose and resolution, and his elevated piety, endowed him, without his knowl-edge, with perennial youth. As he made no compromise with Time, Time kept out of his way, and only sighed at a distance because he could not overcome him. Before he had found a stock in all respects suitable the city of Kouroo was a hoary ruin, and he sat on one of its mounds to peel the stick. Before he had given it the proper shape the dynasty of the Candahars was at an end, and with the point of the stick he wrote the name of the last of that race in the sand, and then resumed his work. By the time he had smoothed and polished the staff Kalpa was no longer the pole-star; and ere he had put on the ferrule and the head adorned with precious stones, Brahma had awoke and slumbered many times.

The following I have yet to fully comprehend:

But why do I stay to mention these things? When the finishing stroke was put to his work, it suddenly expanded before the eyes of the astonished artist into the fairest of all the creations of Brahma. He had made a new system in making a staff, a world with full and fair proportions; in which, though the old cities and dynasties had passed away, fairer and more glorious ones had taken their places. And now he saw by the heap of shavings still fresh at his feet, that, for him and his work, the former lapse of time had been an illusion, and that no more time had elapsed than is required for a single scintillation from the brain of Brahma to fall on and inflame the tinder of a mortal brain.
The material was pure, and his art was pure; how could the result be other than wonderful?

I wish for lots of good pure compost.

Granted, but now a beautiful fold of majestic beasts has great demands of your attention for all manners of their living. The pile they produce grows into a hill of purest manure compost. Grows and grows into a bigger hill from where they survey your entire movements with interest and belar at you with any discontent. Because of the demands of compost management and the beasts themselves your garden goes without compost, your consideration or your presence. The seasons spin faster and faster and you get caught up in a whirl of doing for the next. The vortex of purpose  however keeps you young even without so much cabbage. So you live your days as an agingless hermit with a huge fan base standing on a pile.


I wish for someone to tend the garden and maybe make 100 or so birch baskets during the winter.

Granted!

One day you are out in the pasture and it’s almost night. The first stars are out, the air is cold. And at once you see a UFO in the distance speeding towards you. It is made of wood, and followed by three horsemen rushing out of the forest, with carts loaded with supplies. You can see now that the UFO is roughly cylindrical and contains a fearsome being wielding a giant pestle. They settle in the nearby wilderness; you are now neighbor to Baba Yaga.

Not long after, they begin plowing your pasture and scaring the cows away, because they like the soil. And they plant it full of datura, henbane, toadflax, horse chestnut, quack grass, ergoty rye, and a number of poisonous, bizarre, and foul smelling plants you can’t name.

One day you go to Baba Yaga requesting compensation. She orders the servants to make you a hundred baskets and they are done the next morning. Each is exquisitely made, and thimble sized.

I wish it weren’t either cold and rainy or hot and sunny.