Do You Believe in Magic?

In the month following my birthday, I have been thinking a lot about magic.

Do you believe in magic?

I think you'll find that you do. Even if that is not the term you would use.

The Chinese call it chi; the energy or life force that is in everything. Catholics call it the work of miracles ( and yes, a virgin birth would be that indeed). Jung wrapped it up in his theory of synchronicity. Pagan traditions found that mysticism and nature were one and the same.

Whatever you choose to call it, whatever framework you decide to put it in, when magic happens, you know.

As adults, many of us try to rationalise what we see as extraordinairy or inexplicable events. It's tough being an "adult" to live with the openness that most of us are born with. With bills, mortgages, housework and all the other daily concerns that we must endure; it is hard to remain unblinkered. It is hard to do as William Blake says:

If the doors of perception were cleansed every thing would appear to man[sic] as it is; infinite. For man [sic] has closed himself up, till he sees all things thro' narrow chinks of his cavern.

Blake was considered a bit mad in his time. But I think most visionaries who are ahead of their time are. As Groucho Marx said:

Blessed are the cracked for they shall let in the light.

Another well known crackpot who we now revere, said:

The most beautiful thing we can experience is the mysterious. It is the source of all true art and all science. He [sic] to whom this emotion is a stranger, who can no longer pause to wonder and stand rapt in awe, is as good as dead: his[ sic] eyes are closed. - Einstein

As a child, magic was everywhere for me. I think it must be like this for most children unless they are dissuaded by their elders and taught to repress it.

Either that or you just forget. You "grow up".

What a shame that we allow that to happen. Some adults manage to hang onto it though. Some go on to do very well.  Someone who did very well out of it was the fellow below:

It's true isn't it?  If you don't want to see it, you won't.

But isn't life much more marvellous when you do?

 

A Rose by Any Other Name

One of the things I appreciate most about having a diverse mix of friends is the different experiences I have with each of them. For example, my mate Renata is a free food magnet. Many a time I have been walking down the street with her when out of the blue, someone will offer us free food. I think she has a homing instinct similar to carrier pigeons when it comes to saving money. Another friend Lupe is a man magnet. She meets men at the rate at which most people blink. Her hectic love life makes Sex and the City seem like dating for geriatrics.

I was out with both of them last night for a night of food and frolics. Renata left early leaving me and Lupe to entertain ourselves. True to form, Lupe started chatting to two blokes on the street whilst having a fag. They came in and ended up sharing our table. As they sat down, one of them turned to me and said:

Hi, my name’s XXX

I didn’t think I’d heard right.

Excuse me; did you say your name is XXX?

Yes, that’s right.

I laughed.

But that’s my name!

You may be thinking, what’s the big deal but my name is not common. It’s the equivalent of being called Hortensia and then meeting some dude with the same name.

As the weirdness of it sunk in he told us his surname.

Get out of town, that is not your real name! was mine and Lupe’s instant reply

He shrugged and showed us his business cards.

There it was. His real name.

Oh how we laughed.

Then Lupe decided to share with us a name that she loved.

I love the name Hint. It’s just so....strong. If I had a daughter I would call her that.

As the guys stared, probably regretting their choice to join us, I told her that she must not do that to her future children. That she must not do that to anyone. Not even a pet.

But I like it.

Hortensia (the male) chipped in:

Look love, you can’t call your daughter Hint. It’s like Mint. It’s like Lint. I mean I could get it if there was some big bloke down the gym with muscles bulging out to here and he’s your trainer and he comes up to you and says Alright? The name’s Hint. I could get it then but not for a little baby girl. It’s just not right.

Duly chastened there was no further mention of that moniker for the remainder of the evening.

I fear the worst though. Poor little Hint.

Tanya Gold Chose My Birthday Present

I'm a Guardian reader which apparently, according to the English love for classification makes me a middle-class leftie snot. That said I also read the Daily Mail on the weekend for its trashiness and I buy the Times on a Sunday but read the mags only. If I'm bored I may delve into the Independent and if I'm desperate, I’ll browse the Telegraph.

My loyalty to the Guardian and Sunday Observer is not for its news reportage. I read it because I like the style of writing found within its pages and also for the topics the paper covers. I always keep an eye out for pieces written by Hadley Freeman or Tanya Gold as their writing almost always engages my interest because of the way they say things. As a fledging writer of short opinion pieces (a.k.a blogging), I admire the force of personality and voice behind their words. So much so that sometime in the past year I decided that if I were to write professionally, that these two would be my role models. And then didn’t think anymore of it until two days ago.


Tanya Gold. Role model.

It was my birthday. I was celebrating in an overheated bar in central London with friends. I'd had too much to drink and was trying to be a birthday host which was not going so well. At some hot, foggy point in the evening my mates, Renata and Cassandra sat down next to me. Cassandra had a book on her lap.

This is your birthday present, she said, But first I have to tell you a story.

Ok. I instantly felt more alert. I love a good story.

Do you know who Tanya Gold is?

Yes, I replied, I love her writing.

This was clearly not expected as my mates started squealing in that hyper way that only women and queens can do. I’m a joiner so I squealed:

Why? Why do you ask? She's one of my favourite Guardian writers!

She chose your birthday present! She chose it! Cassandra squealed back.

What?! How did you manage that?!

I didn't know why we were all so excited but we were. Tanya Gold’s ears must have turned purple.

It turns out that Cassandra had gone to Daunts in Belsize Park to buy my birthday present. Browsing the shelves she overheard a conversation between a woman (Tanya) and the bookshop assistant and got the impression that Tanya was someone who knew books. Cassandra is one of those naturally affable people who could chat to stone and get a reply so she sidled up and asked:

Excuse me but I'm trying to buy a birthday present for my friend and you seem to know a lot about books. Would you mind suggesting something?

Tanya to her credit went right along with it.

What kinds of things does your friend like?

Oh, erm. Travelling. New York. Books. Writing.

(note here that Cassandra might have added: She’s also stunningly intelligent, will work for peanuts and needs a writing break. Can you help?)

Has she ever been to Venice?

I don't know. I don't think so.

Well if she's never been, this will make her want to go. It’s the best book about Venice ever written.

And with that Tanya pulled Jan Morris', Venice from the shelf and started to read aloud:

If you take an aircraft over Venice and fly low above her mottled attics, you will see her canals thick with an endless flow of craft, like little black corpuscles.


Maybe it was the word corpuscles but Cassandra was sold. When she went to pay the shop assistant whispered to her:

That was Tanya Gold you were speaking to.

Oh. Was it? Who's Tanya Gold?

Cassandra, not being a Guardian reader it seems, applied the powers of Google and forthwith was regaling me with this tale several hours later.

Renata her accomplice leaned over and looked me seriously in the eye. Well eyes.

You must write to her. This was meant to be.

To say what? Thank you for choosing my birthday present?

Yes. You must. Something has happened.

At that point all that had happened was that I had turned thirty-six and was drunk. But I knew what she meant. Synchronicity is one of life’s random, strange and delightful gifts. It’s always good to acknowledge it.

So thank you Tanya for Venice and the journey ahead. And thank you C & R for brewing up some magic for me on my birthday.

Toil & Trouble

I am quite a reactive sort and I am often cursing under my breath at all manner of things. The weather. Bad food. People talking loudly on mobiles. Customer service. This is fairly normal behaviour I think, for city dweller in the 21st century. We all mutter daily under bated breath. It’s normal. Isn’t it?

A situation at work recently brought on one of these muttering attacks. A familiar scenario where someone is paid a lot of money while you do all the work for them. I vented my spleen at my inanimate PC screen in a passive aggressive manner. My colleague who was also pissed off had another approach.

Mmmm. Death or flu. Death or flu, she muttered to herself.

I thought she was asking me a question.

I’m sorry? I replied.

No no, I’m just deciding which one. Probably flu. A bad one, she continued, still half –talking to herself.

Give who flu?

Oh, I just have a death or flu policy for a few people, she continued blithely. Just the one’s who push me too far.

By now my anger had been replaced by laughter.

Just the two. What about chicken pox? I choked out.

No. Just death or flu.

And with that, she returned to work to continue her double, double, toil and trouble.

Dream Mail

Whenever I have an especially vivid dream about someone, I see it as a sign for me to get in contact with them, if I am in contact with them. Life doesn't always allow this to happen of course. I had a dream about Obama awhile ago but unlike Scarlett Johannsson, I'm not gonna try email the guy.

Recently, I've been part of a dream mail sequence. Last week my friend Sophia got in touch to tell me about a dream she'd had about visiting me in London. It was vivid, real and a bit disturbing so she texted me to tell me about it. Yesterday I emailed my friend CJ in Perth because of a dream I'd had in which I was checking to see how she was settling in back at home after a six month travel adventure. Today I got an email from my friend Mack in Canberra. The opening line of his email was that he had had a dream about having coffee with me in London and then realised that we were actually having coffee in Ginos in Perth. So he got in touch.

There's something reassuring to me that in a time where email and internet are king and queen and all the post you ever get in your letterbox are bills, that reaching out to someone can be determined by your dreams.

I think that's a good definition of the word lovely.