Monday, September 9, 2013

Charles Taylor

On Magic

Whenever I spot a black cat, I say “Come here kitty. Come, come and if you come cross my path
seven times, I’ll give you three cans of tuna over three days. My trinity of reward . . .”

Every morning, before going to work, I get the ladder out of my garage, lean it against the wall,
and walk under it twelve times for each of the apostles.

I carry a small mirror in my front right pocket to defect back the evil eyes that get thrown my way 
during my commute.

When downtown at my business, I tell my sons to go into the tall buildings nearby with circulars 
advertising the store, but to distribute them only on the thirteen floor.

I sprinkle a green bottle of a Irish good luck juice before the main store entrance right before 

A small stem pointing up amongst the tea leaves in my green tea, at lunch, has never brought 
me, as far as I can tell, any great good luck, but I must admit I’ve never been bitten by 
rattlesnake or a brown recluse spider.

Maybe I’m too entitled. Maybe I take for granted the small sands of good Magic that get in the 
teeth every day. The roof on my house or business--neither has collapsed. That might be good 

It could be Magic doesn’t like our cliches. It craves the sceptic’s laughter and challenge.  I’ve 
found four leaf clovers after hours of searching in the Southern heat, but I still got beat up 
walking home from elementary school, a Yankee in North Carolina.

My cat runs her paws over her ears all the time to clean her fur. She does it every morning, and on
a small percentage of those mornings indeed rain has fallen. I’ve swept the feet of my daughters 
with the kitchen broom, but they remain unmarried.  Lucky girls!--so free of love’s griefs.

The bowling ball headed toward the gutter ignores the Magic of my hands waving to get it to 
curve back and at least mow down a couple of pins.

We need spells to calm the god of the volcano, the god of earthquake, the god of tornado, the 
god of hurricane, the god of the tsunami, the god of war, and the god of nuclear meltdown.

So many gods! Get busy Magicians. Invent new spells or rituals. Call me up and I’ll dance all 
night in ceremony. The issue’s not do they work. The issue’s we need to challenge Magic to come back, 
to do its thing, to give us solace and peace of mind.

Is it because of science that Magic grown shy or scarred and seems to have walked away? So 
what if lightning rods work better at chasing away bolts than incantations. The dyed green rabbit 
foot key chains of my childhood may have brought me good luck, but they were cruel and I’m 
glad they’re gone. Down with animal sacrifice! Magic has to change with the 

Certainly Magic has enough self-esteem not to require our constant courtship to be part of 
the internet of our lives. My ancestor spirits are highly supportive. They don’t get angry if I forget at 
times to pray to them.

Cross your fingers. Knock on wood. Light a candle. Owl, Raven, write in the sky. Rent a billboard 
like churches do. Come to be our bedsides in dreams. Say something.


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