Meaning Of Magic

I ought to learn more about omens and portents. There are those who live by them, in the center of them, every decision designed in the light of dire actions.

There is so much to memorize if I desire immortality: Never toast anyone with water unless you want them to die; never stick your chopsticks straight up which looks like incense sticks at a funeral; never whistle indoors which summons death and demonic spirits; never put your shoes on a table— it symbolizes the death of a loved one; never cut your nails at night— it causes premature death as does seeing a crow, sleeping in a room with a fan running, walking under a ladder, or inviting an owl into your home (well, an owl being there with or without an invitation).

We demand life, see it as our right and, still, some wrap their existence in the sorcery of signs and superstitions.

In the mysteries of flesh, the magic that is the body, we entertain a terrible, insatiable hunger to control and direct every envelopment, every emanation.

In the end, we claim to love and respect divine superintendence, that very omnipresence which makes magic meaningless, gift-wraps us, presents us to the unknown.

Orphanage

The cold links of these chains you wear constrain your memories from freely airing their complaints.

Origins: Who is that woman pushing poppyseed through the hand grinder?

Sad she is, incapable of sharing such a sensuous experience. Who is that man, sold early into slavery, but sweetly surrendering to it all his life? That orphanage from which you emerged—after World War II, and after Korea, and “I Love Lucy,” and Soupy Sales,* and long after childhood’s life span—where is it now, who lives there now? You need someone new in the rawness of this naked life. A mother, a sister, maybe a lover, to show you that all that is good on this earth can be had. Come here. I’ll hold you in this wilderness.