Over the last two years what has kept me sane, while sheathed in place and
a half dozen gigs getting canceled is: the practice. Run tricks over and
over. Refining the patter, removing steps, shifting point of view. Moving
from process, to practice, to presentation has been leaps of effort. I’ve
discovered I have a deep river of fear, that the brain is not aware of,
but the hands sure are. I can’t even duplicate the tremors in my fingers
while I seem to be totally at rest. Luckily I can fall back on the
knowledge about Dis Card though.
My uncle Albert is the worst magician in the world.
Let me give you an example of just how bad his tricks are: He’d shuffle some cards, hold them out and ask me to pick a card, any card.
Then he’d remove my card, put it face down on the table and discard the rest of the deck, before pointing at the remaining card with a flourish and asking, “Is that your card?”
It all ended very badly though…
Last week, he tried the classic ‘detachable thumb’ trick.
After the hospital re-attached it, he vowed never to do magic again.
Warm and cozy. Discard.
Tea brewing. Discard.
Books and more books. Discard and discard.
That’s what he had said. Discard.
But she loved her warm cozy room. Books were her life. How could she discard all she cared for?
And then she would hear his voice, roaring inside her head, discard, discard, discard.
Had he discarded everything too, she asked in a barely audible voice. He turned to face her. If looks could kill…
Discard, you hear me.
And she did.
Becoming a secret agent was not for her, but they sure taught effective ways of.. getting rid of anything.
I’m very proud of my green credentials!
I try not to throw anything away, and do my best to restore, recycle, repurpose and reuse things that most people would treat as junk.
It makes me feel good, so much so that I’m more than happy to collect all the crap in the neighbourhood that other people discard, and recycle that too.
Especially what they abandon in the local cemetery. All of that good meat going to waste… It’s a crying shame.
Not any more though!
And my new meat pie business is doing a roaring trade too!
Totally environmentally friendly!
‘No Free Lunch Goes Unpunished’
Speeding down another side road, he checked his rear-view mirror again in a way only obsessive paranoia can provoke. He again replayed the linchpin moment his life now pivots on:
“I found a tool bag after the last time one of you guys was here. ‘S’it yours?” The office manager casually gestured to a tattered canvas tool bag sagging in the corner, my employer’s faded logo on the side.
I didn’t know who left it, but then I thought ‘Hey, free tools!’ So, I gave a nod, shook his hand, and loaded it onto my cart.
Shouldn’t have looked inside…
Billbert was speachless at the girl’s odd response. What more could she help him with, besides showing him to his homeroom class?
He held up the paper. “All I really need is to get to my homeroom.”
She smiled again. Her teeth appeared unnaturally white. Was it because of her glowing yellow eyes? “You can get rid of the paper. I’m in all of your classes. You can follow me.”
Billbert wasn’t ready to discard his schedule just yet. She’d hardly looked at it and he wanted to insure that she was taking him to the correct rooms each time.
There’s a bronze statue in the middle of the university of some wise old man standing there, one hand holding a scroll and the other arm outstretched, palm up, gesturing to something.
One Friday afternoon, the students put a six pack of beer in his palm.
A tradition was born.
Every Friday afternoon, a six pack of beer appears.
At first, some student would put it there.
Then, increasingly elaborate ceremonies.
Runners relaying the beer around campus like an Olympic flame.
The thing is, nobody has ever seen what happens to the beer.
One moment it’s there, then it’s gone.