the magic gene

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I don't care how damned smart I may think I am, I still cringe and shriek inwardly when the magician saws the lady in half.

Of course it's an illusion.

Of course it's not happening.

Of course this is nothing more than entertainment.

Of course ... and still the electrical circuits in my mind go bonkers ... someone is being fatally and brutally attacked!!!

It's magic ... no matter how often the 'magician' tells me it is mere illusion, a snare and a delusion, a delight or a horror that simply does not exist.

I seem to have a 'magic' gene. Magic is what is outside my control, outside my understanding, outside my capacities and there is ample evidence in life that such things are true. Whether benevolent or horrific, there really are things that I cannot control and are therefore, in some sense, magical. The lady being cut in two is just the latest example.

And when someone tells me it is not magic, I rebel. I refuse to disbelieve what I viscerally do believe.

In the 18th century, a French doctor whose name I have forgotten, did a very precise autopsy on a body and then announced gleefully that he had found no soul. This was during the "Age of Reason," a time when empiricism announced its supremacy over a credulous past. Did it work? Of course not. Did the Age of Reason question its own credulity? Of course not.

Don't fuck with my magic!

The magic gene.

It's worth keeping an eye on ... assuming anyone might muster the magic to open an eye.
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