Magic

It is granted the eyes play tricks on the mind. How much more so does the man play tricks on the mind? The eyes are passive in what they see. The man is active in what he does. Indeed, it is the man who directs the eyes towards that which deceives. Lament, then, the traps of illusions but lament more the tricks of the greatest illusionists. While the illusion brings other to err, the greatest illusionists brings himself to believe in his own deceptions. For in this life we are performers and all performers have themselves as part of the audiences. See the tragedy of the self-loathing performer who cripples his performance with doubt and the self-loving performer who cripples himself with confidence. The former stutters; the latter feigns with such transparent passion he becomes a caricature rather than a character.

Take the man who consciously tries to serve two masters. Both require his services, yet he can only in truth serve one. What is he to do? He can quit one or trick himself into thinking he serves both. Given enough time, the man will see himself split where there is only one. In the hall of mirrors that is his mind, he will notice nothing unusual.

Picture his situation. The masters always ring their bells for service. Constant is their need. Our ambitious man, excited by the noise, thinks, "I will serve one and then the other." He goes first to his true master, tends to the master's need, and then sets off to serve the other. Alas, in the midst of his jaunt across the stage he hears the bell again behind him. Could it be the master requires still more? He thinks, "This will only take a moment. I know what he wants by now and can complete the task more swiftly than before." He alters his course and reverts back to his true master. Again, our ambitious man tends to the master's need. Thinking himself finished, he takes his leave to answer the other bell. The sound of his footsteps is interrupted again by the jingle of a bell behind him. How can this be? I was on my way to the other, and yet my master wants still more. "I must not leave things unfinished. I will wrap up my loose ends first. Then, I can freely go to the other." He returns, peforms his service, bows, and departs. As this loop repeats and repeats, our illusitionist--if he is worthy of the title--begins to craft the illusion. He trains himself in mental slight of hand.

He is uneqivocally committed to both masters--he says as much himself. Yet, to the best of the audience's recollection, he only serves the one. Does this not rend his heart? Is the audience not horrified at his hipocracy? Do not some in the audience laugh at our ambitious man's portrayal of the fool? Oh--the disappointment of frustrating the other master is too great and our ambitious man cannot abide it! Rather than tender his resignation with the other, admit that he is but a man and can only serve one at a time, he starts to see himself as over on the other side of the stage. He imagines himself serving the other. At first the audience is confused. Is our man derranged? They watch in disbelief as our man recites mid-route, "Look at me, fool that I am! Here I am in the middle and am headed in the wrong direction. I hear the bell behind me and yet I am walking in the opposite direction. I must have just served the other and got turned around in my return. Yes, I served the other. How else did I wind up here in the middle? Silly man that I am, I must have been daydreaming and become disoriented. I will turn around and answer hat call first, and then go back to the other." Through the confidence of the illusionist, the illusion is created. At first, the audience question's the performer's credulity. Upon unwaivering repetition, they begin to question their own.

By this trick on the mind, our man starts to see himself in to discrete and disparate places successively. He does not need a puff of smoke or a closet to walk in to, but only deceit--and he can travel from one side of the stage to the other in the blink of an eye. Our ambitious man takes the act of departing from his true master as a sign of his service rendered to the other. He takes the ticket he holds to be evidence of his arrival when it only shows his unsubstantiated intention to depart.

As this continues, the illusion develops and thickens. He needs to go less and less towards the other to satisfy his conception of obligation to the other. His ear starts to hear the other bell less and less, thinking it is only the echo of his true master's. The further he actually is from the other, the nearer he becomes in his own mind. For his final trick, he ammends his language and alters the course of his thoughts. Serving the other is incorporated into his identity--"I am a servant to two masters." He tells himself that service to the other is included within the service to his true master--"By helping the one, I help the other." He puffs himself up and the audience--mesmerized by his assertions--believes. "How good I am at juggling!" he crows. "The balls seem to converge in my mind. All I need to do is focus on the one in my hand and the other is kept aloft, as though my will can act apart from my body. I, who tend to both, see only one. Praise be my powers of conventration and focus! I can give myself fully to many and yet be so envoloped as to know only the one at any time." The audience, enraptured and entertain, praises as commanded. They stand and applaud. They yell to one another over the din of the theater, "I don't know how he does it!" Truly, they do not know he does it and neither does he. Precisely because he does not do it does no one know how. But that is of no consequence; everyone is entertained. The trick is complete and the curtain falls upon our ambitious man who has trained himself and convinced his audience to see two where there is only one.

Correspondence 6

(For a newer draft of this letter within the completed series of letters, click here.)

Alan,

My tone was stern. I admit I turned the screw too far. I apologize for that. Let us both calm down and take stock of the situation. You are somewhere between proud and miserable. I am somewhere between angry and concerned. Let's both commit to struggling to make way towards the better side of our Janus-faced hearts. In order to do that, you need to stop thinking about deserts and I need to stop considering you my responsibility.

I think you are completely right in your dissatisfaction regarding the standard mode of personal identity. We are all much more than our job titles. Still, social convention demands it and has a way of simplifying what would otherwise be needlessly complicated. If we could not draw upon a set of stock questions to ask at dinner parties and church meetings, how much more awkward would introductions be? Moreover, one can gain understanding about a person from know how she spends a third of her waking hours. It would be wrong to assume that is the best she was capable of doing, of course. To know how she reconciles herself to the role would be informative. Granting a concession to convention, I would applaud that original person who would ask what I did this morning instead of where I work.

Speaking of question asking, I'd like to make you aware of a possibility. You could ask me about myself sometime. That would be original, wouldn't it? You could ask me what I have done with myself the last five years. I would then tell you how, after we parted ways and I went through the requisite mourning process, I decided to pick up anchor and set off for this metropolis. (I assume my mother was kind enough to forward you my address. She always was incorrigibly fond of you.) My experience here has been, all in all, refreshing. It is at once easier to lose yourself and to be found in a big city. I appreciate the anonymity it provides, although being in close proximity to so many other people increases your chances of meeting a loon. Everything here is faster. There is no time for pleasantries, yet there remains just enough for rudeness. Even then, the city proves ambivalent. Provided the offender is not a neighbor, the odds are against ever running across the same villain. It is safer to turn your cheek here as a result, since it is improbable to be struck twice. Wouldn't it be nice that I could say all this and it would appear we were interacting rather than alternately acting? But I am getting ahead of myself, imagining as I do.

I hope you are better now. Do yourself a favor and search out someone to help in whatever small way you can find.

Sophia

Correspondence 5

(For a newer draft of this letter within the completed series of letters, click here.)

Dear Sophia,

Please forgive the tardiness of my response. I'm sure you can understand the delay when you consider the extent of your criticisms. I am wounded, but I cannot say I did not deserve it. You have me dead to rights and have continued to know me better than myself.

You asked what I wanted specifically. If I were able to tell you that, I would be a rare sort of person. Do you presume to know what it is you want specifically? I can see that frustration and despair follows from not being clear headed on the topic, but what can I do? I have always had a keener sense for what affronts me. I can, for instance, assuredly assert that I do not want to be here. I do not like my lowly position. I have tried and tried and tried to take care of myself, to maneuver and advance--for nothing! I am in a pool of quicksand. I am sinking into the slop of false accusations and disrespect. The ignominy of it all! Have you ever been lambasted by a 'superior'? The only thing superior about him is his paranoia and stupidity! Oh, the conniving bastard! How can it be that power is so haphazardly invested in blockheads! Enough of these ravings. I do not want to court more reproaches.

I confess I feel frail and prone to rambling. I am exhausted by my interior volleys. I was proud, am wretched, and dart between the two sides every minute. In the social sphere, I have fallen--rightfully so. But in my livelihood--here I am an innocent victim. The shame of it all! At least now I do not have to introduce myself as a salesman, not because I'm not one but because no one asks. Why is that the first question out of everyone's mouths? "What do you do?" I do a lot of things. This morning I awoke, made my bed, at breakfast, watered my house plants, dressed, brushed my teeth, and shaved my face. I packed a lunch and drove my car--all before 8 a.m. mind you. "But what do you do?" I am paid to squander my time, if you must know. Isn't that how it always is? How tired I am of all of it.

Am I so conceited, Sophia? I think not and that concerns me. Can self-loathing and hubris coincide in one person to such a degree? I fear the surest sign of a prideful heart is a lack of remorse. How is it that a man can try to do no wrong and yet transgress the boundaries of error often? You do not hold these mistakes against me, merciful creature that you are, and yet I feel as though pinned. Somewhere in my mind I always wanted to love you, but I never succeeded. I am a changed man, a child awakening. Like a child, I am tired and irritable. I cannot carry on with this. I am confounded by what I expected from this correspondence as what I expected from this life. I am sorry for dumping this refuse upon your porch.

Yours,
Alan