Tag Archives: Stephen King

THE STORIES WE BELIEVE ARE THE STORIES WE LIVE

I don’t believe in miracles; I depend upon them.  The same for magick.  I had prepared a quantum mechanical explanation of how people’s inner narrative could physically change the world, but I realized I had equal chances of being completely misunderstood and just plain wrong. So, in small words slowly typed: our unconscious minds choose what kind of world we live in and make the choices to create it.  Here are a couple of examples from my very weird life:

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I grew up loving monster movies.  From watching “The Spider” from behind the safety of the couch at eight to late-night cable marathons in my second marriage, I had an addict’s hunger for more rubber monsters.  One evening a few years ago, I was watching “Graveyard Shift.”  For those unfamiliar with the Stephen King canon, it centered on giant mutant rats taking over the lower levels of a New England textile mill.  As I watched this monster magnum opus, a flash of motion caught my eye.  A mouse, no more than two inches long, ran along the front of the entertainment center to stop under a stool that held up a potted plant.  Secreted there, the mouse turned, stood up on its hind legs and watched me.  It paws were clasped in front of it body as if he were begging for my pardon for this intrusion.

I watched the mouse watching me watching the giant mutant rats.  Under the stool, he didn’t seem very concerned with me.  He just watched.  I tried to stare him down, but that doesn’t work well with mice and toddlers.  Eventually, I shouted at him:

“I don’t believe you’re doing this!”

My input on the subject didn’t seem to be very important to the mouse and he kept watching me for several more seconds, no doubt enjoying the cosmic weirdness.  He in the end wandered off and I am sure he had his own encounter with horror through a glue trap on the basement steps.

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Last week, I purchased the charity anthology “Bleed.”  It has several twisted stories by equally twisted authors.  As I leafed through it at my desk, I came across Tim Waggoner’s  “Unwoven.”  The story starts with a writer discovering a spider crawling on the screen of his laptop.  His panicked reaction is to slam the computer shut and crush the spider.

I set the book down for a moment to get my coffee and to check what was on my laptop.  Again, there was a hint of motion from the corner of my eye.  A spider on a single thread of silk was belaying itself down from the ceiling.  This wasn’t just a little spider; it looked to be half the size of the robot spider from the opening of Jonny Quest and no more than a foot from my face.   I am not usually bothered by arachnids, but I shooed this guy away.  It was like he was reading over my shoulder and that always shuts down the writing flow.

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Assuming that I can be believed, (this is the Internet, after all) what do these synchronicity nuggets mean?  Maybe, it’s just the cosmos’ gentle nudge to remind us there is magick afoot, some larger meaning in the world, even if revealed in the behavior of vermin.  If nothing else, it shows that the Universe and I share a sick sense of humor.    

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