Words & Picture - Chris Carnovale

We all want to believe in it. Even though we know that everything we have ever learned in real life says that it can’t be real, because science says so. And even after being clichéd into thinking that seeing is believing, even though you and I both did see what that man in his black hat, cape, and magic wand said was magic, you and I both have got to say, no way.

It must be all those DIY, show-your-little-sister-that-you-are-the-smartest-ever magic tricks. The ones that you find at the dollar store or on the streets of Bangkok. Those four rings. All the same, but one. I'm convinced there is only one that is the trickster in the gang. I only have two hands to look at and study a couple of the rings and the street-side magic trick seller, as some sort of 'look at these ones' proof. And what I really want to know: how does he do it?

The next question is: Why would I want to know anyways?! It would just ruin everything. Make the magic in the magic disappear. Vanish. Poof! Yet, there are still those of us who insist on watching a magic trick being performed that much closer than the person beside us, in order to see it.

For only a couple hundred Thai baht I too could possess this precious, mysterious power. The power of possessing others into the same obsessive staring leading to the inevitable “could someone please tell me where I can buy those rings?”

Magic, your days are numbered. Unless…

Unless, you can wave your magic wand over those magic trick street sellers. And, pull out of your sleeve a few more of the stories of real magic. Magic, which I have seen with my own eyes.

I have heard and collected many tales of magic, witches and shamanism, good and evil, from thousand year old hill-tribes; told more often than not by one of their most powerful of magicians or witches - good of course. These spells, also called lullabies, would often be cast in song, numbing you since you were a baby - keeping you up and just as quickly putting you to sleep.

These are people with healing powers. Healing touches. “One time I cut off the tip of my finger and instead of going to the hospital my brother touched it and not only did it stop bleeding but it also grew back.”

Makers of love potions and casters of secret magic spells to secure everlasting love.

I have smelt the smell of a dead man dying in his bamboo bed burned and severely infected, the medical professionals having given up, unable to help. And then a shaman, as a last resort, and, within weeks, healing him.

Further, I have watched grown men be processed by their ancestors past. It seemed that the repetitious beating of drums and smashing of symbols called upon these spirits. When the spirits would take over they would force the taken human body to roll, unharmed, through fire and smash, unfazed, into obstacles, in a semi-conscious, chaotic dance. I was told by a village elder that the spirits had come to join in celebration of the new year.

Listening to the tales of magic as intensively as I’d observed them, would never be enough. Trickery and magic were still at play in some sort of harmony, I was sure. And watching men being possessed by their ancestors. Okay, maybe this was magic. But, it still proved nothing, and it wasn’t enough like real magic. In celebration I too have found myself processed by the magic of music or was that some sort of…

The Dao (pronounced Zao) are a hilltribe in the farthest Northernest hills of Vietnam. They have a written language using Chinese characters but spoken and sung in their own dialect. In a fifteen day intensive learning, the village children, when their parents feel that they are ready, are sent to a school taught by village elders.

From before the sun comes up till the sun goes down, discipline like no other, from children aged 3 to young adults aged 25, is practiced in order to learn this ancient language. The language will be later used in Taoist rituals and ancestor worship.

It is on the 7th day that it happens. Real magic. From a real magic potion.

At dawn the potion is prepared. The base is a bowl three quarters full of the finest herb-infused rice wine. Personalized paper certificates are placed on the bowl in preparation for the shaman. When he arrives he begins to pray, focusing his attention on a small temporary classroom altar.

From the altar he moves to the first adorned bowl. Under it, a trapped chicken brought by the respected student. A short prayer, three quick yanks of the chicken’s comb and then the paper diploma is, in the hands of the maker, burst into flames - careful though to collect all of the ash into the mixture.

A quick stir with none other than a magic wand that moments before he actually waved over the ingredients and then he proceeds to repeat the spell on the next bowl, chicken and flammable diploma.

Then we waited. Waited for the right moment. When the first rooster sang the first song of morning.

The learners quickly rushed into the room, gulped down the now very magic potion, and with black rings coming from the corners of their mouths began to speak. As if under a magic spell; they began to speak!

I had been with them every day for seven days, and almost with tears in my eyes these boys spoke like the never-ending, uninterrupted beat of never-ending song. The new words and passages that they had struggled with, I swear, only two hours before, spewed without hesitation or pause and with an unexplainable intensity.

The room was filled with a new energy. As if tongues of fire distributed themselves and the spirit of the moment could only be explained in some modern day fairy tale, that another could only hope to believe. I could not believe my eyes let alone my ears. It was astounding. Unbelievable.

And it was just that that was the secret ingredient in the magic of that day. Believe it or not: there is great power in the power of believing.