Cut And Restored

In the "Glossary of Magic Terms," there's something called "cut and restored," which refers to any "effect" where an object is cut-up and then made whole again. According to the glossary, this is usually performed with rope, string or thread. I was looking up "Magic Terms" today, because of an article I read this morning in the Sunday Times' Metropolitan section, concerning a fascinating man - called the "Millionaires' Magician" aka Steve Cohen, who earns more than $1 Million a year for his tremendous talents in sleight of hand trickery. I am envious of Cohen's gifts in conjuring something out of nothing, and transforming something into nothing. He is in on a world where effects, escape, illusion, and stacked decks reign supreme, and I presume his audience benefits from entry into his magical matrix. I was originally going to write about how the term "cut and restored" sounded like a biographical and poetic description of my last two years of looking for a permanent job, of dreams and expectations being dashed and cut in the long waiting game, and of people in my life who have restored my faith in good things happening, and have restored me from being cut. But, for now, I just want to focus on being restored by a great many people in my life, and particularly a dear friend who I found out only this late afternoon, has passed away rather suddenly. I feel that I can speak of my experience with him, and his passing in "magical terms." He had a unique vantage point or "angle" of the person I was and am; he was onto my "tricks," whether they were "good," or "limited," and he was somehow acutely aware that no matter how far I fell, I would at some unknown point in the future be an "ambitious card," or a selected card that continually rises to the top of the deck after being placed into the middle of that same deck. He too, much like Steve Cohen, allowed me dalliances with escapism, a moment to shut the outside world out, and disappear into myself; with him I could muster up a shiny coin behind my ear, and reinvent myself; I could hit the "reset" button and triumph in the exploratory riffs and rides of the "wild card." When I was "torn up," he made me whole again, when I was "cut-up," he made me whole again. And now while the shock of his "disappearance" is far from wearing off, and the "effect" of the loss is still unknown to me, I see bits and pieces of things he said or did for me. I presume that the bits and pieces will grow as the days without him are etched farther and farther into the future. I've been lucky, up until now, I've never experienced a loved one's death, and so I've been spared a necessary step in life: death. A year or so ago, another dear friend asked me if I ever thought about death or dying. I responded rather quickly and resolutely, that I did not spend a great deal of time thinking about time ending. What was the point? I've experienced all of Woody Allen's brilliant forays into the tragic and comedic transgressions and fixations of death and dying. I've experienced the deaths of two pet guinea pigs when I was much younger, and how I felt a significant dropping point, when one took its last breath. I could feel the weight shift away and upward; almost as if his soul was being reclaimed by the King God Guinea. But that's as close as I've gotten to this scary and saddest of conundrums. My parents were very sensitive in not letting me ever experience a funeral of people close to them. And so death has remained up until now, something strange, out in the distance, something I've had no exposure to. Now, I grope for images of him alive. I see his room, and his tweed jacket hanging off the shoulder of the chair just-so, and I hear his voice, and I wish I hadn't been five minutes late the last time I saw him, less than a week ago. I'm chiding myself for that five minutes lost, all-the-while, I am so grateful for ten years gained knowing him, and how he restored me and my faith in things all these years.