A Tale Of Two Perspectives
Last Wednesday, I was at the local writers’ group. A recent development for me, but one that’s been positive so far. The people there are cool and quirky – the kind of folks whose eyes light up when you ask what they’re working on. In other words, my kind of people.
Well anyway, a question came up that got me thinking:
What processes do you have to make sure you’re not subconsciously copying other writers?
Others in the group discussed the various checks they perform—the trusted people they check in with as a part of their process. For me though, the question hit very differently. You see, I literally can’t remember a time when I wasn’t hyper-aware of other people’s writing and styles of communication. Every single time I read a book or engage in conversation, there’s a part of my brain that’s working on deconstructing the language/ body language/facial expressions while also trying to figure out what’s expected of me in return.
How and how much do I move my face to express this emotion?
At what point does that smile become too much?
Do I recognize that inference or turn of phrase from previous conversations?
Now, as terrible and fake as that might sound, my intent isn’t actually to trick people. Rather, it’s a survival mechanism born from decades of negative social consequences for not being “normal.” A mask to try and fit in better—to at least be acceptable to those around me. Sometimes it feels like everyone else all got the same instruction manual for How To People, whereas mine got lost in the mail.
Differing Perspectives = Different Struggles
You see, my problem has never been subconsciously copying others, because that was always the goal. I only ever wanted to human the “right” way. That said, I’ve never copied content in that way. The places and beings I write are places and beings that I “see” and “hear” in my souls. My masks only ever come out when communicating their worlds and words. For example, instead of simply telling a story in my own voice, I would fight with my words to make it sound like someone else—someone better—had written them. I’ve spent countless hours trying to figure out how “normal” people describe body language and emotions, and how to censor my prose, removing anything that others might think odd. In one of my journals, I have entire pages of notes detailing gestures and expressions as well as their most common corresponding emotions.
You get the idea.
My writer buddy’s question wasn’t intended to highlight the role of perspective in shaping our struggles, but that’s exactly what it did.
And that (perhaps oddly) now brings me to magic.
Perspective And (Magical) Possibility
I’ve written about perception a fair bit on this blog, but what about perspective? Whether we realize it or not, the way we view the world and our place in it plays a key role in our magic. Perspective not only delineates the boundaries of what we believe possible, it also shapes what we believe ourselves are capable of and deserve. Despite that key role, however, it’s rare for conversations about magical failures to even touch on this aspect. In my experience, people will gladly suggest tweaks to materia and timing, provide performance notes, and throw out alternative methods. But when was the last time you saw or heard someone even mention perspective as a potential factor in those conversations? Because I’m yet to think of any.
I think the closest I’ve seen is the odd bit of discourse around practitioner expectations.
We examine the fruit for its faults without checking the whole tree.
And sure, I know there are those who might argue that perspective doesn’t matter as long a practitioner does everything “correctly.” But no amount of ritual technology and anally retentive praxis can make up for a fundamental disconnect between what a practitioner believes possible and what the spirits they’re pestering can actually do. Are you winning for yourselves fair trades at the proverbial goblin market, or are you just getting ripped off instead?
And I don’t say any of this to be judgmental or to suggest that I’ve somehow got this all locked down (because I don’t). Rather, this is a struggle I believe to be common to all of us who were shaped by this particular chunk of consensus. Our perspectives are never wholly our own.
Different Struggles, Many Solutions
When it comes to my writing and masking, the solution is simple: to police my brain whenever it starts policing my brain until it (hopefully) stops doing the thing. Who watches the birds, and all that.
(I swear, it’s like a scene from a Hieronymus Bosch painting. Life be fucking hilarious like that when you really think about it.)
But what about magic?
Well, that’s the question, isn’t it? I can tell you what I’m doing (aside from appointing more brain cops, that is), and I will. However, that’s not the same thing as giving you personally a workable set of solutions. What appears to be working for me may not work for you.
That said, I do think it would be helpful if we began to include more consideration of the practitioner perspective in our troubleshooting conversations. But compassionately, you know? I’m going to be so disappointed if this post somehow kicks off a round of Sith-lord-esque nonsense about being disturbed by other people’s lack of faith.
My Toolbox For This Struggle Bus
So now I’ve got those bits out of the way, what am I personally doing?
- I write down my wins and regularly revisit them. I originally got this idea from Lee Morgan’s Standing And Not Falling. It’s a good one. Of course, those wins are a mixed bag in terms of scale, but in a heavily materialist society, it’s still good to remind yourself what’s possible.
- This probably comes as no surprise, but I FAFO as much as possible. Forget working magic only as needed, I’m figuring out weird and wonderful new ways to tweak my world. (Which in turn builds on #1.) Don’t know what to do? No problem. I just pull a rune or tarot card, then come up with a spell or working that aligns with that meaning. No matter the flavor of my FAFO though, I always write everything down. Just because I’m working on tweaking my perspective, doesn’t mean I’m ignoring the other variables. I also find this helpful for maintaining my curiosity to FAFO. Nothing quite gets my brainmeats going brrrr like, “What if?”
- Another thing I do is interrogate the boundaries of my perspective. This may sound like more brain cop shit, but I swear, these brain cops are different! Where one group patrols the Mind Streets for delinquent thoughts, the other handcuffs their wrists to tables in overly bright rooms and deconstructs their stories.
“Who sent you and who are you really?”
“Why are you here?”
“How did you get here?”You can learn a lot from asking questions like that of stories. Do that enough, and in my experience, some of those boundaries start to look pretty shaky.
- I’ve also built and maintain a magical persona in much the same way as one might a TTRPG character. This is really more of an experiment I’m running (see #2 above). A mental space to inhabit on the days when I’m struggling with those conceptual boundaries when something like the Stele de Jeu wouldn’t be appropriate. I like to think of this as the mindful and demure counterpart to the green cut crease eyeshadow of deity assumption.
- Finally, I’ve been working to identify and implement brain hacks from modalities like NLP and hypnotism (among others). Some of the hacks I’ve found so far help to ease me into different states of consciousness, while others serve as bridges between intellectual and fully internalized knowledge. My Soul Lore work also falls under this category to some degree.
I’ll be honest, I don’t really have a pithy statement to end this with (though I wish I did). So I’m just going to rip off Seneca in his letters to Lucilius and go with “Farewell.”