On my birthday, I perform a “spelling” for my friends. It’s a magical performance. Like, literal magic. Stuff happens. Freya showed up one time, I summoned fire from my fingers, Kachiko and Mr. Finger have made appearances.
I called this particular spelling, “Demons, Daemons and Balloons.” It was a depression exorcism. At the end of it, balloons appeared, falling on the audience. Everyone took their balloon home. A year later, people sent me pictures of their balloon: still full.
The spelling concluded with “Balloon #3”, performed by The Candle Thieves. I’ve provided a link below.
* * *
Listen closely now. I’m going to tell you a secret. The great secret of the world.
Things can mean more than just one thing at a time.
I remember going to Disneyworld when I was small. My parents bought me a balloon. I remember asking my dad why it floated in the air the way it did. He explained, “Because helium is lighter than oxygen.”
I asked him, “Why?”
He started into a long, engineer answer about molecules and weight and… I didn’t care.
It floated. In my hand. Lifting up toward the sky. And I knew if I let it go, it would fly away. I never wanted it to fly away. As far as I was concerned, it was magic. Helium, oxygen. Those were magic words. My balloon was magic.
And I knew that if I got enough balloons, I could lift up off the ground and fly away.
I held on to that balloon all day long. Even when we went on the fast rides, I held on, ducking down and putting my body over it so it couldn’t fly away. And at the end of the day, I took it home with me.
There’s a picture my mother has of me asleep in the hotel bed, Mickey Mouse ears on my head, holding on to the balloon. Snuggling it like a teddy bear. I even gave it a name. And no, I’m not going to tell you what it was.
Of course, the next day, it didn’t lift as high as it did the day before. And the next day, it lifted up a little less. My balloon was dying just a little bit every day. And I got a little sadder every day.
Some people learn about grief from a pet. I learned about it from my balloon. Ask anyone who knows me: I anthropomorphize everything. Dolls. Sandwiches. Those little gummy bears. And yes, balloons.
My balloon slowly lost all its helium. Finally, it was empty and flat. Didn’t matter. I put it in a drawer and kept it. For months. Until one day, my mother was going through my drawers and decided to throw it away.
I cried all night.
I cried because of the simple joy it gave me. Joy and wonder. I didn’t know how it defied gravity, it just did. And I knew if I got curious, I could find out why. But it didn’t matter to me right then. I was just fascinated by the magic of it. The simple and profound wonder of five-year old me.
Pick a card, any card…
Once upon a time…
When we’re young, the whole world is magic. Because Clarke’s Law hasn’t caught up with us yet.
My balloon could fly. And if I had enough of them… so could I.
Demon
Exorcism. The word comes from the Greek exorkismos, which means “to bind by oath.”
Two thousand years ago—a blink of an eye in the scope of human history—men and women who heard whispers were seen as a witch, a shaman or possessed. And depending on which part of the world you lived, it was a death sentence.
Two thousand years later—a blink of an eye—I know why I hear those whispers. It’s a chemical imbalance in my brain. An imbalance of the stuff that makes my neurotransmiters fire, dopamine, glutamate, benzopiazepines and all kinds of other Latin words that I can’t pronounce. My brain isn’t like other brains. Look at it with a CAT scan and you can see the differences.
Two thousand years ago, I was possessed by demons. Two thousand years later… Clarke’s Law at work again.
I’m sick. Just like having a cold, catching the measles, getting the mumps, contracting chicken pox… it’s an illness, just like any other. And I can take medications to stifle the symptoms. When I see movie trailers for romantic comedies and I start to cry… I know I need to visit the doctor. My brain chemistry is out of whack and I need help putting it back.
And that’s the hard part. Admitting I need help. That I can’t do it on my own. Our western heroes wouldn’t understand. A sky scraper full of terrorists? I’ll do it myself. Face the Emperor and my evil Sith father? I’ll do it myself. A town run by two groups of outlaws? I’ll do it myself.
That’s how I grew up. A man handles his problems on his own without anyone else’s help. Because asking for help means you’re admitting your weak.
Asking a doctor for pills when you could just kick yourself in the ass and get over it! Because that’s what a man does!
And you never know when that little voice will show up. The dark, venomous twin of Socrates’ daimonion. One, the voice that gently suggests you do the right thing. And the other… that voice gently suggesting you do… anything but.
Staring at a page of words… it whispers, “You’re a hack.”
When you say the wrong thing and make someone you care about cry… it whispers, “You’re an idiot.”
Even years later, after the mistake is long gone and everyone’s forgotten it… that little voice hasn’t. And it makes sure you don’t forget it, either. It kicks you. Right in the teeth. “Remember when you did that stupid thing?”
“Idiot.”
“Loser.”
“Hack.”
“Worthless.”
“Helpless.”
“All you ever do is hurt people.”
“All you ever do is screw things up even worse.”
“Why don’t you kill yourself?”
“Go on. Do it. Nobody will miss you. And you’ll stop hurting all the people you love. Because you’re stupid. And selfish. You never think about anyone but yourself. What have you ever accomplished? You wrote a game? Big deal. You worked so hard to be a writer? What do you write? Games that maybe a hundred people read? Gaiman’s a writer. King’s a writer. You’re a hack. What are you? Almost fifty? And what have you done? NOTHING. How many people have you hurt? The single common factor in all your failed relationships is YOU.”
Shut up.
“Why are you starting another one? You’re only going to end up hurting them just like you hurt everyone else.”
Shut up.
“Best to be alone. That way, you can’t hurt anyone.”
Shut up.
“Or you can just go into your room and swallow a bottle of pills like you did before. Only this time, you aren’t living with your parents so they won’t find you and…”
SHUT UP!!!!
It’s still there. It’s always there. Just, sometimes, it’s asleep. And when it wakes up, it hovers over my shoulder and whispers into my ear.
How can I get rid of it? Be rid of it?
Two thousand years ago, I could find a holy man, a shaman, a magician, to cast it out. A magic ritual. A holy ritual. A ceremony. An invocation.
A spell.
I have my magic tools. My sword. My book. My bell.
And I know… I know… I’m not the only one here who could use a little ritual. Am I right? I said, “Am I right?”
Can I get an “Amen?”
Can I get a “Hallelujah?”
TESTIFY!
22 Immediately Jesus made the disciples get into the boat and go on ahead of him to the other side, while he dismissed the crowd. 23 After he had dismissed them, he went up on a mountainside by himself to pray. Later that night, he was there alone, 24 and the boat was already a considerable distance from land, buffeted by the waves because the wind was against it.
25 Shortly before dawn Jesus went out to them, walking on the lake. 26 When the disciples saw him walking on the lake, they were terrified. “It’s a ghost,” they said, and cried out in fear.
27 But Jesus immediately said to them: “Take courage! It is I. Don’t be afraid.”
28 “Lord, if it’s you,” Peter replied, “tell me to come to you on the water.”
29 “Come,” he said.
Then Peter got down out of the boat, walked on the water and came toward Jesus. 30 But when he saw the wind, he was afraid and, beginning to sink, cried out, “Lord, save me!”
31 Immediately Jesus reached out his hand and caught him. “You of little faith,” he said, “why did you doubt?”
The part that always got me about that story was that last line. “Why did you doubt?” Because for me, Jesus wasn’t asking, “Why did you doubt me?” He’s asking, “Why did you doubt yourself.”
Peter was walking on the water. He was performing the miracle. Jesus told him he could walk on the water and Peter doubted that he could. That’s why he begins to sink.
Don’t Let Go
When I was a boy in Minnesota, I wanted to be a priest. They looked so awesome in their black suits and white robes. And in Catholic school, all the girls thought the priest was so handsome. He wore awesome clothes, he had magic powers, all the girls loved him.
Being a priest was like being a wizard. Or a magician.
And then, I moved to Georgia. And I changed my mind. I didn’t want to be a priest. I wanted to be a minister. It comes from the Old French. “One who serves.” Has the same root as the word “minus.” Think on that for a minute or two.
I also grew up wanting to be a con man. Saw The Sting with my father—greatest movie ever made—and walked out of it thinking, “I want to be that when I grow up.”
Priest. Minister. Magician. Con man. Game Master.
Convincing people to believe in things they know aren’t real.
But they’re true.
Here’s the truth. As we come back from our long walk through Yesod, coming back to Malkuth, the realm of shapes and forms. Waving goodbye to our imaginary friends. Hoping to see them again. (And we will.)
Coming back to Phoenix, Arizona. December 5, 2015. Ten, five, twenty, fifteen. A lot of fives in there. Hail Eris. And not a single one of them a coincidence. Hail Discordia. We’ve walked into the otherworld on Saturn’s Day. God of the Underworld. A good day for a magical ritual.
But we’re back here. Home again. Our feet firmly on the ground. Safe.
And before we part for good, I have one more spell to cast. One more transformation. One more bit of alchemy. Transforming something mundane into something sublime.
Things can mean more than one thing at a time.
Do you remember my balloon? The one my mother threw away?
It’s still with me. I never let go of it.
It’s how I keep the joy and wonder of little five-year-old me around wherever I go. Because I never let go of that balloon.
I never let go of my wonder. Never let go of my joy.
And when I hear that voice whispering in my ear.
I look up.
And there he is. Still tight in my hand. Still made of helium and plastic and magic.
And if you look very closely… squint if you have to…
… you can see yours, too.
And when you feel like you have to be the western hero, taking on the whole world by yourself… you can look up… and know this.
You aren’t alone. You don’t need to be alone.
If you hold on to your balloon.