Ritual

or, a process of selection

A thin film of cellophane is wrapped tightly around the box, the plastic folded over at the corners into neat little triangles. The folds resemble small and transparent napkins. A machine did it, of course, but it's so neat that it makes you wonder how it’s even possible.

The box is one of many slotted into the shelf. You don't know why you have so many. You know exactly why you have so many.

You slide the box out, inspect the edges. It has everything you desire: shape, contents, an attractive back design. This could be the one you want. But it isn't. You cannot say why. So you slide it back and extract another, placing it on your palm where it has the same slim shape, the same cellophane-wrapped form, the same gentle weight that wants to drag your hand to the floor. Except … it’s lighter than you expect—lighter than you’re used to. Not this one, you realise. You slide it back, extract another. The pattern on the back is pleasant, but not distracting. It has a symmetry and tessellation that would have made a certain Dutch graphic artist happy. The weight of this one is correct. You know this by instinct. You know the precise contents within. If even one of the many flat rectangular pieces housed inside was removed, you would know. That is the extent of your intimacy with the box and its contents.

You smile. This one. This one tonight.

Feeling the sense of relief that this act of choice brings, you dig the nail of your thumb into the plastic film—at the point where one of the small, transparent napkins is folded over at the corners—and peel it back. The plastic comes away with a satisfying rip, releasing the box from its cellophane confines. It makes a sound your mind has learned to associate with a kind of ritualistic pleasure. You discard the plastic onto the table. Later, you’ll move it to the bin, but for now your attention is on the box.

Next comes the seal. You’re never quite sure whether you should attack it with your thumbnail or seek a blade. You opt for the nail, same as you always do. A blade would need to be sourced and the kitchen is at least a room away. It takes several attempts, but your nail gets through the seal and you smooth the broken edges around the crescent tab, making sure no residue of glue remains. It would be disastrous if so. The wondrous rectangles inside will, eventually, become blemished and warped, but their initial exposure must be kept pristine.

You open the lid, popping it out from its crescent enclosure and folding it back on its scored hinge. There's no aroma, no release like the scent of a new book, but it has the same sensation to your mind. It elicits a brief and beautiful burst of pleasure you have come to desire. It's why you do it. It's not at all why you do it.

You part the little paper flaps on either side of the opening—the ones that would otherwise prevent a smooth extraction—and tilt the deck at an angle. The cards come gliding out, gliding as though their freedom has finally arrived. You are their saviour. You have accepted them just as they have accepted you. They slide out and onto your palm, the place where they are destined to belong. They are slippery, like little flat fish, yet somehow they retain their whole. You spread them, inspect them, adjust to how they feel, confirming for yourself that they are right. That this is the right deck. You split the packet, abut the ends and push them together with perfect pressure to let them weave in their glorious way, the one-after-another-after-another whisper until the whole deck is interlaced and then bowed and allowed to cascade, the noise now a snake’s hiss.

You smile again. This one tonight.

You return the cards to the case. Enclosed within their sacred box, you slide them into your pocket. Later, they will be used. Later, they will be extracted and fanned. They will be palmed, shifted, spread. They will be shuffled—falsely and with a casual hand that belies the thousands and thousands of hours repeating the action. They will be turned, doubled, tripled; they will be memorised, miscalled, jogged and stealed and tossed.

They will be all this, just as they have always been.

To you, they will be all this.

It is why you do it. It is precisely why you do it.

But for now, the comfort and security of their shape against your thigh is a gift you carry out into the night.

---

A short afterword. It’s not my norm to write in the second person¹. I feel a little tense…

Anyway. You may know that I have a deep love and affection with cards and close-up magic, having spent numerous years in my twenties working as a magician. It is one of my first loves. Though we have had our quarrels over the years, we have never truly fallen out. To my left as I write, there is a shelf containing many unique, rare, and varied decks of cards. Some are expensive. Stupidly so². Others are commonplace. In the bedroom cupboard are bricks of several more, the classic Bicycles in red and blue, sealed and wrapped and waiting to be used.

If you’d like to read more of this passion, I wrote some more words about it in my early days here. It’s a piece that remains one of my favourite slices of word-output because it was written directly from the heart. You can read that by clicking here.

All images in this post are by the author. That’s my hand right left there.

1. You hope this is the second person.

2. The bottom left deck in the image at the top of the post is one such, as innocuous as it may look.