If Only Life Were a Magic Show...Yeah, I know.

In light of the events of last week, the most recent Houdini is only a puff of smoke. Still, it never hurts to go back over life's lessons. Abracadabra! May you all have a wonderful weekend.


How to Handle a Houdini(originally published March, 2008)


"He pulled a Houdini."

It's a phrase that's batted about dating circles with disdain and disgust. Everyone seems to hate The Houdini. He's the man who shows fairly intense interest, perhaps takes a woman out on several dates and then, poof! He's gone leaving her behind in a cloud of bewilderment and confusion. There is no white dove, no rabbit, no Siberian tiger on a platform to wow his audience. He leaves behind an empty stage and a theater so silent you can almost hear the digits change on her cell phone LCD time display as she checks it once again from the third row back. The soft green glow lights her face as she hits "messages"...just in case. Nothing.

Harry Houdini (3/24/1874 - 10/31/1926) was a master illusionist. He was an escape artist. He didn't really disappear, although some wondered if he might have had the power to do so, given the sheer audacity and difficulty of his illusions and stunts. His profession required incredible physical and mental training, practice, and precise timing. The Dating Houdini doesn't really deserve the title, because disappearing from a dating situation isn't nearly as grand - when compared to what Houdini accomplished. Houdini had to work at what he did. He had to struggle, sweat, and at times risk his life. Most dating escape artists simply stop showing up. That's pretty easy in comparison.

The offender (the escape artist) can also be female. Nothing is to say that a Houdini has to be a male. There are two basic ways to handle being Houdini'd. I promise the first option is the most attractive to future suitors who might be paying attention to your behavior, but feel free to attempt option two. My guess is that if you're reading this and you have any inkling that option two has merit, my words will effect you in the same way a false cut would a shuffle.

Option One: Move on after taking a very brief personal inventory. How's your grooming, mood, manners, general presentation? I want this inventory to be ultra-brief. This is most likely, almost certainly, I can almost promise you, not about you! There, there, isn't that better? Forget about it. Take a walk, ride your bike, go to the movie, call a friend. Oh, and leave the booze and ice cream out of this. They have no part in it.

Option Two: Call him or her. Texting is good, too. Email? Why not? Perhaps write a poem, odes are nice. Do you know any of his friends? Perhaps know where she works? You getting my drift? You can investigate, make sure, make really, really, really sure that nothing happened to him. He COULD be in a ditch somewhere, bleeding a steady, marching stream of blood cells out of a gash in his groin. Oh my God! If only he could. just. reach. his. cell. phone!

Now that you've considered your options, I'd like to cover one more point, the followup. There may be a time when you encounter your Houdini out in public. I suggest you smile, nod and keep on walking. That's what you would do with any stranger, is it not? Resist the urge to take up with the escape artist again.

I'm going to let you in on a little bit of personal history here. I rarely give out my own dating dirt, because I think it can be tacky, but this little resurrection of my own personal Houdini happened on Halloween, the anniversary of the Great One's death, so I think it's fitting. I hadn't heard from Mr. Man since he disappeared seven months earlier. Suddenly he's standing next to me at a party. He's talking to me and he seems quite interested. This was all quite surreal. I nodded, smiled and told him it was nice to see him. I couldn't very well have not talked at that point. No...I didn't hook up with him. I truly believe all that was attracting him was my stockings, or corset, or maybe it was the handcuffs. Remember, it was Halloween, and he is an escape artist, after all.



©Michelle Scofield, September 16, 2011 All Rights Reserved

lost list

This list grows.

The photos,
the days,
the years,
the things
that made us
-us.

It wanders,
meanders,
mews and winds,
and
pushes against
the backs of my eyes
to trick me into
false comfort.

It sighs and flutters
gingham over denim.
I sew a patch on that
place where sunlight
would show through
if the sound of a snarl
wasn't already filling
that space you
OCCUPIED
when we were twelve
- before you learned to
drive your father's car
and we jumped the curb
into a summer night.

It scratches vinyl
and skips pages
that would make sense
of the storysong
we sang when we said it would

all
turn
out.




©Michelle Scofield, September 13, 2011 All Rights Reserved