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Yin Yang Walla Walla Bing Bang
Tyrrell was an all-or-nothing kind of guy. He lived in a world of absolutes. No fence straddler, he. He knew what was right; he knew what was wrong. He knew what was good; he knew what was bad. He spent much of his time attempting to prove to others just how right he was. He heard about a witchdoctor in South America. The guy’s powers were legendary, but there was no proof that he existed. No one had ever been able to photograph him. Tyrrell couldn’t stand it. He had to know. He would go, seek out this witchdoctor—if indeed he existed—and make his mark by being the first to capture this weirdo on film. The witchdoctor was easy to find. Everyone in the village knew where he lived. Tyrrell made an appointment. Tyrrell asked permission to take a picture. The witchdoctor said, “Sure, no problem.” Tyrrell was invited to come back at midnight. The witchdoctor stood outside, next to his hut, smiled, and said, “Cheese!” It was as dark as the water moccasins in Satan’s sock drawer. He would not allow Tyrrell to use a flash or any kind of lighting, but encouraged him to take the picture anyway. Knowing better, but allowing a faint hope that the witchdoctor might be up to some kind of parlor magic that would cause his image to appear on the film, Tyrrell snapped a picture in the direction of the witchdoctor’s voice. Tyrrell was disappointed but not surprised when nothing but black showed up on the film. He requested another appointment and the witchdoctor quickly complied. Tyrrell was told to meet the guy at a certain clearing between ten thirty and eleven the next morning. Tyrrell arrived a little early, but the witchdoctor was already there, standing in front of a quartz cliff. The rock reflecting the sun seemed to put out enough heat to broil a rhinoceros. The glare washed out everything. Tyrrell could not see hide nor hair of the witchdoctor, but could hear his calm, friendly voice inviting Tyrrell to go ahead and take a picture. Again Tyrrell felt a tad idiotic, like he should know better. Still, he was half expecting a trick. Dark sunglasses and a special lens didn’t help any, but he shot a few pictures in what he thought was the right direction, thanked the shaman, and took his leave. The developed film revealed nothing but white. On his way out of town the next day, Tyrrell saw the witchdoctor sitting under a tree with some other guys. They were talking quietly and seemed to be enjoying themselves. The witchdoctor motioned for Tyrrell to join them. “You are disappointed, my photographer friend. But tell me what you learned.” Tyrrell hadn’t been looking for a lesson and was hard pressed to come up with an answer. After a quick spin around the inside of his head, he said, “Uh, I learned to be more specific when asking questions. I should have asked you to pose for a picture in suitable light.” The witchdoctor shrugged. “That’s a good thing to learn. So, why are you disappointed?” Tyrrell said, “Because now I cannot prove that you exist.” The witch doctor smiled. “I know I exist. You know I exist. What more proof do you need?” Tyrrell thought a moment. “I guess I’m really disappointed because I was kind of hoping to see some magic, even though I don’t believe in it.” The witchdoctor looked sincerely surprised. “You didn’t see it?” Tyrrell stammered, “Well, uh, I’m not, um, sure what you—” “You missed it, didn’t you?” The witchdoctor shook his head in disbelief. Tyrrell fancied himself a pretty sharp cookie, not the type to miss anything. He felt irritated and ignorant. Irritation was an old acquaintance, but he was mighty uncomfortable with the ignorant part. He couldn’t quite keep the edge out of his voice when he said, “Maybe if you’d explain it to me.” The witchdoctor stood, put a friendly hand on Tyrrell’s shoulder, and walked him away from the others. “In fairness, it’s really not magic. It’s just that the basics, the simplest rules of the Universe are so foreign to most folks that they seem like magic when they see them working.” That explained exactly nothing to Tyrrell and his eyes said so. The witchdoctor asked if Tyrrell still had the pictures he took. He did. “Let me see them,” said the witchdoctor. Tyrrell dug the photos out of his bag and gave them to the witchdoctor. The witchdoctor held them up for Tyrrell to ponder. “You have here a concrete example of a fundamental truth. It’s simple, like all the others, but if you will take it and run with it, it will serve you well the rest of your days. You’ll have a new worldview and a new sense of peace and calm. That’s powerful stuff, but it’s not a cheap trick. It’s real magic.” Tyrrell nodded encouragingly. He really wanted this information. “We cannot see in total darkness,” said the witchdoctor. “That much you already knew. What you now know, too, is that we cannot see in total light, either. We are blinded by the extremes. We need the shadows and the contrasts to make sense of the world.” Tyrrell smiled. “So, the truth lies somewhere between happy singing chipmunks on a rainbow and selling your soul to the devil?” “Something like that.” Tyrrell walked a few paces from the witchdoctor, held up his camera and said, “You mind?” “Not at all.” The witchdoctor smiled and posed for the picture. When he got home and developed the film, Tyrell saw not the witchdoctor but himself, grinning and waving, decked out in what was obviously a fake grass skirt and a cheap dime store headdress. He fell on the floor laughing...then went shopping for a suitable frame. |