Magician / Joker

▼ There’s no such thing as magic.
▲ Matter isn’t lacking in magic. Matter is magic. [Terence McKenna]

▼ My magic is dangerous.
▲ I trust that the universe can hold my magic.

▼ I don’t allow the mischievous trickster parts of me.
▲ I allow the jester’s puppet to speak.

——

Coordinates: This was originally written on the 26th of September, 2021 at my home, Tevana Seva, in Eugene, Oregon, USA.

I have many moments of doubt – many dark questions, no not questions more like threats. What would I be without these? I’d be a mere shell of who I know myself to be. Still, I wrestle with magic. I’m not sure I believe in it. I know magic itself is unmoved by this doubt.

Still, I can’t put my foot fully on it to trust its realness. Magic seems to desert me when I try. I blow the house of cards down and the prior sturdiness of what seemed like brick goes “poof.”

Right now I could use a gold brick. Right now I could use a momentary escape from bank balances and paperwork, urinary tract infections and dull pencils.

How can the two realities – reality and unreality both be? I wish I could dive fully into the unreality of magic to live there permanently in the rarefied air of pretty packages sealed up with twine. Is it ever the same once you’ve cut the wrapping paper and opened the box to see what’s inside? Can every day be like Christmas morning or would be fat on the eggnog of fulfilled expectations?

No, our expectations are never met, especially on Christmas. Reality always falls short. We tend to our open sores of wishing there was just a bit more magic. We touch the tenderest places which still believe in it, if only for a glimpse of a minute. Our eyes are filled with tears for the childhood we never knew or lived or perhaps even allowed ourselves to imagine.

What is more precious than our imagination? What is more precious than magic?

For me there is nothing, which is why I find myself beref at times like these when it seems my magic has failed, when nearly everywhere I look there are damn good reasons and piles of evidence stacked up past the ceiling to give up, to give up, to just give up.

Know that I’ve tried to give up and failed even at that. I can’t get off this ride. Even though sometimes I wish to steady myself and hop off this nauseating merry-go-round, I can’t. I keep going another round. I tell myself “just one more day. I’ll give up on magic next week or perhaps tomorrow.” All those tomorrows keep adding up to months and years. We’re nearly to the end of 2021, the shortest/longest year of my life. I’m still with my feet glued to this merry-go-round. I still know magic is real.

Maybe tomorrow I’ll see through another illusion. Maybe tomorrow I’ll still be blind to it. It doesn’t matter. Magic doesn’t care if I believe in her. I’ll stay another day. I’ll play another play. I’ll bend someone else’s ear who cares to hear. I’ll go on watching and waiting until something breaks inside of me and the pain of this confusing fucking time spews forth. I will not rush to make sense of all this.

Illusions can’t be seen through by looking straight at them any more than you may understand the sun by looking right at it. A wise man told me to be brave enough to turn my back to the sun and notice all it illuminates.

This is magic. This is magic.