This is Magic. (18.6.1)

Magic isn’t hard to find. It isn’t even hard to recognize, or harness.

It’s just, that most of us are so easily distracted from magic that when we see it, it’s out of our minds a second later.

These distractions are often called ‘explanations’ or ‘causes’ by those who particularly don’t want to see magic. Distractions are the most mundane objects that exist.

There are some devices that can highlight magic, but just the fact that the magic is being seen through a device, it is discounted. Slow motion cameras capture the magic that’s so fast it’s lost to us. The way everything moves in slow motion, the majesty of running wolves and shifting fur, exploding bubbles having a single point of origin, and ink droplets hitting water and twisting around themselves, it’s magic. Every instant of is being presented to you with perfect proof. Just blown off. Just how the world works.

It’s fine not to acknowledge it. But it’s there.

When you notice the rainbows and shifting shimmering colors at the edges of windows, puddles, and mists, it’s magic too. The places where the dimensions brush against each other is beautiful, shifting, and it feels like a gentle sunbeam brushing your skin, burning and soft at the same time. The bits of matter thickening the air feel like the mists of this world.

When there are lights dancing on the walls inside, there’s a rift there as well. It doesn’t matter that putting your hand in front of the dance lights can shift the rift.

Everything in the universes is connected, so why wouldn’t your hand moving have an effect? It doesn’t mean it’s not magic. It doesn’t mean the light is causing the colors, it just means the timing is spectacularly lined up. And that’s not really so great a feat, there are so many variables in a vast space, coincidences are easy.

There are so many distractions from magic, it’s dismissed as trick of the light, explained as confluences of different laws of physics, and masked with the mundane. It doesn’t take much to look past the distractions, if you want to.

Noticing a flower bud barely open, dew forming, or a bough of a tree shifting, is magic. Wind in the tree is the distraction. Dew is only humidity, not evidence of fairies. And flowers, they only grow is all.

The moment between noticing magic, and the distraction taking over, that’s the hard thing. Disconnecting distraction from observation is the moment where the power to harness the magic lies.

Learning to notice the disconnect, to highlight it instead of allowing it to carry on, is harnessing magic.

Magic is creating change. It’s shifting through the endless possibilities of worlds and times and combinations. Looking for the change that improves.

Magic is change, at any scale. Magic is taking the time to stare at the differences in the world through the mirror, instead of accepting them.

You are change that hasn’t happened yet. You are magic that you are too distracted to use.

Learn to notice the disconnect.

This is magic.

Silly Weekly Meta Momentum. (18.10.4)

When ya gotta write and all your head provides is song lyrics that already exist.

Starting lines and dramatic passages of fame.

Bits and pieces, ideas and scraps; deserve much better than this claptrap half exhausted gotta write something for the weekly brain.

Can’t loose momentum on the weekly.

Bits deserve flesh and strength.

Pieces of larger things that can’t, well shouldn’t, simply be removed.

To stand on their own.

Ideas take time.

Scraps need edited.

Sensations and scenes, imagery and vivid instants.

Those would be lovely.

Fully realized, perfect edits, easily.

While still asleep.

The lead weight cotton static in the mind drags on the hunt

To find a more or less decent post.

Maybe next time, it won’t be a weird and silly meta blob of bits and pieces.

Full News At Ten. (18.9.23)

A bloody rampage started earlier today after a warehouse employee of our local Palm Art department store failed to use absolutely as much tape as humanly possible, resulting in the newest batch of Resilient Bounce tupperware’s escape.

Ninety-two fatalities reported before authorities gave up on counting. Countless injuries. Damages to public and private property to be properly assessed once the tupperware have been contained, investigated, and reprogrammed.

In other news, make sure you don’t slip in the massive egg slick on your way to work today. A hundred twenty count box failed on the byway, due to a flaw in engineering caused by a lack of tape on the bottom flaps, leaving the structure unsound.

Full News at Ten.

Postcard Perfect. (18.8.26)

This rarely used closet in an awkward corner of the converted attic bedroom was last on the list to pack. Seems like all it held was clothes of another era, dust, single shoes, and lost paperclips.

Hangers squeak on the old rod, and puffs of dust light up the sunbeams sneaking in through cracks like muted glitter. In the back corner, there’s a surprise. A dusty, worn shoe box with blue, green, and red stripes and a far too faded to read brand logo. It draws me like a magnet, and a moment later I’ve settled on the floor, and gently lifted the lid.

I don’t remember the box, nor have any suggestion as to what the contents are, but this feels important. Important enough to take time away from this difficult move, into a new, uncertain life that could lead us anywhere.

A postcard on top catches my eye, layered in fine dust, edges worn, a clear, gorgeous blue lake. My breath catches in my throat, and I know if I turn over the card, there will be a note to myself from the summer of my thirteenth year, telling myself all about my favorite crush, the deep water and my first bikini, scrawled in fading ball point pen. But all I can do is dive into the senses that surround me.

Smells of dust, heat, and abandoned clothes fade, replaced by thick pine perfume, campfire smoke, and damp lake water air. A little jetty sticks out into a deep blue lake, the expanse of water broken at the edges in ring of dark trees, with light sandy shore beneath them. Directly across from me, as I stand in the sand with bare feet and scratches on nearly every bit of my skin, is a cliff face of yellows, reds, and darker stains of the tougher plants clinging to its surface.

I knew if I crossed the water in the sometimes leaky metal rowboat, I’d find a huge old tunnel cutting through the cliff face, with some abandoned machinery that worked to create it in rubble at the bottom. I wasn’t allowed to go there, but sometimes I’d sneak out with older high school kids, following my crush, my face burning every second. Hoping to be noticed and yet stay invisible all the time I spent following them.

The sky above me is blue, covered in cloud whisps and dotted with birds flying high and slow, or darting low to play with each other in gusts.

Just as I’ve adjusted, amongst memory or reality or something else the muggy summer heat shifts before my eyes, instead bringing the smell of fog rolling across the lake in early morning stillness, a coffee mug steaming on the edge of the jetty, cool crispness of autumn, and sounds of shuffling leaves falling. A soft sweater wraps around goosebumped arms, and this time my feet are sinking into thick, dewy cold grass.

This isn’t memory. I hadn’t been back to the lake in years, and even then it was always summer. Tears stream down my face as shrieks of children’s laughter float to my ears, and my heart swells when the water breaks by the jetty and my love’s head surfaces. Before I can make out the face in the vision, I’m sitting back in the dusty attic room.

My face wet, my body trapped in stiff denim and a thin tank top pressed against sticky skin. My lover stands in the doorway, watching me, knuckles to door frame, worried. The faded post card in my hand, light and simple. Looking down it’s only paper and ink, no longer the journey to come.

My love kneels beside me, kissing the top of my head and pulling me into warm arms. I curl into those arms, tucking my nose against my lover’s throat, smelling faint tinges of earth and tree sap.

“I think I know where I want to go, to stay,” I say quietly, smiling.

A gentle hand wipes the tears from my cheek, a contented face returning my smile. “I can’t wait to find out.”

Blizzard. (18.8.17)

Summer heat trapped in a stuffy room bakes the dust and breadcrumbs into the desk. Sticky forehead, forearm, rest.

A long day’s work has brought her here, tired and damp, thoughts gone soft. Work is scattered around her, in bits and pieces. Notes on scraps of paper, post its, napkins, and open books. Little piles of journals punctuating the chaos.

Chronicling her travels, experiences, collaborations and ideas of so many strangers who were in those moments, perfect. Her research that didn’t quite make sense, that she didn’t quite understand or have an aim for. Some of the pieces didn’t fit anywhere, not research or story, not facts or fancies. Scribbles and simple existing jots.

It was months of memories and more. It had taken three days already, just to look over all the thoughts and directions.

And all this day had been spent solving the puzzle. It was firm in her dreams now, how everything would go.

Her office door opens with the crack of tensioned wood, half sticky with sweaty, pealing paint. She starts, groggy, sees Aynn come through and wince.

“Jesus, Jaz, this is a goddamn oven. Here,” he reaches for the nearest rickety, vintage, wire fan.

“No!” She leaps up, waving, her dreams wiped away, but it’s too late.

The clattering fan’s weirdly powerful stream of air hits her desk and the sweltering mid summer room, with its dust and sun streaks, is witness to a freak blizzard.

Perspectives. Watcher Garden #4 (18.8.10)

Turtle lives in the garden. Turtle is not important to this moment’s tale.

But turtle is important to others’ tales.

Turtle is terror to the bugs, and bits of food that pass through the garden. Turtle is friend to others, talking long into the hours of the night.

Turtle’s world is a different scale, but no less vast, and leaves no less traces, than those of larger worlds.

Turtle is sometimes content, and sometimes not. Sometimes turtle watches the garden. Sometimes turtle watches for the garden.

But mostly turtle is.

This Girl. Watcher Garden #3 (18.7.27)

This girl sleeps on protected rooftop, under awnings and brightly colored fabrics. Her light flicks off at the first sign of dawn, to bring morning light into her space. The others who sleep on the rooftop do not rise so early, and rarely see her leave. They are her friends, most ways. But perhaps not yet allies.

When she leaves her rooftop she’s wrapped in dance of fabrics and spaces. To keep out the sun, to carry goods and possessions, to allow her breeze. She slips over the edge of the rooftop, to the balconies connected with leafy trellis and precarious ladder stairs.

She doesn’t pay them any mind, this is the part of the city she grew up in, and this climbing is faster, quieter, and much more fun than tiptoeing down the inside stairs. Her footing is sure, and when her fabric wrapped feet touch down in the soft earthy garden below, she wiggles her exposed toes into the rich ground.

Her appreciation only takes a moment before she’s off, light on her feet, and quick. To the market, the streams, or the build sites, to make her day’s earnings. This part of the city is hers, undoubtedly, and always has been. She rarely ventures into other areas, she finds no needs there.

Though, this girl, has forgotten she once knew of other places. She lives happy and free. The wind tumbles her hair around her face and she laughs.