I enter with shaking thrill and confidence into this long
time ambition. To tip and tap a dream is absurd. To tip and tap my insides onto
virtual glow is reckless. To tip and tap after years of imagining this thing is
my scarlet letter. “P” for procrastinator rather than an “A” mounted on my
factory assembled cotton shirt rather than the lapel of a homespun tunic.
Maybe it was the Turkish Delight purchased in the duty free
store as we were leaving Istanbul connecting me to CS Lewis and the Narnians.
Or my son’s continual speech and belief that he is a Basilika, a creature only
elves can see, but I am ubiquitously alive with magic and at this moment it is
so overwhelming that I must write of it.
My belief transcends (and weirdly enough includes) the
enjoyment of imagining us all in Hogwarts or running in the forests with the
vegetarian vampires of Stephanie Meyer. Goldfish and trees coming to the
mystical aid of the Japanese in the studio Gibli films, I have this hardwired
through popculture, every other aspect of that material system I have rejected.
The rejection of fuel required to be skinny enough for the newest trends, the
addiction to the newest techno device (still don’t know how to text and the
mobile was lost for good [pun intended] while in the labyrinthine ground
transport of the airport in Doha, Qatar). The other messages of popular
practice that I learn or refuse to learn (screw you facebook and your constant
encouragements for me to know the favorite New York Times articles of my
“friends” ) and yet I am in the net and web and the less caught spots—I am in
the womb and home of magic. Captured and nestled as a believer.
Can I be a part of something beautiful? Something so lovely
and unpredictable and majestic in its slow churning.
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