What’s Magic?

To all those who think magic, majik, majick, however it’s spelled this
week, is dead here on Earth…

I hear toothpicks are great at keeping those shut eyes open. You want
glamour and mystical happenings? Fireworks and shooting stars? Bells and
whistles? They’re all around you, every single moment in all sorts of
small and subtle ways that get pushed aside and overlooked, written off
as just the normal stuff that happens, and therefore it must be mundane.
Things move against one another and create friction, friction creates
heat, heat flashes out and causes fire, flames spring up and sear
against a sky spangled with whirling shifting dust particles and gaseous
emissions that sparkle and shine and dance… and this isn’t magic
enough? A small uncomplicated creature makes a light snack of some dry
dirt, and in it’s passing causes that dirt to become a rich, dark soil
which cradles around a tiny acorn, whispering to it about a giant star
which will one day be pulsing through it’s veins as the wind that flows
around it rises and falls, heats and cools, and transforms into the rain
that it will soak up through it’s very skin until it dwarfs the
creatures that even now walk over it’s hiding place, and it will become
a massive oak, a home to more creatures than it could ever imagine…
and this isn’t magic enough? An unhappy creature chooses to walk down to
the store instead of fix themselves something to eat at home, a creature
that feels they have nothing, and on the way runs into another like
themselves, and later on that same creature stands in front of a mirror
laughing and singing and spinning their own glamour around themselves in
a state of glory as they prepare to meet the other, and this too is not
magic enough?

Maybe my perspective is different being what I am. Fair enough. We were
wild, that was the point. The wind and the rain and the sun and the moon
were our magic, music and dancing and laughing and tormenting out under
the stars, that was what we did, that was how we gloried in it all. I
don’t have my wings right now, not physically, I can’t fly like that
now. I can’t make a little dancing light with my hand, not without a
flashlight. Although I can use a flashlight… think about how they
work, that’s pretty impressive really. Science? What’s science? What’s
magic? What’s technology?

Within the Great Hall of the residence of He Who’s Name I Do Not Say
there was an amethyst of impressive proportions, right in the center of
the ceiling that glowed and shone and twinkled. Magic. Whose magic? Our
magic? or our science? Our technology? To me, there is no difference,
there never was, and there never will be. Just labels and terms to keep
this over here possible and that over there impossible or weird or odd.

Magic is just what makes it all special… from predicting the future to
sticking my small hands down into the dirt and smiling, thinking about
that acorn that’s coming. There’s no special talent to feeling the
earth, it’s there, like feeling somebody breathing on your neck. We
always feel it, all of us do…

And to me, that’s magic. So go find some other place to call dead, this
one is alive and kicking, and we, her/his/it’s most naive, immature,
foolish children are kicking right along in tune, and I wouldn’t go
asking what we’re all laughing about either. You probably wouldn’t find
it too funny.

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