This work was published in The Pluralist Feb 2021 issue titled If Wishes Were Horses. You can read it here.
Okay, let’s start by getting one thing off the chest. Magic is more than we think it is.
Phew. Ho ho. That was good
Okay. Let’s get another thing going. Magic is something you think
Alright, yes. Very good. Magic is also something you feel,-
Oh. Wait. -like a delicate metal hook inserted deep through the nose and into the brain. If whisked all around and then turned upside down, it would drain you all inside and out. It’s that good kind of empty that leaves you open and hoping. Magic is not exactly like embalming, but it is a type of always-there.
But- A good kind of empty.
Well, I’m not sure about this. Okay. Magic is more than thinking can think.
Wait. Magical thinking is-
SIM SALA ALAKAZAM! Oh!---
Ho ho. Hello again. Hello.
Phew. Magic...is the word...that words can’t quite word.
Come again? Magic is the word that words speak around...It’s a force that turns dumb, like King Midas’s thumb.
I can’t...you need to-- Magic is a force that moves excess within.
Slow down-- Magic is not exactly like embalming, but it is a type of always-there.
You’re making things strange again. It’s a sometimes-here but an always-somewhere. Colour is limited to what the eye can see, yes? Like that, the tongue and what it can grasp describes a thing we call Real™.
I’m not sure I know what- There will always be more than can actually be known. The word, like--
Ack! BIM BAM SHAZAM! ...Hello.
Hello. Now, please-- Beneath this land of the material Real™ is another.
Ohhh, unggg-- And another. And another. And more...
No! There is a land of non-place and non-where that lurks always beside and beyond our own. The Word™ and the Real™ drip excess behind itself like an impossibly long tail. A world invisible and limitless. Full of globs that stick and drip and can be made literally into anything. We see only what it is. But all that it is not, haunts it.
Hrwaerrrk-ack!! The more advanced technology becomes, the more Magic™ our bodies will conjure.
Forgive me. I’m a little...I feel unwell. Let it drip out.
You’re too much. Or rather, let it drip in. Or pierce you, sink deep within, and whisk you inside.
What is this that whisks me? The ineffable.
You’re horrible and cause me to wretch. It’s okay, just breathe. Detach from your thinking and focus on the breath.This is all a bit much, I know.
Am I being whisked right now? Yes.
It tickles. You might feel that.
I’m scared. It’s okay. You’re never alone.
The always-somewhere? That’s right.
...where am I being whisked away to? A place of beautiful impossibilities.