I am not an anxious person. Faced with illusory conspiracies without cease; the play of hallucination, imagination, fantasy; in those intervals splitting seconds, the unending sighs of time between heeding and response; all perceptions entranced by synaesthetic authentications; convictions everlasting, locked from forfeit, certain beyond faith, logic, or conjecture, not to be forsworn; even though; despite and still; five things I can see; four things I can touch; three things I can hear; two things I can smell; one thing I can taste; before fear is gelled, fear is quelled; reality determined by sense, by sensation, alone.
At that place and time where truth and magic collide, there is love. In that love, an insouciance, innocence, guilelessness. Conversely, there are neither truth nor magic in thinking, deprived as it is entirely of innocence. Thought is not likeness; it is interpretation. The moment a thought is transmogrified, transgressed into an emotion, or into a fact – a contrivance of the mind counterfeiting feeling , or a prejudiced advantage confounding authentication – it is no longer emotion or fact, but sanctimoniousness or opinion. There is no such thing as inaccuracy in thought. All thoughts are accurate. None of them, however, is the truth.
And magic…? Magic is control of the authorship of your own destiny. As a magician, you hold the pen in your own hand with which the story of your life is written. Magic delivers us from the lie of being truth, wherein lies the mystery. Through concealment and invention, mystery eludes the realms of definition, identity. Honesty is but subjective definition; reality, but subjective identity. In mystery alone is impartiality. Where truth is a desperation of extremes, magic is an intoxication. In mystery, freedom, sublimity, transcendence. Not an anxious person, I move between extremes with ease. Poet and sorcerer. Diva and daemon. Tears and laughter.