i write for inner peace.
Magic is my martial art. Before you dismiss me as crazy, I strongly affirm what I do is a Way above all else.
My past goals were to knock crowds off their feet in disbelief, accumulate as many shows as possible, and be the number one mage left standing as far as the eye can see. My convictions then, and my convictions now, are distant relatives. I am nothing without my crowds, who I've narrowed down to those I love- my magic is a reflection of these people I met along the way and the experiences we've shared together. Magic is a creation of shared experiences, so therefore, every moment with them is my magic. My wife and daughter are my sources of astonishment. God is the only on-looker I wish to impress, or surprise. I have been on TV. I have done a thousand shows, in palaces and in villages of places I would have never explored otherwise. I met my wife by way of magic. I founded a dojo of rogue magicians called the House of Flying Cards. I've written chapbooks about what I've seen. I intend to use magic as a means of vanishing the self and becoming one with the world under heaven.
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Nali,
This is an interesting corner of summer- a wavy, muggy era of mosquitos and guarding your leg fats from their hungry noses. We've been taking you to a large amount of uncharted beaches, and you love it- you're new move is this pseudo-swimming flipper thrash. We'd hold you in the water and your legs would automatically float upward, assuming the position of a beached whale or falling sky-diver. You'd then thrash salt water into your face without flinching or crying. This is your new move! I am amazed. You're set to be Totoro for Halloween- the giant mythological forest hippo that can fly. He is from a movie mama goose and I are fans of- you must watch it. I was graced with multiple gigs on Halloween, so I get to parade you around in a Totoro suit that day as a perk. We can't wait. This is a good pocket of life to be reclining into, the way you recline without a care in the world in your carrier. Enjoy the ride, big dino. We love you. -Hippopapamus I’ve given this some thought: you are my audience, and you are my magic- truly the chubby embodiment of the sword style “Two Heavens As One”. If I am to leave something behind, some meaningful marking like the Tibetian Monks scribbling words into the sand only to let them be blown away to the heavens, let that be wordy snapshots of life before you can speak.
Your eyes do a lot of talking. You always look so flabbergasted, so astonished- the most astonished spectator I’ve ever seen. I sometimes don’t know what else to say to you outside of mindless babble-singing about your cheek fat, so I've been watching instead in silent astonishment of my own while you show me the magic of your new moves: beluga barrel rolling, eating everything in sight, baring your toothless smile, squeeking at the taste of avocado. Every moment you make for us is the magic. You amaze strangers just by existing. I’d be a fool for not noticing the magic performed before me. You’re already six months in, and the greatest deception would be to be misdirected by any other pursuit and turn back to see these rare years have vanished or happened too fast. I want to leave magic behind for you as you are giving your mom and I daily. So for now in this post-gig era, you are my audience - the only spectator that matters as you watch us more than you speak. I promise we’ll watch you back with as sharp a twofold gaze of perception and sight as Musashi would approve of, as you begin to show the world what you can do. Love, Papa A Let me celebrate this for a time: my seventh chapbook exists! I began this chapbook-trailing journey with a number called "Seven Moves"; a victoriously looney rant at the magic commune for not getting with the rebellion.
This was seven years ago! I haven't lost my sense of count. My chapbooks have taken me through deserts and across oceans since then, and I can't believe at how it comes full circle all the way back to the art form which inspired it to speak up. Magic has been with me since last century, and I wouldn't trade my swordly adventures for any other experience another art-child could have provided. I've always suspected that to be a magician was to be a journeyman. And now, I suspect all journeys are infinite, moving in heaven-sized circles as one with the world and the sun and stars. I also suspect souls are swords, which is why I am at peace moving unarmed toward new adventures with my incoming child and wife whom I've crossed oceans and wandered deserts just to find. I am at that point of no-sword needed- God had said so when lightning struck the second I signed away my professional magic career aspirations by taking the 9-5 office job. I don't fear. I serve no profits, no bosses; only the paths and wind gusts God sends me on and those I am committed to Samurai-dying to myself for. And with that, a seventh chapbook drops from my pens the way a warrior monk drops his spear in favor of meditation. I am a soular magi at peace with where I've been: no awards, no tours, only a few gigs and newspaper articles. And a dojo called the House of Flying Cards whose magi have raised my art-child into what it is today. I love magic in and out of the spotlight; in the quiet shade of a gig-less day as much as in the rush of a crowd on a stage. I am closing this era with book seven: "When Swords Vanish." Get your copy at http://www.antinoart.com/a-mart.html My hands are now tied to one less worldly possession- let's see where this added degree of freedom leads. -antidote As my audience in magic grows as distant as my practice has gone recluse, I can only etch onto the cave walls of my hermitage what I wish to leave behind. I know all earthly works will vanish one day as sure as these gig conquests are becoming less, and I sail onto new adventures beyond the fortune and glory of crowds applauding at the shores. Magic is my martial art, and I am peaceful not fighting: I keep chanting this to myself, as I direct my training inwardly as breathing, or skyward as prayer. I wanted praise or recognition once, and perhaps still do as one would want chocolate. The rebel kid in me still wants to storm the palace of the magician hierarchies and declare my convictions, as Samurai of long ago would declare their lineage before battle. I believe, as the great mage Rocco declared to me, that magic is from the soul. I may not have the swiftest hand for sleights, the sharpest mind for thinking up effects, or the DNA of an entertainer, but I am left with my soul: my sword. My goal as a magician is to unsheathe that, entertain heaven.
Be ready for WHEN THE SWORDS VANISH, my new book of poems written for the martial art of magic. Coming soon when you least expect! Mr. Hippo
don't be caged like a bird don't be swimming in shallow, man-made pool water Z is for zoo: the end as in the last place you deserve last time man tamed beast whales went crazy in some worlds per Pi, Richard Parker ended up on a boat c/o Universal, park raptors ate their captors do a barrell roll in your pool make waves open your large mouth in protest make the front page "Hippo Breaks Free" and they'd change the zoo sign accordingly you were meant to navigate rivers and battle crocodiles if you ran away from the zoo at your fastest for an hour you'd cover 30 miles you are the torpedo of the Nile 3,000 lbs of power wrapped in oily skin crashing into the tanks you would have been boiled in Don't talk about me: I tell myself this as the ink runs out, and ideas run thin. Whatever I do, don't say I or talk about me. I once heard- no, once I heard- I can't not say I! Ok, a person not myself once said that greatness happens when others tell you you're great; not when you tell them so. You! So I'll talk about you, because you are great. You make the magic, not I. The best magic is when you do it- not me. I defeat myself to eliminate the I from the competition. I defers, and becomes you. And then the person next to you, and so on. The world is bigger than I thought. I'll run around in circles away from myself, only to run back to where I begun. I, you: one. the magician fooler finds magicians to be fools
blindfolded consumers believing rumors of the cool to buy the elixirs and all kinds of jewels for one-hit wonders and show fixers as showman de-perform into mimics and tricksters with every effect on the market a gimmick he presents the hands, but never the watch the hook not the fish, this shark never gets caught for a second watch the finger, not the moon type misdirection if you want to get fooled walk into his shop and buy your props to get props faster instantly downloaded reactions make you an overnight master of this art/craft/passion whatever he might call it flourishing consumers card-swiping shopaholics falling for the fashion of a hundred shoes for two feet one thousand different kicks performed once is what one needs to kill the crowd so deceived to the charlatan they bow like the students in those schools that give free black belts out I'd take them all on myself but instead I kick back and watch this mind-boggling scene of magicians foolers whack my one effect will smoke and mirror his entire attack I'll French drop his act The House of Flying Cards is not filled with big names, lecture landmarks, or best-sellers. These guys are rebelers: no props, blank stage. They're friend lists are the likes on their fan page. There are no new effects coming to DVD from the crew anytime soon: material they create stays hidden in their rooms. How many lectures have they done? One, or two. For free. Have they tagged up the airwaves? Not really, but a few times they got on Spanish TV. They gig at festivals and side-streets, where street lamps are the spotlight; in bars and bar mitzvahs, where people may be not nice. The pay? Sometimes, not right. So conventions they crash without paying any cash- nothing in their hands. If the crew's presence is flashed, they'll get kicked out the jam. Some get evicted from their land. No, these guys are not the movers and shakers of the magic community; not the big-wiggers or aristocratic giggers; not the FISM winners or fan-boy beginners. They are none of these. But I'll tell you they are real. And believe me when I say I learned more from them than from every DVD on the market; from every Theory 11 or Ellusionist featured artist. My magic grew up in that House: free, and guarded from the fame. If magic is from the soul, I'd take big souls over big names.
I don't like performing. And it's in doing what you don't like that you find love. Magic, is done sometimes against my own will- with a sense of duty, and the feeling of having to put on the hard-hat and go to work. Magic can feel Blue Collar at times. I once collapsed on the analogy that to be a performer is to be the toilet bowl-center of attention: everyone will give you shit. And piss you off. I have discovered in a recent gig sandwiched between two working days at my new office job, that people are inherently good. Despite their war-like symptoms on I-595, aka "Crazy Road", I have come to figure out the secret to loving through disliking. I dislike performing, and know that if I pass that barrier, I can grit my teeth and love; even if it makes me sigh and sulk. I sulk before gigs! My expression is that of someone who does not want to. And I would say that with vigor and enthusiasm that I don't want to perform! I am a student of transcendence, and the only way to love is to get past that which you do not like. Magic makes people happy. I would do that, even if it means me being sad. People are good: and at magic, I'm not too bad.
-antidote |
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