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subjective magic
[Big Sur, part two] Big Sur’s pretty for sure and taking pictures there makes me jump for joy but sometimes walking from the tube station to a basement office back home in London feels just as good.
I understand wonderment and awe and all but I seem to get there entirely unexpectedly in little moments of sudden weird perfection. Hula-girl-palm-tree Post-it notes stuck in the back of physics books telling me I better hurry up and read books I’ve spent years avoiding feel like magic to me, or disco music piped into Polish mall bathrooms while I throw up krupnik, or at the very last minute finding out that Amelia was safeguarding my lens cap all along. Preappointed magic doesn’t do much for me. When I pretend to be it feels like a dumbed-down joke that I hope no one will remember in the morning.
If saying this kills fairies, I don’t care. Sorry, kids.
[Currently reading: Finnegan's Wake.]
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