There are those who don't believe in magic. They reckon it's not logical, not rational. A few years back i was walking down an old street when a beautiful loud noise made me turn my head, and towards me came bobbing over the cobblestones an Aston Martin DB5 -you know, the car James Bond drives in Goldfinger. My jaw dropped, i might have drooled. A traffic cop saw my expression and said: "It's just a car, you know.""No it isn't," i replied, "if that's just a car then Rembrandt is just paint, Handel just sound, life a variation of carbon, love a mere bunch of hormones." Well, that's what i wished i said, anyway -it took me a couple of hours to figure out why that 'just a car' attitude made me so mad. That kind of reductionism sucks all the joy and magic out of life, like expressing a good meal in terms of carbs and proteins.
Now i have the bizarre good fortune to be in a place that is magic, actual, factual magic. Dean's Blue Hole, Long Island. It is unfathomably beautiful
and magic happens there: every day people venture into that darkness on a single breath of air and reach depths no man thought possible until recently; scientist still can't really explain how they do it
it's enough to turn your world upside down
As usual,
my dad said it better: "A is not A; if A = A, life shrivels to an erotic-less, urge-less, amorphous mass of banalities. Only through negation can we become speechless spectators of the great Presence, for which we live."
Magic works in mysterious ways: i have no underwater camera capable of capturing it, but a friend does, and on this magic day, he graciously lent it to me, allowing me to not only become a speechless spectator of the magical Spirit of the Blue Hole, but photograph it. To all those dull deconstructing rationalists, she says hi