dream puppets

once, years ago, I toyed with the idea of becoming a magician. I taught myself out of library books while poring in awe over exotic photographs of Sigfried and Roy. I practiced and performed in little talent shows and family gatherings. my grandfather gave me the kind of earnest encouragement only a grandfather can get away with.

he and grandma took my sister and I to San Diego one year, with a short stop in vegas. Las Vegas was the first real city I'd ever been a part of, ever walked through in the dark. all those lights, all the flicker and glitz and drama of the place just thrilled my eleven-year-old insides to bits. of course we had to see the mirage. the tigers. they were not as exciting, behind their glass, glimpsed just in the spaces between the crowded bodies of fellow-tourists much taller than myself, as I had thought they would be.

later that week, between beaches and restaurants and card games, we got to see a small magic show. nothing with tigers in it, but I remember the tuxedoed fellow levitating a crumpled up piece of paper, which he eventually twisted into a rose and lit on fire. as it burned away in mid-air, he transformed it from ashes into a lovely red long-stemmed version, which he presented to my eleven-year-old self, who had been picked out of the audience to be his assistant. from my place at his side, with the bright stage lights throwing dust around like confetti, I could see all the strings.

the magician dream faded in the shuffle of so many other folded-up childhood dreams. I must not have known myself very well back then when I dreamed such dreams. or at least that is my excuse now, looking back. paper and ink are much more comfortable. but from the right angle and under the light, you can probably still see the strings.

I could quote more Shakespeare at this point; it's almost more interesting to mention that I could quote more Shakespeare than actually to do it.

perhaps I didn't know myself so well at age eleven. perhaps I've discovered in the intervening years a different kind of magic--the kind that doesn't need tuxedos. I am still tossing my crumpled life from stage to stage, so often in imitation of people who are more comfortable in the bright lights, trying to pull together what thorned and short-lived beauty I can from the ashes. and do I know myself any better now?