When I think of magic, one of the things I think of is where we will be in a couple of generations, and what we'll be able to do then that we now can't even fully imagine. Things we don't even know we haven't considered yet. And I think backwards as well to people just a few generations ago who didn't really wrap their head around the technomancy we would be casting today. Like flying west in a tube of metal through the troposphere.
Like three and a half hour sunsets.
I watched the sun the whole time. I read a bit, but my eyes kept going back to the window and the horizon. Every one of those moments of magic, with the brilliant oranges, and violets, and vermillion smudges across the sky stretched out for hours and hours. And between our descent and deceleration, the last little pinprick of visible light slid under the horizon as we slipped back down through the clouds to the California coast.
I love HBO's version of Angels in America. I love the actors they cast--every one seems to have their role written for them instead of the other way around. I love the long, stirring soliloquies. Marie Louise Parker is not the only big name who knocks it out of the park. I love it's paradox of reverence and absurdity. But mostly I watch it when I am feeling particularly sideswiped by someone who says that fiction has to be realistic to truly impact our lives. Maybe they were particularly condescending or particularly harsh or particularly talking directly to me, but they got to me somehow about "what is art" or "what is worthy of fiction" and I worry that they might be right.
And it will have ghosts and angels and prophets and magic the whole time and never once apologize for any of it.