MAGIC SHOWJOHN CIMINELLO
First the King of Diamonds disappears
and then the entire deck, followed by my credibility as a magician when the King falls out of my back pocket and the box of cards becomes a store-bought shell, empty and fake for the parlor trick. My target audience, the small crowd best suited to my thumbs and puns style of magic of now you see it, now you don’t is between the ages of four and seven, faithful enough to believe the magic pencil travels invisible from my hand to their back pocket, and gracious enough to include me in their wonder and amazement when matter transforms itself for their delight. On his fifth birthday Zane asked, “If you don’t believe in magic what do you believe in?” The world is filled with substitute marvels, tricks of the trade from politics to religion, with debt-swap derivatives to turn money earned with sweat into futures and code, then paper and promises, and then it disappears into thin air never again to appear in my wallet, in my back pocket. Last week, I found an old business card from the Stone Castle Magic School, where I learned my first sleight of hand from a promo ad in MAD Magazine and a quarter-sheet booklet with black and white photos to inspire a clumsy apprentice to learn—never show off until you own the technique, and for those who believe, never break the spell or give away the wonder. With a magician’s faith, I snap my fingers and palm the card disappearing all evidence with a flame and a flourish as paper smoothly slips into thin air and reappears for safe keeping in my back pocket. |
THE GIRL WITH THE
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