Mangos

Let me tell you about performing magic in the Philippines: Jadu! I do what's needed, and that means no decorum, or fancy poems or patter. I am no longer a professional, just doing my job. Every effect there becomes this act of simplicity, and compassion, and anything I am able to show those who want to see what I do there is a favor I feel God asks of me. To see what is unseen or rarely seen is a gift or a myth, so I give it when I can- a simple card trick or coin vanish. To do what's needed, is nothing! It's so easy and within my reach.

I love making things more complicated than they are. I love my poems, and want them to be with my patter and magic as much as possible, but in the Philippines, they lay low and quiet so as to not interrupt the magic from doing what she needs to do: Jadu. I Jadu! It's what's done most there in Cebu, and when I show, I share, and barely say a thing over there. They understand English, of course, but when something is too amazing to happen, speechlessness ensues. I say nothing, and let them stammer or smile in belief.

I hate the way I perform magic in the Philippines. It's not me! It's so selfless, and casual, and there is no such thing as Antino Art on any of those 7,000+ islands. My art is history, and whatever I give is wrapped in simple, wordless moments for them to remember. I am as faceless as a messenger there, and perform in this choppy, informal, and bad and sloppy and unprofessional, non-expressive or artistic way- they love it! Its raw. They love the things I show them there, even if I can barely lift a double in the tropical heat with my cards all fat and sticking. I loose my cool when performing there. It's all in the baby mind, collapsing as naturally as possible on what I do. There is no spotlight! It's me in the background, taking it all in because I barely did a thing. Magic is not done by me there- it's a third entity, and I simply am there to deliver them the essence of a healed and sealed soda miracle or a hot cheeseburger out of a burning napkin. My patter there is a pure reaction. I barely move, or speak- its so not me. It never was me. I don't even speak their language!

The magician in me vanishes in the Philippines. I don't know how I do the things I do there, but for some reason, I get more love there for magic than anywhere else in the world. With all these paying spectators, tip lines, paychecks, clients to please, and gigs to feed, I sometimes get lost from what the essence of what I do is: Jadu. It's what I Jadu. And I do it really well in the Philippines, because to them, it looks like Jade, or something precious. It feels more than just me. Its a mystic way of performing. Its a humbling experience. Its her, beside me at the end of each effect. Magic there made me meet her, and is making me better. The mystery unravels. I love it.

-antidote

Meeting Mr. B

Today, downtown, in the far reaches of the festival circuit, I had the honor of conjuring alongside local magic legend Mr. B, or B-Magic, as he goes by. A sweet old soul with a Santa Clause swagger, this old mage from the charming streets of Downtown Gainesville is a master of silks. He can turn a red silk into a blue one with the snap of a finger, and multiply them in his bare hands at will. He can pull endless yards of streamers from his mouth, make sides disappear and re-appear underneath shells, and produce giant dice from thin air. He is a retired fire-fighter, the first African American firefighter in the city of Gainesville, and rocks a cool, mellow Jazz-man voice while performing. He congratulated me whole-heartedly after seeing my show, and took me aside to tell me that I'm swift with the pen. I walked with him to a busy corner talking magic like how magicians do, and suddenly found myself street performing alongside him! We hit duel card sets and racked in the crowds like fish in a net. We were surrounded, but we were rolling- a performing chemistry I have never even found among other magicians in the House! Kids and adults alike were smiling and stunned to see our art in action, brought to them by this young asian fellow and this jolly old Jazz man. What a strange combo! But we were smooth with it, and easily threw down some of the sickest duel mage sets of my career.

I was honored to be a part of Mr. B's magical legacy, even in his old age. He had been practicing longer than I had been alive, and his work has been enjoyed by generations of audiences all over town. "The kids I used to do birthdays fo', I'm now doin' they kids' birthdays," he told me. And sure enough, later a teen of about 19 approached him and said that he remembered him from when he was 6! His reputation is a humble one, and I was inspired by the way he treasured his magic.

I would open each set with the pen thing, because he'd excitedly grab a few passerby and tell them, "you gotta' check this kid out. Hey, show 'em what you do with that ink pen, show 'em, show 'em." That's how our sets began! And I'd twirl my prop into my manipulation piece, until the crowd became sizable. And then Mr. B would draw out his weathered old cards and perform a swift and jolly Monte for them! The way we transitioned and pulled the crowds in was genuine, and the way we'd ad-lib off each other was cake.

The art of magic is the art of people-meeting, and memory-making, and I'm still amazed at the encounter I had with Mr. B and his magic. Later that day I overheard him talking with some spectators after a set we hit about his true struggles, and his true magic, and that is going through what he has gone through. He had lost his daughter, and his family, years back to diseases. He had been diagnosed with cancer and had several operations here and there. He had grown up in the time before the civil rights movement, and was exposed to a great deal of racism and mistreatment being the first black firefighter in Gainesville. One of the only things he had at present was his magic, and he used it to conjure away his past and present troubles into the astonished eyes of the crowd watching at the moment.

The life of the itinerant conjurer is mine to behold. I travel the world this way, and let what falls in front of me fill my sights, as I tell each crowd I take care of to do nothing else but "watch."


-antidote

Magic for Apples

I spend all-souls day airborne, as free as a ghost. My card-hand takes a rest, as it took me all the way to the northeast, where it's cold and the leaves are as orange as the jack-o-lanterns that this holiday brings. You'll never know who you'll meet or re-meet on the way in the life of the itinerant conjurer. My magic has been seen by far-away eyes, and my poems have been spread across the countryside: mission accomplished.

I watch myself restlessly, as I watch the city lights of New York dwindle in the distance from the plane's window. Money-making doesn't matter, I think to myself, and minds of peace cannot be purchased. Why am I restless after doing a good show, a good job?

My childhood friend comes back to life, with the art of magic, and I wish like a genie I didn't have to let him pay me to do that. Astonishment is a priceless gift, no matter how many plane tickets to Cebu I'd like to buy, or how much bread I'd need to put on the table. I wander the skies with a show over my shoulder, now tucked away neatly in the backpack under my seat. New York was cold, but made me feel warm with the hospitality the wanderer in me was shown. I savored the fleeting attachment, the temporary bond, as my "client" let me into his family for the past few days, and made me feel welcome with homemade pulled-pork sandwiches, a couple of beers, and a bag of freshly picked apples for my family back home.

I offered them what magic I could. Do mutual exchanges, or transactions, have to happen? I wish for the freedom to work for free: to be a sword for hire, for nothing. Love is what moves me. I would let the money I made from this past gig fall out of my hands and out the airplane window if I could. Doing what you love for those who show love back should be priceless.

-antidote