Friday, January 19, 2007

i am weak

I used to have a copy of "the Velveteen Rabbit" when I was little. It was lush and velvety and leather bound. The drawings were brown ink with detail so intricate that I would stare at them for hours. It was a beautiful book and I loved the story.

The ending is where I would get stuck. At the end, the stuffed rabbit ready to be burned and destroyed cries one actual tear and becomes real. The last illustration had the tear suspended and dangling in the air. It represented to me in that childlike way a magic to me; a magic of faith and dreams, all suspended in that bit of brown ink and prose.

I remember trying to recreate that magic; by generating a tear. Sitting on my front stoop, I would close the book, and squeeze my eyes shut, attempting to use my very force of will to believe something to reality. That magic tear obviously never came, and no stuffed rabbits (or penguins for that matter), ever came to life. Though I never once doubted that the magic was there, just that my will was not strong enough.

Plenty of tears come now; there's just no more belief in any kind of magic.