Trying to find mine.
I got home tonight and stood … as I do … and searched the sky. Orion was on the horizon, with Betelgeuse and Rigel shining steadfast.
Someone asked me during the Q&A today if I had found a peaceful place like my back porch was at home, and I had to say no. I don’t have that meditative spot like I used to. Someone else asked if I have romantic love in my life, and I can’t answer that very simply. There’s a woman who cares about me very deeply (I don’t use names without permission, and we haven’t had that talk yet.) and there’s affection and caring … but (cliche incoming) it’s complicated. There are issues she needs to settle in her own world before she can comfortably explore mine. So we are separate.
I fill up my time with art and work and vital things. I try to not think of romance or physical affection. Self doubt in these areas grows. Am I worthy of that kind of love? Am I deserving?
I don’t know.
So I work, and that is taking a special kind of patience. I’m not complaining, I’m good at what I do and I greatly enjoy it. My art is very satisfying, and I lift hearts. The obstacles are few (though mighty) and I am building good faith and reputation among my community and future clients. Life is Magic.
But now it’s 2AM and I wish I had someone to tell about my day. Someone who would be interested and even eager to hear about it. Oh, of course I’ll tell you … and I really should attack these keys more often, but I mean a partner. A Lover. Someone to pour my heart and dreams into. I have someone in mind … and she loves me back, of this I have no doubts. But she needs to overcome obstacles for us to be even remotely together, so I’m giving her time and space to figure things out.
I’m breathing. I’ll keep doing that.
Looking for my center. Longing for my love.
I pour my heart, my essence, into my work.
I call it art and I try to keep a straight face.
I say what I believe. Sometimes those words are uncomfortable. So be it. I am sick of trying to second guess what might ‘hurt’ my career. I silenced myself and I whispered, just in case someone who might want to give me money for magic was listening.
Enough. I’m doing what I’m supposed to be doing. Want to hold my heart against me?
So Be It. My creativity is running strong, and I need to what I can while I’m here.
Life is criminally short.
I’m spending it loving and spreading love. Romantic love seems to elude me … and that’s not what i’m talking about. Maybe that’s just not my road. So be it.
Live performance. My first real love.
Writing. (Here and for Genii)
Video blog. https://www.youtube.com/user/HannibalGroup
These are mistresses I’m allowed. (For now)
Check them out … and subscribe for Hannibal content.
I need your support. Here’s my Patreon: https://www.patreon.com/magicartist
Help me to continue to move forward. New content, new explorations.
I’m rededicating myself. Again.
This is Magic.
This is Hannibal.
Here I Am.
The Magic Castle, Hollywood, CA
I looked all over for some small sign of my friend. He was nowhere to be found. The places were still there, but there was no trace of him. Not his laughter. Not his spirit. Not his magic.
I sat on the bench where we talked about performance and art. I spent time at the table where we shared favorite books.
He’s just gone. I, selfishly, would have liked more time with him.
I visited Irma to get some perspective: maybe add some music to lift my heart. At the request of another guest, she played “Suicide is Painless”.
Later a stranger, who earlier in the evening had watched my show, gave me food. “I ordered this to go on impulse. I think I’m supposed to give it to you.” Chicken and veggies, quite delightful.
As I went to pay my parking, I was called back inside. A friend requested that I do a small show for his sister, who was celebrating her birthday. We found a private table and … it was good. I told my stories and did my magic for the two of them. I made a boot for her … and she cried, just a little.
It took everything I had. It was worth it. I gave them a bit of me. That’s art, right?
For you, Leeman. For your smile. For your spirit. I found a bit of it, and I gave it to someone. As it should be.
My mother’s favorite movie was “Doctor Zhivago”; it came out the same year I was born. We watched it four times together. She told me in confidence that she didn’t believe a grand romance like that could really happen.
The second to last time we watched it, I took her to a movie theater that was having a classic movie revival week. The grandeur and the power of the cinematography, along with the incredible story made us gasp and weep openly. It’s rare to have that strong of a reaction to a movie … but this was brilliant.
The last time we viewed it, about four months before she was killed, I gave her a deluxe VHS set for her birthday. At the end of a box of tissues she told me that I had the capacity to love like that, if I’d let myself.
The love he displays is of high caliber. Not just of Lara, though that’s important, but his love of humanity, life and love itself.
Could I possibly? This is a goal worth reaching for.
May 17, 2018
Last set of the night at the W.C. Fields bar. I intended to close with the Elf boot story. There was a woman celebrating her birthday, seated in the perfect position on one side … and what all my training told me was the wrong person on the other. This one was brassy and brash, drunkish and slightly confrontational. Not the sort for a more intimate piece like this. But … she was in the perfect spot, and while I might have chosen someone else, my instinct popped up and told me to trust in my ability to control the moment, and in her as an audience member. I’ve learned to let it flow when that instinct nudges me. So i went for it.
When the routine was over, the ‘problem’ spectator was in happy tears. Hugging me and thanking me for making her evening special. “We got a babysitter for our babies and took a night for ourselves. I’ve had a great time, even though I miss them. You just made everything perfect. i’m going to put this boot on a shelf and tell that story over and over …”
Art from the heart. Believe in the power of the love in your gift. Give the best of yourself, even if you doubt the receiver worthy. Give for the sake of giving. Make art for the sake of making it.
Art and love have the power to enrich and change lives.
Olive Garden. Client/ friend took me for food and chat.
Seated nearby was a gentleman of roughly my age, and a young lady. He was business casual, she a bit more casual in jeans and heels. In conversation it came out that she was 26, but I first took her for 14-15. I wasn’t trying to eavesdrop, but they were quite animated and louder than is customary in establishments such as the OG.
The first thing that drew my focus was him inquiring as to her line of work. “Sugar baby.” Came her reply. There was an extended pause. He spoke, “So is this an actual date, or are you fielding a new client?”
“A little of both” she honestly replied, “I haven’t really made up my mind about you, yet.”
I was intrigued, but focused on my own conversation as best I could. They seemed to be enjoying dinner and, apart from the occasional exclamation, (“his wife thought my dress was a gift for her, and I saw her wearing it in a couple of FB pictures. Never found my underwear, either. I wonder if she’s wearing those, too.”) they kept to themselves.
Later, as they got up to leave (she really wasn’t used to those heels), she turned to him and said, “Before this goes further, I need to let you know. I have a slight heroin addiction. It’s no big deal, really, and I only smoke it; I haven’t shot up since I got out of prison. I’m gonna get a cigarette and check on my daughter while you get the car.”
I’m living in LA, folks. Much love from the OG. More breadsticks?
Help support this magic artist: www.NekkidElfBoots.com
He came into the Cellar theater in the Castle with a group of 3 others, two couples. He was a movie stereotype: the Russian gangster. In his sixties, Shiny grey sharkskin suit, grizzled face, angry expression. Turned out he was, in fact, Russian. His wife wore a stylish bleach blonde wig.
It was just the five of us and I offered them a show. Pieter was super aggressive from the beginning: grabbing cards, insisting on the terms of the show. “Put the cards in my hand and let me pick. Now I get to put it back and shuffle. LOOK AWAY – YOU DON’T GET TO WATCH!” His wife chided him and he sneered at her, all ugly attitude. He slammed the cards down in front of me and demanded I tell him which card he chose. What would you do?
I looked at him intently. (The thousand yard stare I talk abut in my lecture) He laughed to his wife about “All magic is fake and these hustlers are just trying to make me look foolish, but this idiot just got beaten!” (Insert thick Russian accent)
“Five of Hearts”
His face fell and he looked stricken, then angry again. “YOU CHEAT! How do you know this?”
“Because it’s under the Pringle’s can.” (It was)
Then I fooled him again. And again. AND I made friends with him. Jokes at my own expense. Magic that happened in his hand. Stories that riveted his attention. Building his self-esteem until he stopped being a challenger, and became part of the story. I showed him love. I gifted him joy. He roared with amazement when the signed card appeared … and I guessed his wife’s secret word, which happened to be her pet name for him. (медведь гризли)
On a whim, I made him a boot and I told him the story of the nekkid elves. He smiled and nodded and said something to his group. I let them go.
Pieter stood up and hugged me. Then he looked at me with tears on his face and said: “My mama told me this story. I will put this boot by her picture at home.
You are the only magic I believe.”
Now tell me again why I should be doing anything else.