Magic Philadelphia
Although I am moving to Philadelphia in a few days, I will continue to work in New Jersey at least for the fall semester. As such, I will be commuting 3 days of the week. When I tell people of this, they get a horrified expression on their faces and look at me in shock and pity. Admittedly, I am not looking forward to the traffic, and I am sure I shall get frustrated with the commute soon enough (more motivation to find a job in Philly?), but I am not dreading it as much as one may think, because I have a secret pleasure in my pocket.
One of my favorite sights is the view that unfolds as I cross the bridge and drive up to Philadelphia on 1-95. Philadelphia can be a beautiful city, but it's especially sublime at the moment where distance and intimacy meet, and its spires rise up from the road to swallow you up, welcome you into itself. It is beautiful in sunlight, all gleaming surfaces and clean aerodynamic planes, and it is equally beautiful in rain and mist, looming out of the fog in all its Gothic Art Deco glory.
shvetufae once talked to me of her wish for creating a literary Magical Philadelphia, in response to the many many Magical New Yorks and Magical Londons proliferating within urban fantasy book pages. "There is no Magical Philadelphia really, and that's a pity" she had said. I was surprised at this statement then, I am befuddled now: Philadelphia is a magical city in and of itself. It doesn't even need to rely on a literary mirror for its fantastical qualities. Surely it is a better setting for covert magical happenings than New York.
New York is too full of people, too full of individual lives and wills and all the myriad petty busyness of its inhabitants, scrambling over it like an anthill. Churning in constant turmoil, it has no time to slow down even for a second (and magic is all about taking moments of time out of time) except perhaps in a fictional counterpart. It is too full of grimy, boisterous, selfish life to open it up to reflection. London, I don't know. I have less familiarity with the city.
But Philadelphia! With the seedy areas, yes, but also the quiet quaint history-laden streets, the secret places tucked into corners, the trap doors and hidden things all through and around itself, and the simpler pace of life. The city where a matter-of-factly steampunk pub inhabits a building that used to be a stately bank, in an otherwise placidly respectable part of town. The city where antique bookstores and pawn shops spill out of you from the most benign storefronts, and bluegrass bars exist in living rooms as modern speak-easies. The city where gorgeous painted Victorian houses peeping through thick green trees give way to abandoned lofts and boarded up buildings, and then come right back again; where turning each street is a new adventure. The city that does sleep, and dreams, at night, under the heavy yellow moon cooling the cobblestones.
It is a city made for magic and for stories. I hope to find mine there.
One of my favorite sights is the view that unfolds as I cross the bridge and drive up to Philadelphia on 1-95. Philadelphia can be a beautiful city, but it's especially sublime at the moment where distance and intimacy meet, and its spires rise up from the road to swallow you up, welcome you into itself. It is beautiful in sunlight, all gleaming surfaces and clean aerodynamic planes, and it is equally beautiful in rain and mist, looming out of the fog in all its Gothic Art Deco glory.
shvetufae once talked to me of her wish for creating a literary Magical Philadelphia, in response to the many many Magical New Yorks and Magical Londons proliferating within urban fantasy book pages. "There is no Magical Philadelphia really, and that's a pity" she had said. I was surprised at this statement then, I am befuddled now: Philadelphia is a magical city in and of itself. It doesn't even need to rely on a literary mirror for its fantastical qualities. Surely it is a better setting for covert magical happenings than New York.
New York is too full of people, too full of individual lives and wills and all the myriad petty busyness of its inhabitants, scrambling over it like an anthill. Churning in constant turmoil, it has no time to slow down even for a second (and magic is all about taking moments of time out of time) except perhaps in a fictional counterpart. It is too full of grimy, boisterous, selfish life to open it up to reflection. London, I don't know. I have less familiarity with the city.
But Philadelphia! With the seedy areas, yes, but also the quiet quaint history-laden streets, the secret places tucked into corners, the trap doors and hidden things all through and around itself, and the simpler pace of life. The city where a matter-of-factly steampunk pub inhabits a building that used to be a stately bank, in an otherwise placidly respectable part of town. The city where antique bookstores and pawn shops spill out of you from the most benign storefronts, and bluegrass bars exist in living rooms as modern speak-easies. The city where gorgeous painted Victorian houses peeping through thick green trees give way to abandoned lofts and boarded up buildings, and then come right back again; where turning each street is a new adventure. The city that does sleep, and dreams, at night, under the heavy yellow moon cooling the cobblestones.
It is a city made for magic and for stories. I hope to find mine there.