I really hate magick.
Part of it is just my loathing of pretense, of pretending, of imagining oneself to be living in the eighteenth century when — oh, just barely — one could get away with an extra -k at the end of a word. I sometimes joke with my friends that one should be careful, that too much magickcickickick will give you a heart attackackackackackack (not a funny joke, given my genes, but whatever — fate is fate).
I have said that no one but a blinding idiot would confuse stage magic with practical magic.
But that was before the twenty-first century, when I realized that I made a grave error. Go on, search for “magic.” I dare ya. Here, I’ll help. How many of those results are remotely helpful? The last one, maybe, if you’re interested in the intersection between magic and logic.
I’m a damned fool.
“Magic” doesn’t help in finding information about real magic on the web. The vast majority consists of either magic in the sense of stage magic (prestidigitation, the British call it, and I while I love being an American, sometimes I think I my fondness of bergomot-flavored tea hints at a British past live).
The downside, of course, is that if one searches for “magick,” you get a hell of a lot of Crowley. He’s a good place to start, but — not everyone has to end there. I wish there were a term (Hey, the use of the subjunctive, another sign of being British in a past life) that indicated real magic, like, changing reality, express-train to god, start tinkering with the universal computer code that makes up matter, kind of magic.