Low culture and high magic.

June 18, 2010 at 6:36 pm (quotations, the standard of questionable taste)

I’ve grown silent. The number of things about which I do not speak has grown until I do not bother touching fingertips to keyboard, or even sucking air into my lungs, at all. These things I have written: let them be a piling of stones on a grave. I arrange them in a circle; I mark them with signs. Through them I call on the serpent coiled about my neck, the feathers caught in my throat, the things I do not say. It is a reminder that I have spoken. It is an evocation. Forgive me this: the only ritual I know is self-indulgence.

Tell My Wife I am Trolling Atlantis: on the various fictions that comprise half the truth of lost love. Saturday, 27 March, 2010.

I’ll Shake You From Your Sleep: on farm cats, crows, laying hens, honey bees, frost, snakes, deer, hunters, and farm work. Saturday, 17 October, 2009.

These Leaves Cover Up All That I’ve Become: on the Venetian magicians, youth, lies, and glamours. Thursday, 11 December, 2008.

For Science!: on travelling in the Netherlands, natural and unnatural history, unabashed worship of the culture gods, antique and modern science, and quite a lot of absinthe. Friday, 12 September, 2008.

I’d like to think it was Orlando, but A Room of One’s Own might be more accurate: on fine literature. Sunday, 27 April, 2008.

For These Thy Gifts: on oysters. Wednesday, 26 March, 2008.

Trickster Makes This World: on Virginia Woolf, Bosie, renommierschmiss, Ota Benga, and choosing a strange alliance with culture. Wednesday, 6 December, 2006

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