As Sung Every Sunday in Evangelical Churches Across America
Donald Trump
kiss his rump
bend and turn
then he'll hump
Donald Trump
Donald Trump
my god
I'm a faithful Evangelical
Democrats are diabolical
it's so Evangelo-logical
Donald Trump
Paganistan: Notes from the Secret Commonwealth
In Which One Midwest Man-in-Black Confers, Converses & Otherwise Hob-Nobs with his Fellow Hob-Men (& -Women) Concerning the Sundry Ways of the Famed but Ill-Starred Tribe of Witches.
Steven Posch
Poet, scholar and storyteller Steven Posch was raised in the hardwood forests of western Pennsylvania by white-tailed deer. (That's the story, anyway.) He emigrated to Paganistan in 1979 and by sheer dint of personality has become one of Lake Country's foremost men-in-black. He is current keeper of the Minnesota Ooser.
One of the advantages of giving a workshop on the first day of Paganicon was the accrued feedback.
Over the course of the next two days, numerous folks approached me and thanked me for the workshop. In such situations, I always ask: “What stood out to you? What will you remember most, say, a year from now?”
Three of them said exactly the same thing in response: “The stories.”
Naturally, I followed up with: “Did you have a favorite?”
Gratifyingly, each of the three cited a different story. One woman repeated hers back to me virtually word-for-word: an impressive feat of memory, after only one hearing.
In the absence of writing, how do oral cultures pass on information?
You are designing a ritual to be enacted around a standing stone. The ritual includes three constituent parts:
- A round-dance around the standing stone.
- Crowning the standing stone with a circlet of flowers.
- Pouring a libation over the standing stone.
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That's what makes it 301!
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The order is easy: crown, pour, dance. Wording the why is much harder.
What does a witch like her want with the body of an executed criminal?
Don't ask me, I'm just the go-for guy. You want it, I'll get it for you: for the right price, anyway. Me, I don't know anything about magic, and—believe me—you don't want to, either.
Call it plausible deniability.
(I hear she cooks 'em down into a topnotch flying ointment, but maybe that's just a story.)
Anyway, her silver's as good as anybody's. Twenty years now I've been sourcing for her, and in all that time, she's never had one single complaint, and never once stiffed me. Good business, that.
Good money too, if you don't mind getting your hands dirty.
Well, son, time to learn the family trade. Beats honest work any day of the moon, ha ha.
Just leave the cart there, then come on over and help me move this stone, would you?
Oh, and bring the sack too, while you're at it.
T R U M P
R U M P
U M P
M P
P
The strange thing was, he felt no fear.
No fear whatsoever.
As a boy, my friend loved staying with grandma and grandpa on the farm.
He loved the tall, tall corn.
He loved the barn, with its animal smell.
He loved having his own room.
The first thing that he noticed when he woke that night was the smell.
It was the smell that you smell walking into the forest: bright ozone and sweet, dark decay.
He opened his eyes. The Leaf Man stood in the doorway, filling the doorway.
He felt no fear at all. Rather, he felt safe, protected.
The Leaf Man said nothing. He wanted him to, though.
He wanted him to come into the room, pick him up, and hold him in his arms.
He wanted to be his friend.
When he woke in the morning, the doorway, of course, was empty.
“What a strange dream,” he thought.
But when his grandma came to the door to wake him for breakfast, she looked puzzled.
“Where did all these leaves come from?” she asked. “Why is there dirt all over the floor?”
...Of the Anglii, this also may be said, if you can believe it: that at the sound of Spring's first thunder, they immediately drop whatever it is that they may be doing, be it ever so important, and fall to the ground and forthwith give themselves over to the act of love.
Indeed, the very king in his judgement-hall, the priest at his altar, nay, even the warrior on his battlefield: all these endeavors they lay aside to observe the rites of Venus without delay. Then, having accomplished their (as they see it) religious duty, they rise up again and promptly resume that which their act of venery had interrupted.
For Thunder they account to be the highest of all gods, and at the year's first sound of his voice it behooves them, so they say, to match, at his prompting, Heaven's pouring forth of seed (emissio semine) with a like pouring-forth here on Earth, that the crops may likewise grow tall and that the flocks may flourish.
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A good travel writer never lets the facts get in the way of a good traveler's tale. ;-)
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That sounds like a story that Tacitus hear from one of the Angli tribes neighbors not something he witnessed himself.
