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.

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First of Gods

They get off the school bus together every day.

They're maybe nine, ten. The tall one has long hair, with a knit cap pulled down tight. His friend is shorter, with short hair. They've both got that indeterminate beauty that might turn into anything, the beauty of the as-yet-unformed.

Two boys. They don't even realize that they're in love.

When they get off the bus, it's always one two, with no one between. The other kids on the bus might as well not even exist, for all that they interact with them. There's one person here worth noticing, and you know very well who that is.

Long after the others have shambled off homewards, these two will still be there on the corner: tousling, grabbing at each other's packs, throwing snow.

When they do finally head off in their separate directions, they'll both keep turning back. Three or four times they'll look back. Sometimes one will run back to the other, for one final taunt.

The other one always knows he's coming, of course.

Everyone has a first, the one you'd rather be with than anyone. If that's not love, what is?

Two boys. Is it gay? The question makes no sense here.

No, this is Love Inchoate, the free-floating Love before creation: the love that knows not even its own existence. It only Is, and, Being, is sufficient.

Luck to you both, young lovers. Life is hard, and often unkind.

But Love, they say, is first of gods.

 

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Tagged in: Eros love love god
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.

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