Hairy hands, broadly Built blacksmith, craftsman, barrel Chested, devoted Husband to Laura. Of the Tuatha de Danaan. All was green forest. “Patience,” he counsels. “For
The story I write The tale I tell, poetic Mythic, magnetic, Universal, it Is your story as much as It is my story.
Tallest tower, where I languish as time ripens. Beauteous, beastly
You shall not fold your wings that you may pass through doors, nor bend your heads that they strike not against a ceiling, nor fear to breathe lest walls should crack and fall down.
For that which is boundless in you abides in the mansion of the sky, whose door is the morning mist, and whose windows are the songs and the silences of night.
This short fiction is based on an exercise from Carolyn Elliott’s Existential Kink. @carolynelliott_ Simon walked out of the residency director’s … Existential Kink: Meeting
My friend Aphrodite on Twitter introduced the term “astrotheology” this morning, and I totally love it. My schizotypal brain immediately began compiling examples many my