Editor's Note: This post was found in 'Draft' mode in the original blog and may be incomplete. It is published here in its original state. It was last updated on 15/06/2016. Decomposition of Zoroastrian mythology into Rasta ritual and cant An historical narrative with novel conclusions The field of comparative religion has been stymied by a reluctance to attribute any reality to supernatural...
Editor's Note: This post was found in 'Draft' mode in the original blog and may be incomplete. It is published here in its original state. It was last updated on 12/05/2016. I first heard this story while smoking a thick reefer, bathing in a hot water spring in the interior of Fiji. I had travelled by cattle truck, foot and horse to arrive at this place. And it was good. I had long hair and was...
He had been walking since before he could remember, and before that he had escaped. There had been dunes of fine white dust and shattered stones lining dessicated river beds. He had passed passages decorated by impossible fossils, decaying wooden signs and roughly hewn markers proving undeniable theses and directions, and a skeleton proving that he was not the first to go this way. He had known...
David was a historian at the institute. The machine had been cold, like the look on his father’s face when he cried. The noises that erupted from it felt uncoordinated and overeager, like the dreams where he could not stop running and falling. The nurse had been friendly, like the voices in his head when there was no one else to tell. The doctor had been professional, like a salesman, like...
A boy lost in the woods. The path is a dragon to be fled, cobblestones made of logical paradoxes to be solved. There is a sign pointing to freedom and wealth. There are warnings; a cacography of leaves and bare twigs, foretelling failures and eternal damnation. The spirits sing sweet songs, gossamer echoes of Ariadne’s thread. “Here is freedom, here is choice.” But the boy...
When I first met Adam he was picketing cigarette sales outside a convenience store. When I think of him now, I think of his bulging eyes, sweaty stubble, the smell of aniseed as he leaned in confidentially to whisper something he thought must be a secret, but back then he was clean shaved and suited and not prone to whispers. “You got a light?” I didn’t. “That’s...
You are welcome to sit by the fire, its flames dance in the rhythm that aches for freedom inside us, and the rumble of the consuming fuel echoes the debt of time that strikes at us in unrelenting syncopation. You are welcome to sit by the fire, I am telling myself a story. It is not my story. Here it begins. When you wake up in the morning, you are you, and there is no doubt. When you lay down to...
A memory. I wake up and the dragon is already there. There are stab wounds in my chest; shards of fractured glass drifting in the circuits of my heart and invading its walls. Today there is a scratch marking my belly. It is deep in some places, and an admixture of acid and a heat that is hot but never warm. I don’t know if I woke the dragon up, but I have known – many times before...
In a mute house behind a lethargic door on a shelf dressed in dust sits a box. To the box was a key given to a girl who swam in the ocean and chose to sleep in it too. In the box was a tawdry ring given by an Aunt who had not forgotten that plastic can glow like an emerald and be worth its weight in whispered secrets. The ring was found by a sad man making up a couch because he could no longer...
Editor's Note: This post was found in 'Draft' mode in the original blog and may be incomplete. It is published here in its original state. It was last updated on 13/02/2015. The following paper was brought to the attention of the Royal Society of Exploratory Studies on a Tuesday. By Thursday all three committee members owning right of veto resigned, resulting in an emergency meeting that night...