You know, it’s funny. I don’t think of the Wild Hunt as one of my favorite blogs, but damn, when a post over there sticks with you, it sticks with you.  I guess what I mean is that it’s snuck up on me as a favorite blog.

And I’m completely enjoying mulling over this idea of “reenchantment,” of finding places that allow us to experience something Mysterious, or something as Mysterious.

One of the things that strikes me when I’m weeding is that eventually the brain just shuts off and the body hums along happily doing something it knows how to do.  It strikes me on two levels.  One is that, when I’m doing it, I can remember, vividly, being a child and sitting in the grass and tearing at it to get down at the dirt.  I feel it like there’s almost no time passed. The other is that I feel like I’m doing something my body as a human animal just knows how to do. I can’t explain it, exactly, except that I feel a kind of recognition that is deeper than just this brain level stuff.

I think that’s kind of the flip side of this idea of “reenchantment,” because isn’t that a way of trying to interact with the world that lets you stand in the presence of something your brain does not understand but which your body somehow does?

I mean, ha, if I were a philosopher, I could get at it easier, but it’s like you both don’t recognize it (or else it wouldn’t be mysterious) and you very much recognize it (or else you wouldn’t know that it was mysterious).

I think this is one of the reasons that I search out cemeteries.  One of the reasons I’m tickled about sharing with you my terrible fake ghost stories. I want there to be places I can get to that are enchanted, that make me feel that dissonance when you both know and don’t know something at the same time.

Even having this discussion, though, I am frustrated by the way this language won’t stretch to accommodate me.  I feel like whenever I try to talk about feeling like I am both a brain or a consciousness, a “me” and an animal or a body, or an it (which still has some level of awareness), and that I am usually under the impression that the brain rules the body and they function together rather seamlessly, but occasionally I have cause to be aware of how independent they are from each other, it sounds nutty.  How can you experience yourself as being both completely whole and uniform and fundamentally fragmented?

And yet, that’s exactly how it is for me.

And I hope my lawn is sparkly when I take the dog out here in a second, because I just don’t believe that’s ever going to not seem magical.

Do You Live in Hannibal, Missouri?

Can you prove it?  If so, I’d like to interview you.

I don’t want any fuckers from New London or Palmyra or, god forbid, Quincy.  I mean an honest to god person from Hannibal, not just someone who works there to make the place look inhabited.

That’s right, Hannibal.

I’m on to your little game.


I have not seen the Twilight movies, but I have read enough feminist critiques of them to know that the stalker-vampire sparkles and that this is one reason for his stupidity–sparkles.

So, I know admitting that one finds sparkles fascinating is fraught with peril.  I have not seen a sparkly vampire, but damn it, I have seen a sparkly lawn and I love it.

I think part of it must be that we’ve been basically in drought conditions every summer for about as long as I can remember.  This may be the first summer I’ve spent in Tennessee where the rains were not all on account of Gulf hurricanes.  So, when I was standing on my porch last night and I saw tiny red sparkles, my first thought was, “damn it, my lawn is on fire.”  But no!  It’s just the way the porch light hits the wet on the grass.

And why was the grass even wet?  Who knows?  I guess that’s something grass gets here at night when there’s not a drought.

I, of course, imagined the sparkles as tiny signal fires.


Because I am weird.

But I guess you knew that.

Yep, It’s Monday

Is it wrong, when you step in a big pile of thrown-up catfood, and you hobble into the kitchen to get some paper towels, and you come back out to find the dog eating it, to just say, “fuck it,” and let her?

I’m kind of glad it’s going to be hot today, because that makes it a little easier to get back to work.  I just completely goofed off this weekend, for the most part.  I didn’t even finish cleaning the bathroom.

But it was so nice and I wanted to just be outside, goofing off, and so that’s what we did.

I was thinking about Jason Stackhouse in last night’s episode of True Blood, and how one of the things that makes him so interesting as a character is that he’s just a complete send up of a certain kind of manliness.  Everything he’s been prepped to do or be his whole life is kind of useless.  He’s not a great football hero.  Even when he comes into Merlotte’s looking to kick ass and take names, the crowd doesn’t respond how they’re supposed to.

And yet, it’s in his embracing of something he is clearly not–a god–that they’re able to save Sam.

I don’t know what to make of it, but I’m keeping my eye on it.