People who like tea are terrifying.
Open your eyes, mom. What do you think has been going on for the past two years? The fights, the weird occurrences. How many times have you washed blood out of my clothing, and you still haven’t figured it out?
Magic never died, never weakened, never hid. Magic is alive. Magic is afoot.
There’s a town because there is always a town, tucked away in some half-forgotten corner of a semi-obscure county. It has a lot of names—vaguely unsettling names, names that never quite make it onto maps. Names you forget after hearing.
(it’s better that way trust us)
This town is called Morhollow. It takes a certain strangeness to live there—to carry silver, not rescue hanged men, never smudge chalk or feed the jackalopes. Morhollow calls to the uncanny like a lodestone to iron, like a compass pointed always to the edges of things, to that place where the tallgrass prairie meets the high plains.
Morhollow’s people are not like other people. But then, Morhollow is not like other towns.
Мельница - Невеста Полоза (The Serpent’s Bride)
translating again because needed to share because of all the fairy tale feels, and just listen to it because it’s lovely.
Oh, that’s not dust on forest roads.
Oh, don’t go to the sorrow, girl, don’t touch
Don’t wake the magic, look away.
It’s the serpents’ wedding.
Didn’t know the evil,
Didn’t look away.
So now you belong to us and it’s all your own fault.
There’s mist over the clearing
The serpent king is waiting
And you’re to be his wife.
Hold me close,
Lay me down on a silken bed
And caress me
And don’t let me go out alone.
I can’t find the serpent’s potion.
I don’t dare to look up at you.
Tanned with scales
I’m to go with the snakes into the autumn’s ash.
I can hear the serpent’s voice like dust,
His golden eyes huge and filled with hunger
He calls me do descend,
"Oh, my dear, come down,
I’ll embrace you in 33 coils”.
In this time of term papers I wanted to draw my patron deity, Bullshitticus, god of students and general last minute fudgery, sitting upon his Golden Futon, attended by the muses Caffeina and Thesaurae, whose powers of artificial energy and pretentious vocabulary can be invoked in case of the all-nighter.
I like to think he’s Dionysus’s second cousin or something.
my whole soul cries out for american magical realism
where are the little midwestern towns with the waving grass in summer and the deep snow in winter, towns full of young women in white and slender-wristed dead hitchikers drinking merle’s coffee
where’s john henry raising black dogs and sasquatch footprints left outside the public library and no-face charlie walking the streets at night, whistling ‘o susanna’
there should be crumbling overgrown cemeteries and diners with faded linoleum floors, and molly pitcher pours cheap beer on bingo nights and crows are good luck when you catch sight of them perched on the cart return outside of walmart and out of the corner of your eye you see coyote, laughing at you
I think that’s why American Gods is so popular, a lot of people crave it.
but American Gods doesn’t do it right though.I’m very fond of Neil Gaiman and I liked American Gods, but that is a novel written by a non-American, it’s so focused on the details of America, on the trappings of it, and none of the actual feel and heft of Americanness. It’s all…peeling billboards and coke cans and budweiser beer, roadside attractions and television. Neil Gaiman writes America the way that a high school art student tries to be ~deep~ and make a political statement about the downfall of culture.
I mean, who writes a whole novel about America and America’s love affair with legend, myth, factions, sects, cults—America that invented the Hollywood star and the self-made robber baron, with his gospel of wealth—American that still loudly fights about god in the public sphere—who writes a novel about that country and declares “America is a bad land for gods”?