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Around 1261, the troubadour Rutebeuf (“Roast Beef”) published an early French miracle play, Le Miracle de Théophile.
Little did he know that he was about to make Wiccan history.
Based on 11th century Christian legend, the play tells the story of Theophilus (“god-lover”) of Adana, who sells his soul to the Devil. The Devil is called up, by a sorcerer named Salatin, with a mysterious chant:
Title: Romancing the Null (The Outlier Prophecies Book One)...
Last week I attended an opening at a local art gallery.
Someone was handing out zucchini.
No, it wasn't some abstruse performance piece. What it meant was: it's July in Minnesota.
Oh gods, it's that time of year again. Overabundance, thy name is zucchini.
Well, it's almost here: the time of year that they named the Summerland for.
The apples ripe and fragrant on the branches, and overhead in the trees, that unmistakable, piercing, electric drone.
Welcome to the Season of the Cicada.
Around here they say that the cicadas call only when it's 80° or warmer: clothing-optional weather. To judge from my own experience, this may well be true.
The name comes from the Romans, by way of the French. Before that, say the etymologists, it was a “Mediterranean” word. Who knows? It may even be Minoan.
Because cicadas, like snakes, shed their skins as they grow, and because their nymphs incubate in the earth and pop forth whole and all, they're associated in the Received Tradition with rebirth and immortality. Fittingly do they sing to the dead in the orchards of that Other World.
Caution: Rant Alert.
Och. The Olympics just haven't been themselves since the barbarians took them over.
Every four years, the International Olympic Committee—the world's third most corrupt international body (after the Vatican and FIFA)—rakes in billions in bribes and awards the quadrennial Summer Games to a municipality which then bankrupts itself building white elephant sports venues that will never be used again.
I say, move the Games back to Greece. Permanently.