Paganistan: Notes from the Secret Commonwealth

In Which One Midwest Man-in-Black Confers, Converses & Otherwise Hob-Nobs with his Fellow Hob-Men (& -Women) Concerning the Sundry Ways of the Famed but Ill-Starred Tribe of Witches.

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The First Thing to Know

During last week's blizzard here in the Twin Cities, we got five inches of orange snow.


“White as snow,” they say. Not this.

While here in the Upper Midwest we've been busy what will hopefully (in retrospect) prove to have been the last snowstorms of our winter, they've been having big storms of their own down in Texas and the Southwest: in this case, windstorms.

Those invisible gods, the winged Winds, caught up that dry red Southron soil and, moving through the upper atmosphere at speeds of more than 130 miles an hour, they bore it Northwards where, mere hours later, it fell to earth again as orange snow.

Last summer, as British Columbia burned, here in Minnesota we smelled the smoke.

Truly—truly—everything is connected.

That's the first thing to know.








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Poet, scholar and storyteller Steven Posch was raised in the hardwood forests of western Pennsylvania by white-tailed deer. (That's the story, anyway.) He emigrated to Paganistan in 1979 and by sheer dint of personality has become one of Lake Country's foremost men-in-black. He is current keeper of the Minnesota Ooser.


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