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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What the Eff Is a 'God-Form'?

Sorry, come again: I didn't quite catch that last.

“God-form”?

Sorry, my Cowan's a little rusty. “God-form”?

Do you mean an image: a statue, or something, that bears a god's presence? No? Do you mean a god?

Not quite? How is a “god-form” different from a god, then? Do you mean a hypostasis?

But it's something that you assume, right?

You assume it, but it's not a god. If it's not a god, how is it different from a god? If it's a god, why don't you just say “god”?

Well, what you're describing sure sounds like a god to me. Or at least a god's shadow: something cast over you when you're overshadowed.

Is that right?

Oh, oh, now I get it: it's like “orientate.” It's what you say when you mean “orient” but want to sound Impressive.

No?

OK, OK, never mind. Forget I even asked.

(Shakes head, mutters.)

“God-form.” Ye gods.

Now what were you saying, before that?

 

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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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