One of the reasons this caught my eye is that I’ve long had an interest in the letter ϝ.

All the way back in Strange Spirits I wrote:

An interlude while the actor pauses to refresh himself. Weird and alien, nothing is quite what it seems. The world rushing, the languid embrace of the vegetation, shadows that linger too long and light seen through the trees.

At least when I’m out of it I get poetry. I have made a Dionysos shape with my words, a door for the spirits to pass into the world. The land is familiar to me as a woman’s body; the forest beckons, I follow the path as drunkenness settles upon me, dark as the cloth of the robe of night.

I was born in flames and thunder, strong desire and a promise rashly made. Were it not for the cool ivy that the women on the mountain with skins of animals hanging off their shoulders chew to court madness – if it wasn’t for that I would be dead. Ivy wrapped herself around me, keeping the heat and destruction from my delicate flesh so that I might grow and one day teach the world to dance.

A man dressed like a goat runs across the stage, singing a libretto.

All error in Christianity stems from its inability to recognize the true plurality of the Gods. There are multitudes in me. All else is fine.

Wow, with what wry wit we weave wisdom’s winding ways, watching wonderstruck while wildly writhing wight-wed women willfully wail weird witchy words, wander wide western wildernesses, wet with waves wrecking whatever won’t withstand winter, wine, winds.

Digamma fell out of favor a long time ago, but I aim for a restoration.

I have come to claim the Basilinna in the venerable house of the bull so that the flowers will rise from the black earth and the children will get to taste wine for the first time. Placate the wet ghosts and the king with unwashed hands with silent feasts where no food is touched only the somber consumption of my liquid grace.

Suddenly the raven takes to wing, the song is at an end.