What precisely is there to say?

I intend to write a much longer narrative about these last five days, but I’ve hardly quite the idea where to start.

A physical description of the conference?  It was a bunch of people in a hotel in New York, talking to each other.  And then they left.

And thus we’ve all the usefulness and profundity of materialistic narrative there, and you now know nothing.

Last night, I sat by a stream, under a bridge.  I thought I’d there attempt to piece together all I’d seen, but streams have better ideas than such airy designs.

And I’ve told you nothing, still.

Maybe this will tell you something:

All sorts of people in rooms, names I’ve known as disembodied words, ideas and narratives and insights upon which I’ve had little meaning to tether except perhaps a small photo or a blog title.  They introduce themselves, and you immediately compare your senses of their manifest presence against what you’ve suspected and pieced together from their words.  Such a process is often jarring on internet dating: he’s usually shorter than you constructed, has a higher voice.  Often more attractive than you suspected, just as often less so.  Bodies don’t mediate well through the digital.  Sound does not so well either.  But that’s why we use words.

Sannion’s precisely as you think he is, unless you think he’s horrible and scary.  Galina? Has a stronger gravity than you suspected–her written words hardly convey the spirits that seem to accompany her as she walks.  Edward Butler is one of the kindliest sorts of people you can imagine–his searing intellect afeared me a bit, but then he’s got the warmest, most friendly reading voice you can imagine.  PSVL is precisely as you imagine, I suspect–tall (e’s awfully tall), brilliant, affable, and fabulous.  And the Thracian?  I–I almost don’t want to tell you how fucking amazingly sweet and fucking kind he is in all his dark presence, because I’d hardly want him to be swarmed.

And the other folks?  I’m not sure how to describe the beauty of watching Raven Kaldera sit on a couch discussing a rite for the trans-dead with fascinating young trans-punks, after drinking and smoking for hours on a sidewalk amidst conversations about housework as devotion, the agency of psychopomps in Goetic theory, what do to do now that we can’t stop climate change, geomancy, the complications of reconstructing the gods from Christianized texts, and how to handle fascist inroads into european cultural movements…with real fucking human beings.

There we all were, with all our bizarre quirks and beauty, all realizing we’re hardly alone.

 

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