• This is the only story of mine whose moral I know. I don’t think it’s a marvelous moral; I simply happen to know what it is: We are what we pretend to be, so we must be careful about what we pretend to be. Kurt Vonnegut
    Mother Night

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Other Blogs

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    We are living in unsettled time. Wp Rnpt has ended the time between time, the Days Upon the Year in which time is upended and unordered, but time is still not aligned fully. We have space in which action exists, in which we can uphold the world, set ma’at in its place, the leverage to […]
  • Just a quick note
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  • Opet article is up
    And can be read here.Filed under: Patheos Links
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  • The Art of Being A God
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  • Hills of the Horizon: The Past is Another Country
    The problem with extrapolation from history is that nothing is testable. The evolution of a religion over time is not a predictable and easily comprehensible thing, where we can look at a point in time and say, "It was like this then, so it would be like that now." The process of deciding what needs […]

Metu-Netjer

Bennu of the Northern Stars

It is not enough to be broken
(broken in all the wrong places)
Not, he says, if what you need is to be broken open
(you are not big enough to hold yourself)
Come, straighten those limbs
(I will crack the bones of you to make you true)
Stretch yourself free of your confinement
(your shell is crazed from the stress of being bound)
And I will tear you open
To let the god fly free.


The Voice of Geb

I fell from heaven,
My love,
And now can only reach and wish –
My every oak tree striving for her depths
My every mountain aching to stroke her starry skin
Each skyscraper and termite mound rising up
With the force of my desire.
I fell from heaven and lie spent
Surrounded by her luminous darkness.


This is My age
My children
(Each and every one of you an imperishable star).

Your prophets cry that all things are upended
Your families broken
Your poor too wealthy
Your powerful overthrown.
Your barbarians are at the gates
And the downtrodden dare to speak.

Bewail the horrors of My age
The overwhelming chaos of choice
The terrible freedom that let you come to Me at last.

You come to Me alone
As you must
Leaving your kin behind to come to Mine.
You come to Me to build
With the full strength your solitude wreaks
In defiance of prophets and kings.

This is My age
And yet you build
Mighty, despairing works
Aspiring to what is long-lost
In the memory of My sand.