Visibility

I have never considered myself either a woman or a man. From the first days of my exploration, I was very clear that my identity was something else, a trickster-slick and shifting thing that slipped past both words and into uncharted lands. It was, by definition, dangerous.

Dreamworld Visitations

If I’m lucky, they’ll tell stories of the journeys they take across landscapes as alien as anything in Oz. “I ended up in someone’s garden,” they explain. “Only they were a sort of – scarecrow accordion? I apologized, and they let me cut through their house.” “Why did you need to go through their house?” I ask, and they pause, thoughtful. “Because that was the easiest way to get to you.”

Oathring

“How are you supposed to know you gave up anything, if nothing changes?”

Column: Postmark 221B, Baker Street

If Dionysos could show up uninvited and distinctive in my life, and Darcy Lewis could become a defining characteristic of a fandom where she hardly existed in the main text, why did I only consider one of those a person? I could not find a satisfactory answer, so I turned to the greatest mind I knew. I called Sherlock Holmes.

Column: Tending the Altar

This is why I tend my altars so often: things change. I have a tendency to forget things that I do not put my hands on occasionally.