Rhyd often lives in a city by the Salish Sea in occupied Duwamish territory. He’s a bard, theorist, anarchist, and writer, the editor of A Beautiful Resistance and co-founder of Gods&Radicals, author of Your Face Is a Forest and a columnist for The Wild Hunt.
He growls when he’s thinking, laughs when he’s happy, cries when he’s sad, and does all those things when he’s in love. He worships Welsh gods, drinks a lot of tea, and dreams of forests, revolution, and men.
His words can be found at Paganarch.com and can be supported on Patreon (patreon.com/Paganarch
“The Gates again open, the skies darken, the rain soaks through stone and skin.” I.
The rain poured through my skin. As I stood upon the pavement outside the tavern, soaked in the chill night, smoking a cigarette, the Gates opened around me. Straddling the ford, wet up to the laces of my boots, water rushing past my feet along the river-bed: someone is laughing at me. Eddies swirl in the torrent unable to clear the leaf-clogged drains, and someone is laughing at me.
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“The fact that ghosts prefer darkness no more disproves the existence of ghosts than the fact that lovers prefer darkness disproves the existence of love. If you choose to say, “I will believe that Miss Brown called her fiancé a periwinkle or any other endearing term, if she will repeat the word before seventeen psychologists,” then I shall reply, “Very well, if those are your conditions, you will never get the truth, for she certainly will not say it.” –G.K. Chesterton, “Orthodoxy”
Can I tell you about someone? He’s awesome, and I love him. And I’ve other reasons to tell you, too, but yeah—let me describe him to you?
[This is a literary version of a presentation being presented at the Many Gods West conference on August 1st. Columnist Rhyd Wildermuth now has a Patreon support page.]
“I think I need to tell you something.” I’m trying not to scowl at the man who’s interrupting me again. It’s a Lugnasadh, two years ago, a warm sun pouring through the willow branches onto my ruined circle. I’m still grumpy with him.
I’m friends with the monster that’s under my bed
Get along with the voices inside of my head
You’re trying to save me, stop holding your breath
And you think I’m crazy, you think I’m crazy
–Monsters, Eminem (featuring Rihanna)
The gods are madness, and so is love. I couldn’t sleep for the noise; her wails clawing deep into my brain more fiercely when I’d close my eyes. In waking distraction, I could shut her out a little — loud music, pointless conversation, anything to drown out her pain. But in bed next to my lover, her pain was intolerable, becoming pain so loud it became my pain, and I couldn’t make her shut up. I tried drinking.