Incantations

[Image: “The Paper Burns, But the Words Fly Free,” by user “Kylie_Jaxxon” on Flickr. (Used here under a Creative Commons license; thank you!) There’s not much context provided for this Second Life work, except this: “Quote by Akiba Ben Joseph” — the quote in question presumably being the image’s title. In any case, the title was perfect for my purposes this week! (For what it’s worth, though, the book depicted appears to be The Secret Garden, by Frances Hodgson Burnett.]

From whiskey river:

Inside

No one to hear but
Records for the broken player.
No reason for order but order
persists, from breakfast to bath
to work, rain falling at one speed,
the windows darkening and blurring,
accident beating against belief.
A loud engine, which is one way to say
one thing. The floors swept daily,
though it takes at least one hour for the first,
one for the last. In the pages of a book,
quick studies of gesture,
tents of hands.

(Saskia Hamilton [source])

…and:

Imagine a world where speaking or writing words can literally or directly make things happen, where getting one of those words wrong can wreak unbelievable havoc, but where with the right spell you can summon immensely powerful agencies to work your will. Imagine further that this world is administered: there is an extensive division of labour, among the magicians themselves and between the magicians and those who coordinate their activity. It’s bureaucratic, and also (therefore) chaotic, and it’s full of people at desks muttering curses and writing invocations, all beavering away at a small part of the big picture. The coordinators, because they don’t understand what’s going on, are easy prey for smooth-talking preachers of bizarre cults that demand arbitrary sacrifices and vanish with large amounts of money.”

(Ken MacLeod [source])

Not from whiskey river:

What It Looks Like To Us and the Words We Use

All these great barns out here in the outskirts,
black creosote boards knee-deep in the bluegrass.
They look so beautifully abandoned, even in use.
You say they look like arks after the sea’s
dried up, I say they look like pirate ships,
and I think of that walk in the valley where
J said, You don’t believe in God? And I said,
No. I believe in this connection we all have
to nature, to each other, to the universe.
And she said, Yeah, God. And how we stood there,
low beasts among the white oaks, Spanish moss,
and spider webs, obsidian shards stuck in our pockets,
woodpecker flurry, and I refused to call it so.
So instead, we looked up at the unruly sky,
its clouds in simple animal shapes we could name
though we knew they were really just clouds—
disorderly, and marvelous, and ours.

(Ada Limón [source])

…and:

“Think like this,” he said at last. “Think of everything. It’s an everyday word. But ‘everything’ means… everything. It’s a much bigger word than ‘universe.’ And everything contains all possible things that can happen at all possible times in all possible worlds. Don’t look for complete solutions in any one of them. Sooner or later, everything causes everything else.”

“Are you saying one little world is not important, then?” said Susan.

Wen waved a hand, and two glasses of wine appeared on the stone.

“Everything is as important as everything else,” he said.

Susan grimaced.

“You know, that’s why I’ve never liked philosophers,” she said. “They make it all sound grand and simple, and then you step out into a world that’s full of complications. I mean, look around. I bet this garden needs regular weeding, and the fountains have to be unblocked, and the peacocks shed feathers and dig up the lawn… and if they don’t do that, then this is just a fake.”

“No, everything is real,” said Wen. “At least, it is as real as anything else. But this is a perfect moment.” He smiled at Susan again. “Against one perfect moment, the centuries beat in vain.”

“I’d prefer a more specific philosophy,” said Susan. She tried the wine. It was perfect.

“Certainly. I expected that you would. I see you cling to logic as a limpet clings to a rock in a storm. Let me see… defend the small spaces, don’t run with scissors, and remember that there is often an unexpected chocolate,” said Wen. He smiled. “And never resist a perfect moment.”

(Terry Pratchett [source])