“To bake a Swan Scald it and take out the bones, and parboil it, then season it very well with Pepper, Salt and Ginger, then lard it, and put it in a deep Coffin of Rye Paste with store of Butter, close it and bake it very well, and when it is baked, fill up the vent-hole with melted Butter, and so keep it; serve it in as you do the Beef-Pie.”—A recipe for Baked Swan, from the reign of Elizabeth I
I was a quick wet boy, diving too deep for coins All of your street light eyes wide on my plastic toys Then when the cops closed the fair, I cut my long baby hair Stole me a dog-eared map and called for you everywhere
Have I found you Flightless bird, jealous, weeping or lost you…
Strangers do not often visit Stone—except as part of the traveling circus. Even then they come in the night, unleash their strangeness, and are gone, leaving behind just a hint that there could be more to the world than mud and stones. There could be places with elephants and tigers and fat women with beards.
Take what you can carry and the rest we will destroy. This summer’s gonna wreck us, gonna crush this little boy. This will be the season when I learn not to forget that the ones we call our friends ain’t our enemies quite yet. We’ll be singing Love Love Love, that’s how we stay together, Love Love Love. He does these things to grind our bones, he tattles like a lamb. Someone oughta tell this fool that he don’t know where we been. I never seen him cry before but I know it’s coming soon. I knew that you would break this boy, make him cry for you.
In villages where women bore most of the weight of a constricted life, witches flew by night on broomsticks or even on lighter vehicles such as ears of wheat or pieces of straw… I find it a steady feature in anthropology, this link between the levitation desired and the privation actually suffered. It is this anthropological device that literature perpetuates.