“But the hour is getting late now. And when the stories we tell only have a human directive peering back at us we start to get very lost. We hypnotise ourselves with our own gaze. In such a moment it is quite possible to bury your heart under a rock and forget where you put it.But I mean what I say: the rough gods are still amongst us – and not just the porcelain ones that look a little like us on a good day, but the big bad bunch – the raggle-taggle, rhino tusked menagerie of the Original Ensemble, the Other Folk, the Gentry, the Benji. I know you’ve glimpsed them, once or twice. They’re about.
They are gnawing on the edge of these sentences.
The Otherworld is also this one, when it chooses.
It’s a convenience to believe that the Old Gods are leaving. Gives us permission for all kinds of nonsense.
That they are squatting in the departure lounge of Heathrow and LAX with hurt feelings, waving old bones about and shaking their heads. Clambering into some metaphysical elevator that’s going to deposit them in a nursing home for Abandoned Primordials on the other side of Pluto.
We have to stop saying that they die if we stop thinking about them.
That’s a degraded idea. Yet that’s what so many claim mythology is – us thinking these beings up.
But what if they were allowing us to think them? What if we were getting thought?
Not as manikin puppets, but as part of a profound conversation we can barely remember the moves for anymore.”
— Martin Shaw, writer, teacher, mythologist
(Via Serpent And Stang)