Brace your cups and clench your saucers, Readrrr; it’s gonna be a hot one.
Today, and especially tonight — into the wee-est of the wee hours, the nuns commemorate the birth of one of their favorite poets and mythological muses, Emily Dickinson.
Every “fact”on this site is a “little known fact” but the nuns have never, not for one second, been into games of trivial pursuit. Their trivialization is social and mythical: the nuns have had nothing to do with it, historically. What has history ever told (of) us (of our Sapphic Selves), anyway?
Readrrr, do you have a tabernacle? I do.
Harpy Thanksgiving, Readrrr. I know what you’re thinking: you know life’s been tough on the sistrrrs for some time, you know we’re scraping by on our grim and grimy palms and knees at the Shabby Abbey, and you’re, reasonably, expecting us to be ungrateful. Well not so. We’re not ungrateful. But I wouldn’t say we…
Readers don’t always realize that reading can be a subversive act, a transgressive act, and even a crime. It all depends on what one is reading.
How long I have been kept away from you, Readrrr! Detained, really.
When you study with Hexmistress Jess, you study at the Lavender School and you study with THE ORIGINAL Headmistress. The brain behind and heart inside the operation is here and she is full of love and kindness and ethics and brilliance, and she may not be the most popular but she is the most worthy– and her generous heart will go to the ends of the earth, Reader, to bring you the truth and nothing but the truth: of her devotion.
Grammar is alive if we live through it and open ourselves to it. Language is as deep and vast as we allow it to be.
The nuns, you may well know, love poetry. They eat it up.
This is for them, and for you, Reader, because I know you eat poetry as voraciously as the starving, howling nuns.
The Foyer of Follies is tricky business but if you do eventually receive the nuns’ stamp of approval, it will be well worth it: you’ll be fizzy lifted straight up to the top of the heavens!
One of the things you need to know about the nuns is that not only are there ‘singing nuns’ and ‘flying nuns’, but there are also spying nuns. You are reading from the brain of one.
I am a nun spy who unabashedly spies on nuns. I get away with it, plain and simply, because no one believes me.
“The intellect is not supreme; it is a mere component of the (h)exponential.” This phrase originated somewhere else but spoke through my Hexmistress mouth. That is to say, it’s original to me, and so belongs to its author, Our Heavenly Fathrrr. It is now the motto for the Sh-abbey Lake Academy at Lake Lavendrrr.
Nuns make fine bedfellows (well, every one I’ve ever bed-fellow-shipped with, except for Sister Danita, who farts sardines in her sleep)…
The nuns will spare no expense (in their two dollar a month budget) when it comes to Julia Child, so we always manage to have a feast made up of sad replications of her best dishes. Because we are dirt poor, we have to use “alternative ingredients” …
Before we begin our lessons on the prefixory gem that is ‘hex’ and the concept I invented, ‘hexuality,’ I will give you a series of clues: bits and pieces of the vast continent of cognitive connection that encompasses hexuality.
Nuns are in the business of preposterous punishments, and so I endeavored to be in the business of preposterous potions. Thus began my wicked life in (or, moved from the basement to) the kitchen. I can’t say I’ve performed any miracles, at least not yet, but I do take pride in my work as the Wicked Witch of the Eat and, grandest of all, Sister Danita’s meatloaf went, where it always belonged, to the dogs.
Dear Reader, do take pity on me; if you were presented with Sister Danita’s meatloaf, you would turn into a wicked witch, too!