You're a Necromancer

Thursday, October 01, 2026

Good morning, Twfw. O/

Early, even as morning journals go. Thanks for joining me. Glad you're here. On with our show...

A cup of tea, some light music as the light approaches. The library calm of poets working... it's my office space.

Perhaps that's part of the mysterious quality associated with poets, we take library quiet with us wherever we go.

A place where dreams are undisturbed is a safe place for amazing ideas to grow.

Some go to factories or skyscrapers when they go to work. Poets go to solitude stations to reap and sow dreams.

In our world that's progressively placing sensationalism as a key means and metric of value, the work I do, and the requirements to do it well, rarely compute to many.

But the modern world understands software and: Language is The Software of Humanity.

In case Science ever wondered about the practical necessity of Art, now they know. Artists, writers, and musicians are The Software Developers of Language. It is Art's living function. We sharpen the tools of Science and create new ones for them to measure with and from. Without advancements in new language, there'd be no new ideas, no inspiration, no scientific progress.

The Science community depends on language to function at all. Without creative minds making our symbols mean more the ingredients of objectivity would go stale without the subjective work of artists.

Now you know why so many empirical nerds love stories and films; they keep their empirical measures fresh for use.

As I wrote before, all reading is an act of resurrection. Every word read gives those symbols the new life of their reader.

Thanks for bringing these words back from the dead. And here you were not believing in magic. Now you know every time you read any symbol you're a necromancer. What's dead can dance. You're making these blips in cyberspace shake it right now. You witchy wizard, you.

Thank you for giving your magic to my words to bring them back to life.

And, still:

Congratulations for reading.

Here's a poem to go with today's entry. If that's your thing, maybe you'll check it out:

All of Her Poetry, Still

I didn’t know Mary was dead. (No one told me about Maya, either) A blank Pause when I read about it online. Poets don’t go out when we die. (We live with Death while we live.) We stay home. Which is why when Walt said to me (The

Wonder Fell.Wynn