𝕮𝖍𝖆𝖓𝖌𝖊𝖑𝖎𝖓𝖌𝖘 𝖋𝖔𝖗 𝕮𝖍𝖆𝖓𝖌𝖊
SUBmissive curses // STACK of sick, social spells
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You’ll get used to it, the sickly smell of iron and milk—a stench of something small growing at the borders of story and flesh. It won’t be easy to love, this stack-in-the-making. Here, irritation and information will smoulder side by side. Myth and mutiny will parent a changeling’s epistemology: doubt (but with fangs)—something akin to therapy for a recovering academic.
I am speculating. Perhaps, this will be nothing more than a bundle of spells and marginalia folded into ordinary days—fevered fragments, philosophical nightmares, and footnotes to my own premonitions of collapse. Certainly, it’ll all feel less like “abracadabra” and more like “citation as incantation.” Still, each post will hunger for a community with both heart and hands. Each post will be an invitation to (get in) touch, to conspire, to gather around something socially contagious—whatever makes the child of consensus-reality speak in soft betrayals, in submissive maledictions that twist inside power’s mouth.
I’ll keep speculating. My obsessive brain will keep ruminating. And meanwhile, some ill-scented thing sprouting between folktales and frontlines will get dangerously organized. You see, the changeling’s survival isn’t triumph so much as ongoing misattunement—a posture of being out of sync until the world itself begins to flicker, growl and glitter.
This is a spell. Keep it in mind, or leave it in an old doorway. You could also subscribe and stay connected.
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CAMILLA BROGAARD 