She has the kind of chthonic power of the shaman-minstrel. She has the
falling-sickness. She is touched by God, touched in the head. She has
stars and galaxies spinning through her spinning mind, and now and then
falls into the spaces between the stars, the cold gaps in the light-
years, into the trackless megaparsecs. The stone gaps filled with cold
apes, the caveman catacombs, where wander the ancient spirits, grunting
in half-syllables, gradually learning English, then sharing their tales
with any mind't's dipped his proboscis into the house of dust and
darkness that is the limbo of the sinners who died unsaved before Christ.
I see a kind of flower trumpet, a conical siphon which artists and
writers with a mystical bent dip into this and that galaxy inside, and
and then eventually come up with a combination of words which have
obvious power, which was once an incantation or a fragment of a magic
spell meant to call the characters of creation from the hidden chthonic
chamber-compartments.