Wyrd is a good old Anglo-Saxon word that may loosely translate as “fatedness.”
“To become.” “That which happens.”
There is strangeness in wyrd, an active supernatural process of destiny. Its descendant word “weird” retained its paranormal context until fairly recently.
I have been listening a great deal, this winter break, to the music of Xenis Emputae Travelling Band, in which I hear a little of the wyrd, in relation to hauntological narrative. We here in this old country remain surrounded by our archaeoacoustics and the myriad layers of our musics. The more I think about the future, somehow, the more present the deep past seems to me.
There’s a wyrd to futurism, or perhaps just a wyrd futurism, out of Charles Fort, where we are looking for the steam-engines just before steam-engine-time comes. The fatedness of future things. The thunderheads of destiny.
Wyrd and the future are where I’m going to be living, this year, I think. Maybe I always was.
Let’s have a good weird year.
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