(AI and the Emergent Ritual of Archery in the Age of Symbiotic Agency) Matter and mind meet wherever a purpose touches a tool. Sensation flows outward through crafted form, and the world responds with patterns the nerves accept as their…...
Well now, dear readers—today I bring you something a touch off the beaten path. I’d been deep in the bones of a forthcoming book of essays when a strange thing happened: a piece arrived, unbidden, that took even me by…
A meditation on hurt, ritual, and the intimate violence of archery “Then the English archers stept forth one pace and let fly their arrows so wholly [together] and so thick, that it seemed snow. When the Genoways felt the arrows…...
“I do not fight because I seek glory. I fight because I must protect what is mine.”— Tigrevurmud Vorn, Lord Marksman and Vanadis There’s something curious about the quiet books that stick. They arrive without noise, sit down across from…...
“You walk and you walk and you carry what you can and you leave the rest behind.” It stays with you, that line, doesn’t it? Like the feel of a worn stone in your pocket, or the ache in your…...
Well archers, readers, today we embark on a journey of what if… It’s a heretical endeavour, filled with blasphemy and a provocation calculated—yes, calculated—to infuriate you. This is not a careless insult nor a drunken rant penned between ends. No,…...
There are mornings when the world feels like a screen that forgot to sleep—flickering, expectant, always asking. In such light, where every silence must be earned and every stillness risks interruption, the soul reaches for older shapes. Not solutions. Not…...
Portlaoise carries its soul just beneath the hedgerows, where boots sink slightly and tree roots knot like old thoughts. And tucked within that pulse, in Clonkeen Woods – where the canopy breaks into mottled shadow and the light stammers across…
The essay that follows—perhaps a touch long for an online piece—is, in truth, a chapter from The Arrow Knows No Master, a book I’ve been quietly shaping since February of last year. It’s composed of individual essays—mostly reflective, occasionally philosophical—on…
The story I’m about to tell you is not one that fits neatly into the grand histories of kings and battles, nor does it appear in the sweeping narratives of medieval glory or tragedy. It is a whisper at the…...
There’s a kind of hush in the troughlands of Fiorbhia Farm when the dew clings still to the grass, before the sun decides if it’ll bake or bless the day. And there I stood, half a ghost, half a child…...
There are films that do not begin with a title screen. They begin with a feeling. A quietness. A scent. A strange shift in the weight of the moment that tells you—you’re no longer here. You’ve crossed into somewhere else.…...
Japanese Archery By Aleksander Wat (in Marcin Malek poetical interpretation) 1The hand to the bowstring speaks:Bend to me, yield.The bowstring to the hand replies:Strike bold, be steeled.The bowstring whispers to the shaft:O arrow, flee!The arrow to the bowstring calls:Unshackle me!The…
There’s a weight to words when they are written by those who have never touched the landscapes they paint, yet summon them with such clarity you’d swear they had walked the paths themselves. Karl May never set foot in the…...
It’s a strange thing, to draw a bow and feel the pull of something older than time itself—a quiet understanding between hand, string, and arrow. I think about that often, about how archery is less about hitting a target than…
The wind came from the west, carrying with it the ghost of winter—damp, cold, full of the smell of leaf rot and something older, something that lingers in the hedgerows before the blackthorn blooms. I stood at the edge of…...
Smack My Controversy column Back in the day, the archer was alone with his bow (it was an intimate relationship) between the man and his tool, the same sheer connection bound him to his quiver of arrows and the importance…...
You never forget the first book that cuts you. The one that leaves a wound, not in flesh, but in the quiet, unguarded place where thoughts sleep before they wake to meaning. Mine was a battered volume on the The…...
Stories are not told. They are loosed, like arrows from a drawn bow, their fletching kissed by breath, their paths uncertain yet inevitable. A storyteller does not own the tale—he only pulls the string, lets it fly, watches it carve…
Have you heard of a madness that does not burn with fire but seeps like a disease, making bones feverish and bending the mind to its will? It does not speak, it does not sing, it does not threaten, but…