The Loitering God Manifesto

On wasting time with dignity, and why it might be the holiest thing you can do

Somewhere out there – in the alley behind your favorite coffee shop, perched on a bench at the edge of the park, or leaning casually against the convenience store wall – lives a god you won’t find in any official pantheon. 

This god doesn’t ask for tithes, penance, or a 10-point productivity plan. He doesn't have a spreadsheet for your soul. His temple is a bus stop with a schedule that never quite lines up. His hymn is the click of a half-melted ice cube in a paper cup. His holy text is oddly elegant graffiti scrawled on the bathroom wall.

I call him the Loitering God. 

And honestly? I think we need him now more than ever.

Who (or What) Is the Loitering God?

The Loitering God is the patron saint of “hanging around.” Of lingering where you don’t technically “need” to be. Of moments that don’t look like much on the calendar but end up meaning so much more than the so-called big-ticket events.

This god is not here for hustle. Don't expect him to make an appearance to bless your 10,000 steps, your inbox zero, or your color-coded planner. Instead, he blesses the cigarette break, the side-street wander, and the leaning-too-long on a railing while your mind drifts far away somewhere, deliciously off-track.

Where other gods might demand sacrifice, the Loitering God simply asks you to waste some time with dignity.

The Holy Articles of Loitering

The Loitering God isn't big on rules and rigid ways of doing things. But if he were inclined to give you a few directives to follow, I imagine they'd read a little like this.

1. Thou shalt waste time without shame

Sit on the curb. Watch ants. Reorganize the fridge magnets into an epic poem. Follow all those weird little urges you get to do something just to satisfy your curiosity. In the Loitering God's world, none of this is a waste.

2. The bench is an altar

Every time you sit without rushing, you consecrate the act of existing in the space you're in. Plastic bench at a bus stop? Sacred. The grass outside the laundromat? Holy ground. 

3. To dawdle is divine

The universe doesn’t need you to move through it at full tilt all the time. Sometimes the most miraculous thing you can do is stall, wander, pause, and see what appears in the gaps.

The Chalk in His Pocket

Conversations With Robin at the Edge of Departure

Eleven years ago, we lost the unparalleled Robin Williams. 

I've been thinking about Robin a lot lately, since long before I realized the anniversary of his death was coming up. Among other things, it made me realize how much I miss coming up with little stories to tell people about all these beloved figures who pass away. 

I apparently still really like mythologizing life, both my own life and life in general. And getting back to that, even in small ways, has been therapeutic in ways I didn't expect, like a return to form, because this is totally something I would have done as a little girl.

As I get older and so many of the public figures I grew up with and looked up to over the years pass on, it's freaking me out on this whole other level. Index of the Sainted Dead was created specifically to honor and elevate those people in a small, simple way I can keep up with and add to over time.

But before I had the index, I used to have dreams about a liminal train station called Cold Station. The vast majority of these sainted dead would pass through there and sometimes even stay a while before moving on. Sometimes I'd talk to them. And then I'd share these dreams on Facebook the next day with other friends who might be grieving.

When I met Robin there, he was throwing a Mardi Gras party, despite the fact that it was the middle of August. I can still taste and smell the special kettle corn he served. Then, not that long ago – maybe a week or so – I had another dream about Robin of Cold Station. In this dream, Robin had apparently elected not to leave (yet), as he'd found a new sort of purpose there. Here's a little flash fiction about that, to honor him on the eleventh anniversary of his passing. 

Remember, the opposite of death is not life. It's birth. That was a door. And this is a door. Everything else is one very long story you're writing yourself while you make your way across the bridge between them.

Turning Weird Feelings Into Sacred Text

So, I've found myself thinking more about different kinds of stories and all the things they can mean. And not just the wholly fictional ones we invent out of thin air when we feel like being creative, but also the semi-mythologized stories we tell ourselves about ourselves. 

Lately, I've been experimenting here and there as far as what that might mean for me, and that's been an interesting process, to say the least.

Because something very interesting happens when you stop seeing your life as a mundane to-do list you sleepwalk through from day to day and start treating it like a myth instead. You learn to view it as something more – an ongoing narrative, complete with motifs, archetypes, symbols, and a central character (you).

Why Mythologize Your Life?

If you're anything like me, you probably got used to being told to “be realistic” a very long time ago – to “face facts” and “just tell it like it is.” But if life's taught me anything, it's that “realistic” doesn’t always mean “honest.” 

Sometimes, naked facts miss the point entirely. They leave out the emotion, the context, the inner terrain of what you were feeling in the middle of it all, which can be the most important part of certain narratives.

Self-mythologizing gives you a way to tell the truth from a different angle, through symbols. Instead of saying, “I had a hard childhood,” you can say, “I was raised behind glass walls in a kingdom ruled by forgetfulness.” Instead of “I was lost in my twenties,” you might say, “That was the wandering era, when I left the village and walked into the woods with only a lantern and a name I wasn’t sure belonged to me.”

And suddenly… you’re not just surviving certain stories anymore. You’re inhabiting them instead.

What It Can Look Like in Practice

For me, this process has recently materialized into ideas like The Hollow Gospels and The Codex Reversum. They are creative projects that, on the surface, might look like scripture-style writing or dark esoteric worldbuilding. But underneath? They’re ways of encoding personal truths I don’t always want (or need) to share literally.

As I've mentioned in passing, I've been in therapy lately. I've also been exploring more on a spiritual level. Those processes have left me asking a lot of questions about who I am, as well as why I am the way that I am. Mythologizing gives me a way to honor complicated thoughts and feelings without wallowing in them. It helps me shape invisible shifts I'm still figuring out. It's allowed me to extract meaning from memories, fears, and suspicions about the world around me that might otherwise feel intimidating or painful.

David Bowie did something similar with Ziggy Stardust. Leonard Cohen did it with biblical and mystical imagery in his songwriting. Artists, writers, and spiritual seekers of all stripes have done it for centuries. And they weren’t lying about who they were in doing this. They were simply telling the truth mythically.

The Court of the Wild Chord

They arrived without fanfare, though they were dressed for it. One by one, they emerged from the folds of the early morning into my misty garden. Creatures of fur, claw, tusk, and hoof. Each robed in velvet and brocade, each carrying a violin that hummed with more than music.

I don't know where they came from. I'd never met them before, but some part of me recognized them all the same. 

Thorne, the Boar, smelled of smoke, freshly turned earth, and secret things that only grow at night. His hooves left glyphs and symbols in the soil as he searched for a spot to make himself comfortable. The melody he played pulsed with survival, a song built from bone memory and bitter root. 

He played what must always be remembered.

Virella, the Wolf, moved like moonlight through a locked room. His mournful eyes glowed with the images of secret maps. They were maps of places I’ve only seen in dreams and misremembered moments from the past. His music had no true beginning, no end. It was best described as a misty, winding trail of breath and instinct. 

He played what must always be followed.

Halbard, the Bear, bowed gracefully and low before beginning. His coat was heavy with charms. His fingers, thick but graceful, drew forth aching laments wrapped in subtle warmth. His was the music of lost things that are desperately missed once they're gone, as well as those we've forgotten to keep remembering at some point along the way. It was the music of grief.

He played what must be respectfully mourned.

Malgore, the Goat, did not bow at all. Instead, he smirked before glancing into the four corners of the garden, as if to make sure the entire morning was listening. And then he played something that turned the air inside out. It was a vaguely dissonant melody I knew and feared. A secret I hadn’t meant to keep. 

He played what must be known. Eventually, but only in due course.

None of them spoke, even to one another. And their impromptu concert was brief. Just one short but perfect piece each. Maybe the music was meant to be a gift. Perhaps a warning or even an aging mirror that could be made bright again with care and polish. 

I suppose that is for them to know and me to contemplate.

When they were done, they vanished the same way they had come. There was no drama or urgency. They didn't make a single sound more. But once they were gone, the entire space felt rearranged in a way I could not define. Sometimes I think they were reminders that even in the elegant places you're sure you've successfully tamed, a certain wildness still remains. 

That wildness makes music. And if you're wise (and very lucky), you'll listen.

* This entry is part of The Feast of the Wandering Pen, a month-long ritual that includes writing, remembering, and return to self-clarity.