Might the old stories be remnants of the Old Gods speaking? Might we be living off the bones of visions of some living story from ages gone by? Through the generations, stories are told, over and over, refined by the hearts and souls of those who have carried them forward from one telling to the next. Stories are passed on, alive, taking on scars, growing “rings” like trees, gaining and giving a little with each telling, and then branching off into other stories. It might be said that the old stories live as long as we tell them. Yet, in this age, we codify, make discrete, enforce and impose academic rigor, enslave and encircle these old Story-Gods until it seems they must languish. However, we keep telling, showing, performing, and sharing the stories as if they were alive. It may be that our time is like any other–a time where the stories take on scars, grow “rings,” gain a little and give a little, and branch off into the mosaic of other stories. So yes, they do find a kind of resurrection in the archetypal expressions of modernity, but something seems to be lost. Is this bad or wrong? I don’t know. It may be that there is a longing for some stories and the sense of loss will help them survive. For it must be that stories need lips, hearts, and imagination to enliven them. This may be why we tell stories.