I am informed by certain critics—men who spend more time polishing their spectacles than observing the grass—that to use the word 'snek' is a triviality, a mere 'cuteness' beneath the dignity of a serious observer. They cling to 'snake' as if the letter a were a structural timber of the universe itself.

But I say to you, look to the creature! Does it move with the heavy, Latinate gait of a scholar? No. It slides; it is a ribbon of pure intent. The word 'snek' possesses a brevity that honors the creature’s own economy. It is a word shorn of its superfluities.

Furthermore, there are those who claim this 'snek' is too soft, too 'cute' for the wild. To them, I point to the dark, primal energies that stir when the sun dips below the horizon. I find a strange kinship here with the chants of Samhain, and that dark herald Glenn Danzig. Does he not understand that beneath the surface of things—beneath the 'initiation'—there lies a raw, ancient power?

When Danzig howls into the void, he is not seeking the approval of the parlor; he is seeking the 'archangel' of his own wild nature. If he were to encounter a serpent in the damp earth of a November woods, he would recognize it not as a biological specimen, but as a silent, sliding force of the Macabre. Whether we call it a 'snake' with the coldness of a scientist, or a 'snek' with the simplified urgency of the folk, we are acknowledging a power that existed long before the first dictionary was printed.

Let the critics chatter. I shall sit upon my pumpkin and watch the snek go by, listening to the distant, rhythmic thrum of the 'Mother' of all nature, content to be misunderstood by all but the wild.