Last year, I made the trip across Ohio to attend the Second Annual Eastern Woodland Native American Gathering and Pre-1840 Encampment. Admittedly, I had a distinct focus on the former. It distinguishes itself from a pow-wow because they don’t dance competitively. The year before, people had looked up to see a pair of bald eagles in the sky, seeming to join in to dance with them. I made the trip almost like an animist pilgrimage, looking for some kind of profound experience like that. I danced with them, though to my shame, my much-abused body wouldn’t take so much activity and I left the circle early. An announcement came later, asking people not to do that. I think they meant me.

In my desk, I keep a piece of the Blarney stone. Well, if you read the fine print, it admits that it really just comes from the local bluestone, though the legends of the Blarney stone say it didn’t even come from there. As befits such a stone, contradictory legends give it mutually exclusive but equally fantastic origins, whether from the Lia Fáil, the Stone of Destiny on the Hill of Tara, or half of the original Stone of Scone, or hoisted from the walls of Jerusalem in the Crusades, or the pillow of the Biblical patriarch Jacob, and brought to Ireland by the prophet Jeremaiah. Why such a storied and powerful stone would end up, without any apparent honor or recognition, in the walls of a local lord’s castle, these stories do not say. But they do say that anyone who kisses the stone will have “the gift of gab.”

In “reading” these words, do you say anything? More likely, you read silently—or more accurately, subvocalize. Like microexpressions, reading, like emotion, still inheres to movement of the human body. It cannot take place solely in an incorporeal “mind,” our fantasies of such aside. We can fool ourselves into that notion only because we’ve reduced the motions involved to the most fleeting versions, giving the superficial impression that they barely happen at all.