After Ariadne hanged herself
Dionysos made her his immortal wife
and gave her the crown of Aphrodite
which shines in the heavens
with the light of the imperishable stars,
the blessed dead who received wine as their portion
through initiation into the mysteries of the bull
who lives and hunts in the heart of the labyrinth.

If Anthesteria goes well I think my next tattoo will be the Corona Borealis,
a simple but elegant expression of all this.

Holy darkness, blessed night,
heaven’s answer hidden from our sight.
As we await you, O God of silence,
we embrace your holy night.

I have tried you in fires of affliction;
I have taught your soul to grieve.
In the barren soil of your loneliness,
there I will plant my seed.

I have taught you the price of compassion;
you have stood before the grave.
Though my love can seem
like a raging storm,
this is the love that saves.

Were you there
when I raised up the mountains?
Can you guide the morning star?
Does the hawk take flight
when you give command?
Why do you doubt my pow’r?

In your deepest hour of darkness
I will give you wealth untold.
When the silence stills your spirit,
will my riches fill your soul.

As the watchman waits for morning,
and the bride awaits her groom,
so we wait to hear your footsteps
as we rest beneath your moon.

– Dan Schutte, Holy Darkness

Or rather thinking about things I’d rather not, but which the festival is forcing me to anyway.

Like, I wonder if I’ll see my mother during Anthesteria.

It’s not all about wine and flowers, sad girls hanging themselves and Dionysos seducing the wife of the king.

There’s also the dead walking about, celebrating with their families. Watching the little ones get their first sip of wine, knowing that life goes on without them and that that is a good thing.

Part of me is curious why I haven’t encountered her yet. It’s been months. I’m a pretty open, receptive guy. I’d sure like the chance to talk with her again. But so far it hasn’t happened.

Maybe she’s busy. Finally reunited with Harvey.

Maybe it’s because the only dead I’ve ever had any ability to interact with are the Dionysiac Dead.

Maybe I don’t want to consider what else it could be. Maybe, deep down, I already know why.

But there’s no sense thinking too much about these things. Time will tell, I suppose.

This song was played at her memorial service:

It was an appropriate choice.

Gavin Friday – Lord I’m Coming
mewithoutYou – Every Thought A Thought Of You
Deftones – Passenger
A Perfect Circle – The Noose
Robert Skoro – In Line
Fiona Apple – Sally’s Song
Arcade Fire – Abraham’s Daughter
Delta Rae – Bottom of the River
Recoil – Want
Otep – Not To Touch The Earth
Church of Extacy – Who is Jesus?
Psychedelic Furs – Book Of Days
Beirut – Prenzlauerberg

Odd selections, I agree. I’m not entirely sure how all of these fit the mood and themes of the festival, but perhaps by the end of it I will. Should be an … interesting Athesteria this year.

One thing that I’ve noticed over the years is that Dionysos inspires a lot of different kinds of mainadism.

I mean, there’s the sexy young things prancing about with grape crowns, faux-leopard capes and pinecone-topped sticks, laughing and slurring their words as they shout, “Look at me, I’m free! I’m drunk! I can do anything!”

And then there are the ones deep in the forest, down on all fours, with leaves in their tangled hair, vacant eyes rolled back in their heads, mud and blood and wine staining their tattered gowns, and a baby animal gripped in their savage teeth.

And there are the foxy ones who sit on rocks and listen to the voice of the trees and the dance of the lava deep in the heart of the earth and the heavy breathing of a skittish deer not too far off.

This was true for the ancients as well. They knew that Bassarai were not the same as Lenai, any more than Bakchai were equivalent to Dysmaniai.

There are as many types of mainad as the god has masks.

For instance, the Alitides – those who wander and sorrow and swing for the spider whose exorcism is in the dance. They belong to him too.

“Anthesteria is for three days, the eleventh, twelfth and thirteenth – but the twelfth day is most special.” – P. Oxy. VI 853

Not the same. But close,
damn close.
After all, they say that as her bride-price
Queen Ariadne received a third of all the maenads
as her own private luparii
– how odd those made mad by her must be,
how different from the other maenads.
And here’s something else to think about:
there is a sarcophagus, now in the Metropolitan Museum,
that depicts a chariot in the retinue of Ariadne being drawn by bears.
Each of the four chariots in the procession is supposed to represent a season,
with the bear-chariot signifying Spring.
How appropriate as that is when the bears are aroused
from their Martinine slumber,
just as the maiden was snatched from her grieving, solitary prison on the rocky shore of Naxos
by the lord with the green beard, the stranger who came from afar,
conjured by her tears and madness.
This, too, is the time when there’s panic in the streets
as the wild men run and whip the matrons with cords of goat-skin,
when the feast of flowers and the swinging for Erigone is done,
when the ancestors are fed and driven out of doors,
and when good Christians hold their candle mass because as Pope Innocent XII explained:

We carry candles at this feast because the Gentiles dedicated the month of February to the infernal gods, and as at the beginning of it Pluto stole Proserpine, and her mother Ceres sought her in the night with lighted candles, so they, at the beginning of the month, walked about the city with lighted candles. Because the holy fathers could not extirpate the custom, they ordained that Christians should carry about candles in honor of the Blessed Virgin; and thus what was done before in the honor of Ceres is now done in honor of the Blessed Virgin.

Try to really imagine all of this. Conjure a picture in your mind of Ariadne the Cretan Persephone, the Mistress of the Labyrinth, the Potnia Theron.

Thigh-high hunting boots,
crocus-colored skirt,
leather breastplate,
fawn-skin thrown across the shoulder,
crown of verdant ivy over hair artfully disheveled,
peacock colored eye-shadow smeared and messy,
cheeks flushed with wine –
Wait! Wait! Sorry, I was describing her husband.
It’s so easy to mistake one for the other
in a certain light and if you’ve had a bit too much to drink.
All apologies.

So there Ariadne sits, in the ox-shed, waiting for him to come to her in the night
and her wine-stained lips are singing ecstatic praises of the lord who comes
in the frenzy of the dance, heart pounding, world swimming in and out of focus,
swirling like a swarm of bees, like a fountain of lava bursting forth,
like the sap swishing through the trees, like the deer bounding through the woods,
like a conquering king leading his faithful troops on to glory,
he is here.

I. Pithoigia
Fill my cup so that my voice will be full of song
as we honor the god on his long awaited festival.
I want to taste the new wine;
none of that old shit we’ve made do with during these long winter nights,
nights so cold that my wife shivered
even when I tried to kiss her under the covers.
Give me some fresh from the jar with the must still in it,
heady with the aroma of flowers and sunshine.
There’s a bite to the new stuff,
before time has had a chance to mellow it.
But I like the sharpness
for it reminds me of my own youth
when the blood flowed hot in my veins
and my limbs were strong still.
How handsome I was then,
with long thick curls and pouty lips the envy of any woman.
When I danced the cordax all eyes were upon me
and my bed was never empty afterwards.
I dance still,
under the spell of the god,
but you’d never mistake me for the rose-crowned Adonis these days.
Instead people think me a companion of old tipsy Seilenos,
balding and pot-bellied with my wrinkly sack swinging about.
But at least I still dance in the riotous komos of our lord Dionysos.
Through the streets we run,
singing our drunken songs and shouting our lewd jokes
to anyone who remains locked behind doors.
The whole city’s gone mad,
clad in ivy and flower-garlands,
celebrating the arrival of the maniac god.
The temples are closed,
no business is done,
for we have more important things to do this day.
By afternoon the streets are crowded with spectators
awaiting the arrival of the ship,
that strange boat mounted on wheels and driven up to the steps of his temple.
It bears the god they say,
though I’ve already felt him all day:
with every cup of wine that passed my lips,
in the joyous faces among the throng,
and everywhere else you look.
Buds on the tree-branch,
and the beautiful flowers pushing up through the soil,
the warmth of the sun on your cheek
and the fire in your loins ready to consume you.
Oh yes, Dionysos is already here!
But it is fit that our officials should welcome him back to our city
in the proper ancestral fashion.
So lift high your cups,
sons of Athens,
and have your first taste of the god.
And lift even higher your skirts,
you Attic daughters,
and show us the mystery we have longed for
these many frigid months.
Let every mouth cry out “euoi”
and let no foot remain still,
shunning the dance that gladdens our god’s heart,
so that he in turn may bless our land
with an abundance of flowers
and good new wine come next year!

II. Khoes
How different the city feels today.
Yesterday all was a frenzy as we drank and sang
and watched the grand procession pass us by.
There were stolen kisses and every head crowned with flowers
– but today the garlands lay forgotten,
trampled under our dancing feet.
Today the spirit is subdued,
and everybody goes about with gloomy faces.
Sure, some of that is due to the after-effects of the wine –
my own throat is raw from shouting
and my head feels like it’s been split open by an axe –
but there’s more to it than that.
We feel the dead walking,
dark shapes caught out of the corner of the eye,
a light caress from an invisible hand,
whispered words when no one else is near.
And the memories are overwhelming.
I haven’t thought of Leukos in five years or more,
but there he was in my mind this morning,
looking like he did in our youth,
before the down appeared on his cheeks,
with that great big laugh of his,
that came so freely and was always so infectious.
There wasn’t much laughing towards the end,
once he came back from the fighting in Sicily.
It was good to hear him laugh again.
Nor was he the only one.
I saw old Timotheos the sophist speaking in the agora,
and Mnasithea beautiful on her wedding day,
and Dion the flute-player,
and Hermogenes covered in soot and sweat,
pounding away at his forge once more …
And so many others, too many to name in full.
The older I get the more dead people I seem to know.
Some day soon I’ll be among their ranks,
and I wonder if anyone will bother to remember
this old scribbler of second-rate verse.
I doubt it, but you never know.
This is a day for the remembrance of all the dead,
not just those who are near
and dear to our hearts.
We honor those from primordial times,
the great souls who perished in the flood-waters
sent by Zeus to rid the world of quarrelsome man,
saving only Deukalion and his blessed family.
And the maidens driven mad by the wine-god
in retribution for the murder of Ikarios,
good steward of the vine.
They say that Dionysos loved his daughter Erigone
and the grape was her father’s bride-price after the god lay with her.
Wishing to spread the joy he felt, Ikarios came to Athens
and gave the men of our city their first taste of wine.
Out of their minds with drunkenness they thought themselves poisoned,
and so murdered the vintner and stuffed his body in a well.
Erigone sought her father for many nights
and when she finally found his corpse she was overcome with grief
and hanged herself.
The god’s wrath was great and all the women of Athens killed themselves
in imitation of the mournful daughter
until gentle Phoibos soothed his brother
by instituting a festival of commemoration.
And so it is that you see dolls and precious objects hung from trees,
and the young girls in swings,
swaying silently like a spider on the web.
Silent, too, are the feasts of Orestes
which old men like myself observe on this day.
We sit at tables erected out doors,
each man with his own cup of wine
sharing neither sip nor word with his neighbor.
As he drinks the polluted cup
he broods and thinks back to the day
when Orestes came to our land,
hands stained with mother’s blood.
Back then the festival of Dionysos had a more joyous character,
and men drank their fill in the temple with noisy chatter and gay songs.
But the King was caught on the horns of a dilemma:
he could not turn the stranger aside,
for the gods punish those who refuse hospitality to suppliants,
nor could he invite Orestes into the holy house of god
before he had appeased the Kindly Ones who hunt those
that have spilt the blood of kin.
So the wise King locked all the temple doors
and set up a table for his guest
and from that day forth we have feasted in like fashion
on this most solemn of days.
Walking through the city today I have seen many such tables
and old friends quietly sipping their wine.
They did not hail me as I passed,
nor I them,
though there would have been a place for me had I chosen
to sit and share the silent cup with them.
But I had other things on my mind
as I hasted to the house of my friend Sosibios.
Tonight he is throwing a grand celebration
since his matronly aunt has been chosen to assist the venerable Geriai,
themselves assistants to the wife of the King Arkhon.
This is a great honor for the family of Sosibios,
a sign that they’re moving up in the world.
Only the very best of our city
have anything to do with the sacred marriage.
And true, his aunt is merely assisting those who assist the Queen,
but these are the most important rites imaginable,
upon which the fruitfulness of the land
and the safety of our city depend.
All reverence attaches to those who take part in it,
however minimal their role.
His whole family will hold their heads high in the year to come,
the people whispering in admiration as they pass.
That only the noblest among us can participate in these rites
is shown by the fact that we have retained the office of King
even after becoming a democracy.
The King has no more power among us than any elected official,
and considerably less than most,
but these are rites so old and so awesome
that the gods will recognize them only when they are performed
by those with royal blood.
During the rite the god takes the Queen away from her husband
like he did when he stole the bride of Theseus,
for Dionysos comes mighty as a bull,
and in the bull’s shed he mates with her,
spilling his seed in a fertile womb
so that the womb of the earth may bear much fruit
and flowers of every hue.
There is much more to these ancestral rites,
but they are shrouded in mystery
and not for the likes of you and I to know.
But I know what happens after the grave rite is enacted,
and so does anyone who can look out and see our land prospering.
So I give thanks to the wife of the King
and all those who help her conduct the mystery,
and soon I shall give thanks to Sosibios and his family
for their wonderful feast!

III. Khutroi
We’ve reached the last day
and things are starting to get back to normal.
I’ve boiled the pot of porridge,
chewed the bitter herb,
and painted my door with pitch
to expel any remaining spirits.
They come up out of the ground
when we broach the jars of new wine,
making a path for the flowers to follow.
It is good to have the dead with us once more,
but nobody wants them around all the time.
So we call upon the Underworld Hermes
to come and collect the souls who linger too long
like drunken guests at a party who have overstayed their welcome.
I had to help Sosibios clear a few of those out last night,
rowdy young things who had had a little too much to drink.
You could hear them shambling about on the street afterwards,
so unsteady on their feet that their friends had to hold them upright,
but still they were thirsty for more
and accosted the slave of a neighbor who wouldn’t let them in.
They didn’t even know the fellow,
but they heard the laughter and singing through the door
and wished to join the fun.
Hours later when I headed for home
the sounds of revelry were still going on.
The wife of the King wasn’t the only one
who took a strange lover into her bed this night.
The whole way back I was serenaded by the sounds of desire
and caught my own slaves going at it in the forecourt.
I watched for a little while,
appreciative of the spectacle.
Neoboule is certainly a fetching lass,
with a backside Aphrodite would be proud of.
If I were just a little younger,
I’d be bending her over all the time myself.
When I sought my bed
I found my wife already fast asleep,
and if she had had a little fun of her own earlier in the evening,
she showed no signs of it.
As long as such things happen only then,
and I don’t have to know about it,
it’s fine by me.
We look the other way during Anthesteria,
when the world is turned upside down,
everyone is mad with wine,
and nothing is what it seems.
But with the coming of the final day,
normalcy returns
and the dead crawl back into the earth through the empty jars.
All that remains is to clean up the mess we’ve made,
the broken dishes,
the discarded garlands,
the upturned tables
and remnants of the feast.
Gods, what a tumult this festival is
and how my head hurts from all the wine I’ve drunk!
But though it’s only just now ending
I confess that I’m already looking forward to the next time.

Pithoigia

Choes

Aiora

Chutroi

And for words, click here. This is the best summation of Anthesteria I’ve seen.

“Sorrowful Erigone weeping in the Marathonian wood beside the body of her slain father, her plaints exhausted, began to untie the sad knot of her girdle and chose sturdy branches intent on death.”

– Statius, Thebaid 11.644 ff

Concerning the song:

“Emmeleia”: the title (in Greek ἐμμέλεια, meaning “gracefulness” or “harmonization”) was the name of the grave and dignified dance of tragedy in the theatre of ancient Greece (each dramatic genre featured its own chorus dance, being the emmeleia or emmelīa in tragedy, the kordax or cordax in comedy, and the sikinnis or sicinnis in satyr-play). The “lyrics” derive from Lisa Gerrard’s usual glossolalia, but because she had to write down a phonetic version for Brendan Perry to sing along with her, this song sounds much more like a structured language. Written transcriptions exist but no language could be recognized.

“The shepherds, made drunk by drinking immoderately, collapsed, and thinking that Icarius had given them some bad medicine, killed him with clubs. The dog Maera, howling over the body of the slain Icarius, showed Erigone where her father lay unburied. When she came there, she killed herself by hanging in a tree over the body of her father.” — Hyginus, Fabulae 130

This was written at the behest of Syna as part of the “Oh shit! Sannion spent too much during Anthesteria” creative writing pledge drive. If you would like to commission a poem, short story or essay click here for details.

The key to understanding Ariadne is freedom: she craves it with every ounce of her being.

As the story goes, back in Crete she had everything a person could ever want — wealth, power, family, purpose — everything but what she actually wanted. Her life had grown too small, too familiar, too confining. She ached to experience something new, something different. And as if in answer to her prayers along came Theseus, a pretty stranger from a distant land full of dark and dangerous promises, and the second she set eyes on him she knew he was her way out of there. So she helped him murder her brother and torch her father’s kingdom and all she asked in return was that he take her with him when he left. She loved what he represented, how thoroughly he had destroyed her life — but Ariadne never loved the man himself. That much became apparent on the ship back to Athens when all he’d talk of was love and home and starting a family with her as his cherished wife, the fine mother of his fine sons, his pampered queen who would want for nothing. Nothing except the freedom and adventure she so desperately craved. Slowly she came to realize that she had made a horrible mistake, swapping one prison for another. Only this prison was far more restrictive than the labyrinth had ever been. There, at least, she had been free to be a monster with her misshapen brother, but Theseus saw only the woman in her. And so she went to sleep to destroy her life once again, went to sleep so that he would leave her behind and choose a wife more suited to him such as her brainless sister Phaidra. Theseus never looked back; he knew what he was abandoning on Dia and was glad to be rid of her — a woman whose restless soul meant that she would never be truly happy, one who would gladly choose death over comfort and boredom.

It wasn’t Haides that came to rapture her. Though there is a certain resemblance between them, her demon lover was younger, crazier and filled with a lust for life and adventure equal to Ariadne’s own. Dionysos offered to make her dreams a reality. Together they would hunt and revel and exhaust themselves in the pursuit of ephemeral desire. He promised she would never be bored, never be satisfied, never be comfortable. He would destroy her over and over again and abandon her only if she stopped being a monster. He has never abandoned her.

Not only is it the greatest love story ever told — echoed down the centuries with Antony and Kleopatra, Simon and Helena, Arlecchino and Columbina, Mickey and Mallory — but it sheds important light on why Ariadne has such an ambiguous relationship with the goddess Artemis. In many ways they are almost doubles — but that “almost” is quite telling, for their differences seem far more important than the similarities.

To begin with we must go back to how Ariadne was worshiped on Crete, before the poets of Greek myth began weaving their stories about her. Little can be said with certainty for it is hard to decipher the language of images and cultus, to really understand what such things meant to her original worshipers, how they experienced the reality of this great goddess. And to the Cretans Ariadne was a great goddess, with little trace of the mortal princess of later legend about her. She seems to have been a goddess of fertility and especially the fertility of vegetation and animals. (They had other deities whose concern was human fertility.) Trees and birds were the primary means by which she made her presence felt and sometimes her images combined the two in fantastic ways — human torso, avian head and arms reaching up to the heavens like branches full of ripe fruit. They celebrated her coming and going with the cyclical seasons, mounting her image on a cart and leading it into the temple at the start of spring amid riotous throngs. One of these carts, of unparalleled craftsmanship and closely resembling an early Model-T Ford, has been preserved and you can still see the designs of birds and animals and lush vegetation that were worked into it. What a wonder it must have been to see that curious vehicle trundling along through the streets with its crowds of dancers following behind, stirring the luxuriant energy in the land. Many centuries later the Roman author Philostratus the Younger still remembered how important dance had been in the worship of Cretan Ariadne:

“Behold the troup of dancers, like the chorus which Daidalos is said to have invented for Ariadne, daughter of Minos; young men and maidens with hands clasped and going about in a circle.” (Imagines 10)

When the cult of Ariadne was brought from Crete to Delos (and thence to Athens) these fertility dances remained its primary form of expression:

“On his voyage from Crete Theseus put in at Delos, and having sacrificed to the god and dedicated in his temple the image of Aphrodite which he had received from Ariadne, he danced with his youths a dance which they say is still performed by the Delians, being an imitation of the circling passages in the labyrinth, and consisting of certain rhythmic involutions and evolutions. This kind of dance, as Dikaiarchos tells us, is called by the Delians The Crane, and Theseus danced it round the altar called Keraton, which is constructed of horns taken entirely from the left side of the head.” (Plutarch, Life of Theseus 21.1-2)

This is one of the strongest points of connection between Ariadne and Artemis, for Zeus’ daughter also leads her nymph companions in nature’s dance:

“Caught up from the dance of huntress Artemis, she of the golden arrows and strong-voiced. There were many nymphai and cattle-earning maidens playing together and an innumerable company encircled us.” (Homeric Hymn 5 to Aphrodite 115 ff)

But the labyrinth is polysemic — it is both the dancing ground and the hunting ground of Ariadne:

“The structure was designed by Daedalus, that famous architect. Appearances were all confused; he led the eye astray by a mazy multitude of winding ways … Daedalus in countless corridors built bafflement, and hardly could himself make his way out, so puzzling was the maze. Within this labyrinth Minos shut fast the beast, half bull, half man, and fed him twice on Attic blood, lot-chosen each nine years, until the third choice mastered him. The door, so difficult, which none of those before could find again, by Ariadne’s aid was found.” (Ovid, Metamorphoses 8.150 ff)

Many have compared the labyrinth to the intricate design of a spider’s web, which gives added resonance to how Ariadne was said to have assisted Theseus:

“Ariadne gave Theseus a ball of thread as he entered. He fastened this to the door and let it trail behind him as he went in. He came across the Minotaur in the furthest section of the labyrinth, killed him with jabs of his fist, and then made his way out again by pulling himself along the thread.” (Apollodoros, Library E1. 7-1.9)

Cretan intaglio rings show that as a hunting goddess Ariadne’s weapon of choice was the net — a preference shared by her husband Zagreus who used the net to capture animals alive and set them free, according to Carl Kerényi. This gave rise to Ariadne’s epithet Diktynna or Mistress of the Net, which later Greek poets treated as a distinct being, a nymph companion of Artemis also known as Britomartis who was sometimes equated with her mistress:

“Britomartis was born at Kaino in Crete of Zeus and Karme, the daughter of Euboulos who was the son of Demeter; she invented the nets which are used in hunting, whence she has been called Diktynna, and she passed her time in the company of Artemis, this being the reason why some men think Diktynna and Artemis are one and the same goddess; and the Cretans have instituted sacrifices and built temples in honor of this goddess. But those men who tell the tale that she has been named Diktynna because she fled into some fishermen’s nets when she was pursued by Minos, who would have ravished her, have missed the truth; for its is not a probable story that the goddess should ever have got into so helpless a state that she would have required the aid that men can give, being as she is the daughter of the greatest one of the gods.” (Diodoros Sikeliotes, Library of History 5.76.3)

The spidery traits of Ariadne are further strengthened when we consider that like Arachne (and Erigone) she was said to have killed herself by hanging:

“There are many other stories about these matters, and also about Ariadne, but they do not agree at all. Some say that she hung herself because she was abandoned by Theseus.” (Plutarch, Life of Theseus 20.1)

Which puts one in mind of the local tradition which the Greek traveler Pausanias encountered and found deeply troubling regarding the goddess Artemis:

“About a stade distant from Caphyae is a place called Condylea, where there are a grove and a temple of Artemis called of old Condyleatis. They say that the name of the goddess was changed for the following reason. Some children, the number of whom is not recorded, while playing about the sanctuary found a rope, and tying it round the neck of the image said that Artemis was being strangled. The Caphyans, detecting what the children had done, stoned them to death. When they had done this, a malady befell their women, whose babies were stillborn, until the Pythian priestess bade them bury the children, and sacrifice to them every year as sacrifice is made to heroes, because they had been wrongly put to death. The Caphyans still obey this oracle, and call the goddess at Condyleae, as they say the oracle also bade them, the Strangled Lady from that day to this.” (Guide to Greece 8.23.5-6)

According to Plutarch, this wasn’t her only brush with the gallows:

“The temple of Artemis Themistokles established near his house in Melite, where now the public officers cast out the bodies of those who have been put to death, and carry forth the garments and the nooses of those who have dispatched themselves by hanging.” (Life of Themistokles 22.1)

Further hinting at a connection between Ariadne and Artemis is this legend related by Pausanias:

“In the market-place of Troizen is a temple of Artemis Soteira, with images of the goddess. It was said that the temple was founded and the name Savior given by Theseus when he returned from Crete after overcoming Asterion the son of Minos.” (2.31.1)

So far we’ve been considering fairly superficial connections — but there is one that goes much deeper. Artemis’ virginity is fundamental to her nature, not just in the sense that she shuns sexual contact with mortal men and her fellow gods (though apparently not her nymph and other female companions) but why she does so. She will have nothing to do with the domain of Aphrodite so that she can retain her individual freedom, remain aloof, unbound, unconstrained by all social roles and obligations. She is a fiercely independent goddess who keeps to herself in the pristine forests where she nurtures the wild beasts and takes pleasure only in the hunt:

“Of Artemis we hymn – no light thing is it for singers to forget her – whose study is the bow and the shooting of hares and the spacious dance and sport upon the mountains; beginning with the time when sitting on her father’s knees – still a little maid – she spake these words to her sire: ‘Give me to keep my maidenhood, Father, forever: and give me to be of many names, that Phoibos may not vie with me. And give me arrows and a bow – stay, Father, I ask thee not for quiver or for mighty bow: for me the Kyklopes will straightway fashion arrows and fashion for me a well-bent bow. But give me to be Phaesphoria and give me to gird me in a tunic with embroidered border reaching to the knee, that I may slay wild beasts. And give me sixty daughters of Okeanos for my choir – all nine years old, all maidens yet ungirdled; and give me for handmaidens twenty nymphs of the Amnisos river who shall tend well my buskins, and, when I shoot no more at lynx or stag, shall tend my swift hounds. And give to me all mountains; and for city, assign me any, even whatsoever thou wilt: for seldom is it that Artemis goes down to the town. On the mountains will I dwell and the cities of men I will visit only when women vexed by the sharp pang of childbirth call me to their aid – even in the hour when I was born the Moirai ordained that I should be their helper, forasmuch as my mother suffered no pain either when she gave me birth or when she carried me win her womb, but without travail put me from her body.’ So spake the child and would have touched her father’s beard, but many a hand did she reach forth in vain, that she might touch it in supplication. And her father smiled and bowed assent. And as he caressed her, he said: ‘When goddesses bear me children like this, little need I heed the wrath of jealous Hera. Take, child, all that thou askest, heartily.” (Kallimachos, Hymn 3 to Artemis)

Ariadne’s name means the very, very holy one with that same sense of untouchable, primal purity. She left behind the world of her father with all of its social obligations to remain true to herself and her desires. And she refused to be owned by any man, especially not a man such as Theseus.

But at the point where they are most similar they are also most different. For Ariadne’s independence is not based on chastity — quite the opposite, in fact. She used her sexual allure to bend Theseus to her will and gladly joined with Dionysos because he never sought to own or control her. There are also indications that though the marriage of Dionysos and Ariadne was regarded as a romantic ideal by the ancients, sexual fidelity was never a part of it. Plutarch (Life of Theseus 20) mentions that Ariadne took Oinaros, a priest of Dionysos, as her lover and had children by Theseus as well as those she bore to the god. (Some have also inferred that there was an incestuous element to her relationship with Asterios, the bull of Minos.)

This may well explain the curious incident related by Homer:

“And Ariadne, daughter of Minos, the grim king. Theseus took her abroad with him from Crete for the terraced land of ancient Athens; but he had no joy of her. Artemis killed her on the Isle of Dia because of what Dionysos said.” (Odyssey 11. 320)

Artemis’ choices take her outside the world of conventional gender relations — but she still affirms them as the norm and smites those who transgress their bounds.

For instance, she punished Kallisto for violating her virginity:

“Kallisto was the daughter of Lykaon and lived in Arcadia. She chose to occupy herself with wild beasts in the mountains together with Artemis, and, when she was seduced by Zeus, continued some time undetected by the goddess, but afterwards, when she was already with child, was seen by her bathing and so discovered. Upon this, the goddess was enraged and changed her into a beast. Thus she became a bear and gave birth to a son called Arkas but later Zeus delivered her because of her connection with him and put her among the stars, giving her the name Bear because of the misfortune which had befallen her.” (Eratosthenes, Catasterismi Frag 1.2)

And Koronis for committing adultery:

“Koronis, while pregnant with Asklepios, had intercourse with Ischys, son of Elatos. She was killed by Artemis to punish her for the insult done to Apollon, but when the pyre was already lighted Hermes is said to have snatched the child from the flames.” (Pausanias 2.26.6)

And Aktaion either because he sought to intrude into women-only space or to cuckold Zeus:

“On the road from Megara there is a spring on the right, and a little farther on a rock. It is called the bed of Aktaion, for it is said that he slept thereon when weary with hunting, and that into this spring he looked while Artemis was bathing with her nymphs. Stesichoros of Himera says that the goddess cast a deer-skin round Aktaion to make sure that his hounds would kill him, so as to prevent his taking Semele to wife.” (Pausanias 9.2.3)

Ariadne, on the other hand, finds liberation through love. So that she will belong to none, she gives herself to many. More, she refuses to play by the rules of the game. Not just going outside them, as Artemis does, but by completely blurring the lines of what is considered normal and acceptable behavior, especially with regard to gender.

She takes up arms and leads her husband’s troops in battle, earning a glorious death for herself:

“Perseus shook in his hand the deadly face of Medousa, and turned armed Ariadne into stone. Bakchos was even more furious when he saw his bride all stone … Hermes descended upon the battlefield and spoke to Dionysos these words, ‘She has died in battle, a glorious fate, and you ought to think Ariadne happy in her death, because she found one so great to slay her … Come now, lay down your thyrsos, let the winds blow battle away, and fix the selfmade image of mortal Ariadne where the image of heavenly Hera stands.’” (Nonnos, Dionysiaka 47.665 ff)

She is worshiped by transvestite males who on Kypros simulate the birth-pangs of Ariadne when she died in labor:

“Paion the Amathusian says also that at the sacrifice in her honor on the second day of the month Gorpiaeus, one of their young men lies down and imitates the cries and gestures of women in travail; and that they call the grove in which they show her tomb, the grove of Ariadne Aphrodite.” (Plutarch, Life of Theseus 20.1 ff)

And in Athens by transvestite youths in honor of the vintage:

“It was Theseus who instituted also the Athenian festival of the Oschophoria. For it is said that he did not take away with him all the maidens on whom the lot fell at that time, but picked out two young men of his acquaintance who had fresh and girlish faces, but eager and manly spirits, and changed their outward appearance almost entirely by giving them warn baths and keeping them out of the sun, by arranging their hair, and by smoothing their skin and beautifying their complexions with unguents; he also taught them to imitate maidens as closely as possible in their speech, their dress, and their gait, and to leave no difference that could be observed, and then enrolled them among the maidens who were going to Crete, and was undiscovered by any. And when he was come back, he himself and these two young men headed a procession, arrayed as those are now arrayed who carry the vine-branches. They carry these in honor of Dionysos and Ariadne, and because of their part in the story; or rather, because they came back home at the time of the vintage. And the women called Deipnophoroi, or supper-carriers, take part in the procession and share in the sacrifice, in imitation of the mothers of the young men and maidens on whom the lot fell, for these kept coming with bread and meat for their children. And tales are told at this festival, because these mothers, for the sake of comforting and encouraging their children, spun out tales for them. At any rate, these details are to be found in the history of Damon.” (Ibid. 23.2)

Ariadne even transcends the immutable line separating gods and mortals by becoming a goddess herself:

“And golden-haired Dionysos made blonde-haired Ariadne, the daughter of Minos, his buxom wife: and the son of Kronos made her deathless and unageing for him.” (Hesiod, Theogony 947 ff)

“Deathless” isn’t quite accurate, since in addition to the deaths of Ariadne I’ve already mentioned I’m aware of several others and who knows how many more were once preserved in the lore but are now lost to us. I suspect this motif of death and rebirth hearkens back to her Cretan festivals of seasonal katagogia and anagogia.

So in these and many other ways the differences between Ariadne and Artemis stand out more starkly than their similarities.

If it is even possible for you to be happy,
then you want too little.
Fulfillment is found only in the pursuit
of unattainable excellence.
The sweetest grapes are always the ones you cannot reach.
Never stop reaching for them.

The doctrine of the tragic paradox is that all virtue becomes sin through excess.
(And for a select, foolish few through excess all their sins become virtues.)
Orestes is damned for killing his mother
in order to avenge the death of his father.
Oedipus single-mindedly pursues the murderer that brought divine wrath upon his city
only to discover that he is that man,
ending his days a blind hero,
having plucked out his eyes when he realized he was guilty of the crime
of slaying his father and sleeping with his mother.
And everyone knows what happened to the crucified bastard.
(I’m not being insulting; where in the lore does it say his parents were married when they had him?)

I think Ikarios is who Ikaros
would have become had he had the chance to grow old,
if he had managed to escape the labyrinth with his contrived wings
instead of plummeting into the wine-dark sea
like the child god Melikertes.

The maze winds round again
but nothing looks familiar when you’re on the other side.
Dance the emmeleia, my sons, at the hallowed harvest time
and sing the sacred wonderweaving dithyramb,
thunderstruck with wine.

Follow the bees to the hole in the ground,
you’ll find the key that unlocks your dreams.
A raven caws as it takes to wing.

I don’t know how important this is for other people’s religious and magical work
– but a large part of mine has to do with altered states of consciousness.
Sure, drugs and alcohol are a big part of it, but not all and not the point.
It’s not about getting off, it’s about using that as a leaping pad to go other places,
experience different things, gain unique knowledge.
There are other ways to do this — prayer, meditation, contemplation of art, making art, listening and making music, dance, exercise, physical austerities,
any kind of repeated ritual act, etc. They’re all tools, all gateways to the sacred.
They do different things and are necessary in different contexts. Learning which tool to use and when,
is a big part of the work. But so is madness.
Being able to pass through them and discern
which can be used for the work and which are just bad crazy.
being open, always open.
Open even when it hurts, when you don’t want to be.

The crown of fire-breathing stars,
the ancestral kings in the verdant cathedral
the river flows, the river knows
what is done in the maze of roses.

Listen to the high priestess,
straddling the chasm.
The words of the rotting dead sound from her voice,
speaking across the centuries.

I went outside to have a smoke
before getting ready to go out on a final prowl through the city
and in the spot where I normally stand
and gaze vacant-eyed at the river
and the verdant cathedral
while a haze of clove swirls around me
– someone had set up a noose.
I burst out laughing. “How omenous!”

Did you know that another name for Arlecchino is Il Bagatello?

As in this:

The Italian name for this card is il bagatto, or il bagatello, which means ‘juggler’, and a juggler is yet another type of street performer. An example of how translation problems have affected the eventual design of the Tarot is that in the dialect of Milan, the word bagatello is similar to the word for ‘cobbler’.

Interesting card, by the way. Quoth the Wikipedia:

According to Arthur Edward Waite, this card signifies the divine motive in man. It is also the unity of the individual being on all planes, and in a very high sense it is thought. With further reference to the “sign of life”, i.e. the infinity symbol and its connection with the number 8, it may be remembered that Christian Gnosticism speaks of rebirth in Christ as a change “unto the Ogdoad.” The mystic number is termed Jerusalem above, the Land flowing with Milk and Honey, the Holy Spirit and the Land of the Lord. According to Martinism, 8 is the number of Christ. In other traditions this card can refer to scholarly knowledge. The Fool (card 0) has learned something about the workings of the world and now sees himself as powerful. Perhaps the reputation of the Magician is derived from the Fool misunderstanding what is happening while the High Priestess (the next card) is looking back, thinking that the Magician is missing the point of spiritual knowledge. Some schools associate him with Hermes, especially Hermes Trismegistus, a syncretic Egyptian/Greek figure who is a combination of Hermes and of Thoth, a god of the moon, knowledge, and writing. In this aspect, The Magician guides The Fool through the first step out of the cave of childhood into the sunlight of consciousness, just as Hermes guides Persephone out of the Underworld every year.
He represents the potential of a new adventure, chosen or thrust upon one. A journey undertaken in daylight, in the Enlightenment tradition. He brings things out of the darkness into the light. He explores the world in order to master it. He is solar consciousness. He is associated through the cross sums (the sum of the digits) with Key 10, The Wheel of Fortune, picking up on Hermes as a Trickster figure and a god of chance, and Key 19, The Sun, bringing us back to Apollo and to enlightenment. He embodies the lesson of “as above, so below,” the lesson that mastery in one realm may bring mastery in another. He also warns of the danger of applying lessons from one realm to another. The Magician transcends duality. He has learned the fundamental elements of the universe, represented by emblems of the four suits of the tarot already broken apart and lying on the table before him. Similarly, in the Book of Thoth deck, he is crowned by snakes, another symbol of both infinity and dualism, as snakes have learned from Gilgamesh how to shed their skins and be reborn, thus achieving a type of immortality; the blind prophet Tiresias split apart coupling snakes and as a result became a woman, transcending the dualism of gender.

Dear gods, my life feels very mythic right now.
A little too real, and not real at all.
Like the end of Ruggero Leoncavallo’s opera
when Canio and Nedda aren’t acting anymore
– they’re just speaking the lines from the heart.
Except happier!
Because honestly, I don’t think I could be happier.
This shit’s awesome! This is what it’s like when you’re really living with the gods.
I have no fucking clue who I’m going to be when I come back on Monday
– couldn’t even begin to tell you what my world will be like.
That’s living!
All I asked was never to be bored.
I’m not bored.

Oh Bromius and Erigone and Mercurius,
I pray you guide me in this journey I am about to undertake!

Santu Paulu meu de le tarante
che pizzichi le caruse ‘nmezz’all’anche
Santu Paulu meu de li scorzoni
che pizzichi li carusi int’i balloni

My Saint Paul of the tarante, who stings the girls between their hips
My Saint Paul of the scorzoni who stings the boys in their pants.

Deu ti muzzicau la tarantella?
Sotto la pudìa de la vannella.

Where did the little spider bite you?
Under the hem of my skirt.

Arachne of Maeonia wove at first the story of Europa, as the bull deceived her, and so perfect was her art, it seemed a real bull in real waves. Europa seemed to look back towards the land which she had left; and call in her alarm to her companions–and as if she feared the touch of dashing waters, to draw up her timid feet, while she was sitting on the bull’s back. And she wove Asteria seized by the assaulting eagle; and beneath the swan’s white wings showed Leda lying by the stream: and showed Jove dancing as a Satyr, when he sought the beautiful Antiope, to whom was given twins; and how he seemed Amphitryon when he deceived Alcmena; and how he courted lovely Danae luring her as a gleaming shower of gold; and poor Aegina, hidden in his flame, Jove as a shepherd with Mnemosyne; and beautiful Proserpina, involved by him, apparent as a spotted snake. And in her web, Arachne wove the scenes of Neptunus:–who was shown first as a bull, when he was deep in love with virgin Arne then as Enipeus when the giant twins, Aloidae, were begot; and as the ram that gambolled with Bisaltis; as a horse loved by the fruitful Ceres [Demeter], golden haired, all-bounteous mother of the yellow grain; and as the bird that hovered round snake-haired Medusa, mother of the winged horse; and as the dolphin, sporting with the Nymph, Melantho.–All of these were woven true to life, in proper shades. And there she showed Apollo, when disguised in various forms: as when he seemed a rustic; and as when he wore hawk-wings, and then the tawny skin of a great lion; and once more when he deluded Isse, as a shepherd lad. And there was Bacchus, when he was disguised as a large cluster of fictitious grapes; deluding by that wile the beautiful Erigone;–and Saturnus, as a steed, begetter of the dual-natured Chiron. And then Arachne, to complete her work, wove all around the web a patterned edge of interlacing flowers and ivy leaves.

Pallas could not find a fleck or flaw–even Envy can not censure perfect art–enraged because Arachne had such skill she ripped the web, and ruined all the scenes that showed those wicked actions of the gods.

– Ovid, Metamorphoses 6.103-130

Autolykos got up to go out for a walk (it being now his usual time) and his father Lykon, as he was departing to accompany him, turned back and said “So help me Hera, Sokrates; if ever any one deserved the appellation beautiful and good, you are that man!”

After he had withdrawn the Syracusan came in and announced, “Gentlemen, Ariadne will soon enter the chamber set apart for her and Dionysos; after that, Dionysos — a little flushed with wine drunk at a banquet of the gods — will come to join her, and then they shall play!”

He had scarce concluded when Ariadne entered, attired like a bride. She crossed the stage and sat herself upon the throne. Meanwhile, before the god himself appeared a sound of flutes was heard; the cadence of the Bacchic air proclaimed his coming. At this point the company broke forth in admiration of the master of the dance. For no sooner did the sound of music strike upon the ear of Ariadne than something in her action revealed to all the pleasure which it caused her. She did not step forward to meet her lover, she did not rise even from her seat; but the flutter of her unrest was plain to see.

When Dionysos presently caught sight of his beloved, lightly he danced towards her, and with show of tenderest passion gently reclined upon her knees; his arms entwined about her lovingly, and upon her lips he sealed a kiss;–she the while with most sweet bashfulness was fain to wind responsive arms about her lover; then the banqueters, who had been eagerly watching the whole while clapped their hands and cried “Encore!” Dionysos rose to his feet and lifted Ariadne to her full height and the action of those lovers as they kissed and caressed one another was a thing to contemplate. As to the spectators, they could see that Dionysos was indeed most beautiful, and Ariadne like some lovely blossom; nor were those mocking gestures, but real kisses sealed on loving lips; and so, with hearts aflame, they gazed expectantly. For they overheard Dionysos asking her if she loved him, and heard her vowing that she did, so earnestly that not only Dionysos but all the bystanders as well would have taken their oaths in confirmation that the youth and the maid surely felt a mutual affection. For theirs was the appearance not of actors who had been taught their poses but of persons now permitted to satisfy their long-cherished desires.

At last, the banqueters, seeing them in each other’s embrace and obviously leaving for the bridal couch, those who were unmarried swore on the spot that they would wed and those who were wed mounted their horses and galloped off to join their wives, eager for the joys of marriage.

As for Sokrates and the others who had lingered behind, they went out with Kallias to join Lykon and his son in their walk. So broke up the banquet held that evening.

– Xenophon, The Symposion 9.1-7

A yellow daffodil on the sidewalk
in a puddle that reflects the half gnawed moon
and scraggily branches of a barren tree,
good for hanging a rope from.
Such scenes are the genesis of the most poignant myths.
Remember the way that Erigone would touch her ear
when she was nervous, and look away with eyes like the eyes of skittish deer
– eyes so large and brown and soft it was easy to get lost in them –
and what slipped out, just for a second,
when she knew that she was caught in the web of the stranger’s smile,
that finally there was no place she could run
to escape him. Finally.
Her lips turned up in the barest hint of a smile
and she tilted her head ever so slightly to the side,
exposing more of her tender throat.
It was just a moment,
gone before her father could even notice,
but he noticed.
He laughed, voice heavy and hot with eros
and said, “Old Man, I see you’re fond of my magical brew
– how would you like to be instructed in the vintner’s art?”
And before Ikarios could say a word he made a plump bunch of grapes appear out of nowhere,
red and round as drops of virgin’s blood.
Every gift has its price; every debt must be paid.

little dark girl with
kind eyes
when it comes time to
use the knife
I won’t flinch and
I won’t blame
you,
as I drive along the shore alone
as the palms wave,
the ugly heavy palms,
as the living does not arrive
as the dead do not leave,
I won’t blame you,
instead
I will remember the kisses
our lips raw with love
and how you gave me
everything you had
and how I
offered you what was left of
me,
and I will remember your small room
the feel of you
the light in the window
your records
your books
our morning coffee
our noons our nights
our bodies spilled together
sleeping
the tiny flowing currents
immediate and forever
your leg my leg
your arm my arm
your smile and the warmth
of you
who made me laugh
again.
little dark girl with kind eyes
you have no
knife. the knife is
mine and I won’t use it
yet.

– Charles Bukowski, Raw With Love

“With regard to the astonishing and complex agitation of the entire body, not long ago I personally saw a woman stricken with the poison who, although prey to the delirium of a violent fever, and her mind possessed with horrible phantasms – or rather, she was assaulted by a host of insolent demons – at the sound of the musical instruments she nonethless abandoned herself to a dance that was so excited, to such a frenetic agitation of her limbs and whirling her head, that my own head and eyes, enthralled by the same agitation, suffered from dizziness. This woman had suspended a rope from the ceiling of her humble dwelling, the end of which, just touching the floor in the middle of the room, she tenaciously squeezed between her hands; throwing herself upon it, she abandoned herself with the weight of her whole body, her feet planted on the floor, turning her head to and fro, her face glowing, with a surly look. I was deeply astonished, not being able to explain why the dizziness provoked by that rapid and violent head shaking did not make her reel and fall to the ground. Due to this agitation and the incredible exertion borne, the woman’s whole body and above all her face were covered with abundant perspiration; reddened by such strenuous agitation, she ran gasping to a great tub full of water prepared at her request, and she completely submerged her head in it, whence the cold water gave her some relief from the heat with which she blazed.” – Ludovico Valletta, De Phalangio Apulo 76

To begin with here is Melitta Benu’s brilliant guide on how to get started with the gods:

Where in the world does one start?

Even as someone to whom spirit-work and mediumship comes somewhat naturally, there’s still a lot of hard work involved. The gods won’t just show up (usually) and pester you for worship…they honestly have better things to do and it seems like there has to be a period of proving oneself before the gods will invest a lot of time and effort into you. This is understandable, and even we humans do the same thing with our friends, our relationships and even our pets…you don’t want to invest time and love into someone who’s going to do nothing but pee on your floor, right?

And here is Del on the controversial term “godphone“:

The term itself was a slang, a shorthand, for “the ability to speak to the Gods, and to hear the Gods in return”. It was not meant to imply that one could just “pick up the phone” and have immediate, pin-drop-chrystal-clear communication with any Deity one would choose to speak to/with; in fact, most people who have this ability protest often that no one has 100% signal clarity (again, “signal clarity” being a term that came out of these discussions) and often we reach out and get no answer, or are Told something but our questions/protestations were unheard (or possibly ignored). In this age, we see phones as something ubiquitous; everyone but the very poor or the very eccentric has one, they carry it around with them wherever they go, and they serve many functions. When this slang was thrown around, cell phones were in their infancy; it was back when having one meant that you were at least middle class, if not more well off. Mostly, we were thinking of much older technology, back when “busy signals” were a thing (and something we discussed), and “call waiting” was not exactly new, but something you had to pay extra for. So part of trying to explain where it came from means understanding what “phone” meant in, say, 1998. (I think it was coined after that, but the point I’m trying to make is that we were thinking more like a basic land-line, not Iphone.)

Speaking of communication, Pete Helms introduces us to Ares’ best friend:

When people talk of Ares, and especially of his relations with other gods, there are a few words that get thrown around: “passion”, “hatred”, “love”, and “violent”. Yet for some reason, many people skip “friend”. The rivalry with Athene and passion for Aphrodite are common themes in Aresian myth, and yet, we often forget the many myths Ares spends paling around with whom I’d call his best buddy in the divine world. I’m talking, of course, of Hermes.

Erik shares the coolest superpower ever.

Warboar ponders violence.

Joan Defers provides an overview of erotic e-Book covers.

DivineTwins writhes.

(Each of the above was too good to spoil with an excerpt.)

Galina gets ranty:

It’s that last little bit, the ‘convince me’ part that sets my teeth on edge more than the actual question itself, so I hope y’all will pardon me for being a bit blunt. The question isn’t so egregious by itself. I mean, I understand how people who have not had much contact with the Holy Powers, or who are just starting out, might be moved to ask it. People, I’ve found, want to be sure they’re doing it right..whatever the ‘it’ of their spiritual lives happens to be. I get that. Hell, I want to be sure I’m doing it right! I don’t ever want to offend one of the Powers. So insofar as the question itself goes, generally it stems from not unworthy motivation, particularly when one is concerned about being in right relationship with the Gods and spirits. My problem is inevitably with the corollaries that all too often accompany it, corollaries that have absolutely nothing with getting oneself in right relationship with the Powers and everything with abrogating responsibility for one’s own spiritual life. So, allow me to speak from the heart to all those who would contact me wanting me to answer the questions that time, dedication, commitment, and honest practice would resolve. To those people I say the following; Look, fuckwits. Just because you’re incapable or unwilling of doing the necessary work to engage with the Powers, don’t suppose that’s the case for all of us. Just because you’re too mired in your post modern bullshit to open up into devotional headspace don’t assume that’s the case for all of us either.

Ruadhán discusses the European core of paganism:

This isn’t necessarily a bad thing, though it understandably carries a lot of baggage. I remember a few years ago, when the Council of Ethnic Religions(?) dared to propose a European-based definition of “pagan” and “paganism”, as an umbrella term specifically for the pre-Christian indigenous religious of Europe (and maybe the Mediterranean?), and half of The Wild Hunt’s commenters practically had an aneurysm, screaming “Racist!” left and right —as if this isn’t something they’ve been doing, as a community, for decades. No, seriously, look at ANY “Paganism For Dummies” sort of primer, and very little —at best, a few deity names, maybe an incense or two, but almost never any rituals— is based outside practises of European or Mediterranean origin, and most of it comes from the British Isles or Germany. I’d understand the anger if that announcement was clearly against the current status quo of the pagan community, but the truth is, it’s only been fairly recently that pagans have been at all interested in African diaspora traditions, and before that, it was Far Eastern Asia, and before that, it was Indigenous American tribal traditions —and it’s usually been something that’s been a very trendy, flash-in-the-pan sort of interest. Like suddenly, High Priestess (self-appointed) Lillywhite Wykkanmoon rrealised that Black people had religions outside Baptistism and decided to act like she cared about forging a relationship with some Akan “face of Goddess” so she can feel good about “not being a racist”. To be perfectly blunt, after the novelty wears off for most people, and assuming they’re still identifying as somehow pagan after that, most people hopping on the Hip New “Ethnic”-Wiccan Fad™ are going to go right back to their Eurocentric way of doing things, maybe recon-influenced, maybe Wicca-influenced (which, as far as I’m concerned, is a new indigenous religion of England —but maybe that’s just me), but only a few of the white people hopping on any non-European/Mediterranean pantheon fad are going to stick with it and actually remain interested in it, even looking beyond the “exotic” façade and getting into cultural assimilation.

Signy Ragnvaldsdottir discusses the Disir:

The Disir, known also as the Idises, are ones’ female ancestors. That they were worshiped enormously in the past is attested to by hundreds of images of the Matronae, three female seated figures, all over Europe. I’m not posting a photo because if you Google the term you’ll see plenty. And Plenty is what the Matronae/Disir are all about. They are usually shown holding bread and apples and sometimes corunucopia (horns of plenty). Georges Dumezil interpreted the female figures as being the maiden, the mother, and the grandmother, an identification that went well into Wiccan thealogy. In Asatru, however, we don’t deal with Gods or Goddesses in the abstract–they’re people. The Idises are female ancestors who we may or may not know. If some of them are young, it’s because we have ancestors who died young. A multiply-great aunt who died at the age of 14 of disease is every bit an ancestor as the great-great grandmother whose name we know. She would undoubtedly have some knowledge for us; certainly she’d know textile manufacture and how to dress a chicken for supper. The fact that the Matronae hold food and sometimes the means of production such as spindles and distaffs show that they are there to provide.

Dionysian~Light analyses the story of Erigone:

I think of this tale every time someone rails primly against drinking, calls it an evil, blames it for horrible evil things. For it is not the drinking that creates or causes violence and brutality and dark behavior, any more than an unlocked door causes burglary, or a short skirt causes rape. All drinking does is to open the doors to rooms in the self that have long been locked — it brings to the surface and the light that which has lain sunken in the dark watery depths for so long. In one who has no hidden unresolved monsters, drinking brigs out laughter, and love, and daring, and silliness, and relaxation. The only ones who need fear the liberation of Dionysus are those who have chained their monsters without mastering them.

Dver reminds us that there are no shortcuts:

There are no shortcuts to the Work of building a deep devotional relationship, or learning to be a spirit-worker, or delving into mysticism. The long and often grueling process of acquiring skills and most of all discernment cannot be bypassed. You may (assuming the possession and resulting communication is even authentic) gain some information, some bit of momentary connection, but it will be rather useless without all the many communications and information downloads and direct experiences and yes also struggles with doubt and frustration and silence that come before and after – in other words, without the context of a true relationship forged between oneself and one’s god(s). To return to my surgeon metaphor from a previous post, even if you got a full download, Matrix-style, of all the information necessary to be a brain surgeon, you would still be missing all the intuition and deep understanding that comes from experience, from mistakes, from successes, and from just straight up time served. I wouldn’t want that Matrix surgeon operating on me, if I had a choice between the two.

Chris Sims gets philosophical about nostalgia:

Quick sidenote: Remember that bit in Watchmen where there’s a perfume called Nostalgia and the intricate crystal palace created by a guy who has ultimate power over this superhero universe collapses when Laurie throws a bottle of Nostalgia at it? There is a reason that’s in there, and it ain’t because Moore and Gibbons were particularly interested in subtlety.

Gordon muses on how everything is entangled:

It is ambitious but not unreasonable to suggest that science and magic should entirely overlap.

Indeed, many of the Renaissance magicians avoided the stake with the defence that their practices merely aligned with the natural (and thus ordained) functioning of Creation, rather than contravened it.

And whilst this post isn’t so much about science as it is a lassoing together of a few of my favourite heresies, I can’t recall a time where we had a better opportunity to align with a more hospitable vision of the natural functioning of Creation.

suz reflects on Anthesteria:

dionysos scares me. often, and badly. i was at his tree a month or so ago, and as i lifted the libation to pour it, a pigeon came screaming out of the branches into my face. when i took the panspermia and (finally) opened a bottle of new red wine to finish up the festival, i was standing there in the bright bright moonlight and suddenly i knew there was someone else there. i froze, even holding my breath, and i could clearly hear the sound of breathing close by.

jesus. so scared.

finally i gathered up my shattered courage, finished the prayer and libation, and turned my back on the treeline and walked away without looking back. it wasn’t until i was across the driveway that i stopped anticipating teeth at the back of my skull.

DivineTwins offers a wrap-up of the festival:

I felt like ass. I hurt. My mouth was dry as a bone, stomach sore, body just all-over ached. But as I lay there, trying to go back to sleep, a few revelations came to me.

Hemlock & Hawthorn ponders Dionysos & the Anthesteria:

Dionysus is youthful exuberance and delight. He is at once the long-haired youth with a gentle touch and the bearded, experienced purveyor of pleasure with lines deeply grooved in the skin of his face from so much smiling and jovial divine laughter. He is King Zeus’ gift to humankind, spurred by Aeon’s desire to improve mortal life. Yet one of his mysteries is that we also honor him as Dionysus Limnaios (“of the marsh”) and Chthonios (god of the underworld), and praise his darkest face as Lord of the Dead as we go from lusty licentiousness on Pithoigia, the first day of Anthesteria yesterday, to solemn silent mourning on Khutroi, the third.

Finnchuill has a lovely poem for Erigone:

The drunken rage of rude shepherd boys—
Violence lurks under the epidermis;
Ply them with wine and they go berserk.

Here are Seastruck’s musings on Anthesteria 2013:

I knew He usually comes in the forms that are most challenging for you to accept, after all, and I have a difficult relationship with drastic, sudden changes. I thought He would break the parts of me that still held me back and upturned my perception of the world so completely I would be too shocked to not adjust.

I had misjudged His ability to surprise.

Britomartis praises Dionysos, God of Life:

In retrospect, it just makes sense that I would wind up working with Dionysus. I have a long history of dancing on his stomping grounds, because they are similar to my own. I knew what it was like to go mad before our first run-in; I knew ecstasy, loosening, liminality, and the blurring of boundaries before I ever thought of his name. I am, after all, tied to dreaming, surrender, death, rebirth, and places that one can only get to by easing the grip on what qualifies as sanity.

I am one of those people that can only be sane, by embracing the insanity.

Dver shares an amazing mask she made recently.

P. Sufenas discusses a different sort of mask:

But, what I most realized out of this whole situation is that I made a conscious choice to not say more about my life with this woman–and with many other people that I encounter on a daily basis–due to fear of being an object of upset or contention or disagreement with others. I “passed” on communicating a non-normative identity, which means I “passed” for “being ‘normal’.” While little old ladies would rarely threaten to beat me up, nonetheless I didn’t want to be in a position with her or with others where they were judging me, looking down on me, or in any situation where they might feel they can argue with me about my various identities. I do this all the damn time; and, one of the things I like so much about PantheaCon is that when I’m there, and with my friends and co-religionists from it before and after, I don’t have to do that. Yes, I could try and “not do it” more in my general life, and risk getting thrown off the bus (the only mode of transportation I have), losing my job, or getting accosted on the streets of these small rural communities where I live. My ability to go outside of my home without fear of being harassed is a privilege, and one that involves passing…

Dreamsofdjinn argues that possession phenomenon is poisoning paganism:

There is, unfortunately, a lapse of judgment regarding this on the side of those provided said channelings and possessions. If you are one of those people, please take a moment to stop and consider whether or not this is really the right thing to do for the person in this situation. I know it is difficult to watch someone suffer through the struggle I’ve mentioned above. But, pause to consider that if someone had come in and told you the answers, and you never had to seek for them yourself, would you be in the same relationship that you are with your Gods/spirits/ancestors right now? You might have wanted to pull your hair out a little less, but the answer will be, in most cases, probably not. If that person is struggling for help, consider, instead, providing them with advice on how you got through a similar ordeal, and if they’re really struggling, perhaps a divination. Even if you feel that said God or spirit wants you to do this, consider what it is doing for or to the recipient, and consider how you will feel if this person attaches to you as some sort of prophet for this deity and therefore comes to you with every question they have because they have failed to establish that relationship on their end. I would hope not good, but that’s what this type of consistent struggle-and-response relationship nurtures. This type of hang-up has the potential to do a lot of damage to both individuals and communities alike, please take this from someone who has been there.

Sarenth explores some of the heiti of Odin:

In terms of Odin’s heiti I look at it very much as experiencing different aspects of the same God; Yggr (The Terrible) still is Odin, at the end of the experience, but He is a ‘face’ of Odin that I do not, mercifully, experience very often. I could see Hóvi (The High) may have come to me while I was writing the November posts to Him in the Hávamál style. When I experience the Alföðr (Allfather) it is, for me, Odin Who is primarily concerned with humanity and getting us where we, perhaps personally but more collectively, where we need to go. Then there is Odin as my Father and Leash-holder, the heiti which sticks out to me that is most apt for this being Haptaguð (Fetter God). These latter two are the aspects of Odin I see the most.

Also, here’s a reminder that Galina is seeking content for an Odin devotional.

Ian Corrigan discusses initiation in modern paganism:

However I was also reading the real accounts of the history of initiatory orders such as the GD, and watching the various gyrations of Wiccan coven leaders and initiators. Being a skeptical sort it was apparent to me that even real attainment and occult skill didn’t relieve the masters from the dangers of being assholes. It seemed, back in the 1970s, that anyone whose opinion I respected was busy publishing material that had previously been kept secret behind the veil of initiatory oaths. So I was conflicted. I both valued initiation for the connection it gives to lineage and a battery of power and wisdom, and I disdained the notion of secrecy that allowed leaders and organizations to control access to information.

Spiritwize reviews an interesting sounding book:

well, it really does bleed devotion, love, deep insight and other stuff off every page. This is not an exaggeration. In fact, I don’t think there’s anything overtly specific about the book that I could say that would be useful to a curious person intrigued but not sure if the content would be for them. All I can really say (apart from what I’ve already said) is that here we have a man knee-deep in his religion if not more. Granted, the book is not necessarily a book on religion but because of the whole ‘knee-deep if not more’ thing, it is. So, this book has the possibility of slapping you right across your face (with a penis!) on so many levels including the religious and spiritual. In any case, it’s an awesome book and I heartily recommend it to anyone out there looking for something different and powerful and sexy.

(I was actually going to link to a different post by them, but it seems to have been taken down. Shame, it was quite lovely.)

Wanna know about woman-woman love in Islamic society?

Or drugs and the Delphic oracle?

How about women doctors in Greece, Rome, and the Byzantine empire?

The history of animals being put on trial?

Or where werewolves come from? (You see, when a mommy werewolf and a daddy werewolf love each other …)

The burial of non-royal folk in ancient Egypt?

Or what the emperor Julian thought of Jews?

And lastly I leave you with this abomination: