#(odysseus is fresh out of killing suitors)

[brainrotcharacters]

That last "I love you" sounded so wispy like it began with "Hi" watch those two in the middle of tangling with each other innocent cuddling or otherwise and then they giggle like children seeing each other in front of them again after 20 years

[somepsychopomp]

K so I can't help but imagine wolf hybrid Odysseus coming home & finally getting to spend time with his son (who inherited his papa's wolf features)... and the two of them finally get to engage in play

It's not like when Odysseus was a boy & his idea of play was to dig holes in his mother's garden or to chase rabbits through the woods.

It's not like when Telemachus was a boy & his idea of play was to envision himself as his father on the battlefields of Troy, only to have his childhood cut short once the suitors began to arrive in droves.

For the first time in their lives, each of them have another wolf to interact with! And the instincts they've long since learned to suppress come bubbling to the surface.

Shortly after his return, Odysseus sneaks Telemachus out of the palace at night to go on a romp through the woods. Once they're out of earshot from the palace, he tells his son to shed his cloak and shoes- they won't be needing them.

Soon enough, he's proven correct. The father and son are chasing each other through the foliage with not a care in the world. There are no eyes on them, no judgement between them. At first, Telemachus finds it disorientating to be running free through the dangerous woods at night. And not only that, but being given permission to sprint on all fours if he so wishes.

The feeling of the earth beneath his hands and paws, all the smells in the forest, and the thrill of running through the cool air... it's exhilarating! Telemachus lets out a howl and instantly tries to quell it, since it wasn't "proper" behavior + the suitors used to take his howling as an invitation to beat him.

But from somewhere off in the darkness of the dense woods, another wolf howls back in response. Telemachus skitters to a stop and chases after the source of that foreign howling. His nose prickles from the scent of another wolf- heady, warm, so strange and yet so familiar.

Odysseus tackles him from the side, sending them both sprawling across a bed of flowers.

And it smells so good!

Telemachus is on his back and rolling in the crushed flowers, luxuriating in the fresh, fragrant scent rising into the air. Why did he never try this before?

"On nights when I snuck past the palace walls, your grandfather would have to come searching for me."

Telemachus freezes and stares up at his father. They both have the same amber eyes that seem to glow in the moonlight. Telemachus has always been able to see very well in the dark and could tell that his father (his father!) is staring off into the distance, lost in thought.

Odysseus laughs softly, "More often than not, he'd find me not too far off the path, rolling in either the scent of carrion or flowers."

"Carrion?" Telemachus asked.

Odysseus nods. "Have you smelled it before? I mean, before my return."

There had been plenty of carrion in the halls when his father came home. Telemachus was tempted once or twice to rub his hands or tail over a dead suitor, something in his soul telling him to do so. He resisted, not only because there were so many dead bodies to get rid of, but because he knew the vast majority of the kills rightly belonged to his father alone.

Odysseus' eyes turn to meet Telemachus'. "It's something about our nature. We're drawn to the dead. Perhaps we want to leave our scent on the slain so the world knows we did it."

Odysseus lays down in the flowers alongside his son and stretches. He opens his mouth wide to yawn and Telemachus cannot resist sticking his nose in his father's mouth. He wants to gather as much information about Odysseus as possible. Not just his past, but what he last ate, whether he's in good health, etc.

Odysseus freezes, his surprise melting into some heavenly medley of joy, love, and companionship. At last, he's with the one person who shares in his instincts. He couldn't count the number of times he did this exact same gesture to his loved ones- his sister, Penelope, Polites.

Odysseus lightly nips at Telemachus' nose in jest. Telemachus is not the fearful pup he once was, though. He retaliates by letting a growl from the back of his throat. It's not a real threat, far from it. He tries to pitch it in a way that it sounds more inviting.

Soon enough, the father and son are rolling over each other in the flowers, tails wagging as they attempt to best the other in a wrestling match.

Though Telemachus is younger and has more raw energy, Odysseus has the experience. He very nearly has Telemachus pinned in such a position that his son won't be able to wriggle out of, but Telemachus has learned from Athena to pinpoint where his enemy was vulnerable.

He gets smacked in the face by his father's tail once, twice, nearly three times before he can successfully bite down on it.

It's not a hard bite, no blood will be shed. And yet Odysseus, the reigning king and first Wolf of Ithaca, yelps high and sharp like a pup. He's not even remotely hurt, has felt far worse pain than this, but falls backward to expose his belly. Telemachus pounces on him.

"I've got you, Father!"

In truth, they're both far too old to be playing like this. Odysseus had so much of his kindness ground away until his heart and mind were as sharp as a blade. Telemachus was far too large to be roughhousing like a little boy, climbing over his father as if Odysseus' body was meant to be his playground.

They both know they're too old for this, that too many years have gone by, but they don't care. Odysseus has dreamed of playing with his boy for twenty years and Telemachus has wished day and night his whole life for someone who could understand his wants, his instincts.

Odysseus wraps his arms around his son and holds him close.

"Well done, my son."

[lyculuscaelus]

Answers

(My EtM secret Santa gift for @betterbekind ! Merry Christmas!)

Sometimes, he would dream of the bright sun, the fleeting cloud, and the forested mountain that lay above the waves.

Sometimes, he would dream of a verdant branch of olive, casting a shade on him, blessing him with a sense of safety.

Sometimes, he would dream of a large fleet, radiant with high spirits of its crew, launching into the rosy-fingered dawn with many oars ploughing a salted field that was the wine-dark sea itself.

And sometimes, he would smell the fresh scent of soils, blinking his eyes bright with innocence, wondering why the donkey had suddenly halted by his side.

And sometimes, he would feel the warmth of the cradle, hearing his own name in his sleep, when a tender voice whispered gently, “…then I shall keep you far from war…”

And sometimes, he would notice the song of winds, wordless, like the sobbing of two parents.

But sometimes he would dream of those suitors. They always came in groups, playing, yelling, cramming his father’s palace with their filthy forms and noises of revelry.

And sometimes he would dream of their words—haunting, like the neighing sea.

For they said, “fight, little wolf; entertain us like you always do.”

For they said, “cry, little wolf; only your misery will comfort you.”

For they said, “die, little wolf; your incompetence will be the end of you.”

And he would think of those times when he failed to punish the suitors; and he would mourn the old days when seas and forests were all he could dream of; and he would grieve for the journeys he failed to start—the journey to prove himself worthy. Worthy, as the son whose blood echoed the name of a great hero.

But he never felt like it.

Odysseus would’ve killed them all so long ago, the moment they revealed their intent to woo my mother; Odysseus would’ve taken the crown and reigned over this kingdom already, instead of sitting in the courtroom mourning for a king forgotten, a father lost; Odysseus would’ve done so many feats before he even found himself stuck in a bedroom, dreaming of all the things he could never do.

And he would scream silently, in a dream that felt like reality.

Or was it the other way around? He didn’t know that anymore. Days were only pretenses of joy, while nights…

Well, only nights knew his silent tears, when he mourned for his father…when he mourned for himself.

I am no legacy of my father. When he thinks of me, I will only be known as a failure.

Because that’s what I am—a failure. Someone who doesn’t deserve to be the son of Odysseus.

Please. Just tell me I’m wrong—tell me, before it becomes all I can remember, all I can believe…

Please. Somebody…anybody…

And it was always silence that answered him.

Silence. Just another name for loneliness.

And sometimes, it was the very silence that shall wake him from his dreams.

Tonight was no different.

Telemachus opened his eyes to stare into the dark ceiling.

The dream still felt vivid. It was just like every other nightmare of his—full of taunts, full of grief. He was almost used to them at this point. They’re just dreams. They can’t hurt me.

No. Not on the outside, of course; but Telemachus couldn’t face what lay within. At least, not now, when the suitors were still—

Wait. No. He corrected himself quickly. The suitors are dead already. Killed by the very man I wish to meet for the first time in twenty years, only two days ago.

Telemachus shook his head with a bitter smile. It’s almost as if nothing has changed. I know my life is different now, but somehow it still feels the same—as if the suitors have never truly gone; as if my father has never really come back; as if there hasn’t actually been any victory.

Hard to believe, isn’t it? 

He let out a heavy sigh.

Guess I’m just not used to happiness like this.

Climbing out of the bed, putting on a chiton quickly, he walked to the door before realizing it was only in the middle of the night.

Doesn’t matter. As if I’m not used to waking up at this hour already…

He pushed open the door to welcome a silent hall, where only darkness would be his company. Sometimes breezes too, if the gods were keen enough to send those.

If only…so that he’d make it home so much earlier. So that we’d need to face no sorrow like this for years.

He paced quietly in the halls empty of the living.

If I start humming, will it startle anyone from their sleep?

He wasn’t sure. But a tune had already flown out from his mouth, dissipating into the air. It was a song Phemius used to sing.

It was about the Nostoi—the return of heroes. There were all the Achaean kings—Diomedes, Nestor, Idomeneus, Agamemnon…and eventually, Menelaus, when he became the last Achaean hero to make it home—

Before my father did, that is. He mustered a smile. But surprisingly, there isn’t any song for him…yet.

Telemachus was musing when he came across a huge pillar.

Maybe there will be. In days to come, perhaps, when people weave their memories into songs, songs into epics…

“Can’t sleep?” a new voice came suddenly, startling the young man. Telemachus almost raised his fists before realizing who it could only belong to.

It was the voice of a fresh old man, a bit hoarse due to years of seafaring; but there was a commanding tone lying underneath, for it probably wasn’t a stranger to war-cries and orations. There was only one man who could wield a voice like this, Telemachus knew.

Even though it wasn’t a voice he was used to hearing.

“Father?” he called softly, trying to locate the source with no success.

“The moon is still young,” he heard his father murmuring. “There’s nothing to see but the stars. Stars who relate their stories, who keep the night sky from loneliness, who are keen enough to guide the sailors home, if the sailors are still keeping their eyes open to all this.”

“Where are you, father?” Telemachus prompted with a question.

“Somewhere, in the dark, where my rest lies alongside my vigilance.”

That’s not a helpful answer… Telemachus thought to himself. “Shouldn’t you be sleeping too, father?” he asked.

“Ah, yes, sleep. Last time I fell asleep letting go of all my worries, it ended with…well.” that was all his father replied.

Telemachus waited for a moment, but his father didn’t continue. So Telemachus spoke out again. “But you were in your bedroom—with mom,” he said, walking a few more paces to the direction where he heard his father answering. “Why did you come out here?”

He heard a heavy sigh, then came a sound almost like sobbing. Telemachus almost found his way there before hearing his father’s reply.

“I…I was afraid. Afraid of hurting your mother by accident,” the great-hearted man muttered.

Afraid of hurting mom? Telemachus remarked in shock. What could it possibly be—a nightmare? Just like one of mine?

No. Maybe father’s was way more eventful. But still…

“What were you trying to do, father?” he asked again.

“Hiding,” there came the reply—Telemachus was almost certain it’s the right spot— “No. But that wouldn’t be necessary…she’s not here—she can’t lay her hands on you anymore, Odysseus,” the sacker of cities was whispering to himself. “No, you’re safe now. That’s Penelope by your side—yes, Penelope. The one who loves you. The one you love. You’re home now, Odysseus. It’s your own son you’re talking to. It’s alright. It’ll all be fine…”

The next step brought Telemachus to a turn where he felt someone suddenly approaching—

—and ran into a fierce embrace, as his father held him so tightly that he couldn’t even stretch out his arms to return a hug.

“It’s alright now…” he could still hear his father murmuring. “You’re safe now. You’re safe at last.”

“Father?” Telemachus could only muster the strength to ask. The hug felt even heavier than the first one they ever had, only a few days ago. But his father was so aware of himself then, not like…this.

What could have happened to the man of twists and turns in his days of missing?

It was after a moment that lasted like years that Odysseus decided to let loose the embrace, finally facing his son in the darkness, still putting both hands on his shoulders, now speaking in a tone so much softer. “I’m sorry, Telemachus…I shouldn’t have let you see me like this. This isn’t what a father should act like…I’m so sorry…”

“Father, don’t be,” Telemachus reached over to hold his father’s hand. “Just tell me what happened, maybe? If you wish to, that is.”

His father sighed. “Nothing…just some bad memories. Something that haunts me in my sleep—picked some of them up in these years of wandering.”

Telemachus lowered his head and mused. Just like those dreams of mine…

Then he felt a touch on his face. Telemachus raised his head to meet his father’s gaze in the darkness, as Odysseus continued slowly. “But I might tell you all my stories…maybe some other time, when our hearts aren’t so laid down by the weariness of sleep. It’s nothing I haven’t endured before, really. But what about you, Telemachus? You did not go through a long trek with all the hardships—what could’ve woken you in the middle of the night?”

This time it was Telemachus who heaved a sigh. “It’s…nothing. Just bad memories.” Something that haunts me, too, in my sleep. Something I picked up in these years of waiting, wondering, dreaming.

“Of those suitors, I presume?” Odysseus prompted.

“Yeah,” Telemachus replied with a nod. “Maybe more. But for the suitors I dreamt of their faces, smirking in mockery; I dreamt of their words, saying nothing but taunts…”

“What did they say?” he could tell his father’s eyebrows were creasing when saying this.

“Father…” Telemachus didn’t expect this. Should I tell him or should I not? Only the night keeps my secrets—should I let father know this, too? “It’s pretty much just nonsense, really. It’s not like they can hurt me—”

“But can they?” 

Well…yes. A lot, actually. 

But it’s just something I don’t want to admit.

“Father, trust me—I can tackle them, all of them—I mean, most of—some of them…I guess.”

“That doesn’t sound very reassuring,” his father only responded.

I know…but I just don’t want to bother you with this…

Telemachus lowered his head.

“Father, there are enough matters kept in your mind now. I just don’t want to trouble you with yet another problem…a problem I’m supposed to overcome on my own. But instead I just keep failing…”

“In that case,” Odysseus was saying. “Why not share the burden with me? Share it with your dear father who’s been waiting for ages, to help you out in your time of need—something I failed to do for so long…but no longer. Share it with me—let us carry your load together. What better thing is there to do as father and son?”

A smile was playing on Telemachus’s trembling lips. A smile that tasted bitter, like the sadness of tears.

Yes, he’s here now, Telemachus—your father is here at last, after all the years of hoping—hoping he’d hearken to your distress, wishing he’d give you his counsel, dreaming he’d comfort you with a smile…he’s here now, ready to help, as a father he always wanted to be, reaching out to the son who lives beyond his memory.

And how can I reject something so beautiful, like this?

“Thank you, father, thank you so much…” Telemachus could only mutter. “It’s something I never thought I’d need…”

His father only replied with a gentle pat on his shoulder. It felt warm, like the heart of a hearth, where home lies.

So Telemachus took a deep breath, facing his father at last.

“But I just want to know…do you think I’m a failure, father?” he finally mustered the courage to ask.

Odysseus’s expression was almost unreadable in the darkness. But Telemachus could tell he was apparently surprised. “A failure? Who has been keeping your mom safe while I was making my way home? Who has been my aid when we slaughtered suitors? If anyone dares to call you that, Telemachus, I swear I’d—”

“Father? It’s me,” he cut in before Odysseus even finished that curse. “I call myself a failure, in my dreams.”

“Telemachus…”

“I know I might’ve proven my strength, my courage, when days ago we slaughtered those suitors. But I couldn’t help but think back to those times when I failed,” his voice was cracking a little when he answered. “And I know that all this happened because of me: it’s my fault that I failed to dissuade all those suitors to leave with my speech; it’s my fault that I couldn’t keep them from wasting our wealth, our livestock; it’s my fault that I didn’t take vengeance upon those suitors, something I could’ve planned out already…”

“You did what you had to do as a host,” Odysseus answered calmly. “You gave them Xenia like any noble man would do. It’s never your fault that they overstayed your welcome—you rewarded them with death, something they deserved from the start—you did well, Telemachus, son of mine.”

Telemachus blinked his eyes in surprise. But is it…true?

“Do you…really mean it?” Telemachus almost broke into tears. “But I failed to live up to your name—gods, I failed so miserably. I didn’t carry the crown young, something you have done so long ago. Do you content yourself with stories only? No, you’ve sought out adventures, winning so much glory…”

“Telemachus,” his father cut in, murmuring in a voice so weary. “You know I mean it with all my sincerity. You know I’m proud of you as who you are—not who you want to be. Have I ever spoken of the weight of the crown? It has deprived me of the joy of childhood—does that sound familiar to you? And have I ever told you how I left our homeland against my will, forced on a path to seek glory in war, to add weight to my name with all my sufferings? I do not ask for any of these—but they come to me. They always find me when I do not wish for their presence. They haunt me just as your nightmares. Do you think I can hide my tears behind a strong heart? No, I weep even more than you ever could. What you just saw that happened to me…it’s only an echo of what haunts me from within, of all the things I’ve seen and gone through—something I pray that should never happen to you.”

Telemachus listened quietly, his head dizzy. If only I knew��if only I knew all this so long ago.

“Father,” he replied softly, a moment later. “Father, I’m sorry…”

“Don’t be, son,” he felt the caress on his face, as his father reached out again, sharing the warmth of a weary palm. “Know that I’m right here with you—that would be enough.”

Telemachus smiled—just a little.

“But…there’s something else,” he could feel his heart aching as he said this. “This might sound ridiculous…but deep down I dwell on it, a lot. I know how everyone tells me how I resemble you in form—something I have no way of knowing…until now. But do I ever have your strength in me? They said that I have your eyes—but do yours blink with naïveté? They could hear you in my voice—but does it ever echo your authority? They saw your shadow in me—but isn’t that all there is? Just a shadow, living in the light of your glory…”

“And does that make you any less the son of mine?” his father responded gently. “You don’t have to be me—you don’t need to be like me to be known as a hero. A hero that you already are. Don’t you see? I don’t wish for you to lead a path like the one I treaded, with so much sorrow and pain. I don’t want you to end up like me, suffering too much for something so easily achieved for others. No, you deserve a life so much better than the one I left you with. And you know what, Telemachus? We’ll make it a reality—just you and I, your mother too—this is something only meant for you.”

This brought a gasp from Telemachus. How do I only get to feel the comfort of family so late in my life?

“I couldn’t take from you all the sorrows you’ve been through,” his father continued. “But I can make sure the same thing never happens to you, ever again. Know that I’ll find every opportunity to give you happiness—you deserve it, Telemachus, and now I finally have the chance to give it to you, after all the years of my absence from your life. On this I give you my promise—know that nothing will stop us. Know that all your waiting wasn’t fruitless, after all. And know that I’d trade the world, Telemachus, just for you.”

Telemachus finally gave in to his sobbing—was it joy? Was it sadness? Telemachus didn’t know, but it was the best feeling he could ever have asked for, really. It was the realization of the fact that his family was actually complete, at last. It was the hope that nothing grievous would’ve happened to them, ever again. It was the knowledge that he had found the reassurance from his father—the acceptance he most needed, coming from the sacker of cities, the great honor of Achaeans, the hero he most admired—his very own father.

And wouldn’t that be the best kind of relief, after all?

So he buried his face in his father’s embrace, putting his head against that sturdy chest, feeling the shelter of those gentle arms. Tears streamed down his cheek like plowing, laying down two trails of solace. In his laxness he noticed his father joining him too, as his own hair felt the tender touch of teardrops, drenched in happiness, at last.

And he was joyful, for it was no longer nothingness that answered him.

And he was grateful, for silence could no longer haunt him, in his dreams, in his reality.

And he immersed himself in that embrace, rejoicing in the very answer from his father, after all the years of questioning.

Maybe tonight was different, after all.

[tomorrowedblog]

Friday Releases for December 6

Friday is the busiest day of the week for new releases, so we've decided to collect them all in one place. Friday Releases for December 6 include The Order, The Return, Y2K, and more.

The Order

The Order, the new movie from Justin Kurzel, is out today.

Based on a true story, an alarming surge in violent bombings and bank robberies in the Pacific Northwest leads a weathered FBI agent into a deadly cat-and-mouse game with a charismatic domestic terrorist plotting to overthrow the US government.

The Return

The Return, the new movie from Uberto Pasolini, is out today.

After 20 years away, Odysseus (Fiennes) washes up on the shores of Ithaca, haggard and unrecognizable. The King has returned from the Trojan War, but much has changed in his kingdom. His beloved wife Penelope (Binoche) is a prisoner in her own home, hounded by suitors vying to be king. Their son Telemachus faces death at the hands of these suitors, who see him as merely an obstacle to their pursuit of the kingdom. Odysseus has also changed—scarred by his experience of the Trojan war, he is no longer the mighty warrior from years past— but he must rediscover his strength in order to win back all he has lost.

Y2K

Y2K, the new movie from Kyle Mooney, is out today.

On the last night of 1999, two high school juniors crash a New Years Eve party, only to find themselves fighting for their lives in this dial-up disaster comedy.

Devils Stay

Devils Stay, the new movie from Hyun Moon-Seop, is out today.

After the sudden tragic loss of his daughter following an exorcism, a renowned heart surgeon refuses to face the reality that his child has died, despite declarations from medical examiners and even the priest who performed the expulsion. But as the funeral rites begin, mourners start witnessing unnerving changes to the girl’s body, leaving the priest to wonder whether something much more sinister—an evil more ancient than Catholicism itself—may once again be looming over them all.

Get Away

Get Away, the new movie from Steffen Haars, is out today.

A family’s vacation to a remote getaway takes an unexpected turn when they discover the island they’re on is inhabited by a serial killer.

How To Kill Monsters

How To Kill Monsters, the new movie from Stewart Sparke, is out today.

The sole survivor of a blood-drenched massacre must team up with a rag-tag bunch of rookie cops and lawbreakers to fight off an invasion of monsters from another dimension.

Lake George

Lake George, the new movie from Jeffrey Reiner, is out today.

When ex-con Don (Shea Whigham), fresh out of prison, visits mobster Armen (Glenn Fleshler) to collect some money he’s owed, he’s instead assigned a final task: to take care of Phyllis (Carrie Coon). Don tries to carry out the job, but he finds he can’t pull the trigger. Instead, the pair of misfit oddballs set off on a road trip together, as their lives and standing with Armen become entangled. Phyllis soon reveals that she has designs of her own and proposes a little tag team action to Don: combine forces with the aim to steal money – a lot of money – from the people who want her dead. Don must decide whether his allegiance lies with Armen, or with the wily, charismatic woman he was supposed to kill.

Nightbitch

Nightbitch, the new movie from Marielle Heller, is out today.

A woman (Amy Adams) pauses her career to be a stay-at-home mom, but soon her new domesticity takes a surreal turn.

Oh, Canada

Oh, Canada, the new movie from Paul Schrader, is out today.

Aging filmmaker Leonard Fife (Richard Gere), still fiery despite his battle with illness, wants to tell his life story, unfiltered, before it’s too late. As the director of acclaimed documentary exposés, he has much to be proud of, but his Vietnam War draft-dodging and his past relationships harbor thorny truths. Leonard sits for an extended interview with his former student Malcolm (Michael Imperioli), relating candid stories about his younger self (Jacob Elordi) in the tumultuous 1960s and beyond. At Leonard’s insistence, his wife and indispensable artistic partner, Emma (Uma Thurman), bears witness to it all. His successes are held up against his failings and, as the man is cleansed of the myth, Leonard must confront what is left.

Striking Rescue

Striking Rescue, the new movie from Siyu Cheng, is out today.

After his wife and daughter are killed by assassins affiliated with a brutal organized crime syndicate, a Muay Thai fighter (Tony Jaa) goes on a furious rampage through the city on his quest to hunt down the killers—and make them pay.

Sujo

Sujo, the new movie from Astrid Rondero and Fernanda Valadez, is out today.

When a sicario is murdered, four-year-old Sujo is left orphaned and at risk. Surrounded by violence, the boy grapples with his fate as he grows into manhood, realizing that fulfilling his father’s legacy may be inescapable.

The End

The End, the new movie from Joshua Oppenheimer, is out today.

From Academy Award-nominated director Joshua Oppenheimer comes a poignant and deeply human musical about a family that survived the end of the world.

The Girl With The Needle

The Girl With The Needle, the new movie from Magnus von Horn, is out today.

Struggling to survive in post-WWI Copenhagen, a pregnant young factory worker is taken in by a charismatic woman to help run an underground adoption agency. A deep connection forms between them, until a unthinkable discovery changes everything.

The Invisible Raptor

The Invisible Raptor, the new movie from Mike Hermosa, is out today.

After a top-secret experiment goes wrong, a hyper-intelligent invisible raptor escapes the lab and begins wreaking havoc in the surrounding neighborhood. When the creature’s identity is uncovered, it soon becomes clear that a disgraced paleontologist—alongside his ex-girlfriend, an unhinged amusement park security guard, and a local celebrity chicken farmer—is the town’s only hope for surviving the raptor’s ravenous rampage.

Werewolves

Werewolves, the new movie from Steven C. Miller, is out today.

In WEREWOLVES, a supermoon event has triggered a latent gene in every human on the planet, turning anyone who entered the moonlight into a werewolf for that one night. Chaos ensued and close to a billion people died. Now, a year later, the Supermoon is back…

Paris Has Fallen

Paris Has Fallen, the new TV series from Howard Overman, Oded Ruskin, and Hans Herbots, is out today.

When a terrorist group attacks a high-profile event with the French Minister of Defense as their target, protection officer Vincent Taleb (Tewfik Jallab) finds himself working with street-smart MI6 operative Zara Taylor (Ritu Arya) to save the day. But when events take a dark turn, Vincent and Zara realize that the plan extends beyond just one politician. Can this unlikely pair stop Paris from falling to a man determined on vengeance?

The Sticky

The Sticky, the new TV series from Brian Donovan and Ed Herro, is out today.

The Sticky is a comedy-drama series about Ruth Landry, a maple syrup farmer who, in defiance of a heartless system, assembles a team to undertake the Canadian heist of the century. The target: the country’s multi-million dollar maple syrup surplus.

Maybe In Nirvana

Maybe In Nirvana, the new album from Smino, is out today.

[soarinsugar-homerblog]

I don’t know if this is what you meant but I interpreted this as when Odysseus returns, he’s physically alive but psychologically and metaphorically dead, due to the trauma he suffered. Like he’ll never be the same person again as he was before he left.

And now I have this image in my head of Odysseus watching everyone in Ithaca go about their daily lives, all unbothered by terrible memories of war and monsters, of the metallic odor of fresh blood and the fear that always stays with him, even when he knows he’s safe.

He nearly trips as a young boy runs out in front of him and up to his father, and Odysseus feels a longing in his heart, wishing that it could have been him, playing with his son and raising him to be a man. Of hearing him say his first word, of seeing him take his first steps, of the joy that comes with taking him on his first hunt and the fatherly pride of watching him make his first kill. And all Odysseus can do is wish for something that never happened, thinking of every milestone he missed.

He glances over at a husband and wife sharing a kiss, and regrets all the years he and Penelope missed out on, of how now, when she so much as touches him, he freezes. She remarked once that he acts as if he’s never been touched with a loving hand, and he hates that she isn’t exactly wrong. It’s been so long since someone has touched him so gently with no intent to harm him, so used to being grabbed or hurt. So used to the seven years he spent being firmly pulled to a strange bed where unspeakable acts were done to him. He’s starved for affection, and yet he flinches at his own wife’s touch.

He spends his days attending to his duties with no excitement or enthusiasm, his voice either grumpy or monotone. Some Ithacans avoid him when possible; they know he’s short-tempered and his behavior unpredictable; everyone is well aware he is prone to violence. The bodies of the slain suitors are testament to that. It doesn’t matter if the weather’s sunny and warm, the world around him feels dull and cold. He’s been angry and frustrated and exhausted and sad and terrified for so long, and yet he feels so numb to it all.

It feels as if the world is just a dream, like he floats just outside of his body, like nothing is truly real.

Some days he can’t even get out of bed, too overtaken by depression and exhaustion to move. Those days are the worst, for there is no distraction from the pain that has long infested his mind. His brain, the one thing he has relied on to survive, the source of his cunning and intelligence, seems to have turned against him. The thing that helped him survive his torment is now tormenting him, and he is powerless to stop it. He wastes the hours crying silently, his mind racing with thoughts as he tries to process it all. By the time the sun sets, his pillow is stained with his tears.

He hardly eats anything, skipping meals and ignoring the hunger pangs in his stomach. He has little appetite, and his body has long since adapted to surviving off what little he could find. He feels like a little boy again as his father encourages him to eat more, Laertes resting his wrinkled hand on his son’s back, concerned that he can feel Odysseus’ vertebrae through his flesh.

He’s always vigilant, keeping a hand near the grip of his sword at all times, ready to draw it at any moment. He jumps if approached from behind, shoves those who touch him without warning or permission. It seems any small action can trigger a flashback, and the humiliation and stares of confusion are more than enough for Odysseus to stay out of the public eye. He hears the clanging of metal as a serving boy drops a pitcher, and suddenly he’s standing on the battlefield again, the shrieks and dins a cacophony in his ears as he struggles to breathe. Is that the sound of children screaming as they play a game, or the sound of Trojan children crying as they stare upon the bodies of their slain parents? Is that the sound of a victorious cry when a man bests another in a friendly competition, or is that the death throe of his crew member as one of Scylla’s mouths close on him and whisks him away to his doom?

He is a paranoid man, trust issues as deeply rooted within his psyche as the olive tree that makes up his bed frame. His trust must be earned, and it is broken as easily as breaking a twig. He is suspicious of everyone who has not earned back his trust, and any bit of disobedience or disrespect toward him, real or perceived, is reason enough for him to believe they wish to assassinate him.

At night, while everyone else is asleep, Odysseus lies awake, terrified by the nightmares that haunt him nearly every time he succumbs to sleep’s sweet embrace. He gets four hours of sleep on a good night, his average being closer to an hour or two, if he even sleeps at all. His nightmares are vivid, not always having to do with his trauma. Some do, some are amalgamations of whatever his mind can put together, some are combinations of both, but they are consistent in that they cause him to shoot upright in bed, soaked in sweat, biting his tongue to stop himself from screaming. Penelope does her best to soothe him, to slow his heart rate, to get him to breathe before he attempts to sleep, but she has her own trauma, and each night is a gamble to see who wakes up who with their nightmare. Most nights they lie curled up together, praying that their mental scars leave them alone for at least one night. The fatigue wears on Odysseus’ health, and he finds himself ill often, leaving him sick in bed, alone with his thoughts, and there is nothing and no one else he would rather not be left alone with.

And everywhere around him there’s happiness, the couple announcing they’re expecting a child, the group of men cheering over a good hunt, of children chasing each other through town, of friends chatting and laughing together, and Odysseus stands away from them, their king now almost an outcast in his own homeland. His entire crew is dead. No one on this island has gone through what he has. No one could ever understand what happened to him, and that leaves him isolated and alone.

Of course, there are families mourning too, those that lost a father or brother or nephew or son, one who sailed with Odysseus or was murdered upon his return. The latter glare at him coldly, but are smart enough to not stir up trouble, the former split with those who blame their king and those who curse the Fates. Odysseus wishes he could grieve alongside them, but he has spent too long with a tight leash around his own mourning, always with a need to stay strong for his men, to assure that they kept their confidence in him, yet it came at the cost of hiding his own pain.

He isn’t sure he knows how to grieve.

His friends from the olden days try to cheer him up, his family tries to offer him support, but there’s so much he has lost within those twenty years that he will never get back. There is an empty pit inside of him, as if someone reached into the very depths of his being and tore out a piece of him, or perhaps a creature bit him and sucked out everything that made him who he was. In any case, there’s something he lost a long, long time ago that he will never recover, and perhaps accepting that is traumatic within itself.

Odysseus kneels over a pond to look at his reflection, and he can hardly recognize the graying hair, the battle-scarred skin, the hollowed, dark-circled and red-tinted eyes as his own. If it were not for the knowledge that it would be impossible for it not to be him, he would think it a stranger.

He remembers when he was disguised as a beggar, testing those around him, how many of them spoke of his kindness and gentle take on leadership. How he ruled like a father, even before he was actually one. How many would speak of him like that now? How could anyone look at the bodies of his own people he’d slain, see the blood on his hands, and trust his leadership?

Perhaps he never should have returned. Perhaps they would all be better off without him here.

In the twenty years he spent away, Odysseus had longed to see even the smoke rising from his homeland again. Ithaca had represented an end to his suffering, the place he could finally find relief. The place where he could be happy again. He had never suspected that, even now, he would be so haunted by his past. Perhaps he should have considered that, he is a man used to suffering after all, but that had been a source of hope for him, something that he lacked so deeply. Now that last hope had been dashed.

He sees a girl gifting her mother a hand-picked bouquet of flowers, and thinks back to when he saw his own mother in the Underworld. He misses her, and the grief still stings, but something else stands out to him in that moment. All the ghosts he saw seemed so miserable, each giving the story of their own sorrows. The afterlife they had, so devoid of comfort, had been one of the few reasons that held off his suicidal ideation. Now it seemed there was no difference between life and death in that aspect. He was alive, and yet he was still so miserable, stuck in a deep depression that seemed impossible to escape from.

His life had been saved, but he was still dead.

His physical being was alive, his heart still beat, he still drew breath, but his spirit was dead, crushed beneath the weight of twenty long years of trauma.

What difference did it make then, if his body had been saved, if everything that made him who he was gone? What did it matter, if he was not the same man that left two decades ago?

The thoughts haunt him day and night, as he eyes his sword pressed against his hip. It would be easy, just one slash across his throat and it would be over, but something keeps him from acting on those thoughts. What that something is, he cannot be sure.

What living man thinks of ending his own life? What living man who clawed tooth and nail to return back to his homeland wonders if he should have returned?

How is he truly alive if he feels dead?

Perhaps, in a way, he did die after all.

Odysseus traveled in the Underworld; Living among the Dead

He returned to his homeland; Dead among the Living

[crispys-corner]

Odysseus is the BEST Greek Mythological character because his entire story is like “I just wanna see my wife again please gods let me see my wife and son” for ten fucking years after already being away for ten years at war. Like Odysseus and Penelope truly love each other and it’s rare to find a marriage in Greek Mythology that is as stable and loving as theirs. And yes I say that even with Odysseus’ trip to Calypso’s island and the fact that he immediately murders 108 men when he gets home, but they had it coming.

But let’s talk about their bed. Let’s talk about Odysseus and Penelope’s bed. When Odysseus finally gets home he disguises himself as a beggar(after meeting his son for like the first time) to spy on the court and Penelope. When he is assured that his wife has stayed faithful and isn’t in danger, he reveals himself to her. Penelope wants to make sure it’s Odysseus and not another suitor trying to trick her, so she’s all “oh my husband so happy to see you but before we get to making sweet homecoming love can you move our bed? I want it to be against the opposite wall.” Someone not Odysseus, who was not aware of their bed, would have been like “yeah whatever” but Odysseus is like “you know that’s impossible, our bed is a tree.” And it is. Where their bedroom is there was an olive tree growing, and they built around it, and carved out their bed from its boughs. The tree is still planted, still alive, and immovable. The bed is representative of their marriage: sturdy, stable, alive, unmoving, and a gift from the heavens(olive trees had special significance). In the very same scene after Penelope confirms it’s Odysseus he tells her that he and Telemachus(their son) need to kill the suitors that have been making a mess of the place, so he tells Penelope to get all of her servant girls and bring them into their bedroom and hide there, because no one would dare enter the bedroom of a noble lady. Thus the bedroom takes on more significance, as a place of security and safety. A place where no blood shall ever be spilled.

This SHOULD be the marriage that gets woobified, not Hades and Persephone. I know everyone loves that kind of dynamic but Persephone WAS NOT A WILLING PART OF THE MARRIAGE. Penelope stayed faithful to Odysseus for 20 YEARS because she never doubted that the love of her life was out there somewhere doing the same. Like I’m not trying to be trad or whatever the fuck, I’m just reading the Odyssey and getting emotional. Whoever made that post that was like “the best straight man characters are the ones that are just like ‘I really fucking love my wife’” hit it right on the nose, man. The Odyssey is a breath of fresh air after like, all the other myths.

[a-reading-journal]

I have always wanted to read the Odyssey but after doing research between all the available translations at the time I could never make my mind on which to pick, because none of them seemed appealing. Then a few years ago I read an article on the Guardian about this translation by Emily Wilson when it came out and thought that this would be the version for me.

The translation notes that make up the first hundred pages alone are worth the purchase of the book, in addition to the chapter summaries, pronunciation guide, and character/location glossary at the back.

The text is so contemporary, accessible, and very readable. The action scenes move by quite quickly, and a lot of the domestic scenes really give you a sense of what life was like for some of the population at the time.

I suspect that it’s partly due to Wilson’s incredible translation, but the story is not just revolving around Odysseus here. A lot of the slaves and women are given their fair due, as well as a handful of elderly characters, and Odysseus’ son. An example from Book 5 has us empathizing with Calypso and other women, even while Odysseus speaks of her negatively later on to his wife - probably to shift the blame away from his own adulterous actions, 

Calypso shuddered and let fly at him. ‘You cruel, jealous gods! You bear a grudge whenever any goddess takes a man to sleep with as a lover in her bed. Just so the gods who live at ease were angry when rosy-fingered Dawn took up Orion, and from her golden throne, chaste Artemis attacked and killed him with her gentle arrows. Demeter with the cornrows in her hair indulged her own desire, and she made love with Iasion in triple-furrowed fields - till Zeus found out, hurled flashing flame and killed him. So now, you male gods are upset with me for living with a man. A man I saved! Zeus pinned his ship and with his flash of lightning smashed it to pieces. All his friends were killed out on the wine-dark sea. This man alone, clutching the keel, was swept by wind and wave, and came here, to my home. I cared for him and loved him, and I vowed to set him free from time and death forever. Still, I know no other god can change the will of Zeus. So let him go, if that is Zeus’ order, across the barren sea. I will not give an escort for this trip across the water; I have no ships or rowers. But I will share what I know with him, and gladly give useful advice so he can safely reach his home.’ 184.

What surprised me was how sexy and violent everything was. Odysseus and his men are all described as handsome, tall, and with gleaming, oiled muscles. The murder of the Cyclops, and the suitors at the end, are full of blood and pierced bodies. Gleaming weapons are lovingly stored and brandished about.

Highly recommend this to anyone who has been Odyssey-curious, or even someone who has already the story and is looking for a fresh take. The translation choices are incredibly well-researched and backed up.

[odysseuscomplex-blog]

It gets better.

Good.

So what about now? What about the rampaging relentless *now*? Sure, you can perhaps see a future, but that future is comprised of a series of menacing outlines, jagged.

They say to “forgive yourself for the years that depression took from you”. The thing is - I’m not sure it was years, consecutively. I was always a “high-functioning” depressive. A mess of cognitive distortions and melancholy, but “high-functioning” nonetheless. More “dysthymic” than aught else, probably, although I’m told dysthymia is now called “persistent depressive disorder”. But I like “dysthymia”. 

Your θυμός (pronounced something like “thyou-moss”, probably, depending on what you wanna do with your upsilon) is the seat of your most intense emotions. The thymos is what rages, what grieves, what yearns. Achilles, for all his grief, is the anti-melancholic, because he is a hero who is all thymos. The prefix dus indicates trouble. “Dusparis”: ill-omened Paris, the man who caused untold suffering. Dysthymia, trouble in the thymos. Something awry in the part of you that distinguishes you from an automaton. Something awry in the part of you that’s grasping at life.

Depression didn’t take years, but it took holes out of years, honeycomb-like, the way that certain diseases eat away at bodily tissue. So I look back at the past decade (or more - hell, let’s say the past 15 years), hold up each of those years, and feel them crumble between my fingers. Depression didn’t take them, but it interspersed periods of flatlining.

There are times when it does feel like being sad. But as we all know, a lot of the time it’s more nothing than sad. It’s life still, but life tastes like that piece of chewing gum you’ve had in your mouth too long more out of habit than enjoyment. You do the shit you’ve gotta do, but you don’t understand why you’re doing it, because those menacing outlines that comprise the only future you can imagine don’t offer a terribly appealing end-post to race towards.

Thousands of sighs of frustration and resignation. I remember standing in my kitchen, resting my forehead against the cabinet, because chopping up veggies seemed like an utterly insurmountable task. A red pepper had defeated me.

Maybe the defeat by an innocuous cultivar seems more characteristic of the entire experience than more dramatic moments. I’ve been in a cop car. I’ve been in an ambulance. In the cop car there was tears. In the ambulance there was screams. That’s possibly the closest I ever got to any kind of breakdown. But those moments were all thymos, and my loss to that goddamn pepper was indicative of all the holes eaten in my thymos, my capacity to do even the simplest tasks with the slightest of zest.

Depression and anxiety don’t always look like a person curled up in bed for weeks at a time, barely eating or showering, or panic attacks in the middle of a crowded street. Sometimes, they’re just.... living life at 30% capacity for years and years at a time. Sometimes they’re just feeling so overpowered by your brain’s capacity to hurt you that all you can do is *function*, as though there were no thymos in you at all, rather than a wrecked honeycombed one. 

--

The best way I can conceptualize it, if I think about it enough, the metaphor that pleases me the most, the structure/narrative that makes the most sense to a brain that’s been trained in literary analysis and narrativizing and seeing patterns: 

It’s my death drive. My death drive pulls me towards inertia, towards stillness, and the vivid kineticism of technicolour life drags me in the other direction. Brutally mechanical, the death drive tries to force me still. It tries to hold me back - not hold me down, because there would be too much *active* struggle in that. It’s just got a hand on my shoulder. One hand, with the kind of gentleness that’s undergirded by menace, by the unassailable confidence of superior strength, and it just whispers, No. No. You don’t get to feel. You don’t get to live. You can exist, you can stick around on this godforsaken lump of rock in the midst of an indifferent cosmos, but damned if you get to live.

But I’m a stubborn little shit with an Odysseus complex.

Finally back in Ithaca, in disguise as a beggar, berated by his wife’s suitors, having been assailed by ten years of war and ten more of wandering, he beats his chest, and he addresses his thymos, the seat of everything that makes him human. And he says, Be strong, thymos, you have endured far worse than this.

He doesn’t tell his thymos that things will get better. He doesn’t remind his thymos that it’s always darkest before the dawn. He just says: we’ve done some shit, you and I, but we’re still here, and I’ll be sweet motherfuckin’ goddamned if I let some shitty little fuckbois ruin all of it. It’s more grit than it is optimism. Fuck the promise of happiness in all its evanescent fuckery. Long live grit. Homeric heroes do not do platitudes.

So I fight that death drive. Again, it’s not struggling out from under it, it’s pressing myself back against that one hand on my shoulder. Not sure if I’m strong enough to push it away, not sure if I ever will be, but tensing my delts, looking that fucker dead in the eye. There’s no drama of a fight once fought and won. It’s a continual resistance. That’s the thing. It never goes away. Maybe it never will.

But this is it. This is all you’ve got.

Maybe your thymos is like your liver, and you can fill those holes back in. I’m not sure. I’ve tried to destroy myself plenty of ways. Never in the really overt skin-slicing ways. I pickled my liver instead, because I simply could not think what else to do. It was all I had the ability to do. The closest route to oblivion was to slowly poison my brain, I suppose. You mightn’t feel *good* on a bathroom floor, your head in the toilet, getting flecks of puke in improbable places, perhaps pissing yourself. But at least you’d feel *something*. You’d feel something other than fucking beige.

--

The best way to push back against that hand on my shoulder was to give myself over to my body in the basest ways. Some of those ways are bad. I might have killed myself with the drinking in several different ways. It took me enough years for that to sink in, but I’m more or less on top of it now.

But some of those ways are good, or at least intense, or at least a piquant sweetbitter muddle. I exercise, I fuck, I smoke weed. I exercise because it allows me to give myself over to the play of muscles and tendons and the lump of fleshy meat I’m in, the corporeality of that fleshy bit of meat, its limitations, its capacities, the way it flexes and stretches and exerts. You mightn’t feel *good* on that last rep, gripping the bar like it’s life, holding yourself as tight as you’ll go. But, again, at least you’d feel *something*. The nagging omnipresence of the fleshly meat-lump takes over everything, and that’s a fuck-ton better than *nothing*, that’s a fuck-ton better than defeat at the hands of a vegetable.

I smoke weed and there’s a pleasing haziness quite unlike drunkenness. I’m fortunate to metabolize it well; I’m fortunate that it does good things to me. It makes me conscious of the flow of blood through the meat-lump. It makes all the blood flow to my clit. It makes the oppressive hand-on-shoulder immediacy fade away. 

And I fuck.

Oh lordy. I fuck.

I fuck like the world is ending. I fuck like the last hope is in her cunt. I defy the hand on my shoulder, when I’m deep inside someone and they’re clenching tight around me, when they’re scratching me so hard it breaks the skin, when their teeth scrape over me, when I’m taking it hard, when I’m clawing at someone as though clinging to life -- I defy the hand on my shoulder to keep its hold on me. I look that death drive in the eye, and I say: Not today, motherfucker. Not today.

--

It’s an aggregate of things that I live for.

The purr of my cat as I run my hand through her thick fur. The kneading claws of my son. Cat paws, cat noses, rough cat tongues, cat claws, a cat running towards you, tail in the air. The smell of freshly-ground coffee; the first sip of a fresh pot. The first patio day of the summer. The scrape of a barbell against my shins. A woman’s soft lips on mine; all over my body. Someone’s body heat warming me from the inside out. The cheesiest vocal trance in the world pounding in my ears as I plod around a track. Fucking until you think you’re gonna pass out. The feel of a fresh buzz-cut. The signs of life in my body: hair grows, chest rises and falls. The sound of someone else’s heartbeat as they’re close to me. The buds of May. Bird song. A friend who understands you so well you don’t even need to talk. Words. Strained metaphors. Echoes of the ancient past. Bustling city streets. Racing pulse. Anger, lust, love, joy, frenzied energy, bacchanals. The muffled crunch of snow when it’s still fresh. Hot showers. Laughter that comes from the gut.

Life. I strain for life. I *fight* for life. A depressive’s survival mode has forced me to cling onto tiny shards of the shadow of what might be joy, to grasp at every kind of sensuality, to fight the cerebral with the sensual, to fight for the right to live in a fleshly body.

And I’m a determined fucker.

--

My brain is a mess. Its neurotransmitters are chemically altered. It’s fervid. It’s relentless. But it’s all I’ve got.