#God-begot

[x-heesy]

Religious fanaticism is the most dangerous form of insanity. -Robert Graves

𝗠𝝝𝝝𝗗 𝗕𝝝𝝠𝗥𝗗 / 𝗦𝗘𝗫𝗗𝗥𝗨𝗚𝗦𝝠𝗡𝗗𝗦𝝝𝗖𝗞𝗦𝗪𝗜𝗧𝗛𝗛𝝝𝗟𝗘𝗦 / 𝗣𝗨𝗡𝗞𝗦𝝠𝗥𝗘𝗡𝗧𝗗𝗘𝝠𝗗 / 𝗟𝝝𝗩𝗘 & 𝗟𝗘𝗧 𝗟𝝝𝗩𝗘 / 𝗟𝗜𝗩𝗘 & 𝗟𝗘𝗧 𝗟𝗜𝗩𝗘 / 𝗞𝗘𝗘𝗣 𝗜𝗧 𝗦𝗜𝗠𝗣𝗟𝗘 / 𝗞𝗘𝗘𝗣 𝗜𝗧 𝗥𝗘𝝠𝗟 / ​𝗡𝝝 𝗚𝝝𝗗𝗦 𝗡𝝝 𝗠𝝠𝗦𝗧𝗘𝗥𝗦 / 𝗣𝗥𝝝 𝗟𝗜𝗙𝗘 𝗠𝗙𝗭 / 𝗣𝗛𝗨𝗖𝗞 𝗧𝗛𝝠 𝗦𝗬𝗦𝗧𝗘𝗠 / 𝗙𝗟𝗨𝗙𝗙 𝗬𝝝𝗨, 𝗬𝝝𝗨 𝗙𝗟𝗨𝗙𝗙𝗜𝗡 𝗙𝗟𝗨𝗙𝗙 / 𝗜 𝗗𝝝𝗡’𝗧 𝗚𝗜𝗩𝗘 𝝠 𝗣𝗛𝗨𝗖𝗞 / 𝗣𝗛𝗨𝗖𝗞𝗜𝗧𝟰𝗣𝗛𝗨𝗡 / 𝗧𝗥𝝠𝗦𝗛𝗠𝗘 / 𝗧𝗥𝝠𝗦𝗛𝗖𝝝𝗥𝗘 / 𝗘𝗘𝗞 𝗣𝗘𝝝𝗣𝗟𝗘 / 𝗚𝗟𝗜𝗧𝗖𝗛 𝝝𝗥 𝗗𝗜𝗘 / 𝗚𝗟𝗜𝗧𝗖𝗛 & 𝗖𝗥𝗬 / 𝗚𝗟𝗜𝗧𝗖𝗛 𝗠𝗬 𝗟𝗜𝗙𝗘 / 𝗘𝗡𝗘𝗥𝗚𝗬𝗦𝗨𝗖𝗞𝗘𝗥𝗭 𝗡𝝝𝗧 𝗪𝗘𝗟(𝗟) 𝗖𝗨𝗠

#xheesy #glitchmylife #glitchmafia #artsyfartsy #artfuckery #expressyouself #iphoneart #popart #appforthat #punksarentdead #newcontemporary #worldoffmusicon #trallala #Digitaloriginal #photoart #jesuslovesyou ? #religionisamentalillness #questioneverything #smashpatriarchy #thinkitsnotillegalyet #yet #cheesuschrist #horrorandsockswithholes #dailyblasphemy #satire #dirtyhumor #phunnyasphuck #fuckit4fun #idgaf

Soundtrack: #nowyougotsomethingtodiefor ʙʏ Lᴀᴍʙ ᴏғ Gᴏᴅ 🤘🏾

#thankslordfordeathmetal

[talonabraxas]

HYMN TO THE GODDESS SEKHMET-BASTET from the Temple of the Hathor at Dendera. (cfr. Dendera III 184-185)

Sekhmet-Bastet, She Who has Power over the host of beings, Sekhmet the Daughter of the Great God Ra, the Brilliant One, the Powerful One, the Fierce One, the Shining One, the Appeased Lady of Offerings, the Lady of Transformations on the forehead of Ra Who begot Her, the Only Uraeus of many faces Who overthrows or Who gives Life to him who is under Her dominion, Her Divine Emissaries act in accordance with what She says

This is a time for reflection and contemplation of Sekhmet, the fierce Fire Goddess; with prayers that the benevolent face of Bastet will come forth and protect those in need.

“Bastet” by Emile Corsi, 1877

Rock crystal statuette of the goddess Bastet in her form of sacred cat

[dovetheater]

Dionysus 🐆

"Come, blessed Dionysos, various-named, bull-faced, begot from thunder, Bakkhos (Bacchus) famed. Bassaros God, of universal might, whom swords and blood and sacred rage delight: in heaven rejoicing, mad, loud-sounding God, furious inspirer, bearer of the rod: by Gods revered, who dwellest with humankind, propitious come, with much rejoicing mind."

[my-name-is-apollo]

Dark-haired Apollo

I know everyone likes blonde Apollo, and for good reasons! A lot of poets seemed to have been fond of imagining him with long, beautiful golden hair. But dark-haired Apollo, though quite rare in the poems, also exists and I honestly like that too.

• From the Erythrean paean to Asclepius (which then continues into a paean to king Seleucus):

"Over the libations, sing of Seleucus, son of dark-haired Apollo, whom the god of the golden lyre himself begot..." – (Trans. P.A.LeVen)

> κυανοπλοκάμου (kyanoplokámou) - dark-haired is used to describe Apollo's hair here.

• From Limenius' paean to Apollo (also known as the second Delphic hymn):

"But you, O god who owns the oracular tripod, come to this ridge of Parnassus where the gods tread, and where divine possession is welcomed. Weave a crown of bay about your wine-dark hair, and drawing with your hand . . . you encountered the monstrous child of Gaia . . ." (Trans. J.G.Landels)

>It was a bit difficult for me to figure what word is used here for his hair because the original Greek text is fragmented and I'm not knowledgeable about the language - I rely on the online translations - so a disclaimer. But from what I've put together, the word used to describe the color of the hair is οἰνῶ̣πα (oinõpa) which translates to "dark", "ruddy complexioned". Also, the same hymn calls Apollo "golden-haired" in the beginning lol.

In Deipnosophists by Athenaeus, a comment is made on the poets' imagination of Apollo's hair vs the painters' preference:

"And you do not either like the poet who spoke of the golden-haired Apollo; for if a painter were to represent the hair of the god as actually golden, and not black, the picture would be all the worse." – (Trans. Charles Burton Gulick)

> according to this, the painters liked to represent Apollo with black (μελαίνας) hair. Or rather that making his golden will make the painting look worse.

And if the Roman paintings and mosaics are any proof, these painters did actually seem to prefer representing Apollo with dark hair.

So yeah, while in the myths he's often called golden-haired, dark-haired Apollo is a more common sight in the paintings.

[daenystheedreamer]

aelyx son of jon meets a traveler while drunk of his ass at the inn at the crossroads

hale and well met, friend! ay, ay, this seat be waiting for a sitter. you of this locale or a wearied traveler? a traveler! what luck you have to find yourself beside me, for i am one who peddles truth. truth? why, it is everything the king hides and nothing the maesters speak! come, did you see that mighty dragon flying over us? yes! mighty she be, or so say our overlords... you see the flame yes? but what of the smoke! smoke and looking-glasses, but the smoke is the truth! even the maesters can't hide how dragons be of neither male nor female disposition. they say she-dragon but we know better! the smoke you know, it makes one cough. here then it goes through the lungs! and now our children be neither male nor female. you ever wonder why that tyroshi style hath become so rife? naught a dark nor fair hair to be seen! greens and blues and purples you know, and mine own daughter! she suffers greatly from the Awokedness of the dragon menace... she comes to me she says "Lord Father... Hark, gaze upon mine tresses!" and to what do i gaze upon? the raven hair of my beloved daughter, begot from my beloved lady wife? nay! a head not of black but of blue! and she says to me "Lord Father, I beseech you no longer call me Jeyne, for I find it dreadful common and not fitting of my disposition, but instead may I be known as Stocking" such madness! targaryen madness, you know. and speaking of the lady wife i know she's bedding the lord and i tell her Whore! Wicked Whore! and she tells me "I long for no lord neither my lord husband nor the lord of this land, I simply beg my leave of you!" and such is why you see me humbled before god here. she doesn't like my businesses you know, for i carpent for a living but what with all the dragonfire no one wants wooden houses so i've tried my hand at the apothecary. gaze upon my powders. pure bone you know, and none of it dragon for i know you know the bone of dragon doth turn a man into a pillow-biter. super male vitality, i name it, better than - where go you. i was just about to tell you truths of the Frogs of the neck.. oh those dastardly frogs... those dragonlords plot to poison the waters with terrible poitions, those that turn one Dragongender...

[thepastisalreadywritten]

Rassam Cylinder, a ten-sided clay cylinder that was created in c. 643 BC, during the reign of King Ashurbanipal (c. 685 BC - 631 BC) who ruled the Neo-Assyrian Empire from 669 - 631 BC.

It was discovered in the ancient Assyrian city of Nineveh, near Mosul, present-day Iraq, by Hormuzd Rassam (3 October 1826 - 16 September 1910) in 1854.

In over 1,300 lines of cuneiform text, the cylinder records nine military campaigns of Ashurbanipal, including his wars with Egypt, Elam and his brother, Shamash-shum-ukin.

It also records his accession to the throne and his restoration of the Palace of Sennacherib.

The cylinder is the most complete chronicle on the life of Ashurbanipal.

There are some extracts from the cylinder below:

"I am Ashurbanipal, offspring of Ashur and Bêlit, the oldest prince of the royal harem, whose name Ashur and Sin, the lord of the tiara, have named for the kingship from earliest (lit., distant) days, whom they formed in his mother's womb, for the rulership of Assyria; whom Shamash, Adad and Ishtar, by their unalterable (lit., established) decree, have ordered to exercise sovereignty.

Esarhaddon, king of Assyria, the father who begot me, respected the word of Ashur and Bêlit-ilê (the Lady of the Gods), his tutelary (divinities), when they gave the command that I should exercise sovereignty.

In the month of Airu, in the month of Ea, the lord of mankind, the twelfth day, an auspicious day, the feast day of Gula, at the sublime command which Ashur, Bêlit, Sin, Shamash, Adad, Bêl, Nabû, Ishtar of Nineveh, Queen of Kidmuri, Ishtar of Arbela, Urta, Nergal, Nusku, uttered, he gathered together the people of Assyria, great and small, from the upper to (lit., and) lower sea.

That they would accept (lit., guard) my crown princeship, and later my kingship, he made them take an oath by the great gods, and so he strengthened the bonds (between them and me)....

By the order of the great gods, whose names I called upon, extolling their glory, who commanded that I should exercise sovereignty, assigned me the task of adorning their sanctuaries, assailed my opponents on my behalf, slew my enemies, the valiant hero, beloved of Ashur and Ishtar, scion of royalty, am I.

Egyptian Campaign:

"In my first campaign I marched against Magan, Meluhha, Taharqa, king of Egypt and Ethiopia, whom Esarhaddon, king of Assyria, the father who begot me, had defeated, and whose land he brought under his sway.

This same Taharqa forgot the might of Ashur, Ishtar and the other great gods, my lords, and put his trust upon his own power.

He turned against the kings and regents whom my own father had appointed in Egypt.

He entered and took residence in Memphis, the city which my own father had conquered and incorporated into Assyrian territory.

A swift courier came to Nineveh and reported to me.

At these deeds, my heart became enraged, my soul cried out. I raised my hands in prayer to Ashur and the Assyrian Ishtar.

I mustered my mighty forces, which Ashur and Ishtar had placed into my hands. Against Egypt and Ethiopia, I directed the march."

Rassam Cylinder records the reign of Ashurbanipal until c. 645 BC.

The latter years of his reign are poorly recorded, probably due to the fact that the Neo-Assyrian Empire was plagued with troubles.

One of Ashurbanipal's last known inscription reads:

"I cannot do away with the strife in my country and the dissensions in my family; disturbing scandals oppress me always.

Illness of mind and flesh bow me down; with cries of woe I bring my days to an end.

On the day of the city god, the day of the festival, I am wretched; death is seizing hold upon me, and bears me down..."

Rassam Cylinder is currently on display in the British Museum.

A truly remarkable, yet biased, insight into the reign of Ashurbanipal and the world in which he lived.

📷: © Anthony Huan

[dionysusmybeloved]

ORPHIC HYMN

TO LORD DIONYSUS

Come, blessed Dionysos!

various-named, bull-faced

begot from thunder, Bakkhos famed.

Bassaros God, of universal might,

whom swords and blood and sacred rage delight:

in heaven rejoicing, mad, loud-sounding God,

furious inspirer, bearer of the rod:

by Gods revered, who dwellest with humankind,

propitious come, with much rejoicing mind.

[apenitentialprayer]

detail of The Coronation of the Virgin with the Holy Trinity, circa 1400

Hail, full of grace, the Lord is with thee. Not only is there with thee God the Son, whom thou dost clothe with thy flesh, but also God the Holy Spirit, of whom thou dost conceive, and God the Father, who begot Him who is to be thy Son. The Father is with thee who makes His Son to be thine; the Son is with thee who institutes with thee a wondrous Sacrament, and yet preserves the seal of thy virginity. The Holy Spirit is with thee, and with the Father and the Son He sanctifies thy pure womb. The Lord, therefore, is with thee. Blessed art thou among women.

Saint Bernard of Clairvaux (Missus Est, Sermon 3)

[etirabys]

It's very sweet about CS Lewis to idiotproof Paradise Lost against atheists. He didn't have to do that. He was a Christian writer in a Christian society and I assume he could have gotten away with just talking to other Christians about it and ignoring annoying people who wrongly read subversion into Milton. Instead he gives us a Christianity 101 chapter in A Preface to Paradise Lost and says, "this is the theological canon of the church, and here is how Milton hews to it again and again".

So now I think I understand Christianity. Maybe?

CS Lewis, explaining the canonical beliefs: Everything in nature is intrinsically good. Bad things happen when conscious creatures become "more interested in itself than in God", or assumes it can exist independently of God, as when Milton's Satan says that he is "self-begot".

me: Just for fun, let me enumerate the possible answers to 'who begot us?' – (1) conscious supreme being – e.g. Christian God, (2) our parents – e.g. Confucianism, (3) the self, (4) the weight of human history – humanity co-creating itself by maintaining a matrix of culture, (5) Nature – non-conscious but still revered, e.g. planet worship / I hecking love science, (6) null answer – non-conscious material processes.

Lewis: God knows in advance that some conscious entities will voluntarily make themselves bad and also knows what good use He will make of their badness. As [Milton's] angels point out, whoever tries to rebel against God produces the result opposite to his intention. At the end of the poem Adam is astonished at the power 'that all this good of evil shall produce'. This is the exact reverse of the programme Satan had envisaged in Book I, when he hoped, if God attempted any good through him, to 'pervert that end'; instead he is allowed to do all the evil he wants and finds that he has produced good. Those who will not be God's sons become His tools.

me: That's such beautiful cope! I've heard the badly-articulated versions of that Christian belief but it turns out I'm unprincipled and like it when you, Charisma Stat Lewis, say it.

me: It's also hard not to speculate that this belief is more adaptive in a world with e.g. a 50% child mortality rate.

Lewis: Also, The apple wasn't magic. THE APPLE WASN'T MAGIC. The only point of forbidding it was to instill obedience. The disobedience was so heinous precisely because obedience was so easy.

me: it was a shit test

Lewis: The Fall consisted of man's disobedience to his superior and was punished by man's loss of authority over his inferiors – chiefly over his passions and his physical organism. "Man has called for anarchy: God lets him have it." After the Fall, understanding ceased to rule and the will did not listen to understanding.

me: okay so what about the physical organism

Lewis: Man used to control his erections before the Fall

me: what

Lewis: That's right. No accidental boners. No morning wood. No dead bedroom subreddits. You can clench your fist without being angry and you can be angry without clench your fist. The will controls the fist. The sexual organs used to be like that.

me: That follows splendidly from "man was punished by the passions overruling the will" and yet I wasn't expecting that at all. Probably because I'm female? I annotated your "the will did not listen to understanding" with "we didn't have akrasia before the fall", because akrasia is a big problem for me. But being horny isn't.

me: I mean, obviously some women are really horny and causes them to act in unwise ways, and some men aren't horny. But "single men under age 25 are the most societal-problem-causing demographic" is well known, and even outside that age range, men seem to be, like, "cursed with horny" in a way that requires managing & makes them miserable on a day to day basis... so it makes sense that male interpreters would identify that with the Fall. It's conceptually congruent in a way "the Fall caused childbirth to be painful" isn't.

Lewis: Anyway, the Fall – people overcomplicated it. The apple is just an apple. It's not an allegory. The Fall consisted of Disobedience – doing what your superiors told you not to do – and resulted from Pride, which is forgetting your place. This is what the Church has always taught. Milton states it in the very first line of his poem and all his characters reiterate it from every possible point of view. Don't read false emphases into Milton! This is what he is saying: obedience to the will of God will make you happy and disobedience will make you miserable.

me: Well, obviously you know that your modern reader doesn't like this. You're pleasantly cognizant of atheist readers who are into self-governance and equality.

Lewis: The modern idea that we can choose between hierarchy and equality is not quite right. The real alternative to hierarchy is tyranny. If you will not have authority you will find yourself obeying brute force.

me: I simultaneously have a suspicious-resistant feeling and the perception that, when people in my milieu disagree with this, your view is the baseline from which we deviate minorly. Any form of functional social arrangement is going to have something that looks like authority and obedience.

Lewis: Understand this: Milton's poem belongs to a hierarchical conception of the universe where everything except God has some natural superior and everything except dead matter has some natural inferior. Superiors should rule over inferiors. When Milton protests an instance of rule (he was against the monarchy of the Stuarts) he is disagreeing that the Stuarts are superior while still thinking that hierarchy is cosmically good. The justice or injustice of any given instance of rule depends wholly on the nature of the parties, not on any social contract.

me: I have little respect for Confucianism because it strikes me as so overtly a system of thought with no internal merit or wisdom on the micro, whose only function is to make society run on the macro. (I'm sorry to say "only" there, because that's a big function.) What you describe has the same feel. This isn't a great label for it, but I'd call both Confucianism and Christian hierarchy 'biological philosophies', in that of course this is the philosophy that materially deprived apes who want both power and stability would equilibriate on: a system of subjugation and cope. The hierarchical conception itself is "understanding ceasing to rule".

Lewis: [Lewis would doubtless totally own me. But he doesn't directly address this in anything I've read by him, and I can't simulate him in enough detail to generate his response.]

[fandom-space-princess]

Title: "Today my grandmother is 94 and does not love me."

[file under: pseudo-autobiographical short fiction. things that are neither essays nor poems.]

“Call your grandmother,” my father says. Over the phone his voice is a flat buzz. “It’s her birthday.”

———

The last time I spoke to my grandmother, she asked me if I know what will happen to me after I die. I admitted uncertainty. This was the wrong answer. My grandmother’s devotion is unassailable — her devotion to her God, that is, to her religion. Uncertainty is foremost among the many things devotion cannot abide.

She told me I did not love my family. I had no idea how to respond.

———

“She’d love it”

———

I do not call my grandmother. I am trying to write a piece of science fiction, by which I mean that I am daydreaming about Venus: imagining lofted cities adrift in the Venusian troposphere, skittering away between clouds like daughters cut free of their families.

Science (noun): knowledge, especially that gained through experience. Fiction (noun): something invented by the imagination or feigned.

Venus is always accepting prayers. You can petition her for adoration, validation, for partners of every kind to know you with wanting hands and willing minds.

When my grandmother looks at me she sees a ghost of the person she wishes I had become. Here I stand, miserable revenant thing, un-woman, in the place where she expected a granddaughter to stand. She does not know me. I think perhaps she never has.

———

“if you’d call.”

———

If I didn’t love my family, wouldn’t I know it?

(Science: a girl is born with all the eggs she’ll ever have. My grandmother’s body knew me while I was only potential within her not-yet-daughter.)

Evangelicals love eggs, because they love nothing so much in other people as the potential for them to become what the evangelical wants them to be.

Potential is what you call uncertainty when it wears its Sunday best. Genetic destiny is what you call the gifts you inherit from your grandmother: broad hips and the ability to carry a grudge, predisposition to diabetes and the inability to hold a single civil conversation with your distaff relatives.

I talk to my grandmother like I talk to god, which is to say: mostly in my head. Because I am trying to cultivate kindness of spirit, and given that an inclination to forgiveness was not among her heritable traits, I also pray that no one is listening. ———

My father tells me to call my mother’s mother. On this same subject, my own mother is silent.

———

(Fiction: one day, my family might know me for who I am, and find this person worthy.)

The heat, the pressure — to stand on the surface of Venus would destroy a person utterly. Science tells us that once, the goddess’ world may have had an atmosphere very like our own, before a runaway greenhouse effect rendered her planet uninhabitable to life in the forms we understand. My grandmother does not believe in climate change, but she does believe that the path I have taken through life has ruined me.

Someday soon I will ask a doctor to reach into my body and excise my own womb. I will complete the divorce from potential I began on the day I started to become my own person (on the day I was born). I am motherland to no one: I will bear no daughters.

———

My grandmother asks me if I love my family. I hand her a page torn from a Bible, on which every word is crossed out save “begot.”

[sarafangirlart]

[206] And Semele in Olympos, with a breath of the thunderbolts still about her, lifted a proud neck and cried with haughty voice - "Hera, you are ruined! Semele's son has beaten you! Zeus brought forth my son, he was the mother in my place! The father begot, the father brought forth his begotten. He brought forth a child from a makeshift womb of his own, and forced nature to change.

Bacchos was stronger than Enyalios; your Ares he only begot, and never childed with his thigh! Thebes ahs eclipsed the glory of Ortygia!12 For Leto the divine was chased about, and brought forth Apollo on the sly; Leto brought forth Pholbos, Cronion had no labour for him;

Maia brought forth Hermes, her husband did not deliver him; but my son was brought forth openly by his father.

Here's a great miracle! See Dionysos in the arms of your own mother, he lies on that cherishing arm! The Dispenser of the eternal universe, the first sown Beginning of the gods, the Allmother, became a nurse for Bromios; she offered to infant Bacchos the breast which Zeus High and Mighty has sucked! What Cronides was ever in labour, what Rheia was ever nurse for your boy? But this Cybele who is called your mother brought forth Zeus and suckled Bacchos in the same lap! She dandled them both, the son and the father. No fatherless Hephaistos could rival Semele's child, none unbegotten of a father whom Hera brought forth by her own begettomg - and now he limps about on an illmatched pair of feeble legs to hid his mother's bungling skill in childbirth! Maia was not quite like Semele; for her son, crafty, armed himself like Ares, and looking like him, deluded Hera until he sucked the milk of her breast.13 Give place to me all! for Semele alone had a husband, who got and groaned for the same child. Semele is happiest, because of her son: for my Dionysos will come without scheming into the company of the stars; he will dwell in his father's heaven, because he drew milk from the godnursing teat of that mighty goddess. He will come selfsummoned into the hei v he needs not Hera's milk, for he has milked a noble, breast."

[243] She spoke exulting even in the sky; but the angry consort of Zeus fell heavily in surprise upon the house of Athamas and scared Ino into flight. She still resented the childhood of Dionysos.

Nonnus, Dionysiaca

If I was Hera I would’ve teamed up with Leto and Maia and beat Semele’s ass.

Also the point about Ares must especially sting bc Rhea also sent Ares a nightmare that Aphrodite left him, but what she said about Hephaestus pisses me off especially not only is she being an ableist cunt Hephaestus did nothing but support Dionysus (even letting his sons help him) and yet Semele has the audacity to speak about him this way? Fuck Semele, all my homies hate Semele.

Hephaestus probably:

[littlesparklight]

Thoughts on divine and semi-divine horses in Greek myth...

First thing to consider; can fully divine horses fly on their own, or is it the gods' chariots that give them this ability? One would assume they can do so. The gods clearly ride them through the air (as well as underwater, so they must be able to breathe underwater, too). However, the most we explicitly hear of either immortal or immortal-born (that is, their parent was at least one god) horses is that they can run on water and on top of stalks of grain without breaking them (from the Iliad and other sources forward).

Which would imply they can at least run in the air somehow, even when the support is something that should not be able to support them. But we certainly never see any mention of Achilles' chariot team actually flying, and he has two immortal horses on his chariot, for example. And Arion, usually the son of Poseidon and Demeter, is certainly fast, but again nothing said that he can fly.

So that's inconclusive, but the gods still certainly travel through the air with their chariots (drawn by horses or otherwise).

One definitive thing is that immortal or immortal-born horses can definitely move over things regular horses can't (see above). They are also all quicker and probably has way more stamina than any other mortal horse.

I'd headcanon they're larger than horses of the time, too - so they are at least the size of a "typical" modern horse, which would immediately make them stand out among the horses of the mythic Bronze Age. Would suppose you wouldn't need to train up their stamina or strength either; they can take a rider with no problem, for any length of time, and the same for a chariot. (Especially a rider for too long wouldn't be something a horse back then could easily take.)

Something like that would, again, immediately make even just immortal-born horses coveted among the Greek myth royalty!

The fully immortal horses are undoubtedly smarter than your average mortal horse too. They can't talk (Hera gives Xanthos the ability to speak in the Iliad, an ability that is then taken away when he's said (too much) enough), but given that Xanthos and Balios are already grieving Patroklos' death on their own, certainly they've got more mind/intelligence than horses otherwise.

At its very base, you're left with horses that can travel (and pull a chariot!) over things regular horses cannot, which on the battlefield would be invaluable. Defensive ditches or a river in the way? For Achilles' chariot team (without Pedasos/any additional mortal horses, unless Xanthos and Balios being present means any mortal horses are pulled along by proxy?) and Aeneas' team, descended as they are from the two immortal horses Zeus gave for Ganymede? Could just run over that!

And talking of the Trojan royal family and their horses - there's any descendants of the twelve semi-divine horses Boreas begot on twelve of Erichthonios' mares. Probably these twelve stallions are all long-lived if not immortal, which would mean they'd throw out a very valuable huge amount of foals throughout their lives. This would be a lot of wealth and soft power to be used with surrounding kingdoms! Just imagine the influence you'd have with great powers like the Hittites, Egypt, Babylon etc if you can "graciously" gift horses that are much larger and stronger and with more stamina through years/generations of kings. And then add the two immortal horses Zeus gifts Tros; whatever the life of the twelve stallions, these won't die at all, and will produce offspring of equal ability to those twelve stallion sons of Boreas.

There are only a limited number of divine or immortal-born horses in the hands of mortal kings, which would make them/their offspring great assets.

We've got Arion of course, who goes from Onkios to Herakles and finally Adrastos, who must have Arion by the point of the Seven Against Thebes. We've got the twelve + two of the Trojan royal family. We've got the four (two each) that belong to the Dioskoroi, post Argonautica and forward (Stesichoros, at least, seems to have had them given to the twins for Pelias' funeral games, which would be post-Argonautica). We've got Peleus', then Achilles', two divine stallions, which Peleus has from his marriage with Thetis and forward. (Nonnos gives two immortal steeds to the Athenian Erichthonios, as brideprice given by Boreas for Oreithyia.)

[golyadkin]

Your comic on Icarus is pretty cool, but I don’t fully understand if you are implying Icarus’s death is the fault of his father Daedalus or not. Daedalus can definitely be considered a bad guy if you want because he made the labyrinth for the Minotaur, but what else could he do for his son given his circumstances? The stories of Greek mythology are full of narratives that can yield a lot of meanings, but I’m having a hard time understanding what else could have been done for Icarus.

Hey thanks, im glad you think its cool. I didnt want to explain it much because i want it to be open for interpretation but i will say this.

When the minotaur says "im sorry your dad did this to you" its not just about the wings and the fall, its about the circumstances as well. Daedalus didnt just make wings out of wax, he also helped Theseus escape, he built the labyrinth they were trapped in and that gave the minotaur no choice but to be a monster for Theseus to kill, he made the cow disguise that begot the minotaur in the first place, he was even the reason they were stuck on Crete to begin with but ill let you look up why. Most of this is framed in the myths as Daedalus being prideful not trapped. Sure Minos and Pasiphae and Ariadne ordered or asked him to do these things but it was still him who did it and he took pride in doing them well. But the key concept here is that Daedalus didnt just build the wings, he also built the circumstances under which Icarus was able to die. His intentions here dont really matter and his love for his son made no difference. Icarus died because of his fathers creations and deeds, and history framed it as Icarus, a child, not doing what he was told (his story specifically is a warning against excess).

That being said, this is not a comic that damns Daedalus in my eyes, it is a comic that sympathizes with Icarus. For me, its about how a son shouldnt suffer punishments on behalf of his fathers deeds in the same way the minotaur didnt deserve to be trapped and killed because his father, the king, first wouldnt slaughter a bull for a god and then could not bring himself to kill the child that resulted from this slight. Minos never even considered raising the minotaur. He loved him but he could not stomach him. These are two sons who were shaped and punished for the misdeeds of their fathers and neither of them deserved it. I dont know if youll connect with the comic but i hope you can understand it a bit better and at the very least understand that Icarus and the minotaur were not isolated tragedies

[sup-geek]

Aphrodite and Her Reach

Here are quotes from antiquity, from both Greek and Latin sources, that speak to Aphrodite’s, her being the goddess of love, having a nigh-infinite reach, all-encompassing power over man:

Muse, sing to me the deeds of golden Aphrodite of Cyprus, who roused sweet longing in the gods and overwhelmed the tribes of mortal men and the birds of the air and all the beasts, as many as the land nourishes and the sea; for the deeds of fair-wreathed Kytherea are a care to all. But three minds she cannot persuade or deceive: the daughter of aegis-bearing Zeus, grey-eyed Athena... Nor does laughter-loving Aphrodite ever tame in love loud-crying Artemis of the golden bow... Nor do the deeds of Aphrodite bring joy to the reverent maiden, Hestia, whom crafty-minded Kronos begot first... Of these three goddesses she cannot persuade their minds nor deceive them. But for the rest there is no escaping Aphrodite, neither for blessed gods nor mortal men.

(Homeric Hymn 3 to Aphrodite, translated by Professor Susan C. Shelmerdine)

Fearing this disaster, the king of the dark [i.e., Hades] had left his shadowy realm, and, drawn in his chariot by black horses, carefully circled the foundations of the Sicilian land. When he had checked and was satisfied that nothing was collapsing, he relinquished his fears. Then Venus, at Eryx, saw him moving, as she sat on the hillside, and embraced her winged son, Cupid, and said ‘My child, my hands and weapons, my power, seize those arrows, that overcome all, and devise a path for your swift arrows, to the heart of that god to whom the final share of the triple kingdom fell. You conquer the gods and Jupiter himself, the lords of the sea, and their very king, who controls the lords of the sea. Why is Tartarus excepted? Why not extend your mother’s kingdom and your own? We are talking of a third part of the world. And yet, as is evident to me, I am scorned in heaven, and Love’s power diminishes with mine. Don’t you see how Pallas, and the huntress Diana, forsake me? And Ceres’s daughter too, Proserpine, will be a virgin if we allow it, since she hopes to be like them. But you, if you delight in our shared kingdom, can mate the goddess to her uncle.”

(Ovid's Metamorphoses, Book 5, translated by Anthony S. Kline)

This extravagant bestowal of the honours due to heaven on a mere mortal girl roused Venus herself to violent anger. She shook her head impatiently, and uttered these words of indignation to herself with a groan: “Behold me, the primal mother of all that is, the source of the elements, the whole world’s bountiful Venus, driven to divide my imperial honours with a lowly human! Is my name, established in heaven, to be traduced by earthly pollution? Am I to suffer the vagaries of vicarious reverence, a share in the worship of my divinity? Is a girl, destined to die, to tread the earth in my likeness? Was it nothing that Paris, that shepherd, whose just and honest verdict was approved by almighty Jove, preferred me for my matchless beauty to those other two great goddesses? But she’ll reap no joy from usurping my honours, whatever she may be: I’ll soon make her regret that illicit beauty of hers.”

(Lucius Apuleius' Metamorphoses, Book 4; translated by Anthony. S. Kline)

‘Queen of Heaven, whether you are known as bountiful Ceres, the primal harvest mother, who, delighted at finding your daughter Proserpine again, abolished our primitive woodland diet, showed us sweet nourishment, and now dwell at Eleusis; or heavenly Venus, who at the founding of the world joined the sexes by creating Love, propagating the human race in endless generation, and worshipped now in the sea-girt sanctuary of Paphos... ’

(Lucius Apuleius' Metamorphoses, Book 11, translated by Anthony S. Kline)

Heavenly, smiling Aphrodite, praised in many hymns, sea-born revered goddess of generation, you like the night-long revel, you couple lovers at night, O scheming mother of Necessity. Everything comes from you: you have yoked the world, you control all three realms, you give birth to all, to everything in heaven, to everything upon the fruitful earth, to everything in the depths of the sea, O venerable companion of Bacchos. You delight in festivities, O bride-like mother of the Erotes, O Persuasion, whose joy is in the bed of love, secretive giver of grace, visible and invisible, lovely-tressed daughter of a noble father, bridal feast companion of the gods, sceptered, she-wolf, beloved and man-loving, giver of birth and life. Your maddening love-charms yoke mortals, they yoke the many races of beasts to unbridled passion. Come, O goddess born in Kypros: you may be on Olympos, O queen, exulting in the beauty of your face, you may be in Syria, country of fine frankincense, you may be driving your golden chariot in the plain, you may lord it over Egypt’s fertile river bed. Come, whether you ride your swan-drawn chariot over the sea’s billows, joining the creatures of the deep as they dance in circles, or on land in the company of the dark-faced nymphs as light-footed they frisk over the sandy beaches. Come lady, even if you are in Kypros that cherishes you, where fair maidens and chaste brides throughout the year sing of you, O blessed one, as they sing of immortal, pure Adonis. Come, O beautiful, O comely goddess, I summon you with holy words, I summon you with a pious soul.

(Orphic Hymn 55 to Aphrodite, translated by Apostolos N. Athanassakis)

Long had Jove seen this, watching from his lofty seat, and to Venus he thus enfolded the secrets of his heart: "Goddess of Cythera, I will impart to thee my hidden troubles; long ago I decided that fair Proserpine should be given in marriage to the lord of Hell; such is Atropos' bidding, such old Themis' prophecy. Now that her mother has left her is the time for action. Do thou visit the confines of Sicily, and armed with thy wiles, lead Ceres' daughter to sport in the level meads what time to-morrow's light has unfolded the rosy dawn; employ those arts with which thou art wont to inflame all things, often even myself. Why should the nether kingdoms know not love? Let no land be free and no breast even amid the shades unfired by Venus. At last let the gloomy Fury feel the sting of passion and Acheron and the steely heart of stern Dis grow tender with love's arrows."

(Claudius Claudianus' De Raptu Proserpinae, Book 1, translated by Maurice Platnauer)

@en-theos, @deathlessathanasia, any additions, no? @astynomi, @terpsikeraunos?

[kijew]

Why Jacob?

I finished this week's torah portion. Obviously, I've already written a whole info dump on it here. And I understand objectively that Jacob was one of the major Jewish patriarchs.

But I'm stuck on this. Why Jacob? Why would God choose a man who would swindle his twin brother not once but twice to be the leader of his chosen people?

I feel like I'm missing something that should be right there, in front of my face. What am I missing?

[freydis-freydat]

You will tell them your name is Freydis. This way, regardless of if they wish to sell you short or show you disrespect, they will have to address you with the honor you are due to garner your attention. If they wish to ridicule you, they must cut off their own noses just to spite their face. 

Freydis: from the Norse god Froya’s name and dis (meaning goddess). Noblewoman.

The words of her father played through her head as her tired eyes watched the flames of the fire lick the night sky not far enough yet from the mouth of the cave she and her peers had barely escaped their lives with. Freydis felt foolish as she considered just what she had done. Freely, she had told a fairy her name–or rather her noble title and her name. Both of her names. 

Tove: peaceful, beautiful Thor; God is good.

What would her father say of this, the man who had painstakingly taught her fables and folklore, who had taught her how to spot a fae and more importantly why never to trust one? Perhaps if she had simply said Tove, it would have spared her. Or, maybe Freydis was the false moniker. It was impossible to tell at times, which name meant more. Both had been given to her by her father, both in their appropriate time and space. At birth, simple but aspirational Tove–a name she lived up to in the most unpredictable of ways, a combination of the beauty of violence and the sudden unpredictable wrath of the gods, unassuming until provoked. It felt like lifetimes since she had walked the world as that simple miller’s daughter, as Tove. And then Freydis, a name so great it was never spoken within the bounds of their humble hamlet overlooking the looming mill and vast expanse of golden wheat before they moved into the great house meant for the jarl.

When word came that the king himself had sent for her to be delivered to appear in front of high royal highness, her father had held her face between her hands, cheeks still rounded with youth and head heavy under the weight of her own self doubt. He had peered at her seeing past those strange eyes of hers, in one light brown like the earth they worked and in another green as spring could bloom, and told her: “You will tell them your name is Freydis. This way, regardless of if they wish to sell you short or show you disrespect, they will have to address you with the honor you are due to garner your attention. If they wish to ridicule you, they must cut off their own noses just to spite their face.”

Freydis’ father would remind her of this from time to time, when the pressures mountained and her confidence waned. It was hard to be the first of her kind, to know her every move and expression existed under the lens of such extreme scrutiny, but only if she managed to walk off the battleground long enough to be left to govern, to decide on anything in the first place. They were brutalizing years that somehow both cracked her open and hardened her all at once. To become was painful, but to be begot by violence that revolted her senses yet invigorated her soma was a sort of metanoia in her formative years. Tove became less of a name and more of a sound that felt like home; a kind of prayer between she and those who held the truth of her at their core rather than the aggrandized icon of a female jarl she became. 

This was not the only prayer observed within their home. Fearsome as she was when challenged, the longevity of a highly objectionable jarl was a less than positive prospect. Each fight took from Tove and gave to Freydis, and she felt the fissure daily. No one recognized her fear of losing one entirely so keenly as her father, who was every ounce as realistic that the most highly likely relief from the burdens of a jarl’s work, of his daughter’s work, was a barbarous death at the hands of another. Tove, so gentle until pushed, would not survive many. Freydis would need to survive them all.  

And so, with each private gathering of their family before the spectacle of yet another holmgang, he would hold her face in his hands and remind her of who she was now–and that to live as Freydis was an honorable thing, but so too was to die as Tove. Both were one, and either was enough. He would hold her face in his hands, easily leveraging the weight of her self-doubt and fears as only a father can, and sing a song from the playwrights version of his favorite fable.

Inexplicably, and with no introduction, Freydis parted her lips after some hours of silence, and sang those same familiar words to her companions. The song was a sendoff of sorts, a ballad of hopes and fears and things left unsaid–but it had always felt lucky to her when she heard it in her father’s voice. 

I have a wife, I haven't seen Since lilacs bloomed in St. Hippolyte She always wears them, in her hair She lets them fall down everywhere

I can see her in the glowing light Dressing without a sound I promised I'd be home alright But I gotta lay this body down

So take this letter to my wife And tell her that I loved my life And tell my boys, the One God, He found me When I say their names out loud, they're all around me

And tell them not to cry at all Heaven, is wherever I fall

I have a girl, I think I love her I should've told her, instead I told her mother I gave her chocolates, I bought a ring But I never told her anything

But I can see her in every detail now Turning in my mind I barely knew that girl at all But I will love her 'til the end of time

So take this letter to my girl Tell her that I saw the whole world Say that right before I fell I said her name out loud, 'Isabelle'

Tell her not to cry at all Heaven is wherever I fall

I have a father, he isn't well Thinks he might be going to Hell He was a sinner, he liked to fight So I don't know, he might be right

I can see him every Sunday morning Diving into the fray He wasn't one of the best men But I loved him anyway

So take this letter to him, please And tell him I can't wait to see him I went in first, I rang the bell I called his name out loud and I gave them Hell

So tell him not to cry at all Heaven is wherever I fall

Tell 'em not to cry at all Heaven, is wherever I fall Tell 'em not to cry at all Heaven, is wherever I fall

Freydis was quiet when she finished her song, peering out at the great expanse of a world she never thought she would explore under any circumstances let alone those as hopeless as the ones she found herself in. The edges of her fingertips traced over the top of the red handprint on her heart–a sigil of bravery from a once-forgotten king. She felt unworthy to carry such a symbol, but her bottle lip quivered at the threat of tears of gratitude to know and understand she had been deemed worthy by that warrior of lore to so much as stand in his shadow. 

Exhausted mentally, physically, and emotionally, she pondered the horrors of the past days. One more holmgang–that was all the fight with Munin had been, just one drop in the bucket of the onslaught, the never ending war of living another day in limbo between the next battle, the next challenge. Tove, she was certain, whether in the form of her fae-shadow slain at he hands of the princess or just a long-silent past reflection of who she once was lingering the back of her mind, had died in that cave. The prayer of the name lost all of its power, no longer uplifting or grounding, but acrid and bitter in her mouth and her mind the second she had spoken it to the fae. And Tove would survive no impending wars.

Freydis, however, could. She lifted her eyes to the tapestry of stars still glittered above her. In several hours’ time the sun would hang high in a wide, open sky she had sorely missed; and until she was bested in a contest of might, Freydis, too, would rise.