#i mean Polyphemus might just kill Odysseus first after that

[lunar-solarsystem]

okay i have no idea if this has been said before

HOWEVER

wouldnt it be so funny if in the song “Polyphemus” from the Cyclops Saga, Odysseus said “eye to eyes” instead of ‘eye to eye’

like do you guys know what i’m getting at here

[rin-solo]

Let's talk about "Monster" ... and one of Odysseus' criminally underrated traits: his lack of judgment.

I was re-listening to "Monster" the other day and it kind of just hit me... Overall, that song isn't my favorite (it's somewhere in B tier; the lyricism is great, and the part after "So if we must sail through dangerous oceans..." absolutely slaps, it's just not one that I go back to frequently.) But there are some things I genuinely adore about it because I adore the way it progresses Odysseus' character arc as clearly not a "corruption" and how this is conveyed through the way the song is set up and presented.

First of all, I simply have to yap about how Odysseus isn't justifying his foes' actions the way that I have seen some people falsely assume. He's describing what they did or do and essentially saying, "They aren't letting themselves be stopped by guilt from doing what they think they have to do, so why should I?"

Polyphemus doesn't overthink whether it's right or wrong to kill some people because they harmed him or his sheep.

Circe may deep down feel guilt but isn't letting that stop her from turning men into pigs to prevent any more harm from befalling her nymphs at their hands.

Poseidon isn't losing sleep over drowning a fleet because that is what gods do to retain their infamy and status.

Odysseus and the rest of his soldiers didn't use the Trojan horse tactic out of malice or bloodlust, but out of pragmatism. It was the most efficient way to win a war that would have only cost more lives on both sides if they hadn't ended it then and there.

You look at that and you may think, "That's all very fair, but that doesn't mean any of those actions are justified" ... and you'd be right. None of the actions above are actually right or justified.

But the thing about "Monster" that I love so much is that it's specifically NOT something like, "These people I've encountered are all evil and ruthless and they are right and justified in being that way; I'll be the same." It's actually, "These people I've encountered act with ruthlessness; it clearly aids them in achieving their goal, and they seem to have figured out how to not feel guilt over their actions. I want to reap those benefits too. So far, I've been acting with mercy, which seems to have disadvantaged me. If they can do it, I can and should do the same to level the playing field."

Odysseus isn't saying that their actions are right, wrong, or justified. He's simply exploring why these people act the way they do. And he does so entirely without judgment.

I'm not surprised about him not judging Circe; while she was still wrong since she went overboard and struck preemptively against people who were not guaranteed to ever cause harm, she was pretty much redeemed in the end and her point is the easiest out of these to understand.

But the rest? Polyphemus killed his best friend. Poseidon drowned his whole fleet. The Trojan horse? It never comes up anywhere else but since he mentions it here, I think it's safe to assume that Odysseus feels guilty for using a tactic such as this. And still... Odysseus talks about his foes' actions with understanding and an open mind. He acknowledges their points of view—all of them, even if none besides Circe ever acknowledged or understood his.

The only time we genuinely see Odysseus act out of resentment is when he tells Polyphemus his name... After that, he never shows anything of the sort ever again. If he ever held any resentment toward any of his foes, I feel like this is where he lets it go for good.

Hell, even Poseidon, whom he would have by far the most reasons to resent, Odysseus doesn't actually judge or resent. I wrote a whole mini-essay on why the Vengeance saga proves that Odysseus doesn't actually seek or want vengeance on Poseidon. One might argue that he sounded like he was avenging his crew in "Six Hundred Strike" but it's important to remember that he offered Poseidon forgiveness one song earlier. He didn't lead with vengeance or resentment, but he rekindled his anger when Poseidon rejected his mercy.

My point is that Odysseus doesn't judge or resent any of the people who attempt to stand between him and his home... which shows incredible character strength in and of itself. This occurs later, but he acts similarly toward Calypso in "Not Sorry for Loving You" as well.

This is such an underrated trait of his, especially considering it fits perfectly with EPIC's themes, which revolve around seeing every perspective and balancing between ruthlessness and mercy. Honestly, I don't think those themes would even work with a protagonist who isn't so open-minded.

Coming back to "Monster," as we've established, Odysseus doesn't pass judgment on his foes. Similarly, he isn't saying that his decision to embrace ruthlessness and "become" a Monster (read more to find out why I put that in quotation marks) or any of his future actions as this Monster are justified.

I genuinely despise it when people call his arc a "villain arc" or "corruption" because that's pretty much missing the entire point. He isn't actually becoming a monster, corrupting, or genuinely changing his personality—hence why I put those quotation marks earlier. He is deliberately choosing to embrace a certain ruthless way of acting, fully knowing that it is not actually right or justified. "So what if I'm the Monster?" is self-gaslighting. He knows it's not "so what?" But he's doing it anyway because he has seen this way of acting aiding his foes. He literally says, "I must become the Monster / And then we'll make it home." He is convinced that this is what he must become because he keeps being told this by everyone.

From the top, his values or person isn't actually being corrupted. He's not really internally changing. He's merely adapting a way of behaving because he thinks it's the only way he'll still get home, and only because of that. It's really f*cking sad actually. Especially because he is wrong; his not being ruthless is not actually the problem, as we find out later.

Genuinely, his monster act lasted exactly 3,5 songs; in the second half of "Mutiny" it's already all gone because he is so afraid for his crew and what they're about to do to themselves that he instinctively goes back to wanting to save them despite how they just led a mutiny, despite how they don't listen to him regarding the cows.

Odysseus' entire arc can be described as, "He tries out mercy, and it doesn't get him home. He tries out ruthlessness, and it doesn't get him home either. In order to get home, he needs to learn balance, in Hermes' words "Every trick in his domain"." And that is also, as I believe, the main theme of EPIC: Neither ruthlessness nor mercy by itself is the solution. Both have their place; one needs balance. Or: treat people as they ask to be treated.

Only by the time of the Vengeance saga does Odysseus seem to have finally figured this out, and that's where he genuinely starts succeeding.

So no, Odysseus is no longer "The Monster" by the time of the Vengeance saga, no matter how much the visuals in "Six Hundred Strike" try to convince us otherwise. But he isn't "Just a Man" either. Did anyone besides me notice how he stopped calling himself this or justifying his weak moments like that in "Monster" and how he doesn't go back to it even after dropping the monster act?

And here we have the perfect segway into an essay I haven't written yet that might answer the question, "If now he's not a man and not a monster, what is he then?"

Well, technically Odysseus told us himself that one time he acted out of resentment... "Neither man nor mythical." But that's an essay yet to be written... I'll get to it soon, and there we might answer what actually happened in "Six Hundred Strike" and why the line "If you dance with fate I know you'll enhance your state", that I see is mostly overlooked, matters so much more than we probably all think.

Until then, know that I am not actually the first one to address the "Neither man nor mythical" significance. Credit goes to @glisten-inthedark; coming across her post on this matter genuinely enhanced my understanding of what happened so much and I need all of you to read it because it's a truly brilliant conclusion. I'll write my own essay on this topic soon, I promise. But without that post, I would've probably not come to this realization for a long while.

Either way, we end this essay with words that I will never tire of repeating: Stop villainizing Odysseus, y'all. It's not cool, not only because it's undeserved but also because it pretty much shows that you have successfully missed the point and core theme of this musical.

... See you when we inspiration for another essay strikes me. In the meantime, have a brief introduction to what that essay will cover in meme form because I can.

[i-will-change-this-someday]

Here are my thoughts on The Vengeance Saga.

(Spoilers ahead)

I enjoyed it, I don’t think it’s my favorite, but I still really like it.

I think it’s because this is the first saga to come out after I started listening, but the transitions to each song seems a bit abrupt.

Cause when I think about it, the cut from Just A Man to Full Speed Ahead, Open Arms to Warrior Of The Mind, and The Underworld to No Longer You are all pretty abrupt as well.

Pretty sure this is an unpopular opinion, but Calypso is... fine? She's not good by any means, but people act like she's evil incarnate.

I don't know if I'm missing something here, but why are people making her out to be most evil character in all of EPIC?

Polyphemus thinks it's fair to kill 600 people over the life of one sheep (That he would have killed and eaten anyway?)

Poseidon kills over 500 men all for his own pride (I really don't think he actually cared that much about Polyphemus given how crass he sounded about killing him)

Circe turns men into pigs (And eats them?) without giving them a chance at proving that they mean no harm

Odysseus sacrifices the lives of his men who he is captain to, and I might be talking nonsense, but I feel like that means that he has a responsibility to them and their safety, he is their captain, they are saying "I trust you with my life and to take me home" and he betrayed that trust

All of them do these awful things, but you can understand why they do. But for some reason the same is not given to Calypso, she literally says he is all she's ever known. It's not fair for her to keep Odysseus on the island, but can you blame her when letting him go means she'll be alone again? Would you be able to let the one and only person you have ever met go? Knowing you'd likely be alone again forever?

Anyway what I don't see nearly enough is hatred for Antinous, I hate that man, he's literally a child abuser (I know Telemachus isn't a child, but he was at one point and Antinous was there [Telemachus literally doesn't even know how to fight] do you really think he didn't abuse that child?) That man is (assumedly) already nobility, but that's not good enough for him, he needs to be king and will force himself onto Penelope and kill her son.

Okay rant over, anyways Dangerous is a bop.

I really do adore Troy's voice, and really like his music (I'm actually listening to his music as I write this)

Dangerous is probably my favorite song this saga, but only in terms of "I will listen to this outside of a full listen of the musical" I probably wouldn't listen to the others without context of the rest of the musical.

How do you pronounce Charybdis?

I do feel like he got past Charybdis really easily, but I get that Poseidon was the focus for the saga, so I don't mind it.

Steven Rodriguez's voice is so good.

I was kinda hoping for one more verse from Poseidon before Odysseus's line but that's alright

At this point I shouldn't even be surprised if there's a Polites cameo

Also I feel like this is a given, But Jorge's voice is also amazing, and he really gave his all for the screams and yells this saga.

Okay, time for another tangent, I'll admit the wind bag jetpack is kinda goofy, but it's really not that bad to me. Ancient Greece also didn't have high fives (I'm pretty sure anyways) but people don't say anything about that, also the slang "sick" probably wasn't invented in ancient Greece. (I will say, I did like one idea I saw that someone say [I'm sorry, I don't remember who] that the wind bag split the ocean and they were fighting on the ocean floor)

I've seen a lot of people be mad that Odysseus beat Poseidon, but I feel like it would have been unsatisfying if he just lost. Like say he didn't beat him, and was getting beaten up until Zeus or someone was like "Yo, chill bro that dude is like fine or whatever, let him go" I feel like that would have been an underwhelming conclusion to the Vengeance Saga.

Like sure, should Poseidon been able to kill Odysseus? Yes. But don't humans beat the Gods in some stories? (I‘ll be honest, I don’t know a whole lot about Greek mythology and most of what I do know is from PJO which I haven’t read in a while.) Like Arachne was a better weaver than Athena, or Diomedes wounded Ares (?) so I feel like it’s not that unreasonable.

I’m not saying you have to like it, I just feel like people are saying it’s bad without giving an alternative that would be narratively satisfying. Like, it’s satisfying to get to see Odysseus knock Poseidon down a peg, it’s compelling to see how much Odysseus has become a monster, and wonder how much more he will fall to monstrosity before he returns home.

To me, the story is a tragedy about a man who wanted something so much he gave everything he had, his morals, his companions, his compassion, he gave everything for it, and in the end he became someone else entirely.

Ody beating up Poseidon shows how much he has changed, if he had lost and just pleaded with him, how is he any different from the Odysseus that got on his knees and begged a god to spare a life in the very first song? He's not that man anymore, he has changed so much that it's, at least in this moment, a god kneeling and begging.

[cozywriter]

🥮 ~ EPIC the Musical: A Rant ~ 🥮

🥮🧋🥮🧋🥮🧋🥮🧋🥮🧋🥮🧋🥮🧋🥮🧋🥮🧋🥮🧋🥮🧋🥮

This isn’t really an important post, I’m just here to let my bainrot loose onto the world since the Wisdom Saga is out (🥳). So now, please enjoy my dwindling mental health and ever decreasing emotional state (or not, whichever you prefer is okay with me…)

1.) Something I’ve noticed is that whenever a god plays a role in any saga, one of three things happen. Either Odysseus confirms their true identity to us, the audience, by saying their name (I.e. Athena and Hermes), a chorus introduces them to us (I.e. Poseidon and Apollo), or they themselves introduce them to us (I.e. Calypso). However, this is not the case in the Thunder Saga. In the song “Mutiny” Odysseus says:

“These cows were immortal, they were the Sun God’s friends!”

“And now that we’ve pissed them off, who do you think they’ll send?!”

Odysseus doesn’t explicitly confirm who but in the next song, ”Thunder Bringer”, it doesn’t open with Odysseus mumbling his name under his breath in fear or a dramatic chorus announcing his arrival. Instead, it was just a few thunder claps and then Zeus already singing away. This is because, he needs no introduction, being Chieftain of the Gods and all.

The first incident this happens is during the Troy Saga during the song “The Horse and the Infant” when Zeus sends Odysseus a vision about his older self about his final moments, and then proceeds to command him to kill Hector’s infant son. The only confirmation we get that he is Zeus is the thunderclap and flash in the sky, which seems to be the only thing that precedes his arrival.

2.) Another detail I found interesting (read as: absolutely earth shattering, I actually might need therapy after listening to this) is during the song “Love in Paradise”, when Athena says:

“Old friend, it’s been ten years since I last saw you..”

And the next line cuts to Odysseus’ reveal during the song “Remember Them” in the Cyclops Saga when he reveals his identity to Polyphemus. This is because, that moment was truly the moment she last saw him. Either this means that during their argument in the song “My Goodbye” — which mind you, is the song directly after “Remember Them” — she was blinded with rage because he didn’t follow her instructions, or that she was so blinded with the fact that he disobeyed her, she didn’t think to look past that and see why he disobeyed her.

The next few lines support this and truly show her guilt, seeing as after Athena says:

“Let’s see where you’ve been…”

The song cuts to Aeolus’ game, then to Poseidon’s encounter, Circe’s confrontation, Tiresias’ vision, the Siren’s massacre, Scylla’s cost and then Zeus’ retribution. Notice how every song that plays signified a major event that changed the course of Odysseus’ travels. However, these were all events that Athena wasn’t guiding Odysseus in any way. This either means that she was purely just going along the timeline of his journey to see where he went, or she also wanted to see just how far he went without her help, being that in the song “We’ll Be Fine” during the Wisdom Saga, she says:

“I had a friend before and he was a lot like you…” “I helped him fight through war but he had his demons too…” “And then we grew apart…” “Then his light went dark..”

“And so I thought, maybe, if I made a different call, maybe, if I hadn't missed it all, maybe he'd be fine… Maybe we'd unwind…” “Maybe, if I help another soul, maybe, if I helped you reach your goal, life could be that bright…! I could sleep at night…!”

During this, when she calls Odysseus her “friend”, either she means that she truly did see him as more than a student all that time she mentored him and didn’t want to tell Odysseus because she was afraid she’d look weak to him, or after she cut ties with him, she realized that she cared about Odysseus more than she let on.

3.) Lastly, during the song “Ruthlessness” in the Ocean Saga, when Poseidon was taking his revenge on Odysseus and his crew for making Polyphemus suffer, the rage and hatred towards them was genuine, to the point that were it not for Odysseus’ quick thinking, their journey would’ve ended there. Now, compare it to Zeus during the song “Thunder Bringer” in the Thunder Saga. Zeus was toying with them. Almost like he didn’t care about the situation and was only using it for entertainment. This parallel really tells you a lot about the brothers and how they’re like, Poseidon being unforgiving and ruthless hehehe get it? Because you know… it-it’s his song… when necessary but “chill with the waves” — his words, not mine — because that’s how the sea is. Calm but unforgiving. As for Zeus, he’s flamboyant and passive, not really caring about who or what he hurts as he makes a grand musical number before he strikes, much like how like thunder and lighting do.

🥮🧋🥮🧋🥮🧋🥮🧋🥮🧋🥮🧋🥮🧋🥮🧋🥮🧋🥮🧋🥮🧋🥮

[iolypse]

books on the ship the brazilians came to the island on

Armies Of The Night — NORMON MAILER. chronicles the Oct 1967 march on the Pentagon in which the Vietnam War was protested.

Creators And Phantoms — not an actual piece of media as far as I can tell.

Screams In Dreams — not an actual piece of media as far as I can tell, however it may be hinting at the odd transmissions (bits of morse code, "are you there?", weird strings of numbers and letters, etc) within the census' messages.

Priests Of The Forest — not an actual piece of media as far as I can tell.

True Grit — CHARLES PORTIS. a coming-of-age novel set in the old west of 1870s Arkansas and Oklahoma. the protag wants vengeance on the man who murdered her father. she meets some lawmen who teach her what "true grit" is. also has a movie adaptation.

Guilty Damned — there's a book by the name The Guilty and The Damned by GENO OSBORNE, but it's so unknown that I highly doubt it has anything to do with this.

The Odyssey — HOMER. very well known, a greek story following Odysseus' ten year struggle to get home after the Trojan War. Odysseus blinds the cyclops Polyphemus, visits Teiresias in the underworld, gets past the sirens, scylla, and charybdis, get to calypso's island, kind of fights zeus and poseidon and shit, gets to ithaca, disguises as a beggar, kills the suitors and reunites with his wife. athena helps him pretty much the whole time.

A Better Tomorrow — a film in which a reforming ex-gangster tries to connect with his estranged cop brother. there's a lot of fighting between the beginning and the end, but in the end it seems like a bunch of their friends get shot, the brothers handcuff themselves together and go to the cops?

I've only ever read The Odyssey out of everything on this list, and that was for school and I did not pay attention whatsoever. but from what I can tell, every single one of these pieces of media that actually exist relate to either escaping something or getting to something.

definitely screaming at the island residents to get out, though. go home, go to their families, leave the island.

the books without actual existing things connected to them are Creators And Phantoms, Screams In Dreams, Priests Of The Forest, and Guilty Damned. might mean something, might not.

taking just the first letters of those specific titles, you get CAP SID POTF GD. putting all those together don't make anything as far as I can tell, caesar cypher gives no results either. taking out filler words, you get CP SD PF GD, though im not getting anything from that either. I don't think there's any codes in this, just warnings.

[leynaeithnea]

Me ? Taking notes again to write this ask? You guessed it.

The ocean saga is 100% my favourite saga so I'm going to be insane about this actually.

12.Aeolus is literally perfect I'm obsessed with her and her little banter with Ody " let's play a game/ a game? / That's what I'm serving " YES MA'AM YOU ARE CERTAINLY SERVING. Again at this point we agree on everything because the part where Odysseus tries to stay awake has kept me awake for days , he is so pathetic he's hallucinating his family and he loves them so much and everything has changed BUT HE'S THE SAME YES HE'S THE SAAAME ( instant tears)

" They were within sight, his mom could have seen the ship" fatal blow , currently chocking on my blood and my tears.

Also yes , Poseidon's voice is majestic, after ruthlessness came out I was singing it so much my brother and sister had memorized it ( they don't even know English lol )

13.The chorus of po-sei-don is glorious and I sing it every single time very drammatically 'cause HOW COULD I NOT??? Again, agree with everything you said, this whole entire song makes me feral, Poseidon is so bitchy and mean and pissed and sarcastic I ADORE IT and whenever I sing it I make Ody's little "No" so defeated and terrified and "we're so fucked " because they so areeeee

You are the worst kind of good- moment lives in my mind rent free I also did some lettering for it because I HAD to get it out of my head somehow ( I failed , it's stuck on repeat in my brain )

" But noOoOo" is so iconic I can't put it into words I love Poseidon jansnsnns

First time I listened to ruthlessness the callback to just a man brought me to my knees Jorge is a criminal how does he get away with causing such pain to me specifically ??? We'll never know

Aaaand the callback to the convo with Polyphemus " I am your darkest moment " FLOORS ME EVERY TIME SIR WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOUR ACTIONS HAVE CONSEQUENCES THAT HAUNT YOU IN THE FORM OF THE GOD OF THE SEA , WHAT DO YOU MEAN MERCY HAS A PRICE ( this whole thing about "you could have avoided all this had you just killed my son" brings me back to hours spent studying the Iliad for school and learning that in those books the idea was that you had to die a glorious death if you wanted to be remembered and live forever with honor in the stories that will be told about you. Being spared in combat and living after that is not living at all, becase you're now a disgrace and everyone will know you failed to be a hero ) ( but I don't know if this whole "moral code" applies to monsters like Polyphemus) ( living with the shame that some random puny Greeks overtook you must generally suck either way though)

also the part where Ody's desperately bargaining "Poseidon we meant to harm we only hurt him to disarm him PLEASE PLEASE UNDERSTAND please we took no pleasure in his pain we are at your mercy right now we can't do anything this is all up to you I can't do anything else for my crew other than try to make you understand we only wanted to escape PLEASE we are in your domain now we can't escape the literal sea PLEASE SHOW US THE MERCY WE SHOWED YOUR SON" and this whole part is quieter and gentler than the rest of the song,it's a plea, a small little desperate string of hope that maybe he'll understand, then a beat of silence and then DIE YOU'RE NAIVE AND HOPELESS DIE AKKSKDJSNNS

I may have gone a little insane with this one lol

As always no pressure but I eagerly await your take on the other sagas :))

( love for you and your friend that you acted out the whole musical , it seems neat and I think it would fix me hahah )

HEYO man theres one artwork of "im the same yes im the same" that im obssessed with, its sooo good

the idea was that you had to die a glorious death if you wanted to be remembered

All the men who died drowning + elpenor ------- :) :) :) yw

Despite it being an unpopular opinion Circe might actually be my least favorite saga so far,....probably because they werent as angsty as any of the other so far......i think theres a pattern here....anyway, its still GREAT so lets start 14. Puppeteer ODY REFUSING TO LISTEN TO EURY, I WONDER??? maybe he guesses???? MAYBE HE KNOWS? that it was Eury who opened the bag but he isn't ready to hear it yet???? the instrumentals in that is soo good tho, ALSO "a woman" "....what"

circes voice do be beautiful

and the storytelling of eury recalling the story while circes part is kind of a flashback like, is reallyyy nice

Also Ody being straight up ready to save his men help, that's only 8 songs or so before Syclla :")

15. Wouldn't you like

I knowwww why people are so hype about it, but admittedly it doesn't hit that hard for me. it's a good song! just not my favorites

but "someone who's not afraid to...send a message" is a sneaky way to make it obv who it is, very "high on shrooms" feels, and Odysseus singing the "OooooOoooOOOooOooH"s towards the end are reallyyy goodddd and the "dont thank me you very well may die"....perfect characterization of hermes, loved 16. Done For

Ody trying to sneak his way in like "did you do smth to them?" (knows 100% that she did) "you turned them into pigs" ODY YOURE SUCH A SLEEK---- SO OKAY WE ACTED THIS OUT RIGHT? WITH MY FRIEND? HAVING MY FRIEND BE CIRCE PLS??? OMG ....attractive mayhaps ody trying to lie about being a god "hermes gave it do you, didnt he?" ".....fine, yes, but- " ODY SIEGSE ~love lying characters, like, Neil, Ody, yeah...yeah Also circe going right into lust and Ody being like "??? wdym" (think sabout penelope) 17. There are other ways "BUuT itS been 12 LonG yeEArs" JORGE JORGE__--SLEGOSEJG lmaoosegseigjseg jk beautiful falcetto (high voice) of Jorge very seductive song, beautiful the reprise of just a man again.....but he refuses! good on you ody, bc otherwise you wouldve been dead, also THE DROP when Circe talks about the Underworld, esp with the distorted choir so cool, theres some animatics that portrayed those really neat too, might ramble about the animatics some other time also Circes last note(s) in the song are SO GOOODDDDD such vocal control

[madrone33]

Oooh good points! I agree to most of this (not a big Eury fan lol), but just to play devil's advocate -

Being too trusting and listening to the Lotus Eaters led them to Polyphemus' cave. They could've gone to a different island when they figured out the Lotus was inedible, and then hunted for food like their original plan. But they took a gamble on trusting the advice from people high off their rocker. That's more on Polites than Eury, but it is pretty against Eury's stance of being wary and cautious.

Remember Them: Since Eury didn't realise how Ody's whole "My name is Nobody" ruse will work out, he just thought they were sitting ducks trapped in a dead end cave. Sure, there were cyclopes outside the cave, but they're "big but slow," so making a break for it might give them a good chance of survival instead of waiting to die in the cave. They'd have to leave the sheep, but they'd have their lives.

Storm: Eury is pessimistic and stressed, but Ody's decision to bullhead through the storm instead of finding a way around or an island to anchor around is putting the whole fleet in danger of capsizing, and though Ody is trying his best, he's kinda being wilfully oblivious to the true scope of the damage being done, only insisting they will get through it.

Luck Runs Out: He does have a point that Ody's luck will run out sometime, and that he should be cautious of the gods (tho bro didn't have to bring it up in front of the ENTIRE CREW *sigh*). At this point they don't know Poseidon sent the storm and is gunning for them; from his POV all they need to do is wait it out and then sail on, and taking a risky shortcut by asking a fickle god for a favour because Ody is impatient to get home is unnecessarily dangerous. (I agree that insulting Ody's wit is stupid.)

KYFC: Yeah, I don't got a defense on the Wind Bag situation. (I'm personally suspicious that he was involved in opening it so I'm admittedly not too interesting in defending him on this lmao.)

Puppeteer: It's implied that Circe was weaving a spell that lured the men in. Not sure why Eury was able to resist, but the other men were probs magically deaf to his warnings and attempts to keep them from going in.

Telling Ody to cut their losses and run is kinda a tactically sound decision. He doesn't know they need Circe so they can get to Tiresias for help, and though the open sea isn't a great place with Poseidon out there, fighting this new goddess isn't a good idea either. He saw first hand how powerful Circe is, and they have no magic of their own (since he doesn't know Hermes is going to help out with some deus ex machina style drugs). They're already down however many men the scouting party was, if Ody decides to go in there with no real plan then he's as good as dead, and all that will have been accomplished is their Captain and King (and Eury's brother in law) being lost to the witch as well.

This next part is purely my speculation, since the Underworld and Thunder sagas aren't out yet, but I think his and Ody's character arcs are supposed to switch with each other.

Odysseus going from desperately grabbing onto Polites' philosophy of open arms because he's traumatised from killing Astyanax and so sick and tired of war and death, to realising he needs to become the ruthless monster if they want to ever have a hope of getting home.

And Eurylochus going from ruthless caution and pragmatism after the bloody war, to seeing his Captain actually succeeding in getting their men back from Circe, and seeing all the dead soldiers in the Underworld, and realising that doing the ruthless thing means nothing if it doesn't help their men.

Which is why (my theory) he mutinies after Odysseus sacrifices some of their men to Scylla in exchange for the rest of them getting out alive. Eurylochus no longer believes in this type of "sacrifice for the greater good," and he's kinda blindsided that Ody is doing it, because he's gotten used to Ody always going back for their men, and so he thought they were on the same page because he didn't realise his Captain had character development in the opposite direction of him.

Anyway! I love your essay, just wanted to write this to give another perspective. I personally don't much like Eurylochus, but I do kinda understand his perspective.

I see a lot of memes on how short the story would be if Odysseus just listened to Eurylochus, but like.. am I missing something?

Odyssesus telling his name to the cyclops is the biggest mistake obviously. But besides that… the crew and Eurylochus are constantly making messes that Odysseus has to clean up.

Full Speed Ahead: 6 hundred reasons to take what we can; let’s raid the place and go

Taking what they could is what GOT them into the situation in the first place. They took the cyclops sheep and brought the wrath of the cyclops

Remember Them: captain, we should run; captain please

If they’d run when Eurylochus wanted, they would’ve been caught and seen by the other cyclops. Certainly not able to make away with the sheep.

Luck Runs Out: please don’t tell me you’re about to do what I think you’ll do

If Odysseus HADNT gone to the wind god and gotten the bag, when they come upon Poseidon, the entire crew would have been gone. Having the bag of wind save them.

Puppeteer: we have to go save them/no we don’t!; let’s cut our losses you and I and let’s run

Had they done that, not only would all the men left alive be left as pigs, but the two would have never survived. They never would have gone to the underworld to the prophet, and never would have survived the journey home.

So Eurylochus doesn’t make any good suggestions to Odysseus. On the contrary, he proves to be a horrible second in command who doesn’t trust Odysseus and undermines his judgement at every step, causing constant conflict.

Remember them: insisting they run as the cyclops gather and possibly putting the whole crew in danger

Storm: captain, we will capsize at this rate, our fleet will fail; we’re taking too much damage to survive; at this rate, we won’t make it out alive

Luck Runs Out: the entirety of this song is not only Eurylochus challenging Odysseus and questioning his judgment in front of their entire crew, but also insulting Odysseus for the very thing that got 600 men out of Troy alive. It was Odysseus’s wit that ended the war in Troy. It was his wit that moved him to poor Lotus in the cyclops wine. It was wet to tell the cyclops his name was nobody, keeping them from being killed by all the additional cyclops that come to check out the scene.

Odysseus’s pride is what bringsPoseidon wrath, but it’s his width that has gotten 600 men that far.

Keep Your Friends Close: we don’t hear Eurylochus in most of this song, and that’s part of my problem with him. Why the hell is Odysseus staying awake for nine days? Why does he not have anyone on his ship that he can trust to watch the bag for him to close his eyes for 30 minutes? Where is Eurylochus when the other men are opening the bag and letting out the winds of the storm? Why does Odysseus’s second in command not have his back? Why are the men not conscious of the fact that the second in command would also disapprove of their actions? Is it because he wouldn’t? Is it because his constant undermining has encouraged it?

Then the very end, when Odysseus ask for help, closing the bag, what’s Eurylochus’s immediate response? it’s not OK. It’s not yes sir. It’s. “It’s too late.”

Even in the middle of a crisis, he still won’t listen to the captain. He still won’t trust Odysseus’s judgment that ultimately saves them in the end of the saga.

Puppeteer: Only I stayed outside, but the rest went in

Did Eurylochus not even try to stop the men? Does he have such little regard for their safety? He lets them do whatever they want? Has he earned such a little respect that they don’t listen to him?

Like I touched on earlier, if Odysseus listened to Eurylochus’s doubt, not only would all their men be doomed, but Eurylochus and Odysseus as well.

I honestly have so much distain for Eurylochus and his lack of respect for Odysseus. as the listeners and people who know the story, we know just how deep the facts of revealing his name to the cyclops run. But the rest of the men don’t. Eurylochus doesn’t. He just never trusted Odysseus to lead in the first place.

[bendthekneejon]

Daenerys and Odysseus (and a bit of Jon, too)

Epic poems have strongly inspired ASOIAF. But The Odyssey, The Aeneid, and The Divine Comedy, in particular, caught my eye. Now, I’ll talk about Odysseus and Dany. Comparing them has helped me understand GRRM’s view of Dany: is she really taking the path of a villain for him?

Odysseus is the main hero of the Homeric poems. These poems were so inspiring that they helped Greece get out of four centuries of dark ages and into a renaissance in the 8th century BC. So let’s explore this hero, whose example and teachings remain present to this day.

In short, Odysseus is a war hero who, after winning the war against Troy in The Illiad, has to come back home to Ithaca to his family and rule as king. However, he finds plenty of obstacles in his journey and spends a decade sailing from one island to another. Meanwhile, several men are trying to steal his throne and marry his wife Penelope in his absence. The character goes through a process of anagnorisis—taking back what is his and returning to his home and family. 

Likewise, Dany’s journey is characterized by the search of a home and a family. She is the exiled daughter of a king whose throne was taken. Just like Odysseus, she has a strong sense of duty and wants the throne back. Both she (and Jon) and Odysseus, though, want above everything their family and home (Ithaca, Westeros) back: Odysseus wants the family he already has in Ithaca, and Dany has no family but longs to have one. 

However, the problem that they both face is that they cannot go home nor have a family. They have a will and a duty, but no capacity to fulfill them: she is exiled and can’t get to Westeros, and he is held captive in an island by the nymph Calypso.

Now, let’s compare the characters. The opening of the Odyssey describes Odysseus' character. Take a look: 

“Tell me, Muse, of that man, so ready at need, who wandered far and wide,”

They both sailed for years, from one city/island to another. 

“and many were the men whose towns he saw and whose mind he learnt,”

Dany met different cultures and learned from all of them--the Dothraki, the Astapori, the Meereenese. So did Odysseus. This was, in the end, one of the characteristics that made him a great leader and king once he was back in Ithaca. This journey taught them a great deal. They both took advantage of the negative situations to watch and learn from them. Jon Snow has this in common too: the wildling’s, the Night’s Watch…he learned from all of them and these learnings are what make him a capable ruler. (It’s no news for any of us that Jon and Dany have parallel stories. So the parallels with epic heroes apply to Jon too in many cases.)

“and many the woes he suffered in his heart upon the deep, striving to win his own life and the return of his company. Nay, but even so he saved not his company, though he desired it sore. For through the blindness of their own hearts they perished...”

Odysseus tried to save his company, his friends and fellow sailors, but couldn’t save everyone. Some of them perished, for example, being eaten by the cyclops Polyphemus or eating the lotus in Circe’s island and wanting to stay there. Likewise, Dany tried to save all her people from their hardships, like the Dothraki in the Red Waste, but some of them perished.

This is what The Odyssey is about. Taking advantage of suffering. Learning from it. Becoming a stronger person, and a better ruler in the end because of it. 

What about their weaknesses? They are similar, too. For example, when he arrived at Ithaca, he murdered the men who were trying to steal his wife and throne. He had a vengeful side. Dany has had vengeful moments too, crucifying the masters of Meereen, for example. They both, however, regret using violence. Dany despises violence. This was evident when she was so insistent about not reopening the fighting pits in Meereen, when she chained her dragons, or when she left Daario, a violent man. These are all constant proofs of her aversion to violence.

Odysseus also had an arrogant side. His wish to be remembered, to stand out, pushed him to shout his name to Polyphemus-- a mistake that almost got him killed as Poseidon, the god of the seas, made Odysseus’ journey at sea a living hell after that. Dany’s been proud a bunch of times, saying her name and titles too. But in the end, did these wrongs make Odysseus a crazy, unsuccessful ruler? No. All heroes have weaknesses. What matters is what they do about them. They can be willing to change, they can redeem themselves, they can learn to control them.

I could go on for a while. They are both brave. They are both patient: they go through a long journey but they don’t rush to get home and leave it all behind the way it is. Dany made sure she left Meereen with an army and a strong council, for example, learning from her mistakes in Yunkai and Astapor. They both seek to experience different cultures and experiences willingly to learn more. They know how to listen to advice from others. 

“A queen must listen to all. The highborn and the low, the strong and the weak, the noble and the venal. One voice may speak you false, but in many there is always truth to be found.” (ASOS, pg. 92)

Now, Penelope’s suitors are strongly criticized by the author (and greek gods) in this story because they are trying to get to power with no merit whatsoever. Odysseus is the one who has merit, clearly. Just like Dany and Jon are the ones who have merit, not those assholes who are in the council at the end of GOT. Jon and Dany have ruled, traveled, known different people and most importantly, put people first. 

Dany fought for the throne to give freedom to people and a just life, while others only fought for the throne in a succession war. She literally freed and saved people. She learns to rule, she helps people, she puts them first in her decisions. She even puts them before her lover (a parallel with the epic poem ‘The Aeneid’ by Virgil). And D&D give the power to people who aren’t intelligent at all, who haven’t even fought for the people, just like Penelope’s suitors in the palace of Ithaca. Bran has never fought for the people nor has had any experience in power. How can he bring “peace for the kingdoms”? How can he and the others in the council have more merit than Dany and Jon? To me, they are as worthy of ruling as Penelope’s suitors.

And at the end of The Odyssey, there’s a new world order. The law of vengeance is replaced by a law of peace, harmony, and love. Odysseus is back with his family. He goes back to his throne and rules Ithaca. Not only it was his duty (by bloodline), but he was also the fittest for the job, given everything he had learned on his journey. 

When I noticed all his similarities with Dany I wondered: why would GRRM write such a downfall for her, if she’s a modern, female version of one of the biggest heroes in the history of literature? It would be like saying that Odysseus shouldn’t have had a happy ending.

So, either GRRM hates Odysseus (unlikely) or he didn’t get his story (unlikely). I mean, imagine finishing the Odyssey with Odysseus turning mad.

The Illiad and the Odyssey might be the greatest epics of all time, and GRRM seemed to be writing his own epic. And what’s the historical role of epics? To teach. Storytelling has always been a powerful teacher (if you read the Bible, you know Jesus shared his teachings by telling stories, called ‘parables’), and epics were a way to teach values to society. I think this is what GRRM is trying to do too with ASOIAF. Not to show the world the absurdity of life, or anything of the sort. It’s a story to teach values, like any other epic. It seems most fitting, then, that his heroes will teach with their example, just like the heroes in the great epics did. 

Dany and Jon, on their own, have learned to rule. They empathize with people, with the less privileged ones, a characteristic that makes them better rulers. The other rulers just know the life of the aristocrat. GRRM has hinted often that their fates are tied. He molded them as people and leaders. Plus, they are the saviors of the world and would rule better than others given their odysseys. They would make a freer and juster world. I still have hope. I don’t know if I’m naive. I still have hope that this isn’t GRRM’s view, because Dany and Jon’s ending (in GOT) is condemning Odysseus, Aeneas, Dante, and many other epic heroes in which they are based on. 

What about GRRM’s ‘message about power’? There will be always someone in power. What matters is that the right people are in power. Heroes can be teachers, examples to actual or future rulers. I think Jon and Dany were meant to be the ones to teach with their example.

PS. There are some clear hints that ASOIAF is inspired by The Odyssey. When the cyclops Polyphemus asked Odysseus, “what’s your name?”, he replied: “My name is ‘no one’.” Sounds familiar? ;)

More on epic poems and Daenerys here

[brachyurans]

tw3 moods, part 4

BASE GAME GWENTE QUESTE COMPLETE. I AM KING.

you know how i was saying i wanted to use a Nilfgaard deck for the aesthetic well i played a bunch of practice rounds against merchants and put together a good Nilf deck and won the passiflora running Emhyr the Relentless and it was great

i think i might try a Monster deck for the BoW and HoS gwent quests but that’s pretty far in the future.

also, i managed to hit 100 hours on this game without doing a single main quest in skellige lmfao

i learned how to install w3 mods so i could put in Always Full Exp. i waited so long for skellige that nothing was giving me any exp anymore and seeing ‘received: 2xp’ after quests is kind of not fun. now i’m enjoying crossing contracts off again! overleveling is a fake gamer lie.

i figured out the incredibly hilarious fact that geralt’s honey-collecting method involves setting the entire beehive on fire and waiting for it to drop to the ground. geralt hasn’t been friends with bees since he was torturing them with jugs as a witcherling and he’s not about to start now. i haven’t yet figured out what i’m meant to do with all these honeycombs but i sure do got ’em!

the bit where geralt gets put in skellige prison made me chilly. they made him go barefoot :( on the other hand, geralt interacting with what passes for a justice system on this world is fantastic and heartbreaking, he is embittered and impatient and he wants everyone to hurry up and just tell him exactly how bad he’s going to get fucked over today

the way geralt’s face fucking DROPS when eredin shows up in the cave of dreams. [MUFFLED SCREAMING]

also, the way blueboy lists off the herbs everyone’s gotta take—hemlock, henbane, nightshade, etc.—and geralt is like whoa that’s gonna be a hell of a trip like FHSKFJSK of course mr. i-drink-poison-for-a-living knows exactly what kinda trip they’re gonna have. and he’s still just like fuck it this may as well happen to me today.

hjalmar’s quest was actually a tremendous amount of fun, i was kind of putting it off because i don’t enjoy boss battles, but it reminded me a lot of being a kid and how much i loved reading the bits with odysseus and polyphemus (and rereading. i swear i read the polyphemus sequence over twice as often as any of the rest of it). the odyssey was one of my favorite books as a child. yes i was that child. getting folan from the rock trolls was also a lot of fun and having him around for the rest of the investigation was nice. (amazing he could fire a bow with those burns on his hands tbh.) i’m always ten times more willing to wander into horrible dark caves when i have an npc around to be friends with.

i would smooch cerys an craite. geralt should not, that would be weird, but i would.

I PUT THE BABY IN THE FUCKING OVEN

i don’t even have fucking words for this quest i was like ok cerys i support you and then. oh my god. i SCREAMED. i almost missed the timed choice i was too busy freaking out. like. THIS?? THIS IS THE FUCKING CONTEXT FOR THAT???

obviously after all that i crowned her queen. who the fuck picks hjalmar over cerys when she’s obviously the superior candidate like crach says he has no preference but the only point he can give in hjalmar’s favor is “skellige wants a monarch who’ll lead them to battle with nilfgaard” like ok sure crach but i’m gonna back the monarch who won’t immediately fling the isles into emhyr’s maw. may the reign of the first queen of skellige be long and prosperous.

CIRI!!!! IS!!! GAY!!!!!!

i thought lesbian ciri was just a reasonably popular fanon but no you can look a naked woman straight in the eyes as ciri and say “actually, i prefer women,” i love & support my lesbian daughter

the entire last wish sequence killed me FUCKING DEAD

geralt when he says ‘agh, no, not another portal’ and yen tells him to stop whining 😭😭😭

me: ok geralt lets try for a repeat of the unicorn scene [selects dialogue]

geralt: you wanna fuck on the top of a mountain in a dead guy’s bed?

yen: no.

yennefer, darling and best-beloved as she is to me, actually super needs to stop reading geralt’s mind without permission it isn’t cute or funny. it is also, as far as i can see, an invention of the games. bad cdpr [whacks with newspaper]

i’ve now let both the succubi go so i can never make a succubus decoction. rip me. the uncraftable recipe in my alchemy tab is gonna bug me but i just won’t stab women for the crime of being Horny if i don’t have to is that so wrong

i absolutely could not bear to kill any more fucking sirens so around this point i went to get uma. i still have sidequests and Witcher diagrams to get in skellige but sirens and mountains are annoying.

emhyr: i give you leads as fresh as morning dew and this is what i get?

me: well after running around the continent on fifty different side quests the leads were all uh... slightly less fresh.

“forktails this close to the fortress? someone’s been slacking off” go on just drag eskel for filth why don't you geralt

time for everyone to go on their Life-Changing Field Trip with Zuko Geralt

omfg the illusion child with the foglets that Lambert said was copied from his cohort is fucking TINY. it’s probably a reused model because the trainee witchers must have been close to full-grown when they did the trial of the medallion if they were going out on the Path right after but still like... thas bad. witchers are tragedies.

that geralt and eskel’s idea of quality time is dissecting a katakan together (or rather, eskel dissects a katakan and geralt eats an apple...i desperately hope he got the apple out of his pack because it kind of looked like he grabbed it off the nasty-ass katakan table and that’s Gross, geralt)... these guys are fuckin nerds

eskel managing to radiate mom friend energy while practically black-out drunk is extremely powerful

if I was yennefer witnessing three men twice as big as me squeezed into my nice dresses i would have had MUCH harsher words for all of them. those dresses would be unwearable afterwards. also i made the mistake of taking everything off in order to wear yen’s pants which meant geralt woke up on the floor completely naked while everyone else was already busy having their shit together while fully dressed. embarrassing.

vesemir is an extremely fucked-up old dude. ah yes, you know how old people are, nostalgic for their torture tables, just can’t get rid of those. lambert is right about everything

emhyr may be a grade-A douché but geralt’s a little bitch. what’s wrong with morvran leading a banner to kaer morhen, i thought we liked morvran. he’s a horse girl and he’s always polite to us. you don’t even know how to command a company of nilfgaardian soldiers geralt. oh no emhyr will have intelligence about kaer morhen if morvran comes!—he would get the same if it was just the soldiers you think his companies aren’t full of spies??? suck it up and play nice for ciri we need bodies in that castle!! suspect geralt went to ask emhyr literally just to lord over him that he was going to do some fancy magic stuff with ciri that emhyr could never, smh

i have to stop main-questing now and Prepare i want at least three more levels and all of my Witcher gear in order before i head out after ciri

which means i gotta go kill some more sirens.

fuck.

[mst3kproject]

The Cyclops

 If you asked me why this movie was never on MST3K, I would guess that it was simply too obvious.  I mean, we’ve got Bert I. Gordon.  We’ve got Lon Chaney Jr from The Indestructible Man, we’ve got Gloria Talbott from The Leech Woman, we’ve got Dean Parkin from War of the Colossal Beast, we’ve got superimposed bugs trying to look big, we’ve even got a giant radioactive guy with only one eye!  There’s nothing here we haven’t seen before - except for Bert I.’s attempt at a really cheap sci-fit adaptation of The Odyssey.

Yes, you read that correctly.

In Guayjorm, Mexico (Guayjorm?), Susan Winter is looking for her fiancé Bruce Barton, a pilot who went missing three years ago.  Along with her are Lee, another pilot; Russ, an old friend of Bruce’s; and Marty, a shady prospector who’s funding the expedition.  The Mexican government thinks they’re up to no good and deny them permission to enter the area, but of course they go in anyway, and land in a valley which Marty declares to be full of uranium.  Maybe that’s why all the wildlife there is twenty times the normal size… and wait until you see what’s become of Bruce!

I’ve seen enough of these movies that I was honestly surprised the plane didn’t crash. It was certainly set up to crash: a voice on the radio warns of dangerous downdrafts, and there’s the laughable bit where Marty freaks out and punches the pilot.  The characters need the plane to escape again and Bert I. Gordon couldn’t afford to destroy even a model of one, and yet this sequence is shoved in to make it look like we’re going there, apparently just because movies are supposed to have plane crashes in them.

The effects here span Gordon’s usual range, from surprisingly convincing to absolutely risible.  The first giant animal in the movie is a big skink that crawls through a gap in the rocks, and the shot in which we see Russ staring at it is very nice.  The eyelines match up well, and things like the actions of the giant hawk we see a little later are timed perfectly with the actors reacting to them.  Then mere minutes later, we’re treated to a transparent iguana straight out of King Dinosaur.  The skink and the iguana then fight, in a scene that’s shot like it’s the T-Rex vs Spinosaurus fight from Jurassic Park III but is actually just two lizards rolling around.

The makeup that transforms Dean Parkin into a one-eyed monster is awful… I’m not even sure what’s supposed to have happened to the right side of his face.  Did the radiation actually melt it or what?  The prosthetic the same actor wore as Glenn Manning in War of the Colossal Beast was infinitely better.  The giant’s roaring is just somebody yelling “rawr!” and the bits where he’s supposed to be touching and picking up the smaller humans are absolutely dreadful.  On the other hand, the part where he fights a giant snake is clearly an actual boa constrictor wrapped around the actor’s body, and I’m glad the opening credits listed a ‘Snake Fight Supervisor’ who kept either party from getting hurt.

Performances run a similar gamut.  Most aren’t great.  Lon Chaney Jr. is full of enthusiasm, cradling his scintillator as if it’s the One Ring, but comes across as a man with no idea what he’s doing.  I don’t think this is the way Marty’s character was written – he was meant to be a criminal mastermind, rather than a buffoon – but it does work.  The characters of Lee and Russ are too bland for the actors to do much with them, but Gloria Talbott does her best with what she’s given and makes Susan’s obsession both touching and a little creepy.

Poor Susan gets belittled by just about everybody in this movie.  The Mexican official we meet in the opening scene straight-up tells her to her face that she’s crazy and that her companions will betray her.  The men talk about her in similar terms behind her back, and make snide comments about women’s intuition.  At best they feel pity for this poor soul, clinging to lost hope.  Even Russ, who knows her best and understands her need for closure, talks down to her about her quest, calls her hysterical, and treats her as something that really ought to belong to him if only she could understand that Bruce is dead!  The idea that she might not be interested in him is never suggested and I do wonder what this love triangle was like when Bruce was present.

At the same time, the movie treats Susan with a surprising amount of respect.  She’s very much the same sort of ‘helplessly watching woman’ narrator as Audrey Aimes or Joyce Manning and she does a lot of screaming and running, but she wears practical clothing and we’re clearly expected to sympathize with her desperate hope even as we, too, suspect it’s a lost cause.  After being told over and over that she’s borderline delusional, the end of the movie vindicates her faith in Bruce: he is alive, just not in the form she expected.  At the end she finally gets the closure she needs, able at last to grieve and move on.

If I’m talking about -isms I should mention that Lee keeps bragging that he’s good at tracking because he’s ‘one sixteenth Indian’, later upping this to a half when he manages to sneak by the giant unseen and finally to ‘full-blooded Indian’ when he finds the way back to the plane after they get lost.  ‘Primitive’ peoples don’t have skills or knowledge, they’re good at these things by instinct, because they’re basically animals, right? ‘Native American’ isn’t a set of diverse cultures, it’s just being good at finding your way in the woods!

You guys don’t care about any of that, though. You want me to get back to the Greek Mythology stuff.

Gordon’s script takes a number of things from The Odyssey.  First of all, we have the premise of venturing into an unknown wilderness in search of one’s way home to a lost love.  On the way our heroes encounter storms, madmen, and monsters, and end up as prisoners in the cave of a one-eyed, wilderness-dwelling giant who blocks the way out with a giant stone.  Before escaping, they must blind the giant with a fire-tipped spear.  This is certainly the best-known part of the Odyssey, and people who haven’t come near reading the poem are still familiar with it from sources as diverse as The Seventh Voyage of Sinbad to Ducktales.  The allusions to it are obvious and intentional.

But it doesn’t stop there.  Gordon also seems to have visited another ancient poem that discusses Polyphemus the Cyclops – Ovid’s Metamorphoses.  This contains a sequence (Book XIII, lines 738-897) in which the monster falls in love with a beautiful woman, the sea-nymph Galatea.  She rejects him because of his ugliness, choosing instead to run off with the handsome river god Acis.  This story presents the Cyclops in a much more human, even tender, light – his romantic advances towards Galatea are awkward, but they are sincere. What makes him a monster is how he responds to her rejection by killing her chosen lover.

Several parts of The Cyclops seem to reflect this legend.  The giant Bruce is certainly as gentle as he can be towards Susan, while hostile to his romantic rival, Russ.  There’s also the fact that when Susan sees the giant she immediately rejects him.  She must know that the giant disfigured man living among the wreckage of Bruce’s plane and hanging on to objects like his watch can only be Bruce himself, but she refuses to accept it, even when she sees how he responds to her.  She needs Russ to tell her what happened before she can finally bring herself to face it.

Which brings us to the fact that in another way, this is of course a remake of The Amazing Colossal Man.  We have the fiancée searching for her lover whom she knows has come to harm but not what form that harm has taken, only to find he’s been irradiated and grown huge because his cells won’t stop dividing. Unfortunately, it’s not nearly as thoughtful a movie as Colossal Man or War of the Colossal Beast. Both those films tried to make Glenn Manning’s plight a metaphor, the first for cancer and the second for social problems. Neither fully succeeded, but they did give you things to think about.  The Cyclops uses the same premise to put a twist on some well-known mythology, but unfortunately it doesn’t do anything with that.

The Metamorphoses was something of a comment on The Odyssey.  It suggests that the reason Polyphemus was in such a foul mood the day Odysseus showed up was because Galatea had just rejected him, thus giving the monster feelings, motivations, and a story of his own.  Bruce in The Cyclops is just a big, ugly, angry guy, and without seeing his descent into monsterhood he’s not the tragic figure Glenn Manning was trying so hard to be.  Susan’s denial and her need to have somebody else tell her what she’s encountered are touching, but don’t say much about the mythological motifs they’re tacked onto.  The idea of Penelope going out to search for Odysseus rather than quietly weaving a shroud and waiting for him could be interesting, but again, it’s not really used.  Gordon had some great ideas but all he really wants to show us is superimposed lizards.

The ending also leaves a couple of important questions unresolved.  I think we’re supposed to believe that everybody got back to Texas okay and Russ and Susan lived happily ever after… but part of me worries they all got thrown into prison in Mexico for flying over restricted airspace, and after all that radiation they may not grow huge but I bet their tumors did.  How sweet.

[in-the-bookish-dark]

Light of Day - Chapter 1 - RL

The morning was wet.  It wasn't humid or muggy. Just plain wet. Everything was wet. The rains had swept through town the night before at ten and two, but since then, no water had fallen. It just hung heavy in the air and gave every surface in the house a misting of earth sweat.

Miles padded through the house.  Derek, transient houseguest, was gone. Windows were open. Kids were down the street, already squealing.  They always played tag between the cars on either side of the block.  In the mornings, it was okay.  Then, when things got busy, lunchtime or after, they'd find a back yard to congregate in.  Fun was fun, but getting run over was not.  Ten or twelve years ago, he'd have been out there with them. Right now, he'd give his right hand, or part of it, to be out there playing in the new day.  New day or old day, just a different fucking day.

He went through the motions with the coffee.  Muscle memory, they called it.  He sat at the dinette and shook out a cigarette as the percolator started to rumble.  At the first drag, he wanted a shot of Jack, but he'd start with coffee.

When he came in the day before, the letter was buried between two magazines and grocery store flyers in the mailbox.  He'd done the physical a month ago. Clean bill. Son of a bitch.  He didn't have to read this letter to know what it said.  He did anyway. He needed to know his drop-dead date.

He mentioned it over dinner - Chelsea had come over and made spaghetti.  He drank most of the Riunite and two beers.  It was right at the end of the second beer. They cleaned the table. She had questions and a deer in the headlights look. He said he was tired. Then he ushered her out by picking a small fight and poking and prodding until the room and the house were too small for more than him. They'd talked about her moving in, but they still both liked to have some space.  He sat on his front porch and smoked two joints and drank the rest of the sixer.  He didn't care who smelled the bud that night.

Maybe he'd call her this morning, after he had some cleansing coffee. Maybe he's walk 'round to her place. When he poured his coffee, he went ahead and poured a shot. Why wait? He threw it back and poured another. Why wait? Time's burning. The Jack burned going down and he liked it.  He needed something burning inside at that moment.  Everything was burning, and he wanted to feel it inside like he felt it outside.

They did the draft lottery in December. His number came up in the first half hour. His birthday was July 9th, so his number was 1. Couldn't be much more in the crosshairs than that. Can't even pretend to hope. It burned going through his mind.  He didn't hear anything after the number showed on the tv, just helicopters.  Waves - no, fleets - of helicopters, slicing through the humidity of Vietnam.  What felt like their rotors pounding the air, though was his heart trying to escape his chest.  Chels was with him that night. She asked what was wrong.  He took a while before he said "Nothing."  It was a big nothing growing in the pit of his stomach. He remembered Polyphemus and Odysseus.  "Who is killing you, Polyphemus?"  "Nobody. Nobody is killing me." Then shut the fuck up, they probably said.  He did soon enough, and then he was silent for all ages.

Odysseus pretended to be mad in order to get out of war.  It didn't work.  They put a baby - his son - in front of the plow, in front of the plow he was turning the field with, dressed as a woman. If he was really mad, which they knew he wasn't, he'd have plowed on through Telemachus, on through his legacy. He stopped, though, then accepted his fate and went off to death and Troy.

Dressing as a woman, (was Odysseus actually the world's first cross-dresser?), wasn't going to get him anywhere.  It had been done.  Done to death. Canada?  It was 1000 miles up the Mississippi and then some.  A hell of a trek to a place where he knew nobody.  Did he know anyone in the movement ... surely someone ... but nobody came to mind.  He sympathized - sympathized like crazy, but music kept him busy.  Maybe Kyle or Kenny knew someone.  Practice was at two and their gig at nine.  Maybe they knew someone.  He'd see. And maybe he'd ask someone.  It seemed right but maybe it was someone else, like Achilles or someone. But that was back in Dec., even before the order for physicals came in.

His coffee cooled when he stared toward the window.  Not at the window or out of it, just roughly that general direction.  He padded back into the living room and grabbed some vinyl.  "In a Silent Way" by his namesake.  He sprayed and wiped and blew little flecks of lint off the disk before cueing it up.  Mademoiselle Mabry started up as he sat down.

There was a smear of vinyl cleaner on his fingertip and he flicked it off before reaching for another cigarette.

He looked and rubbed the tip, spreading the little bit of moisture that was left.  His finger.  His cousin Greg had found his own answer.  Two weeks before he was supposed to do his physical, he managed to get his index and middle finger yanked off at the second knuckle at the [steel mill.]  He was always careful, except the one time when he wasn't.  Without both fingers, there was a lot he couldn't do, including things like filling out forms, firing machine guns, throwing grenades, and whatever else fit the job description of a grunt in 'Nam.

He rubbed slowly around the finger tip, imagining its absence.  There he was at Cafe du Monde, dipping his beignets left-handed. Or he was claw-lifting them with his right.  Pool.  He could still handle his stick with those fingers gone.  Grip the stick tighter.  Maybe that angle would even be better. It could start a trend. Everyone would start lifting their fingers off the stick just so they could play like him.  Albums. Could he get them out of the sleeve with "the claw?" Could he cup Chel's face with his hands the way she likes with the claw?  Down at the rec center, could he play pickup b-ball with the claw? Where would his control go?  Two fingers isn't a lot when it comes to a basketball. Four fingers weren't that much to start with.  But he'd be playing ball at home, and not on some muddy clearing outside Saigon or wherever the hell they would send him. No b-ball deep in the jungle where Charlie is waiting around to shoot it - and you - out of the air in the middle of your jump shot. Two finger b-ball is always better than dead.

He picked up the spoon for his coffee.  Rolled it finger-to-finger with his left hand.  Dropped it six times. Didn't even try it with his right.  Couldn't imagine how. So maybe he's stop putting cream in his fucking coffee. If I can take a finger or two off, I can drink my damn coffee black. He went back to staring toward the window.  He drummed those two fingers on the table.  Might be his last chance, better take it.

Maybe two other fingers.  Left hand?  Nah. He'd be double screwed. Lamed up and still in 'Nam.  What do they care about your left hand if you're a rightie?  Ring and pinkie?  Still useless.

He called his mom, then he called his dad.  They both didn't know what to say. Literally. "I don't know what to say, it's ..." his mom said.  "I don't know what you want me to say ..." came from his father.

After he finished the calls, he sat on the couch.  Then he laid on the couch.  Then he methodically spooled his phone cord in one hand, until it was snug between wall and phone.  He tugged both ends, then he yanked the cord from the biscuit jack on the wall in one clean jerk.  His elbow nudged the casement window open and he flung the phone out into the yard, as far as he could.

At La Casa, forty-five minutes later, he was already on his third boilermaker.  Maybe he should pace himself. Maybe he didn't care because in less than three weeks, he was going downtown to the induction center.  He got another shot.  Still working on the second beer, but then he was already ahead of the game.  Whatever the game was.  A shadow came in through the Decatur side door, and walked up behind him.

"Hey, Miles,  what's the haps?" It had to be Carl, from the old band. The rasp and Irish Channel accent was unmistakable.  He and Chelsea grew up together.

"Hey, Carl, where y'at?"

"So?"

He shrugged. 'So ' what??

"Talked to Chelsea."

"Jesus.  And?"

"What's goin' on, man?"

"I got mail yesterday."

"From?"

"Uncle Sam."

"Shit, man."

"Yeah. Order to report."

"When?"

"The 23rd."

"Whatcha gonna do?"

"Exactly."

"No, I mean, really, what are you gonna do?"

"Man, I don't fucking know."

Neither of them said anything.

Carl glanced at the setup.  He flagged the bartender and waved two fingers at their glasses and bottles.

"Thanks, man."

"Hey, least I can do."

"So, what's going on with Chelsea?"

"Nothing, man, I just wasn't in a mood.  If we started on it as soon as I got the letter, she'd freak, and then we'd go around and around, and I just wasn't going to deal with it then.  I don't have an answer; how the fuck am I supposed to give her an answer."

"Answer about what?"

"About ... how I felt, what I was going to do, what about us, shit like that.  I wasn't thinking. I was just falling down this long, dark hole, man.  I don't think I've still hit bottom.  When I was first on the draw, I knew my number was up - literally.  Then I got the physical exam letter a month ago, and I knew they didn't find shit that was going to save me.  I'm not an athlete, but I'm healthy."

'Well, listen, guy, Amy has a connection to Canada ~'

'Canada.' Heavy. Not interested. Dropping it on the floor.

'Hang on, buddy.'

Carl walked off. Miles sat there, rocking his empty shot glass back and forth. After a while or two or three, Carl came back.

'Uppers, man.'

'What?'

'Take a bunch of uppers the day before your physical, and then one the day of, and your blood pressure will be off the charts.  They won't take you for that. Maria ~' he shrugged back where he'd come from ' ~ she can hook you up good, compadre.'

Miles flicked the shot glass.  It slid across the bar and hung over the edge before dropping.  There was no crash, so it must've landed on something. 'Goddamit, Carl, I already took the fucking physical. How the hell does that help me?'

'Oh yeah, shit, man. I'm sorry.  Little high.  Good fucking buzz, actually. I forgot.'

Miles tried to rub away the tension in his skull, but it wasn't going anywhere.

'Anyway, man ' hey, let's get together before you have to go in.  Get totally wasted and strung out. My tab.  Least I can do.'  Carl slapped his shoulder, then wandered.  Somewhere.  Miles didn't see.

He finished his drink.  He finished the drink Carl left behind.  He waved for another shot and threw it back, then paid out.

Chelsea was waiting on the front step when he got to the house. She had a beer beside her, sweating on the concrete, and her cigarettes, untouched, as well.

He sat back to back with her. "Hey."

"Yeah?"

"We can talk. I just couldn't do it then."

She picked at a single thread sticking up from the knee of her jeans.  "Yeah, well ..."

"I'm sorry."

She nodded.  He put out his hand and she took it. She reached across her body for her beer and took a long draw.

"Want to go inside?"

He wanted one of her cigarettes.  He reached, but then stopped.  "Yeah, hey - how about I cook tonight?"

"In a bit."

She walked him into the shotgun house; walked him straight back to the bedroom.  She held him and he held her.  They didn't manage sex.  The alcohol and the draft board saw to that.  They did have spaghetti again, his way, with wine in the sauce and big chunks of meat.  Almost meatballs, but smaller and ragged, and no breading or seasoning.

She got up in the middle of the night and found him by himself in the living room.  He was passed out, a dry bottle of vodka next to him.  His index and middle fingers were folded down and taped together.  Layers and layers of masking tape.  She turned off the snowy tv and threw her grandma's quilt over him and went back to the bedroom.

When she got up the next morning, long after dawn, he'd been up for a while.  A corner of the quilt was soaking in the sink.  He was at the dinette.  "I, uh, threw up a little.  Cleaned it up, but some got on it.  I'll hang it out in a bit."

She nodded and took a cigarette from the pack on the table. His were stronger and they burned, but she didn't care just then.  She took his mug of coffee and pointed him to the cabinets.  The steam told her it was fresh.

He poured a new one for himself and sat across from her.  She remembered and looked at his hand.  No tape, but some redness from where it was yanked off.

"What were you doing with the tape?"

"Nothing.  I was just drunk and wanted to see what it would be like."

"Kinda odd."

He shrugged. "Drunk guys do odd fucking things, Chels."

"What do you th~"

"I don't fucking know."  He stood and walked to the sink. "Honestly, Chels - I don't know.  I'm not trying to be an asshole. I don't know what to say yet, don't know what to do."

She blew out smoke and fiddled with the lighter. "I'll finish up the quilt."

"Nah, I got it, babe.  Hey, let's get dressed and go down to the park.  We'll grab po-boys and watch the kids on the flying horses."

She nodded.  He squeezed the excess water out of the quilt corner, then smoothed it.  The screen door banged behind him, taking it out to the line.

They got out there on the streetcar just as the lunch wagon rolled in. Miles went over to get the po-boys. Chelsea found a Magnolia with a grassy patch underneath.  The breeze was soft but refreshing.  They couldn't see the carousel from there, but they could hear it when the wind shifted.  It was the most relaxing thing they'd done in days.  She gathered their sandwich trash.  He reached into the bag for two Hubig's pies.  Cherry and lemon.  She took lemon.  He finished the cherry in half the time she spent on hers, but it was all good.

By the flying horses, there was a Coke machine.  Coke for him and Tab for her.  He folded up the pull tabs and stuck them in the coin pocket of his jeans til they found a trash can.  They leaned on the rail around the carousel and watched the squealing kids.  Their cans sweated and dripped down. A little cluster of droplets formed under hers.  His drips were all over the place.

It really was the best afternoon. They had laughing kids in front of them, surrounded by wide greens, greens without snipers or tripwires or landmines or flamethrowers, and somehow, he managed not to think of them.  Southeast Asia was somewhere on the far side of Mars.

There was a bench nearby, close, but not right on the main paths.  She kissed him and he kissed back.  Her hand rested on his thigh; he glanced around, then slid one hand up her shirt to her bra-less tit.  His hand was still cold from the Coke can.  She jumped, but didn't complain.

Back at the house, they again went straight back to the bedroom.  Windows were open, but windows didn't matter.  She laid him back and straddled him, riding him face-to-face.  His wood was weak, but it firmed up inside her.  She rocked until his hardness filled her, then leaned down and let him thrust.  She had little bruises on her thighs the next morning, but it didn't matter.  They rode together, and her tits dragged back and forth over his chest.  She panicked a little when he came - they hadn't stopped for a rubber - but she was too close herself to think too hard.  She douched after, though, as he laid, catching his breath.  Don't take too much of a risk.  Nine months on, he was going to be in the jungles or worse.  They hadn't talked marriage before, and she wasn't going to talk it now.  She also wasn't going to be a single mother.  If the douche didn't take care of things, there were other ways.

They skipped dinner and had popcorn and beer in bed.  The little tv set wavered and wobbled, but they saw most of the Saturday night line-up.

Around 2am, storms woke them.  He rolled her over, again without preamble, and glided deep into her.  She was wet from his cum and wet from the douche.  Lightning snapped around them. Thunder shook the windows.  Winds slapped the blinds back and forth.  All the rage outside was inside, too.  This was a fuck.  His cock pounded in; her ankles met behind his ass.  He reached a hand behind her neck and pulled her up to him.  Every thrust, he grunted; every thrust, she gasped.  The angle worked for her, and she came and came.  Hard orgasms from far inside, like they'd been waiting for a dark summoning.  They liked it a little rough sometimes, and they'd cum with fireworks and cannons.  She came hard like that.  Angry orgasms.  She fucked back against him as hard as he fucked down into her.  She would hold him there and fight to keep him home inside of her.  He fucked like he never planned to leave, or planned never to leave.  She couldn't cum anymore. She just shuddered around and under him.  She keened and clutched and scratched.  Her nails sank in and Miles himself went over the edge.  The last thrust, he didn't want to stop there.  He wanted his whole fucking body inside her cunt, swallowed up by her.  He squirmed, like that would help, but in twenty seconds, it was all over.  His cock was still hard, but it was the only muscle with any strength.  He sagged down on her, and they both wept, then faded out.

He woke and he was face down, naked, and alone.  His cock was slimy and sticky, but alone.  She was in the bathroom, running water for minutes on end, then going into the kitchen.  She came back and shut the door again.  The water came back on.  He drifted in and out, but noticed when the water cut off again.  The light under the door flickered like she was walking back and forth. He drifted in and out more.  By the time he got his head around checking on her, she snapped the light off and came out.  Chels sat on the bed and ran her fingers through his damp hair, then walked out.  His first thought was she was walking home at 4am.  He was about to roust himself to stop her.  He heard the chain on the door and the couch creak, and knew she wasn't going anywhere.

In the morning, he made coffee. He poured mugs for both and set hers on the coffee table.  Close enough to reach from the couch, but not so close she'd knock it over.  He drank his on the way to the corner for a paper.

He got the paper and kept walking, wondering about the night.  He'd cum in her twice without protection. Did it mean something more than convenience?  Chels was good about keeping condoms on hand for them.  His place, her place, her purse, just in case.  Didn't even bother last night.  She was always in charge of protection, the condom cop.  Just was.  Except last night.  He didn't know what it meant. Something? Nothing?

When he came in, the couch was empty.  She called from the kitchen "Hey!"

He went in and she was scrubbing down the countertop.  The stove shined as much as that old shitpile would shine.  This confused him more.  Was she nesting or working off tension?

"Hey, Chels."

"... hey."

This was fucking reading tea leaf time.  She only half-glanced at him.

He walked up behind her.  His hand landed on her shoulder. She kept scrubbing.  Not scrubbing harder. Not scrubbing any less. Not leaning back, and not trying to escape.  Just not engaging.  He stepped back and she slowed.  Two strands of hair had escaped her cleaning scarf, and she brushed them back.

"I've been thinking ... Miles ..."

"Yeah, Chels?"

" ... I don't know."

"About?"

" ... I don't even know that."

He touched her one more time on the shoulder. Light touch. Lighter even than before, and just for a second.  He walked toward the dinette, then changed his mind.  He yanked hard on the paper towel roll and eight or ten spooled off.  He ran them under the tap and smeared the water around the front of the fridge, avoiding anything that was taped or clipped to it. The wad of paper dripped water down the fridge to the floor.

She glanced over.  "Goddammit, Miles ..."

He froze.  Yeah. He couldn't - or wouldn't - clean for shit. Bad time to remind her.

He stepped back and they stood stock still for a moment.

She slapped her rag down on the counter.  "Here comes the shit storm" he thought.  One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi, four M~ ... and she hugged his side. She kissed his shoulder.  She said, "It's okay, babe. I got this. You go do something." She pointed outside, so he went outside.

He sat on the stump of the old Magnolia that had snapped apart six years ago when Betsy blew through.  He was surrounded by dandelions a foot high, and those nasty, milkweed kind of weeds even higher, so that's what he did.  Probably snapped off more than he yanked out of the soft soil, but it was something, maybe.

He fucked around, making a mess, for about half an hour. After that, he got shame, and he got serious.  Instead of throwing them around the yard, he stacked the weeds.  Instead of yanking, he dug with the fingers he while he had, and pulled them by the root.  Thirty more minutes and he was rolling a joint from the stash in the roof of the shed.  At least he'd done something, though.  He tapped on the kitchen window and she glanced over.  Ten seconds later, they were sharing the joint.  She was leaning in to him.  They were pulling down the beers she'd brought out and taking their time on the doob.  Their little time machine where everything stops. That Twilight Zone episode with the guy and the stop watch.  They had their own.

Their eyelids got heavy.  They rocked back and forth. He sang "Brown Eyed Girl" to her, or what he could remember.  They went to the bedroom and rocked against each other.  The condoms never left the drawer again, and the afternoon passed before either of them stirred.

He heated up leftover spaghetti in foil in the stove and she douched again.  Twice. Salt and vinegar, until it burned.  They sat on the stoop with paper plates and ate dried out spaghetti, with burn-brown ends, and watched kids ride by on their bikes in the twilight.

The next morning, he had to do something.  He didn't know what, but he couldn't sit still.  It could be the wrong thing, as long as it was something.  Between 5 and when he got up at 6, he rolled in and out of dreams.  Asians in black pajamas chasing him through the Garden District and into the Quarter.  The Greek sailors at the Acropolis bought him glasses of Ouzo, then tried to shove him into a tiger trap with big, sharpened bamboo stakes.  He took one through the thigh, but still managed to run down Dauphine to Bourbon, then around to the Old Absinthe House.  They poured a schooner of green liquid and told him he'd be fine - and that he'd be better off without any of his fingers, and when he looked down, his right arm was a stump ending just below his wrist.  He crossed the levee and jumped into the Mississippi.  When he came up, he was surrounded by screaming GI's in rat cages half-under the water.

He flung himself out of bed; every inch of him, pooled in sweat.  Chelsea didn't stir.  He wanted to scream her awake, but what good would that do?  He just needed someone to hear him.  The phone was still fucked, and laying in the yard.  He could go to [pirate place?].  They were always open to people they knew.  A drink would help. Two, three drinks would help. Maybe.  They were down to four joints, but he took one from the house stash and slipped out the front screen door.  He left the front door barely latched, so she wouldn't hear.

Jerry pegged him as soon as he walked in. "What the fuck, man?  Are you on acid?"

Miles explained the past three days, jittering as he did so.  Jerry poured him a big glass of something brown.  "On the house, dude."

Miles fired up and they passed the doob back and forth until it was too small even for a roach clip.

"What are my options, man?"

"You could fake going nuts, man, but there's a price.  You could claim you were a fag, also a price.  You could run off to Canada~"

"No. Ain't going anywhere."  Funny, the option with the least price was the one he ruled out immediately.  But there was a price.  It was the fact that it didn't cost him anything.  He might not want to fight or die, but he didn't want to run, either.  He'd take the consequences, but the one consequence he couldn't take was nothing."

"Conscientious objector?" Jerry said it, then shook his head.

"Yeah. I'd still go.  I just wouldn't get to shoot back.  That's assuming I convinced them of my 'longstanding beliefs' of the past two days."

Jerry nodded. "You could kill somebody, man."

They held their breaths.  The words filtered down out of the air.  When they were on the floor, still and safe, they went on.

"I ever tell you about my cousin? Greg?"

"Pineda?  Down at the garage?"

"One and only.  He got his letter a year and a half ago."  He held up a hand, two fingers folded down.

"Shit. So that's what happened to them ...?"

Miles nodded.

"I actually thought it was an accident."

"Maybe it was on purpose, maybe not. He had fucking great timing, though. Day after he got his letter to report for physicals, bam!  He still had the stitches in when he reported.  Doc didn't even want to look under his bandages.  Checked a couple of boxes and told him to put his fucking pants back on and go home."

Jerry nodded.  A moment later, Miles' glass was full again.  He reached for his wallet.  Jerry waved for him to put it away, eyes out the window, squinting at the sun that wasn't there yet.  The next joint was Jerry's. Big fat blunt. Twice as big as the one Miles shared.  By 8am, Miles was toasted.  Jerry moved him to a booth and brought a bag of Fritos for him to munch on.  Around 1, he walked home.

The day was as wasted as he was.

Next day, he had to have a plan.  Getting fried was no plan.  The clock was running, and in another seventeen days, his ass would be on its way to wherever the fuck they do basic, and then he'd be hopping through the jungle with a target on his head.

Chelsea was off at work by the time he woke up at 7.  The bakery started at 4 and she would get in at 5, and run solid to 5 that afternoon.  He was off til tomorrow, and had promised to clean up more shit in the yard. That's what she said.  Banquet TV dinners on trays in the living room last night, which he fell asleep on.  Salisbury steak and potatoes spilled all over the floor.  "Can you at least do something with the yard tomorrow?"  She went to bed.  Around 2 he woke up enough to clean up his mess.  He crashed on the couch.

The big Bradford pear in the back, past the magnolia stump, near the sagging back fence, needed trimming.  The branches dragged toward the ground. When the wind blew, the pears skittered and thunked along the ground. Some were already falling off and rotting. Chelsea hated walking around back there.  They had lawn chairs for sitting in the shade. "I might as well have to walk through a maze of dog crap, though."  She hated it.  They ended up sitting at the stump, in the sun, most of the time.

He dug the bow saw out of the shed.  He stared at the tree, not sure where to start.  Cut off the heavy parts at the end, the part with all the pears?  That didn't seem right.  Maybe the ones that were way overloaded.  No, start back by the trunk, where the problem started.  He cut of a couple of middle size branches, long, but not too heavy.  That gave him confidence.  Next, he went for a branch half way out on a bigger one.  It had to have 50 pears of different sizes.  He held the baby branch and started sawing.  He was half way through when things twisted.  There was a little crack-crack and the whole branch rolled forward.  The saw blade was trapped. On the in-stroke, it jumped and grazed his thumb nail.

"Son of a bitch!"  He threw the saw down and jumped back.  The branch crackled more and sagged to the ground. It didn't break. Just hung.  He checked his thumb. There was a long gash, and a little glow of pink, turning to red, showing through. He picked up the saw and banged on the branch, hammering until the back of the bow was dented.

"Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch.  I coulda lost my thumb.  Son of a bitch."  Even as he said it, even as he was angry of the near miss, he was getting angry over the missed opportunity. A thumb was probably worth two fingers.  He should have taped his goddamn thumb down the other night.  What would that have been like?  What the fuck can you do without a thumb?  He picked the saw up again.  He swung it at the trunk like a hatchet. It bent in two and the blade popped out of its anchors and warbled across the yard.

Then he sat down in the grass and stared at the thumbnail. His eyes swept the thumb from the nail down to the joint and back up, again and again.  The saw was fucked, but ... maybe there was a way to salvage this without being obvious.  Maybe if he ... fuck. Wrong goddamn fucking thumb.  Shit. He almost lost a thumb and it would have been the wrong goddamn thumb. He was halfway through a plan to get it done anyway. It still would've been useless. He berated himself. "You cut off a thumb, you cut off the right one, fuckass.  Not the left.  The left won't get you off a fucking bowling team, much less off a plane to 'Nam." He picked up the saw blade and the bow.He flung them. They tumbled end over end as they swirled high in the air.  Two, maybe three houses away, he heard the clang.  Then a dog went crazy barking.  Someone's mutt must've got the piss scared out of him.  Good. Fuck him and fuck his owners.

He came in, washed the thumbnail in peroxide, then put on the smallest bandaid he could find.  It barely covered the nail, though the edges easily overlapped across his thumbprint.  On his way out, he thought about leaving a note for Chelsea, but he was in a mood for niceties for himself or for anyone else.

He took the streetcar back to the Quarter and drank all his cash away at La Casa.  His buddy Ivan walked him back to the house at 2am. Chelsea had come and gone long ago.  There was a plate of food in the sink, filled up with water. The peas and corn just floated in it. The meatloaf was soggy and gray by then, just a ring of oozed Ketchup . No note. No hello; no goodbye; no "kiss my ass."

It pissed him off. He hated it, but he knew he deserved it.

She didn't come by the next day and she didn't call. Not that she could, actually.  The phone and its cord was still sprawled across the lawn on the side of the house.  He laid on the couch most of the day, watching who knows what wobble across the screen.  There was Dialing for Dollars, random soap operas, a couple of news breaks with updates from 'Nam.  There were dozens of furniture store commercials.  Some guy named Crazy Larry who windmilled his arms as he talked and talked and talked.  He would've gotten his ass off the couch, but every time he seriously considered it, he decided he didn't give a tinker's fuck, so he settled back down, grabbed another warm beer out of the four six-packs in the crate on the floor, and relit the joint that kept going out on him.  Shadows came and shadows ran off to the east, and then abandoned him completely.

The door was open, a breeze blowing through the screen.  The only light in the house was the tv.  Saying something.  After the six o'clock news, [carol bernett] came on. He thought it was her, anyway.  People ran around in dumb-ass costumes.  Now and then the audience would laugh and applaud.  Now and then he would, too, though he was only vaguely aware of why.  A lot of it was probably no more than laughing because others were laughing.  He muttered to nobody but himself, "Dumb-ass ... yeah, laugh because they're laughing.  Why don't you get your ass on a fucking plane for Saigon just because everyone else is doing it? We'll see how fucking funny that turns out to be."

He closed his eyes and rolled that thought around in his head. Getting on a plane.  Getting off in whatever fucking base everybody lands in when they get sent to Vietnam.  Laughing and laughing about the horrible humor of it. Him. Vietnam. Wanting to survive.  Not just his body, but who he is.  Coming back intact.  How funny it is that he's thinking about avoiding 'Nam by becoming not intact. Maybe he'd mail his fingers Vietnam.   They'd be casualties.  They'd belong there, right?  He imagined.  Getting a box.  Packing it with excelsior.  Maybe straw.  Straw seemed more appropriate.  They could throw the whole goddamn thing into a field and let a water buffalo eat it.  Did he know anyone over there?  Someone he could send them to?  Someone who would do him a dark and disgusting favor?  "Hey, man, is it okay if I send you two of my fingers? Nah, it's just because I want you to throw them out somewhere.  Field, road, rice paddy, land mine, shove 'em up a VC ass for all I care.  Yeah, that's pretty much it. Huh? Yeah, I cut them off so I wouldn't have to go, so it only seemed fair that they go anyway. Right. Ok, my man, have a good day and come back safe. Love to your wife, if she hasn't left you."

That would go great. Oh yeah. He played it a couple of times in his head. Two or three or ten or more. Maybe not the whole thing, but the bones.  He savored it.  Wanted it right.  Do you say it pissed off or calm?  Do you say it all twisted up, or safely from behind the mask?  He mulled, wanting to come up with a version that didn't openly offend anyone, but would be clear.

He mulled, and when he opened his eyes, it was already morning.  Had he really mulled for six or eight hours?  From the light and shadows, it had to be easily 10am, which would mean that they whole night had passed as he moved each word, each thought, from one side to the others.

Chelsea came in at noon and he was still glazed, still red-eyed and in his own hash fog.  She came in and touched his forehead.  He stirred.  Another hour or so, and he'd have sat up on the couch.  He stayed down. She might be gone before he managed to prop himself up.  She walked through the house.  He could see into the kitchen, and a little way down the hall.  She touched things.  She ran her fingers across the back of her usual chair;  she looked out of the window she could count on seeing a bird's nest from.  Down the hall, she stopped and adjusted a picture of them riding the paddlewheel steamboat.  She swayed for a bit, like she could hear the calliope calling them aboard.  She walked on down to the bedroom.  He heard the bed squeak.  Minutes later, his eyes followed her up the hall. She disappeared in the other side of the kitchen, then came out again, and stood in the hall for a moment. She adjusted another picture.  Tapped the frame three times.  She glanced his direction.  He thought his hand went up in a wave.  He wasn't sure.  It probably didn't, though. After glancing his way, she picked her purse off the kitchen counter and walked back out the front door.

Two hours later, he was focused enough to realize he was hungry.  Thirty minutes later, he was sprawled over the kitchen table.  He had three of four hot dogs to go. A mountain of ruffles spread across the tabletop.  He scooped chips onto the hot dogs. He worked his way through them, barely propping himself up.

His pitcher full of iced tea was almost gone.  No glass, just the pitcher.  When everything on the table had been eaten or drunk, he leaned back.  Restless.  Now that he had energy and a slightly clearer head, he was restless.

He grabbed a hat from the table and headed back out to Finnegan's.  It was a cave in there, dark and wooded, and the a/c was powerful enough to store beef.  For locals, the dark and quiet were the biggest draws; for tourists, it was the cold.

Trish was tending bar.  He liked Trish.  She always had a smile for him.  She had on a loose tie-died halter top and a big fake sunflower in her hair.  She shimmied.  That was one of his favorite things about her, even better than the smile.  She looked over her wire rim, yellow lenses and said, "You look like shit."

She slid him a beer and he told her the whole story.  He wasn't trying to stare at her cleavage, but his head wasn't doing much of anything else.  It was heavy from four days of heavy drinking and smoking.  And he liked the view.

"Y'know, you have to be square with her, if you really care.  She just wants to know what's going on.  She's not expecting you to be Johnny Hero. She just wants you to be you.  That's what she signed up for."

He nodded and finished off his beer.

"Hey," she put her hand on his. It was warm, despite the icicles hanging off everything else.  "Y'all should come hang out with me and my old man tonight. My sister will be there. Rap, smoke some. It'll be good."

He went by Chelsea's.  He knocked and knocked, went from window to window. After ten minutes of no response, he saw her old lady neighbor out picking shit in her garden.  'Hey, Mrs., uhhh ~ have you seen Chels?  I mean, Miss Jackson?'  She wobbled up to one knee, grabbing air.  Her cane had fallen over.  He grabbed the cane and boosted her up.  The dirt on her hand was warm and soft.  The skin on her hand was cold and dry.  She dusted her hands, swaying a little without any anchor.  He thought about reaching over and taking her elbow or shoulder, but he was afraid.  His hand was still cold from touching her.  He imagined the cold spreading all the way down his arm to his chest.  Worse, he considered the possibility that he'd accidentally touch her breast.  He shuddered.  Just the thought chilled him.  'Uh ''

Her eyes snapped to him.  She took the cane and inspected it, as if he might have tampered with it. Only then did she put her weight on it. 'She's gone, cher. Didn't say where. I didn't ask, me.'

He looked back at Chelsea's house, like it had more clues. 'Did you notice anyone with her, ma'am?'

'They was ' hmm ' no, that was the other day.' She eyed him up and down. Her glasses slipped down her nose, following a drop of sweat that just hung at the tip. She smelled of Ben Gay and chewing tobacco. Maybe a little like his grandmother and her perfume, L'air du Temps.  'Might-a been you, young man.  That other day, I mean.  No, they wasn't anyone with her.'  She patted his arm and wobbled away.

She stopped at her back door, hand on the screen door.  'Do you know anything about water bugs?'  He shook his head.  'It's hot out here.'  She shook her head and disappeared through the door.  He picked up her basket, half full of something that looked like squash, and dropped it on her back door.  She was right. It was hot out there.  Hot out everywhere.

He went by Chelsea's mom's house.  Barbara didn't even open the screen door.  That was fine. He didn't need to go inside with her and her tits down around her knees. "She's not here. Ain't seen her since day before yesterday." He started to ask another question, but the words didn't make it through the screen before she shut the door.  "Damn bitch stinks of rum.'  He kicked the screen door.  It rattled in its frame.  It wasn't satisfying. What was the point in breaking something that was already broken?

She never liked him.  She always compared him to Chelsea's last boyfriend who was a football player.  Unfortunately, he was also a dirtbag who almost got her arrested by hiding three lids of pot in her purse. They'd been at some party in Algiers and the cops stopped them just this side of the Connection for speeding and not maintaining a lane.  Fortunately, the cops got another call before they got a good whiff of the pot they'd already smoked at the party, or the fifth of whiskey on his breath.  He laughed as they drove off, then fished the bag back out of her purse.  The next morning, after she'd sobered up, she dumped him.  Barbara didn't care, though.  She was always talking about how Roger could have gotten an NFL contract with the right woman supporting him.  Chelsea was supposed to be the right woman.  More to the point, Barbara was supposed to be the right mother-in-law.  That was her whole thing.

He stopped by Anna Marie's apartment.  No dice there, either.  At least Anna Marie liked him. sometimes, she even flirted just a bit, and just for fun, not with any intent to go further.  But she hadn't seen her best friend in over a week. Hadn't talked to her since yesterday.

That was it.  He knew she wasn't at work. The two people who always had an idea where she was, had no clue.  He wasn't going to try to track her down house-to-house among half a million people.

He stopped at a random place in the Irish channel and had two beers, killing time until he was about ready to go to Trish's place.  He checked the piece of paper he had scribbled the address on.

When he got there, a double shotgun out along Magazine, there must've already been about a hundred people there.  That was good.  He wanted a party.  He wanted to get outside of his head for a while, but he also wanted to get lost.  He worked his way past the two flimsy grills in the front yard. They were loaded down with enough hot dogs and burgers, they should have collapsed.  The beer had to be in the back yard.  He brushed past Trish's old man, but the dude didn't recognize him. The guy's eyes were red and watery.  Miles was a little surprised the man was even standing.  He made his way down a little sidewalk, between groups of couples who were making out against the fence.  There wasn't any fucking ' yet ' but there were lots of hands already in clothes.  At one of these parties, by the end of the night, you were either totally wasted, or if you were lucky, you were fucked and wasted.

That made him a little annoyed that Chelsea wasn't there, but he got over it quick.  No point in bitching and moaning about something you can't change. He was almost to the back side of the house when some crazy bitch with a hurricane glass spun around hard.  She and her girlfriend were dancing to 'Bang a Gong.'  There was a lot of slow swaying, but they were already on round heels.  He couldn't tell how much was them and how much was the shoes.  Either way, her hurricane came out of her hands and bounced off his chest.  He now had a very wet and sticky chest and whole right sleeve.   'Oh, goddamn, man.  Wheredju come from?  I soooooo sorry!'  She mopped with the hem of her dress, lifted up over her waist, until he grabbed her hands to stop her.

Her, he didn't know.  The woman with her, though, was Trish.  'Hey, luv.' She dragged it out, letting it float on the wind. She was higher than a kite. The wind was about the only thing carrying her or her words anywhere.  She tucked herself under his right arm.  Her elbow length, loose hair immediately stuck to his shirt.  That was a hell of a sticky hurricane. Probably not a mix, but then what New Orleans native would use a mix?

Trish grabbed his sticky hand and took him back. The other woman bobbed along behind in their wake. When they turned to stop at the back stoop, the woman kept going, through the waves of people.  Probably got stuck against the back fence, walking, walking, walking until she passed out.  Trish reached between her wobbly tits and pulled out a decent-sized doob. She looked around for someone she didn't recognize, someone who looked like a narc.  She must not have seen anyone.

They passed it back and forth for a while, let two others take a hit, and pretty soon it was gone.  He was pretty gone, too.  Good weed.  Better than he could usually afford.  One minute he was in the clear, then as the smoke cloud encircled them, he was drifting in a fog.  That woman had come back.  She was yapping at Trish about their dog. How big he was, and how fast he could eat her little chihuahua. To be fair, Trish listened for longer then he could pay attention. Out of the blue, though, she put her hand on the woman's lips. "Shhhhh... sh-sh-sh-sh." She wobbled a little and her hand dropped. That crazy bitch just picked up where she was. Whatever she was saying.  Trish took her face in both hands and said, "Shut the fuck up, Marissa. If you don't shut up, Miles here is going to take you inside and fuck your brains out.  Seriously."

Marissa's eyes floated over to Miles'. Bobbed some.  She was wasted.  She tried to smile, but her face just hung there.  Maybe it was supposed to be a bluff, because all of a sudden her face got serious.  She had enough muscle control for that, evidently. She shook her head side to side, and nearly toppled over on one swing.  She slid down the rail and landed hard on the stair.

Trish smirked at him.  "All it took was making her take a breath, and she blew herself over."

She leaned in.  "Hey, what I said there ..."  He thought she was going to apologized. He was wrong.  "Clearly, Marissa isn't up for it, but ..." She slid her hand down to his waist and hooked her fingers under his belt, an arrow straight toward his dick.  "I'm not doing anything right now."  Her lips reached up and drew his down.  They were good lips.  Soft and moist, and she knew how to use them.  Miles immediately started getting hard.  The moment his dick realized how good her lips were, it was talking loud to him, begging to let her use them on him.

She stood slowly.  His lips followed, and the rest of the body with them. When she turned and latched her hand around his belt buckle, he gave no resistance.  Up the steps and straight through the kitchen into her bedroom.  Their bedroom.  She spun him backward and he flopped on the bed, right between a pile of laundry and a damp beach towel.  She poured herself on top of Miles' torso. He could feel the heat and moisture of her pussy grinding into his thigh.  She was driving - grinding herself against his thigh, Frenching him, with a fist full of his hair. With her other hand, she was undoing his belt.  She unzipped and fished his cock out, pumping it right from the start.  Definitely better than Chelsea - better with her hand, better with her mouth, and over the top with passion.  He convinced himself easily. Clearly, wasn't at fault.  How was he supposed to resist someone better than Chels on every level?  he scooped one hand into her top.  Her tits were the perfect size.  Her nipple was already erect, poking itself into his palm. She moaned when he squeezed, so he squeezed harder. He kneaded her tit and thrust his tongue almost to her throat.  He took a fist full of her hair with his other hand, tightened and twisted.  She moaned louder and clamped her legs around his thigh.  When she shuddered, he tightened his fist in her hair.  She shuddered again in a way that announced loudly that she was coming.  Little hip thrusts that tapped out on his thigh said she was losing control for a moment. She just laid there, panting for a moment.  She'd stopped stroking him while she came. She picked up stroking and slid herself down Miles' body.  Again, something she must have done thousands of times until she had the move down perfectly.

She slid down and with no adjustments to her glide path, took his dick into her mouth. Definitely well-practiced.  He held her hair as she bobbed up and down. She made slurpy sounds and yummy sounds, and stroked the exposed part of his cock with her hand. Every now and then, she'd look right up into his eyes.  When she did, she would flutter her tongue on the underside.  He'd read about that somewhere, but couldn't remember where.  Playboy, some paperback ... didn't remember.  He said "I'm gonna cum" and she didn't even slow down. More than that, she moved her hand away and tried again and again to take him all the way.  She would gag and then pop back up, then try again. The very last stroke, the head popped into her throat, and that's all it took. Boom. He went off like a fire hose.  He must have pumped ten shots right into her throat.  She bobbed up after the first two, then forced herself back down for the rest. He didn't have to do anything. He couldn't remember ever cumming that much or that hard with Chels.  Granted, he wasn't exactly in the habit of taking notes while he fucked.   She licked him clean after he finished, fished two pubes off her tongue and cheek, then slid back up and under his right arm. They laid there. She played with his chest hair. He squeezed her tit and rolled her nipple between thumb and finger.

"Jesus fuck, Ch~Trish ... Marcus is a very lucky son of a bitch."

She laughed, "Miles, I haven't been with Marcus in ... what, four months, I think.  My old man's name is Reince."

"Rench?"

"Reince. Like ... rents."

"Ok, he's the lucky bastard then.  Where did you learn that tongue thing?"

"On the underside? The flutter?" Miles nodded.  "I read it in an old dirty paperback my folks had.  Sounded like fun."

"Hell fucking yeah, it's fun."

"Been using it since I was fourteen, no complaints so far. Hey ... umm ... so how does Chelsea feel about girls - or couples?"

"When she was in college, she fooled around a little bit with her dorm mate." He could've said more, but didn't.  He wanted to hear what was behind the question.

"Hmm, so, she might be interested in a threesome? Or some girl-on-girl? Swapping? An orgy?"

"Damn. That's like a hard sell."

"No, I'm just wondering.  I haven't said anything to Reince.  Just curious.  I don't know her well, but Chels seems fun.  You're definitely fun, and y'know, Reince and me, we like fun people."

Suddenly, he felt miles from Chelsea.  Were they broken up officially? Hard to say. Certainly felt like it.

"Y'know, lemme feel her out, see if she might be cool with it.  Ya never know, right?"

Her answer was to french him.  That must've been an "Ok." She patted his chest and said, let's get back out there.  She left her pants behind, and they walked out of there with her in just her long peasant top, no pants, no panties, no bra.  He could dig that - dig that very well.

He tried to think about Chels, but couldn't seem to get his head to go there, aside from vague visions of two women fighting over his cock.

When they were back outside in the crowd, by the beer keg, it was back to reality.  The pot hadn't lasted near long enough.  Here he was at a party where he knew only two people. He was three weeks from induction. He'd just fucked this chick and might or might not be cheating on the girlfriend he might or might not still have.  He had about thirty minutes of escape, then it was back in the box. That made him think of Cool Hand Luke. "Man, what we have here is failure to communicate." He said it out loud before he even realized.

Trish turned around.  He hadn't even noticed until she did so, that she'd leaned across the keg to French kiss some beardy freak in a Grateful Dead t-shirt.

She said, "Huh?" and slipped her tongue in his mouth. He tried to figure out if he tasted only her, or that other dude, or even lingering traces of his cum. Next, she reached inside his pants deep enough to cup his balls. "I think we communicated pretty well."

"Huh? Yeah, no, babe.  I was thinking of something else."

She laughed at him and shook her head. She didn't get it, and she couldn't care less. Her fingers dipped into her cleavage and she pulled out another joint.  He thought, holy Christ, where'd that come from.  It hadn't been between her tits when they were screwing, that's for sure.  Somewhere between the bedroom and the keg, it had just magically gotten deposited in her top.

He frowned down at nowhere, for no particular reason than his own moodiness.  In seconds, she leaned in for another kiss.  When he opened his mouth for her tongue, she breathed smoke into his mouth and down into his lungs.  Knowing that wouldn't quite do it, she then passed the doob to him.  He took a deep drag, then pulled her in and returned the favor.  She was ready, and breathed him in deep.  Thirty seconds earlier, he was down, and the war was racing toward him.  Suddenly, it was all very cool and copacetic again.  The war would wait.  He didn't care whether her old man was there, or if he was watching, or if he cared.  He doubted he would. If Trish was telling the truth, he was good with whatever she got them into.

Trish wandered off when the joint was done.  She pointed his way from across the back yard. The older couple she was talking to made their way to him.  They introduced themselves as Hank Something and Junebug.  They stood close and looked around.  Junebug had great tits. Big and full, but not enormous. Well-rounded and just the tiniest bit of sag. She didn't seem to mind him noticing. Maybe that was part of their game. Maybe they thought he was carrying weed and she thought a little jiggle and wiggle would get some free samples. Their cautious glances around, though, seemed excessive given the company. If they wanted weed, nobody within a hundred feet was going to narc them out.

"Listen, Trish says you might be in need of a favor."

Miles didn't respond, so Hank continued .  "She says you've got your back up against a date with induction, and you might could stand some help finding some options."

He couldn't remember words, but he did nod.  Sure could use options.  That's what the word was.

Hank was explaining - without excessive detail - that he might have some strings he could pull. A favor for a favor. A string here and there, a package delivered here and there. While he talked, Junebug dug a a little foil packet from his shirt pocket.  She took out a little yellow pill and washed it down with a mouthful of beer, then took a beat and popped a second yellow pill into her mouth. No beer this time, just a swallow.  She picked a third out and offered it to Hank.  He shook his head and reached up to stroke her cheek.  Junebug looked for a moment like she was going to offer him one. Maybe she decided he was too far gone to really profit from whatever the pill was.

Hank handed him a business card and said, "Come by or give me a call - but soon."  Miles held it close enough to read.  Hank walked off as he focused on the words.  Junebug trailed behind Hank, their hands connected by fingertips.  He could have sworn she dragged her hand across his crotch, lingering on the zipper.  As soon as it registered with him, both of them were gone.  He had to have imagined it.

Things faded just a moment later.  When he woke, he was seated on one of the stumps, leaning against a garbage bin, with a cat licking his pounding forehead.  The moon was low in the east, but there was just enough light in the yard to see half a dozen others also snoozing in random spots.  It must have been around three o'clock.  He could check his watch, but that would've been work.  Too early for such exertion.  When he opened his eyes again, the sun was just topping the roofs.  The humidity was starting to simmer.  He was warm and clammy, as much from the partying as from the humidity.

Time to go home.

He got up and stepped over and between the litter, the bottles and cans and paper plates soaked by food and the morning dew.  Up by the gate, there was a cowboy in a buckskin joe hat sprawled up against the fence. More like on his buckskin joe hat.  It was crumpled up under his head, a crude pillow.  It was either that or the half gallon of Jack Daniels a foot away, with a slow trickle out of its mouth.

He was a mile down the road, two pair of sunglasses on his head.  They barely blocked the sun enough for him to wobble down the road, but barely was still enough.  He got home and laid down on the living room floor, wrapping his arm around a pillow from the couch, pinning it under his head.

Later, much later, but not nearly late enough, he woke enough to notice something different about the room.  He wasn't alone.  The room sounded different.  It was quiet, but the silence sounded angry, sullen, and sad.

"Chelsea ...?"

"Miles ... I see you've been ... having adventures."

"Listen, I ... I'm sorry I haven't gotten hold of you.  I tried this morning (no, that wasn't right) - I mean yesterday morning.  Your mom's, Anne Marie's, somebody else's ... " he couldn't remember who else, but surely there was."

He rolled to his side, facing her.  He found her face, her gaze pointed up and toward the window.  There wasn't a lot of warmth there.  He could understand that.

"Listen, Chels ..."

She stood up, towering over him.  "Miles, I'm going to give you some space, give you time to clear your head or purge your soul or whatever it is you're doing.  I want to talk, I want us to talk, but I can see that's not happening today."

She stepped over his legs, "I'm going to grab what laundry I have here and get out of your hair.  Please ... don't get up."

He felt like shit, but heard the sarcasm in her voice.  It was a warm, damp rag across the back of his neck, not soothing but unsettling, down in the pit of his  stomach.  He might have been able to get up, if he used up all his energy reserves, but it was a solid maybe.  More likely, he'd get five feet, fall over, and throw up.

He drifted away again as the living room wobbled into the dark.  He woke past dusk, another day in the toilet.  It was half past 9 when he made it as far as the kitchen.  He leaned against the refrigerator, then leaned inside, surrounding himself with the cool air.  He rubbed a big glass bottle of Coke on the side of his head.  He knew it was throbbing, but only realized then just how much it was pounding.  The left side was cool and nicely numb, the right side pulsing like a neutron star.

He sat at the table and dug at a carton of chocolate ice cream with the first spoon he found.  Spoon after spoon, without stopping or slowing. In time, by 10 or so, the cold had soaked its way into his upper body, blanketing the ache in his head.  He chased it with glass after glass of water, and when he was done, grabbed the Playboy from the end table by the sofa and worked his way to the bedroom.  He fell asleep with the open magazine covering his face and dreamt of escaping to Amsterdam with the Girls of Holland. It was a good dream, full of sex, alcohol, and pot, and spiced up with the repeated motif of nearly falling into one of the canals.  It seemed wherever he went without a handful of girls, he was in danger of falling into the water ways.  He never actually fell in, but came close plenty of times.

* Wednesday. 7am. His eyes opened and he was done sleeping.  Mind clear; eyes clear; even his goddamn sinuses were clear, and they never were.  He'd been in New Orleans since he was six and his family moved from Lake Charles.  He couldn't remember going more than a week at an stretch without antihistamine or decongestant. Given how much alcohol and pot he'd consumed in the past several days, he couldn't believe how alert and sober he was.  Had the last week even taken place?

Wednesday was Chelsea's day off.  She usually slept in until ten or so, then went off for lunch with friends.  He wanted to see her.  He felt like shit for how he'd been acting.  Childish, self-absorbed.  Chels was always talking about some sex therapist and her opinions.  Not just sex but relationships, too.  Being self absorbed and selfish were right up there at the top of the danger sign list.  Things were going to sort themselves out, though.  They always did.  With him and Chels, anyway, they always worked out in the end.  He'd talk to her and they'd get things trued up.

He'd go see that guy who gave him the card.  He'd do what he needed to, make whatever deal.  He'd stay here.  He'd stay with Chelsea.  They'd get married. Maybe. Or, she'd move in. They'd talk about it.

Suddenly, he wasn't as sober any more.  He sat up and put his head between his knees - or as close as it would go.  His eyes watered. His throat was dry and tight.

Start with the coffee, a couple of mugs, and think out the situation.  Find Hank's business card and stop by to see him. Or call or whatever.  Get things rolling.  While he was waiting for the coffee to perk, he got the phone from the yard and crudely reattached it to the biscuit jack.  When he was done, he tried it.  There was a little static, but it worked.

The coffee got him going.  He was out the door as soon as the second mug was done, business card in hand. Hank's office was on the edge of the quarter, down by the French Market.  First there, then to Chelsea's. He'd talk her down like he always did, she'd be happy again, and then to celebrate they'd have lunch at Galatoire's. Or Antoine's, if was later. Maybe just hang out at the Famous Door and have some drinks and list to music. At any rate, it would be a whole new start for them. G's was always the perfect place to start something new. Oh, right. Antoine's. Or the Famous Door.  Things were tight at the moment, yeah, maybe they'd just go to the Door.  Or she might want to stay in and cook.  He could go out and get them a fifth of Jack.  Anyway, new beginning, that was the thing to focus on.

He started the car, set the radio to WWOZ, and was starting to pull out, when a guy with a beard and a bald head popped up from around the front of the car parked at the neighbor's.  He looked familiar, but he couldn't place him.  Someone recent.  Whoever he was, he wasn't happy.  Very not happy, actually, and probably high as a fucking kite.  He lurched side to side as he walked.  He came around to the window and reached to pound on it, but the glass was down, so he just flailed a couple of times.  Very high not to figure it out on the first try.

"Hey, fucker. Shit, man. Hey, are you Miles?"

"Who the fuck are you?"

"I'm Trish's old man."

"What's your problem, man?"

"You son of a bitch, you knocked her up!"

"What the hell, man? You have no way of knowing ..."

"... fuck, man, I got no sperm. No swimmers, you hear what I'm saying?  Aint no baby comin' out of this cock, hombre."

"Oh, shit, man ... I ... wait ... I know y'all's score.  Y'all swing all over town, you might as well have vines hanging from the trees.  Are you trying to tell me ~" he paused as he popped the door ajar, and the guy jumped back like he was being attacked. "Calm down, dude, I'm just getting out to talk about this." The car lurched forward - he hadn't remembered to take it out of drive. He shifted gears, slapping the knob into place, and snapped the key off.

"Calm down and back away a little - " he leaned against the front fender - "... you're telling me that there's no way anyone else can have knocked that bitch up?"

The guy, whatever his name was looked bewildered, and staggered back again. His red face screamed back, "I know what you're trying to do, you son of a bitch, and it ain't gonna work. You have a responsibility and you are going to fucking pay.  The last motherfucker did, and the other guy before, and the same fucking shit is going to happen to you.  We ain't having no baby, so you know what that means. You're going to cough up $200 for an abortion and we'll get this shit taken care of before it gets too far."  As his speech played out, he slowly walked toward Miles, his head tilted, jabbing with a finger, until the finger was actually jabbing into Miles' chest.

"Don't do that man. Gimme space. I'm asking you."  His ears were pounding. It was like he was under water, no under six feet of red jello. Everything was dark and tinted and sluggish, like that time his uncle Fidelio had come after him.

The finger kept jabbing. He didn't see anything but the finger making brief ripples across his shirt. He couldn't see as far as the end of the arm. Everything was dark and red and starting to slant to the left.

His own hand moved across his chest.  It locked on the man's finger and twisted, which brought his body to just the right angle to take Miles' knee in the groin. Twice, and then again for good measure.  Something cracked. It had to be the guy's finger. Or fingers.

Reds turned to greys, and the pounding in his ears was replaced with the ocean.  His stomach wanted to vomit, but his throat told it to shut up.  [Frank] or whoever the hell he was, laid on the verge next to the sidewalk.  One hand was cupping his balls. The other was waving in the air like a flag, trying to keep that pain as far from the other as possible.

It was time to go.  He had to go and meet ... that guy... the card... from the party. With the hot wife.  Jesus, what was his name?  He couldn't concentrate.  Then there was Chels. He wanted to talk to her about something.  It would come back. That guy was still screaming and cursing. He wasn't going to figure out a goddamn thing with all that racket.

Time to go. Go see that guy with the card. He turned back to the door. As he was stepping around it, he slapped the guy's hand out of the air, "Shut the goddamn fuck up! Do you fucking thin you're the only fucking goddamn fucker who has any goddamn fucking problems!?" The other guy might've been loud, but people in Algiers probably heard that.

The guy choked on his curses and choked on the flashing surge of pain.  Once Miles was in the car and pulling out of his space, he was just a memory buried inside the massive flaming cottony headache he now had.

Despite his hurry to get moving, when he got to Hank's office, he sat outside for a good thirty minutes.  The car would warm up; he would start it up and run the A/C for a few minutes, blowing ice cold in his face. It was a losing game. He'd start to drip sweat, then blast himself with iced air. In moments, the sweat would chill and he would shiver.

At ten thirty, he decided it was time.  He'd get out of the car and either go in to Hank's office, or walk down Decatur and grab a beer.  At least he was doing something.

He walked past Hank's door, and was a good ten feet further down the sidewalk when he pivoted.  That's how he worked, stress, stress, stress about something, then the moment he decided not to do it, he was relaxed and could carry through with it.

The receptionist was an older women, slight and slender and easily in her sixties, but kind of steely. She was probably a good screen for Hank, and had a look in her eye that said she probably played for the Packers. "I'm here to see Hank. Mr. ..." he had to dig the card out of his pocket to get the last name. "... Sinclair."  He turned the business card to her - Mrs. Prideaux, her desk sign said - and handed it to her like a movie ticket.  The eyebrow that arched when he stumbled over the last name, came back down.  It knotted with the other for a second, then they both went back to neutral.

"And your name, Mister ... ?"

"Miles. Mikes Parker"

She didn't seen to regard the name well. Maybe she wasn't the jazz fan that his mother was.  She asked "And he will know what this in regard to?" Her tone was solicitous but skeptical.

"This is regarding ... " not exactly a job "... an opportunity. I ran into him and Junebug recently and he suggested, requested, that I come see him at my earliest convenience." He could tell she didn't like the reference to Junebug.  That was a mistake. The rest of it seemed to ease her annoyance just enough to maybe open the door.

She set the card down and centered it on her blotter.  She sighed. Then she reached for her phone and punched the intercom button.

"Mr. Sinclair, I have a Miles Parker out here with one of your business cards.  He'd like a few minutes of your time."  She threw her glance up and down him as she said it.

"Miles ... oh, yes ... from the other day.  Would you buzz him back through, Miz Emma."

She punched the intercom off, then pressed a button on the side of her desk.  A buzz told him that something was unlocked for the next couple of seconds, and he'd best be moving.  He reached for his card, but she'd spirited it away in the half-second he'd looked off.

He didn't even have to turn the knob on the door. All it took was a push and it swung wide. Medium sized office. Nice, hundred year old desk that took up half the room. Must've been goddam oak and probably weighed two hundred pounds.  He couldn't imagine how it came through the door, but it did. The rest of the office, eh. Crappy, warped wood paneling. A window behind the desk, no blinds, curtains, nothing.

He looked up, over the rim of his glasses, and said "Miles."  He looked back down and slid something into a grey folder and tossed it to the corner of his desk. He pointed at one of the $20 armchairs.

Miles took the offer.  Neither spoke.  He grabbed a pen from his desk and crossed his legs, turning sideways a quarter.  "So, how's the weather out there?"

Miles stumbled through a confused explanation of current meteorological phenomena, then fell silent again.  Sinclair nodded.

"So, anyway. I'm glad you stopped by.  We've got some things going on you might be able to help with." He glanced at the door. Miles pushed it shut.

Sinclair reached for another folder buried underneath three other folders.  This one had the words "Parker, Miles" on the tab.  It wasn't empty, or anywhere close  He glanced through it.  One, two, three sheets, then skipped down to pages that were paperclipped together. He glanced at the top sheet, then closed the folder. "You've got a little bit of a record, my friend."

"I, uhh ... yeah ... like what are you talking about?"

"DWI, public intoxication, a gram of weed, trespassing ..." he glanced into the folder.  "... one hot check? Just one? Nothing big, just a lot of fucking around, really."

Miles nodded and relaxed a little.  It was all good.

Sinclair tossed the folder on top of the gray one.

He smiled and tapped the desk like he was trying to remember a funny story.  Miles smiled, waiting for it.

"Anyway - tell me about the Mexican jail."

Fuck. The goddamn Mexican jail. It wasn't on his NOPD rap sheet. He knew that. What the hell?

"You've been watching me for a while ...?"

"Aw, nah, Miles. I had this stuff sent in this morning just in case you showed up straight off."

"But you invited me in ... for ... because you could tell ..."

"Hey, buddy, you're at a yard party being thrown by someone who has his finger on half the pot and heroin coming across the border or across the Gulf up to Orleans Parish. You disappear for thirty minutes to fuck the guy's wife, do some dope, then vanish."  He shrugged. "So, that generates some interest. You're not a big player. Sorry, no disrespect, but you just don't have that elan. On the one hand, sure, we've got a certain leverage we can use on you - it's what we do, the stick, but at the same, you've got enough scruples that ... you're not going to go rogue.  For that, at the end of the day, we’ll be happy to throw you some carrots."

Miles just sat there. It was an insult and a compliment. It was also precursor to a threat. He was brought in to be worked.  Not only that, just by looking at him that night, the guy, whoever he was, could tell that he was ripe for working.

Sinclair handed him a folder. He read through it and handed it back. By the time it left his hand, though, he’d forgotten everything it said.  He was a little distracted.

Sinclair walked him through it, as though he’d never glanced at the folder, which was just as well, since as far as he could tell, he hadn’t.  There was a guy, mob connected, maybe even a made man, that they were wanting to get a finger on.  He was the main drug conduit as well as the buddy of several prominent, established businessmen and a couple of up-and-coming politicians in Orleans Parish.  Plan A was to hook him. Plan B was to hook him and implicate his important patrons.

There was an interruption when some skinny guy in a narrow-tie suit and a lot of Brylcreme came in and whispered into Sinclair’s ear.  They both looked at him and then Sinclair looked at his watch and back at him. There was a smirk that blossomed, then he waved tie-boy off.  When the door was closed, he just smiled and said “You sure don’t lack for drama, do you?” before resuming.  Had news of his little event with Trish’s old man already trickled in to him?  It was at most an hour, hour and a half ago.

Sinclair could manage to get him on a bartending gig at one of Gianolo’s regular haunts, the Napoleon House, and boost an introduction, but it was Miles’ job to work his way in further.  He could take all the time he wanted, as long as it didn’t take more than two weeks, after which they expected him to be ass-deep in Gianolo’s pocket.  They’d feed him information to help him become an asset, but it was still up to him to sell it in a way that it wasn’t obvious to Gianolo and his crowd.

There was more, but he’d get that when he came back in two days for his briefing session with the ops guys.  Until then, it was his job to keep his nose clean and his mouth shut.

There was still a tight fog wrapping around his body when Sinclair got up, grabbed his shoulder, lifted him, and walked him to the door as if it had been his decision to leave at that moment.  “Remember, Thursday at 1pm. You won’t make us come looking for you, would you?”

Miles tried to shake his head reassuringly, but it didn’t much care to move. Sinclair was probably past being reassured by anything anyone else said, anyway. Instead, he made a little wave with his left hand, said “Later,” and clipped the door frame as he passed through.  At least he didn’t drop the sealed envelope Sinclair had given him.  Just more embarrassment under the bridge.

He didn't open the envelope until he was someplace safe.  The chair at Lafitte's, however, wasn't even warming when he ripped the end off.  He expected a new identity. Some cool spy shit like that, maybe a passport in case things went tits up, like the british spies in the books say. Nothing like that. He had to stay Miles Parker. He just got some backstory written for him, filling in gaps here and there. Made sense, he guessed. Not like it was happening in a town where nobody would know him.  Just sweetened his history a little.

The plan was to go next to Chelsea's, but one drink became six drinks at Lafitte's, and by the time he got back to his car on Esplanade, he smoked a joint and took a little nap.  It was good shit.  The dreams he had were all about fucking big tit redheads over and over, and having them fight over his cock - and some weed.  When he finally woke up, the sun was hanging over the business district.  He didn't feel like doing much more that day, so he got on St. Claude and headed home.  She was probably still pissed anyway.  Give her more time to cool down.  He'd go fetch her the next day and bring her back to the house for burgers and beer and they'd split a joint and fuck, and everything would be back to normal again, and they'd be fine.  Besides, if Sinclair could really get him off the hook for Vietnam, he didn't have a big fucking deadline hanging over him. He had all the time in the world to square things with Chels.

When he got back to his house, he laid on the living room floor, smoked his last joint, and drifted off to sleep until six the next morning.

He had eggs and boudain for breakfast, and then realizing he hadn't eaten since breakfast the previous day, ate twice as much.  He flipped through the envelope Sinclair had given him, doodling in the margins as he moved front to back.  Devils and large breasted women mostly. His default doodle.  Blocks of squiggly lines in random spots.

He went out and talked to his mechanic.  He'd had two tours in 'Nam and came back with a shattered knee and pelvis from a mine.  Why, exactly, he was consulting him, he didn't know.  He liked the guy. He trusted the guy's instincts. He also bought half his dope from the guy.  He danced around the idea of working for the feds.  Didn't ask him outright, but told him a story about a guy he'd known who'd gotten pressured into working as a mole.  The guy winced and drank his beers twice as fast, and got red-faced as Miles unwound the story, but he was more angry at the government for using people than he was at Miles' "friend" for taking the deal and giving in to being used.  Miles felt better when he left the garage.  Yes, he was high, but there was also a certain weight off his shoulders.

He went back to the house, found a note from Chels on the door, asking where he was. Actually, what it said was "Where the hell are you hiding? C" He got a glass of water from the sink,  sat down at the table to call her, and didn't wake up until midnight.

When he called her at 12:30, her mother answered ... the phone cut in and out, due to his crappy repair job, but he managed to hear her say, very clearly, "I'm sure she's not in for you, but I will take a peek."  She came back in twenty seconds. "She's dead asleep.  Maybe you'll have better luck tomorrow."  The click and dial tone made it clear that she was done talking.

He phoned in sick the next morning.  He got up at 6 and worked his throat up unto a gravelly rasp just to make it more interesting.  He needed to get back on the crew, 'Nam or no 'Nam, but he also realized he needed to stop stalling with Chelsea.  He didn't bother calling. He just went over and camped out on her front stoop. He  had no way, short of knocking and waking someone up, of finding out whether they were up yet, so he did the next most logical thing.  They always, both Chels and her mom, always came out to the front porch for a cigarette first thing.  They'd drag themselves out of bed, grab a mug of coffee and a pack of Winstons, then sit out on the glider and rock until they were awake or the coffee was out, whichever came last.  He'd wait.  If nobody showed up in 30 min, he'd assume they'd already been up and had their morning porch smoke.  Otherwise, it was just a matter of time.

He only had to wait ten minutes.  The knob on the front door rattle, then quit, then rattled again for longer.  It turned and the door gaped several inches, then came to an abrupt and thudding halt. It closed again so someone could remove the chain, then swung full open on its creaky hinges.  A housecoat backed through.  The cigarette hand reached for the screen door frame, just in case there was a gust. What he expected in the drink hand was a mug of coffee.  What was actually there was a Coors fat boy.  He looked at it, then up at the face of the woman holding everything. It wasn't Chelsea, but her mother, Berniece.  She gave a start when he came into view.  She looked in his eyes, then down at the beer, then back up at him.  She said "Aww, hell ..." and set the beer on the railing and went back inside.  It was ten seconds before the door slammed.  She must'v'e done it as an afterthought.

Two minutes later, Chelsea peeked through the curtain, then came out to join him on the porch, holding a pack of Winstons and an oversized coffee mug.  They were several minutes into saying hello, slowly and cautiously, the way sumo wrestlers squared off with each other, Berniece came out in due time to retrieve her beer, pausing long enough to eyeball him and make a sniffing sound.  Eventually, they both came to agree that he'd been an ass the past several days.  He admitted to her everything a reasonably cautious male would admit to. Indiscretions that had come uncovered, admit everything. Where questionable, ask questions. Where fishing, feign laughable innocence.  All she knew was that he was getting high as fuck and avoiding anything and everything, completely bailing out on her and the whole Vietnam thing.  That was close enough to reality for him to own sincerely, without excuses.  She didn't mention any rumors of anything else and he didn't ask.

Two hours later, all was good, or good enough for now, her mom had gone off to work, they'd gone back to Chels' room for a make-up fuck, and then she shooed him out so she could start the restaurant set up for lunch opening.

[sirtravisjacksonoftexas]

Was Jesus a Mythical Figure based on the Greek Hero Odysseus? Um, NO, and here is why.

Odysseus (Roman Ulysses) was a mythical king of Ithaca who fought in the Trojan War. For 10 years Odysseus and the other Greeks stormed the lands of Troy, soaking its soil with blood and filling its air with the wails of mourning widows and mothers. Despite this, the walls of Troy held, its armies holding its own against the Greek horde. Eventually Odysseus came up with a way to crush Troy once and for all.

The Trojan Horse.

This was a giant hollow wooden horse that was presented to the enemy Trojans as a “peace offering”. Thinking that the Greeks had given up, the Trojans took the horse into Troy, where a massive party was held. However, after almost everyone passed out or went to bed…Greek soldiers poured out of the horse, eventually opening the city gates. The night shook with the  collective battle cries of thousands of ferocious Greek warriors, who rushed into the city with murder in their eyes. Arrows and javelins crisscrossed in the air as houses were put to the torch and drunken Trojan soldiers were put to the sword. Civilians fared no better as the city came down, as the Sons of Greece howled in victory.

Odysseus was now a hero, a man admired by all the Greeks. He looked forward to going back home to Ithaca, to his wife Penelope and his son Telemachus. Their faces must have been on his mind as his ship sailed away from the Trojan shore, his battles now behind him.

Or so he thought…

On his way home, Odysseus stumbled upon an island that at first seemed just like that of any other in the Mediterranean region. However, after entering a cave filled with food, they soon discovered that the island was inhabited by cyclopes, one eyed giants with more attitude than a Pitbull that’s just been neutered. 

One of these, Polyphemus, actually lived in the cave that Odysseus and his men had found. Enraged, Polyphemus kept them prisoner in the cave, eating several of them. Eventually, Odysseus decided to get Polyphemus drunk, where he would be vulnerable. As Polyphemus drank, he asked Odysseus his name.  Odysseus lied, saying that his name was “Nobody” or “Noman” (depending on the translation). Once the brute succumbed to the wine, Odysseus and his men rammed a large, freshly made spear into Polyphemus’ eye. Polyphemus roared like a pride of lions, which prompted his oversized brothers to walk towards his cave, asking him what was going on. Remembering the name Odysseus gave him, Polyphemus became to Greek Mythology what Moe the Bartender is to the Simpsons:

“Noman is killing me by fraud; 

no man is killing me by force.”

Hearing the term “Noman”, the other Cyclopes concluded that no one was hurting Polyphemus and that he was sick. Realizing that he’d been dumped, Polyphemus removed the stone door and stood at the opening of the cave, feeling around with his hands to make sure that none of the Greeks escaped. However, Odysseus looked at Polyphemus’s sheep, suddenly getting an idea. He and all his men got underneath the sheep, holding onto their fleece for dear life as the beasts crawled under the wrathful cyclops, who didn’t bother to check their undersides. Later, as Polyphemus tore the top of a mountain off and threw both it and a temper tantrum, Odysseus called out to him from his ship, revealing his true name.

Bad move.

You see, Polyphemus wasn’t just some run-of-the-mill fantasy monster; he was the son of Poseidon, wrathful god of the sea.

To avenge his son, Poseidon condemns Odysseus to wander the sea for ten years. During this time Odysseus has many adventures, encountering anything from ghosts and ogres to goddesses and sea monsters. Eventually, he reaches home, where he finds that dangerous men are putting pressure on his wife Penelope to marry one among them. Together with Telemachus, Odysseus slays them, regaining control of his homeland. 

The story of Odysseus is one of the greatest tales of Greek Mythology. Odysseus is a thinking hero, one who uses his mind instead of brute force to tackle obstacles of every conceivable kind. He is no son of a god, but a man of mortal parents who braves both beasts and the divine in order to make his way home. But did his story inspire the creation of new gods? Indeed, was he the basis for Jesus Christ? Was Jesus a mythical figure based on this Greek hero?

Let’s see why this isn’t the case. 

1. Incarnate God?

No, Odysseus was all mortal.

 2. Son of God?

No, both his parents were mortal.

 3. Trinity?

No, once again, he was a mortal man. He was not a god, let alone a person within a trinity.

 4. Born of a virgin?

No, his parents had sex.

5. Star proclaimed his birth?

No.

 6. Visited by wise men after his birth?

No.

7. Someone sought his death after he was born?

No.

 8. Taught in a temple as a boy?

No.

 9. Baptized?

No.

 10. Tempted by the Devil?

No.

 11. King?

Yes, Odysseus was a king. Jesus is too, though not of any earthly kingdom (John 18:36-37). He is the true King of the Jews (Isaiah 9:6-7, Matthew 2:2, Luke 23:3, John 1:49-50, 18:36-37) as well as the divine king (Revelation 19:16).

BTW: so, what? Are we going to say that Odysseus was based on Gilgamesh, Minos, Saul or Solomon, because they, like Odysseus, were also kings?

12. Carpenter?

Yes, just like Jesus…and countless other people throughout history, big deal. There were also a lot of kings. Once again… are we going to say that Odysseus was based on Gilgamesh, Minos, Saul or Solomon, because they, like Odysseus, were also kings?

 13. Preacher?

No.

14. Prophet?

No.

 15. Miracle worker?

No. Odysseus did eat a plant called Moly that made him immune to the Witch Goddess Circe’s powers, but this a far cry from performing a miracle. Was the Dread Pirate Roberts a miracle worker when he swallowed a magic pill that brought him back from being “mostly dead” in the movie “Princess Bride”? 

Was Alice of “Alice in Wonderland” a miracle worker when she ate food that made her grow and drank a potion that made her shrink? 

Ingesting a magic pill or magic food and potions doesn’t make them miracle workers, anymore than ingesting a real life pill makes a mechanic a doctor.

16. Multiplied bread and fish?

No, see above.

 17. Walked on water?

No, see point 15 again.

18. Raised the dead?

No. Once again, point 15.

 19. Healed the sick?

No. Once again, Point 15!

 20. Cast out demons?

NO! POINT 15!!!!

21: Had supernatural enemies?

Oh wow! Supernatural enemies? That’s very hard to find in stories about heroes from both religious texts and myths!

I mean, that’s got to be so RARE!

Who would have thought?

Okay reader: time to do an eyeroll. Just get it out of your system, it helps when being exposed to Jesus Mythicist stupidity.

22. Had disciples?

No, he had soldiers, and they numbered far more than twelve (he had an army).

 23. His “followers” acted Foolishly at times?

Yes, but once again, remember that Odysseus had soldiers, while Jesus had Disciples (meaning “students” in Greek).

 24. Debated religious leaders of his day?

No.

 25. Betrayed?

Odysseus was no stranger when it came to betrayal.

Once, when his last ship (the others being destroyed) reached the Island of the Sun God Helios, he made his crew swear not to kill any of Helios’ sacred cattle on the island. He had been warned by the ghost of the prophet Tiresias that if they killed them, then a catastrophe would occur. His men swore, but while Odysseus slept, Eurylochus, one of his soldiers, convinced the others to kill the cattle. Facing starvation, the men broke their vow. This ticked off Helios, which in turn ticked off Zeus, and…A storm at sea killed the rest of Odysseus’ men. 

  Odysseus was also betrayed by the suitors, men who wanted to marry Penelope. Their acts of rape and inhospitality was a stain on his honor. They had also tried to kill his son, and had even led some of his servant women to commit crimes against the state. Later, when he revealed himself to the suitors, Melanthius, one of his own goatherds, supplied them with weapons. 

Jesus likewise was betrayed by Judas over thirty pieces of silver. A similarity…but not enough for Jesus Mythicists to make their case. 

Indeed, how many people in the world have been betrayed? 

26. Betrayer died soon after?

Eurylochus and the rest of Odysseus’ men died soon after killing Helios’ cattle. Likewise, Melanthius died soon after providing the suitors with weapons. However, both the suitors and the servant women carried out their betrayal for years before being stopped by Odysseus. Indeed, Melanthius had been allied with them for a while before the day when he gave them weapons to fight Ulysses.

27. Crucified?

No, Odysseus died of old age. In one version, he died defending his shepherds from Telegonus, his son by Circe. Telegonus afterwards learned that the man he killed was his father, who he had been searching for. In other versions he was exiled, in one dying of old age, in another his fate unknown. In the Odyssey, it indicates that his life will have a happy, fairy tale-style ending. 

There is not one version where he is crucified.

Some Jesus Mythicists might state “but the story where he goes to Italy, one where his final fate is not known…he could have been crucified! It’s a possibility!!!”

Actually, no. You see, for one, such an argument would be an Appeal to Possibility, a logical fallacy where one tries to state that something is true because it is possible. Might as well say that he was mauled by a bear, because it’s possible, or hunted down by the Sirens because it is possible, or struck by Zeus’ thunderbolts because it’s possible, or clubbed to death by a prostitute in retaliation for him not paying her adequately enough because hey, its possible. 

All of these possibilities hold the same amount of  weight. 

None. 

Two, it’s also an Appeal to Ignorance fallacy, accepting something as true based on lack of evidence that shows otherwise. Imagine if someone not only claimed that a giant clone of Zooey Deschanel is in a secret underground government lab, but that, since this claim is not disproven, therefore it is true! 

And three, it’s actually NOT possible, because the story of Odysseus existed before the invention of crucifixion. Crucifixion was invented in Persia in the 6th century BC. Homer’s Odyssey, on the other hand, was written about the 8th-7th century BC. True, Plutarch, who mentions the version of Odysseus going to exile in Italy, wrote in the second century, but let’s remember…he wrote in the second century. When was the New Testament written?

First century AD. 

Now, you may be wondering where Jesus Mythicists got the idea that Odysseus was crucified.

Prepare to shake your head.

Odysseus once had to sail pass the isle of Anthemoessa, home of the Sirens. Sirens were singing sea nymphs who had the heads of women and the bodies of birds. 

If you can imagine Katy Perry and a young Dolly Parton with the bodies of oversized eagles or hawks, you get an idea of what they would have been like.

However, their singing voices were even better than those of Parton or Perry. Indeed, their voices were enchanted, luring men toward Anthemoessa’s rocky shore. This led to a lot of ships sinking and a lot of men drowning, their bodies consumed by the Sirens. Wanting to avoid the same fate, Odysseus has his men stuff their ears with wax, which rendered them immune to the Siren’s allure. However, Odysseus had his men tie him to his ships mast, so that he could safely hear the sirens. Their song was so beautiful, so hypnotizing, that his men had to put stronger straps on him. After sailing to a safe distance, Odysseus was freed from the mast.

The following is an ancient Greek vase that depicts this mythological story:

Here is a closer look:

This is their proof that Odysseus was crucified.

Um…somebody forgot to tell them that being tied to a ship’s mas doesn’t = crucifixion.

Indeed, he wasn’t even being executed; he was simply being strapped down so that he could safely listen to the siren’s song.

Now, some Jesus Mythicists will try to point out similarities between these two events; Odysseus is strapped to a ship’s mast, which is both made of wood like a cross and with a similar shape to that of a cross (especially so with the sails rolled up), all the while standing straight up. Likewise, Jesus is nailed to a wooden cross, which is lifted straight up, Jesus body being vertical as well. Both are in anguish during this (Jesus due to pain, Odysseus due to not being able to go to the Sirens).

Parallel, right?

Wrong.

Crucifixion not only was a death penalty in Jesus’ time, but, as previously stated, it was being used to execute criminals since the 6th century BC. If the Gospel writers were making the story of Christ’s death up, why would they draw inspiration for the crucifixion from Odysseus being tied to a ship’s mast…instead of crucifixion itself, which was a common form of execution at the time? Remember, Odysseus wasn’t crucified; he was simply tied to a ship’s mast.

He…didn’t…die.

Now, some will counter this by saying that some ancient Christians made comparisons between Odysseus’ being tied to a mast and Jesus being crucified. However, this doesn’t mean that Christians were inspired by Odysseus’ tale to invent the crucifixion of Christ, any more than historians making comparisons between Alexander the Great and Achilles (both of whom share many parallels with each other) means that historians were inspired by Achilles to invent Alexander the Great. Andre the Giant, the late professional wrestler, bore many striking similarities with the mythic Hercules. If I note these similarities(which I did in another article, see the sources section below)...does it mean that I think that Andre the Giant didn’t therefore exist? No, it just means that I noted their similarities.  I likewise wrote an article on the fem chatbot Tay, noting its striking similarities with Frankenstein’s monster (as well as with many other similar creatures in cinema, folklore and myth. See sources section below). Does that mean that I therefore  think that Tay was a fictional character, not a real computer program? Anybody reading my article on Tay would know that wasn’t the case. Heck, people have compared the sinking of the Mignonette to “The Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym of Nantucket” by Edgar Allan Poe, due to both also sharing many parallels (Poe’s novel predates it by decades). Does this mean that someone was inspired by Poe’s novel to invent the story of the Mignonette? Likewise, many have compared the Titanic disaster to the novella “Futility/Wreck of the Titan” by Morgan Robertson, both of which also share many parallels (Robertson’s book written 14 years before the Titanic was put to sea). Does this mean that someone was inspired by Robertson’s book to invent a fictitious Titanic?

Then why would Christians making a comparison between Jesus’ crucifixion and Odysseus being tied to a mast be evidence that Christians were inspired by the latter to come up with the former?

Keep in mind; the three examples I’ve cited above have FAR, FAR, FAR, FAR, FAR, FAR more parallels between them than Jesus’ crucifixion and Odysseus’ being tied to a mast have. Indeed, the similarities between Christ’s crucifixion and Odysseus being tied to a mast are far outweighed by the fact that one was a crucifixion and the other is not, one is an execution, the other an attempt to avoid death yet still hear the Siren’s song. One’s nailed to a cross to die for our sins, another is tied to a mast in order to both learn and survive a mystery. 

Yep, they’re about as similar as Reese Witherspoon and Alice Cooper.  

Folks, there is no crucifixion here, let alone something that inspired it.  

 28. Went to the Underworld?

Yes, Odysseus did, though he didn’t die in order to go there. He went there while still alive so that he could speak with Tiresias. After Jesus died, he went to the “heart of the earth” (meaning Hades (Old Testament “Sheol”), the abode of the dead) for three days (Matthew 12:40, Acts 2:27-31). One could say that they both went to Hades, due to the fact that the Hebrews borrowed the Greek name for the Underworld, replacing Sheol with it, but the differences in the story are far more startling than the similarities. Odysseus went to the Underworld while alive and left, while Jesus died, went there, and then resurrected.

29. Resurrected?

No, see points 27 and 28

 30. Ascended into Heaven?

No.

 31. Second coming?

Odysseus did return to Ithaca, just as Jesus will return one day to earth. However, Odysseus returned, while Jesus will return. There is not an enormous amount of theological significance to Odysseus returning to Ithaca as there is with Jesus returning to Earth. Its more akin to Robin Hood’s return from the Crusades than Jesus’ Second Coming.

33. Went in supernatural disguise?

After Odysseus returned to Ithaca, Athena disguised him as an old man, which allowed him to go unrecognized by the suitors. This was done to save his life; the suitors would have killed Odysseus if they saw him returning home. His true identity was later revealed when, out of all the suitors, only he was able to bend his own bow (one that he left in Ithaca before sailing off to the Trojan War) and firing an arrow through the heads of twelve axe handles. After this, both Odysseus and his son slew the suitors. Likewise, after Jesus resurrected, he encountered Mary Magdalene, who didn’t recognize him until he called her name (John 20:11-18). Later, he also encountered two other followers of his on the Road to Emmaus, neither of which recognized him at first, courtesy of divine power (Luke 24:13-16). After striking up a conversation with them, Jesus sat with them at dinner. As he blessed the bread, broke it and gave it to both, the men suddenly recognized who he was...only for Jesus to vanish (Luke 24:17-31). Just as Odysseus showed signs of who he was while disguised (i.e. stringing the bow and firing it through the twelve axes), Jesus showed his unparalled knowledge of the scriptures with the men on the road to Emmaus, who felt their hearts burn as he spoke (Luke 24:25-32). 

Admittedly, there is a striking similarity between Odysseus and Jesus in this regard.

However...so what?

As I mentioned in point 27, there have been many occasions in history where a historical figure or event bore numerous striking parallels with myths or fictional tales. This isn’t evidence that the historicity of those individuals or events should be called into question. Whose going to deny the historical existence of the Titanic, Mignonette, Andre the Giant, Tay or Alexander the Great because they were prefigured by mythic or fictional accounts that bore striking similarities with them? 

Indeed, with all the mythic characters and stories,  with all the historical figures and events that have occurred in the world, one would expect that eventually, some historical figure or event would arise that would bear parallels with mythical figures and tales, or vice versa. 

This isn’t evidence of borrowing or inspiration.

Its evidence of math. 

And, as we’ve already seen in most of the other points, Odysseus and Jesus really don’t parallel each other that well. 

Indeed, they mostly don’t parallel at all.

34. Reign in a future age?

No, he reigned on earth in the remote past.

 The connection between Jesus and Odysseus is spurious, and yet people still promote the idea. Indeed, Dennis R. Macdonald, a scholar who wrote “The Homeric Epics and the Gospel of Mark”, not only claims in his book that much of Jesus’ story is derived from that of Odysseus, but also from other elements found in Homer’s works. Indeed, he even claims that the story of Jesus walking on water was derived from Homeric stories of Hermes…flying over water.

I’m not making this up. He actually wrote this.

He also wrote that the story of Jesus death was partially inspired by the death of Hector in the Iliad (who was slain by Achilles in battle, not crucified), and that John the Baptist’s death was inspired by myth of King Agamemnon’s death! Now, let’s look at that last one, shall we? Agamemnon was killed by his wife Queen Clytemnestra and her lover Aegisthus (some accounts its Aegisthus and twenty other men). In some ancient sources, he was killed while taking a bath. In one version, Clytemnestra threw a net on him and then twisted it, before Aegisthus swung his sword or axe (in the version where her lover has a sword, Clytemnestra strikes Agamemnon with the axe afterwards). In another version of the death-while-bathing myth, Agamemnon is wearing a shirt with sleeves that are sown up, which likewise renders him helpless against the axe). Other sources state that he was killed while sitting at a table. The only similarities between his death and that of John the Baptist is that they were killed by royalty (Aegisthus ruled Mycenae) and they were both beheaded. An interesting parallel…until you realize that beheading was a form of punishment in ancient Greece and Rome and that kings could and did command that some people be beheaded. I could also mention that Herod Antipas, who had John the Baptist beheaded, was not actually a king, bur a Tetrarch, a ruler over a quarter of a province or region (the Romans also used it to refer to someone who ruled over any portion of the empire). Though the author of the Gospel of Mark used the term “king” for Herod Antipas, he was either using the word loosely, or being sarcastic. Indeed, his wife Herodias planned to make him a real king. When Herod Antipas appealed for the title of king, he was rewarded by the Romans with exile to Gaul. Thus, he wasn’t royalty. 

And yet…Agamemnon’s death was supposed to be the basis for that of John the Baptist…

Just as Odysseus was supposed to be the basis for Jesus…

Can you say “WRONG”?

Folks, Jesus wasn’t based or even inspired by Odysseus, let alone Homer’s Odyssey or Iliad. Jesus is a historical figure, not a mythical figure. Jesus is real, not a figment of Homeric tales.

Jesus is the real deal.

Sources:

“The Odyssey” by Homer (Translated by Samuel Butler), 87-96, 110-111, 122-30, 177-78, 226-35

https://www.theoi.com/Text/HomerOdyssey9.html

https://www.theoi.com/Text/HomerOdyssey22.html

“The Ultimate Encyclopedia of Mythology” by Arthur Cotterell and Rachel Storm, 17, 19-20, 34, 60, 66-67, 74, 76, 78-79, 88

“The Penguin Dictionary of Classical Mythology” by Pierre Grimal, 19-20, 25-27, 300-06

https://www.blueletterbible.org/faq/don_stewart/don_stewart_1336.cfm

“Homer's Odyssey and the Near East” By Bruce Louden, 277

https://www.google.com/books/edition/Homer_s_Odyssey_and_the_Near_East/AKDfiWrXAx8C?hl=en&gbpv=1&dq=Suitors%2BBetrayed%2BOdysseus&pg=PA277&printsec=frontcover

“Women, Crime and Punishment in Ancient Law and Society Volume 2: Ancient Greece” By Elisabeth Meier Tetlow, 25

https://www.google.com/books/edition/Women_Crime_and_Punishment_in_Ancient_La/3fnsWhZkq74C?hl=en&gbpv=1&dq=Suitors%2BBetrayed%2BOdysseus&pg=PA25&printsec=frontcover

https://www.historic-uk.com/HistoryUK/HistoryofEngland/Robin-Hood/

https://www.theoi.com/Pontios/Seirenes.html

“Jesus, Paul, and Power Rhetoric, Ritual, and Metaphor in Ancient Mediterranean Christianity” By Rick F. Talbott and S. Scott Bartchy, 143

https://www.google.com/books/edition/Jesus_Paul_and_Power/yxJTAwAAQBAJ?hl=en&gbpv=1&dq=Odysseus%2BMast%2BJesus%2Bcrucified&pg=PA143&printsec=frontcover

https://sirtravisjacksonoftexas.tumblr.com/post/628287347439665153/alexander-the-great-and-achilles-examining-the

https://sirtravisjacksonoftexas.tumblr.com/post/628113211750776832/do-supposed-parallels-between-the-gospels-and

https://www.britannica.com/topic/crucifixion-capital-punishment

https://www.britannica.com/topic/Odyssey-epic-by-Homer

https://www.ancient.eu/odysseus/

https://bmcr.brynmawr.edu/2000/2000.09.16/

https://www.logicallyfallacious.com/logicalfallacies/Argument-from-Ignorance

https://www.logicallyfallacious.com/logicalfallacies/Appeal-to-Possibility

“Encyclopedia of Women in the Ancient World” By Joyce E. Salisbury, 66

https://www.google.com/books/edition/Encyclopedia_of_Women_in_the_Ancient_Wor/HF0m3spOebcC?hl=en&gbpv=1&dq=Agamemnon%2Bbeheaded&pg=PA66&printsec=frontcover

https://www.newworldencyclopedia.org/entry/Beheading

https://www.britannica.com/topic/beheading

https://www.google.com/books/edition/Mortal_Republic/P2RPDwAAQBAJ?hl=en&gbpv=1&dq=Pompey+beheaded&pg=PT206&printsec=frontcover

“The IVP Bible Background Commentary: New Testament” by Craig S. Keener, 85, 150-51.

https://www.livius.org/articles/person/herod-antipas/

“Bible Understanding Made Easy: Volume 3: Mark’s Gospel” By Anthony L. Norwood, 23

https://books.google.com/books?id=g2DkENMbNnoC&newbks=0&printsec=frontcover&pg=PA23&dq=tetrarch+roman+empire&hl=en&source=newbks_fb#v=onepage&q=tetrarch%20roman%20empire&f=false

https://www.britannica.com/topic/tetrarch-ancient-Greek-official

“Clash of the Gods” documentary series: “Odysseus: Curse of the Sea” and “Odysseus: Warrior’s Revenge” episodes

“The Portable Seminary: A Master’s Level Overview In One Volume”” by David Horton (General Editor), 281

“Quaestiones Graecae” (The Greek Questions) by Plutarch, section 14

http://www.perseus.tufts.edu/hopper/text?doc=Perseus%3Atext%3A2008.01.0215%3Asection%3D14 

http://www.perseus.tufts.edu/hopper/text?doc=Perseus%3Atext%3A2008.01.0215 

https://sirtravisjacksonoftexas.tumblr.com/post/615781564580773888/was-jesus-a-fictional-character-based-on-pagan 

https://sirtravisjacksonoftexas.tumblr.com/post/624904287995265024/do-so-called-similarities-between-jesus-and

“The Princess Bride” film

“Alice in Wonderland” Disney cartoon.

[chipslater]

(via https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DoSCHld02E4)

The Odysseys of Homer ✦ BOOK 24 ✦ AUDIOBOOK CLASSICS

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The Odysseys of Homer HOMER (c. 8th cen - c. 8th cen), translated by George Chapman (c. 1559 - 1634)

Genre(s): Classics (Antiquity), Epics

Language: English

Librivox Recording

The Odysseys are a collection of stories about Ulysses' journey home from the war at Troy purportedly written in the 8th century BCE by Homer, a blind poet thought to have lived in the Greek colonies in Asia Minor, possibly at Smyrna. The events described are thought to have occurred centuries before being recorded by Homer, handed down orally since the twelfth century BCE, the golden era of the Greek Bronze Age when the world was populated by heroic mortals and often visited by the Gods. This verse translation in couplets by George Chapman was originally published in 1616, the first translation from the ancient Greek directly to English, although likely influenced by previous Latin translations. Chapman's translation has been admired by many, including John Keats and others. Many of these stories are familiar to us, Ulysses and the Sirens, Circe turning his crew to swine, their escape from the Cyclops on the bellies of his sheep, but Chapman's version includes violent episodes and suggestive innuendo that I don't recall from my childhood days. (Introduction by Fritz)

The epic poem of Odysseus begins ten years after the capture of Troy in Ithaca, his homeland. In his palace a large group of suitors have arrived and taken up residence to court Penelope, Odysseus’s wife. She, however, does not wish to remarry and makes them wait while her son Telemachus searches for just cause and a good reason to banish them from their home. All the while, Antinous plots to kill Telemachus and remove his opposition in the palace.

However, lost in the Mediterranean is Odysseus still trying to return home. Trapped on the island of Ogygia by the nymph Calypso, he wishes to return to his family but does not have the means to as he has lost his crew and ship. The Gods of Olympus continue to debate what they shall do about Odysseus, but Athena takes the initiative to visit and help his son, Telemachus. She arrives and convinces Telemachus to censure the suitors for their behavior and convinces him to travel to Pylos and Sparta. He learns while there that Odysseus is still alive and trapped by Calypso. While Telemachus prepares to return, Antinous puts his plans in motion to kill him.

Zeus finally decides to rescue Odysseus from Calyspo’s island and sends Hermes to convince Calypso to let him leave. He finally sets sail home, but is quickly shipwrecked again by Poseidon, the God who he had angered when Odysseus blinded his son Polyphemus, the Cyclops. Athena steps in to save Odysseus and brings him to the island of Scheria where he is found by Nausicaa, Princess of the Phaeacians. He reveals who he is to the King and Queen here and they immediately agree to help him return home. They first want to hear his story though.

Odysseus thus describes the months of travel that led him to the island of Calypso and then to Scheria. He begins with his trip to the Land of the Lotus Eaters, followed by the trip and battle of wits with Polyphemus, Poseidon’s Cyclops son. He describes the time he spent with Circe and their love affair as well as the journey past the Sirens and their tempting call. He continues to describe how he traveled to the underworld to speak with Tiresias the prophet and the fight with Scylla, the sea monster. Finally, after his tale is complete, Odysseus returns to Ithaca.

Odysseus arrives at the palace as a beggar and is immediately treated poorly. His nurse, Eurycleia recognizes him but does not reveal that she knows. Penelope also notes the beggar’s appearance and believes he might be her long lost husband. However, she is not sure, so she puts together an archery contest, the winner of which will be allowed to marry her. Whoever can string Odysseus’s bow and fire an arrow through twelve axes will be declared the winner. Only Odysseus was ever able to do so in the past. The suitors all fail before Odysseus is able to accomplish the feat. He then turns the bow on the suitors and kills every one of them. Finally, Odysseus reveals his identity and reunites with his family. He then visits his father Laertes and after successfully repelling the angered families of the suitors he killed, Athena arrives and peace is restored to Ithaca with the epic coming to a close. (This summary by wikisummaries: http://www.wikisummaries.org/wiki/The_Odyssey

#TheOdysseysofHomer   #Mythology    #AUDIOBOOK #LITERATURE  #ANTIQUITY  #GEORGECHAPMAN #shortStories  #Homer   #GreekMythology

[ahooge]

Kamen Rider Calliope Myth 1:7

“Odakyuu. I need you to do something for me. I’m gonna ask you to tell me what you know about cyclopses… But I don’t want you to actually tell me everything you know about cyclopses. Do you understand?”

Shoki gave Kaname a disparaging glance before returning his attention to the papers that crowned the pile on the desk before him. “That’s certainly a limiting way to ask for knowledge. What exactly do you want to know about them?”

It was the next day, and Kaname had managed to arrive at the ACRC room even before Shoki. She may or may not still have a class that she was supposed to be currently attending, but saving the campus from a monster-movie reject took priority over any academic-related matters she could think of.

“Like, I dunno, what the deal is with them.”

“What the… deal is?”

“Yeah! Y’know, why they exist. What their strengths and weaknesses are. Best way to kill ‘em. Y’know, the basics.”

Kaname watched Shoki struggle inwardly between ignoring her and focusing on the homework he had in front of him and his deepest natural instincts of curiosity for ancient cultures. She didn’t have a long wait.

“Well, their origins can be drawn from several different sources. Hesiod, Euripides, and Virgil to name a few. However, the most well-known account of these humanoid giants is indisputably from Homer’s Odyssey, in which the titular protagonist Odysseus crosses paths with several cyclopses on his long way back from the Trojan War. There’s plenty of fascinating interactions that take place between the sailors and this race of gargantuan man-eaters, but ultimately the leader of the cyclopses, Polyphemus, has his eye put out by a sharpened stake thrown by Odysseus, and his crew made their escape. Now what’s truly interesting are the other legends that attribute cyclopses as artisans and builders that…”

“I see,” said Kaname, loudly enough to be sure she interrupted Shoki before their opinions further diverged about what was “truly interesting”. “So in the end they basically just… stabbed it in the obvious weak point, huh. Not really sure what else I was expecting.”

“Yes, isn’t myth just fascinating when you assume everything beforehand and refuse elaboration.”

“I got what I needed. Is it really just a sharpened stick, though? Couldn’t that be considered, like… a spear?”

“Sure. People choose to translate the source in different ways. A spear would be an acceptable interpretation in my mind.”

“Good to know. Thanks.” Kaname gave Shoki a genuinely appreciative wave and headed for the door.

“Are you going to confront the monster again?”

Kaname stopped short. “Uhhh… More or less.” She still hadn’t figured out how much Shoki knew, or was supposed to know about the whole Kamen Rider situation. Kaname should probably have been clued into that by now, but it had never really made it into the top three topics of vital conversation between her, Kokonoka and Archimedes in the last couple days. Kaname understood that Arc wanted him to remain in the dark about his own spiritual possession situation, but any further tiptoeing around was more work than Kaname had signed up for.

“So, you saw me yesterday when I was fighting it?”

“I didn’t see the battle, only the results of you losing it. Look, you don’t have to hide anything about that from me; I’ve been privy to information related to the Kamen Rider since Ichiryuu joined the Ancient Cultures Research Club at the beginning of last semester. A lot’s happened since then, but it seems like she values my help. And she is an earnest member of the club as well… So it’s rather a shame to see the state we’re in now.”

Kaname looked around the room. “I mean, it’s not that messy, I’d think with some gasoline and a match or two the junk’ll clear right up…”

“I mean the fact that our club might not be around much longer. Unless you were too busy looking for material for your hilarious jokes, you may have noticed Ichiryuu and I are currently the only two members. There’s pressure from the university to shut down in order to spend the budget elsewhere, as well as us lacking a faculty sponsor.”

“Huh. That does suck.” Kaname wasn’t being sarcastic anymore; she could see how much Shoki and Kokonoka cared about the things they were into, and the ACRC was probably the only place they could get the resources to learn more about them. And, despite it being a bit selfish to say so, the only place where Kaname could get reliable information on how to fight the Ektroma. Shoki had proven himself more helpful than his spectral counterpart, which made Kaname remember to ask something else before she left.

“Hey, not to be too nosy, but it’s hard not to notice your fainting spells. Is that something you’ve gotten checked out?”

It was hard to ignore the pause Shoki took before replying. “Yes, multiple doctors have said that they can’t find any obvious causes, and there’s too many possibilities that are relatively benign to afford doing medical tests ad nauseum. It’s likely some form of narcolepsy brought on by academic stress. To be honest, after working through the initial uncertainty, I don’t mind it that much. It seems while I’m unconscious, my mind is still able to process information in a way that remains with me when I awaken. It’s like I’m being tutored in a way that’s particularly synergistic to my learning styles, and it ends up being a great advantage in some of my classes. I have a theory it stems from some kind of osmosis effect, I’ve been meaning to set up some tests…”

Kaname had heard what she wanted to and let herself tune out. If Shoki had been under considerable duress from Arc’s inhabitation, she had been seriously considering spilling the beans to him. But it seems she wasn’t giving the spirit as much credit as they deserved, so she relinquished the point.

“Alright, cool. I’m out then.”

“You have no idea what I’ve been talking about for the past minute do you.”

“Got that right. But hey, feel free to explain it to me again after I put my life on the line to put down Giant-Eye Magee out there.”

Shoki gave that a small chuckle. “Count on it. Good luck.”

“Thanks, I’ll probably need it.”

–#

Hikaru was even more tired today.

Even though he had been tired enough to fall into a deep slumber yesterday, his memories had become even more muddled. Had he actually slept, or was that in itself a dream? He was at a point where he was so exhausted the boundary between wakefulness and slumber rippled in his brain like late-night static from an old television. His body knew where it needed to go, but he felt thoroughly disconnected from the experience, like he had been shoved into some form-fitting robotic suit, and the only connection he had to the outside world was through lenses fogged up by his own exhaustion.

He knew he had to keep going, though. Just one more test, and one more after that, and after that, and each one brought him closer to the glorious future he dreamed of, but couldn’t quite picture right now. No one understood his needs, and if they couldn’t help him, they shouldn’t stand in his way. The Ektroma made sure of that. It wasn’t always visible, but it was sure to lurk close by, in case something tried to distract him from his task. Irritating people he vaguely recognized, saying they were worried about him, trying to get him to rest. Professors casting suspicious glances his way, muttering about cheating. And some fool who dared lecture him on his methods, calling him a hypocrite, and even trying to defeat the Ektroma that was giving him his power. No more of that. The next time she stood in his way, she would learn her lesson.

And apparently, despite her attendance in other classes, she was an eager student.

Hikaru saw Kaname, arms folded, leaning against her motorcycle, planted squarely in his path.

“Alright Yasuda, for the sake of appearances, I’m gonna tell you one last time; hand over the pen.”

Inside himself, Yasuda felt an urge to oblige her, for some reason. But he just snarled at her. “You know my answer to that.”

Kaname was already working out kinks in her neck. “Yep, well, negotiations finished, can’t say I didn’t try. I figure we should move this along to the part we both know’s coming.”

“Don’t hurt her,” Hikaru wanted to say, still not quite knowing why.

“I’m giving you one more chance,” Hikaru said, “to back off. I told you how you already waste enough space here.”

“Yeah, well, don’t go thinking you’re the first. I’ve developed a thick skin over the years, the better to punch your face with, my dear.”

Hikaru felt himself smirk. “So in the end you are willing to hurt a friend to get what you want.”

“Can’t deny that. But what I want is to get that friend back. From whatever the hell is making him say this crap right now.”

“This IS me,” said someone besides Hikaru. “This are my true feelings and ambitions, laid bare, allowing me to evolve into something greater! I don’t need saving!”

Hikaru inside Hikaru realized what he wanted to say to her.

“You and everyone else can shove off. I don’t need kindness or empathy or any of that shit. I don’t need anyone… to…”

“Help me.” Both Hikarus said together.

Kaname smirked, making a belt appear around her waist. “I hear you, Yasuda. Loud and clear.”

Hikaru watched the belt shimmer with warm light as Kaname retracted part of it, as if unravelling a scroll, and let it slide back into place. The light expanded over Kaname’s entire body, securing her in a suit of black and silver accented with lively lines of violet. Hikaru could see both the courage of a motorcycle stunt driver and the bellicose grace of an Amazonian warrior in the Kamen Rider that stood to face him now. He quickly realized it wasn’t him she was readying herself for, however, as he was pushed aside by the gauntleted hand of the Ektroma. Vengeful or hopeful, he no longer had any control over this situation; the restless, throbbing energy that had driven him over the past few days left his body all at once, dropping him like a pile of wet laundry by the pathway.

Kaname had only a moment of fear when she saw Hikaru fall, but knew it was because the Ektroma was consolidating its power for this fight. It no longer needed him as a puppet. So, in theory, once she sent it packing for good, her friend should be back to his old wimpy self. Her bigger problem was mitigating the effects of Pandora’s Box; she knew she stood a chance against the monocular menace, but at this point the Pandora’s Box effects were so potent it felt like she was fighting while coated in molasses, after having been spun around to make her dizzy.

Her instinct was trying to tell her something, however. If there had been one thing Arc had said that seemed like worthwhile advice, it was that thing about using her instinct. She touched her belt and again and, feeling nothing reaching out to her, tried forcing it to do something useful. A comforting warmth spread over her, reaching her legs just in time to use them, as the Ektroma tried to bisect her with a heavy swipe of its arm. Calliope was starting to move more naturally again; she felt light and springy, able to vacate before the weight of Pandora’s Box could encumber her limbs again. She wasn’t going to stand there and take another pounding from her lumbering foe, and used her newfound speed to start sending punches back.

The Ektroma, its single eyeball swivelling about madly, let out a hiss that sounded like a hive of hornets being sprayed with hot water. “How dare you!” A choked, snarling voice erupted from its gnashing maw; from somewhere deep inside it, she could still recognize Hikaru. “This was my only chance and you’re taking it away! You will never understand, you outsider! You pretender!”

Calliope deflected another blow and followed up with a high kick, causing the Ektroma to end its condemnation in a squeal. “Oh great, it can even talk now. Best addition yet, I’d say.”

“You tricked him with false friendship! He can’t trust anyone aga-ooomph”

Calliope had expertly dodged both its left and right strikes, and ducked under its guard to deliver a devastating straight right to its stupid face. The Ektroma stumbled back and Calliope pressed the advantage, laying in with a tight combo of kicks and punches, trying to stave off its guard.

The monster finally made her back off with a wide sweep of its horn, combined with a burst of noxious energy that caused a heavy ripple in the air of Pandora’s Box. Calliope momentarily felt stuck again, as time was caught in the eternity between two seconds… and then hit the ground just before the Ektroma’s second swing could catch her.

“You’re still scared, girl!” The monster chided her in gurgling glee. “I’m stronger than ever now, and no matter how hard you fight, you’ll meet your death on the end of my horn!” It tried to punctuate its point by punctuating her, moments after she rolled away. “But flee now, and live! Listen to that fear and save yourself!”

“Tough words for a freak who has a magnetic attraction to my fists. Keep this up and I’ll tag in my grandma to finish you off.”

“Even more foolish not to fear,” it growled. Both fighters stood poised, ready to counter but not to attack just yet. The Ektroma’s eyeball swiveled about to stare at something past Calliope’s shoulder, and she immediately got a bad feeling.

Before she could lunge at it, the Ektroma let loose another energy blast, rippling time and space like a stone breaking the surface of a pond. Fast, then slow, go, then stop, Calliope felt like she was caught between two TV channels flipping back and forth madly. She saw the Ektroma rush past her, heading for a student a short ways off that had been caught on the edge of Pandora’s Box.

“Watch, helpless hero, as someone dies just beyond the reach of those prized fists!”

Cold fear rushed up her legs, through her torso, and nearly made it into her brain before a memory rose up to block it. Something about not being chosen by strength, but by her will to act. She wouldn’t be able to reach the monster and the victim in time; but maybe her fists didn’t have to reach them. Maybe something else could. Her stare still fixed on the Ektroma, Calliope reached behind her, finding her grip on a weapon she willed to be there. She pulled it up, the long shaft etched with streams of violet and silver. Its keen point was already aimed straight at her target.

“Oy, you bile-gargling coward!…”

It slowed only for an instant, but that was all she needed. Its massive single eye swivelled towards her, just in time to take in its last view; the tip, and then the following four feet of a spear that had been hurtled with perfect precision. It let out a final, pathetic scream as it fell to the ground, amidst the streams of hissing ooze that poured feely from its gaping socket.

“Keep your eye on that!”

~~ End of Part 7 ~~ To read a preview for Part 8 (Sunday, March 4), read Calliope on the BloodLetterPress site! http://bloodletterpress.com/kamen-rider-calliope-myth-17

[tina-423]

Ten Interesting Greece Novels:

1). “ When the Tree Sings” by Stratis Haviaras : The cover of this book is deceptively pastoral, because a world of casual brutality as well as timeless beauty awaits within its pages. Set in a Greek village during the Second World War, firmly under Nazi occupation, the story is seen & recalled through the memories of a boy, well aware of cruelty & injustice, yet also aware of the golden haze of tradition & imagination. It's written in remarkable prose, which utilizes bold, even harsh strokes of sunlight & shadow, while maintaining a gorgeous lyricism. The senses are all engaged in palpable detail & immediacy, so that the reader is there in the midst of all that happens. At times this is almost unbearable; but such is the author's skill that we continue reading anyway. (Source: Amazon)

2). “ Eleni” by Nicholas Gage :  In 1948, as civil war ravaged Greece, children were abducted and sent to communist "camps" inside the Iron Curtain. Eleni Gatzoyiannis, forty-one, defied the traditions of her small village and the terror of the communist insurgents to arrange for the escape of her three daughters and her son, Nicola. For that act, she was imprisoned, tortured, and executed in cold blood. Nicholas Gage joined his father in Massachusetts at the age of nine and grew up to become a top New York Times investigative reporter, honing his skills with one thought in mind: to return to Greece and uncover the one story he cared about most: the story of his mother. Eleni takes you into the heart a village destroyed in the name of ideals and into the soul of a truly heroic woman. “(Source: Amazon)”

3).  “ Zorba the Greek” by Nikos Kazantzakis, Νίκος Καζαντζάκης: The classic novel, international sensation, and inspiration for the film starring Anthony Quinn explores the struggle between the aesthetic and the rational, the inner life and the life of the mind. The classic novel Zorba the Greek is the story of two men, their incredible friendship, and the importance of living life to the fullest. Zorba, a Greek working man, is a larger-than-life character, energetic and unpredictable. He accompanies the unnamed narrator to Crete to work in the narrator’s lignite mine, and the pair develops a singular relationship. The two men couldn’t be further apart: The narrator is cerebral, modest, and reserved; Zorba is unfettered, spirited, and beyond the reins of civility. Over the course of their journey, he becomes the narrator’s greatest friend and inspiration and helps him to appreciate the joy of living. Zorba has been acclaimed as one of the most remarkable figures in literature; he is a character in the great tradition of Sinbad the Sailor, Falstaff, and Sancho Panza. He responds to all that life offers him with passion, whether he’s supervising laborers at a mine, confronting mad monks in a mountain monastery, embellishing the tales of his past adventures, or making love. Zorba the Greek explores the beauty and pain of existence, inviting readers to reevaluate the most important aspects of their lives and live to the fullest. (Source: Good Reads)

4). “ The Odyssey” by by Homer, Robert Fagles (Translator), E.V. Rieu, Frédéric Mugler(Translator), Bernard Knox (Introduction):  Literature's grandest evocation of life's journey, at once an ageless human story and an individual test of moral endurance, Homer's ancient Greek epic The Odyssey is translated by Robert Fagles with an introduction and notes by Bernard Knox in Penguin Classics. When Robert Fagles' translation of The Iliad was published in 1990, critics and scholars alike hailed it as a masterpiece. Here, one of the great modern translators presents us with The Odyssey, Homer's best-loved poem, recounting Odysseus' wanderings after the Trojan War. With wit and wile, the 'man of twists and turns' meets the challenges of the sea-god Poseidon, and monsters ranging from the many-headed Scylla to the cannibalistic Cyclops Polyphemus - only to return after twenty years to a home besieged by his wife Penelope's suitors. In the myths and legends retold in this immortal poem, Fagles has captured the energy of Homer's original in a bold, contemporary idiom. Seven greek cities claim the honour of being the birthplace of Homer (c. 8th-7th century BC), the poet to whom the composition of the Iliad and Odyssey are attributed. The Iliad is the oldest surviving work of Western literature, but the identity - or even the existence - of Homer himself is a complete mystery, with no reliable biographical information having survived. If you enjoyed The Odyssey, you might like Robert Fagles' translation of The Iliad, also available in Penguin Classics. 'Wonderfully readable ... Just the right blend of roughness and sophistication' Ted Hughes 'A memorable achievement ... Mr Fagles has been remarkably successful in finding a style that is of our time and yet timeless' Richard Jenkyns, The New York Times Book Review 'His translation of The Odyssey is his best work yet' Garry Wills, New Yorke.”(Source: Good Reads)” 

5). “ Oedipus Rex (The Theban Plays #1)” by: Sophocles, J.E. Thomas (Translator: "...what man wins more happiness than just its shape and the ruin when that shape collapses?" Sophocles' Oedipus Rex has never been surpassed for the raw and terrible power with which its hero struggles to answer the eternal question, "Who am I?" The play, a story of a king who acting entirely in ignorance kills his father and marries his mother, unfolds with shattering power; we are helplessly carried along with Oedipus towards the final, horrific truth. To make Oedipus more accessible for the modern reader, our Prestwick House Literary Touchstone Classics includes a glossary of the more difficult words, as well as convenient sidebar notes to enlighten the reader on aspects that may be confusing or overlooked. We hope that the reader may, through this edition, more fully enjoy the beauty of the verse, the wisdom of the insights, and the impact of the drama. “(Source: Good Reds)”

6). “ Antigone (The Theban Plays #3)” by Sophocles, J.E. Thomas (Translator): The curse placed on Oedipus lingers and haunts a younger generation in this new and brilliant translation of Sophocles' classic drama. The daughter of Oedipus and Jocasta, Antigone is an unconventional heroine who pits her beliefs against the King of Thebes in a bloody test of wills that leaves few unharmed. Emotions fly as she challenges the king for the right to bury her own brother. Determined but doomed, Antigone shows her inner strength throughout the play. Antigone raises issues of law and morality that are just as relevant today as they were more than two thousand years ago. Whether this is your first reading or your twentieth, Antigone will move you as few pieces of literature can. To make this quintessential Greek drama more accessible to the modern reader, this Prestwick House Literary Touchstone Edition includes a glossary of difficult terms, a list of vocabulary words, and convenient sidebar notes. By providing these, it is our intention that readers will more fully enjoy the beauty, wisdom, and intent of the play. “(Source: Good Reasons)”

7). “ Tides of War” by Steven Pressfield:  Brilliant at war, a master of politics, and a charismatic lover, Alcibiades was Athens’ favorite son and the city’s greatest general. A prodigal follower of Socrates, he embodied both the best and the worst of the Golden Age of Greece. A commander on both land and sea, he led his armies to victory after victory. But like the heroes in a great Greek tragedy, he was a victim of his own pride, arrogance, excess, and ambition. Accused of crimes against the state, he was banished from his beloved Athens, only to take up arms in the service of his former enemies. For nearly three decades, Greece burned with war and Alcibiades helped bring victories to both sides — and ended up trusted by neither. Narrated from death row by Alcibiades’ bodyguard and assassin, a man whose own love and loathing for his former commander mirrors the mixed emotions felt by all Athens, Tides of War tells an epic saga of an extraordinary century, a war that changed history, and a complex leader who seduced a nation. “(Source: Good Reads)” 

8). “ Medea” by Euripides, Rex Warner (Translator):  One of the most powerful and enduring of Greek tragedies, Medea centers on the myth of Jason, leader of the Argonauts, who has won the dragon-guarded treasure of the Golden Fleece with the help of the sorceress Medea. Having married Medea and fathered her two children, Jason abandons her for a more favorable match, never suspecting the terrible revenge she will take. Euripides' masterly portrayal of the motives fiercely driving Medea's pursuit of vengeance for her husband's insult and betrayal has held theater audiences spellbound for more than twenty centuries. Rex Warner's authoritative translation brings this great classic of world literature vividly to life. “(Source: Good Reads)”

9). “ Electra” by Euripides, Janet Lempke (translator):  Based on the conviction that only translators who write poetry themselves can properly recreate the celebrated and timeless tragedies of Aeschylus, Sophocles, and Euripides, the Greek Tragedy in New Translations series offers new translations that go beyond the literal meaning of the Greek in order to evoke the poetry of the originals. Under the general editorship of Herbert Golder and the late William Arrowsmith, each volume includes a critical introduction, commentary on the text, full stage directions, and a glossary of the mythical and geographical references in the plays. This vital translation of Euripides' Electra recreates the prize-winning excitement of the original play. Electra, obsessed by dreams of avenging her father's murder, impatiently awaits the return of her exiled brother Orestes. After his arrival Electra uses Orestes as her instrument of vengeance, killing their mother's husband, then their mother herself - and only afterward do they see the evil inherent in these seemingly just acts. But in his usual fashion, Euripides has imbued myth with the reality of human experience, counterposing suspense and horror with comic realism and down-to-earth comments on life. “(Source Good Reads)”

10). “ The Penelopiad” by Margaret Atwood: Now that all the others have run out of air, it’s my turn to do a little story-making.In Homer’s account in The Odyssey, Penelope—wife of Odysseus and cousin of the beautiful Helen of Troy—is portrayed as the quintessential faithful wife, her story a salutary lesson through the ages. Left alone for twenty years when Odysseus goes off to fight in the Trojan War after the abduction of Helen, Penelope manages, in the face of scandalous rumors, to maintain the kingdom of Ithaca, bring up her wayward son, and keep over a hundred suitors at bay, simultaneously. When Odysseus finally comes home after enduring hardships, overcoming monsters, and sleeping with goddesses, he kills her suitors and—curiously—twelve of her maids.In a splendid contemporary twist to the ancient story, Margaret Atwood has chosen to give the telling of it to Penelope and to her twelve hanged maids, asking: “What led to the hanging of the maids, and what was Penelope really up to?” In Atwood’s dazzling, playful retelling, the story becomes as wise and compassionate as it is haunting, and as wildly entertaining as it is disturbing. With wit and verve, drawing on the story-telling and poetic talent for which she herself is renowned, she gives Penelope new life and reality—and sets out to provide an answer to an ancient mystery. “(Source Good Reads)”           

[chipslater]

The Odysseys of Homer ✦ BOOK 23 ✦ AUDIOBOOK CLASSICS

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The Odysseys of Homer HOMER (c. 8th cen - c. 8th cen), translated by George Chapman (c. 1559 - 1634)

Genre(s): Classics (Antiquity), Epics

Language: English

Librivox Recording

The Odysseys are a collection of stories about Ulysses' journey home from the war at Troy purportedly written in the 8th century BCE by Homer, a blind poet thought to have lived in the Greek colonies in Asia Minor, possibly at Smyrna. The events described are thought to have occurred centuries before being recorded by Homer, handed down orally since the twelfth century BCE, the golden era of the Greek Bronze Age when the world was populated by heroic mortals and often visited by the Gods. This verse translation in couplets by George Chapman was originally published in 1616, the first translation from the ancient Greek directly to English, although likely influenced by previous Latin translations. Chapman's translation has been admired by many, including John Keats and others. Many of these stories are familiar to us, Ulysses and the Sirens, Circe turning his crew to swine, their escape from the Cyclops on the bellies of his sheep, but Chapman's version includes violent episodes and suggestive innuendo that I don't recall from my childhood days. (Introduction by Fritz)

The epic poem of Odysseus begins ten years after the capture of Troy in Ithaca, his homeland. In his palace a large group of suitors have arrived and taken up residence to court Penelope, Odysseus’s wife. She, however, does not wish to remarry and makes them wait while her son Telemachus searches for just cause and a good reason to banish them from their home. All the while, Antinous plots to kill Telemachus and remove his opposition in the palace.

However, lost in the Mediterranean is Odysseus still trying to return home. Trapped on the island of Ogygia by the nymph Calypso, he wishes to return to his family but does not have the means to as he has lost his crew and ship. The Gods of Olympus continue to debate what they shall do about Odysseus, but Athena takes the initiative to visit and help his son, Telemachus. She arrives and convinces Telemachus to censure the suitors for their behavior and convinces him to travel to Pylos and Sparta. He learns while there that Odysseus is still alive and trapped by Calypso. While Telemachus prepares to return, Antinous puts his plans in motion to kill him.

Zeus finally decides to rescue Odysseus from Calyspo’s island and sends Hermes to convince Calypso to let him leave. He finally sets sail home, but is quickly shipwrecked again by Poseidon, the God who he had angered when Odysseus blinded his son Polyphemus, the Cyclops. Athena steps in to save Odysseus and brings him to the island of Scheria where he is found by Nausicaa, Princess of the Phaeacians. He reveals who he is to the King and Queen here and they immediately agree to help him return home. They first want to hear his story though.

Odysseus thus describes the months of travel that led him to the island of Calypso and then to Scheria. He begins with his trip to the Land of the Lotus Eaters, followed by the trip and battle of wits with Polyphemus, Poseidon’s Cyclops son. He describes the time he spent with Circe and their love affair as well as the journey past the Sirens and their tempting call. He continues to describe how he traveled to the underworld to speak with Tiresias the prophet and the fight with Scylla, the sea monster. Finally, after his tale is complete, Odysseus returns to Ithaca.

Odysseus arrives at the palace as a beggar and is immediately treated poorly. His nurse, Eurycleia recognizes him but does not reveal that she knows. Penelope also notes the beggar’s appearance and believes he might be her long lost husband. However, she is not sure, so she puts together an archery contest, the winner of which will be allowed to marry her. Whoever can string Odysseus’s bow and fire an arrow through twelve axes will be declared the winner. Only Odysseus was ever able to do so in the past. The suitors all fail before Odysseus is able to accomplish the feat. He then turns the bow on the suitors and kills every one of them. Finally, Odysseus reveals his identity and reunites with his family. He then visits his father Laertes and after successfully repelling the angered families of the suitors he killed, Athena arrives and peace is restored to Ithaca with the epic coming to a close. (This summary by wikisummaries: http://www.wikisummaries.org/wiki/The_Odyssey

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