As I noted yesterday, Apollon made Himself known to me before all others. As a child, it was the paintings of Apollon that really stood out to me in the D’Auliare book, and it was His mythology that fascinated me the most, and His was the face I often saw as I sang in my choirs. I don’t see the stoic white-marble Apollon that many see — 
I see Apollon strongest in images like that portrait of Beethoven that I always felt looked half-crazed, or this gorgeous painting of a crazed nymphe pounding on a lyre on the ceiling of the Fischer Building in Detroit. He’s a God of Moderation, and this includes moderating moderation itself — “all work and no play makes Jack a dull boy”, sort of deity. Can’t make an omelet without breaking a few eggs.
His lesson of “moderation in all things” is less about the austere middle-ground, but more about recognising what is best for the situation, which means recognising that the best choice sometimes really is All or Nothing. His mythology includes the description of a lover some impassioned that he all but lost himself to His beloved.
©Ruadhán McElroy; This was honestly the best I could make this look — the ceiling is at least three stories high.
Some may see this as a lesson in what not to do, a cautionary tale, but if that were the case, then why is laurel sacred to Apollon — and why did Sparta and Thessaly apparently honour Hyakinthos as hemitheos? The the degree of that love is such a disgrace, then wouldn’t such honours logically follow toward shameful? The reality is that this was the proper degree of passions for those instances, and naught but Apollon Himself can change how I see that.
How can the leader of the Mousai be one Who always tempers His passions? Perhaps that makes sense to those who aren’t artists, but it makes no sense to me, and I tend to feel that I produce my best works when dizzy with inspiration, drunk with passion.
But where Dionysos is likened to the lush Jim Morrison, dabbling in anything offered to him, having screaming hair-pulling fits with Nico, growing portly, I think Apollon may be better likened to Derek Jarman: 
experimenting with visuals, dialogue, and music as it suits projects like Jubilee, expertly casting a completely blind dancer/mime as Caliban in a film version of The Tempest re-worked just enough to impress the most hard-to Shakespeare scholars, taking a biopic project about Caravaggio, and creating a film that serves as a modern tribute to the painter’s once-revolutionary style — and not only that, but approaching his own HIV infection with education and reason, taking to gardening and journalling in his idle hours, and leaving behind a legacy of passions well-spent and well-shared.
Where most people associate grand Wagnerian symphonies or Mozart’s lavish baroque operas with Apollon, I risk, at the very least, an ocean-wave of rolled eyes, perhaps even accusations of blasphemy, and associate the absolutely perfect music of Japan, Brian Eno, and Roxy Music (especially with Brian Eno). 
I scoff at those who insist that the God of Music has no interest in anything newer than Noel Coward, and apparently little interest interest in anything less grand than Franz Liszt. Such people seem too quick to forget that the music given most readily to Apollon in ancient times was not grand Austrian symphonies, but simple devotional hymns, sung with little, if any, accompaniment. While my first deep connections to Apollon came from singing pristinely orchestrated choral music, the deepest connections I have had in recent years come in the form of performing avant-garde industrial music.
“Music for Un Chien Andalou” is my magnum opus for Apollon and the Mousai. My friend Jason and I created that after each some heavy ritual to our own deities (his to Ganesha; mine to Apollon and the Mousai), and before or since, I have created no equal. It’s so far the greatest offering I have created for any deity. 
Others, of course, are welcome to disagree, and I’m sure there are some who consider it some kind of sacrilege to offer Apollon any music but the most aureate “classical” pieces by dead composers who wore powdered wigs — and depending on the festival or occasion, I offer that to Apollon, too (especially arias for the castrato Farinelli as performed by intact modern Greek Sopranist Aris Christofellis) — but this is the God of Music, not a specific kind of music, the slayer of the Python, the plague-bringer, He who flayed alive the satyr who dared challenge Him at music. To assume He only has taste for Handel or Porpora is to speak as one whose understanding of Apollon apparently begins and ends with misguided tomes of the atheist Neitzche, or (dare I say? I shall) stale, Bowdlerised versions of His mythology that are barely suitable for small children. 
He is the father of pharmacists and doctors, and himself a God of Medicine and Healing. But just as quickly as He can bring Health, He can curse to illness. As quickly as He will praise talent, He will punish pretentiousness. Though His wrath is apparently not nearly enough to warrant a page dedicated to it on Theoi Project, His mythology makes it very clear that it exists, and that He is not a Deity to be trifled with. The painting of Him flaying (skinning alive) the satyr Marsyas fascinates me. Marsyas was a satyr who received a flute from Athene after She invented it and then became bored with it. 
After becomming adept with it, Marsyas became conceited, boasting that His skills at it were greater than even Apollon’s — forgetting that Apollon was naturally the best at every instrument. When Apollon appeared to Marsyas and said, “yes, you are very good, but if you can play hanging upside-down, I’ll concede that you are my better.” Marsyas knew this was impossible, but his braggadocio got the best of him, and after he hooked his feet onto the branch of a tree, he blew a single sour breath into his first note — then screamed as the God began to peel away his flesh.
His connections to oracles and divinations strengthens the bond I feel with him, for as you may recall from Day 6, I’ve been practising divinations since I was in high school. 
This, I feel, is indicative that He has connections with the Moirai, which, as I wrote yesterday, would be a connection to Eros. Of course, ultimately, I feel, all comes back to Eros — but I think Apollon’s link is closer than that.
…but then, many link Him very closely to Dionysos, so it makes sense in print to link Him to a similar deity. But also, for a couple years now, I’ve had this post here in my “Drafts” folder that I just can never articulate to my exact liking — one that connects Apollon to Eros as an Erote, as the Patron of the Grieving Lover. Consider how many of Apollon’s affairs (or at least attempts at such) ended in tragedy, typically the death or metamorphosis of the beloved. 
This would make Apollon’s relationship to Love as quite distinct from Anteros — Love Returned, also the avenger of Unrequited Love — for Apollon’s myths show, quite often, love that is returned, but which ends tragically. This connection could also suggest a patronage over forbidden love — what Eros stirs, Apollon reaches out to console, for He can see that it won’t end well, and He knows this heartache all too well. For this, I suggest an epithet of “Apollon Anteros-Dysdaimon [mutual love, ill-fated]” for His face that holds court with Eros.
Some may find it odd, but I tend to feel closest to Apollon during winter, when those of His cult at Delphi believe that He resides in the Hyperborean lands — the lands north of the frigid North Winds. This, I cannot explain, and probably wouldn’t dare to, if I could. I also tend to associate Him with the phenomenon of the aurora borealis, the Northern Lights, which were described by Aristotle in Meteorology, and which are, on rare occasion, observable from Athens. 
This, too, ties into Apollon’s associations with Light — though unlike some, I don’t associate Him with Helios or daylight; to me, Apollon is best associated with the flickering candle in the darkened room as I’m scrying, the sun as it reflects off Selene, the dimmer switch that will illuminate all but at a pace He decides is best.
I don’t have any dealings with Artemis; in fact, I had an experience where She specifically asked me to go away. Thinking about it, it makes perfect sense, for She is of wild things, and wild things like their absolutes; their Black/White thinking and are very seldom concerned with greys. I also just plain get the impression that She only wants to deal with those whom She wishes. 
I also think that my spiritual connection with large cities, and potentially other facts of my nature, may deeply offend Her (which further affirms my belief in the individual natures of the Gods), and while I see a lot of contrasting qualities in Apollon and Artemis, one of them is the notion that where Apollon is the pinholes of lights in the black, Artemis is the heavy cluster of shadows in broad daylight — to better obscure Her appearance for the hunt. But where Artemis rules over all aspects of the wilderness — yes, even the savage parts, Apollon rules over the civilised parts of the world, from the developed farmland, to the suburbs, to the bustling metropoleis — and yes, even its more unsavory aspects. 
From the clean and well-kept suburban pagan bookstore run by the sweet old lady, to the commune of Anarcho-Socialist hoamsteaders in rural Colarado, to the “crazy” on the Chicago street-corner who swears she knows what’s going to happen to you — the Apollon I know give each of those people and all others in-between their due measure.
My Apollon is neither grandiloquent nor pretentious; he’s not the somber antithesis to Dionysos’ mania; he’s not a shower of sunlight, and His wisdom is often cryptic or just plain cynical. It’s not uncommon for me to talk with Him and get sardonic replies — but at this point in the relationship, I know it’s because He has certain very specific ideas for how things should happen, and He knows that, with me, He can be openly frustrated with His own confines to Psykhe’s weave without scaring me. I don’t have as dark a portrait of Him as at least one of my friends does, but I at least like to think that her friendship was nudged my way so that I wouldn’t have to have one of my own — perhaps, in time, this too will be stitched out for me?
List behind cut:
Continue reading →
