Category Archives: Eros

[in-progress] Brother Love and Sister Strife

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This is originally written by hand in a leather-bound book that I was given. It’s not finished, and I don’t know when it will be.

Brother Love and Sister Strife
Took Their tea at the cafe
And outside the cars drove through
The slush, snow blew in dis’ray.
He poured Her some coffee and (5)
She lighted His fag, the fumes,
They curled ’round Them like roses:
Around Eros there sprang blooms
Around Eris curled its thorns
As they grew so ambrosial (10)
From delicate blue-grey vines
That hued Their air a dapple.
And then the girl brought Their cakes
And she remarked that the Two
Looked so diff’rent, so the same. (15)
Eros tittered and He cooed,
Eris tossed Her locks and howled.
“My rotten brother,” laughed Strife,
“Much older, and Mum’s favourite
“And it’s the curse of my life, (20)
“He’s so close, needs me to thrive.”
“So I’m your curse now?” laughed Love.
“I have to keep you in check
“To keep the light on above!”
“But,” Strife said, “does not my work (25)
“Give greater value to all yours?”
Then Eros thought just a bit
As drafts came in through the doors
And Love twirled a chestnut wave
As He mused, “Perhaps, Sister, (30)
“As always, you speak blunt truths”
Eros noted with eyes a-glister
“But what value has your work
“Without mankind’s hope of mine?”
“Oh, semantics!” scoffed Eris. (35)
“My own words are as thine!”
“But the difference,” noted Love
“Is what it is that I meant:
“Though your gifts benign, they take
“Yet when mine decrease? Augment! (40)
“Discord can be pivotal
“Very much needed at times
“But even at their most worst,
“Love makes Mankind feel Divine.”
“So you offer illusion.” (45)
His harsh baby sister jeered.
“Fancy for children and slaves
“And I give truths without Wyrd.”
“You give illusions of truth,”
Love pointed out in defence, (50)
And then the girl brought their cheque
(Twelve pounds and twenty-eight pence)
“And what’s so wrong with the Fates?”
“You like them cos you’re immune.”
And Love stood there, dumbfounded, (55)
As the buskers played their tune.
Then Eris paused and returned,
Love then looked at the singer
And asked, “For what have you yearned?”
“My passion to earn my rent (60)
“And my food and some clobber.”
“And has love improved your fate?”
“No, I’m an odd-jobber.”
Eris scowled, Her eyes on fire,
“You know that’s not what I meant.” (65)
Eros threw up his hands, quite vexed,
Tossed his cap to the cement,
“Sister, if I’m so immune
“Then what about fair Psykhe?
“And moreover, what of Want? (70)
“And what of Difficulty?”
“This isn’t about your wife,”
Eris said with tired force,
“Nor is it about your kids
“But how you can be so coarse (75)
“And cos you’re you, they forgive
“Yet even when I am kind
“So few recognise the good.”
“Sister, mortals are so blind
“In matters of love,” he said. (80)
“And there is nothing that you
“or I can do to fix that.”
The buskers played “Love Is Blue”
And Eris asked her brother
If he remembered that show (85)
With that song used to torture
“Oh, Discord, of course I know,
“And I recognise your work.”
He kissed her forehead gently
They embraced and he remarked (90)
On her uncommon beauty
“I mean it, Baby Sister
“Even if they don’t get it
“There’s a fairness in your schemes
“And a beauty to your fits” (95)
“And in my locks and septum?”
She asked, gesturing her face.
“”Oh, quite fine accoutrements
“All arranged in perfect place”
And the wind it blew freely (100)
As the two continued home
Flurries danced upon the breeze
Between the buildings, wind moaned
Then Eris asked, just because
The song in her brother’s head (105)
Then Eros took out a smoke
And he twirled about and said
“It’s called ‘Raspberry Beret’
“The original, by Prince”
Strife remarked, “I’m not surprised (110)
“And I expect nothing less,
“That you’d eschew the covers”
“And what about you?” asked Love
And Strife thought, O such banter.
They walked, she bunched up her hair (115)
And then Eros looked at her,
His long hair cascading down
And eyes asked gently, “answer?”
“Such frivolity, Desire
“I’ve no time for this nonsense” (120)
And Eros expressed conceren,
(Then tossed tramps an old sixpence)
“What’s nonsense, Eris? Music?”
“If you must know then, Love: Yes.
“Or well, I just can’t ‘ear none (125)
“That is, I just can’t, unless…”
“Unless it’s outside your head?”
She nodded, now glad he knew.
“It’s not all they say it is,”
Love assured her ‘neath their yew (130)
In front of their old attached house
The tree, thousands of years old,
–or so was the one they cut,
When they moved in, year untold,
But before Elizabeth (135)
Was entertained by the bard
They rebuilt the house post-Blitz
The tree remained through times hard
And just like the tree, stood Love
And, too, stood his sister Strife (140)
Cos no matter what changes
The two make the fuel of Life.

[in-progress] Brother Love and Sister Strife

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This is originally written by hand in a leather-bound book that I was given. It’s not finished, and I don’t know when it will be.

Brother Love and Sister Strife
Took Their tea at the cafe
And outside the cars drove through
The slush, snow blew in dis’ray.
He poured Her some coffee and
She lighted His fag, the fumes,
They curled ’round Them like roses:
Around Eros there sprang blooms
Around Eris curled its thorns
As they grew so ambrosial
From delicate blue-grey vines
That hued Their air a dapple.
And then the girl brought Their cakes
And she remarked that the Two
Looked so diff’rent, so the same.
Eros tittered and He cooed,
Eris tossed Her locks and howled.
“My rotten brother,” laughed Strife,
“Much older, and Mum’s favourite
“And it’s the curse of my life,
“He’s so close, needs me to thrive.”
“So I’m your curse now?” laughed Love.
“I have to keep you in check
“To keep the light on above!”
“But,” Strife said, “does not my work
“Give greater value to all yours?”
Then Eros thought just a bit
As drafts came in through the doors
And Love twirled a chestnut wave
As He mused, “Perhaps, Sister,
“As always, you speak blunt truths”
Eros noted with eyes a-glister
“But what value has your work
“Without mankind’s hope of mine?”
“Oh, semantics!” scoffed Eris.
“My own words are as thine!”
“But the difference,” noted Love
“Is what it is that I meant:
“Though your gifts benign, they take
“Yet when mine decrease? Augment!
“Discord can be pivotal
“Very much needed at times
“But even at their most worst,
“Love makes Mankind feel Divine.”
“So you offer illusion.”
His harsh baby sister jeered.
“Fancy for children and slaves
“And I give truths without Wyrd.”
“You give illusions of truth,”
Love pointed out in defence,
And then the girl brought their cheque
(Twelve pounds and twenty-eight pence)
“And what’s so wrong with the Fates?”
“You like them cos you’re immune.”
And Love stood there, dumbfounded,
As the buskers played their tune.
Then Eris paused and returned,
Love then looked at the singer
And asked, “For what have you yearned?”
“My passion to earn my rent
“And my food and some clobber.”
“And has love improved your fate?”
“No, I’m an odd-jobber.”
Eris scowled, Her eyes on fire,
“You know that’s not what I meant.”
Eros threw up his hands, quite vexed,
Tossed his cap to the cement,
“Sister, if I’m so immune
“Then what about fair Psykhe?
“And moreover, what of Want?
“And what of Difficulty?”
“This isn’t about your wife,”
Eris said with tired force,
“Nor is it about your kids
“But how you can be so coarse
“And cos you’re you, they forgive
“Yet even when I am kind
“So few recognise the good.”
“Sister, mortals are so blind
“In matters of love,” he said.

[PBP2013] Creativity

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Mine is a religion of Creation.

Eros, god of Beauty, Love, Sex, Desire, and ultimately, Creation. All other theoi, ultimately, create things. Even the Goddesses Parthenos.

The path of the hoi polloi is to work, procreate, and pass on.

The path of the hero is to use one’s gifts to create from one’s life a legacy that outlives, outshines one’s mortality.

The path of the artist is to hone one’s craft and create, create until one can do so no more. This, too, brings immortality. Artists live forever through their creations and the desire of those who love it to keep it alive.

Is creativity, in any of its forms, integral to a pagan identity? I’d say yes.

If one’s gods do not create, then what incentive is there to worship Them? If one is going to say “oh, I worship nature”, then what is a seed? Water and fire don’t necessarily destroy, they just create smaller objects from bigger ones. If you’re not passing on your path, either via initiation, familial procreation, or just engaging others and teaching them, then you’re destroying it. If one can’t even muster up the courage to be not just inspired by their Deities, but to make something that future generatons can enjoy, then one might as well set fire to the Louvre, for one who does not act on that creative spark, ultimately, destroys it.

Eros is NOT the Reason for the Season

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©Pierre et Gilles

©Pierre et Gilles

I really have to abandon the inertia I seem to have adopted toward removing myself from a certain e-mail list. This owner/s of the list in question, in spite of repeated issuance from members, including myself, of correct information that points out the Feast of Eros is a springtime festival —not mid-winter— still maintain a calendar that places the Feast of Eros as a replacement for St. Valentine’s Day.

While there is very little surviving information about the Feast in question, there is enough to place this as a springtime festival. Furthermore, there is nothing about Eros’ symbolism that is specific to winter, and plenty that makes a springtime festival seem more appropriate —the cockerel, the hare, eggs, birds, youth.

by Erte

by Erte

Furthermore, the ancient, pre-Christian origins of St Valentine’s Day are well established. Daidala (Attic: Gemalia), the wedding of Hera and Zeus is traditionally held around the time of mid-February. Rome’s Lupercalia, celebrating the bitch wolf that suckled Romulus and Remus. Eros has nothing to do with either day. I’ve explained this at great length before. Yet the pinhead/s in charge of that list still insist “it’s a modern syncretism in line with the ancient practice”.

What ancient practice? There is NO “ancient practice” that can easily link Eros with any mid-February festivals, and the “love” portrayed in the Catholic St Valentine mythology was closer to agape than eros. The “love” we see in the Lupercalia mythos is compassionate, not erotic.

"Winter" by Erte

“Winter” by Erte

The union of Zeus and Hera, even as per the mythology, was one less of passion than of politics.

That said, I acknowledge that people are going to do whatever they want to, anyway, no matter what makes sense or not. Oh well. If you want to celebrate Eros on 14 February, have fun with that. On the other hand, when you call it “The Feast of Eros” you are inviting confusion with the ancient festival. When you insist that “it’s a modern syncretism”, you not only demonstrate a misunderstanding of what syncretism actually is, you demonstrate a gross misunderstanding of the ancient calendars.

I’m willing to make a post like this every fucking year, so that people who are genuinely interested in the ancient practice can learn that this idea of a mid-winter “Feast of Eros” is just borderline eclectic nonsense based more on medieval softcore subversion of Christian mythology than on pre-Christian Græc

Star Gazers #1246

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Leonid Meteor Shower! The Nemean Lion is going to jizz all over!

Woah, I just unintentionally reminded myself of this picture:

Story of the Leonid Meteor Shower:

At Olympos, Herakles showed His various items to the other Theoi and Hemitheoi, and when Eros saw the skin of the lion, He seized it and put it on.

“Who told you that you could kill it? They belong to My wars, they protect My cities.”

“I had to. To redeem myself.”

“Your redemption laid in removing the people from immediate danger, your kill order was from mortal tongue.”

“How do you suppose I should have down that, then, without killing it? This particular cat was enormous, monsterous; some believe it was born of the Khimaira, some of those who do are even your Thespians. The beast was out of control, it had to be done, and Your pet, the Most Honourable Hera, even put it amongst the stars.”

Taken aback, Hera smiled wryly at Eros and suggested, “Why don’t you give the infant his robe back, now? He’s only been Immortal a very short time; he doesn’t understand the etiquette.”

Eros removed the skin, but before handing it back, slammed the jaw on the head shut, knocking its teeth out, then cast them from the Olympian palace, one at a time. From Earth, the argument translated as a sprinkle of meteors from the centre of the Leo constellation.

“I may be small, Theban half-breed, but don’t dare challenge me. You will not win.”