Tag Archives: apollon

The Story of Pindar

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Pindar was born in the 65th Olympiad in Cynoscephalae, a village outside Thebes. His mother’s name was Cleodice and no-one can seem to decide if his father’s name was Daiphantus, Pagondas or Scopelinus. Unlike Hesiod, he seems to be from the ancient Boeotian equivalent of a bourgeoisie background, and clearly this is one of those things that hasn’t changed about Western Society, as unlike Hesiod, he included practically none of his family’s dirty laundry in his own work. Pindar’s got class, so there’s not much I can goof on (affectionately, of course). There’s a legend that his gift for “honey-like verse” came from having his mouth stung by a bee as a youth, and that’s seriously all anybody really knows about ol’ high-falutin’ Pindar until he was maybe twenty — of course, if you think about it, it’s far more impressive that Hesiod, being from a lower class tier, made it past that age, this was a time when the mathematically-average lifespan was 40-ish, but if one could make it past the age of 15-ish, when the typical life expectancy was around 55-ish and the higher your class, the more likely you were to live into your seventies1 — and making it past the age of twenty at a time prior to even 18th Century medicine is a far more impressive feat when you’re a toiler than when you’re from “elegant learning”. In poetry, Pindar was tutored by Corinna of Tanagra (a fellow Boeotian) and also relocated to Athens to be further instructed by Lasos of Hermione. By the age of twenty, he was commissioned for his first Victory Ode by a wealthy family from Thessaly. At about the age of thirty, Pindar was at the Pythian games where he met chariot winner and Sicilian prince Thrasybulus, nephew of Theron of Acragas, and they became lifelong friends thereafter — it’s unfortunate that this seems to be one of the less slashtastic ancient Hellenic male-male friendships, but maybe I’m just letting my perversion show with that comment.

Er… *ahem!* Carry on!

So, it seems Pindar was a triple-threat lyric poet; he wrote the lyrics, he wrote the instrumental accompaniment, and he choreographed. In modern terms: Pindar was one melodramatic script away from being The Ultimate Theatre Geek™. Sometimes he’d train performers at his hime in Thebes, but he’d also get commissioned by patrons of the arts and would travel all over the ancient Hellenic world to put on shows. He was practically a celebrity, and like modern celebrities, there was sometimes rivalry for jobs, but Pindar’s got class — sure, some of his poetry reflects these rivalries, but only in vague metaphors, like with ravens and apes and shit like that. Even today, people speculate who this was really all about, but like I said, Pindar’s got class.

Still, Pindar got mixed up in politics. Once, after writing praise of Athens, the rival city of his home city of Thebes, fined him 5000 drachmae, and rumour has it that Athens responded with a gift of twice that. Other hometown drama llamas were ridden in on by the fact that he was a friend of Sicilian tyrant Hieron, the subject of one of Pindar’s first Pythian ode, and it was probably all this bullshit that later led him to write another ode denouncing all tyrants. It’s also been suggested all over the place (and at times seems rather apparent) that Pindar used his fame and his odes as a vehicle for advancing both personal interests and those of his friends. Alright, maybe Pindar’s class is limited, but still, man’s got it; after all, of his personal life, we have very little: his wife was Megacleia, and his son was named Daiphantus, and he had two daughtrers, Eumetis and Protomache. He lived in Thebes near the shrine of the oracle Alkmáon.

Pindar died at about the age of eighty2, and his daughters took home his ashes to Thebes, and the Thebans, despite visiting much drama upon the man in life, regarded his house as one of the city’s landmarks, a practical tourist attraction, and it is said that Alexander the Great so revered Pindar (possibly in no small part to the favourable writings he made of Alexandros I of Makedon) that when he had the city burned in the name of “building Hellenic unity”, Pindar’s house was the only one in the area left intact. Delphi’s Temple of Apollon displayed Pindar’s iron chair that he sat upon during the Theoxenia festival, and one of his daughters claimed to have inscribed a posthumous verse of Pindar’s honouring Persephone.

1: Seriously, in nearly 3000 years, we’ve only really gained about twenty years in life expectancy for the average person, and a statistically insignificant increase in life expectancy for higher classes, and the important factor hasn’t been in prolonging the lives of the elderly, but in all but eradicating paediatric mortality. Remember maths class: “average” figures for ancient life span account all the millions of people dying before the age of eighteen, which skews averages making it look like hardly anybody would see the age of thirty-five, when this is clearly bull.
2: Seriously, octogenarians don’t seem like that big a deal now, do they?
[Also, apologies for dragging this "week" out so long — it's mainly been allergies, which have been bad enough this last couple weeks that I've been feeling muscle weakness and will wake up practically choking on my own snot. Wasn't nearly so bad this morning. ☺]

Why my birthday is amazing and yours is not

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22 July is a day of many things — of shoes and ships and ceiling-wax, of cabbages and kings. Here are some amazing facts about my birthday!

*The year I was born (according to HMEPA), 22 July was 7 Hekatombion (Attic calendar) or 7 Ippodromios (Boeotian) — the seventh day of the Lunar month being sacred to Apollon.
*My actual “due date” was ten days previous, on the first day of Hekate’s Deipnon.
^I was born in one of the years that 22 July is in Leo rather than Cancer; both signs have mythology related to Herakles (of note, two of my best friends are Gemini)
*I share a birthday (though a different year) with Rufus Wainright — our forenames both mean “red-haired”, though neither one of us really is (my natural colour is auburn, not ginger).
*Birthday also shared with Oscar de la Renta, Terrance Stamp, Alex Trebek, George Clinton, David Spade.
*If you’re Catholic, this is the feast day of Mary Magdelene; intriguingly, Mary Magdalene is commonly portrayed with red hair.
*This year, is on the 20th day of the Lunar month, also sacred to Apollon.
*By modern tradition, birthstone for July is the ruby, by zodiacal tradition, for Leo it is Onyx.
*Flower for July births is Delphinium Larkspur, the sacred flower of Hyakinthos.

30 Day Paganism Meme: Day 13 ~ Pantheon – Adonis & the Flower Boys

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I love Adonis.

Though there’s Peanut Gallery commentary decrying any worship of Him and Kybele in a Hellenic context as “un-Hellenic”, it’s pretty obvious that Their cults had been thoroughly Hellenised by the time of Hesiod (if you haven’t seen people making such ridiculous claims, consider yourself lucky; in fact, I consider myself a lesser person for even mentioning it). I find myself especially fascinated with Ptolemy Hephaestion frequently linking His love as shared with Aphrodite and Apollon, which may seem unusual to those who are only familiar with the versions of Aponis’ mythos that link Him with Aphrodite and Persephone.

“Adonis, having become androgynous, behaved as a man for Aphrodite and as a woman for Apollon.” – Ptolemy Hephaestion, New History Bk5 (as summarized in Photius, Myriobiblon 190)

There’s a fragment from Hesiod that describes Adonis as the son of Phoenix (son of Amyntor), and most primary sources name His mother as Smyrrhna, who had a metamorphosis into the tree from which myrrh resin is harvested.

In myth and in cult, there are many easy comparisons to Dionysos — from a position in life-death-rebirth cults, his apparent links to sexuality, vegetation, and Khthonic deities (especially Persephone), academic and ancient syncretic likening to Osiris, and the public face of His cult was decidedly female (though this is where things begin to differ — male Dionysians existed in ancient times as much, if not more, than in modern — male Adonians, at least in the ancient Hellenic world [I haven't a clue about the Phonecian or Syrian world where it's clear His cult originated], seem apparently non-existent and, even in modern times, seem few, at best). But at least in the Hellenic world, it’s very clear that they are not the same — in some mythology, Aphrodite bore Adonis a daughter, Beroe, who is one beloved of Dionysos.

His cult likely came into the Hellenic mainlaind through Kypris, the birthplace and local name for Aphrodite, and by about the 6th Century BCE, was already well-known in Hellas. This is not insignificant: This not only cements a relationship with Aphrodite’s cult, it also really shows the aforementioned Peanut Gallery where to stick it — MWAHAHAHAHA!!! :-D

Seriously, folks, at this point in time, I think it’s safe to admit that the Adonis cult was thoroughly Hellenised. The academia really try to “un-Hellenise” Adonis, and indeed, many of these arguments seem to make sense, until you get into several glaringly apparent facts:

1) Adonis is a central part of Aphrodite’s Hellenic mythology — and I word it this way because a ssignificant amount of Her mythology and cult is clearly “imported”, comparative mythologises easily link Aphrodite to nearly every Near Eastern Goddess from the Babylonian Ishtar to the Zoroastrian Anahita. If one is going to conclude that Hellenic polytheists should worship only Hellenic deities, then there is an awful lot of archaeology that could easily reason that Aphrodite’s cult is not “indigenous” to Hellas any more than that of Adonis’.

2) It’s absolutely likely that Adonis’ cult was “imported” at the same time as Aphrodite — and even the much-touted Walter Burkert, apparently Greek Religion is a veritable gospel to some people, sure seems to agree with this idea:

The cult of the dying god Adonis is already found to be fully developed in Sappho’s circle of young girls around 600 [BCE]; indeed, one might ask whether Adonis had not from the very beginning come to Greece along with Aphrodite. For the Greeks it was well-known that he was an immigrant from the Semetic world, and his origins were traced to Byblos and Cyprus. His name is clearly the Semetic title adon, Lord. For alll that, there is in Semetic tradition no known cult connected with this title which corresponds exactly to the Greek cult, to say nothing of a counterpart to the Greek Adonis myth. (pp176-177)

Indeed, investigating Near Eastern mythology, the closest deity with a cult matching the Adonis cult is we see named is “Tammuz”, not Adonis. Perhaps “Adonis”, in this instance, is merely a loan-word made name?

3) The name Adonis, while clearly being the sticking point for identifying His cult as “foreign”, as a language arts major I can clearly see as a mere convention on the same level as “Kytheria” or “Kypris” as a name for Aphrodite — and one clearly accepted as “Greek enough” for many scholars for centuries — indeed, Thomas Taylor takes “Kypris = Aphrodite (= Venus)” for granted in translating the Orphic hymns — and indeed, Cyprus was Hittite land until fairly late Bronze Age; which would be roughly the period estimated for the import of Aphrodite and Adonis cults. Indeed, in most mythological traditions, Cyprus is also the birthplace of Adonis, not merely His cult — so it obviously flabbergasts that somehow this can make Aphrodite “Hellenic enough”, but not Adonis.

One can clearly only begin to imagine the whys and such for the reluctance to accept Adonis cult as “Hellenic enough”, when all evidence clearly shows that it is so. One idea may simply revert to etymology — though clearly acceptable early on in the Hellenisation of Adonis cult practise, later it became a sticking point due to what would now be called racism or nationalism — kinda the same logic “birthers” use to accuse President Barak Obama of being born well-outside U$ soils, in spite of all clear evidence to the contrary. Another idea being that since His cult, in ancient times, was dominated by women to the point of apparently becoming female-only kept the cult well outside the “mainstream” of the civic religion, and so, in a sense, “foreign” to ancient writers, who tended to be men — it could therefore arguably be sexism that kept the Adonis cult regarded as “foreign”; if one considers that many often wrote of the Adonis cult and its symbols with a hint of derision (it’s arguable that the old idea of “green leafy salad = women’s food” is an idea started in ancient Hellas — not only is lettuce sacred to Adonis, but one writer once joked [or perhaps seriously believed] that lettuce causes male sterility), this hypothesis makes a lot of sense on paper.

But perhaps I digress….

I was initially attracted to Adonis as an extension of the “flower boys” — His floral associations include roses (in some versions of the mythos), windflower / anemone poppies, and the “adonis” genus of flowering plant. I make no secret of my veneration of Narkissos as a Daimone and Hyakinthos as hemitheos. Even Krokos, Paeon, and Orchis have found their ways into the mythos I hold dear. The “flower boy” myths intrigue me on many levels: For starters, think about what a flower is — not what it represents in this culture, but what it is. It’s a part of certain plants, but which part? The genitals. In a certain light, it can seem kind of perverse how much cut flowers —severed plant genitals— play a part in (especially heterosexual) romance, courtship, and marriage. The boy gives the girl a cluster of severed, essentially hermaphroditic genitals to show he likes her. A few centuries ago, especially the middle classes, the boy’s visit would then only really last as long as it took for girl to pluck the protective petals from around the reproductive centre. Near the end of the wedding ritual, where people especially like to be surrounded by these hermaphroditic plant parts, the bride throws another bushel of genitals on her friends, with the hope that the cycle will start anew.

And if that’s not enough for you to handle? In many flowers, it’s the especially phallic-looking bit in the centre that’s the “female” part of this hermaphrodite.

It’s clear that Western culture is seriously obsessed with sex and sex organs — even when it tries to pretend it’s not, it’s filling children, especially girls, with an onslaught of symbols of fertility and virility and Martha Stewart is joyfully arranging severed genitals in various vases, often with the especially phallic lady-bits, right there on daytime telly (that woman seriously seems to love her lilies and callas — which aren’t lilies, they’re arums, and their “male bits” are typically attached to the “female bit” — now THINK ABOUT THAT).

I find it hard to get close to Aphrodite. Not for lack of trying, mind, but perhaps she senses something about me (In Real Life™, I tend to be generally more comfortable getting emotionally close with men, while women I tend to befriend more casually — and the few exceptions to this kind of prove the rule, in their own unique ways), and either decides to maintain that distance, or simply appoints any and all contact to be through one of “Her Boys”: Either Eros, Whom I’ve already become especially close to, or Adonis, another Flower Boy for my bouquet.

Narkissos, I consider especially precious. My own views of His mythology apparently differ from the mainstream, and the versions of His mythos I hold most dear (and indeed, there are dozens of ancient re-tellings and re-imaginings — the Battlestar Galactica franchise has had fewer re-interpretations by a wide margin) seem rather obscure, even if they’re versions that still seem to maintain the dominant trappings of the popular versions. To me, He is a holy daimon: A spirit of self-love, and a protector of those unloved. His namesake flower is sacred to Him, as are mirrors and reflecting pools; the species narcissus poeticus is especially sacred, as this is the exact flower He gave form to. He comes to you in a form reminiscent of you see yourself, perhaps a daimon of the Ego Ideal. He is the son of a nymphe and river god of Thespiae. His spurned lover, Ameinias, became anise; you can help to heal the tears Narkissos shed for both His own cruelty and for Ameinias with an offering of anise. Also, a bit of anise in a coffee for a reading may shed light on who loves you. Popularly, at least historically, He seems to have an especial link with gay man, and “narcissism” was initially used as a term for the “sexual perversion” of male-male love.

Hyakinthos’ flower, contrary to modern assumptions, is the delphinium larkspur. He is the son of the Moisa Goddess Kleio and Magnes’ son Pieros (Magnes being the first, now legendary, king of Magnesia, and a son of Zeus), and in some mythological traditions, He is either brother or cousin to Daphne — and perhaps the common-enough urge to link their myths is part of the collective consciousness trying to remind people of this (presumably?) once-ancient connection. By Spartan tradition, Hyakinthos is identified with the Thessalian Hymenaios, the God of marriage and the wedding bed, carrying associations with virginity, True Love, and legitimate partnership — again, I have to voice flabergastion that at the fact that so many modern Hellenic polytheists insist that only heterosexual partnerships have a right to spiritual or ritual legitimacy. Did Apollon not love Hyakinthos in the mythos? Is a god’s love not legitimate? Is the love felt by a mortal somehow unture? (If so, then logically, no marriage with a base of love, which is indeed what the overwhelming majority of Western marriages are, can possibly be ritually legitimate within Hellenismos — and I seriously doubt that very many people would want to get behind a fringe religion with self-proclaimed “authorities” who endorse a return to strictly-arranged het marriages based in social-climbing and dowries.) Or would people rather wax philosophical about “symbolism” and “metaphor” in myth rather than accept that the best symbol of a thing is the thing itself — and the mythos she the thing itself as a deep love and bond that was met with a tragic end. Though mortals may be imperfect, even flawed things can be true, legitimate — death is the greatest, most glaring flaw that mortals have, when compared to the Theoi, but our deaths are overwhelmingly true, a truth that is glaringly obvious.

And again, we come back to blues — immortal blues for Love Himself. From “…something borrowed, and something blue,” to “L’amour est Bleu” (perhaps is is not insignificant that this song rose to fame via the Hellenic singer Vicky Leandros? LOL). The first I saw Hyakinthos, I knew the Spartans were onto something with their associations with Hymenaios, for the first time I saw Hyacinth (in a dream, mind), He was at a small pool or spring, sitting on a rock at the centre of a thick round of His flower, peacock feathers tied into His hair (giving allusions to Hera, a Goddess whose domains include marriage), and Apollon identifying this breath-taking youth as His beloved Hyakinthos, who He “fought the West Wind for, and won”. Their love, as I see it, is a wedded one that is renewed annually with Hyakinthos’ death and rebirth. He is therefore arguably, too, an Erote of Love Renewed, of Tragic Love, and a god of rebirth from tragedy.

Because of my interest in Boeotian traditions, especially of Thespiae and the surrounding area, I often revert back to Hesiod. Hesiod names a beautiful Thessalian boy beloved of Apollon, Hymenaios — or at least this is the Evlyn-White translation of the relevant fragment. The pseudo-Apollodoros notes a Thessalian Hyakinthos was seduced by Apollon away from Philammon, and that this Thessalian youth was accidentally slain by discus. Clearly this mythology is an example of one-in-the-same, simply with different names. At this point, I’m convinced, and urge: Whether you call Him Hyakinthos or Hymenaios, call on Him to bless the bond of love.

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30 Day Paganism Meme: Day 11 ~ Patrons – Apollon

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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?

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