Tag Archives: Eros

[PBP2013] Lost in Translation: L’amour est bleu

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L’amour est bleu
Doux, doux, l’amour est doux
Douce est ma vie, ma vie dans tes bras
Doux, doux, l’amour est doux
Douce est ma vie, ma vie près de toi

Bleu, bleu, l’amour est bleu
Berce mon cœur, mon cœur amoureux
Bleu, bleu, l’amour est bleu
Bleu comme le ciel qui joue dans tes yeux

Comme l’eau, comme l’eau qui court
Moi, mon cœur court après ton amour

Gris, gris, l’amour est gris
Pleure mon cœur lorsque tu t’en vas
Gris, gris, le ciel est gris
Tombe la pluie quand tu n’es plus là

Le vent, le vent gémit
Pleure le vent lorsque tu t’en vas
Le vent, le vent maudit
Pleure mon cœur quand tu n’es plus là

Comme l’eau, comme l’eau qui court
Moi, mon cœur court après ton amour

Bleu, bleu, l’amour est bleu
Le ciel est bleu lorsque tu reviens
Bleu, bleu, l’amour est bleu
L’amour est bleu quand tu prends ma main

Fou, fou, l’amour est fou
Fou comme toi et fou comme moi
Bleu, bleu, l’amour est bleu
L’amour est bleu quand je suis à toi

L’amour est bleu quand je suis à toi

Love is blue (translation)
Sweet, sweet, love is sweet
Sweet is my life, my life in your arms
Sweet, sweet, love is sweet
Sweet is my life, my life close to you

Blue, blue, love is blue
Cradle my heart, my loving heart
Blue, blue, love is blue
Blue like the sky which play in your eyes

Like the water, like the running water
Me, my heart runs after your love

Grey, grey, love is grey
My heart weeps since you went away
Grey, grey, the sky is grey
The rain falls when you’re not there anymore

The wind, the wind moans
The wind weeps since you went away
The wind, the cursed wind
My heart weeps when you’re not there anymore

Like the water, like the running water
Me, my heart runs after your love

Blue, blue, love is blue
The sky is blue when you return
Blue, blue, love is blue
Love is blue when you take my hand

Mad, mad, love is mad
Mad like you and mad like me
Blue, blue, love is blue
Love is blue when I am yours

Love is blue when I am yours

CONTRAST WITH

Blue, blue, my world is blue
Blue is my world since I’m without you
Gray, gray, my life is gray
Cold is my heart since you went away

Red, red, my eyes are red
Crying for you alone in my bed
Green, green, my jealous heart I
doubted you and now we’re apart

How the bright sun shone
Then love died
Now the rainbow is gone
Black, black, the nights I’ve known
Longing for you, so lost and alone
Gone, gone, the love we knew
Blue is my world since I’m without you

This is also an allegory for how the original language is necessary to a complete understanding.

[PBP2013] Khthonic Eros

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Eros Thanatos

In later eras, as the transition from life to death in Elysium became a more attractive option, Thanatos came to be seen as a beautiful Ephebe. He became associated more with a gentle passing than a woeful demise. Many Roman sarcophagi depict him as a winged boy, very much akin to Cupid: “Eros with crossed legs and torch reversed became the commonest of all symbols for Death”, observes Arthur Bernard Cook.

 

Fluttering wings unseen but heard
On my floor the dust is stirred
Fingers tracing out these words

Rasping breath inside my head
Coming closer to the bed
Everything is turning red

Death!
Sweet, sweet death!

[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.

A Brief History of Eostere

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You know, I’m willing to meet the Evangelicals halfway —the Christian holiday, Easter, did not begin as a pagan celebration of “the Goddess Eostere”. In fact, there’s no evidence of such a goddess as part of any pantheon prior the 8th Century CE, and the first time She was attested to in any writing was from a Christian text, to boot. The etymology of her name is likely from either the proto-Germanic “Austro” or the Hellenic “Eos”.

That said, as loathe as I am to quote Parker & Stone, I think the character of Stan Marsh put it best when, in the especially surreal “Fantastic Easter Special” eppie of South Park, he asked, several times and never to any logical answer: “What is the connection between Jesus and rabbits and colored eggs?”

The origin of Easter, in specific, even “Eostere”, may be Christian, but the traditional activities associated with the holiday are, to put it bluntly, pagan in origin.

300px-Belarusian_Easter_EggsEggs are fertility symbols. Modern Orthodox Christian Hellenes may say the deep reds of theirs represent Christ’s blood, but honestly? Most of them look pretty damned menstrual. Am I really supposed to believe that the origin of this has nothing to do with the Orphic World Egg?

Furthermore, the reputation of rabbits have for fucking is, indeed, an ancient one, and is likely why rabbits were a common courtship / engagement gift from ancient through to Renaissance years. Again, what does this have to do with a crucified prophet ascending bodily from his grave? Pretty much nothing, the rabbits are a fertility symbol for a fertility festival.

Even if “the Goddess Eostere” was unattested to prior the 8th Century CE, clearly She has a following now. She may not be an historical origin for pre-Christian celebrations that were later absorbed into Easter, but not only is She a part of the current pagan celebrations, there is, in fact, reason to believe that “Easter traditions” far pre-date Christianity.

Now, I do find the etymological liklihood between Eostere and Eos interesting — as Goddess of Dawn, has been given associations with things that “the dawn” can symbolise, such as New Beginnings, as per the 2000s Battlestar Galactica reboot. The traditional New Year in the Anglosphere was springtime, and the “head of the year” in Mesopotamia was springtime, ad well. Mythology of spring consistently centres around new beginnings, or beginning anew. It also makes for a curious coincidence that Eos’ personal mythology is loaded with many young lovers — many who die, some of whom metamorphosise — which brings us back to aspects of fertility in the springtime festivals.

Now, this is all coincidence with Eos — indeed, if her cult ever existed, the only surviving “evidence” of it comes from Ovid, who is incredibly vague:

Ovid, Metamorphoses 13. 576 ff (trans. Melville) (Roman epic C1st B.C. to C1st A.D.) :
“[Eos addresses Zeus :] Least I may be of all the goddesses the golden heavens hold–in all the world my shrines are rarest.”

…but considering that The Feast of Eros is a springtime festival (with symbolism that is certainly in line with a majority of that associated with Easter), it might seem fair to include Eos, if one might be so inclined.

Reading up a little more on Eostere, it seems some do associate her with dawn, which may or may not reflect Grimm’s first suggestion that the etymology of Eostere may be linked more closely with Eos. It’s also intriguing, to me, that in spite of many people trying to connect the association of Eostere and rabbits to Freya, it seems that Freya has no clear associations with rabbits — but Eros and Aphrodite do have traditional symbolisms with rabbits and hares.

[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.

[PBP2013] B: Beauty

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As a Hedonist and a Dandy, Beauty is important to my philosophy. I feel not only happy, but at my most spiritually aware when I’m surrounded by beautiful things. Of course, it helps that I’ve long cultivated a sense for seeing beauty in some of the most unconventional things: There is as much beauty in a stack of old books as there is in the most delicate statues adorning a shrine. There’s beauty in what appears to be the mere disarray of a well-loved collection of records just as much as there is beauty in an antique trunk. Even inexpensive and tacky “crystalline” plastic baubles can be arranged artfully and add to the beauty of a room.

Indeed, it’s the philosophy of Hedone that offers us beauty not just in expensive finery, but in the tangled hair and sweat-soaked sheets of a quick fuck.

On the other hand, just because I’ve cultivated the ability to see beauty in unconventional things doesn’t mean everything, or every-one, in this world is beautiful. The ordinary and the ugly are needed to measure beauty by, because if everything is beautiful, then nothing is. It’s like that “Project Pagan Enough” nonsense, where all that’s necessary to “be pagan” is to simply call oneself such; not only does that not necessarily make it so, it doesn’t define what the concept is. If there’s nothing that sets apart the beautiful from everything else, then one has rendered the concept meaningless.

The dictionary defines “beauty” as “impressively pleasing qualities in something or someone”. Ergo, for the Hedonist, beauty is very necessary, as it gives feelings of pleasure. That said, beauty is also incredibly subjective to cultural and personal tastes, but beauty isn’t merely the absense of ugliness —ugliness is the polar opposite of beauty, ugliness is impressively repulsive. The rest is merely ordinary. Beauty makes an impression, it etches itself into your memory and illuminates itself in your presence. Beauty is, at the very least, semi-divine in nature.

Unfortunately, when the subject of beauty turns to the professions of acting and modelling, the concept of “beauty” has become so homogenised as to be a celebration of the ordinary. Different is distasteful, and even those who are hailed as being “unconventional” are only so in a manner that is like putting a spot of glitter on a leaf of printer paper —take away the superficial adornment, and you’ve still got the same thing as every-one else.

Similarly, the Pagan community dabs some patchouli oil on their ordinary lives, and proclaims it unconventional and different, whilst doing precious little to actually create something beautiful in themselves, their surroundings, their very lives that will invite the Divine, in all Its forms into their lives. Without beauty, the Gods of the Pleasures are unwelcomed.

Lene Lovich – “Bird Song”

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A little bird told me, you were untrue
Even though, I had, faith in you
I believe, the liars words
Oh the same little bird

So with the bird, one day, you flew away
I woke up, too late, you had gone
Fading on with this song
Of the hurting little bird

Still I watch the sky
Still I wonder why
Still I hope that I…
Can carry on…
If I can’t be strong
If you hear my song
you’ll know that it was wrong, to say good bye…

Such a cold bird, so hard, captured your heart
Does it matter, I am, falling apart
Breaking fast, as the flesh
Of the dead little bird

Still I watch the sky…