Festus Avienus, Descr. orb. terr. 761–763, GGM ii.184
hic cum plaustra poli tangit Phoebeius ignis, nocte sub illustri rota solis fomite flagrat continuo, clarumque diem nox aemula ducit
There [at Thule], when Phoebus’ fire touches Ursa Major, under shining night the Sun’s wheel burns with continuous flames, and the night, eager to equal it, leads the bright day. 

My research habits are rather peculiar, I admit. Take the other night’s session which began with Varga Timea’s Telesphorus: A healing child god in Roman Dacia, which led to the Genii Cucullati and then to Galatia and a general overview of the history of Anatolia. Then I read Outfoxing the Wolf-walker: Lycambes as performative rival to Archilochus by Tom Hawkins, Renaud Gagné’s A Wolf at the Table: Sympotic Perjury in Archilochus, and Ralph Häussler’s Wolf Deities & Wolf Myths. And finally I capped the evening’s studies off with The Thraco-Dacian Origin of the Paparuda/Dodola Rain-Making Ritual by Mihai Dragnea. All while listening to my playlist “Simple Strangers” (it’s a long playlist.) 

“The Pleiades, sisters who vie with each other’s radiance. Beneath their influence devotees of Bacchus (god of wine and ecstasy) and Venus (goddess of love) are born into the kindly light, and people whose insouciance runs free at feasts and banquets and who strive to provoke sweet mirth with biting wit. They will always take pains over personal adornment and an elegant appearance they will set their locks in waves of curls or confine their tresses with bands, building them into a thick topknot, and they will transform the appearance of the head by adding hair to it; they will smooth their hairy limbs with the porous pumice, loathing their manhood and craving for sleekness of arm. They adopt feminine dress, footwear donned not for wear but for show, and an affected effeminate gait. They are ashamed of their sex; in their hearts dwells a senseless passion for display, and they boast of their malady, which they call a virtue. To give their love is never enough, they will also want their love to be seen.” (Manilius, Astronomica Book 5, p.310-313)

Via Jane Austen’s World.

A young lady’s prayer for a husband, from The New Lady’s Magazine, October 1791:

“From a prophane (profane) libertine, from one affectedly pious, from a profuse almoner, from an uncharitable wretch, from a wavering religioso and injudicious zealot—deliver me.

“From one of starched gravity, or ridiculous levity, from an ambitious statesman, from a restless projector, from one that loves any thing besides me, but what is very just and honourable—deliver me!

“From an extasy’d poet, a modern wit, a base coward, and a rash fool—deliver me!

“From a Venus darling, from a Bacchus proselyte, . . . from all other masculine affectations, not yet recounted—deliver me!

Bitch, please. You should be so lucky. 

We are fabulous.

Since we usually do our weekly house divination on Sunday or Monday I’m extending the test run of the mysteries through the weekend. If you’d like a reading shoot me an email at sannion@gmail.com and I’ll tell you how to PayPal me $13.25 to reserve your slot. Come on, you know you want to! All the cool kids are doing it.

The initial test run with The Mysteries was smooth and clear – now I just need to hear back from the clients to see how accurate the results I got were, and I’ll be adding the system to my repertoire. I may even start offering monthly readings with them.

Feeling this song today by 3rd Secret, an alt-rock supergroup consisting of members from Soundgarden, Nirvana, and Pearl Jam. I mean, they’re no Temple of the Dog, but it’s still a pretty catchy tune. You can listen to the entire album here. 

A reminder from Dver: there’s always more to give.

During the Persian War the great Athenian hero Themistokles made a special offering to his God Dionysos:

Themistokles was sacrificing alongside the admiral’s trireme and three prisoners of war were brought to him, of visage most beautiful to behold, conspicuously adorned with raiment and with gold. They were said to be the sons of Sandauké, the king’s sister, and Artaÿktos. When Euphrantides the seer caught sight of them, since at one and the same moment a great and glaring flame shot up from the sacrificial victims and a sneeze gave forth its good omen on the right, he clasped Themistokles by the hand and bade him consecrate the youths, and sacrifice them all to Dionysos Omestes (Carnivorous), with prayers of supplication; for on this wise would the Hellenes have a saving victory. Themistokles was terrified, feeling that the word of the seer was monstrous and shocking; but the multitude, who, as is wont to be the case in great struggles and severe crises, looked for safety rather from unreasonable than from reasonable measures, invoked the God with one voice, dragged the prisoners to the altar, and compelled the fulfilment of the sacrifice, as the seer commanded. At any rate, this is what Phanias the Lesbian says, and he was a philosopher, and well acquainted with historical literature. (Plutarch, Life of Themistokles 13.2-3)

It’s been a while since pious polytheists could emulate him in this. However a reader brought to my attention an unique opportunity that’s presented itself thanks to the genocidal conflict Putin and his cronies are waging in the Ukraine – signmyrocket.com. This is a site run by Ukrainians who are willing to write whatever message you want on munitions that’ll be launched at the marauding Russian forces – such as, “I consecrate these deaths to Dionysos and his Retinue” for instance. You can choose from a range of weapons, including everything from bullets and grenades on up to Howitzers and more. (And if you just want to support the Ukrainian forces who are nobly defending their homeland there are a bunch of non-lethal options too – but either way the money raised will be going to help wounded veterans.)

According to my reader you need to carefully follow instructions or this could get flagged. First make your selection on the site and click “way to pay” and “fire.” Then, and this is very important, take down your donation number and email support@signmyrocket.com inquiring how to pay via PayPal, and you’ll get a response in a day or so providing instructions. Follow them to the letter. Send your PayPal donation to the address provided marked as “friends and family” and when it’s ready you’ll get a picture and possibly a video of your sacrifice in action.

Not only will this act help feed our hungry Gods (and the deaths can be consecrated to divinities other than Dionysos should you be so inclined) but you’ll be helping the Ukrainians take out some of the baby-raping and grandma-murdering Russian swine, which benefits everybody.

Just a friendly reminder that I’ll be doing the initial test run with The Mysteries tomorrow (September 1st) so if you’d like to reserve your slot you’d better act fast.

Sometimes it is unclear where the myth ends and the allegory begins, and this is because to the Neoplatonists there is no distinction: it is not that Zeus represents the Demiurge, but that Zeus is the Demiurge. In this way, the Neoplatonic worldview is quite different from that of modern scholars who tend to separate myth from interpretation, ritual from philosophy; but the fact that the ancients do not separate these is the very key to understanding the Neoplatonic universe. (Dwayne Meisner, Zeus the Head Zeus the Middle- Studies in the Orphic Theogonies)

In a comment left on my previous post, Galina remarked:

I also think it’s great that you’re talking about female orpheotelestai. I suspect people forget that was a thing.

Sadly, I encounter that all the time. But thankfully women are highly regarded within the Starry Bull tradition – and not just because we’re Bacchic Orphics. You find this same attitude in Egypt and Magna Graecia, two cultures that have strongly influenced us, especially in the shaping of our values.

I just came across an interesting anecdote by Diogenes Laertius:

We hear that Bion, to whom the Scythian land of Borysthenes gave birth, denied that the Gods really exist. Had he persisted in holding this opinion, it would have been right to say, “He thinks as he pleases: wrongly, to be sure, but still he does think so.” But in fact, when he fell ill of a lingering disease and feared death, he who denied the existence of the Gods, and would not even look at a temple, who often mocked at mortals for sacrificing to deities, not only over hearth and high altars and table, with sweet savour and fat and incense did he gladden the nostrils of the Gods; nor was he content to say “I have sinned, forgive the past,” but he cheerfully allowed an old woman to put a charm round his neck, and in full faith bound his arms with leather and placed the rhamnus and the laurel-branch over the door, being ready to submit to anything sooner than die. Fool for wishing that the divine favour might be purchased at a certain price, as if the Gods existed just when Bion chose to recognize them! It was then with vain wisdom that, when the driveller was all ashes, he stretched out his hand and said “Hail, Pluto, hail!” (Lives of the Eminent Philosophers 4.55-57)

That anonymous old woman sure sounds an awful lot like an Orpheotelest, though I don’t recall seeing her mentioned in discussions of Orphism. It wouldn’t be surprising, however, since a lot of women were Orpheotelestai or otherwise participated in Orphic rites and beliefs.

Rhamnus, by the way, is buckthorn which was chewed and smeared on the lintel to banish the keres or wandering dead during Anthesteria. 

Image by Jim Lyngvild. 

Dionysos by Franz Stassen, 1901

Tonight’s poetry comes from the book End to End.

Ariadne sat on a rock in the cave,
watching as the sea washed past her feet
in silvery rivulets, and outside she heard
invisible maidens splashing in the surf.
She was all alone and going mad from grief
and oh how her heart longed for death.
In death she would meet her beloved
Theseus, slayer of the bull, who had set her free.
Death had claimed him, dragged him beneath the waves
while she was sleeping. That was the only explanation.
Her mind could not conceive of any other reason
why she’d been left all alone in this dark and desolate place.
Her Theseus had gone ahead to light her way into the land of shades.
And soon, she would see the torchlight and the baying of the black hounds,
as Hermes, death’s herald, came to collect her too.
But soon was not now, and the moments inched along,
each an insufferable agony, as if stones were being piled atop her,
one by one, making it impossible for her to move
or to breathe,
as she sank deeper and deeper into despair.
She had stripped herself nearly bare,
to await dread Kyllenios who would guide her beyond the land of dream,
and the castle of the Sun, to the house of Haides,
where her husband was waiting for her.
Only a white undergarment she wore as funereal wrappings,
wet and clinging to the soft curves of her dancer’s tiny frame;
the rest she’d discarded about the cave.
There were her purple robes, and there her crown with horns of the moon,
there her golden girdle and the ball of red twine she’d used to lead
gallant Theseus out of the labyrinth, and there, half submerged in the water
was a well-worked bronze mirror, upon its back
the first flowers of spring graved with wondrous realism by Daidalos.
Though she was too lost in grief to see it,
a hand was pressed against the mirror’s reflective surface
the young god desperately trying to reach through to soothe her anguish,
even as dark shapes with white faces crept slowly up behind him.

do not weep
all this is passing
a procession of mad and glorious images
slipping away like water through fingers
but you cannot stop the show
to hold and stroke a cherished memory
for when you stop dancing you die
so stand firm and drink in what’s before you
for tomorrow it will be gone
and so will you

“I don’t feel anything, dude.” Tim whispered though we were alone,
words slurring, hand out waving slowly back and forth,
back and forth, back and forth. “I think these mushrooms are …”
I waited for him to finish but he was busy staring through his hand, grinning like an idiot.
I took another drag of my cigarette, cherry glowing like a star in the dark desert night,
sweet clove smoke billowing around me like fragrant incense before an ancient idol.
Sweat trickled down my neck, and my flesh was chill as corpse flesh,
despite the waves of heat still radiating off the red rocks.
I could feel the bones beneath my skin, and my heart thudding in my chest.
Hear my pulse, and the pulse of the earth beating in synch with each other.
“Wait.”
I waited some more.
“Maybe I’m tripping. Am I tripping?”
“Naw, this is just the way the world is. ‘If the doors of perception were cleansed
everything would appear to man as it is, Infinite. For man has closed himself up,
till he sees all things thro’ narrow chinks of his cavern.’”
Tim nodded sagely, almost toppled over. “That’s beautiful, dude. Did you just come up with that?”
“Sure,” I chuckled, stabbed out my cigarette and immediately lit another.
“Now shut up and enjoy the ride.”
He was about to say something indignant, but his ridiculously wide-pupiled eyes caught motion off to his side and he
got lost watching an invisible lizard or mouse scurry away.
I melted back into oceanic euphoria as milky stars danced a Cretan crane-dance overhead
and the silent music of the spheres swelled around me.
My eyes fluttered closed and I took in a deep breath of desert air, held it for several heartbeats,
and then several more, feeling it circulating through my whole body, exhaled and then sucked in another.
Lights swam and flickered behind my eyelids, throbbing sexually, as I slipped outside of time and space.
When I opened them again I sensed the eyes of Dionysos staring back at me.
I smiled and waved, though I could not see him. He was there, on the other side of the mirror, watching.
Not a man, with olive skin and black beard streaked with brown,
and wavy hair that spilled down to his broad shoulders, clad in fawnskin
and head crowned with clusters of reddish grapes and vine tendrils that coiled like green serpents.
He didn’t have massive horns and flared nostrils and tawny fur and a broad, flat tongue
and bulk that made the earth thunder.
He wasn’t lean and spotted and baring sharp teeth,
tensed to pounce on prey with swift precise grace.
But he was there. In the soil and the scrub and the stars,
in the lingering heat and the all-encompassing dark
and the slow, persistent thrum of life in this seemingly barren place.
And I breathed him into me and felt him dance all around,
felt the world dance under his spell
and all the things in the world danced

and I, too, was dancing
though I lay there gazing up into the vast heavens
and Tim giggled insanely and said, “Woa dude. Like, everything is so 3-D.”

He smiled at her,
and did not look away.
Strange.
It had been so long,
so very long since she had been seen,
that the old woman had forgotten how to respond.
Most found themselves suddenly busy as they approached,
eyes like frantic butterflies,
landing on her filthy, shapeless clothes
(too many for the summer heat, too few for frigid winter)
or her shopping cart spilling over with scavenged treasures,
before quickly moving on,
their ears deaf as stone, especially if she asked for change
or something to eat.
Many crossed the street to avoid her,
or stared down at the cracked sidewalk as they hurried by.
But he stopped.
His eyes saw beneath the grime
the years and the years of pain.
Saw the loss that had scored her flesh like sun-parched earth,
turned her eyes milky-white and made her frail limbs tremble
even when she was still.
He saw past all that, to the maiden she once had been
in the garden with the tree and the great white serpent.
She began to cry.
It had been so long, she’d forgotten his name.
“Here,” the man reached inside his long leather coat
and dug out a small golden ball. He placed it in her hands and said,
“I was given this as a child, but it is yours.”
It wasn’t a ball but an apple.
Remembering Ladon who had watched over her and her sisters
for the first time in centuries, she smiled.
Lovely ox-eyed Hesperethousa looked up to thank the man
but he was gone.

My hair is slick with mud,
my beard forming stalactites,
my face unrecognizable in its pale coating.
Flesh of earth I wear,
cracks forming as I turn my head this way
and that, and grin, something other than me grinning back.
I show my teeth, sharp and gleaming white,
good for tearing loose chunks of goat’s flesh.
I take a swig from the bottle, let its black streams
carve channels in clay, a red mouth engulfing my own
and don’t wipe it away, preferring the stain.
I watch my own eyes,
note how cold and hollow they seem,
a lizard’s eyes, or a panther’s.
A killer’s eyes.
Eyes that stare back at me, stare through me.
Eyes that challenge and seduce,
eyes that laugh in the dark
that dance in the storm clouds
and the rumbling of the earth.
I am not I.
I am the grapes that are crushed,
I am the bull whose horns are twined with ivy,
I am the lava that surges within the mountain,
I am the stars that dance in the dark heaven,
I am the mask hung from the pillar,
I am the heat and the loosening and the unfolding,
I am the great dragon that begets sons of stone,
I am the man of suffering born to atone for the crimes of lawless ancestors.
I am not I. I am him.
And the show must go on.