Since I scrub my blog periodically it’s happened a couple times already, and is always an occasion for celebration. 

So pour one out for Dionysos and let’s get the party started right! 

Which do you prefer? This song by Anni Clark:

Or this one by Anne Clark:

Here is a Boiotian shield depicting Dionysos with protective vines:

 

However that is not the shield I mean. Dionysos’ shield is described by Nonnos of Panopolis in the 25th book of his Dionysiaka. Although there’s a lot going on, all of it significant on one level or another, I’m going to bold the portion I think you’ll find particularly relevant in light of our present conversation. 

***

But now that Dionysos had heard the Mother’s inspired message, he mingled thyrsus-mad with the Bacchant women upon the hills. He threw to the winds his burden of anxious pain, as he shook the shield curiously wrought, the shield of Olympos, the clever work of Hephaistos.

Multitudes gathered to look at the varied wonders of Olympian art, shining wonders which a heavenly hand had made. The shield was emblazoned in many colours. In the middle was the circle of the earth, sea joined to land, and round about it the heaven dotted with a troop of stars; in the sky was Helios in the basket of his blazing chariot, made of gold, and the white round circle of the full moon in silver.

All the constellations were there which adorn the upper air, surrounding it as with a crown of many shining jewels throughout the seven zones. Beside the socket of the axle were the poles of the two heavenly Waggons, never touched by the water; for these both move head to loin together round a point higher than Oceanos, and the head of the sinking Bear always bends down exactly as much as the neck of the rising Bear stretches up. Between the two Waggons he made the Serpent, which is close by and joins the two separated bodies, bending his heavenly belly in spiral shape and turning to and fro his speckled body, like the spirals of Maiandros and its curving murmuring waters, as it runs to and fro in twists and turns over the ground: the Serpent keeps his eye ever fixt on the head of Helice, while his body is girdled with starry scales. The constellations of the Bears encompass him round: on the point of his tongue is held out a sparkling star, which close to his lips shoots light, and spits forth flame from the midst of his many teeth.

Such were the designs which the master-smith worked on the back of the well wrought shield, in the middle; and to please Lyaios he wrought also the harp-built walls of cowfounded Thebes, when one after another the seven gateways were a-building in a row. There was Zethos carrying a load of stones on his chafing shoulder, and working hard for his country; while Amphion played and twanged the harp, and at the tune a whole hill rolled along of itself as if bewitched and seemed to dance even on the shield. It was only a work of art, but you might have said, the immovable rock went lightly skipping and tripping along! When you saw the man busy with his silent harp, striking up a quick tune on his make-believe strings, you would quickly come closer to stretch your ear and delight your own heart with that harp which could build a wall, to hear the music of seven strings which could make the stones to move.

The wellrounded shield had another beautiful scene amid the sparkling company of the stars, where the Trojan winepourer was cunningly depicted with art divine being carried into the court of Zeus. There well wrought was the Eagle, just as we see in pictures, on the wing, holding him fast in his predatory talons. Zeus appeared to be anxious as he flew through the air, holding the terrified boy with claws that tore not, gently moving the wings and sparing his strength, for he feared that Ganymede might slip and fall headlong from the sky, and the deadly surf of the sea might drown him. Even more he feared the Fates, and hoped that the lovely youth might not first give his name to the sea below and rob Helle of the honour which was reserved for her in future.” Next the boy was depicted at the feast of the heavenly table, as one ladling the wine. There was a mixing-bowl beside him full of self-flowing nectarean dew, and he offered a cup to Zeus at the table. There Hera sat, looking furious even upon the shield, and showing in her mien how jealousy filled her soul; for she was pointing a finger at the boy, to show goddess Pallas who sat next her how a cowboy Ganymedes walked among the stars to pour out their wine, the sweet nectar of Olympos, and there he was handing the cups which were the lot of virgin Hebe.

Maeonia he also portrayed, for she was the nurse of Bacchos; and Moria, and the dappled serpent, and the divine plant, and Damasen Serpentkiller the terrible son of Earth; Tylos, also, who lived in Maeonia so short a time, was there mangled in his quick poisonous death.

Tylos was walking once on the overhanging bank of neighbouring Hermos the Mygdonian River, when his hand touched a serpent. The creature lifted his head and stretched his hood, opened wide his ruthless gaping mouth and leapt on the man, whipt round the man’s loins his trailing tail and hissed like a whistling wind, curled round the man’s body in clinging rings, then darting at his face tore the cheeks and downy chin with sharp rows of teeth, and spat the juice of Fate out of his poisonous jaws. The man struggled with all that weight on his shoulders, while his neck was encircled by the coiling tail, a snaky necklace of death bringing Fate very near. Then he fell dead to the ground, like an uprooted tree.

A Naiad unveiled pitied one so young, fallen dead before her eyes; she wailed over the body beside her, and pulled off the monstrous beast, to bring him down. For this was not the first wayfarer that he had laid low, not the first shepherd, Tylos not the only one he had killed untimely; lurking in his thicket he battened on the wild beasts, and often pulled up a tree by the roots and dragged it in, then under the joints of his jaws swallowed it into his dank darksome throat, blowing out again a great blast from his mouth. Often he pulled in the wayfarer terrified by his lurking breath, and dragged him rolling over and over into his mouth — he could be seen from afar swallowing the man whole in his gaping maw.

So Moria watching afar saw her brother’s murderer; the nymph trembled with fear when she beheld the serried ranks of poisonous teeth, and the garland of death wrapt round his neck. Wailing loudly beside the dragonvittling den, she met Damasen, a gigantic son of Earth, whom his mother once conceived of herself and brought forth by herself. From his birth, a thick hairy beard covered his chin. At his birth. Quarrel was his nurse, spears his mother’s pap, carnage his bath, the corselet his swaddlings. Under the heavy weight of those long broad limbs, a warlike babe, he cast lances as a boy; touching the sky, from birth he shook a spear born with him; no sooner did he appear than Eileithyia armed the nursling with a shield.

This was he whom the nymph beheld on the fertile slope of the woodland. She bowed weeping before him in prayer, and pointed to the horrible reptile, her brother’s murderer, and Tylos newly mangled and still breathing in the dust. The Giant did not reject her prayer, that monstrous champion; but he seized a tree and tore it up from its roots in mother earth, then stood and came sidelong upon the ravening dragon. The coiling champion fought him in serpent fashion, hissing battle from the wartrumpet of his throat, a fiftyfurlong serpent coil upon coil. With two circles he bound first Damasen’s feet, madly whipping his writhing coils about his body, and opened the gates of his raging teeth to show a mad chasm: rolling his wild eyes, breathing death, he shot watery spurts from his lips, and spat into the giant’s face fountains of poison in showers from his jaws, and sent a long spout of yellow foam out of his teeth. He darted up straight and danced over the giant’s highcrested head, while the movement of his body made the earth quake.

But the terrible giant shook his great limbs like mountains, and threw off the weight of the serpent’s long spine. His hand whirled aloft his weapon, shooting straight like a missile the great tree with all its leaves, and brought down the plant roots and all upon the serpent’s head, where the backbone joins it at the narrow part of the rounded neck. Then the tree took root again, and the serpent lay on the ground immovable, a coiling corpse. Suddenly the female serpent his mate came coiling up, scraping the ground with her undulating train, and crept about seeking for her misshapen husband, like a woman who missed her husband dead. She wound her long trailing spine with all speed among the tall rocks, hurrying towards the herbdecked hillside; in the coppice she plucked the flower of Zeus with her snaky jaws, and brought back the painkilling herb in her lips, dropt the antidote of death into the dry nostril of the horrible dead, and gave life with the flower to the stark poisonous corpse. The body moved of itself and shuddered; part of it still had no life, another part stirred, half-restored the body shook another part and the tail moved of itself; breath came again through the cold jaws, slowly the throat opened and the familiar sound came out, pouring the same long hiss again. At last the serpent moved, and disappeared into his furtive hole.

Moria also caught up the flower of Zeus, and laid the lifegiving herb in the lifebegetting nostril. The wholesome plant with its painhealing clusters brought back the breathing soul into the dead body and made it rise again. Soul came into body the second time; the cold frame grew warm with the help of the inward fire. The body, busy again with the beginning of life, moved the sole of the right foot, rose upon the left and stood firmly based on both feet, like a man lying in bed who shakes the sleep from his eyes in the morning. His blood boiled again; the hands of the newly breathing corpse were lifted, the body recovered its rhythm, the feet their movement, the eyes their sight, and the lips their voice.

Cybele also was depicted, newly delivered; she seemed to hold in her arms pressed to her bosom a mock-child she had not borne, all worked by the artist’s hands; aye, cunning Rheia offered to her callous consort a babe of stone, a spiky heavy dinner. There was the father swallowing the stony son, the thing shaped like humanity, in his voracious maw, and making his meal of another pretended Zeus. There he was again in heavy labour, with the stone inside him, bringing up all those children squeezed together and disgorging the burden from his pregnant throat.

Such were the varied scenes depicted by the artist’s clever hand upon the warshield, brought for Lyaios from Olympos with its becks and brooks. All thronged about to see the bearer of the round shield, admiring each in turn, and praising the fiery Olympian forge.

While they still enjoyed the sight, the daylight crossed the west and veiled the light of her fire-eyed face; quiet Night covered all the earth in her dark shades, and after their evening meal all the people lay down in their mountain bed, scattered on pallets here and there over the ground.

 

Within the Starry Bear tradition Dionysos possesses several potent weapons.

These are:

• Thyrsos, given him by the Titans
• Hunting Net, which he wove himself
• Double-Axe, taken from Lykourgos in battle
• Pruning-knife, forged by Hephaistos
• Shield, forged by Hephaistos
• Bow and arrows, given him by Freyr (likely crafted by the Sons of Ivaldi)
• Spear, forged by the Kobaloi when Brokkr the Dwarf refused

And the Toys, which started out as enemies but were converted into allies. 

He also once possessed a magical sword which he stole from a dragon, but later gave to Óðinn as a token of guest-friendship; Óðinn in turn bequeathed this weapon to his son Víðarr, so that he might use it to avenge him during Ragnarök. 

Speaking of pruning-hooks, George Wicker Elderkin puts forth a theory in chapter XXIX (pgs 167-169) of his masterful Kantharos: Studies in Dionysiac and Kindred Cults which I’m not sure I buy, though it certainly has interesting implications:

The primitive λυκος was a sickle or hook-fetish. In the theriomorphic stage of the cult the sickle-fetish was superseded by the wolf which because of its slashing habits with its sabre or sickle-tooth was eminently qualified to act as the animal embodiment of the god. The transformation of the god into a wolf would explain the rite in which the devotee was transformed into a wolf. It was a primitive imitation of deity.

[…]

They may have carried the ‘sickle’ cult west. This sickle-cult seems to have been also a wolf-cult and to force the conclusion that the theriomorphic phase of the sickle-cult was the wolf-cult. In this connection should be noted the cult of Soranus Pater on Mt. Soracte. This cult was in the care of a family named Hirpini who called themselves the Hirpi Sorani (Roscher, Lexikon s. v. Soranus), ‘the wolves of Soranus.’ Servius says that Soranus was a name for Dis Pater. In other words Soranus combines the chthonic aspect with the mountain abode of Kronos. This coincidence raises the question whether the Hirpi Sorani were not in origin “Sickles of Saturn” for hirpus looks very much like a masculine to ἄρπη ‘sickle.’ A hint of the original significance of lupus as ‘hook, pruning-hook’ lies perhaps in its appearance as a surname of the gens Rutilia. The Rutili were the ancient people of Latium whose king Turnus was killed by Aeneas. Latium was anciently called Saturnia terra and was therefore the land of the sickle-god Saturn. Hence the name Lupus would be especially appropriate to an ancient family of Saturnia terra if Lupus retained its primary meaning of ‘hook or sickle.’

The study of the word λυκος carries with it a study of the name Λυκοῦργος. The Thracian Lykourgos appears in epic as a rival of Dionysos whom he drove into the sea. Their struggle is to be explained probably as that of two rival fertility-heroes. The madness of Lykourgos and his confinement in chains are Saturnian features of a hero or god blinded by Zeus. Lykourgos appears in vase-painting with the double-axe in indication perhaps of his rivalry with Zeus (Roscher, Lexikon s. v. Lykourgos, p. 2195).

[…]

That Lykourgos originally meant ‘sickle-maker’ is confirmed by the name of a son, Ankaios, already discussed, a name which is derived from a word meaning ‘hook.’ Thus the primitive Arcadian king Lykourgos ‘Sickle-maker’ had a son ‘Hook’ or ‘Pruning-hook’! If Wilamowitz (Hom. Untersuch. p. 267) is right in associating the Spartan Lykourgos with the Arcadian Zeus Lykaios, then Lykourgos was Θεσμοφόρος for the same reason that Demeter was. Both were vegetation-deities. Θεσμοφόρος was also an Orphic appellative of Dionysos. That Lykos, like other fertility-gods, acquired solar characteristics is clear from the fact that Boeotian tradition knew of two brothers Lykos and Nykteus (Apollod. III, 10, 1). Lykos and Mithras both sickle-gods became solar like Kirke.

One of which being that it would help explain how the pruning-hook over time transformed into the Wolfsangel or wolftrap. 

Long time reader and commenter Xenophon sent me this video of a French Vineyard owned and staffed by Veterans:

I think this is a wonderful way to reintegrate them back into society, and give them a meaningful vocation after everything they’ve been through. 

Hail to the Gods and Spirits of the fields, and to those who give their lives to protect and tend them!

Reminds me of one of my favorite Biblical passages:

And they shall beat their swords into ploughshares, and their spears into pruning hooks: nation shall not lift up sword against nation, neither shall they learn war any more. (Isaiah 2:4)

Nonnos, Dionysiaka 6. 155 ff
Zagreus the horned baby, who by himself climbed upon the heavenly throne of Zeus and brandished lightning in his little hand, and newly born, lifted and carried thunderbolts in his tender fingers for Zeus meant him to be king of the universe. But he did not hold the throne of Zeus for long. By the fierce resentment of implacable Hera, the Titanes cunningly smeared their round faces with disguising chalk (titanos), and while he contemplated his changeling countenance reflected in a mirror they destroyed him with an infernal knife. There where his limbs had been cut piecemeal by the Titan steel, the end of his life was the beginning of a new life as Dionysos. He appeared in another shape, and changed into many forms: now young like crafty Kronides shaking the aegis-cape, now as ancient Kronos heavy-kneed, pouring rain. Sometimes he was a curiously formed baby, sometimes like a mad youth with the flower of the first down marking his rounded chin with black. Again, a mimic lion he uttered a horrible roar in furious rage from a wild snarling throat, as he lifted a neck shadowed by a thick mane, marking his body on both sides with the self-striking whip of a tail which flickered about over his hairy back. Next, he left the shape of a lion’s looks and let out a ringing neigh, now like an unbroken horse that lifts his neck on high to shake out the imperious tooth of the bit, and rubbing, whitened his cheek with hoary foam. Sometimes he poured out a whistling hiss from his mouth, a curling horned serpent covered with scales, darting out his tongue from his gaping throat, and leaping upon the grim head of some Titan encircled his neck in snaky spiral coils. Then he left the shape of the restless crawler and became a tiger with gay stripes on his body; or again like a bull emitting a counterfeit roar from his mouth he butted the Titanes with sharp horn. So he fought for his life, until Hera with jealous throat bellowed harshly through the air–that heavy-resentful step-mother! And the gates of Olympos rattled in echo to her jealous throat from high heaven. Then the bold bull collapsed: the murderers each eager for his turn with the knife chopt piecemeal the bull-shaped Dionysos.

Óðinn as the Archangel Michael reminds me. 

Do you know the face Dionysos wore when he wandered among the Slavs?

No, not Xors or Jarilo. I’m talking later, post-conversion.

Specifically Saint Tryphon the Pruner. This handsome fellow:

If you’re not familiar, here’s some resources you may want to sift through.

• Martyr Tryphon of Lampsacus Near Apamea in Syria
• Saint Trifon who?
• Saint Trifon the Pruner, Bulgaria’s Patron Saint of the Vinegrowers and Winemakers
• On the Iconography of Miniatures with Depictions of Exorcism of St. Tryphon in the Buća Codex from the Marciana Library in Venice
• The Authority of Saint Tryphon Over Demons
• The Veneration of St. Tryphon in the Roman Empire 
• Immobility in Motion: Saint Triphon’s Reliquaries and their Performativity
• St Tryphon Medallion, Russia
• Saint Tryphon of Lampsacus

I’ve got something in the works, but it’s going to take me a while to stitch all the pieces together.

But I will point out that the serpette or pruning-hook is a very important Dionysian symbol and weapon:

The wines of the neighbourhood of Vevey, especially on the sunny district extending hence to Lausanne, and called La Vaux, enjoy a considerable reputation. The Romans are believed to have first planted the vine on these hills and the discovery of a stone inscribed Libero Patri Colliensi proves that they had erected a temple to Father Bacchus at Collium, a little village now called Cully, on the margin of the lake between Vevey and Lausanne.

A society or guild of very high antiquity called L’Abbaye des Vignerons having for its motto the words Ora et labora exists at Vevey. Its object is to promote the cultivation of the vine and for this purpose it despatches every spring and autumn “experts”, qualified persons, to survey all the vineyards of the district and upon their report and testimony it rewards the most skilful and industrious vinedressers with medals and pruning hooks (serpes d’ honneur) as prizes.

In accordance with a custom handed down from very ancient times, which is possibly a relic of pagan superstition, this society periodically celebrates a festival called la Fête des Vignerons. It commences with the ceremony of crowning the most successful cultivator of the vine, which is followed and accompanied by dances and processions formed of the lads and lasses of the neighbourhood attired as Fauns bearing the thyrsus and nymphs. Father Bacchus in his car and Ceres throned on a waggon filled with wheat sheaves appear in the most classical costume in the midst of their followers. But the procession includes a singular mixture of scriptural characters along with these heathen Bacchanals. Thus Silenus riding on his ass is followed by Noah in his ark and Pomona is succeeded by the spies from Canaan bearing between them the bunch of grapes. A vine press and a forge at work are also exhibited drawn by fine horses. On other days of the fête (for it lasts for several) the spectators are entertained with the native dances and songs of Switzerland performed by the herdsmen and shepherdesses of the neighbouring Alps and the concluding and perhaps the most interesting part of the festivities consists in the bestowing upon a young maiden, the fairest in fame and form in the vicinity, a dower and in the celebration of her marriage with a partner of her choice. (John Murray, The handbook for travellers in Switzerland and the Alps of Savoy and Piedmont) 1865

It was often the subject of poets. 

Consider Clément Marot’s Song of the Vineyard Knife:

Enough of love; let’s leave for something new
All that to-do, and sing the vineyard knife;
No grower of vines but has recourse to you,
Makes use of you to prune his vines; O knife,
My vineyard knife, my little vineyard knife,
Renewing life, you make my good vines grow,
From which year after year the rich wines flow!

Vulcan, the high gods’ blacksmith, did design
This shape divine, in heaven hammered out
The white-hot steel, and dipped it in old wine
To give the fine edge temper; and the shout
Bacchus gave out proclaimed beyond a doubt
That even devout old Noah could not find
A knife for pruning vines more to his mind.

With vine leaves crowned, young Bacchus brings his slim
Curved blade to trim and bless the fruitful vine;
With flagons old Silenus follows him
And from each rim, in one unbroken line,
Pours down the wine, tries dancing, lies supine;
And for a sign his nose is cherry-red;
Of his great family many men are bred.

Or Épitre by Pierre de Ronsard:

Being a poet, I love Bacchus more than all other gods.
The grape harvest has pleased me above everything.
This purple manna falls.
The barefoot tramplet thrusts
the beaten gush of juice
into the vat.

Battalions march in order upon the hillsides.
One cuts the grapes with pruning knives;
another humps them to the presses in a basket.
One turns the wheel around its whining screw,
another piles the squeezed marc, presses it with a plank;
one holds a straining-basket to the spigot,
another takes the crushed seeds;
one holds the hogshead, another empties wine in.
And the whole press resounds with the brilliant noise of it.

And my favorite, Vyacheslav Ivanovich Ivanov’s The Vineyard Of Dionysus:

Dionysus walks his vineyard, his beloved;
Two women in dark clothing – two vintagers – follow him.
Dionysus tells the two mournful guards – The vintagers:
“Take your sharp knife, my vintners, Grief and Torment;
Harvest, Grief and Torment, my beloved grapes!
Gather the blood of scarlet bunches, the tears of my golden clusters –
Take the victim of bliss to the whetstone of grief,
The purple of suffering to the whetstone of bliss;
Pour the fervent liquid of scarlet delights into my ardent Grail!”

You can read more about him here.

Some even link it to the Wolfsangel or wolftrap.

Paulus Diaconus in his Historia Langobardorum discusses how in the course of their migration from Scandinavia to Northern Italy a Germanic tribe changed their name from Winnili to Lombards, due to a contest of wits between the Gods Godan and Frea. 

8. At this point, the men of old tell a silly story that the Wandals coming to Godan  besought him for victory over the Winnili and that he answered that he would give the victory to those whom he saw first at sunrise; that then Gambara went to Frea  wife of Godan and asked for victory for the Winnili, and that Frea gave her counsel that the women of the Winnili should take down their hair and arrange it upon the face like a beard, and that in the early morning they should be present with their husbands and in like manner station themselves to be seen by Godan from the quarter in which he had been wont to look through his window toward the east. And so it was done. And when Godan saw them at sunrise he said: “Who are these long-beards?” And then Frea induced him to give the victory to those to whom he had given the name. And thus Godan gave the victory to the Winnili. These things are worthy of laughter and are to be held of no account. For victory is due, not to the power of men, but it is rather furnished from heaven.

9. It is certain, however, that the Langobards were afterwards so called on account of the length of their beards untouched by the knife, whereas at first they had been called Winnili; for according to their language lang means “long” and bart “beard.” Wotan indeed, whom by adding a letter they called Godan is he who among the Romans is called Mercury, and he is worshiped by all the peoples of Germany as a god, though he is deemed to have existed, not about these times, but long before, and not in Germany, but in Greece.

That much I was familiar with already; I’ve even written a couple poems on the subject. However, reading a little further in the deacon Paul’s work I discovered this fascinating bit:

11. Departing from this place, while they were arranging to pass over into Mauringa, the Assipitti block their way, denying to them by every means a passage through their territories. The Langobards moreover, when they beheld the great forces of their enemies, did not dare engage them on account of the smallness of their army, and while they were deciding what they ought to do, necessity at length hit upon a plan. They pretend that they have in their camps Cynocephali, that is, men with dogs’ heads. They spread the rumor among the enemy that these men wage war obstinately, drink human blood and quaff their own gore if they cannot reach the foe. And to give faith to this assertion, the Langobards spread their tents wide and kindle a great many fires in their camps. The enemy being made credulous when these things are heard and seen, dare not now attempt the war they threatened.

Starting to notice a theme?

Oh, and the Lombards are quite interesting; long after conversion they maintained devotion to their God Óðinn; they simply started calling him “Saint Michael the Archangel” to keep it licit. Oaths were sworn on his sword and they built an immense church to him in what had previously been a sacred cave or grotto, as Jeff Matthews writes:

After 650 AD, the Lombards from Benevento spread into the Gargano, where the cult of the Archangel Michael had established itself in the 400s. The sanctuary of the Lombards in Monte Sant’Angelo was the first church of Saint Michael in the west and a model for many such later places of worship in western Europe. If, indeed, there really was a place of devotion to Michael in the Gargano as early as the beginning of the 400s, that is likely due to Byzantine influence. Earlier, in the 300s, Constantine the Great (272-337) built the Michaelion, one of the earliest and best-known of such churches. It was just north of Constantinople at a site physically similar to the Gargano and built over an ancient temple previously associated with medicine and therapeutic waters. […] That has given Christian art another common depiction of Michael —slaying a serpent or dragon or a fallen angel, one of the hosts of Satan. Devotion to Michael was congenial to the Lombards, for he was like their earlier Germanic deity, Woden, a healer yet the god of war and protector of heroes and warriors. This, no doubt, hastened the Christianization of the Lombards. The Gargano, itself, had a long history of myth and ritual from before the Christian era. The area is rugged and covered by forests and ravines. Many of the myths and rites had to do with curative waters and the practice called incubatio, a rite whereby one slept by a sacred place in order to have divine revelations the next morning. These earlier rites then left their traces in the cult of St. Michael. The man-made structures within the later sanctuary reshaped what had originally been simply a natural cave. The inscriptions within the site let us follow the evolution of the grotto into a full-fledged place of religious expression that welcomed pilgrims from distant places and offered them hospitality.

And then there’s the whole matter of the Langobard Funerary Perticae, but we don’t need to get into that, do we? Why don’t you check out these images of Horned Figures and Weapon Dancers instead. 

Fufluns demonstrates ancient art of Etruscan divination

Step 1. Drink lots of wine.
Step 2. Strip down to your boots and crown.
Step 3. Drink more wine.
Step 4. Get some chick to hold up a mirror or bowl filled with wine (assuming there’s any wine left) until you start seeing visions.

Fufluns Pachie is totally my favorite version of Dionysos’ name, though the Oscan Loufir comes a close second:

“Charming language,” he said, “charming! Ever since I learned that the Etruscans used to call the god of wine Fufluns, I’ve taken the keenest interest in their language. Fufluns – how incomparably more appropriate that is than Bacchus, or Liber, or Dionysos! Fufluns, Fufluns,” he repeated with delighted emphasis. “It couldn’t be better. They had a real linguistic genius, those creatures. What poets they must have produced! ‘When Fufluns flucuthukhs the ziz’ – one can imagine the odes in praise of wine which began like that. You couldn’t bring together eight such juicy, boozy syllables as that in English, could you?” (Aldous Huxley, Those Barren Leaves pg. 248)

All kidding aside, this image is really cool as you actually see Dionysos engaged in the act of divination. If you’d like to learn more about Dionysos’ cult in Etruria you should probably start with Larissa Bonfante’s superb study.

And here is a system of Etruscan Runes that Serena Powers came up with. You can even get a free online reading using a variety of different casts. 

When I mentioned that Northern Italian alphabets (and Etruscan in particular) had an influence on the shape of the Runes I wasn’t kidding. (This is especially interesting in light of the strong presence of Óðinn, Loki and Freyja in the region.) Note I said influence and shape; I believe the Runes to be a class of grammatical beings brought into this world through the terrible sacrifice of Óðinn (which just so happen to look Italian, as all the best things do.) 

For instance, here are a couple articles on the Camunic language and alphabet; here’s one on the North Etruscan thesis, and here’s another; here’s something on different families of magical alphabets; and finally check out this analysis of the vitally important  Rhaetic inscription on the Spada di Verona or “Sword of Verona.”

Why is that last so important? 

The two translations provided by Giancarlo Tomezzoli and V. A. Choodeenov read:

Alternative A (by G. Tomezzoli): faniniufikuremieshiiitifasuvakhikvelisunes → fanin i ufik u remieshi i itifas u vakh ik velis u nes.
Translation: War and mutilation are to the Romans and the fury is to their God Bacchus, Velis is with us.

Alternative B (from V. Chudeenov): raniniufikuremleshiipivauvakhikvelisunes → rani ni ufik u remleshi i piva u vakh ik velis unes.
Translation: The wounds are not the mutilations among the Romans; when you are drinking together with Bacchus, Veles has them (already) carried away.

It shows Dionysos interacting with the Slavic Gods, and Veles in particular. I cannot tell if we are to understand the two as working together or at odds, but the implications are interesting nonetheless. 

Synopsizing the Kypria, Proklos in the Chrestomathia mentions the legend of Odysseus’ feigned madness:

Nestor in a digression tells him how Epopeus was utterly destroyed after seducing the daughter of Lycus, and the story of Oedipus, the madness of Heracles, and the story of Theseus and Ariadne. Then they travel over Hellas and gather the leaders, detecting Odysseus when he pretends to be mad, not wishing to join the expedition, by seizing his son Telemachus for punishment at the suggestion of Palamedes.

Couple of notable things, starting with the mention of Lycus (= Wolf.) 

Then the sequence: Odysseus > madness of Herakles > Theseus and Ariadne > madness of Odysseus. 

Also, the trauma of a threatened child breaks his mask of insanity, which had withstood all of their previous tests. 

Don’t worry. As Josho Brouwers relates in Odysseus the Jerk: A terrible person despite being fictional, he ensures that prick Palamedes gets his. 

Vision without execution is hallucination. 

Shall I continue teasing out the position of Hermes within the Starry Bear pantheon (we haven’t even gotten to his contributions to the figure of Harlequin nor his role in the Wild Hunt, let alone his cultus in Romano-Celtic, Germanic and Slavic lands) or shall we move on to Loki? (Beyond what has already been told here, that is.)

Before you decide be sure to read Alberto Aldrovandi’s Loki in Pavia, a Langobard Demon and Jeffrey Turco’s Nets and Snares: The Loki of Snorri’s Edda and the Christian Tradition from the homework I assigned previously, as that’s going to be my jumping off point.

Or maybe we’ll begin by discussing German philosopher Nietzsche’s encounter with a horse in Turin.

One of the reasons this caught my eye is that I’ve long had an interest in the letter ϝ.

All the way back in Strange Spirits I wrote:

An interlude while the actor pauses to refresh himself. Weird and alien, nothing is quite what it seems. The world rushing, the languid embrace of the vegetation, shadows that linger too long and light seen through the trees.

At least when I’m out of it I get poetry. I have made a Dionysos shape with my words, a door for the spirits to pass into the world. The land is familiar to me as a woman’s body; the forest beckons, I follow the path as drunkenness settles upon me, dark as the cloth of the robe of night.

I was born in flames and thunder, strong desire and a promise rashly made. Were it not for the cool ivy that the women on the mountain with skins of animals hanging off their shoulders chew to court madness – if it wasn’t for that I would be dead. Ivy wrapped herself around me, keeping the heat and destruction from my delicate flesh so that I might grow and one day teach the world to dance.

A man dressed like a goat runs across the stage, singing a libretto.

All error in Christianity stems from its inability to recognize the true plurality of the Gods. There are multitudes in me. All else is fine.

Wow, with what wry wit we weave wisdom’s winding ways, watching wonderstruck while wildly writhing wight-wed women willfully wail weird witchy words, wander wide western wildernesses, wet with waves wrecking whatever won’t withstand winter, wine, winds.

Digamma fell out of favor a long time ago, but I aim for a restoration.

I have come to claim the Basilinna in the venerable house of the bull so that the flowers will rise from the black earth and the children will get to taste wine for the first time. Placate the wet ghosts and the king with unwashed hands with silent feasts where no food is touched only the somber consumption of my liquid grace.

Suddenly the raven takes to wing, the song is at an end.

There’s lots of interesting stuff in the last post, but the highlight for me is the association of Freyja’s Distaff with the archaic Greek letter ϝ (digamma) which was pronounced something like the English W, likely originating from the Phoenician (wāw “hook.”) Before falling out of general usage it entered Etruscan as 𐌅 (with the value of V) and Latin as the letter F. It was then pillaged by the Germanic tribes on the border of Northern Italy, influencing the shape of the Fehu Rune ᚠ, which represents the f-sound in the Younger Futhark and has the meaning of “money, cattle, and wealth.”

In the Old Norwegian Rune Poem we find:

ᚠ Fé vældr frænda róge;
føðesk ulfr í skóge.
___
Wealth is a source of discord amongst kin;
the wolf lives in the forest.

While the Anglo-Saxon has:

ᚠ Feoh byþ frofur fira gehƿylcum;
sceal ðeah manna gehƿylc miclun hyt dælan
gif he ƿile for drihtne domes hleotan.
___
Wealth is a comfort to all;
yet must everyone bestow it freely,
if they wish to gain honour in the sight of the Lord.

Normally glossed as “Lord” (i.e. Freyr, brother of Freyja “the Lady”) drihtne more accurately signifies Chief of the Warband.

Richard Hinckley Allen, Star Names: Their Lore and Meaning
Orion, the Giant, Hunter, and Warrior admired in all historic ages as the most strikingly brilliant of the stellar groups, lies partly within the Milky Way, extending on both sides of the celestial equator entirely south of the ecliptic, and so is visible from every part of the globe.

With Theban Greeks of Corinna’s time, about the year 490 before our era, it was Ὠαρίων, the initial letter having taken the place of the ancient digamma, ϝ, which, pronounced somewhat like the letter W, rendered the early word akin to our Warrior. Corinna’s pupil Pindar followed in Ὠαριώνειος, but by the time of Euripides the present Ὠρίων prevailed, and we see it thus in Polymestor’s words in the Ἐκάβη of 425 B.C.:

through the ether to the lofty ceiling,
where Orion and Seirios dart from their eyes
The flaming rays of fire.

Catullus transcribed Oarion from Pindar, shortened to Arion, and sometimes changed to Aorion; but the much later Argion, attributed to Firmicus, was for Procyon, probably from Ἀργος, the faithful dog of Ulixes.

At one time it was Ἀλετροπόδιον, found in the Uranologia of Petavius of the 16th century, which Ideler said should be Ἀλεκτροπόδιον, Cock’s Foot, likening the constellation to a Strutting Cock; but Brown goes back to Ἀλη, Roaming, and so reads it Ἀλητροπόδιον, the Foot-Turning Wanderer, mythologically recorded as roaming in his blindness till miraculously restored to side by viewing the rising sun.

Ovid said that the constellation was Comesque Boötae; and some authors asserted that Orion never set, an idea possibly coming from the confusion in name with Boötes already alluded to; although even as to that constellation the assertion would not have been strictly correct. Matthew Arnold similarly wrote in his Sohrab and Rustum:

the northern Bear,
who from her frozen height with jealous eye
confronts the Dog and Hunter in the South.

In the Norsemen’s astronomy Rigel marked one of the great toes of Orwandil, the other toe having been broken off by the god Thor when frost-bitten, and thrown to the northern sky, where it became the little Alcor of the Greater Bear.

Riccioli cited Baculus Jacobi, which became in popular English speech Jacob’s Rod or Staff, — the German Jakob Stab, — from the tradition given by Eusebius that Israel was an astrologer, as, indeed, he doubtless was; and some had it Peter’s Staff. Similarly, it with the Norse Fiskikallar, or Staff; the Scandinavian Frigge Rok, Frigg’s, or Freya’s Distaff, — in West Gothland Frigge Rakken, — and Maria Rok, Mary’s Distaff; in Schleswig, Peri-pik. In Lapland it was altered to Kalevan Miekka, Kaleva’s Sword, or still more changed to Niallar, a Tavern.

The mention of wool in that last post reminds me: what’s the name of the Weaver’s father again? Oh, yeah. Ikarios, just like Erigone’s father. 

 

Herodotos, The Histories 4.72ff
When a Scythian dies his nearest kin lay him upon a waggon and take him round to all his friends in succession: each receives them in turn and entertains them with a banquet, whereat the dead man is served with a portion of all that is set before the others; this is done for forty days, at the end of which time the burial takes place. After the burial, those engaged in it have to purify themselves, which they do in the following way. First they well soap and wash their heads; then, in order to cleanse their bodies, they act as follows: they make a booth by fixing in the ground three sticks inclined towards one another, and stretching around them woollen felts, which they arrange so as to fit as close as possible: inside the booth a dish is placed upon the ground, into which they put a number of red-hot stones, and then add some hemp-seed. Hemp grows in Scythia: it is very like flax; only that it is a much coarser and taller plant: some grows wild about the country, some is produced by cultivation: the Thracians make garments of it which closely resemble linen; so much so, indeed, that if a person has never seen hemp he is sure to think they are linen, and if he has, unless he is very experienced in such matters, he will not know of which material they are. The Scythians, as I said, take some of this hemp-seed, and, creeping under the felt coverings, throw it upon the red-hot stones; immediately it smokes, and gives out such a vapour as no Grecian vapour-bath can exceed; the Scyths, delighted, shout for joy, and this vapour serves them instead of a water-bath; for they never by any chance wash their bodies with water. Their women make a mixture of cypress, cedar, and frankincense wood, which they pound into a paste upon a rough piece of stone, adding a little water to it. With this substance, which is of a thick consistency, they plaster their faces all over, and indeed their whole bodies. A sweet odour is thereby imparted to them, and when they take off the plaster on the day following, their skin is clean and glossy.

In other news: Bees Absolutely Love Cannabis and It Could Help Restore Their Populations.

Also: Scorched animals treated with New Zealand’s golden mānuka honey.

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