Book II Sentences

A conflagration of pride and disdain for fatherly pleas, plummeting into the depths of Po, Phaethon lies beneath waves shone upon with sorrow.

Sisters of sorrow are left to be leaved in the sight of thier brother so thoroughly bereaved.

Poor Callisto, tricked by a likeness of her trusted ward, ravaged and left to inevitable abandonment by none other than the one she prized over the almighty opportunist.

The raven, once pallid, is changed to a pitch of black.

Whiteness, again, shows beauty and innocence, but this bull of ivory hue soon repeals his lot, reveals his truth, regains his status as general in the war on purity.

Sentenced to a Life of Sentences

Riddle me this: Deucalion and Pyrrah, the chosen ones, and why?

Metallic man, depleting through the ages, of less lustre, of more lust.

Evil Cupid, casting his spell, the one blunt arrow, defies the other so well.

What but a heifer; she is beautiful and fair, but lows in mourning of her human form.

Drown them all, they deserve not to tread on the sodden ground from whence they came.

Talking Snakes and The Crazies

I had a dream... or I should definitely say I had a nightmare. I decided, in my infinite wisdom, to watch the movie The Crazies the other night. Knowing myself as a nightmare victim, especially after watching scary-ass movies, I should have refrained from this form of cheap entertainment, but, as always, my curiosity got the best of me. It took about two nights, but this horrific movie manifested itself in my dreamscape.

It begins with the distorted, abstract version of Sally, and I walking through a curious house. This house has several rooms, each of which is dimly lit, a suffocating shade of green, and has stairs within, leading to loft areas. As we are climbing one of these sets of stairs, I happen to look towards the door, just to see one of those demented crazy people staring at me with burning eyes; eyes that are intent on killing. He just stands there, dead still, staring, relishing the thought of a victim. I begin to scramble up the stairs, but as in all my dreams, quickly begin to stumble and am unable to move any faster than the speed of cold molasses. I am terrified, probably thrashing around in my bed, not that I know this, and can feel and hear my heart pounding. As soon as I reach the top the room transforms into a rocky, cactus-infested hillside; one that you would see in the breaks. Sally and I are barefoot, so the going is rough, but at least the crazy person is gone right? Wrong. The murderous wretch has actually transformed into a snake and is curled up in a cave, sleeping. As quietly as we can, we sneak down the hillside, avoiding the cave and the countless cactus plants. This is not enough, though. As soon as I take a step, the rocks begin to slide, rumbling the hillside, waking up the snake. He hisses his murderous decree, flying towards us with astonishing speed, those same burning eyes boring into me. Once again, terrified, I try to run away; all in vain. I am struck in the leg and I watch as my sister is killed (sparagmos). It is graphic, terrifying and somewhat scarring. I, of course, wake up before the venom sets in and actually kills me. This dream is a pretty basic paradigm for what happens to my dream land after watching scary movies. Maybe someday I will learn...

James the Rat's Blog

James the Rat finding a beautiful passage in The Golden Bough; I'm certain the world has seen stranger things...kidding James, I'm sure you are very sensitive... Anywho, I enjoyed this blog immensly and am certain that I would have been equally drawn by the poignancy of these lines set down by Frazer. I think it is also really important to realize the full extent of indoctrination among these tribes which set their children to the task of parlaying their ideals and ensuring their deliverance from a harsh winter. These lines are powerful in that they homologize the act of Summer and Winter and summer and winter themselves. I suppose this is the aim of homeopathic magic, but it seems so affective when set to verse and performed by children.

The Metamorphoses of Narcissus

This painting by Dali is such an apt portrayal of the story of Narcissus. It absolutely blows my mind and is stunning in its dream-like quality. The combination of dream and myth is fascinating. Being so interconnected, dream and myth should be explicitly brought together and this image does this perfectly. It also contains the element of the egg, which, as we have learned, is included in countless creation myths. Element after detailed element, this painting is chaotic yet directed, beautiful but grotesque, just like an especially vivid dream that is fading in and out of your conciousness. Parts make sense, other parts terrify and fascinate but blur under your scrutiny.

The Fate of Blogs

"For a like reason in Bilaspore, a district of India, when the chief men of a village meet in council, no one present should twirl a spindle; for they think that if such a thing were to happen, the discussion, like the spindle, would move in a circle and never be wound up." Sir James G. Frazer pg. 23 The Golden Bough

I think that moving in a circle is a perfectly sufficient way of having a conversation, so no offense to the symbolic twirling spindles that are Dr. Sexson's lectures.

"The recuprative power manifested by such a tree would in due course be communicated through the fire to the food, and so to the prince, who ate the food which was cooked on the fire which was fed with the wood which grew out of the tree." Sir James G. Frazer pg. 34 The Golden Bough

Does this remind anyone else of a song they might know?

There was an old lady who swallowed a dog./ What a hog! To swallow a dog!/ She swallowed the dog to catch the cat.../ She swallowed the cat to catch to bird.../ She swallowed the bird to catch the spider/ That wiggled and wiggled and tickled insider her./ She swallowed the spider to catch the fly.......and it goes on and on forever...I think you probably get the point. Want a creepy rendition by a man with a huge beard? Click here

My first memory

My first memories come in and out of focus like black strips on a film reel. I see something, then its gone and its nothing but a notion. I've been sitting here for about five minutes and I guess all I've come up with is bunnies. Two bunnies, black and white, that my parents bought for us for Easter. I named mine flower ( I was very inventive) and Sally named hers pepper. They were wonderful. There are pictures of Sally and I leading our bunnies around in harnesses. I also remember when we let the bunnies go into the wild. In retrospect, it wasn't the best plan, considering they were a screaming black and white when all the rest of the bunnies were a color very similar to browned grass... I'm guessing the coyotes looked at eachother and went "Really? It can't be that easy." Just as the calf, though, our parents would tell us that they had seen the bunnies often, and that they were doing very well and thriving, despite their obvious adversity. Santa Clause, bunnies and bum calves...my life has been a lie. Oh well, makes for good memories.
As William Faulkner said "Memory believes before knowing remembers, believes longer than recollects, longer than knowing even wonders."

Sacrificial Calf

Thanks to Corrin's blog, I have now found a part of my life that could be considered very mythological. During calving season, at least one pair of twins is bound to be born, and the mother almost never accepts both of them. This results in what we call a bum calf. Sally and I have always been in charge of taking care of this calf: feeding it, keeping its pen clean, and always taming it. Our parents, just as they used to tell us that Santa Clause was real, would tell us, when this calf was gone, that it had gone to green feilds where it ate all day and was cared for by wonderful people who loved it. Sadly, just as we found out that Santa wasn't real, we soon found out that this business about the mysterious disappearance of our bum calf was also a blatant lie. One day, sitting at the dinner table, my dad, evidently thinking we were old enough to accept the truth, piped up and said "Do you girls know what actually happens to your bum calves?" Us: "Of course, they are eating green grass, being loved by wonderful people. (I mean duh...you told us that)." Dad: "Actually, this is Thebes we are eating right now." Absolute devastation. I, of course, am no vegetarian, but it was hard to eat the meat that came out of our freezer for awhile, but just as children quickly learn to accept the gifts under the tree anyway, I learned to accept the fact that our bum calves were doomed to be sacrificed to the freezer gods. Also, my dad liked to give our calves names that were very mysterious to us when we were young, but as I read, I find them scattered throughout the millions of pages of literature my dad has read.

Interestingly, just as I had done in the beginning, I still let myself become attached to the bum calf. This might just be my soft heart, but according to the theory of myths, it is because it is the way it was done in the beginning, so naturally, it must continue. All I know is that I have trained myself not to think about what (or who) I'm eating. Mysterious mental maneuvers abound.

Who knew it would be so damned funny?

The chapter entitled Sympathetic Magic is hilarious. An obviously sceptical Frazer sorts through the various aims of magic, sarcastically recounting every instance in which magic was deemed infallible. "The ancients held that if a person suffering from jaundice looked sharply at a stone-curlew, and the bird looked steadily at him, he was cured of the disease... So well recognised among bird-fanciers was this valuable property of the stone curlew that when they had one of these birds for sale they kept it carefully covered, lest a jaundiced person should look at it and be cured for nothing." (Frazer 18) The entire paragraph preceding and succeeding this line racked me with laughter. I had no idea this book would be funny and I am pleasantly surprised...thank you Frazer for entertaining me in the midst of your undeniably dense capitulation of Greek mythology.

Another laughter-inspiring passage: "One of the great merits of homeopathic magic is that it enables the cure to be performed on the person of the doctor instead of on that of his victim, who is thus relieved of all the trouble and inconvenience, while he sees his medical man writhe in anguish before him." I can just see the patient watching, holding his chin between his fingers, cringing (laughing inwardly) and saying "So...do you think its working?", while he watches this ridiculous farce unfold. Its no wonder people were sick and seeking the help of magicians. I, personally, would love it if my sicknesses were cured by another person releiving me of the less pleasant parts of recovery. Also, if the patient were of a mind to procure some dark entertainment, to spiritually cleanse them during their sickness, a few laughs, watching their neighborhood physician fling himself on the ground and writhe around, would probably suffice. It's a win-win really.

Cop Outs

It seems that between Bible as Lit. and Mythologies, I can definitely identify one constant: the use of cop outs. Although Frazer is obviously not enthusiastic about the practical merits of magic, I find this line hysterical and very representative of the culture that used Sympathetic Magic: "In order that blood may not be on your head, you should say: 'It is not I who am burying him, It is Gabriel who is burying him.' Thus the guilt of the murder will be laid on the shoulders of the archangel Gabriel..." (Frazer 15). In reference to the use of voodoo dolls, this line is a screamingly obvious copout which makes me cringe and laugh simultaneously. I mean really? Who in their right mind can justify the burial of a likeness of a fellow man, with the full intent of killing him, then, by saying a few forgiving words, expect to not be held responsible if their little charm has its desired effect? That, I beleive, is the height of immorality and the perfect paradigm for the ever-popular copout.

"These hapless lovers were probably not always mere myths, and the legends which traced their split blood in the purple bloom of the violet, the scarlet stain of the anemone, or the crimson flush of the rose were no idle poetic emblems of youth and beauty fleeting as the summer flowers." (Frazer 8)

This line is beautiful but so sad. It speaks of youth in love but cut down for being in such a state. There is so much jealousy that is so evident in every account that speaks of gods. Whether it be Greek gods, Roman gods, or the Lord himself, thier anger and envy are the controlling factor of every story gone awry. If a human dies, it is the will of a god and a testament of their jealousy when faced with the will of man. They greedily guard their power and strike when they feel threatened or undermined, which is the case in regard to the poor humans who dare to return the love of gods and godesses, who, incidentally, are formed in such a way that inspires nothing less.