Let me tell you something, confidential like.
We think we’re far gone. We think we’re exiled. Some of us think we’re making a Black Pilgrimage to the Lady in the Mountain, trying to find the hidden door.
Some of us raise our heads and yearn to join the shades that stream across the starry sky, with all their smoke and pipe and drum and battle fury.
But here’s the quiet secret, oh best beloved.
We are already in the Mountain. Did you think that Lady of the Lake stuck us in the Tree as punishment? No, that bewitchment is endlessly simple, for time circles like a noose about the neck of a wild and frenzied one, full of fury.
And the King sleeps ‘neath the Mountain, or so they say. Under hill, lain beneath the mound. But those with eyes to see and ears to hear know that in sleep, buried and close to the land, so the King may rise, so the Dux may haul abroad his warband. For is it not said that the wizards may fall- down-as-dead, and rise to walk the winds faster than an arrow?
For down amongst the dead men, we see the fires light the starry-cave, and hear the songs raised by sweet voices and fairer folk. Drink deep of the Mysteries; the orgia of intoxicating honey singing in your veins.
For behold; it is the craftsmen of the Deep Below which may present us with tablets of gold and weapons of gods; Totenpass and totenkopf mark the way, oh best beloved. The severed heads of prophets breathe with a great hissing of snakes and rushing winds borne of a black eagle’s wing.
All about us ring the signs, stars encircling; bull’s bloody haunch flung heavenward to bless us all with blot.
And all the while, Hermes herds us with whispered words: As above, so Below.
See Hephaistos drink from the vine-god’s cup, he who was hurled down from Olympos. Watch the crippled god smile ruefully at the bitter truth of unmoving nature; see him teach vengeance to she who doomed him, now held immobile upon her throne.
Yet, cock your head, lose one eye and you shall see the headless truth; Her blessing pours forth from milk-white breast, and so we fall inward, like a kid, seeing doom and vengeance transformed into living vibrant lesson.
Sly Hermes, liar and thief of Apollo’s cattle! But what a trade wrought upon those poor benighted beasts by way of music; raised by lute and syrinx, all in piping rhythm. Such a song, with its endless scales, as summons lost Orpheus, reborn once more in Pythagorean gold.
Pashu rising and descending; Herakleitos marks the path, and weeping and swollen, so he smears the dung upon himself, the shite of those that do not see. Obscuring himself forever, yet trusting to Sun’s bright fire, his wisdom is revealed!
Witness as, all unrecognized, he is torn apart by blackened hounds - the commonest of all deaths.
And at the crossroads, so the hero strokes the hide of Kerberos, a head on every road. Hermes passes by, whispers the sign with rod aloft, to be met with countersign.
Hodos ano kato.
Rejoice, oh best beloved. For this? This is the middle-world. Here, truly you may, by root and branch, ride the terrible fury of Being and horse the terror of existence!
Troubled by a wound that shall never heal, so we plunge ourselves deep into the roaring well of wyrd, noosed by the norns which bind our fate. Only then, to comprehend with tears of salt, the sweetest secret.
Our roots go on forever, and we are daimonic flesh and blood and bone.
To become imperceptible oneself, to have dismantled love in order to become capable of loving. To have dismantled one’s self in order finally to be alone and meet the true double at the other end of the line. A clandestine passenger on a motionless voyage. To become like everybody else; but this, precisely, is a becoming only for one who knows how to be nobody, to no longer be anybody. To paint oneself gray on gray.”
Gilles Deleuze & Felix Guattari, A Thousand Plateaus: Capitalism and Schizophrenia (via paganplaymate)
[I don’t get the compulsion to try and erase Guattari from texts that were unquestioningly co-written by him. Even What is Philosophy? I find in poor taste to try and separate him from.]
Archaeological Museum of Chaironeia:
Marble sphere with a bust of Helios and Selene (Sun and Moon). (Late 1st century B.C-early 1st century A.D)
Archaeological Museum of Ancient Corinth:
Ceiling coffer from the Captives Facade of the northern Basilica. Depictions of Helios and Selene are rendered in relief. (2nd half of 2nd century- early 3rd century BC)
The sphere was actually retrieved from a house, where it had been built into the stone wall as a decorative feature; a practice that was quite common in the pre-archaeology era. People would dismantle all sorts of ancient monuments for building materials. In some cases the buildings with such features also possess the status of “monument”, so their ancient elements remain there.
Greek Gold Oak Wreath from the Dardanelles, 4th century BC
This naturalistic wreath of oak-leaves and acorns is supported on two golden branches that are now reinforced by a modern copper core. At the back the branches end in obliquely cut end-plates, at the front they are held together by a split pin fastener concealed by a golden bee. Each branch bears six sprays with eight leaves and seven or eight acorns, as well as a cicada. Additionally, about a dozen single leaves are attached directly to each branch.
Gold wreaths were made in imitation of various leaves, including oak, olive, ivy, vine, laurel and myrtle. Most of these trees or plants have associations with various deities; for example, the oak was sacred to Zeus.
Wreaths were left in burials in Macedonia, southern Italy, Asia Minor and the North Pontic area from the fourth century onwards. This wreath is said to have come from a tomb somewhere on the Dardanelles. Despite their obvious fragility, the Greek orator Demosthenes (384-322 BC) writes that gold wreaths were worn for certain religious ceremonies. The inventories of Greek temples and sanctuaries also show that large numbers of gold