Pre-Coffee Morning Chimera

She had hardly smelled her morning coffee yet, much less tasted it. Compound that with the edginess that accompanies trying to quit smoking and her response to my “Good morning,” in retrospect, was not entirely surprising.

“Do you know what a chimera is?” she asked.

“Know?” I replied, “Let me enlighten you of the word’s etymology. Prepare to be schooled.” Her enduring stare and seeming lack of breathing implied not so much a breathless anticipation of new knowledge as much as quiet preparation for a strike, akin to a lioness extending her claws as she lies in wait for her prey.

“The Greeks of antiquity told frightening tales of a fire breathing beast, with the head of a lion, body of a goat, and a serpent-like tail. Eventually somebody caught on and revealed the obvious flaw—a fearsome creature with the body of a goat? C’mon! Who’s gonna believe that?”

I noticed her posture hadn’t relaxed, not one atom appeared to have shifted. I was pretty sure her nails were longer, too, but I forged ahead anyway.

“The provenance of the monster came to light one night in an open-air cantina over a bota bag made, ironically, from a goat’s bladder, filled with cheap wine from Persia. After the customary bad-mouthing of King Darius and his freakish son Xerxes talk turned to more domestic matters. Speaking of which” I pointed out, “while Persian royalty was universally despised it was equally agreed that the Persians made a fine rug.”

I sensed she was coiled like a spring, but she remained stock still.

“As it would happen, a merchant a farmer, and a philosopher swapped alcohol-induced stories of early morning life with their respective wives and mistresses. Oral hygiene had yet to catch on in a big way so morning halitosis had an eyebrow-scorching effect when the women arose early to bitch at their consorts about their laziness or lack of sexual acumen.”

“Unsurprising” she said. I noticed her eyes were turning cat-like and decided it would be best not to pursue the underlying reason for her response, instead acknowledging it with a nod before pressing ahead.

“The three men shared a rousing chorus of slurred “You too’s?!” and went on gesticulating wildly as they described — in liquored Greek, of course — what we call “bed head”, but back in the day they would have thought it resembled a lion’s mane. No archeological evidence appears to provide any support for the serpent tail, although the implied venemous early morning attacks may suggest an attempt at such.”

Her look was only slightly less rigid when she asked cooly “Are you finished?”

Delighted with the opportunity to further my shinola-from-sh** skills I lustily barked “Almost, dragon princess!”, mistakenly thinking that using “princess” might curry some affectionate favor. I was impressively wrong.

“See, men of all stripes feared this mythical chimera based on its complete lack of compassion and blood lust. Many generations handed down yarns of the beast biting a man’s head off before consuming the rest of his body. This, too, the drunken trio understood to be merely a manifestation of a cranky wife or unsatisfied lover. Mother Nature, always ready to implement a good idea when she saw one, immediately applied the concept of male beheadment and comsumption when she created the first female praying mantis, cruelly giving the insect the moniker ‘praying’ to mislead potential mates into thinking she was a good Catholic girl.”

She cocked her head a bit. “So you’re saying religion, mythology, and nature come together in history in a sort of Darwinian Constantinism?”

“Yeah, but before their time.” I was thinking fast. No time for finessing her heady logic.

“The fire breathing aspect seems to have been a big part of the chimera’s reputation,” I continued. “Romans would later take up the centuries-earlier explanation of morning breath but couldn’t come up with a pithy way to properly describe it . They tried “Your breath smells like you’ve been gargling public bath water” but it proved linguistically unwieldy, especially in Latin: Vestri spiritus nidor amo vos publicus balineum unda. Eventually one of Pompey’s soldiers came up with “Your breath smells like ass” and the chimera all but faded from thought from that point forward. Tic Tacs wouldn’t arrive untile centuries later, but “Dude . . . tic tac!” lacks the punch of the mighty Roman rectal breath description.”

“All that from a scary mythological creature?” she asked indifferently.

“Amazing, huh?”

“Whatever.”

“Wanna hear about satyrs?”

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Romance or Myth

Mythology is rich with allusion to the bond men and women share. Many cultures have myths depicting an initial male/female pairing which produced mankind. In others, such as some Hindu myths, man and woman are initially one entity, not so much human as an essence, which eventually splits in two—those two halves wind up in a life long search for one another to attain the completeness they once shared.

Ever had that feeling after seeing, or just being in a persons presence, that there is something deeper that resonates more than you could possibly describe? A yin to your yang? Moon to your sky?

Greek mythology tells us of Orpheus, a man who so loved his wife that he traveled into the underworld to petition Hades, god of the underworld, for the release of her soul. Orpheus, perhaps the best lyre player in the Greek pantheon, was said to have learned his skill for playing the lyre from Apollo. It is told that as he played for Hades the normally immovable god was moved to tears. So enchanted was he that Orpheus was granted his wife’s release, but only upon one condition: he could not look back to see if she was following until they had completely exited. Orpheus, during the arduous trek back to the entrance, had plenty of time to convince himself that Hades was tricking him. He kept his eyes forward until almost the very moment he reached the exit, but having not heard or received any sort of sign his beloved was behind him he turned to look behind, only to see his love be dragged back into the underworld forever.

We’ve all felt that at some point, right? That tragic heartbreak. Each of us, at some level, knows that gut wrenching feeling that feeds on an almost never ending series of questions and self-doubt—What if I would have not said a word? What if I had remained calm? Why didn’t I act differently? Orpheus’ loss is perhaps a direct metaphor for our own regrets.

Carl Jung believed that later in life, once we are past young adulthood, we spend the remainder of our lives trying to understand, to get in touch with, our unconscious, that we make choices based upon this drive to become more familiar with a part of us we know little about. Is that place where our better halves reside? Why do they seem so utterly elusive?

A fascinating correlation, and certainly not anything resembling an answer—this very connection Jung attributes to the inner part of one’s personality is known as the animas for men, the animus for women. It is possibly the deepest part of us, the very core of what we strive to understand and connect with; for men, our feminine side, our animas; for women, their masculine side, their animus. Perhaps this very concept is why an individual so deeply resonates with us. Perhaps they are most closely connected to our core than others.

The question then seems to be: Are they—our soul mate, if you will—impossible to find? Should we simply settle for something good instead of great?

Or are they—as I believe—simply within reach and waiting for our touch, and we for theirs.

Contemporary romanticism or fallacious mythology?

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Greek and Roman Myths

If you read my previous post The Cloud with the Silken Lining then you saw this review coming. Some of the inspiration—and information—came from this book. It’s 220 pages, not wieldy at all, and a terrific primer for those wanting to get a thorough overview of Greek and Roman mythology. ~ JWN

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What are the Northern Lights? Why might a tornado demolish one house and leave another unscathed? Centuries of research and observation have provided answers to some stubborn enigmas, but what do we do when those answers are so seemingly inaccessible we can’t possibly begin to understand their origins to begin with? The most ethereal, most immeasurable response most likely rests upon faith or religion. Not so different from how the people of antiquity coped with external influences in their own lives.

The Greek And Roman Myths: A Guide to the Classical Stories is the erudite equivalent of having a field guide in your backpack when hiking or traveling in a foreign country. Philip Matyszak does a remarkable job in coalescing not one but two entire pantheons of gods and ancient myths into a compact, utterly enjoyable read. Through his work we can see the interaction Greeks and Romans had with their gods as a means to engender a rationale for both the natural and unnatural forces around them, to bring civility to a period that could be often barbaric and chaotic.

Homer (the Greek poet of antiquity, not Simpson) introduced many of us to these myths via his epic poems, the Iliad and the Odyssey. Matyszak has, in a contemporary sense, given us the means to more easily comprehend these myths and their widely varied casts so we may more fully appreciate just how ingrained they are in modern life.

Forget that these myths, gods, goddesses, titans, heroes date well before what historians and scholars consider the common era (B.C. E.); to this day their influence permeates our everyday lives, such is their power. Astronomers navigate the constellations when searching the heavens, using names like Leo, Perseus, Andromeda, Aries, Cassiopeia, and Pegasus; auto makers have given us the Saturn, the Orion, and the Cressida; almost every planet is named after a Roman God; Internet companies like Juno and Delphi; recording company Mercury hefts its name from the Greek god Hermes (using the Roman name Mercury); the goddess of victory, Nike, lends her name to the ubiquitous athletic clothing company; even Aetna, the child of Uranus and Gaia (the mother from whom all life comes—mother earth) lends her name to a mountain and an insurance company. Continents and days of the week bear the names—or at least derivatives of names—of ancient deities. The stories behind some of these names are fascinating and layer a colorful dynamic upon a nomenclature we all but take for granted.

Both the Greeks and—later—the Romans, believed their deities to be more immanent in nature than entirely within themselves. The author provides a host of snapshots that bring these stories into relief, fleshing out the anamorphic from the ethereal. The evolution of civilization suggests that centuries of polytheism slowly gave way to more prophet based, monotheistic cultures, and the deities of old became interpreted as symbolic of human nature. Matyszak provides plenty of grist for such an idea when presenting allegories like the Neoptolemus Principle (the harm one man does to another will always come back to him) and a Sisyphean Labor (any fruitless or endless task). Both have their basis in Greek lore, but have morphed into descriptions of concepts we now apply to our own time.

Far from being dry, The Greek And Roman Mythsis, frankly, a fun if legitimately educational romp through the mists of antiquity.

The subject matter is handled respectfully and with an underlying scholarly approach, but sans heaviness which some volumes imbue their study of the period with. The content is well structured and easily accessible, albeit abridged for brevity’s sake. The true meat-and-potatoes of these apologues are served for the reader’s considerations, but those desiring a more granular view of these myths may be disappointed; the book wasn’t intended to be a treatise on myriad facets each myth provides. Instead, it brings a greater scope of understanding without being too expansive in its approach. My reading of the Iliad back in high school would have been much more enjoyable had I had a guide such as this to refer to.

The complexity of Greek and Roman mythology is broken down into an easily palatable tapestry of the major plots and characters, providing a brief look at how many of the venerable narratives have influenced literature and art throughout history–a remarkably fun, illuminating read.

From Apollo to Zeus (Jupiter), Prometheus to Pandora, Hera (Juno) to Hades (Pluto)—all the interesting stars of Greek and Roman mythology are here and anyone with even the slightest curiosity about them will find a wealth of delights among these pages.

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Once again I would very much like to thank Ted Sturtz and the folks at Thames & Hudson for providing a copy of this book to review. My other reviews can also be found at the New York Journal of Books.

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The Cloud With The Silken Lining

One of my readers and I were bantering back and forth via e-mail one day. The subject of restoring mankind back to its idyllic, almost pastoral origins was raised, couched within the construct of myth: “Maybe we can start life all over again, make it better the second time around; no eating of apples, get rid of the snakes. Pandora’s box stays closed.”

My reply? Let’s save that for the end of this post. I think it is better suited there.

Soon you will see the review of a book I recently read, The Greek And Roman Myths: A Guide To The Classical Stories by Philip Matyszak. Ever since reading the Iliad in high school I’ve been intrigued by Greek mythology. The Greek and Roman Myths happened to coincide nicely with the e-mail supposition above. I have also been taking a course on myth throughout human history; interweaving the book and course made the posit of a human reboot intriguing.

I think most of us have at least heard the expression of ‘Pandora’s Box.’ Here’s an interesting tidbit: The Greeks of antiquity would never have used a box for such a thing; according to the ancient myth the gods sent her to earth with an urn.

The myth of Pandora begins with Prometheus and Zeus. The king of the gods had decreed that mankind—as Prometheus had recently created—were forbidden to have knowledge of fire. Long story short, Prometheus tried to pull a fast one and snuck fire to his creations hidden in a hollow reed. Zeus caught on when he saw the stars reflecting the light of fire on earth below in human settlements. He was furious. For starters he chained Prometheus to a mountain and sent an eagle to eat his liver every day. Being immortal, Prometheus’s liver would regenerate overnight, and he would suffer the torment all over again the next day.

But this wasn’t good enough for Zeus. He was really pissed. Clearly, it didn’t take an Olympian god to see that mankind was prepared to make all kinds of trouble now that he had fire. Zeus asked another god, Hephaestus, to create a woman. He wanted something evil to befall humans to balance out the gift of fire . . . the way he saw it a woman was just what the doctor ordered. Until Pandora, all humans were male. Hesiod, in his book Theogony, misogynistically refers to the ancient time of life without women as the “Golden Age.” Things were perfect; men ate what they wanted, did what they wanted, had very little to fret over. Life was good.

Zeus had bigger plans.

Now, remember, the pantheon of Greek gods contained goddesses as well—female deities, and these feminine divinities gave to Pandora many a gift for mankind so as to soften the impact of Zeus’s fury. These gifts were carefully placed in an urn, and were not to be released until they could be properly trained by Pandora to benefit humanity.

But Zeus, per usual, had an ace up his sleeve. He gave Pandora a gift of his own—an abiding sense of curiosity

From the book:

Hardly had Pandora arrived on the earth, when she opened the lid to see what the urn contained. Immediately the creatures in the container flew out, and being as yet untrained to serve humanity they became instead despair, jealousy and rage, and the myriad diseases and infirmities that inflict humanity, All that remained was hope, which became trapped under the unbreakable rim of the urn, and which mankind was able to train and make a friend, as the other ‘gifts’ in the urn had intended to be, though in ways which we cannot now imagine.

So there was Zeus’s ‘gift’ to mankind. According to Hesiod, the party was over.

Pandora went on to have a daughter named Pyrrha—incidentally, the root of the word we now use to convey the idea of a large fire, a “pyre.” If you recall, fire started all this.

There are myths aplenty throughout recorded history which allude to a similar fate for man. In many myths male gods become a means of restoring fertility cycles to goddesses, who themselves were responsible for assuring plentiful harvests of crops. Slowly, though, male gods began to subjugate their female counterparts, and the feminine deities gave up a lot of their power to the ever-renewing pantheon of gods, regardless of culture or evolving society.

Could we possibly find a way to assuage Pandora’s curiosity if offered a second chance to do it all over? Would we want to? Think about it.

In Egyptian mythology there is the story of Isis and Osiris. At one point Osiris (Isis’s male consort) is killed by his brother, Seth. Later, Osiris’s son, Horus, has a fierce battle with his uncle and eventually defeats him. Wanting revenge for his father’s murder, he brought Seth before his mother, the Pharaoh Queen, and asks what she would like him to do with Seth. She gave the matter grave thought, and eventually told Horus to let him go.

Isis understood that the cosmos requires a balance between good and evil. There must be Yin and Yang, black and white.

In light of such considerations, how could man possibly turn away as divine a gift as woman?

Many cultures believe that humans were initially one asexual entity which eventually split in two as male and female, which helps explain how some of us feel about finding (or having found) our “soul mate,” that singular person who seems to make us feel ‘whole’.

How can we make subservient, or even place beneath us, that which was meant to bring us such wonder, such passion, so close to touching Heaven itself with our mortal being? How could we not melt in our embrace of Pandora . . .

The Old Testament tells us that God created Eve out of Adam (notice the placing of man over woman again, as well as the similarity to the two-from-one type of creation myth?). He didn’t want Adam to be lonely. Just as Pandora affected mankind so too did Eve, who eats from the Tree of Knowledge and gets humans banished from the Garden of Eden for eternity, with the added onus of mortality.

And yet . . .

Adam lives his mortal days in the presence of a creature whose very existence balances a great number of other woes and misfortunes. Epimetheus, the Greek version of Adam, winds up with Pandora, and despite all she has done for (or to) mankind they become ancient Greek mythology’s first human couple—one in harmony, each meant for the other.

I hope you have read this far to get to my response to the supposition that started this post. I replied:

“Pandora would be ever-present in the guise of woman, would she not? Potent, magical, irresistible. Man would only suffer the weight of loneliness without the silken luster of woman.”

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