I happened to read this over at EsoterX yesterday, and it gave me a wacky idea.

But, one cannot discuss the topic of “Great Pan is dead” nowadays without reference to a certain song by The Waterboys, so I may as well get it out of the way first. It’s the socially-responsible thing to do, after all. ;)

Now then. Wasn’t that nice?

So we are literally on the same page with this, here is Plutarch’s passage on this from On the Obsolescence of Oracles 17, in the Loeb edition:

“As for death among such beings, I have heard the words of a man who was not a fool nor an impostor. The father of Aemilianus the orator, to whom some of you have listened, was Epitherses, who lived in our town and was my teacher in grammar. He said that once upon a time in making a voyage to Italy he embarked on a ship carrying freight and many passengers. It was already evening when, near the Echinades Islands, the wind dropped, and the ship drifted near Paxi. Almost everybody was awake, and a good many had not finished their after-dinner wine. Suddenly from the island of Paxi was heard the voice of someone loudly calling Thamus, so that all were amazed. Thamus was an Egyptian pilot, not known by name even to many on board. Twice he was called and made no reply, but the third time he answered; and the caller, raising his voice, said, ‘When you come opposite to Palodes, announce that Great Pan is dead.’ On hearing this, all, said Epitherses, were astounded and reasoned among themselves whether it were better to carry out the order or to refuse to meddle and let the matter go. Under the circumstances Thamus made up his mind that if there should be a breeze, he would sail past and keep quiet, but with no wind and a smooth sea about the place he would announce what he had heard. So, when he came opposite Palodes, and there was neither wind nor wave, Thamus from the stern, looking toward the land, said the words as he had heard them: ‘Great Pan is dead.’ Even before he had finished there was a great cry of lamentation, not of one person, but of many, mingled with exclamations of amazement. As many persons were on the vessel, the story was soon spread abroad in Rome, and Thamus was sent for by Tiberius Caesar. Tiberius became so convinced of the truth of the story that he caused an inquiry and investigation to be made about Pan; and the scholars, who were numerous at his court, conjectured that he was the son born of Hermes and Penelopê.”

Before I get into my novel modern polytheist interpretation of this incident, reported in and to an extent interpreted by Plutarch, let me first say a little bit on why this might be important to me to be writing about at all.

Antinous-Pan and Panantinous are attested syncretisms for Antinous, though not especially common or early ones. Given Antinous’ connections to Arcadia (and the specific story of Pan son of Hermes and Penelope was not just Arcadian-born, but Mantineian, which was the mother-city of Antinous’ colony of birth, Bithynion-Claudiopolis), it shouldn’t be surprising that this association occurs, to some extent; but likewise, given that one of the earliest references to Antinous in the possible Pancrates/Pachrates Lion Hunt poem fragment from the Oxyrhynchus Papyri says that Antinous is “son of the Argus-Slayer,” and thus Hermes, that would then make him a brother of Pan, if nothing else.

The photo above is of a late antique contorniate medal featuring Antinous-Pan on the obverse, and Nike presenting a victory wreath on the reverse. This medal and its significance is not something which has been discussed much, but given that it comes at the end of late antiquity, and that it appears to be commemorating a “victory” in some sense, it has been suggested that the medal may have been issued at some point when an expected resurgence and revival of polytheism in the wake of hegemonic Christianity was occurring. Though the Emperor Julian was not a fan of Antinous, nonetheless someone who didn’t get that particular message might have issued this medal during that period, perhaps.

This is all the more interesting given the general trends of historiographical interpretation of the phrase which Plutarch records as having taken place sometime during Tiberius’ principate. Since the time of Eusebius, it has been interpreted as presaging the arrival of Christianity and the dissolution of polytheism. Robert Graves argued that perhaps it is a garbled message about Tammuz. But one of the problems in this matter for modern people is that the translation of the passage from Plutarch often inserts the word “god” so that it reads “the great god Pan is dead,” when in fact the word “god” is not there in the original, and it in fact reads “Pan the [G]reat is dead.”

Independent of what this might communicate to some people, or the rejoinders of “Yet, Pausanias indicates the cultus of Pan was still going strong nearly two centuries later,” or The Waterboys’ response, “Pan is dead–Long live Pan!” and “The Great God Pan is alive!” or even the major role that Pan plays in the birth of the first two members of the Tetrad++, there might be another way to interpret this, which while I admit is entirely modern and novel, nonetheless finds a resonance with me, and I suspect with many of you reading this as well, that neither occurred to the listeners back then, or to Plutarch and the various other interpreters of the statement.

What if the word “Pan” there doesn’t mean “the God Pan,” but instead just means “the All”? And not just “The All,” but “The All The Great,” i.e. the “Greater All,” a kind of overarching divine force that is the “Big Everything,” or the notion of the “ground of being” and such which is often posited by some who are of a more monistic viewpoint. The death of monism, in other words, might be what is being announced by the mysterious voice here, and not the death of a beloved Arcadian God!

Or, to put it another way, in the words of R.E.M.:

So, how do you feel? ;)

I have returned (as of about 11:35 this morning) from my adventures in Seattle at the Esoteric Book Conference, and hope to write a full update on its events later/soon/in the next day or so. Suffice it to say for now that the second day of the conference was even better than the first in terms of the quality of the presentations. Not a single one of them did not have major potential relevance for my work with Antinous, despite the fact that likewise not a single one of them mentioned the name of Antinous (which is rather typical, but oh well…!?!). There’s so much potentially exciting work to be done in the future, one’s mind reels, verily! ;)

However, in the meantime, another subject to write about has come up, despite the continued backlog of posts I’d like to get to soon, and I thought I could knock it out relatively easily today, so here I am.

While various different kinds of “-mania” are not inherently wrong, disordered, and are certainly not evil–so long as they occur only in isolation, and are not part of some overlying psychological problem–there is one sort of mania that I have very little patience for these days, and likewise for the last eight years (and more). I’d like to coin the term “Antinomania” for this particular phenomenon, and thus the people who exhibit it would be known as “Antinomaniacs.” These are not people with an excessive devotion to Antinous, mind you–there aren’t enough of those in the world, in my opinion (!?!), and I’d have to count myself amongst that number if indeed I were making such a diagnosis (!?!–again!?!). What I think is characteristic of “Antinomania” is not the tendency to seek out Antinous wherever he may be found, not only in ancient literature and sculpture but also in modern film and fiction, in spiritual accounts, and so forth, but instead to find Antinous in places that he does not exist, which essentially involves misinterpreting certain things as Antinous when they are not, or were not intended to be portrayals of him. There are occasions where there might be a literary reference that is vague, and which can then be interpreted in an Antinoan fashion, and if this occurs in certain cases (e.g. in a poem by Oscar Wilde, for example) in which an author or a genre has a penchant for referring to Antinous, and knowledge of Antinous in the person who produced the writing is certain, then it can be relatively viable as a hermeneutic. This particularly exists, however, in the tendency to see any and all statuary of the late antique periods which depicts a young and attractive male as Antinous, as well as a great deal of neoclassical statuary produced over the last several centuries. Indeed, in the latter category, many statues are certainly based on existing Antinous sculpture, and if the likeness is good, then they can be understood as Antinous, even if they are understood as someone else, or are intended to depict another figure–the example of Raphael’s Jonah comes to mind as a positive example of such). But what if it isn’t Antinous, wasn’t intended to be Antinous, and wasn’t based with any certainty on an existing sculpture of Antinous? Can such a sculpture be “Antinous for me” without descending into the depths of negative Antinomania?

The answers to that might vary considerably, but I would like to suggest that if one is a polytheist, it’s not really a viable nor laudable tendency. While one can look at a particularly beautiful image of the biblical David or St. Michael the Archangel, perhaps, and decide to use it as a depiction of Apollon, which might be acceptable in certain situations for a variety of reasons, the difference there is that there is no singular and definitive iconography of Apollon (though there are certainly tendencies and patterns in his classical depictions) which says that “these images are only ever Apollon” and “these ones can never be.” Most Deities do not have standard portraits whose features must be copied, and thus their divine attributes are what come to the fore. If this image has higher cheekbones, a different-shaped nose, seems taller and thinner or shorter and more stout, has more or less defined musculature, has a larger or smaller penis, has straight or curly or variously styled hair, and so on and so forth, it may still be of a particular Deity simply due to the presence of those defining attributes. With Antinous, though, we know what he looked like (or, at least, there is an established facial type for him), and it is how we know that a particular image is him despite all of the syncretism that prevails in his imagery. Otherwise, one would never be able to extract the notion that this is Antinous across the attributes of Hermes, Dionysos, Apollon, Silvanus, and many others; instead, it would be as if one singular attractive person–let’s say for the sake of argument Nicholas Hoult–sat as a model for many different Deities in various poses and with a variety of props, but we would not say afterwards “This is the Divine Nicholas Hoult,” we’d say “This one is Apollon; this one is Poseidon; this one is Ares,” and so forth, because Nicholas Hoult’s independent divinity is not established. It’s one of those things which makes the phenomenon of Antinous all the more interesting, but all the more particular as well, and being able to discern with one’s artistic and aesthetic eye beyond “young hot guy with a certain hairstyle” to see who is Antinous and who is not is a skill that must be honed. To return to our celebrity example above, one would not then watch the Percy Jackson films and say that Nicholas Hoult starred as Percy Jackson, and that Nicholas Hoult was also in The Hunger Games, and in fact played three roles in those films as Peeta, Gale, and Finnick because all three of those roles and the actors who play them happen to be young and attractive (at least to some people’s tastes).

[Yet again, a concept in polytheism and/or syncretism is best understood with reference to pop cultural examples–!?! When will this end?!?]

And yet still, there are some misidentifications that are so long-standing and which are to a certain extent standard that the question I gave as my subject line here emerges: what is the line between identification and identity in these cases? In other words, what is the difference between how an image is commonly identified by people (i.e. a question of interpretation) versus what the image was intended to portray (i.e. a question of authorial/artistic intent)? With Antinous, we’ve got a number of those, which are often the relics of earlier studies by the likes of Dietrichson as well as even Winckelmann who are so important in art history that their opinions are still respected a century or centuries later, despite having been proven inaccurate.

One of the most persistent such identifications is that of the Capitoline Hermes, which has often been known as Antinous. In the photo above, taken by Robert Mapplethorpe Sanctus, is the image, and when it was snapped by Mapplethorpe, it was photographed not as some random beautiful ancient nude, it was photographed specifically with the intent of putting Antinous on film. There are images of Antinous that have been produced as reproductions for sale which are based on the Capitoline Hermes, and are marketed as Antinous–indeed, it is one such image that was the first sculptural depiction of Antinous that I was able to obtain (at Heathrow Airport’s terminal 4 British Museum store, when it still existed!), and which I still have. However, I now understand that it isn’t Antinous, and yet…the position I’ve come to is that due to this ongoing and persistent identification for a few centuries, a syncretism has come about. Hermes and Antinous were syncretized commonly anyway, so this is no different than those other situations in certain respects, except that the visuals are not entirely “there,” so to speak, in every respect. The Capitoline Hermes’ hair curls are tighter and smaller and more numerous, and the facial features are smaller and more dainty–to put it rather bluntly, the nose just isn’t big enough to be the Antinous we all know and love. ;)

Other examples of what some scholars refer to as “Pseudo-Antinous” depictions are detailed here. However, I think there are a few which are considered “secure” identifications that are also to be questioned.

Athens–likely in late antiquity as much as today, as befits the city most beloved of Hadrian–especially abounds in Antinous images. One of the “Egyptianizing” images of Antinous that was found there, on Herodes Attikos Street in Marathon, likely where Herodes built a temple to Isis, doesn’t seem to be Antinous from my perspective. Look closely at his face: first of all, he’s sort of smiling more broadly than any other extant Antinous image would be, and the face is fuller and more rounded. No doubt this image was inspired by the Egyptianizing portraits of Antinous, and given that Herodes Attikos was a cultist of Antinous as well as a friend of Hadrian (likely with access to Hadrian’s Villa, where such images were especially prevalent), he’d have been well aware of such images. But if it isn’t Antinous, who is it? I think the obvious answer would be Polydeukion (even though it’s not a perfect image of him either…but then again, it could also be Achilles, perhaps, or even Memnon!). With the Egyptianizing attributes, and the findspot in an Isian temple, it would thus tend to fall into the “Osiris syncretism” category, at least most logically. And yet, because Polydeukion and the Trophimoi’s cultus is based on that of Antinous, it might not be out of character to think of this as a syncretism of one of the Trophimoi with Antinous instead, or Osiris-Antinous, rather than simply with Osiris.

While I could name further examples and show additional photos of this tendency, you have the basic outlines of this mode of examination here. The tendency to over-interpret Antinous into places that he never existed is especially rampant in some circles (avid readers may be able to guess which!), and likewise some scholars also seem to see him or assume his presence where it might be logical but isn’t necessarily certain, as the case is with the example from the purview of Herodes Attikos above. It’s important to think about these things and to consider them carefully. Does the value of any image, sacred or otherwise, derive from its resemblance to or identification with Antinous, even for hardcore Antinoans? Or, can these images of beautiful youthful males be valued as themselves and as different and distinct, and all the more important for that, even for those who are Antinoans? Of course, my answer would be the latter. Just as it would be rude to meet Josh Hutcherson and say “Oh, Nicholas Hoult, I think you’re great!” so too would it be rude to meet a variety of other Deities and to assume that because they took young and beautiful male forms, they were automatically Antinous, and would have to be simply because one decided to identify them as such.

[About 99% of my things are now moved into the apartment, and the next month will be spent trying to organize all of it, and likely getting rid of a fair few things…probably not books, but in any case…!?! My shrines are still not fully installed yet, but the Antinous one is up, as are some of the Egyptians, including Hermanubis. In any case, here’s some syncretistic aretalogical bits for the day!]

Agreus to Antinous: I give you all of the skills needed for the hunt, in grace and in strength, in speed and agility, and in respect for those who are killed.

Antinous: Hail and thanks to you, Agreus, who delights in the wild chase!

Because of you, I shall be called Antinous Kynegetikos, Master of Hounds–The Hunter!

I will be the trainer of great coursing hounds with Hekate.
I will be the tamer of Molossians and Vertragi with Herakles and Hermes.
I will be proficient in the bow with Artemis, Apollon, and Eros.
I will be the ranger of woods and mountains in Arcadia with Pan.
I will be the slayer of boars and bears with Zagreus.
I will be the setter of snares with Silvanus and Faunus.
I will be the victor against lions in Egypt with Neith and Pakhet.
I will be the sculptured stone-celebrated sacrificer on arches in Rome.
I will be the recipient of offerings from those who wish to excel in sport.
I will be the great imperial hunter amongst Trajan and Hadrian.

Hail and thanks to you, Agreus!

Hail and thanks to you, Antinous!

Aristaios to Antinous: I give you the skills of the bee-keeper, so that you may overflow in the sweetness of honey.

Antinous: Hail and thanks to you, Aristaios, bestower of many excellent boons to humanity!

Because of you, I will learn to propitiate the Gods for aversion of disaster!

I will be the prophesied and auspicious birth foretold by Chiron.
I will be the son of Apollon and Cyrene.
I will be the child of the divine pursuing wolf.
I will be the offspring of a lion-slaying nymph.
I will be the inventor of cheese.
I will be the alleviator of the scorching heat of summer’s dog-days.
I will be the one who institutes sacrifices to Zeus to bring summer rains.
I will be the relief of those afflicted with Dionysos’ curse for slaying Ikarios.
I will be the father of Aktaion with Autonoë.
I will be called Agreus and Nomios, hunter and shepherd.

Hail and thanks to you, Aristaios!

Hail and thanks to you, Antinous!

Adonis to Antinous: I give you the lyre of my grandfather Kinyras.

Antinous: Hail and thanks to you, Adonis, son of Smyrna!

Because of you, I will be the lover of Aphrodite!

I will be the fosterling of Persephone.
I will be the darling of Dionysos.
I will be the bone of contention between feuding Goddesses.
I will be known with the aroma of myrrh since the time of my birth.
I will be the bearer of the fennel stalk and the lettuce plant.
I will be the red anemone in the shedding of my blood.
I will be the object of anger for Ares and Apollon.
I will be the one castrated by the marauding boar.
I will be the father of Beroe and Priapus.
I will be called the Chthonic Lord on Cyprus.

Hail and thanks to you, Adonis!

Hail and thanks to you, Antinous!

Hermanubis to Antinous: I give you the keys to pass into the Underworld in Egypt and in Greece.

Antinous: Hail and thanks to you, Hermanubis, guardian before the gates!

Because of you, I will be celebrated on the festival of the rising of Sirius!

I will be the son of Serapis and Isis.
I will be the elder brother of Harpocrates.
I will be in the form of a youth crowned with a modius.
I will be in the form of a cynocephalus.
I will be clad in a lorica and will carry spear and torch.
I will be the protector of the dead on their downward journey.
I will be the lord of the necropolis.
I will be the herald of the inundation of the Nile.
I will be the assistant embalmer with Anubis.
I will be the chthonic messenger with Hermes.

Hail and thanks to you, Hermanubis!

Hail and thanks to you, Antinous!

While we are actually a few days past the midpoint of this blog now, nonetheless, it needs to be mentioned…

Earlier this year, on Paganalia, I posted about my future plans for this blog, which include closing it down on July 31st, 2020. It was first opened on August 1st, 2010, which means that as of August 1st, it was exactly at half its lifespan. I am very pleased and happy with it, but at that point, every bit of my time and energy that I have left in me will be needed to do things in the real world, in physical space with physical people, and with the Deities and other divine beings. Every moment I can spend writing something which will become a real book will be time more productively spent than writing on a blog, and every moment I can be practicing my devotions (and there will be an ample store of them created by that point!) rather than spending time to create them to be practiced (whether earlier or later than they’re posted) will also be incredibly useful.

This was the busiest Iuchar/Lugnasad I’ve ever had in my life, and that is only appropriate, given that the festival in Ireland, Scotland, and parts of Gaul focused upon tribal assemblies and inter-population gatherings of various kinds, marking ritual observances, but very often for legal purposes, and also for contests and sporting and all the general revelries that can accompany different groups of people gathering that don’t get to see one another very much. Many Gods West accomplished that goal in spades, and I will be saying a great deal more about it in the coming days, when there is time between all else I must try and get done.

So, before I go further in making up for some things I missed, and likewise marking the ongoing march of the year’s festivals and devotional occasions, and reflecting on the issues of the day and so forth, let me do one of the main things that this blog was created to do, and thank the Deities, Ancestors, and Land SPirits who have made my practice what it is, who have inspired this blog’s materials and have given anything of worth I’ve written here its value and its utility, and who in myriad other ways have given me the blessings that have allowed me to live and continue doing this work, as well as the things in the rest of my life.

First thanks and praises go to Antinous, of course–who I will change our common devotional utterance for: Hic est unde vita venit!
Next, thanks and praises to the Three Gods of Skill–Brian, Iuchar, and Iucharba–and their mother Brigit the Poetess, and also to Lug and his foster-mother Tailtiu, and all the Deities of Ireland!
Next, thanks and praises to the heroes Cú Chulainn from Ireland and Memnon of Ethiopia, and to the goddess Amesemi!
Next, thanks and praises to the Egyptian deities who join Antinous in Antinoöpolis: Hathor and Bes, Isis and Serapis, Herishaf and Harpocrates, Hermanubis and Wepwawet and Tutu, and all the Egyptian Deities!
Next, thanks and praises to two great Goddesses: Nyx and Neith!
Next, thanks and praises to Dionysos–the God who must be obeyed–and to Hermes the Leader, and to Apollon the Wolf-God, Artemis the huntress, and to all the Deities of Greece!
Next, thanks and praises to Ianus, Silvanus, the Lupa, and all the Deities of Rome!
Next, thanks and praises to the Divine Sabina, the Divine Matidia, Sancta Julia Balbilla, and all of the Sanctae of the Ekklesía Antínoou!
Next, thanks and praises to the Divine Hadrian, the Divine Aelius Caesar, the Divine Trajan, and all of the Sancti of the Ekklesía Antínoou!
Next, thanks and praises to the Princeps and Sanctissimus of the Ekklesía Antínoou, Lucius Marius Vitalis!
Next, thanks and praises to Qadesh and all of the Canaanite Deities!
Next, thanks and praises to Sabazios, Bendis, Kotys, and all the Thracian Deities!
Next, thanks and praises to the Trophimoi–Polydeukion, Memnon, and Achilles–and to their foster-father Herodes Attikos, Appia Annia Regilla, and their family!
Next, thanks and praises to the Tetrad++, to Panpsyche and Panhyle, to Paneros and Pancrates, and to Paneris and Panprosdexia!
Next, thanks and praises to Glykon and Chnoubis and all the serpent Deities!
Next, thanks and praises to Hanuman, Shiva, Kali, and to all the Deities of India!
Next, thanks to Sarutahiko-no-Okami, Ame-no-Uzume-no-Mikoto, Inari-Okami, and all of the kami!
Next, thanks and praises to Gwydion, Cocidius, and all the Deities of Britain!
Next, thanks and praises to the various Deities that may be in my life in the future, particularly those who became more prominent in my experiences over the weekend: Odin, Loki, Freyja and Freyr, Frigga, and the Matronae!
Next, thanks and praises to all the Ancestors: the male and female ancestors, the gender-variant ancestors, the warrior ancestors, the spirit-worker ancestors, the ancestors in and of the land; and may we also remember the dead who are not yet ancestors!
Next, thanks and praises to all the Land SPirits, especially to Mt. Erie, and the spirits of Whidbey Island and Fidalgo Island!
And finally, thanks and praises once again to Antinous!

[August 3rd]

It was especially hot at Hadrian’s Villa, even for the Dog Days.

In days and years passed, Hadrian had been known to scold the younger Antinous for going into certain parts of the Villa without sufficient clothing, or occasionally nude.

“This is not a rural haunt in Arcadia, Antinous, nor some Bithynian backwater. Show some decorum, please!”

One night, after a particularly lengthy such lecture, Hadrian had generated a triad of where nudity was allowed without question: the gymnasium, the palaestra, and the baths. Antinous nodded in agreement, and then added, “but what about now? We’re in your chambers, and there’s not a stitch to be found on either of us.” Hadrian tried to reconfigure his pronouncement in a more philosophically pleasing fashion, but became frustrated, and eventually Antinous could not restrain his laughter any longer, and Hadrian joined in…but reluctantly at first.

There would be no such lectures on this occasion, however, as it seemed everyone was simply too hot to wear even the lightest of fabrics or the most abbreviated of garments; the sweat that glazed each person at the Villa was covering enough. The slaves–even the old women–didn’t seem to mind, but Antinous felt somewhat uncomfortable around the Empress and her associates in such a state of undress. Hadrian noticed this a few times, and remarked “You are no Aktaion, and she is no Artemis–you will not be torn apart by hounds for seeing a bit of flesh.”

“Perhaps I’ll go blind instead, like Tiresias did with Athena.”

“Then you’d be far more useful to me! I could use a wise prophet…”

Ordinarily, Antinous would have giggled at such sarcastic jibes by the Emperor, but it was so sweltering a temperature that he was too listless even to laugh slightly, and only smiled.

A naked older male slave, his scrotum dangling like a soaked linen pouch overfull of coins, came into the presence of Antinous and the Emperor in the maritime theatre.

“A gift has arrived, Dominus, from Flavius Arrianus of Nikomedia.”

Hadrian shot Antinous a glance, wondering what it could be.

“Bring it in, then.”

The slave turned, left the room, and arrived back again shortly after, accompanied by a vertragus, a Gaulish hunting hound. It strained on its leash when it saw Antinous and the Emperor, wagging its tail madly. Hadrian bent over slightly to it, and it placed its forepaws on his thighs as he scratched behind its ears. There was a small papyrus scroll attached to its collar. Hadrian removed it, handed it to Antinous, and continued to play with the dog.

Antinous unfurled the scroll and recited.

To the Noble Caesar Augustus P. Aelius Traianus Hadrianus, Twice Consul, Father of his Country, greetings from Flavius Arrianus.

If you are well, then I am well!

Though peace has long been established with the Gauls, the customs of our ancestors do not cease simply because circumstances have changed. Therefore, in accordance with the practices of the fathers of Rome in the days of the Republic, I have sent you this fine vertragus, the finest born of a litter to the exceptional bitch that has been my constant companion and which you yourself admired when last we met, that you may offer it in sacrifice to the Gods and to Juno Moneta in particular after the procession in the Circus Maximus, and that the crux upon which he is offered will stand firm between the temples of Summanus and Iuventus, that the youth of Rome may be protected in this heat and the subtle fires from lightning strikes at night may be averted and not cause destruction of the pristine forests and fertile fields of the countryside in this season.

I send this gift with the sincere hope that you and the Empress are in good health, and with great anticipation of your coming visit to the eastern provinces. May Hermes make your journey swift and without difficulty, and may every God pour blessings upon you, the Numen Augusti, and the Senate and People of Rome, today and each day to come!

Antinous’ brow furrowed a bit.

“Such a beautiful hound…and yet, he is to be sacrificed?”

“The Gods deserve nothing but the finest specimens in offering, Antinous; besides, you have many hounds as it is, as do I.”

“Yes, I understand, of course.” Antinous was quiet for a few moments. “But, to have come all this way and not to have had the thrill of the hunt one last time seems unfitting.”

“If you have designs on allowing him to run away amidst the chase, put them from your mind immediately, Antinous.”

“Not at all!” Antinous was lying, and was glad that Hadrian could never tell when he was. “Nonetheless, would it not be a fitting send-off for the hound, to enjoy the quarry of a good kill once more before he goes to his end on behalf of the Gods?”

“In this weather, do you really want to tax your heart so, even in your youth, with such exertion?”

“It would be no exertion–there are rabbits aplenty around the edges of the Villa; and even deer wander through on occasion. A couch could be brought for you to simply watch the activities, and you could even cast a javelin from a seated position if it suited you!”

Sadly, Hadrian realized, Antinous was serious, and in his youthful exuberance and attempts at consideration he only highlighted how difficult Hadrian’s health really was at that time.

“It would not befit me to half-heartedly cast darts seated like some invalid, Antinous.”

“I didn’t mean…I only…”

“Yes, yes, I know, I know.” Hadrian was beginning to get annoyed. “I find it difficult to say no to you, Antinous, even when my better judgement suggests otherwise. I make the following conditions on your hunt, however: if this hound is somehow lost, or runs away, or is injured, then he cannot be sacrificed, and instead one of your best hounds will have to take his place.”

Antinous gulped, but nodded his head in agreement.

“We will refresh ourselves with some bread, cheeses, fruit, and wine before a bath, and then will depart for this hunt around the edges of the estate. Does that suit you?”

“Yes, it does!” Antinous said. “I have one final request, however.”

“What is that?”

“When this hound is sacrificed, may he not be tortured.”

“What do you mean?”

“To hang alive upon the crux is torturous, and prolongs suffering; in human criminals, this might be understandable, but for a poor animal without rationality, it is far more cruel. If the Gods are pleased with this, then let them make their will known; if they do not wish it, then let the hound be killed before he is nailed to the crux, and let the living hounds accompanying the procession sound his dirge with their barks and cries. None will know the difference.”

“The customs of our ancestors do not allow this, Antinous.”

“And yet, was it the Gods Themselves who ordained this practice, or was it men? If the Gods, then let it be as they have requested; if men, then such practices can be changed in accordance with good sense. You have done likewise on occasions beyond counting; why should this be any different?”

Hadrian hated it when the boy was right, and this time he most certainly was.

“Very well. I cannot divine on the matter myself at present, but perhaps this slave might.”

The dangling-scrotumed slave looked up, somewhat surprised.

“You, you are a Gaul, are you not?” Hadrian asked.

“Yes, Dominus.”

“And you know techniques of divination, yes?”

“Yes, Dominus.”

“Then, divine the will of the Gods on this matter.”

“Very well, Dominus.” The slave took up three small sticks and three small stones from the ground, then drew a circle with his finger in the dirt. He shook the stones and sticks in his hands, and then tossed them lightly in the air, with two sticks falling inside the circle and two stones as well, with the others lying outside it. “The Gods do not demand the hound’s torture, only that his life be offered to them.”

“Then it is as I have said!” exclaimed Antinous.

“Don’t become overconfident, boy,” Hadrian cautioned, “for it is possible to guess on divinatory matters easily in some cases. If you wish to become a prophet, a seer, or something of that nature, then you’ll have to become closer to the Gods in some other fashion before you can boast of your abilities.”

“In that case, perhaps I’ll peer up Athena’s peplos when we reach Athens in the coming months!”

Hadrian lightly slapped Antinous on the buttocks, but smiled as he did so, and the youth did likewise.

“That’s an interesting form of divination, Gaul,” Hadrian commented.

“Surely, he has a name,” Antinous pointed out.

“Oh, very well,” Hadrian said, rolling his eyes. “What is your name?”

“Guidgen, Dominus.”

“Guidgen–an interesting name. Do you know of this custom of the canem crucis?”

“I do, Dominus.”

“And what are your thoughts on it?”

“I am glad that Rome has seen fit to sacrifice dogs rather than Gauls to their Gods, Dominus.”

Antinous placed his hand over his mouth, expecting that Hadrian might not take well to the comment. There was a pause, before Hadrian beamed and began to laugh.

“Guidgen, you are right! You are right! And your frankness shall be rewarded in kind. What do you think of becoming a freedman?”

“I…I have been a slave for my whole life, Dominus. I know nothing else, and have had no other existence.”

“You seem to have a talent for divination. How would you like to continue on as a diviner at my court, and likewise tend to the hounds, but as a free man rather than as a slave?”

“I…I would be honored, Dominus!”

“Very well, then! After the hunt today, you shall have your freedom, on one condition.”

Antinous’ general cheer at the good news suddenly ceased, and he began to worry.

“What might that be, Dominus?”

“Find yourself a tight-fitting loincloth and draw your testes closer to your body. I have no wish, even in this weather, to be reminded of what awaits me should I live another decade or two.”

“Anything, Dominus, anything! Thank you, Dominus!”

“You may see to that now, Guidgen.”

The old Gaulish slave left, elated, with a spring in his step.

“Was that really necessary?” Antinous queried, the crack of a smile on his lips.

“Of course it was! Did you see them? If the man’s phallus hung that low, he’d be mistaken for a donkey.”

Antinous could no longer resist, and began laughing uproariously. Hadrian joined him. The hound barked and jumped at their laughter as well.

Theagenes could no longer stand. His left leg had been hamstrung by the slice of an opponent’s sword, and he was fatigued as it was, and could no longer drag the useless limb along on his still-good right leg. Both of his arms were bruised and cut, and there was some pain, but neither one was unable to heft a sword or shield.

He could not say the same for his lover. He was laying on the scraps of their chariot, still conscious but dazed. He had a severe collision with the front of the chariot when their horses had been hewn down, and had lost most of his front teeth in a bloody mess. His right eye was swollen and blackened as well, and he had a nasty gash running along his forehead. Whether he had fallen on Theagenes’ own spear, or another’s had found its mark, there was now a broken shaft transfixing his lower abdomen.

Theagenes could hear the epinikion being sung already by the warriors of Macedon, and he saw three figures coming toward him. They had dismounted from their horses and laid aside their weapons some distance from him. As they approached, he tried to use his shield and sword as props to straighten himself before them, and to meet whatever threat they might have posed bravely. He could see that his lover, though fighting to stay conscious, was watching him even from his distraught condition.

“You, you are the commander of the Sacred Band, yes?” the bearded, one-eyed eldest of the three men demanded.

All Theagenes could manage was a nod.

“See to him!” a particularly handsome second man of the three commanded, and a small group of physicians came over. As they attempted to approach Theagenes, he swung his sword widely at them, and the soft exhalation of Zephyros could be heard as he was invisibly wounded in the show of force.

“No, there is no need to fight now–your efforts have been noble, and are noted by the Gods. We mean no harm, and are here to help you, and see that you go on living.”

“His wounds are serious, but not fatal,” one of the physicians opined from a safe distance.

“There, you see? You may yet live to tell your great-grandchildren of this event,” the elder of the three men said.

Theagenes shook his head again, and looked back toward his lover. The physicians approached him and examined him, and Theagenes watched them from the distance, unable to advance and defend his fallen lover.

“He is in pain, and will not live much longer,” one of them pronounced.

Theagenes groaned loudly at this, and then looked at his lover–no longer a Ganymede in the beauty of his face, nor an Adonis in the litheness of his body, and now not even a bruised Ares or even a sooty Hephaistos in his beaten state for comeliness. Even if he did live, Theagenes thought, he would not be the shining youth that was the envy of every chariot-warrior in the Sacred Band of Thebes and the darling of every woman in the polis; children would flee from him, and citizens would shudder at his disfigured appearance, no matter how well they knew the tale of his deeds on this battlefield, and so many others…

And yet, Theagenes felt in the depths of his heart not regret, nor anger, nor even sadness that this was the case, but only love: for his lover’s sweet caresses in the past and for the ones they would surely share in the future if they were to live, even in deformity, decrepitude, and the aftermath of this defeat; for his city and his people, who brought forth such Gods and Heroes as Dionysos and Herakles, the scions of Kadmus and Harmonia, and thus of Ares Himself; and for the very vows that bound him and his lover together in this situation, as the last defenders of a free Hellas against the usurping and conquest-happy Macedonians that now tried to convince him to take medical treatment.

“You could be useful, even respected, as an advisor to ur troops in the future, Theban,” the old man said.

Theagenes stumbled toward the dying body of his lover. One of the physicians tried to help him, but he swung his sword again menacingly, and he backed off. He fell flat on his face a short distance before his lover, and then foxed himself upright almost as quickly again. He gave a glance toward Helios above as he felt a wave of intense pain wash over him, and then focused his eyes on those of his prone-lying lover. They grasped bloody-knuckled hands for a moment, and simply looked at each other, and both smiled. Theagenes was even more sure now than he had been a moment before that this thing he felt was love, greater than could be imagined by even the Gods in their most fiery ecstasies. Was that hubris, he wondered? No, for like all Thebans, he was a descendant of Aphrodite as well, and thus love was best embodied in her children’s children, and he was no exception. The ferocity of his love was his inheritance from Ares as well as Aphrodite.

Theagenes knew what he had to do, and his lover’s momentary glance toward the three Macedonians conveyed as much to him as his heart’s thoughts.

If Hellas is to remain free, Philip of Macedon must die. What strength you have left is for one purpose only.

He looked at his lover’s dilapidated form once more, smiled, and then in a motion so swift it was worthy of Hermes, he unclasped his right hand from his lover, turned and took up a fallen spear, and aimed and cast it at the eldest of the three men.

Unfortunately, the young and handsome man took up a shield and blocked the spear in just enough time. He could not, however, block the rage of his father, who strode over and took another spear, jabbing Theagenes from enough of a distance that he could not reach him with his sword, nor stumble further toward him. The spear has pierced his chest, and his life blood was seeping out as all vision became black, and he turned back toward his lover one more time.

The last image Theagenes saw was his bruised-and-bloody-faced lover smiling back at him.

The elder man and the two younger then came over to the dying charioteer. The young handsome man spoke, fighting back tears.

“What manner of monument do you wish to commemorate your victory today?” he asked the charioteer.

The dying man could only furrow his brow in confusion.

“I wish to mark for all time the bravery and valor of the Sacred Band of Thebes. In dying for love of comrades and country, you have minted steadfast bravery, loyalty, and love for all generations to come. How do you wish to be known?”

The charioteer smiled again, and began to laugh slightly, though breath was beginning to seep away from him.

“Liiii…”

“What is he saying?” the old man asked.

But it was too late, and the last breath the charioteer drew in to attempt to speak again was cut short, and his exhalation was not deliberate, but only the slow escape of his spirit from his body.

“It is no matter; let us depart,” the old man said. The physicians had no work to do with the two men, and dispersed to the other wounded.

“Defiant to the end!” Philip said to his son and his friend Hephaistion.

“No: heroic,” Alexander replied.

“If ‘heroism’ is dying pointlessly in a desperate battle against impossible odds, then I agree with you,” Philip replied.

“Heroism is often less, and death is the only way to achieve it,” Alexander mused darkly, through more tears. “How shall we remember them?”

“I believe he was saying ‘line,’ as in the line must be held,” Philip said. “The boy of the commander of the Sacred Band of Thebes was taking up the final battle call to rally who he might to continue holding out. Defiant to the end!” He rushed off to see after the consequences of his victory. Hephaistion and Alexander continued to walk together.

“No, Alexander, I think he said ‘lion,'” Hephaistion ventured. “What creature is better suited to not only signify strength and valor, even in such total defeat and failure, but also to stand as a testament to their heroic deaths?”

“I believe you’re right,” Alexander agreed, and sniffed. “And yet, not.”

“How so?”

“Yes, a lion monument would be fitting for them, so that all will know that the Sacred Band of Thebes fought at Chaeronea, and historians will know of their sacrifice. But he was not asking for a lion as a memorial. He was accusing me of lying, of not saying truthfully how I intended to remember them, not as a victory for myself and my father, but as a victory for what they represent.”

“What do they represent?” Hephaistion inquired genuinely.

“Something that I aspire to, and would have failed at before now, where you are concerned. I would not fail in the future.”

*****

[But Iris and Hermes spoke with one another:

Said Iris: The words “leon,” “parataxis,” and “pseudos” sound nothing alike! How could these Macedonians have confused them for one another?

Said Hermes: My dear Iris, this simply shows how rough and muddled and unclear the poor charioteer’s dying sounds were. The clang of fallen arms, the cries of carrion crows, the groans of wounded men, the crackling of fires, and the ill wind whipping through the plain…all sounding together? The dying man’s whisper could have said nothing at all, and Philip, Alexander, and Hephaistion may have simply been throwing guesses at a blank wax tablet more revelatory of their inner states than reflective of actuality. It’s funny how words sometimes work like that.]

Flower Heroes to Antinous: We give to you green stems and leaves, and colorful petals, that you may spring from the darkness of mud and soil with the flashing flourish of life’s vital blood.

Antinous: Hail and thanks to you, Flower Heroes, the enliveners of vision, the fragrances of virtue, and the fruitful children of the Goddess Flora!

Because of you, I shall become a beacon of hope, a palm of victory, and a token of love for those upon the Earth!

Hyakinthos, I will be the hero of Sparta, the beloved of Apollon.
I will be an expert at the discus to the jealousy of Zephyros.

Hylas, I will be the water-bearer of Thrace, the beloved of Herakles.
I will be the envy of nymphs and the drinker of the waters of drowning.

Krokus, I will be the delight of Hermes in games of sport.
I will be the anger of the Gods for the love of Smilax.

Ampelos, I will be the twining vine around Dionysos’ thyrsus.
I will fall from a branch, gored by a bull, from Selene’s spite.

Kyparissos, I will be the love of Silvanus, of Apollon, and even of Zephyros.
I will be the slayer of my own pet stag, the cause of my sorrow and death.

Daphne, I will be the pursuit of Leukippos and Apollon.
I will be the laurel tree on Ladon’s banks in Arcadia.

Lotos, I will be the arouser of Priapus and his evader.
I will be the lotus tree and the sorrow of Dryope.

Narcissus, I will be the one cursed with self-knowledge and self-love.
I will be the longing of both Aminias and Echo.

Hail and thanks to you, Flower Heroes all!

Hail and thanks to you, Antinous!

Since the arrival of the imperial entourage in Athens, Lucius Marius Vitalis had been feeling under-the-weather. His general discomfort, however, had become being completely bed-ridden by that morning, such that the physicians were advising others to stay away from him due to possible contagion by whatever kakodaimon might have been tormenting him so severely.

Antinous did not care what they thought, nor what even the Emperor told him, and insisted on going in to see his friend in his convalescent state.

“Tell me, how are you, my friend?” Antinous asked.

Lucius coughed several times before answering.

“Do you even have to ask? Is it not clear that I’m in a dire condition?”

Even in his pain, there was a levity to his statement, a kind of irony that Antinous (and everyone else) found refreshing even when it was pessimistic in tone.

“But, the physicians think you may yet recover–surely, there is hope in that.”

“I shall remember that when making my daily offering of phlegm to Spes, then.”

He began coughing once again. Antinous looked at the ground, very distraught, but not wanting to show it, as he was quiet during the coughing fit. A moment of awkward silence followed.

At last, Vitalis spoke again, wheezing somewhat as he did, and thus sounding decades older than he actually was.

“Would you be so kind as to pass me the nearest empty piss-pot?”

Antinous was all business in assisting his friend, but Vitalis himself was smiling, nearly beaming, as Antinous devoted himself to his duty, to the point that Antinous didn’t even notice his toothy, mischievous grin.

As the sound of trickling liquid became somewhat loud against the brass vessel, as he half-sat against the edge of the bed, Lucius began to speak again.

“Get a good look, Antinous: if I die in the coming days, this is how I want you to remember me, smiling with my cock in hand as I make libations to Cloacina.”

Antinous furrowed his brow, but gradually came to see the humor in the whole situation, and at last started laughing. Vitalis laughed as well–finally, as he’d been holding it in out of deference for his friend–and laid down on his side as the aches of his condition were exacerbated by his laughter. He coughed only slightly as they were settling down once again.

“But, you’ll be fine, Lucius. The physicians have said so. This is only a difficult patch, and you’ll improve soon.”

“Whether I improve later today or tomorrow, it doesn’t matter to me–I am missing the Mysteries, and thus am bereft of hope for today and for my life yet to come.”

“Surely not! When we come back through Athens in the years that follow, there will be other times to become an initiate.”

“And you really think that you, and the Emperor as an Epoptes, will be able to maintain silence on these matters in the intervening years? No, I should go mad from wondering at every moment if you both are dropping hints to me in every word you say, such that I think every sum and figure coming across my desk is a Pythagorean symbola and each missive to a provincial governor is an allusion to part of some mythos with a peculiar twist that only the initiated know!”

“We would never be so cruel to your lack of participation, nor so impious as to even attempt revealing such things to you.”

“It would only be apt, because you know I would discern the truth of it in moments!”

Antinous smiled, not because he was amused at his friend’s intended overstatement, but because in his heart he knew that Vitalis was speaking the truth, and there were few secrets that he could not accurately assess with his keen mind.

“When do you leave?” Vitalis asked.

“In the coming hours, we will set out. Herodes Attikos insists on showing us a few things this evening before the pilgrimage proper begins on the morrow, and we shall be enjoying his chaste and sober hospitality this evening.”

“How appropriate…and also, boring,” Vitalis quipped. Antinous laughed slightly again. But, he knew there was something else that Vitalis was not revealing.

“What troubles you, Lucius?”

“Is it not clear? My body is wracked with an illness that even Asklepios would shrug over, and my dearest companions must abandon me to it in order to secure their places in the afterlife, when it is so far from them as to be the merest speck on the horizon, whereas I stand on the pier waiting to pay my toll to the Ferryman!”

“Of course–that is obvious.” Antinous was slightly surprised by the vehemence of Vitalis’ words, but he let them go for the moment. “But there is something else, I can tell. What is it?”

Vitalis paused before answering, and turned away slightly.

“Have you ever experienced a fever dream, Antinous?”

“Of course, when I was a child.”

“I have been having them regularly for the last week.”

“Not surprising==but what of it?”

“The dreams all run together, and continue with each other.”

“Perhaps that is unusual, but still, what of it?”

“It is what I have seen in them that disturbs me.”

“They are only fever dreams, sent by Hermes’ whim from the Gates of Ivory, and are not to be trusted.”

“No–these are dreams from the Gates of Horn, and Hermes himself has shown them to be so…Hypnos and Morpheus themselves were in thrall to him as he did so, and I have no doubt that these showings are true.”

Antinous’ eyes widened and he sat himself down, gazing intently at Vitalis, silently urging him to continue.

“Hermes, as sober as could be imagined, did not lead me to the River Styx, and Charon was not waiting for me in these dreams. Hermes Himself handed me the caduceus, his own attribute, and bade me to board a strange vessel. Charon was nowhere to be found upon it. The herald’s rod burst into flame and became a torch, and I was told that I must hold the light and foster it until the Navigator of the ship arrives and it may begin its journey.”

“Surely, Lucius, this is some mosaic image made up of the many smaller tiles of what is known of the Mysteries by you and many others. Where are the Two Goddesses in all of this?”

“You didn’t let me finish. It was Persephone Herself who told me this in the dream.”

Antinous was silent for a moment, and rose up, pacing back and forth.

“Then it is clear. You need not join us for our walk to Eleusis, for you have already been initiated into Mysteries that are far greater.”

“Your words ring as wooden and hollow as the Trojan Horse, Antinous!”

“No, Lucius, I speak the truth. There is something in these dreams, something far greater than I can comprehend at the moment. Attikos is learned in these matters, however, and perhaps he will have words for you on them upon our return.”

“And yet now, I must linger in uncertainty as to their significance while all becomes revealed to you and the Emperor and all of the others fortunate enough to be able to make the walk this year!”

Antinous was simultaneously concerned for his friend’s mental and physical integrity, but also increasingly annoyed and dismayed at his pessimism, and even his petulance, at missing the occasion which was held yearly.

“There will be other years, Lucius! You will be fine, healed and whole and able to make the walk in the future! Don’t lose hope simply because things seem bleak now!”

“You would not speak so foolishly if you struggled to even breathe, drowning in your own humors…”

Antinous turned his back to Vitalis, walked a few paces away from the bed, and then turned in a dramatic flourish to emphasize his point.

“We have little time, and I must prepare. It is your choice: I can leave you with blessings and I would wish that you might return the favor for me, or I can leave you in silence and we shall never speak of these things again, and perhaps when we return you will have come to a better grasp of your senses. Make your decision now, as there is no time to wait.”

Lucius Marius Vitalis sat up slightly more, his expression troubled, at his friend’s sudden severity. There was a lingering pause as the two stared at each other unblinking.

“Very well, Antinous. I wish for you and the Emperor the speed and ease of Hermes in your walk, the inspired insight of Apollon to be kindled in your minds by the experience, the inebriated frenzy of Dionysos upon your illumination in the Telestrion, and that when the blackened oblivion of Hades dawns upon you that the Mother and the Maiden Her Daughter will shield you on both sides. May your visions of the Goddesses be as revelatory as that granted to Aktaion, and yet may you not die from the sight for not having been granted Artemis’ permission to see it. And though you may shout the name of Iakkhos a thousand times over the coming days, may the first three times be shouted on my behalf, for I whose voice is weak and distant at the time and place of its shouting.”

“You missed a few Deities, Lucius.”

Vitalis smirked, rolled his eyes, and settled back slightly, ready to hear his friend’s blessing in return.

“It well then for me and for the Emperor, then, Lucius, to have your blessings in such eloquent and appropriate terms. For you, I wish that Asklepios may avert the thunderbolt of Zeus’ wrath from you and deliver you from whatever arrow of plague Apollon has inflicted. May you pass into the care of his sister, Artemis, who may raise you like a new Hippolytus to health and greatness, that you may become her hunting companion in turn again, and may the only arrows which strike you in the future be this of Eros.”

Vitalis was genuinely smiling now, and nodded.

“Well, that was nice!”

Both Antinous and Vitalis laughed, and Antinous approached Lucius in his bed.

“I really wish your own arrow of Eros might strike me just now, or mine you, but I fear the strength is not in me.”

“Even that will return in time, Lucius, I am certain. I have no doubts.”

Antinous embraced his friend while standing, and kissed the top of his head.

“The physicians have a soporific ready for you. Take it, get some rest, and when we return in a few days after the initiation, there will be much to talk about, and many arrows to exchange in target practice, I suspect!”

“Keep speaking in that fashion, Antinous, and I may have an arrow nocked before too long!”

Antinous rolled his eyes.

“How can you doubt your health will improve, Lucius? Your wit is not that of Hermes now, it is of Priapus.”

“I’d prefer it not to be, then–I like your entrails where they are, and would not disturb their position willingly!”

“This could go on forever, couldn’t it?”

“It could, it could…a Priapic wit indeed, Antinous!”

The two exchanged smiling glances in parting, and Antinous left the room.

At the moment when Antinous and Hadrian were having the great revelation in the Telestrion a few days later, Lucius Marius Vitalis breathed his last.

In many respects, the present post has been in my queue since January of this year, but has been in the making since October 28th of 2012 (though I made no mention of the matters here, but alluded to the context a few days later). Given that October 28th is the date on which we observe the Death of Antinous, this whole thing ended up being somewhat appropriate, given the results…But perhaps I’d better explain some more of the context first.

On the occasion noted in the second post linked to above (which took place on October 28th), I went to meet Christine Hoff Kraemer in Seattle while she was in town doing some Feri training, and on that occasion I also met Niki Whiting for the first time. Our conversation ranged all over the place, but one of the things that Niki mentioned to me in the context of Antinous’ death, which I had never heard of before, was that a book called Teleny; or, The Reverse of the Medal existed. Why would she mention this, you might ask? Well, for two reasons: 1) it mentions Antinous repeatedly; and 2) it is, in essence, a kind of group-written piece of late 19th century Victorian gay erotica, one of the main contributors of which was very likely Oscar Wilde, and the parts referring to Antinous might be the tip-off toward that likelihood. Color me interested, to say the least!

So, nearly two months later, with my last paycheck of that quarter, I obtained this edition of the work, as well as a graphic novel version of it by Jon Macy, which won a 2010 Lambda Literary Award for Gay Erotica. The graphic novel is called Teleny and Camille, and is published by Northwest Press, a queer comics publisher based out of Seattle (hurrah!) which was founded by Zan Christensen (I’ve mentioned him before) and which has done some really amazing and enjoyable works over the years. In this interview with Zan Christensen from late last year, Zan speaks about Northwest Press’ stand against censorship of their material by Apple. I’d especially like to recommend Al-Qaeda’s Super Secret Weapon (a kind of erotic farce on terrorism and the repeal of Don’t Ask Don’t Tell will result in an easier victory for an Islamic fundamentalist overthrow of the U.S.), Transposes by Dylan Edwards (on queer trans men), The Power Within (on youth suicide and bullying), and Anything That Loves (a bisexual anthology). (This list is not exhaustive of all the things of theirs I’ve read already.) I hope to have the chance to look at several of their other titles in time as well. (And if The Bus Station ever happens, I suspect that Northwest Press will be on the very short list of likely publishers for it!)

Being that I am a rather shallow person, when I obtained these two volumes, I did what any sensible person would do and read the graphic novel first. And I have to say, I’m glad I did, for all kinds of reasons. I was done with that by the end of 2012 (which I alluded to here), but it took me nearly three more years to get around to reading the actual novel proper, and you may understand why as I describe it further. It was not until about June or July of this year that I began reading the original novel, and I did so most often at bus stops and in waiting rooms of doctors and the like, which is all the more amazing and scandalous given the nature of the book itself, and how secretive those who originally produced it were. What favored me doing so, of course, is a couple of things: 1) I don’t read erotica “one-handed,” so to speak, and honestly the nature of Victorian erotica does very little for me erotically; 2) people at bus stops and in doctor’s offices are pretty oblivious to things anyway; 3) and even if they’re not, very few people these days know how to read at all (sadly); and finally 4) even if they could read, they wouldn’t know what Teleny is anyway. Nonetheless, there was something that *felt* potentially transgressive to be reading such a book like this in public.

But before I get into this work specifically, a slight digression into comics and erotica, that is not as much of a digression as one might think.

One can’t really speak of graphic novels and erotica today without mentioning Alan Moore and Melinda Gebbie’s Lost Girls. I read this sometime in the 2008-2009 period, and had been excited to get my hands on it for several years before that. I was ultimately disappointed because a good deal of it was “not my kink,” so to speak, and some of the art–while beautiful and intriguing–just didn’t do anything for me in the ways that erotica (or pornography) is intended to. However, something that did intrigue me is that there was rampant bisexuality throughout the book, and there was even male bisexuality and homoeroticism (Alan Moore is well-known for lesbians populating almost all his major works, but not always male homoeroticism, and often not explicitly sexual and depicted even when such characters are present…though his latest, Providence, involving Lovecraftian materials, has a gay Jewish protagonist).

The reason I mention this is because amongst Moore and Gebbie’s various tales and reinterpretations of Alice, Wendy, and Dorothy are other pastiches of contemporary writers, one of which is a purported piece of illustrated erotica by Oscar Wilde featuring Dorian Gray, found in Chapter 13, “Contrarywise.” Perhaps because of all the pastiches in Lost Girls, and the degradation of my own memory, I had thought on further reflection that the Wilde piece in the book was said to have been one that was a group writing that had been kept in secret…and thus, I thought it might have been one of the more lurid portions of Teleny that was depicted. Alas, I was incorrect when I went back to check. I thought perhaps he might have alluded to it in 25,000 Years of Erotic Freedom as well, but in my cursory re-read of the sections that discuss Oscar Wilde, I could find no reference to it, either.

Of course, perhaps Alan Moore does indeed know of Teleny and has heard of it and read it, and thus would have at least heard of Antinous in passing there (if not in Wilde’s other works, including The Picture of Dorian Gray). What an interesting world it would be if he had made that connection, and if he had incorporated references to the actual work Teleny into some of his writings relevant to the matter, even independent of any references to Antinous…but, no matter, it’s a side issue. ;)

In both the graphic novel and the original erotic novella, there is a kind of frame story involved–a great way to have a series of stories within a story that has been used since Petronius’ Satyricon, and through to Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales and Boccaccio’s Decameron, amongst many others. However, in this case, one story is the story concerned, even though possibilities for others could be introduced with that schema. In the original, the whole discussion is, literally, a discussion–more of an extended monologue with occasional interjections by the unidentified interlocutor of Camille (the main character)–about this entire torrid relationship that seems to last months or even perhaps years, with some very intense episodes, and ends with the death of Teleny. Further stories are referred to throughout with an “I’ll tell you about that later” treatment, which seems to leave the story open-ended enough that more could have been written, but for whatever reason, it ends not long after the death of Teleny is reported. In the graphic novel version, it begins in a slightly-different art style, with Jon Macy agonizing (while working in a coffee shop with a friend) about how he’s going to turn this story into a comic, and how faithful to be to its original, followed by a brief account of Charles Hirsch and how the story was written, and then the story itself begins, and at a later point, the author again steps in, the art style changes, and some deliberate changes to the story are then made (and for the better, in my opinion, as you’ll see below).

Both the graphic novel and the original follow the same plot, often with the same words used, which is sensible given that the graphic novel is largely based on the novel. The words–of Wilde or whichever of his associates (George Cecil Ives, perhaps?) can occasionally be quite delightful and perhaps unintentionally amusing–the off-hand references to tribadism (i.e. lesbianism) and its preponderance in girl’s schools and the like can certainly have this effect, at least on someone as vapid as myself. I also learned that “tweake” (yes, that is how it is spelled!) was a word for a prostitute in the late 1800s–given that its most basic meaning (in the non-“e” ended form we know it) is to twist or pull, I suppose one can see how that might apply to a prostitute that might specialize in certain activities (!?!). The references to Antinous are not extremely frequent, but are frequent enough to be noticeable, as not many other characters are mentioned to compare a person’s beauty with, nor their fate–and that is essentially why he is mentioned in this story: to describe the beauty of Teleny, and also to allude to a tragic end in death..and, it is inferred, a sacrificial or suicidal death (though the difference between them seems slight for phenomenological purposes, since self-sacrifice of that nature would of necessity be suicidal by definition).

I don’t need to describe the rest of the plot for you–I’d love to leave it for those who might wish to read either the original or the graphic novel–even though the end of it is something I’ve already revealed, but the “how” and “why” of that end in terms of the actual plot and characters involved is not something that I need to reveal. But, the end in each is different, and I wish to talk more about that, and why I think as a result the graphic novel is better than the original.

Just as Antinous did, it is implied and foreshadowed earlier, Teleny commits suicide in the book, and the narrator–Camille–is also close himself on several occasions, and then does attempt to commit suicide once but survives. Given that this is understood to be the Victorian period (though the setting is Paris, not London), suicide due to self-hatred and repression, threats of blackmail, and any other possibility would have been a very real and present threat for anyone who was not strictly heterosexual. (Indeed, it’s not entirely unknown now, though the reasons and motivations are often quite different.) The book ends soon after this is reported–the utterly bereaved and heartbroken narrator Camille, apparently, was able to go on in his life after this tragic event and the death of his one-and-only true love and soul mate, and to speak of it in rather explicit but occasionally unflattering and even fluffy ways with someone not too terribly long afterwards…which itself stretches the bounds of credibility, I have to say, given the nature of the events described and the very graphic descriptions of sexual activities involved. (With whom would one have such a conversation? I doubt Wilde could have managed it himself with Bosie Douglas, Robbie Ross, or any of his other lovers and associates…!?!)

And this is where the graphic novel is superior. It is here, in an epilogue, that Macy again comes in and says:

Why is it that every movie, book and story of gay love has to end with one or both dying? Even the ones written by gays are no different. It’s like we’re too damaged to even dare imagine being happy.

To which his friend, Gary, replies:

So? Write your own ending. There were four or five writers already…doing this book just makes you another one.

And, as you can imagine, things get considerably better from there. ;)

Now, before anyone objects to a shallow wish for happy endings, a desire to be revisionist about classic works of literature (even though this isn’t one, despite Wilde’s “classic” status in other respects) and established tales, or anything else, let me be clear. I’m not suggesting at all that Macy’s wish for things to be better means that we should, therefore, imagine Achilleus and Patroklos riding off together into the sunset on their chariot after their successes at Troy to live happily ever after in Thessaly with a big gay family of adopted Thracian children (though if someone wants to write that in properly Homeric epic verse, be my guest!). But, I think Macy has a point, and it’s a point that I’ve been keenly aware of for many years now, up to and including my earlier involvements with other groups in Antinoan devotion. Something that was often said by a certain person in the other group is that “gay love is always tinged with sadness and death.” It is a theme that is vividly shown in such modern works as Thomas Mann’s Death in Venice (especially in the film version, which many consider a “gay classic”), and is something that seems to be relatively unquestioned in so many different contexts.

Take, for example, this passage on Antinous from Germaine Greer’s The Beautiful Boy [New York: Rizzoli, 2003] (which, interestingly enough, has a photo of Björn_Andrésen on the cover–the young man who portrayed the beautiful youth the protagonist in Death in Venice is obsessed with), on p. 203:

The desperate grief of Hercules [over Hylas] was later mirrored in the grief of the Emperor Hadrian for his Antinous who drowned in the Nile in 132 CE. Antinous was a Bithynian who entered Hadrian’s service when he was eleven or twelve, and traveled with him to Greece in 128 CE as his acknowledged eromenos or favourite. He was gifted not only with beauty but with superior intelligence and sporting prowess. The emperor remained in mourning for Antinous’ untimely death for the rest of his life, declaring him a god ordering the building of a city in Egypt in his memory. Temples dedicated to Antinous sprung in every community that sought the favour of the emperor and Hellenistic Roman statues of beautiful athletic boys were renamed Antinouses. As the last god to arise in the Roman world Antinous was variously seen as an avatar of Osiris, Apollo, Hermes or Dionysos. What should be clear is that as the emperor’s catamite Antinous could never have survived to manhood. [Bold emphasis mine]

Apart from Greer’s incorrect date for Antinous’ death, the theologically flawed and culturally inappropriate notion that Antinous was an “avatar” of various deities, and the oft-repeated but always inadequate notion that Hadrian (and not long-standing Egyptian tradition) deified Antinous, amongst other things, look at what is being suggested here, particularly by the part I have bolded at the end. While this mention of Antinous is couched in a wider discussion of figures like Hylas that have been so often portrayed in art, nonetheless the inevitability of death–or, at least (I think it is implied), disappointment and loss of the love of the elder when the youthful partner ages, thus making a kind of pedophilia or ephebophilia part-and-parcel to many historical and mythological examples of homoeroticism (which is a flawed notion, needless to say!)–where homoerotic love is concerned is being assumed as normative, while all of the reasons for this are being actively downplayed and ignored, if indeed those who assume such are even aware of them at all. While the erastes/eromenos relationships of Greek and Roman antiquity are certainly one possible option, there are other examples where this does not seem to be the case–Alexander and Hephaistion, for instance–and they were surely not the only exception.

The prevalence of these myths of youthful lovers dying, often in relationships with Deities or heroes that are, by definition, older (as Deities are “old” in human reckoning even when they are “young” in chronological age or knowledge of their existence–!?!), is almost a necessity in strictly narrative terms, because even if Hyakinthos lived to be 117 years old, he’d have died eventually, and he’d still be “young” in comparison to Apollon. These myths do seem to involve warrior-bands and their activities, though, a great deal of the time, and since homoerotic relationships would have been relatively common in those social contexts, and the likelihood that one or another of such a romantic pairing would die at some stage was highly likely, these myths gave an outlet and a divine template, so to speak, for the grief one might rightly feel in such a circumstance–“Apollon had to suffer such with Hyakinthos; so, too, do you, o grieving mortal, if such calamities are not avoided even by the Gods!” While these sorts of myths are perennially popular (as young warriors often find themselves not only going to war and dying in every culture and every time period, but also falling in love with their comrades while doing so), they are merely one option, and not the only viable one, where homoerotic love is concerned.

And yet, somewhat built-in to the symbolism and imagery of homoeroticism of this sort is something that, in itself, is also highly suggestive and even denotative (rather than connotative) of the apparent pointlessness and even frivolity of such relationships in the eyes of wider society. These dying youths often become memorialized as flowers after their deaths; not all of them have an attested ancient hero cultus that accompanies their myth. But so what, you might be saying: what does that have to do with anything? Flowers are beautiful, certainly, and colorful, and by definition they do not last; their season in the sun and in beautiful blooming is relatively short, and they are delicate, easily plucked by hand or gust of wind, easily wilted by too much sun or unexpected frost. That much is clear to many people who have stopped to think about this matter for more than a moment, and that in itself says *volumes* about what wider society thinks of homoerotic love. Even in some of the most powerful statements of this in more modern work, like Alan Moore’s V for Vendetta, this imagery and its implications is prevalent, even in what I think is one of the most beautiful and powerful lines in the entire work: “But for three years I had roses and I apologized to nobody.”

What many may not realize, though, is the way that the biological and physiological realities of flowers make this an even more insidious image to apply to homoeroticism. Flowers “have no point” biologically other than to attract pollinating insects, who then allow the flower to produce fruit and seeds in order to reproduce itself. The presence of flowers, and the “stopping” of the natural development of a plant at the flower stage, is essentially preventing it from producing fruit–which is to say, continuing in its expectable reproductive cycle. Even though gay men have often been called “fruits” in a pejorative manner over the last century (and still by some people), this is almost a taunt when compared to and in concert with the flower imagery of centuries past, because homoerotic love and sex (with a few exceptions, including Poseidon and Nerites) is by definition non-reproductive. The reason that it ends up being a kind of taunt and a rather homophobic metaphor to ascribe flower imagery to these things is that “to stop with flowers” is to assume that homoeroticism is a kind of stunted growth, an immaturity, and something to be surpassed in the eventual and expected (and all-too-often enforced) processing on of an individual to properly mature and sensible heteronormative and reproductive relationships. All of the positive things that can be said about flowers, their beauty and their sweet fragrances and their fragility, pale in comparison to the ways in which they are understood as biologically inferior to fruit-bearing plants.

[One exception to this from myth might be Ampelos, but his myth of kataphytosis into the vine in Nonnos (rather than katasterism in Ovid) is a late one and no accompanying cultus is attested for him. Nonetheless, the principal crops of most cultures, though some are mythically understood to result from heroic, mortal, or divine sacrifices and kataphytosis, are generally not of homoerotic figures.]

As much as these older myths, I think, need to be remembered, and as alluring as the flower imagery is for many of these heroes and Deities–including and especially Antinous, needless to say!–I am fully in agreement with Jon Macy that what is needed now are not myths and stories that make it the destiny of all homoerotic lovers to have one die (from accident, suicide, or whatever else might occur) and the other lament them. In the height of the HIV/AIDS crisis in the 1980s and 1990s (though we’re far from out of the danger zone with it currently), these sorts of myths perhaps had an even greater resonance than they might have in the ancient world, and thus were a necessity; and until the HIV/AIDS epidemic is entirely behind the world, there will be a place for these kinds of myths very much indeed. Meanwhile, what about the myths where death isn’t necessary? What about the myths where homoeroticism is just another thing that happens, that has its vicissitudes and its victories alike, and that doesn’t automatically mean that one knows the ending before one reaches it? That, indeed, was one of the things that made me so reluctant to read the original novel version of Teleny: I knew how it would end, and how it would carry with it all of the apparent hopelessness of life as a queer person in the late 1800s no matter how enjoyable the ride to that expected conclusion would be, and no matter how joyous and raucous and lurid–and with how much relish the writers must have produced it, thus–the work might have been up to that point, imagining (as Macy says in his preface) a kind of idealized and beautiful “gay world” that the characters would inhabit until death intruded at various points.

What I had originally intended to be a somewhat short quasi-review of these works has resulted in an almost-treatise and near-manifesto on the necessity of newer understandings of myth and imagery where homoeroticism is concerned…and, I’d suggest, other forms of queerness as well, which are as much a part of this schema as anything (and in which, for good or ill, I’ve also indulged…it is sad that the inclusion of death and suicide in the Tetrad++ic context is a reflection of realities now, and that it almost seems irresponsible and ignorant not to have included it…and it is also noteworthy how few people have questioned those parts of it). But, that’s what happens when I sit down to write things like this, especially when I’ve been thinking about them for almost three years in various ways.

By the time most of you read this, we’ll be on a date that is marked by memorials of death, and so let us remember Fr. Mychal Judge and Mark Bingham, both Sancti of the Ekklesía Antínoou, on this day. And so, if you’d like to think about triumphing over death and hopelessness, and have Antinous be a part of your thoughts in words and in pictures in doing so, I can suggest highly and without reservation to you Jon Macy’s Teleny and Camille–get three copies of it: one to keep and read for yourself, one to give to a friend who you think might like it, and another in case you read it one-handed and make a mess of things. ;)

Occasionally, I write these short “in other news” posts to distract from the fact that I am unable to post, or other such things. It’s not that I want to intentionally distract people from the lack of content at a given moment here (although that’s a perk, perhaps…?!?), it’s that there are legitimately loads of other interesting things going on out there that are worth people’s attention. Thus, in lieu of something more substantial from me today, this is what you’ve got. I hope you like it!

First, a wonderful poem by Thenea regarding Hermes’ reaction to those from amongst his own who die. As I commented there, I can imagine something very similar being said by a certain son of the Argus-Slayer that all of you familiar with my blog might be quite familiar with! ;)

Next, go read Edward Butler’s latest at Polytheist.com, on “The Passion of the Kore.” To say much more than “go read it” would not do justice to the fulness of his discussion, so: go read it!

A quick non-links-to-other-blogs matter: I had a dream last night in which something interesting happened. The Old Spivak pronouns I use were originally intended to be non-gender-specific/gender neutral pronouns, as are pretty much all of the other alternate pronouns which have thus far been suggested. Someone in the dream, however (an older man) started referring to me, and to someone else who was gender-variant, with the pronoun “thre” (which is pronounced like “three”), in reference to being third/alternately gendered. Thus, the paradigm was thre (nominative), threm (accusative), thris (genitive/possessive pronoun), thrers (possessive adjective), and thremself (reflexive). I don’t know if I should use that or not–does it read too much as if one is a numberkin (i.e. an otherkin with numbers)?–but nonetheless, it seems like an interesting alternative, perhaps. I’d be curious to hear people’s thoughts on that, and the matter of using what was intended to be gender-neutral pronouns for a gender (like metagender) that is definite and by definition non-netural, and/or whether something not in common usage (like Old Spivak) can be re-inscribed as gender-specific without being problematic.

In relation to my post yesterday, and the whole matter of “happy endings” in queer literature and myth and the need for and preference for them in a new era, it is interesting that this particular matter appeared today: Gary Indiana has a new book out called I Can Give You Anything But Love, and he is pretty clear that happy endings are impossible:

There aren’t any happy endings! We die! How could anything have a happy ending? Life is pessimistic because we die! Corruption in our daily lives, and we die. (Laughs) So let’s eliminate the idea of a happy ending. And let’s face it, heterosexual people are just as d[e]lu[d]ed on that point. They invented the happy ending, the idea that marriage, that having children and raising a family, constitutes some sort of eternal happiness. Happiness, as Fran Lebowitz has pointed out, happiness is a mood, it’s not a condition.

So, there you have that. :( :) ;)

Also, Dr. Herukhuti is having a stage reading of his play “My Brother’s A Keeper” in New York, which is about the intersection of bisexuality and race in the 1990s. It is happening as part of Bisexual Awareness Week (and remember, Bisexual Awareness Day is September 23rd!). I was on an e-mail list with Dr. Herukhuti in the late ’90s/early ’00s, and was actually able to meet him and speak with him briefly in 2001 in Vancouver B.C. at the North American Conference on Bisexuality, Gender, and Sexual Diversity, at which he was the final keynote speaker (and Kate Bornstein was the initial keynote speaker). An awesome individual, certainly…I wish I could be there to see the reading!

Miyazaki’s next film is called My Neighbor Thorn…or is it Thorn’s Moving Temple, or is it Thorn and the Area of the Bay, or is it yet Spiritual Direction’d Away? Hmm…

And, last but certainly not least for now, T. Thorn Coyle is back blogging, and brought Totoro along for the ride! ;) Go and have a look at that blog post to see what Thorn has planned for future activities, and how you can help to support them!

And, there we are! I hope the start to everyone’s weekend is going well!

I happened to read this over at EsoterX yesterday, and it gave me a wacky idea.

But, one cannot discuss the topic of “Great Pan is dead” nowadays without reference to a certain song by The Waterboys, so I may as well get it out of the way first. It’s the socially-responsible thing to do, after all. ;)

Now then. Wasn’t that nice?

So we are literally on the same page with this, here is Plutarch’s passage on this from On the Obsolescence of Oracles 17, in the Loeb edition:

“As for death among such beings, I have heard the words of a man who was not a fool nor an impostor. The father of Aemilianus the orator, to whom some of you have listened, was Epitherses, who lived in our town and was my teacher in grammar. He said that once upon a time in making a voyage to Italy he embarked on a ship carrying freight and many passengers. It was already evening when, near the Echinades Islands, the wind dropped, and the ship drifted near Paxi. Almost everybody was awake, and a good many had not finished their after-dinner wine. Suddenly from the island of Paxi was heard the voice of someone loudly calling Thamus, so that all were amazed. Thamus was an Egyptian pilot, not known by name even to many on board. Twice he was called and made no reply, but the third time he answered; and the caller, raising his voice, said, ‘When you come opposite to Palodes, announce that Great Pan is dead.’ On hearing this, all, said Epitherses, were astounded and reasoned among themselves whether it were better to carry out the order or to refuse to meddle and let the matter go. Under the circumstances Thamus made up his mind that if there should be a breeze, he would sail past and keep quiet, but with no wind and a smooth sea about the place he would announce what he had heard. So, when he came opposite Palodes, and there was neither wind nor wave, Thamus from the stern, looking toward the land, said the words as he had heard them: ‘Great Pan is dead.’ Even before he had finished there was a great cry of lamentation, not of one person, but of many, mingled with exclamations of amazement. As many persons were on the vessel, the story was soon spread abroad in Rome, and Thamus was sent for by Tiberius Caesar. Tiberius became so convinced of the truth of the story that he caused an inquiry and investigation to be made about Pan; and the scholars, who were numerous at his court, conjectured that he was the son born of Hermes and Penelopê.”

Before I get into my novel modern polytheist interpretation of this incident, reported in and to an extent interpreted by Plutarch, let me first say a little bit on why this might be important to me to be writing about at all.

Antinous-Pan and Panantinous are attested syncretisms for Antinous, though not especially common or early ones. Given Antinous’ connections to Arcadia (and the specific story of Pan son of Hermes and Penelope was not just Arcadian-born, but Mantineian, which was the mother-city of Antinous’ colony of birth, Bithynion-Claudiopolis), it shouldn’t be surprising that this association occurs, to some extent; but likewise, given that one of the earliest references to Antinous in the possible Pancrates/Pachrates Lion Hunt poem fragment from the Oxyrhynchus Papyri says that Antinous is “son of the Argus-Slayer,” and thus Hermes, that would then make him a brother of Pan, if nothing else.

The photo above is of a late antique contorniate medal featuring Antinous-Pan on the obverse, and Nike presenting a victory wreath on the reverse. This medal and its significance is not something which has been discussed much, but given that it comes at the end of late antiquity, and that it appears to be commemorating a “victory” in some sense, it has been suggested that the medal may have been issued at some point when an expected resurgence and revival of polytheism in the wake of hegemonic Christianity was occurring. Though the Emperor Julian was not a fan of Antinous, nonetheless someone who didn’t get that particular message might have issued this medal during that period, perhaps.

This is all the more interesting given the general trends of historiographical interpretation of the phrase which Plutarch records as having taken place sometime during Tiberius’ principate. Since the time of Eusebius, it has been interpreted as presaging the arrival of Christianity and the dissolution of polytheism. Robert Graves argued that perhaps it is a garbled message about Tammuz. But one of the problems in this matter for modern people is that the translation of the passage from Plutarch often inserts the word “god” so that it reads “the great god Pan is dead,” when in fact the word “god” is not there in the original, and it in fact reads “Pan the [G]reat is dead.”

Independent of what this might communicate to some people, or the rejoinders of “Yet, Pausanias indicates the cultus of Pan was still going strong nearly two centuries later,” or The Waterboys’ response, “Pan is dead–Long live Pan!” and “The Great God Pan is alive!” or even the major role that Pan plays in the birth of the first two members of the Tetrad++, there might be another way to interpret this, which while I admit is entirely modern and novel, nonetheless finds a resonance with me, and I suspect with many of you reading this as well, that neither occurred to the listeners back then, or to Plutarch and the various other interpreters of the statement.

What if the word “Pan” there doesn’t mean “the God Pan,” but instead just means “the All”? And not just “The All,” but “The All The Great,” i.e. the “Greater All,” a kind of overarching divine force that is the “Big Everything,” or the notion of the “ground of being” and such which is often posited by some who are of a more monistic viewpoint. The death of monism, in other words, might be what is being announced by the mysterious voice here, and not the death of a beloved Arcadian God!

Or, to put it another way, in the words of R.E.M.:

So, how do you feel? ;)

I have returned (as of about 11:35 this morning) from my adventures in Seattle at the Esoteric Book Conference, and hope to write a full update on its events later/soon/in the next day or so. Suffice it to say for now that the second day of the conference was even better than the first in terms of the quality of the presentations. Not a single one of them did not have major potential relevance for my work with Antinous, despite the fact that likewise not a single one of them mentioned the name of Antinous (which is rather typical, but oh well…!?!). There’s so much potentially exciting work to be done in the future, one’s mind reels, verily! ;)

However, in the meantime, another subject to write about has come up, despite the continued backlog of posts I’d like to get to soon, and I thought I could knock it out relatively easily today, so here I am.

While various different kinds of “-mania” are not inherently wrong, disordered, and are certainly not evil–so long as they occur only in isolation, and are not part of some overlying psychological problem–there is one sort of mania that I have very little patience for these days, and likewise for the last eight years (and more). I’d like to coin the term “Antinomania” for this particular phenomenon, and thus the people who exhibit it would be known as “Antinomaniacs.” These are not people with an excessive devotion to Antinous, mind you–there aren’t enough of those in the world, in my opinion (!?!), and I’d have to count myself amongst that number if indeed I were making such a diagnosis (!?!–again!?!). What I think is characteristic of “Antinomania” is not the tendency to seek out Antinous wherever he may be found, not only in ancient literature and sculpture but also in modern film and fiction, in spiritual accounts, and so forth, but instead to find Antinous in places that he does not exist, which essentially involves misinterpreting certain things as Antinous when they are not, or were not intended to be portrayals of him. There are occasions where there might be a literary reference that is vague, and which can then be interpreted in an Antinoan fashion, and if this occurs in certain cases (e.g. in a poem by Oscar Wilde, for example) in which an author or a genre has a penchant for referring to Antinous, and knowledge of Antinous in the person who produced the writing is certain, then it can be relatively viable as a hermeneutic. This particularly exists, however, in the tendency to see any and all statuary of the late antique periods which depicts a young and attractive male as Antinous, as well as a great deal of neoclassical statuary produced over the last several centuries. Indeed, in the latter category, many statues are certainly based on existing Antinous sculpture, and if the likeness is good, then they can be understood as Antinous, even if they are understood as someone else, or are intended to depict another figure–the example of Raphael’s Jonah comes to mind as a positive example of such). But what if it isn’t Antinous, wasn’t intended to be Antinous, and wasn’t based with any certainty on an existing sculpture of Antinous? Can such a sculpture be “Antinous for me” without descending into the depths of negative Antinomania?

The answers to that might vary considerably, but I would like to suggest that if one is a polytheist, it’s not really a viable nor laudable tendency. While one can look at a particularly beautiful image of the biblical David or St. Michael the Archangel, perhaps, and decide to use it as a depiction of Apollon, which might be acceptable in certain situations for a variety of reasons, the difference there is that there is no singular and definitive iconography of Apollon (though there are certainly tendencies and patterns in his classical depictions) which says that “these images are only ever Apollon” and “these ones can never be.” Most Deities do not have standard portraits whose features must be copied, and thus their divine attributes are what come to the fore. If this image has higher cheekbones, a different-shaped nose, seems taller and thinner or shorter and more stout, has more or less defined musculature, has a larger or smaller penis, has straight or curly or variously styled hair, and so on and so forth, it may still be of a particular Deity simply due to the presence of those defining attributes. With Antinous, though, we know what he looked like (or, at least, there is an established facial type for him), and it is how we know that a particular image is him despite all of the syncretism that prevails in his imagery. Otherwise, one would never be able to extract the notion that this is Antinous across the attributes of Hermes, Dionysos, Apollon, Silvanus, and many others; instead, it would be as if one singular attractive person–let’s say for the sake of argument Nicholas Hoult–sat as a model for many different Deities in various poses and with a variety of props, but we would not say afterwards “This is the Divine Nicholas Hoult,” we’d say “This one is Apollon; this one is Poseidon; this one is Ares,” and so forth, because Nicholas Hoult’s independent divinity is not established. It’s one of those things which makes the phenomenon of Antinous all the more interesting, but all the more particular as well, and being able to discern with one’s artistic and aesthetic eye beyond “young hot guy with a certain hairstyle” to see who is Antinous and who is not is a skill that must be honed. To return to our celebrity example above, one would not then watch the Percy Jackson films and say that Nicholas Hoult starred as Percy Jackson, and that Nicholas Hoult was also in The Hunger Games, and in fact played three roles in those films as Peeta, Gale, and Finnick because all three of those roles and the actors who play them happen to be young and attractive (at least to some people’s tastes).

[Yet again, a concept in polytheism and/or syncretism is best understood with reference to pop cultural examples–!?! When will this end?!?]

And yet still, there are some misidentifications that are so long-standing and which are to a certain extent standard that the question I gave as my subject line here emerges: what is the line between identification and identity in these cases? In other words, what is the difference between how an image is commonly identified by people (i.e. a question of interpretation) versus what the image was intended to portray (i.e. a question of authorial/artistic intent)? With Antinous, we’ve got a number of those, which are often the relics of earlier studies by the likes of Dietrichson as well as even Winckelmann who are so important in art history that their opinions are still respected a century or centuries later, despite having been proven inaccurate.

One of the most persistent such identifications is that of the Capitoline Hermes, which has often been known as Antinous. In the photo above, taken by Robert Mapplethorpe Sanctus, is the image, and when it was snapped by Mapplethorpe, it was photographed not as some random beautiful ancient nude, it was photographed specifically with the intent of putting Antinous on film. There are images of Antinous that have been produced as reproductions for sale which are based on the Capitoline Hermes, and are marketed as Antinous–indeed, it is one such image that was the first sculptural depiction of Antinous that I was able to obtain (at Heathrow Airport’s terminal 4 British Museum store, when it still existed!), and which I still have. However, I now understand that it isn’t Antinous, and yet…the position I’ve come to is that due to this ongoing and persistent identification for a few centuries, a syncretism has come about. Hermes and Antinous were syncretized commonly anyway, so this is no different than those other situations in certain respects, except that the visuals are not entirely “there,” so to speak, in every respect. The Capitoline Hermes’ hair curls are tighter and smaller and more numerous, and the facial features are smaller and more dainty–to put it rather bluntly, the nose just isn’t big enough to be the Antinous we all know and love. ;)

Other examples of what some scholars refer to as “Pseudo-Antinous” depictions are detailed here. However, I think there are a few which are considered “secure” identifications that are also to be questioned.

Athens–likely in late antiquity as much as today, as befits the city most beloved of Hadrian–especially abounds in Antinous images. One of the “Egyptianizing” images of Antinous that was found there, on Herodes Attikos Street in Marathon, likely where Herodes built a temple to Isis, doesn’t seem to be Antinous from my perspective. Look closely at his face: first of all, he’s sort of smiling more broadly than any other extant Antinous image would be, and the face is fuller and more rounded. No doubt this image was inspired by the Egyptianizing portraits of Antinous, and given that Herodes Attikos was a cultist of Antinous as well as a friend of Hadrian (likely with access to Hadrian’s Villa, where such images were especially prevalent), he’d have been well aware of such images. But if it isn’t Antinous, who is it? I think the obvious answer would be Polydeukion (even though it’s not a perfect image of him either…but then again, it could also be Achilles, perhaps, or even Memnon!). With the Egyptianizing attributes, and the findspot in an Isian temple, it would thus tend to fall into the “Osiris syncretism” category, at least most logically. And yet, because Polydeukion and the Trophimoi’s cultus is based on that of Antinous, it might not be out of character to think of this as a syncretism of one of the Trophimoi with Antinous instead, or Osiris-Antinous, rather than simply with Osiris.

While I could name further examples and show additional photos of this tendency, you have the basic outlines of this mode of examination here. The tendency to over-interpret Antinous into places that he never existed is especially rampant in some circles (avid readers may be able to guess which!), and likewise some scholars also seem to see him or assume his presence where it might be logical but isn’t necessarily certain, as the case is with the example from the purview of Herodes Attikos above. It’s important to think about these things and to consider them carefully. Does the value of any image, sacred or otherwise, derive from its resemblance to or identification with Antinous, even for hardcore Antinoans? Or, can these images of beautiful youthful males be valued as themselves and as different and distinct, and all the more important for that, even for those who are Antinoans? Of course, my answer would be the latter. Just as it would be rude to meet Josh Hutcherson and say “Oh, Nicholas Hoult, I think you’re great!” so too would it be rude to meet a variety of other Deities and to assume that because they took young and beautiful male forms, they were automatically Antinous, and would have to be simply because one decided to identify them as such.

[About 99% of my things are now moved into the apartment, and the next month will be spent trying to organize all of it, and likely getting rid of a fair few things…probably not books, but in any case…!?! My shrines are still not fully installed yet, but the Antinous one is up, as are some of the Egyptians, including Hermanubis. In any case, here’s some syncretistic aretalogical bits for the day!]

Agreus to Antinous: I give you all of the skills needed for the hunt, in grace and in strength, in speed and agility, and in respect for those who are killed.

Antinous: Hail and thanks to you, Agreus, who delights in the wild chase!

Because of you, I shall be called Antinous Kynegetikos, Master of Hounds–The Hunter!

I will be the trainer of great coursing hounds with Hekate.
I will be the tamer of Molossians and Vertragi with Herakles and Hermes.
I will be proficient in the bow with Artemis, Apollon, and Eros.
I will be the ranger of woods and mountains in Arcadia with Pan.
I will be the slayer of boars and bears with Zagreus.
I will be the setter of snares with Silvanus and Faunus.
I will be the victor against lions in Egypt with Neith and Pakhet.
I will be the sculptured stone-celebrated sacrificer on arches in Rome.
I will be the recipient of offerings from those who wish to excel in sport.
I will be the great imperial hunter amongst Trajan and Hadrian.

Hail and thanks to you, Agreus!

Hail and thanks to you, Antinous!

Aristaios to Antinous: I give you the skills of the bee-keeper, so that you may overflow in the sweetness of honey.

Antinous: Hail and thanks to you, Aristaios, bestower of many excellent boons to humanity!

Because of you, I will learn to propitiate the Gods for aversion of disaster!

I will be the prophesied and auspicious birth foretold by Chiron.
I will be the son of Apollon and Cyrene.
I will be the child of the divine pursuing wolf.
I will be the offspring of a lion-slaying nymph.
I will be the inventor of cheese.
I will be the alleviator of the scorching heat of summer’s dog-days.
I will be the one who institutes sacrifices to Zeus to bring summer rains.
I will be the relief of those afflicted with Dionysos’ curse for slaying Ikarios.
I will be the father of Aktaion with Autonoë.
I will be called Agreus and Nomios, hunter and shepherd.

Hail and thanks to you, Aristaios!

Hail and thanks to you, Antinous!

Adonis to Antinous: I give you the lyre of my grandfather Kinyras.

Antinous: Hail and thanks to you, Adonis, son of Smyrna!

Because of you, I will be the lover of Aphrodite!

I will be the fosterling of Persephone.
I will be the darling of Dionysos.
I will be the bone of contention between feuding Goddesses.
I will be known with the aroma of myrrh since the time of my birth.
I will be the bearer of the fennel stalk and the lettuce plant.
I will be the red anemone in the shedding of my blood.
I will be the object of anger for Ares and Apollon.
I will be the one castrated by the marauding boar.
I will be the father of Beroe and Priapus.
I will be called the Chthonic Lord on Cyprus.

Hail and thanks to you, Adonis!

Hail and thanks to you, Antinous!

Hermanubis to Antinous: I give you the keys to pass into the Underworld in Egypt and in Greece.

Antinous: Hail and thanks to you, Hermanubis, guardian before the gates!

Because of you, I will be celebrated on the festival of the rising of Sirius!

I will be the son of Serapis and Isis.
I will be the elder brother of Harpocrates.
I will be in the form of a youth crowned with a modius.
I will be in the form of a cynocephalus.
I will be clad in a lorica and will carry spear and torch.
I will be the protector of the dead on their downward journey.
I will be the lord of the necropolis.
I will be the herald of the inundation of the Nile.
I will be the assistant embalmer with Anubis.
I will be the chthonic messenger with Hermes.

Hail and thanks to you, Hermanubis!

Hail and thanks to you, Antinous!

While we are actually a few days past the midpoint of this blog now, nonetheless, it needs to be mentioned…

Earlier this year, on Paganalia, I posted about my future plans for this blog, which include closing it down on July 31st, 2020. It was first opened on August 1st, 2010, which means that as of August 1st, it was exactly at half its lifespan. I am very pleased and happy with it, but at that point, every bit of my time and energy that I have left in me will be needed to do things in the real world, in physical space with physical people, and with the Deities and other divine beings. Every moment I can spend writing something which will become a real book will be time more productively spent than writing on a blog, and every moment I can be practicing my devotions (and there will be an ample store of them created by that point!) rather than spending time to create them to be practiced (whether earlier or later than they’re posted) will also be incredibly useful.

This was the busiest Iuchar/Lugnasad I’ve ever had in my life, and that is only appropriate, given that the festival in Ireland, Scotland, and parts of Gaul focused upon tribal assemblies and inter-population gatherings of various kinds, marking ritual observances, but very often for legal purposes, and also for contests and sporting and all the general revelries that can accompany different groups of people gathering that don’t get to see one another very much. Many Gods West accomplished that goal in spades, and I will be saying a great deal more about it in the coming days, when there is time between all else I must try and get done.

So, before I go further in making up for some things I missed, and likewise marking the ongoing march of the year’s festivals and devotional occasions, and reflecting on the issues of the day and so forth, let me do one of the main things that this blog was created to do, and thank the Deities, Ancestors, and Land SPirits who have made my practice what it is, who have inspired this blog’s materials and have given anything of worth I’ve written here its value and its utility, and who in myriad other ways have given me the blessings that have allowed me to live and continue doing this work, as well as the things in the rest of my life.

First thanks and praises go to Antinous, of course–who I will change our common devotional utterance for: Hic est unde vita venit!
Next, thanks and praises to the Three Gods of Skill–Brian, Iuchar, and Iucharba–and their mother Brigit the Poetess, and also to Lug and his foster-mother Tailtiu, and all the Deities of Ireland!
Next, thanks and praises to the heroes Cú Chulainn from Ireland and Memnon of Ethiopia, and to the goddess Amesemi!
Next, thanks and praises to the Egyptian deities who join Antinous in Antinoöpolis: Hathor and Bes, Isis and Serapis, Herishaf and Harpocrates, Hermanubis and Wepwawet and Tutu, and all the Egyptian Deities!
Next, thanks and praises to two great Goddesses: Nyx and Neith!
Next, thanks and praises to Dionysos–the God who must be obeyed–and to Hermes the Leader, and to Apollon the Wolf-God, Artemis the huntress, and to all the Deities of Greece!
Next, thanks and praises to Ianus, Silvanus, the Lupa, and all the Deities of Rome!
Next, thanks and praises to the Divine Sabina, the Divine Matidia, Sancta Julia Balbilla, and all of the Sanctae of the Ekklesía Antínoou!
Next, thanks and praises to the Divine Hadrian, the Divine Aelius Caesar, the Divine Trajan, and all of the Sancti of the Ekklesía Antínoou!
Next, thanks and praises to the Princeps and Sanctissimus of the Ekklesía Antínoou, Lucius Marius Vitalis!
Next, thanks and praises to Qadesh and all of the Canaanite Deities!
Next, thanks and praises to Sabazios, Bendis, Kotys, and all the Thracian Deities!
Next, thanks and praises to the Trophimoi–Polydeukion, Memnon, and Achilles–and to their foster-father Herodes Attikos, Appia Annia Regilla, and their family!
Next, thanks and praises to the Tetrad++, to Panpsyche and Panhyle, to Paneros and Pancrates, and to Paneris and Panprosdexia!
Next, thanks and praises to Glykon and Chnoubis and all the serpent Deities!
Next, thanks and praises to Hanuman, Shiva, Kali, and to all the Deities of India!
Next, thanks to Sarutahiko-no-Okami, Ame-no-Uzume-no-Mikoto, Inari-Okami, and all of the kami!
Next, thanks and praises to Gwydion, Cocidius, and all the Deities of Britain!
Next, thanks and praises to the various Deities that may be in my life in the future, particularly those who became more prominent in my experiences over the weekend: Odin, Loki, Freyja and Freyr, Frigga, and the Matronae!
Next, thanks and praises to all the Ancestors: the male and female ancestors, the gender-variant ancestors, the warrior ancestors, the spirit-worker ancestors, the ancestors in and of the land; and may we also remember the dead who are not yet ancestors!
Next, thanks and praises to all the Land SPirits, especially to Mt. Erie, and the spirits of Whidbey Island and Fidalgo Island!
And finally, thanks and praises once again to Antinous!

[August 3rd]

It was especially hot at Hadrian’s Villa, even for the Dog Days.

In days and years passed, Hadrian had been known to scold the younger Antinous for going into certain parts of the Villa without sufficient clothing, or occasionally nude.

“This is not a rural haunt in Arcadia, Antinous, nor some Bithynian backwater. Show some decorum, please!”

One night, after a particularly lengthy such lecture, Hadrian had generated a triad of where nudity was allowed without question: the gymnasium, the palaestra, and the baths. Antinous nodded in agreement, and then added, “but what about now? We’re in your chambers, and there’s not a stitch to be found on either of us.” Hadrian tried to reconfigure his pronouncement in a more philosophically pleasing fashion, but became frustrated, and eventually Antinous could not restrain his laughter any longer, and Hadrian joined in…but reluctantly at first.

There would be no such lectures on this occasion, however, as it seemed everyone was simply too hot to wear even the lightest of fabrics or the most abbreviated of garments; the sweat that glazed each person at the Villa was covering enough. The slaves–even the old women–didn’t seem to mind, but Antinous felt somewhat uncomfortable around the Empress and her associates in such a state of undress. Hadrian noticed this a few times, and remarked “You are no Aktaion, and she is no Artemis–you will not be torn apart by hounds for seeing a bit of flesh.”

“Perhaps I’ll go blind instead, like Tiresias did with Athena.”

“Then you’d be far more useful to me! I could use a wise prophet…”

Ordinarily, Antinous would have giggled at such sarcastic jibes by the Emperor, but it was so sweltering a temperature that he was too listless even to laugh slightly, and only smiled.

A naked older male slave, his scrotum dangling like a soaked linen pouch overfull of coins, came into the presence of Antinous and the Emperor in the maritime theatre.

“A gift has arrived, Dominus, from Flavius Arrianus of Nikomedia.”

Hadrian shot Antinous a glance, wondering what it could be.

“Bring it in, then.”

The slave turned, left the room, and arrived back again shortly after, accompanied by a vertragus, a Gaulish hunting hound. It strained on its leash when it saw Antinous and the Emperor, wagging its tail madly. Hadrian bent over slightly to it, and it placed its forepaws on his thighs as he scratched behind its ears. There was a small papyrus scroll attached to its collar. Hadrian removed it, handed it to Antinous, and continued to play with the dog.

Antinous unfurled the scroll and recited.

To the Noble Caesar Augustus P. Aelius Traianus Hadrianus, Twice Consul, Father of his Country, greetings from Flavius Arrianus.

If you are well, then I am well!

Though peace has long been established with the Gauls, the customs of our ancestors do not cease simply because circumstances have changed. Therefore, in accordance with the practices of the fathers of Rome in the days of the Republic, I have sent you this fine vertragus, the finest born of a litter to the exceptional bitch that has been my constant companion and which you yourself admired when last we met, that you may offer it in sacrifice to the Gods and to Juno Moneta in particular after the procession in the Circus Maximus, and that the crux upon which he is offered will stand firm between the temples of Summanus and Iuventus, that the youth of Rome may be protected in this heat and the subtle fires from lightning strikes at night may be averted and not cause destruction of the pristine forests and fertile fields of the countryside in this season.

I send this gift with the sincere hope that you and the Empress are in good health, and with great anticipation of your coming visit to the eastern provinces. May Hermes make your journey swift and without difficulty, and may every God pour blessings upon you, the Numen Augusti, and the Senate and People of Rome, today and each day to come!

Antinous’ brow furrowed a bit.

“Such a beautiful hound…and yet, he is to be sacrificed?”

“The Gods deserve nothing but the finest specimens in offering, Antinous; besides, you have many hounds as it is, as do I.”

“Yes, I understand, of course.” Antinous was quiet for a few moments. “But, to have come all this way and not to have had the thrill of the hunt one last time seems unfitting.”

“If you have designs on allowing him to run away amidst the chase, put them from your mind immediately, Antinous.”

“Not at all!” Antinous was lying, and was glad that Hadrian could never tell when he was. “Nonetheless, would it not be a fitting send-off for the hound, to enjoy the quarry of a good kill once more before he goes to his end on behalf of the Gods?”

“In this weather, do you really want to tax your heart so, even in your youth, with such exertion?”

“It would be no exertion–there are rabbits aplenty around the edges of the Villa; and even deer wander through on occasion. A couch could be brought for you to simply watch the activities, and you could even cast a javelin from a seated position if it suited you!”

Sadly, Hadrian realized, Antinous was serious, and in his youthful exuberance and attempts at consideration he only highlighted how difficult Hadrian’s health really was at that time.

“It would not befit me to half-heartedly cast darts seated like some invalid, Antinous.”

“I didn’t mean…I only…”

“Yes, yes, I know, I know.” Hadrian was beginning to get annoyed. “I find it difficult to say no to you, Antinous, even when my better judgement suggests otherwise. I make the following conditions on your hunt, however: if this hound is somehow lost, or runs away, or is injured, then he cannot be sacrificed, and instead one of your best hounds will have to take his place.”

Antinous gulped, but nodded his head in agreement.

“We will refresh ourselves with some bread, cheeses, fruit, and wine before a bath, and then will depart for this hunt around the edges of the estate. Does that suit you?”

“Yes, it does!” Antinous said. “I have one final request, however.”

“What is that?”

“When this hound is sacrificed, may he not be tortured.”

“What do you mean?”

“To hang alive upon the crux is torturous, and prolongs suffering; in human criminals, this might be understandable, but for a poor animal without rationality, it is far more cruel. If the Gods are pleased with this, then let them make their will known; if they do not wish it, then let the hound be killed before he is nailed to the crux, and let the living hounds accompanying the procession sound his dirge with their barks and cries. None will know the difference.”

“The customs of our ancestors do not allow this, Antinous.”

“And yet, was it the Gods Themselves who ordained this practice, or was it men? If the Gods, then let it be as they have requested; if men, then such practices can be changed in accordance with good sense. You have done likewise on occasions beyond counting; why should this be any different?”

Hadrian hated it when the boy was right, and this time he most certainly was.

“Very well. I cannot divine on the matter myself at present, but perhaps this slave might.”

The dangling-scrotumed slave looked up, somewhat surprised.

“You, you are a Gaul, are you not?” Hadrian asked.

“Yes, Dominus.”

“And you know techniques of divination, yes?”

“Yes, Dominus.”

“Then, divine the will of the Gods on this matter.”

“Very well, Dominus.” The slave took up three small sticks and three small stones from the ground, then drew a circle with his finger in the dirt. He shook the stones and sticks in his hands, and then tossed them lightly in the air, with two sticks falling inside the circle and two stones as well, with the others lying outside it. “The Gods do not demand the hound’s torture, only that his life be offered to them.”

“Then it is as I have said!” exclaimed Antinous.

“Don’t become overconfident, boy,” Hadrian cautioned, “for it is possible to guess on divinatory matters easily in some cases. If you wish to become a prophet, a seer, or something of that nature, then you’ll have to become closer to the Gods in some other fashion before you can boast of your abilities.”

“In that case, perhaps I’ll peer up Athena’s peplos when we reach Athens in the coming months!”

Hadrian lightly slapped Antinous on the buttocks, but smiled as he did so, and the youth did likewise.

“That’s an interesting form of divination, Gaul,” Hadrian commented.

“Surely, he has a name,” Antinous pointed out.

“Oh, very well,” Hadrian said, rolling his eyes. “What is your name?”

“Guidgen, Dominus.”

“Guidgen–an interesting name. Do you know of this custom of the canem crucis?”

“I do, Dominus.”

“And what are your thoughts on it?”

“I am glad that Rome has seen fit to sacrifice dogs rather than Gauls to their Gods, Dominus.”

Antinous placed his hand over his mouth, expecting that Hadrian might not take well to the comment. There was a pause, before Hadrian beamed and began to laugh.

“Guidgen, you are right! You are right! And your frankness shall be rewarded in kind. What do you think of becoming a freedman?”

“I…I have been a slave for my whole life, Dominus. I know nothing else, and have had no other existence.”

“You seem to have a talent for divination. How would you like to continue on as a diviner at my court, and likewise tend to the hounds, but as a free man rather than as a slave?”

“I…I would be honored, Dominus!”

“Very well, then! After the hunt today, you shall have your freedom, on one condition.”

Antinous’ general cheer at the good news suddenly ceased, and he began to worry.

“What might that be, Dominus?”

“Find yourself a tight-fitting loincloth and draw your testes closer to your body. I have no wish, even in this weather, to be reminded of what awaits me should I live another decade or two.”

“Anything, Dominus, anything! Thank you, Dominus!”

“You may see to that now, Guidgen.”

The old Gaulish slave left, elated, with a spring in his step.

“Was that really necessary?” Antinous queried, the crack of a smile on his lips.

“Of course it was! Did you see them? If the man’s phallus hung that low, he’d be mistaken for a donkey.”

Antinous could no longer resist, and began laughing uproariously. Hadrian joined him. The hound barked and jumped at their laughter as well.

Theagenes could no longer stand. His left leg had been hamstrung by the slice of an opponent’s sword, and he was fatigued as it was, and could no longer drag the useless limb along on his still-good right leg. Both of his arms were bruised and cut, and there was some pain, but neither one was unable to heft a sword or shield.

He could not say the same for his lover. He was laying on the scraps of their chariot, still conscious but dazed. He had a severe collision with the front of the chariot when their horses had been hewn down, and had lost most of his front teeth in a bloody mess. His right eye was swollen and blackened as well, and he had a nasty gash running along his forehead. Whether he had fallen on Theagenes’ own spear, or another’s had found its mark, there was now a broken shaft transfixing his lower abdomen.

Theagenes could hear the epinikion being sung already by the warriors of Macedon, and he saw three figures coming toward him. They had dismounted from their horses and laid aside their weapons some distance from him. As they approached, he tried to use his shield and sword as props to straighten himself before them, and to meet whatever threat they might have posed bravely. He could see that his lover, though fighting to stay conscious, was watching him even from his distraught condition.

“You, you are the commander of the Sacred Band, yes?” the bearded, one-eyed eldest of the three men demanded.

All Theagenes could manage was a nod.

“See to him!” a particularly handsome second man of the three commanded, and a small group of physicians came over. As they attempted to approach Theagenes, he swung his sword widely at them, and the soft exhalation of Zephyros could be heard as he was invisibly wounded in the show of force.

“No, there is no need to fight now–your efforts have been noble, and are noted by the Gods. We mean no harm, and are here to help you, and see that you go on living.”

“His wounds are serious, but not fatal,” one of the physicians opined from a safe distance.

“There, you see? You may yet live to tell your great-grandchildren of this event,” the elder of the three men said.

Theagenes shook his head again, and looked back toward his lover. The physicians approached him and examined him, and Theagenes watched them from the distance, unable to advance and defend his fallen lover.

“He is in pain, and will not live much longer,” one of them pronounced.

Theagenes groaned loudly at this, and then looked at his lover–no longer a Ganymede in the beauty of his face, nor an Adonis in the litheness of his body, and now not even a bruised Ares or even a sooty Hephaistos in his beaten state for comeliness. Even if he did live, Theagenes thought, he would not be the shining youth that was the envy of every chariot-warrior in the Sacred Band of Thebes and the darling of every woman in the polis; children would flee from him, and citizens would shudder at his disfigured appearance, no matter how well they knew the tale of his deeds on this battlefield, and so many others…

And yet, Theagenes felt in the depths of his heart not regret, nor anger, nor even sadness that this was the case, but only love: for his lover’s sweet caresses in the past and for the ones they would surely share in the future if they were to live, even in deformity, decrepitude, and the aftermath of this defeat; for his city and his people, who brought forth such Gods and Heroes as Dionysos and Herakles, the scions of Kadmus and Harmonia, and thus of Ares Himself; and for the very vows that bound him and his lover together in this situation, as the last defenders of a free Hellas against the usurping and conquest-happy Macedonians that now tried to convince him to take medical treatment.

“You could be useful, even respected, as an advisor to ur troops in the future, Theban,” the old man said.

Theagenes stumbled toward the dying body of his lover. One of the physicians tried to help him, but he swung his sword again menacingly, and he backed off. He fell flat on his face a short distance before his lover, and then foxed himself upright almost as quickly again. He gave a glance toward Helios above as he felt a wave of intense pain wash over him, and then focused his eyes on those of his prone-lying lover. They grasped bloody-knuckled hands for a moment, and simply looked at each other, and both smiled. Theagenes was even more sure now than he had been a moment before that this thing he felt was love, greater than could be imagined by even the Gods in their most fiery ecstasies. Was that hubris, he wondered? No, for like all Thebans, he was a descendant of Aphrodite as well, and thus love was best embodied in her children’s children, and he was no exception. The ferocity of his love was his inheritance from Ares as well as Aphrodite.

Theagenes knew what he had to do, and his lover’s momentary glance toward the three Macedonians conveyed as much to him as his heart’s thoughts.

If Hellas is to remain free, Philip of Macedon must die. What strength you have left is for one purpose only.

He looked at his lover’s dilapidated form once more, smiled, and then in a motion so swift it was worthy of Hermes, he unclasped his right hand from his lover, turned and took up a fallen spear, and aimed and cast it at the eldest of the three men.

Unfortunately, the young and handsome man took up a shield and blocked the spear in just enough time. He could not, however, block the rage of his father, who strode over and took another spear, jabbing Theagenes from enough of a distance that he could not reach him with his sword, nor stumble further toward him. The spear has pierced his chest, and his life blood was seeping out as all vision became black, and he turned back toward his lover one more time.

The last image Theagenes saw was his bruised-and-bloody-faced lover smiling back at him.

The elder man and the two younger then came over to the dying charioteer. The young handsome man spoke, fighting back tears.

“What manner of monument do you wish to commemorate your victory today?” he asked the charioteer.

The dying man could only furrow his brow in confusion.

“I wish to mark for all time the bravery and valor of the Sacred Band of Thebes. In dying for love of comrades and country, you have minted steadfast bravery, loyalty, and love for all generations to come. How do you wish to be known?”

The charioteer smiled again, and began to laugh slightly, though breath was beginning to seep away from him.

“Liiii…”

“What is he saying?” the old man asked.

But it was too late, and the last breath the charioteer drew in to attempt to speak again was cut short, and his exhalation was not deliberate, but only the slow escape of his spirit from his body.

“It is no matter; let us depart,” the old man said. The physicians had no work to do with the two men, and dispersed to the other wounded.

“Defiant to the end!” Philip said to his son and his friend Hephaistion.

“No: heroic,” Alexander replied.

“If ‘heroism’ is dying pointlessly in a desperate battle against impossible odds, then I agree with you,” Philip replied.

“Heroism is often less, and death is the only way to achieve it,” Alexander mused darkly, through more tears. “How shall we remember them?”

“I believe he was saying ‘line,’ as in the line must be held,” Philip said. “The boy of the commander of the Sacred Band of Thebes was taking up the final battle call to rally who he might to continue holding out. Defiant to the end!” He rushed off to see after the consequences of his victory. Hephaistion and Alexander continued to walk together.

“No, Alexander, I think he said ‘lion,'” Hephaistion ventured. “What creature is better suited to not only signify strength and valor, even in such total defeat and failure, but also to stand as a testament to their heroic deaths?”

“I believe you’re right,” Alexander agreed, and sniffed. “And yet, not.”

“How so?”

“Yes, a lion monument would be fitting for them, so that all will know that the Sacred Band of Thebes fought at Chaeronea, and historians will know of their sacrifice. But he was not asking for a lion as a memorial. He was accusing me of lying, of not saying truthfully how I intended to remember them, not as a victory for myself and my father, but as a victory for what they represent.”

“What do they represent?” Hephaistion inquired genuinely.

“Something that I aspire to, and would have failed at before now, where you are concerned. I would not fail in the future.”

*****

[But Iris and Hermes spoke with one another:

Said Iris: The words “leon,” “parataxis,” and “pseudos” sound nothing alike! How could these Macedonians have confused them for one another?

Said Hermes: My dear Iris, this simply shows how rough and muddled and unclear the poor charioteer’s dying sounds were. The clang of fallen arms, the cries of carrion crows, the groans of wounded men, the crackling of fires, and the ill wind whipping through the plain…all sounding together? The dying man’s whisper could have said nothing at all, and Philip, Alexander, and Hephaistion may have simply been throwing guesses at a blank wax tablet more revelatory of their inner states than reflective of actuality. It’s funny how words sometimes work like that.]

Flower Heroes to Antinous: We give to you green stems and leaves, and colorful petals, that you may spring from the darkness of mud and soil with the flashing flourish of life’s vital blood.

Antinous: Hail and thanks to you, Flower Heroes, the enliveners of vision, the fragrances of virtue, and the fruitful children of the Goddess Flora!

Because of you, I shall become a beacon of hope, a palm of victory, and a token of love for those upon the Earth!

Hyakinthos, I will be the hero of Sparta, the beloved of Apollon.
I will be an expert at the discus to the jealousy of Zephyros.

Hylas, I will be the water-bearer of Thrace, the beloved of Herakles.
I will be the envy of nymphs and the drinker of the waters of drowning.

Krokus, I will be the delight of Hermes in games of sport.
I will be the anger of the Gods for the love of Smilax.

Ampelos, I will be the twining vine around Dionysos’ thyrsus.
I will fall from a branch, gored by a bull, from Selene’s spite.

Kyparissos, I will be the love of Silvanus, of Apollon, and even of Zephyros.
I will be the slayer of my own pet stag, the cause of my sorrow and death.

Daphne, I will be the pursuit of Leukippos and Apollon.
I will be the laurel tree on Ladon’s banks in Arcadia.

Lotos, I will be the arouser of Priapus and his evader.
I will be the lotus tree and the sorrow of Dryope.

Narcissus, I will be the one cursed with self-knowledge and self-love.
I will be the longing of both Aminias and Echo.

Hail and thanks to you, Flower Heroes all!

Hail and thanks to you, Antinous!

Since the arrival of the imperial entourage in Athens, Lucius Marius Vitalis had been feeling under-the-weather. His general discomfort, however, had become being completely bed-ridden by that morning, such that the physicians were advising others to stay away from him due to possible contagion by whatever kakodaimon might have been tormenting him so severely.

Antinous did not care what they thought, nor what even the Emperor told him, and insisted on going in to see his friend in his convalescent state.

“Tell me, how are you, my friend?” Antinous asked.

Lucius coughed several times before answering.

“Do you even have to ask? Is it not clear that I’m in a dire condition?”

Even in his pain, there was a levity to his statement, a kind of irony that Antinous (and everyone else) found refreshing even when it was pessimistic in tone.

“But, the physicians think you may yet recover–surely, there is hope in that.”

“I shall remember that when making my daily offering of phlegm to Spes, then.”

He began coughing once again. Antinous looked at the ground, very distraught, but not wanting to show it, as he was quiet during the coughing fit. A moment of awkward silence followed.

At last, Vitalis spoke again, wheezing somewhat as he did, and thus sounding decades older than he actually was.

“Would you be so kind as to pass me the nearest empty piss-pot?”

Antinous was all business in assisting his friend, but Vitalis himself was smiling, nearly beaming, as Antinous devoted himself to his duty, to the point that Antinous didn’t even notice his toothy, mischievous grin.

As the sound of trickling liquid became somewhat loud against the brass vessel, as he half-sat against the edge of the bed, Lucius began to speak again.

“Get a good look, Antinous: if I die in the coming days, this is how I want you to remember me, smiling with my cock in hand as I make libations to Cloacina.”

Antinous furrowed his brow, but gradually came to see the humor in the whole situation, and at last started laughing. Vitalis laughed as well–finally, as he’d been holding it in out of deference for his friend–and laid down on his side as the aches of his condition were exacerbated by his laughter. He coughed only slightly as they were settling down once again.

“But, you’ll be fine, Lucius. The physicians have said so. This is only a difficult patch, and you’ll improve soon.”

“Whether I improve later today or tomorrow, it doesn’t matter to me–I am missing the Mysteries, and thus am bereft of hope for today and for my life yet to come.”

“Surely not! When we come back through Athens in the years that follow, there will be other times to become an initiate.”

“And you really think that you, and the Emperor as an Epoptes, will be able to maintain silence on these matters in the intervening years? No, I should go mad from wondering at every moment if you both are dropping hints to me in every word you say, such that I think every sum and figure coming across my desk is a Pythagorean symbola and each missive to a provincial governor is an allusion to part of some mythos with a peculiar twist that only the initiated know!”

“We would never be so cruel to your lack of participation, nor so impious as to even attempt revealing such things to you.”

“It would only be apt, because you know I would discern the truth of it in moments!”

Antinous smiled, not because he was amused at his friend’s intended overstatement, but because in his heart he knew that Vitalis was speaking the truth, and there were few secrets that he could not accurately assess with his keen mind.

“When do you leave?” Vitalis asked.

“In the coming hours, we will set out. Herodes Attikos insists on showing us a few things this evening before the pilgrimage proper begins on the morrow, and we shall be enjoying his chaste and sober hospitality this evening.”

“How appropriate…and also, boring,” Vitalis quipped. Antinous laughed slightly again. But, he knew there was something else that Vitalis was not revealing.

“What troubles you, Lucius?”

“Is it not clear? My body is wracked with an illness that even Asklepios would shrug over, and my dearest companions must abandon me to it in order to secure their places in the afterlife, when it is so far from them as to be the merest speck on the horizon, whereas I stand on the pier waiting to pay my toll to the Ferryman!”

“Of course–that is obvious.” Antinous was slightly surprised by the vehemence of Vitalis’ words, but he let them go for the moment. “But there is something else, I can tell. What is it?”

Vitalis paused before answering, and turned away slightly.

“Have you ever experienced a fever dream, Antinous?”

“Of course, when I was a child.”

“I have been having them regularly for the last week.”

“Not surprising==but what of it?”

“The dreams all run together, and continue with each other.”

“Perhaps that is unusual, but still, what of it?”

“It is what I have seen in them that disturbs me.”

“They are only fever dreams, sent by Hermes’ whim from the Gates of Ivory, and are not to be trusted.”

“No–these are dreams from the Gates of Horn, and Hermes himself has shown them to be so…Hypnos and Morpheus themselves were in thrall to him as he did so, and I have no doubt that these showings are true.”

Antinous’ eyes widened and he sat himself down, gazing intently at Vitalis, silently urging him to continue.

“Hermes, as sober as could be imagined, did not lead me to the River Styx, and Charon was not waiting for me in these dreams. Hermes Himself handed me the caduceus, his own attribute, and bade me to board a strange vessel. Charon was nowhere to be found upon it. The herald’s rod burst into flame and became a torch, and I was told that I must hold the light and foster it until the Navigator of the ship arrives and it may begin its journey.”

“Surely, Lucius, this is some mosaic image made up of the many smaller tiles of what is known of the Mysteries by you and many others. Where are the Two Goddesses in all of this?”

“You didn’t let me finish. It was Persephone Herself who told me this in the dream.”

Antinous was silent for a moment, and rose up, pacing back and forth.

“Then it is clear. You need not join us for our walk to Eleusis, for you have already been initiated into Mysteries that are far greater.”

“Your words ring as wooden and hollow as the Trojan Horse, Antinous!”

“No, Lucius, I speak the truth. There is something in these dreams, something far greater than I can comprehend at the moment. Attikos is learned in these matters, however, and perhaps he will have words for you on them upon our return.”

“And yet now, I must linger in uncertainty as to their significance while all becomes revealed to you and the Emperor and all of the others fortunate enough to be able to make the walk this year!”

Antinous was simultaneously concerned for his friend’s mental and physical integrity, but also increasingly annoyed and dismayed at his pessimism, and even his petulance, at missing the occasion which was held yearly.

“There will be other years, Lucius! You will be fine, healed and whole and able to make the walk in the future! Don’t lose hope simply because things seem bleak now!”

“You would not speak so foolishly if you struggled to even breathe, drowning in your own humors…”

Antinous turned his back to Vitalis, walked a few paces away from the bed, and then turned in a dramatic flourish to emphasize his point.

“We have little time, and I must prepare. It is your choice: I can leave you with blessings and I would wish that you might return the favor for me, or I can leave you in silence and we shall never speak of these things again, and perhaps when we return you will have come to a better grasp of your senses. Make your decision now, as there is no time to wait.”

Lucius Marius Vitalis sat up slightly more, his expression troubled, at his friend’s sudden severity. There was a lingering pause as the two stared at each other unblinking.

“Very well, Antinous. I wish for you and the Emperor the speed and ease of Hermes in your walk, the inspired insight of Apollon to be kindled in your minds by the experience, the inebriated frenzy of Dionysos upon your illumination in the Telestrion, and that when the blackened oblivion of Hades dawns upon you that the Mother and the Maiden Her Daughter will shield you on both sides. May your visions of the Goddesses be as revelatory as that granted to Aktaion, and yet may you not die from the sight for not having been granted Artemis’ permission to see it. And though you may shout the name of Iakkhos a thousand times over the coming days, may the first three times be shouted on my behalf, for I whose voice is weak and distant at the time and place of its shouting.”

“You missed a few Deities, Lucius.”

Vitalis smirked, rolled his eyes, and settled back slightly, ready to hear his friend’s blessing in return.

“It well then for me and for the Emperor, then, Lucius, to have your blessings in such eloquent and appropriate terms. For you, I wish that Asklepios may avert the thunderbolt of Zeus’ wrath from you and deliver you from whatever arrow of plague Apollon has inflicted. May you pass into the care of his sister, Artemis, who may raise you like a new Hippolytus to health and greatness, that you may become her hunting companion in turn again, and may the only arrows which strike you in the future be this of Eros.”

Vitalis was genuinely smiling now, and nodded.

“Well, that was nice!”

Both Antinous and Vitalis laughed, and Antinous approached Lucius in his bed.

“I really wish your own arrow of Eros might strike me just now, or mine you, but I fear the strength is not in me.”

“Even that will return in time, Lucius, I am certain. I have no doubts.”

Antinous embraced his friend while standing, and kissed the top of his head.

“The physicians have a soporific ready for you. Take it, get some rest, and when we return in a few days after the initiation, there will be much to talk about, and many arrows to exchange in target practice, I suspect!”

“Keep speaking in that fashion, Antinous, and I may have an arrow nocked before too long!”

Antinous rolled his eyes.

“How can you doubt your health will improve, Lucius? Your wit is not that of Hermes now, it is of Priapus.”

“I’d prefer it not to be, then–I like your entrails where they are, and would not disturb their position willingly!”

“This could go on forever, couldn’t it?”

“It could, it could…a Priapic wit indeed, Antinous!”

The two exchanged smiling glances in parting, and Antinous left the room.

At the moment when Antinous and Hadrian were having the great revelation in the Telestrion a few days later, Lucius Marius Vitalis breathed his last.

In many respects, the present post has been in my queue since January of this year, but has been in the making since October 28th of 2012 (though I made no mention of the matters here, but alluded to the context a few days later). Given that October 28th is the date on which we observe the Death of Antinous, this whole thing ended up being somewhat appropriate, given the results…But perhaps I’d better explain some more of the context first.

On the occasion noted in the second post linked to above (which took place on October 28th), I went to meet Christine Hoff Kraemer in Seattle while she was in town doing some Feri training, and on that occasion I also met Niki Whiting for the first time. Our conversation ranged all over the place, but one of the things that Niki mentioned to me in the context of Antinous’ death, which I had never heard of before, was that a book called Teleny; or, The Reverse of the Medal existed. Why would she mention this, you might ask? Well, for two reasons: 1) it mentions Antinous repeatedly; and 2) it is, in essence, a kind of group-written piece of late 19th century Victorian gay erotica, one of the main contributors of which was very likely Oscar Wilde, and the parts referring to Antinous might be the tip-off toward that likelihood. Color me interested, to say the least!

So, nearly two months later, with my last paycheck of that quarter, I obtained this edition of the work, as well as a graphic novel version of it by Jon Macy, which won a 2010 Lambda Literary Award for Gay Erotica. The graphic novel is called Teleny and Camille, and is published by Northwest Press, a queer comics publisher based out of Seattle (hurrah!) which was founded by Zan Christensen (I’ve mentioned him before) and which has done some really amazing and enjoyable works over the years. In this interview with Zan Christensen from late last year, Zan speaks about Northwest Press’ stand against censorship of their material by Apple. I’d especially like to recommend Al-Qaeda’s Super Secret Weapon (a kind of erotic farce on terrorism and the repeal of Don’t Ask Don’t Tell will result in an easier victory for an Islamic fundamentalist overthrow of the U.S.), Transposes by Dylan Edwards (on queer trans men), The Power Within (on youth suicide and bullying), and Anything That Loves (a bisexual anthology). (This list is not exhaustive of all the things of theirs I’ve read already.) I hope to have the chance to look at several of their other titles in time as well. (And if The Bus Station ever happens, I suspect that Northwest Press will be on the very short list of likely publishers for it!)

Being that I am a rather shallow person, when I obtained these two volumes, I did what any sensible person would do and read the graphic novel first. And I have to say, I’m glad I did, for all kinds of reasons. I was done with that by the end of 2012 (which I alluded to here), but it took me nearly three more years to get around to reading the actual novel proper, and you may understand why as I describe it further. It was not until about June or July of this year that I began reading the original novel, and I did so most often at bus stops and in waiting rooms of doctors and the like, which is all the more amazing and scandalous given the nature of the book itself, and how secretive those who originally produced it were. What favored me doing so, of course, is a couple of things: 1) I don’t read erotica “one-handed,” so to speak, and honestly the nature of Victorian erotica does very little for me erotically; 2) people at bus stops and in doctor’s offices are pretty oblivious to things anyway; 3) and even if they’re not, very few people these days know how to read at all (sadly); and finally 4) even if they could read, they wouldn’t know what Teleny is anyway. Nonetheless, there was something that *felt* potentially transgressive to be reading such a book like this in public.

But before I get into this work specifically, a slight digression into comics and erotica, that is not as much of a digression as one might think.

One can’t really speak of graphic novels and erotica today without mentioning Alan Moore and Melinda Gebbie’s Lost Girls. I read this sometime in the 2008-2009 period, and had been excited to get my hands on it for several years before that. I was ultimately disappointed because a good deal of it was “not my kink,” so to speak, and some of the art–while beautiful and intriguing–just didn’t do anything for me in the ways that erotica (or pornography) is intended to. However, something that did intrigue me is that there was rampant bisexuality throughout the book, and there was even male bisexuality and homoeroticism (Alan Moore is well-known for lesbians populating almost all his major works, but not always male homoeroticism, and often not explicitly sexual and depicted even when such characters are present…though his latest, Providence, involving Lovecraftian materials, has a gay Jewish protagonist).

The reason I mention this is because amongst Moore and Gebbie’s various tales and reinterpretations of Alice, Wendy, and Dorothy are other pastiches of contemporary writers, one of which is a purported piece of illustrated erotica by Oscar Wilde featuring Dorian Gray, found in Chapter 13, “Contrarywise.” Perhaps because of all the pastiches in Lost Girls, and the degradation of my own memory, I had thought on further reflection that the Wilde piece in the book was said to have been one that was a group writing that had been kept in secret…and thus, I thought it might have been one of the more lurid portions of Teleny that was depicted. Alas, I was incorrect when I went back to check. I thought perhaps he might have alluded to it in 25,000 Years of Erotic Freedom as well, but in my cursory re-read of the sections that discuss Oscar Wilde, I could find no reference to it, either.

Of course, perhaps Alan Moore does indeed know of Teleny and has heard of it and read it, and thus would have at least heard of Antinous in passing there (if not in Wilde’s other works, including The Picture of Dorian Gray). What an interesting world it would be if he had made that connection, and if he had incorporated references to the actual work Teleny into some of his writings relevant to the matter, even independent of any references to Antinous…but, no matter, it’s a side issue. ;)

In both the graphic novel and the original erotic novella, there is a kind of frame story involved–a great way to have a series of stories within a story that has been used since Petronius’ Satyricon, and through to Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales and Boccaccio’s Decameron, amongst many others. However, in this case, one story is the story concerned, even though possibilities for others could be introduced with that schema. In the original, the whole discussion is, literally, a discussion–more of an extended monologue with occasional interjections by the unidentified interlocutor of Camille (the main character)–about this entire torrid relationship that seems to last months or even perhaps years, with some very intense episodes, and ends with the death of Teleny. Further stories are referred to throughout with an “I’ll tell you about that later” treatment, which seems to leave the story open-ended enough that more could have been written, but for whatever reason, it ends not long after the death of Teleny is reported. In the graphic novel version, it begins in a slightly-different art style, with Jon Macy agonizing (while working in a coffee shop with a friend) about how he’s going to turn this story into a comic, and how faithful to be to its original, followed by a brief account of Charles Hirsch and how the story was written, and then the story itself begins, and at a later point, the author again steps in, the art style changes, and some deliberate changes to the story are then made (and for the better, in my opinion, as you’ll see below).

Both the graphic novel and the original follow the same plot, often with the same words used, which is sensible given that the graphic novel is largely based on the novel. The words–of Wilde or whichever of his associates (George Cecil Ives, perhaps?) can occasionally be quite delightful and perhaps unintentionally amusing–the off-hand references to tribadism (i.e. lesbianism) and its preponderance in girl’s schools and the like can certainly have this effect, at least on someone as vapid as myself. I also learned that “tweake” (yes, that is how it is spelled!) was a word for a prostitute in the late 1800s–given that its most basic meaning (in the non-“e” ended form we know it) is to twist or pull, I suppose one can see how that might apply to a prostitute that might specialize in certain activities (!?!). The references to Antinous are not extremely frequent, but are frequent enough to be noticeable, as not many other characters are mentioned to compare a person’s beauty with, nor their fate–and that is essentially why he is mentioned in this story: to describe the beauty of Teleny, and also to allude to a tragic end in death..and, it is inferred, a sacrificial or suicidal death (though the difference between them seems slight for phenomenological purposes, since self-sacrifice of that nature would of necessity be suicidal by definition).

I don’t need to describe the rest of the plot for you–I’d love to leave it for those who might wish to read either the original or the graphic novel–even though the end of it is something I’ve already revealed, but the “how” and “why” of that end in terms of the actual plot and characters involved is not something that I need to reveal. But, the end in each is different, and I wish to talk more about that, and why I think as a result the graphic novel is better than the original.

Just as Antinous did, it is implied and foreshadowed earlier, Teleny commits suicide in the book, and the narrator–Camille–is also close himself on several occasions, and then does attempt to commit suicide once but survives. Given that this is understood to be the Victorian period (though the setting is Paris, not London), suicide due to self-hatred and repression, threats of blackmail, and any other possibility would have been a very real and present threat for anyone who was not strictly heterosexual. (Indeed, it’s not entirely unknown now, though the reasons and motivations are often quite different.) The book ends soon after this is reported–the utterly bereaved and heartbroken narrator Camille, apparently, was able to go on in his life after this tragic event and the death of his one-and-only true love and soul mate, and to speak of it in rather explicit but occasionally unflattering and even fluffy ways with someone not too terribly long afterwards…which itself stretches the bounds of credibility, I have to say, given the nature of the events described and the very graphic descriptions of sexual activities involved. (With whom would one have such a conversation? I doubt Wilde could have managed it himself with Bosie Douglas, Robbie Ross, or any of his other lovers and associates…!?!)

And this is where the graphic novel is superior. It is here, in an epilogue, that Macy again comes in and says:

Why is it that every movie, book and story of gay love has to end with one or both dying? Even the ones written by gays are no different. It’s like we’re too damaged to even dare imagine being happy.

To which his friend, Gary, replies:

So? Write your own ending. There were four or five writers already…doing this book just makes you another one.

And, as you can imagine, things get considerably better from there. ;)

Now, before anyone objects to a shallow wish for happy endings, a desire to be revisionist about classic works of literature (even though this isn’t one, despite Wilde’s “classic” status in other respects) and established tales, or anything else, let me be clear. I’m not suggesting at all that Macy’s wish for things to be better means that we should, therefore, imagine Achilleus and Patroklos riding off together into the sunset on their chariot after their successes at Troy to live happily ever after in Thessaly with a big gay family of adopted Thracian children (though if someone wants to write that in properly Homeric epic verse, be my guest!). But, I think Macy has a point, and it’s a point that I’ve been keenly aware of for many years now, up to and including my earlier involvements with other groups in Antinoan devotion. Something that was often said by a certain person in the other group is that “gay love is always tinged with sadness and death.” It is a theme that is vividly shown in such modern works as Thomas Mann’s Death in Venice (especially in the film version, which many consider a “gay classic”), and is something that seems to be relatively unquestioned in so many different contexts.

Take, for example, this passage on Antinous from Germaine Greer’s The Beautiful Boy [New York: Rizzoli, 2003] (which, interestingly enough, has a photo of Björn_Andrésen on the cover–the young man who portrayed the beautiful youth the protagonist in Death in Venice is obsessed with), on p. 203:

The desperate grief of Hercules [over Hylas] was later mirrored in the grief of the Emperor Hadrian for his Antinous who drowned in the Nile in 132 CE. Antinous was a Bithynian who entered Hadrian’s service when he was eleven or twelve, and traveled with him to Greece in 128 CE as his acknowledged eromenos or favourite. He was gifted not only with beauty but with superior intelligence and sporting prowess. The emperor remained in mourning for Antinous’ untimely death for the rest of his life, declaring him a god ordering the building of a city in Egypt in his memory. Temples dedicated to Antinous sprung in every community that sought the favour of the emperor and Hellenistic Roman statues of beautiful athletic boys were renamed Antinouses. As the last god to arise in the Roman world Antinous was variously seen as an avatar of Osiris, Apollo, Hermes or Dionysos. What should be clear is that as the emperor’s catamite Antinous could never have survived to manhood. [Bold emphasis mine]

Apart from Greer’s incorrect date for Antinous’ death, the theologically flawed and culturally inappropriate notion that Antinous was an “avatar” of various deities, and the oft-repeated but always inadequate notion that Hadrian (and not long-standing Egyptian tradition) deified Antinous, amongst other things, look at what is being suggested here, particularly by the part I have bolded at the end. While this mention of Antinous is couched in a wider discussion of figures like Hylas that have been so often portrayed in art, nonetheless the inevitability of death–or, at least (I think it is implied), disappointment and loss of the love of the elder when the youthful partner ages, thus making a kind of pedophilia or ephebophilia part-and-parcel to many historical and mythological examples of homoeroticism (which is a flawed notion, needless to say!)–where homoerotic love is concerned is being assumed as normative, while all of the reasons for this are being actively downplayed and ignored, if indeed those who assume such are even aware of them at all. While the erastes/eromenos relationships of Greek and Roman antiquity are certainly one possible option, there are other examples where this does not seem to be the case–Alexander and Hephaistion, for instance–and they were surely not the only exception.

The prevalence of these myths of youthful lovers dying, often in relationships with Deities or heroes that are, by definition, older (as Deities are “old” in human reckoning even when they are “young” in chronological age or knowledge of their existence–!?!), is almost a necessity in strictly narrative terms, because even if Hyakinthos lived to be 117 years old, he’d have died eventually, and he’d still be “young” in comparison to Apollon. These myths do seem to involve warrior-bands and their activities, though, a great deal of the time, and since homoerotic relationships would have been relatively common in those social contexts, and the likelihood that one or another of such a romantic pairing would die at some stage was highly likely, these myths gave an outlet and a divine template, so to speak, for the grief one might rightly feel in such a circumstance–“Apollon had to suffer such with Hyakinthos; so, too, do you, o grieving mortal, if such calamities are not avoided even by the Gods!” While these sorts of myths are perennially popular (as young warriors often find themselves not only going to war and dying in every culture and every time period, but also falling in love with their comrades while doing so), they are merely one option, and not the only viable one, where homoerotic love is concerned.

And yet, somewhat built-in to the symbolism and imagery of homoeroticism of this sort is something that, in itself, is also highly suggestive and even denotative (rather than connotative) of the apparent pointlessness and even frivolity of such relationships in the eyes of wider society. These dying youths often become memorialized as flowers after their deaths; not all of them have an attested ancient hero cultus that accompanies their myth. But so what, you might be saying: what does that have to do with anything? Flowers are beautiful, certainly, and colorful, and by definition they do not last; their season in the sun and in beautiful blooming is relatively short, and they are delicate, easily plucked by hand or gust of wind, easily wilted by too much sun or unexpected frost. That much is clear to many people who have stopped to think about this matter for more than a moment, and that in itself says *volumes* about what wider society thinks of homoerotic love. Even in some of the most powerful statements of this in more modern work, like Alan Moore’s V for Vendetta, this imagery and its implications is prevalent, even in what I think is one of the most beautiful and powerful lines in the entire work: “But for three years I had roses and I apologized to nobody.”

What many may not realize, though, is the way that the biological and physiological realities of flowers make this an even more insidious image to apply to homoeroticism. Flowers “have no point” biologically other than to attract pollinating insects, who then allow the flower to produce fruit and seeds in order to reproduce itself. The presence of flowers, and the “stopping” of the natural development of a plant at the flower stage, is essentially preventing it from producing fruit–which is to say, continuing in its expectable reproductive cycle. Even though gay men have often been called “fruits” in a pejorative manner over the last century (and still by some people), this is almost a taunt when compared to and in concert with the flower imagery of centuries past, because homoerotic love and sex (with a few exceptions, including Poseidon and Nerites) is by definition non-reproductive. The reason that it ends up being a kind of taunt and a rather homophobic metaphor to ascribe flower imagery to these things is that “to stop with flowers” is to assume that homoeroticism is a kind of stunted growth, an immaturity, and something to be surpassed in the eventual and expected (and all-too-often enforced) processing on of an individual to properly mature and sensible heteronormative and reproductive relationships. All of the positive things that can be said about flowers, their beauty and their sweet fragrances and their fragility, pale in comparison to the ways in which they are understood as biologically inferior to fruit-bearing plants.

[One exception to this from myth might be Ampelos, but his myth of kataphytosis into the vine in Nonnos (rather than katasterism in Ovid) is a late one and no accompanying cultus is attested for him. Nonetheless, the principal crops of most cultures, though some are mythically understood to result from heroic, mortal, or divine sacrifices and kataphytosis, are generally not of homoerotic figures.]

As much as these older myths, I think, need to be remembered, and as alluring as the flower imagery is for many of these heroes and Deities–including and especially Antinous, needless to say!–I am fully in agreement with Jon Macy that what is needed now are not myths and stories that make it the destiny of all homoerotic lovers to have one die (from accident, suicide, or whatever else might occur) and the other lament them. In the height of the HIV/AIDS crisis in the 1980s and 1990s (though we’re far from out of the danger zone with it currently), these sorts of myths perhaps had an even greater resonance than they might have in the ancient world, and thus were a necessity; and until the HIV/AIDS epidemic is entirely behind the world, there will be a place for these kinds of myths very much indeed. Meanwhile, what about the myths where death isn’t necessary? What about the myths where homoeroticism is just another thing that happens, that has its vicissitudes and its victories alike, and that doesn’t automatically mean that one knows the ending before one reaches it? That, indeed, was one of the things that made me so reluctant to read the original novel version of Teleny: I knew how it would end, and how it would carry with it all of the apparent hopelessness of life as a queer person in the late 1800s no matter how enjoyable the ride to that expected conclusion would be, and no matter how joyous and raucous and lurid–and with how much relish the writers must have produced it, thus–the work might have been up to that point, imagining (as Macy says in his preface) a kind of idealized and beautiful “gay world” that the characters would inhabit until death intruded at various points.

What I had originally intended to be a somewhat short quasi-review of these works has resulted in an almost-treatise and near-manifesto on the necessity of newer understandings of myth and imagery where homoeroticism is concerned…and, I’d suggest, other forms of queerness as well, which are as much a part of this schema as anything (and in which, for good or ill, I’ve also indulged…it is sad that the inclusion of death and suicide in the Tetrad++ic context is a reflection of realities now, and that it almost seems irresponsible and ignorant not to have included it…and it is also noteworthy how few people have questioned those parts of it). But, that’s what happens when I sit down to write things like this, especially when I’ve been thinking about them for almost three years in various ways.

By the time most of you read this, we’ll be on a date that is marked by memorials of death, and so let us remember Fr. Mychal Judge and Mark Bingham, both Sancti of the Ekklesía Antínoou, on this day. And so, if you’d like to think about triumphing over death and hopelessness, and have Antinous be a part of your thoughts in words and in pictures in doing so, I can suggest highly and without reservation to you Jon Macy’s Teleny and Camille–get three copies of it: one to keep and read for yourself, one to give to a friend who you think might like it, and another in case you read it one-handed and make a mess of things. ;)

Occasionally, I write these short “in other news” posts to distract from the fact that I am unable to post, or other such things. It’s not that I want to intentionally distract people from the lack of content at a given moment here (although that’s a perk, perhaps…?!?), it’s that there are legitimately loads of other interesting things going on out there that are worth people’s attention. Thus, in lieu of something more substantial from me today, this is what you’ve got. I hope you like it!

First, a wonderful poem by Thenea regarding Hermes’ reaction to those from amongst his own who die. As I commented there, I can imagine something very similar being said by a certain son of the Argus-Slayer that all of you familiar with my blog might be quite familiar with! ;)

Next, go read Edward Butler’s latest at Polytheist.com, on “The Passion of the Kore.” To say much more than “go read it” would not do justice to the fulness of his discussion, so: go read it!

A quick non-links-to-other-blogs matter: I had a dream last night in which something interesting happened. The Old Spivak pronouns I use were originally intended to be non-gender-specific/gender neutral pronouns, as are pretty much all of the other alternate pronouns which have thus far been suggested. Someone in the dream, however (an older man) started referring to me, and to someone else who was gender-variant, with the pronoun “thre” (which is pronounced like “three”), in reference to being third/alternately gendered. Thus, the paradigm was thre (nominative), threm (accusative), thris (genitive/possessive pronoun), thrers (possessive adjective), and thremself (reflexive). I don’t know if I should use that or not–does it read too much as if one is a numberkin (i.e. an otherkin with numbers)?–but nonetheless, it seems like an interesting alternative, perhaps. I’d be curious to hear people’s thoughts on that, and the matter of using what was intended to be gender-neutral pronouns for a gender (like metagender) that is definite and by definition non-netural, and/or whether something not in common usage (like Old Spivak) can be re-inscribed as gender-specific without being problematic.

In relation to my post yesterday, and the whole matter of “happy endings” in queer literature and myth and the need for and preference for them in a new era, it is interesting that this particular matter appeared today: Gary Indiana has a new book out called I Can Give You Anything But Love, and he is pretty clear that happy endings are impossible:

There aren’t any happy endings! We die! How could anything have a happy ending? Life is pessimistic because we die! Corruption in our daily lives, and we die. (Laughs) So let’s eliminate the idea of a happy ending. And let’s face it, heterosexual people are just as d[e]lu[d]ed on that point. They invented the happy ending, the idea that marriage, that having children and raising a family, constitutes some sort of eternal happiness. Happiness, as Fran Lebowitz has pointed out, happiness is a mood, it’s not a condition.

So, there you have that. :( :) ;)

Also, Dr. Herukhuti is having a stage reading of his play “My Brother’s A Keeper” in New York, which is about the intersection of bisexuality and race in the 1990s. It is happening as part of Bisexual Awareness Week (and remember, Bisexual Awareness Day is September 23rd!). I was on an e-mail list with Dr. Herukhuti in the late ’90s/early ’00s, and was actually able to meet him and speak with him briefly in 2001 in Vancouver B.C. at the North American Conference on Bisexuality, Gender, and Sexual Diversity, at which he was the final keynote speaker (and Kate Bornstein was the initial keynote speaker). An awesome individual, certainly…I wish I could be there to see the reading!

Miyazaki’s next film is called My Neighbor Thorn…or is it Thorn’s Moving Temple, or is it Thorn and the Area of the Bay, or is it yet Spiritual Direction’d Away? Hmm…

And, last but certainly not least for now, T. Thorn Coyle is back blogging, and brought Totoro along for the ride! ;) Go and have a look at that blog post to see what Thorn has planned for future activities, and how you can help to support them!

And, there we are! I hope the start to everyone’s weekend is going well!