Myth Scrapbook

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2016 06 17 Just browsing around on Catherine Zeta Jones

Catherine Zeta Jones
thanx gonetworth

Nice body sure; but has there ever been a prettier face?
Anyway, I read that Zeta Jones is Welch. Ooo. Immediately I think of Iseult: Tristan and Isolde, Iseult, Queen of Ireland, Iseult of the White Hands …

Tristan and Isolde
thanx telegraph

When I entered grad school I’d been dipped in Richard Wagner for only a couple of years: but I was a veteran at saturating myself in George Bernard Shaw. Shaw talked up Wagner: and Wilhelm Furtwängler conducting Tristan was a main extention of my music collection beyond jazz. I remember fucking to the Liebestot, the climax lasting hours the summer of 1961. And I read something about Isolde that’s a game changer: Tristan meets Isolde escorting her to Cornwall as a bride for King Mark. She’s a princess, in her teens; King Mark is ancient, in his eighties: Tristan is in the midst of his warlike vigor. To top it off they drink a love potion …

Old fart sends stud to fetch his latest teen bride: bride # … I can’t count that high. Stud fucks girl. Of course, you morons.

There’s nature: and on top of that there’s magic, and witchcraft, and doom.
After all that unrelenting Christianity, it’s a refreshing bath: a little simple Paganism.

Celtic note: to glimpse the Celtic universe first forget whatever you know of “Europe” as a map. In the time of Arthur, Tristan, King Mark, there was no “Europe”, no “France”, no “England”. There was a Carnwall, there was an Ireland, and a Wales, but there was no “England”. There was a “Britain”: it was pure Celtic: as were Irish territories, and Scottish territories. The Celtic dominated parts of what we now call “France”; but they didn’tcall it that. Ireland, Wales, Cornwall … Breton, Armorica … It was a country connected by seas. You sailed from Cornwall to Ireland. Tristan wasn’t from either: he was from Armorica: now western France. Think of these Celtic countries as we think of the Hawaiian Islands: one culture: a series of land bases.

While I’m at it: Arthur was from the south of what’s now “England”. Launcelot was from Amorica: not Wales, not “England”; France! Like floating cities on Lake Titicaca.

I’ll check my facts: it’s been a long time since I’ve refreshed this. I just read one account claiming Tristan was Cornish: makes sense, but is it so? Anyway, all of those people sailed and marched back and forth all over the place.

Furthermore, the Tristan and Isolde story seems to be clearly about free will versus destiny, but the Celtic world was druidical, not Christian: Christianity was creeping about, missionaries under foot. So too Saxons and then Danes came to be underfoot. But that world was about as Christian as Japan was in the sixteenth century: a little, but not very.
Anyway, think of Wales: the Saxons are pressing the Celts there. The Celts have Wales at their new center, Ireland a quick sail to the north west, Cornwall a quick sail to the south west … Amorica a less-quick sail to the east. Celts weren’t as numerous as they had been before Caesar stole their livelihood, but there were still Celts all over the place, proud, bellicose, randy.

just starting, a second draft will say what I mean better, I hope.

2013 01 07 Whether a myth is factual — history, not fiction — is trivial compared to whether the myth is true. Sure it matters whether Jesus actually lived or not, sure it’s important whether Jesus was human or magical (or human and magical, etc); but so long as it’s true that centralized kleptocracies murder reformers, non-conformists, opponents … the myth is of first rank importance.

Truth counts more than fact.

(But without facts how can we know what’s true?)

2005 07 04 Belief, religion, god … are as scattered at as photons are in the universe: except that the universe has been at it for what we’re now told is fourteen and a half billions years, while has been trying to make sense of things for only a decade. I have some things on myth in my scholarship section: but some such things belong here: and how it all relates to religion, god, magic … each may decide.

Noah: God’s Promise

The Bible tells of divine anger, divine destruction through a flood, and then a promise: God will never again destroy mankind, no matter how wicked we are. Boy, is that a relief.

Sodom and Gomorrah were sinful. Huh? Yeah, people fucked there. Sometimes they fucked in the ass. Sometimes they fucked angels.

All people fuck. All people sometimes fuck in the ass: even though I have never once done it; nor wanted to. If that’s what condemned us, we’re in serious trouble: if the story has any truth … Oh, no. God promised! Now we’re immune to retribution. Tie your tubes and you can fuck all you want: without consequence (except for AIDS).

Noah and the Flood were supposed to have happened a long time ago. Jesus got crucified two thousand years ago. Is that a long time? or too short to notice? And if civilized, law-writing humans crucify gods, how big a problem can fucking a few angels be? Don’t forget: Lot’s neighbors had no idea the guys they wanted to bugger were angels. Lot saw them as angels and offered his virgin daughters instead. (Did you ever see Lot’s virgin daughters? Maybe the neighbors already had!) (Did you see those angels!?)

Here’s my point (oh, it’s all my point, but here in particular is my target point):
The citizens of Sodom and Gomorrah were guilty of fucking: so are we. The citizens of Sodom and Gomorrah got fire and brimstone; we got God’s promise.

We can stick a spear in Jesus’s side, and God can’t flood us, can’t pour fire on us, or brimstone. We’ve got a contract that says so. The rainbow is proof.

Tell me: what kind of a god makes promises? Can you imagine Krishna making a promise? And if he made one, can you imagine Krishna feeling bound to it? to humans?!? Or Ra?

The Greeks showed us Greek gods making promises to humans right and left. That doesn’t mean that the gods kept the promise. Neither could the mortal sue if the god for whatever reason didn’t deliver.

Chaucer draws a beautiful complex double-bind in his Knight’s Tale. One knight prays for victory, the other knight prays to get the girl. The girl prays to remain a virgin. One god or another promises each of them that they’ll get their wish: but the wishes are mutually incompatible: victory is supposed to get the girl, getting the girl means she’s no longer a virgin … So a meta-god (Saturn) solves the whole mess with an earthquake: by creating a greater mess. The victor is promised the girl, but then falls down dead. So the vanquished gets the girl. And what about her virginity? Sorry, Missy. Sexed creatures have no time for virginity.

Wishes are dust awaiting the broom.
Owen Parry’s Abel Jones novels

Diana promised Emily her cherry. But Diana had no power: or her powers were secondary: way-secondary. There’s nothing in the story about Emily running to sue Diana: and Chaucer was himself a lawyer!

What’s going to happen when global warming makes those who don’t die envy those who did? Who are we going to sue? What happens if there is a “flood” and everyone dies, whether or not there are rainbows in the sky? Are the corpses going to sue God?

First, how are they going to prove that the stories in the Bible have anything whatsoever to do with god?

2012 10 23 I last night encountered a delicious new chapter, new to me, on Diana’s dilemna: I’ve been reading Don Quixote since 1957 or so without ever finishing it, I’ve read some parts many times, always enjoying them, but then I come upon others I don’t recognize. DonQ attends the funeral of a shepherd who’s died for love. The shepherds deliver eulogies blaming the girl: the shepherdess Marcela, Part I Chap XIV. The dead guy praises her as a saint, his pals blame her as a succubus. She appears at the funeral and argues Chaucer’s Diana’s potential points very well: just cause some guy loves her, why does she have to love back? And so forth.
Cervantes is dead on, Cervantes is Chaucer’s peer (or superior), but Chaucer’s got the never-mind-the-logic realism in the end: it’s Plato’s banish-Homer/No,-keep-him-logic: virginity has to lose, after a good show, or there won’t be no more humans.

Assassin Oedipus
2017 01 16 Jan worries about Trump getting assassinated. Hilary, my wife, Mrs. Knatz, Dr. Knatz the last few decades, was upset when JFK was assassinated. Not me. There hasn’t been a politician since John Stuart Mill that I’d grieve for. (That’s not fair, Mill wasn’t a politician!) Would I have grieved for Lincoln? Not if I knew then what I know now: greatest American politician ever. Socrates in the story didn’t deserve his execution, neither in the story did Jesus. It’s the good ones who get it, but so do the bad ones: and firebombing Richmond, Atlanta, telling blacks to move to Africa at their own expense, without having opened gates for them, qualifies Lincoln for hell on earth as much as any politician since.

In college I became acquainted with McSorley’s Olde Ale House. There was a Wanted poster on the wall behind the pot bellied stove offering a reward for Lincoln’s assassin, JW Booth. I loved it, make events current.

In the Oedipus myth Oedipus murdered his father and married his mother. Of course he didn’t know he was doing either. He knew he was killing, he knew he was marrying, but he had no idea it was his father and mother. Oedipus as a babe was given to a shepherd to kill and leave in the woods. The shepherd didn’t kill the babe, but he did leave it in the woods. The kid was found and brought to the local court where the local king and queen adopted him. Who were they? His uncle and aunt, of course. Royal families within a given culture were related. Of course. So Oedipus was raised as a prince. Well, he was a prince! an orphan prince: a murder target unfairly saved. So: years pass. Oedipus is out riding. Some other privilege maven is also out riding. So they meet, a young man, Oedipus, and an older man, Oedipus’ real father. Oedipus expects the old man to yield. The old man, his real father, who believes Oedipus has been safely murdered, expects the young whippersnapper to yeild. They come to blows: for the right of way. Oedipus kills the old man, goes on about his business.

Oedipus gets back “home” to news that his adoptive father’s brother has been killed, murdered on the road, presumably by bandits. The neighboring country needs a king. Oedipus is sent to fill the job. Of course he’s also expected to marry the late king’s widow. He does. No idea she’s his mother. She doesn’t recognize him either.

Picture it this way: picture Manhattan; no, Brooklyn. Oedipus is born as prince of Brooklyn. His parents, the king and queen of Brooklyn hear bad predictions about their son, so they plot to have him killed. But Oedipus is brought north. He’s adopted by the King and Queen of Queens! The king of Brooklyn’s brother! Blah blah blah. The pushy prince kills the uppity king. Becomes king himself to replace the dead king. He heads a committee to apprehend the late king’s killer. Evidence starts to point at him, Oedipus, the king.

Oedipus sees where it’s going, he isn’t altogether stupid. Uh oh. His queen, his mother, also figures it out: she’s married to her own son! She hangs herself! Oedipus sees his queen, his wife, his mother, hanging: he snatches the broach from her dress, stabs his eyes out, can’t bear to see the truth. Wanders the country side: poor old regicide, poor old mother fucker.

There. There’s an assassin in the White House. Who’s guilty? Oedipus is guilty!

Would I kill him? No. I’m not a killer. I don’t believe in royalty either. Neither would I have killed Jesus: or Abel, or Oedipus’ father. But I don’t mind somebody else killing them. I don’t mind somebody else killing anybody who gets in my way on the highway.

In 1989 I could drive from Brunns Road to Howey Road and turned at the stop sign to get onto Highway 27, north or south. I didn’t have to make a full stop at the intersection: actually I could have closed my eyes, and sped into the intersection. No longer. Now I’d better look both ways before proceeding no matter what the signal says: was a stop sign, is a complicated light system. You can get rammed wether the light is with you or against you. A light wasn’t a safe replacement for the stop sign: a bridge and a tunnel was called for: all we got was the light. I, all of us, should have argued for no stop sign, and no light either: just kill whoever gets in your way. If they kill you, all well and good: anything to reduce the excess population.

In the late 1950s John Fitzgerald Kennedy cause traffic jams on Long Island when I was trying to get home to my mother’s. I wasn’t going to kill him, not then, not later, but I should have celebrating anyone else killing him for me: no limousines, no cavalcade of celebrities, and secret serve people.

Kill Trump? Go ahead, be my guest. Fill the highways with corpses. There’s Oedipus’ father underfoot, there’s Oedipus, and his mother.

Sarcasm Verbotten
Never mind killing competitor’s for space on the highwy. What I really should kill, I myself, in person, are people who palm themselves as literate when in fact they don’t know what Shakespeare said, or Moses said, or Jesus said, or Augustine … and absolutely not what pk said, wrote, composed, did. False literate: that’s who should get iced. See somebody with a pen, or a pencil, or a paper, or an Ipad … Whammo.


About pk

Seems to me that some modicum of honesty is requisite to intelligence. If we look in the mirror and see not kleptocrats but Christians, we’re still in the same old trouble.
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