four elements and five
senses, and man a spirit in love

~ dylan thomas

In The Birth of Pleasure, Carol Gilligan writes about Eros and Psyche. The whole book is about that, and Pleasure is their child. How quickly we forget. She says it's the only Greek myth that has a happy ending. The happy ending is that, after all is said and done, she gets to keep him. But you know, it's just a myth. The unattainable is so much more seductive.

I was reading Joseph Campbell retelling that story today. It was at the start of the chapter on Initiation in The Hero With a Thousand Faces. Something was deeply wrong with Campbell, so spun up with heroics. Good Catholic lad. A regular crusader. In hoc signo vinces. Holy Mother Church and all. Later a little gone into that Hindoo Voodoo, but still. And I, I will be King. Non serviam. Yeah right, mother fucker. So Tantric. So Kali, baby, so Black Madonna. Stuff that harmonica convergence in your skeleton keys and the rain. But these visions. But I digress. I can't go on. I'll go on. It reminded me that Psyche was set her impossible tasks by Venus. By Aphrodite, Joe, actually. By her own estranged beauty. Why did I miss that before? Why did you? Ah, but those punitive superegos are so godawful slippery.

I always confuse that one with Echo and Narcissus. For some strange reason. Because there was no child? No Pleasure? Could be. Or maybe it's the whole role reversal thing again. The mirror thing. The vision thing. Doctor my eyes...

And Echo says, "Did I fall asleep?"

And the voice from the water, through the looking glass answers, "Just for a little while."

Depending on how you count time. Depending on how deep your dream.

Oh sing to me, Goddess, the wrath of Achilles.

et cum spiritu tuo