I believe that in its earliest expression the cult of Dionysos was primarily concerned with chthonic fertility, a recognition that the wealth of the earth above comes from the abode of the ancestors below. Increase of plantlife was induced by sacred dances during which the participants were put into ecstatic trances. Most experienced a kind of collective frenzy, a dissolving into libidinous vegetable consciousness while certain other sensitive individuals became possessed by the god or by the ancestors and spoke and moved as they once had so that they would have a semblance of life again. In time these two separated into the chorus and the actor; the thiasos and the theophoros and what was done grew more elaborate and formalized until you end up with the Attic Triad. The mask evolved as a tool of conveying what it felt like to be ridden by the daimonic, and to facilitate that riding. Intoxication and madness weren’t just metaphors of this experience but alternate doors that opened onto it. All the pieces were there in the beginning — men just kept rediscovering the same tools and truths and called it innovation. But the further the plays moved from the core Dionysiac themes the less power they had. Time was, an actor could make it rain with just a few handy props. Die a thousand deaths and always come back for the next show. Make you believe in something greater than yourself. Make you see and understand the stories of your people. Now, things are different. Who’s excited to see Scary Movie V?

You’d better.

Or this will happen to you.

Do you want those eyes boring into your soul? Do you?!?

So go here. Write something awesome for Ares. And don’t make me bust out the cherubs, okay?

I have a feeling that today will be an auspicious day. Start the month of Taurion off right. Go do something cool for your gods!

Es fiedelt und tänzelt und hüpfet
und klappert mit seinem Gebein
und nickt und nickt mit dem Schädel
unheimlich im Mondenschein.

“In the market-place of the Sikyonians was a hero-temple of Adrastos the son of Talaos and Cleisthenes had a desire to cast him forth out of the land, because he was an Argive. So having come to Delphi he consulted the Oracle as to whether he should cast out Adrastos; and the Pythian prophetess answered him saying that Adrastos was king of the Sikyonians, whereas he was a stoner of them. So since the god did not permit him to do this, he went away home and considered means by which Adrastos should be brought to depart of his own accord: and when he thought that he had discovered them, he sent to Thebes in Bœotia and said that he desired to introduce into his city Melanippos the son of Astacos, and the Thebans gave him leave. So Cleisthenes introduced Melanippos into his city, and appointed for him a sacred enclosure within the precincts of the City Hall itself, and established him there in the strongest position. Now Cleisthenes introduced Melanippos (for I must relate this also) because he was the greatest enemy of Adrastos, seeing that he had killed both his brother Mekisteus and his son-in-law Tydeus: and when he had appointed the sacred enclosure for him, he took away the sacrifices and festivals of Adrastos and gave them to Melanippos. Now the Sikyonians were accustomed to honour Adrastos with very great honours; for this land was formerly the land of Polybos, and Adrastos was daughter’s son to Polybos, and Polybos dying without sons gave his kingdom to Adrastos: the Sikyonians then not only gave other honours to Adrastos, but also with reference to his sufferings they specially honoured him with tragic choruses, not paying the honour to Dionysos but to Adrastos. Cleisthenes however gave back the choruses to Dionysos, and the other rites besides this he gave to Melannipos.” — Herodotos, The Histories 5.67

Sannion believes some people are doing it wrong.

The blogs I follow have just gotten too damn good. It used to be that I’d reliably find one or two posts to highlight from these people — which is quite impressive when you consider the general level of discourse in the pagan community today. But lately? It’s been three or four a week, and with some every single thing they post is overwhelmingly brilliant. How do you decide what to include and what to leave out? I can’t, and that’s why there haven’t been any round-ups for a while. So what I’ve decided to do instead is compile this list of blogs which get the Sannion Seal of Approval and encourage my readers to wander over and start following them. I will also begin a weekly contest where I highlight the top five posts I’ve read and award those responsible with a No Prize. Keep up the good work, folks!

A Forest Door
Aedicula Antinoi
American Folkloric Witchcraft
Anomalous Thracian
Ariadne in Exile
Artsy Satyr
Aspis of Ares
Baron Cain
Blau Stern Schwarz Schlonge
The Book of Persephone
Caught in Loki’s Harrow
Digital Enchiridion
Dionysian Atavism
Dionysian~Light
The Divine Twins
Dr. R’s Religious Ramblings
Egregores
Echoes from the Temple
Eros is Eros is Eros
Finnchuill’s Mast
Forging The Sampo
Gangleri’s Grove
Gifts of the Märchenwald
Girls Underground
Golden Trail
Heathen Chinese
Heathen Ranter
History of the Ancient World
Inner Sanctum
Into the Mound
Joan Defers
KALLISTI: An Apple in Pandemonium
Kenaz Filan
Laudator Temporis Acti
Lighthouses of the Soul
The Lokian as Human
Magic Screeches
Medievalists.net
Melitta Benu
The Night Wanderer’s Path
Northern Heim, Southern Clime
Odd Mod Out
Of Axe and Plough
Of Thespiae
Out of the Drink, Into the Wild
Pagan Layman
Peaceful Awakenings, Reflections of Egypt
Random Card Rolodex
Raven’s Bread
Reconstructing the Labyrinth
Rune Soup
Sailing to Byzantium
Sarenth Odinsson’s Blog
Seastruck By The Crossroads
Serpent Shod
Sex, Gods and Rock Stars
Shadows of the Sun
Sightless Among Miracles
Sigil Craft
Sihathor’s Open-Air Temple
suzs’ muses
Tales From the Stag King’s Wife
The Way of the Transgressor is Hard
Twilight and Fire
Under Two Trees
Valiel’s Notes in English
Where Dionysos Dwells
Where the Lotus Flower Grows
Whereto We Speed
Writ, Ritual, and Revelation
A Young Flemish Hellenist

Enjoy!

One of the greatest challenges to reconstructing an authentic Dionysian eschatology is that there wasn’t really one in antiquity. What you find instead are a loose collection of rituals, myths, rough concepts and such that each group then fashioned into its own unique mysteries. They interpreted things differently, emphasized certain elements more than others, took on local influences and generally evolved over time if given the chance. And yet for all of that bewildering, chaotic complexity I imagine that a Dionysian from Southern Italy in the second century could enter a dining-hall full of fellow-initiates from North Africa, the Balkans, England and the Ukraine and once they’d settled the language issue — Greek or Latin — could probably have a meaningful conversation about death and what came after, for they were all part of a seamless tapestry of tradition. This group concerned themselves with the banquet table piled high for the feast while for that group it was the krater overflowing with wine, reflecting torchlight like dancing stars. These ones thought only of Dionysos and his bride twined in amorous congress while those ones had eyes only for the crowd of elegant dancers, faces whitened like masks. Some the bull’s horns on the altar, some the ivy winding around the column, some the maenads in the distance hunting in the woods, some the floor littered with leaves and broken cups and the bones of beautiful beasts. Others saw the maiden hesitating at her door, glancing back at the life she’s leaving behind while Eros or a boy who looks very much like him beckons to her with a ball of string in his golden hand.

Take a step back.

Do you see the picture that all of these scenes together make?

You will when you’re dead, if you’re one of us.

And that’s why I’m not opposed to modern innovations — as long as they hit all the right notes.

You see, folks, it’s all about the rhythm.

The clapping of hands.
The thunder of drums.
Stomping feet.
Hearts beating.

You hit the right notes, that’s when the screams begin.

I’ve got work on the 13th of Taurion so I’ve had to move the oracular session to Thursday, May 23rd. If you’ve got a pressing question or just want to hear what the god’s got to say to you send me an e-mail at sannion@gmail.com before that date. As always, this is done as a service to Dionysos and my community so no payment is required.

According to the Cypria (the part of the Epic Cycle that tells the events of the Trojan War before Achilles’ Wrath), when the Achaeans desired to return home, they were restrained by Achilles, who afterwards attacked the cattle of Aeneas, sacked neighboring cities and killed Troilus.

According to Dares Phrygius’ Account of the Destruction of Troy, the Latin summary through which the story of Achilles was transmitted to medieval Europe, Troilus was a young Trojan prince, the youngest of King Priam’s (or sometimes Apollo) and Hecuba’s five legitimate sons. Despite his youth, he was one of the main Trojan war leaders.

Prophecies linked Troilus’ fate to that of Troy and so he was ambushed in an attempt to capture him.

Yet Achilles, struck by the beauty of both Troilus and his sister Polyxena, and overcome with lust, directed his sexual attentions on the youth – who refusing to yield found instead himself decapitated upon an altar-omphalos of Apollo.

Later versions of the story suggested Troilus was accidentally killed by Achilles in an over-ardent lovers’ embrace. In this version of the myth, Achilles’ death therefore came in retribution for this sacrilege.

Ancient writers treated Troilus as the epitome of a dead child mourned by his parents. Had Troilus lived to adulthood, the First Vatican Mythographer claimed Troy would have been invincible.

Penthesilea

Achilles, after his temporary truce with Priam, fought and killed the Amazonian warrior queen Penthesilea, but later grieved over her death.

At first, he was so distracted by her beauty, he did not fight as intensely as usual.

Once he realized that his distraction was endangering his life, he refocused and killed her.

As he grieved over the death of such a rare beauty, a notorious Greek jeerer by the name of Thersites laughed and mocked the great Achilles.

“There is no escape. You can’t be a vagabond and an artist and still be a solid citizen, a wholesome, upstanding man. You want to get drunk, so you have to accept the hangover. You say yes to the sunlight and pure fantasies, so you have to say yes to the filth and the nausea. Everything is within you, gold and mud, happiness and pain, the laughter of childhood and the apprehension of death. Say yes to everything, shirk nothing. Don’t try to lie to yourself. You are not a solid citizen. You are not a Greek. You are not harmonious, or the master of yourself. You are a bird in the storm. Let it storm! Let it drive you! How much have you lied! A thousand times, even in your poems and books, you have played the harmonious man, the wise man, the happy, the enlightened man. In the same way, men attacking in war have played heroes, while their bowels twitched. My God, what a poor ape, what a fencer in the mirror man is – particularly the artist- particularly myself!” — Hermann Hesse

Go outside. Go for a long, rambling walk, letting your legs take you wherever they want to go. Let your mind wander, but don’t focus too much on your thoughts. Be open. Try to really see and feel and smell and taste what’s around you. Be present in your body to the point where you can feel the heart in your chest swell and throb as it circulates the blood through you, the “slow, wet mechanism of muscle and bone” that allows you to stride aimlessly through the city streets. Breathe. Breathe. Empty your mind of all thoughts but thoughts of him. Remember how you’ve experienced him in the past through all of your senses: the heat of the flame kissing your fingers, the tartness of good warm wine drunk in front of his shrine, air thick with clouds of incense smoke, earthy and sweet with a musky undertone, grass brushing against your cheek as you roll in a fit of laughter, black soil caught underneath your jagged and broken nails from pounding your fist into the ground as the tears cut fiery swaths down your cheek, that warm, sexy excitement that enfolds you whenever he’s near. Breathe. Call to mind whatever reminds you of him. And then open your eyes and look for him and signs of him in the world around you.

It is righteous to dance before the god in the box.
For three hundred and sixty four days of the year
we worship his other mask, the joyous and mellow one
carved of figwood and fed on honey
and laughter and the cavorting of phallic choruses.
But then the Day of the Lord comes
and we draw up the other face,
the one pleased with wails and lamentations and the feast of raw and bloody meat.
What wood this face was made of originally is impossible to tell.
Some say oak, others vinewood and others still that it came from the pine tree
from which the king hung to escape the furious host
led by Ino of the white breasts and her sisters.
It was old already before it was brought to our land
and even that was so long ago that men remember it only through the stories they’ve heard.
Carved by a strange primitive hand, one side is red like blood and flame and desire
and one side is black like the night and the grave and the still center of the madness
that comes from peeking behind the curtain.
This is the side that rests against the priest’s face,
the empty eyes that he sees out of on that day.
What he sees is what every priest before him has seen.
It drives the man insane — he is never the same once he gets the mask off.
Children flee screaming when he passes by,
muttering to himself of the visions he saw
when the three hundred spirits thronged his mind.
We feel pity and contempt for the man,
horror at the monstrosity he’s become
and we drive him from us, lest his pollution contaminate
and we become like him.
But there’s something else mixed in
– remorse and regret, the hand of guilt closing around our throats –
for we know that he did this thing for us.
And that he’ll do it again next year and every year after
until he can’t bear the burden any longer
and it’s time to find someone else to take his place.
Someone who can completely give himself to the god for a day,
so that he can run around and play with us.
That’s why we dance righteously around the box containing the god’s head,
because without this most ancient of ceremonies our noble land would cease to prosper
and we’d have no red grapes to crush and make our wine from.

“Accept, O Hermes, this reed pen and this ink bottle also, by which eternity guards for those who will come the voice of those who have gone before.”

– Julian the Egyptian, Greek Anthology 6.68.5-6

Hermes is the one who greases the gears,
who knows how to make connections
and where all the bodies are buried.
Who do you think put them there?

He’s the god you go to if you want

knowledge
wealth
power
dope rhymes
and fly tricks.

Just don’t think you’re going to get the better of him in the deal;
no one outsmarts Hermes.

I also hear he’s a pretty good hitman.
Just ask Argos.
Oh wait. You can’t.
Cause Hermes capped his fool ass.

I felt like I hadn’t done enough for Hermes on his day, so last night at work, on the advice of Homer, I treated all strangers who came through the door as if they were the god in disguise. I hated it. It was torture. I … I was nice to them.

But it apparently pleased him because when I was leaving the store I found a string of golden Mardis Gras beads with a Bacchus medallion and his name spelled out.

Then I was offered the chance to speak to Pagan youth about Dionysos.

This should be … interesting.

Εις το Ορος! Εις Όρος!

This is how this hymn:

Ἑωθινόν Α΄ Εἰς τὸ ὄρος τοῖς Μαθηταῖς
Εἰς τὸ ὄρος τοῖς Μαθηταῖς ἐπειγομένοις, διὰ τὴν χαμόθεν ἔπαρσιν, ἐπέστη ὁ Κύριος, καὶ προσκυνήσαντες αὐτὸν καὶ τὴν δοθεῖσαν ἐξουσίαν, πανταχοῦ διδαχθέντες, εἰς τὴν ὑπ’ οὐρανὸν ἐξαπεστέλλοντο, κηρῦξαι τὴν ἐκ νεκρῶν Ἀνάστασιν, καὶ τὴν εἰς Οὐρανοὺς ἀποκατάστασιν· οἷς καὶ συνδιαιωνίζειν, ὁ ἀψευδὴς ἐπηγγείλατο, Χριστὸς ὁ Θεός, καὶ Σωτὴρ τῶν ψυχῶν ἡμῶν.

is translated by Google Translate:

In Mount Glory Resurrection of the first sound. Chanting siblings Liliopouloi, cantors Agios Dimitrios Arms Archdiocese of Athens. eothina A to mount per disciples unto mount per disciples epeigomέnois, Trans chamothen eparsin, epέsti His Lord and proskynήsantes him and given exousίan, ubiquitous didachthέntes, in the no uranium exapestέllonto, kiryxai the Anάstasin from the dead, and in uranium apokatάstasin; among whom syndiaionίzein And the unerring epingeίlato, Christ God, and Savior of our souls.

Part of me really hopes that the Greek is just as insane sounding.

So in preparation for this I put together my own personal desiderata.

Everything you do and everything you are is a choice. You are free. Choose wisely.

You are a freak and will never measure up. No one understands you. No one cares. Now get over that shit and start living for yourself.

Make mistakes, as many as you can. How else are you going to learn?

Show respect to everyone and everything. Yes, even if they don’t deserve it. Manners aren’t for other people, they are for us.

Question everything. Especially if it comes from an authority.

Educate yourself.

You will never have it figured out.

At least once a day just stop everything you’re doing and be completely present and mindful.

Listen to The Doors. Jim Morrison was a prophet.

Love unguardedly. Hearts are made to be crushed.

You will die a thousand deaths before your time if you do not master your fear.

Find what you are great at and pursue it with a single-minded devotion.

It doesn’t matter if it’s hard and difficult and unpleasant. Do it anyway.

Live simply in order to enjoy greater leisure and pleasure.

No matter how great you are there are ones who are greater still. They are gods and spirits and the host of the dead. There are beings greater than you beyond number. The whole world is alive with their presence. Honor them, from highest to lowest and all in between.

If your every act is one of reverence and right relationship with the powers you cannot help but live rightly, justly, wisely and prosperously.

Some gods and spirits aren’t nice.

You have a body. What sustains you is physical. Therefore make material offerings to those who have blessed you.

Give beyond what is expected of you. The excess is the choicest portion of the sacrifice.

Worship with joy. You are in the presence of the divine! Be overcome by awe.

Laugh.

Dance.

Sing.

Scream.

Cry.

Be open. Don’t hold back. It’s okay to look mad and foolish. All the best people do.

Wear masks.

Be pure in mind and body when you carry out sacred service.

Whenever you’re uncertain, divine.

Bow your head to no man, but to the gods only.

Always approach the holy crowned.

Adorn your shrines with flowers.

Immerse yourself in prayer and thoughts of your gods and spirits.

Carry them with you wherever you go.

A gift requires a gift in return.

Remember and honor those who came before you. You would not be who you are without them.

Test yourself in the flame.

Let spiders live.

You always have time for worship. If you don’t, rearrange your schedule. Do you really want to tell them that they are not a priority in your life, that they aren’t worthy of your time and attention?

First master the rites and traditions that have been handed down to you; then only may you improvise.

All that is beautiful is dear to the gods, so make your worship as beautiful as you can.

Begin every endeavor with a sacrifice.

Worship outdoors as often as you can.

Cities are outdoors too.

Learn everything about the place where you live.

Don’t come to the gods only in times of need.

Make amends swiftly.

Never let your shrines gather dust through neglect.

Treat strangers as you would treat Hermes.

Do not revile another’s god. There are strange alliances among the powers.

Pray from the heart with honest words. Your gods know you — there is nothing you can hide from them even if you wanted to.

Read Plutarch and Seneca if you would be wise, pious and happy.

Should is an abyss.

What you do is more important than who you are.

Your past shaped you — it does not define you.

Demonstrate your beliefs through your actions.

Make purchases that reflect a right relationship with the world.

Don’t buy stuff for your stuff.

Create instead of just being a consumer.

Remember that every time you’re looking at a screen you’re missing what’s going on around you.

Pay attention to animals. They know things you don’t.

Mark the passage of the seasons.

It’s more fun on the margins.

You aren’t your labels or your fandoms.

Be selective in the media you consume, for it lives on in you afterwards.

Question everything. Seriously, it cannot be said enough: question everything. Even why you should question everything.

Try new things, even things you don’t think you’re going to like, because experiences are precious.

Never be ashamed.

Don’t have regrets.

All you can do is suggest. In the end they will live the way they want to.

Don’t let others drag you down.

Accept others as they are. You can’t change them.

Don’t let others change you in ways you don’t want them to.

You only have to prove your worth to yourself and the gods. Fuck everyone else.

It’s your mind — expand it however you want.

Know the risks before you play.

Don’t do anything you aren’t willing to accept the consequences for.

Don’t ever be bored or boring.

Be hungry.

Balance the scales.

You can always walk away.

No matter what other gods and spirits you worship, honor Dionysos.

This time I make light of superhero worship.