Repost of In Defense of Eros and Psyche (Copy)

Brief History: Originally written down in the 2nd Century CE (Common Era) by a Roman philosopher, this myth is the tale of how Aphrodite’s jealousy caused her to gain a daughter-in-law. The Goddess of Love ordered her son Eros (also known as Cupid, before he was drawn as a Cherub with a diaper) to make certain a young beauty named Psyche married the most hideous man Eros could find. Instead, Eros was careless (meaning he did it on purpose) and scratched himself with an arrow, resulting in his own love and marriage of Psyche. However, being a stuck-up god, Eros believed that a marriage between himself and a mortal could never work with 100% honesty. So, he only met with Psyche in the dark, informing her that if she ever looked upon him in the light he would leave. As always happens in this story, she is manipulated into holding a candle over Eros. Seeing that her husband was hella hot, Psyche got careless and dripped wax on him. Eros left her and in order to win him back she had to perform a series of tasks. The last task, a trap set by Aphrodite, resulted in Psyche’s death. Eros, having seen how sorry, brave, and determined his wife had been, appealed to Zeus to grant her immortality. And so Psyche was reborn as a goddess.

Analysis:  So Eros is the embodiment of love (real love, not the mind games his mom played on men) and Psyche is the embodiment of the soul. The story is literally the marriage of heart and soul. It’s not just a jazz song the middle school kids learn at piano lessons.

Blame It on the Victorians: Victorians loves literature where women are punished for being curious or independent. Have I mentioned this before? I feel like I’ve mentioned this before. Although really it was the poets of the 19th century who felt the need to retell the story over and over again. Instead of the Victorians, it’s actually medieval monks who got their (I’m sure) grubby hands on this story and tried to turn it into a tale about punishment for (gasp) physical love. Psyche being seduced by her husband is the loss of soul in women instead of redemption of the original myth. 

Last  thoughts: This might have been a bit of a ploy to advertise an upcoming FSF project… just saying.

Eros & Psyche Part 3 Psyche

The gods are both my salvation and my curse . . . pretty much like any in-laws, I suppose.

My father was an abusive ass so it only stood to reason that he would want me married off to someone in the same category. Even though I escaped that life and married someone who bought me, but waited for me to truly love him and be ready before coming to my bed, it only stands to luck that my mother-in-law would be just as manipulative. Although, I suppose the gods can’t help it. Manipulation is all they’ve known, which makes me wonder where Eros learned his patience.

Of course, I didn’t know he was a god when I married him. In fact, I hated him for marrying me. I never wanted to marry, but I suppose I lucked out that when I did I ended up loving my husband. I resented him, at first, this man I never saw except by dim firelight who came to my room for nothing more then a talk each night. Years went by before the talks turned into a marriage. But my logical brain could still never trust him. A man who would not give me his name or show me his face, yet he expected my loyalty still. I confess to breaking his only rule for me - I shined an oil lamp over his sleeping form to see his face. Can you blame any woman for the same?

For my doubt, he was taken from me and the story goes on like the poets say. I traveled the known world. I begged and bargained from gods and monsters. I faced the Underworld and retrieved a prize promised to my mother-in-law in exchange for the return of Eros. It’s there that the poets break from reality. They could never allow a woman to fault from her heroism for anything less than vanity. If you read the story now, it says I opened the gift for Aphrodite in order to keep a little of the beauty promised. The truth was much less about the “frailty of woman” and more my own logic getting the better of me.

Doubt is a nasty thing. If it’s crept into a mind once, it can do it again. The box was so light and made no noise when I shifted it I thought there was nothing within. I only peeked, opening the lid a crack to make certain about not about to had the goddess of Love an empty gift. Then the world of dark within the box engulfed me.

When woke up, Eros was arguing. I stood beside Hades who was presenting me to Zeus, the king of the gods, and a tribunal of his family. I couldn’t speak or move as if I were strapped to the ruler of the Underworld. Only my eyes followed the actions before me.

“She went through everything to rescue me. To get back to me!” Eros insisted.

“And for that you want her to be made a god?” Dionysus, the god of wine, scoffed.

“Why not?” Dionysus’s wife, Ariadne, loudly declared. “I was human and you made me a god. And I haven’t done half of the amazing things this girl has done. And you make gods of heroes often enough.”

Ares shook his spear in my direction. “She is no hero!”

Hephaestus, who I recognized from his club foot and leather apron, slammed his hammer to the floor. “She has accomplished more heroism than most of your mortal champions.”

Hera haughtily stormed away, grumbling, “Do what you like, but stop waving all of your weapons around.”

Many of the goddesses were on my side, save for Aphrodite. She watched everything proceed with a sweet smile. When Zeus declared I would be made a goddess, she moved to me, attempting to embrace me as her new daughter. As my arms and legs grew warm as Hades released me. Instead of the shapely arms of the most stunning of all goddesses, Eros stepped between us. He glared once at his mother before escorting me to a small circle of minor gods. Hephaestus clapped a muscled arm roughly around my shoulders. “You poor girl. You’re stuck with this husband for eternity.”

I didn’t mind that. I don’t mind being a goddess of soul. I don’t mind that every Valentine’s Day greeting cards display my husband as a diapered baby. What I do mind is my image used as a warning against Christian sin and womanly weakness. Love doesn’t always mean being vain and illogical. But most love stories are told by men.

Eros & Psyche Part 2 Aphrodite

My son, Eros, has always been the sun at the center of my universe. He was a gorgeous and sweet baby. A true testament to my power. When he was grown, he had his pick of young nymphs, gods, and goddess to bestow his love upon. But what does he choose as his wife? A human. Thin. Manipulative yet somehow naive at the same time. Her young face still holding onto baby fat and other deformations of mortality.

And Eros chose her. He tried to hide her from me, his loving mother. He made a deal with her father while hiding in the shadows of MY TEMPLE, offering riches in-exchange for this girl’s chastity. As I understand, he saved her from a marriage to an angry land owner, a man whose first two wives died young. Why did he have to keep her? Why did he whisk her away to a secret home and visit her at night. And from what I understand, he married her in the darkness so she could never see his face.

What did they do on their clandestine nightly meetings? They talked. For the love of Cronus, they freaking talked! Mortals are not for talking to! They are messengers, heroes, and tools to be used as we gods desire. Not to form a deep personal connection to! It was literally years before they consummated their marriage. And it was some time after that when whispers at last reached me - my beloved son had a wife who even the immortals claimed was more beautiful than me. Something had to be done.

Eros & Psyche Part 1 Eros

I was named for a Titan and given the role of a love god. Both of these facts are more of a joke than a fact. By my father, the god of war, I was too small and “pretty” to be powerful. My mother, the official goddess of love, coddled me when convenient, but had little use for me until I was old enough to praise her beauty. And Hera despised my birth, the symbol of Aphrodite unfaithfulness to her own son, Hephaestus. The other gods were ordered to ignore me. I must have been a very cute baby because Diana taught me to shoot a bow, Apollo taught me to play music, and Hestia taught me to create a home for myself. All behind Hera’s back.

Still, Hephaestus was the hero of my child’s heart. Starting from my toddler years, he would take me to his blacksmith’s shop and let me watch his work. He was the man who should have truly hated my existence. One day, when I was old enough to reach for his hammer and was reminded not to touch, I ask him why he liked me.

“I don’t like you. I just hate my mother more. Now keep working on those arrowheads.”

Besides the assurance that I was never wanted at the forge, I was trained to make my own arrows and sword. More importantly, I was trained to be clever. Under Hephaesuts’s instruction, I once tricked Hera into rubbing her face with a plant that turned her skin a bright blue. Thousands of years later, she still believes this was the fault Demeter. If you ever met Demeter, you would know that the punishment Hera doled out was totally justified.

When I reached an age that could be the equivalent of a teenage, my role on Mount Olympus went from secret pet to errand boy for my mother. She wished a fabulous weapon to be delivered to her latest human champion, designed by her distant husband. Naturally, Hephaestus created what she asked with an extra surprise. Every time this muscular man would wield his new spear, he would be both unbeatable and Aphrodite would see him as a giant goat wearing a gold diaper.

After I delivered this gift, I hid in my mother’s temple awaiting her champion to meet with her and anticipating hilarity. Instead, she entered. The most beautiful creature mankind had ever produced crouched alone. I listened as she prayed. Her father was going to sell her into marriage. She prayed for an escape. But her prayers were not average. They were logical and clever, practically bargaining with the gods. And it was then I knew I loved her.

February: A Time for Love, Loss, & the Wraith of Ancient Gods!

In the month of February, in honor of that one holiday with all the red where people dress up- You know the one! The what’s-it-called? St. Valentine’s Day Massacre! Anyway, because that’s a thing, each week this month will feature a re-telling of the great Greek love story Eros and Psyche. Each part will be from a different character’s point of view and (disclaimer) there will be adult language and situations. It’s a Greek myth, after all. How can the Greek Gods do their thing without dirty language and a bit of PG bow-chicka-wow-wow. Enjoy!

Repost of In Defense of Eros and Psyche

Brief History: Originally written down in the 2nd Century CE (Common Era) by a Roman philosopher, this myth is the tale of how Aphrodite’s jealousy caused her to gain a daughter-in-law. The Goddess of Love ordered her son Eros (also known as Cupid, before he was drawn as a Cherub with a diaper) to make certain a young beauty named Psyche married the most hideous man Eros could find. Instead, Eros was careless (meaning he did it on purpose) and scratched himself with an arrow, resulting in his own love and marriage of Psyche. However, being a stuck-up god, Eros believed that a marriage between himself and a mortal could never work with 100% honesty. So, he only met with Psyche in the dark, informing her that if she ever looked upon him in the light he would leave. As always happens in this story, she is manipulated into holding a candle over Eros. Seeing that her husband was hella hot, Psyche got careless and dripped wax on him. Eros left her and in order to win him back she had to perform a series of tasks. The last task, a trap set by Aphrodite, resulted in Psyche’s death. Eros, having seen how sorry, brave, and determined his wife had been, appealed to Zeus to grant her immortality. And so Psyche was reborn as a goddess.

Analysis:  So Eros is the embodiment of love (real love, not the mind games his mom played on men) and Psyche is the embodiment of the soul. The story is literally the marriage of heart and soul. It’s not just a jazz song the middle school kids learn at piano lessons.

Blame It on the Victorians: Victorians loves literature where women are punished for being curious or independent. Have I mentioned this before? I feel like I’ve mentioned this before. Although really it was the poets of the 19th century who felt the need to retell the story over and over again. Instead of the Victorians, it’s actually medieval monks who got their (I’m sure) grubby hands on this story and tried to turn it into a tale about punishment for (gasp) physical love. Psyche being seduced by her husband is the loss of soul in women instead of redemption of the original myth. 

Last  thoughts: This might have been a bit of a ploy to advertise an upcoming FSF project… just saying.

In Defense of Eros and Psyche

Fine, society! You win! It’s Valentine’s Day, I’ll do something Valentine-y. So here’s very, romantic and, surprisingly hopeful, Greek myth of Eros and Psyche. 

Brief History: Originally written down in the 2nd Century CE (Common Era) by a Roman philosopher, this myth is the tale of how Aphrodite’s jealousy caused her to gain a daughter-in-law. The Goddess of Love ordered her son Eros (also known as Cupid, before he was drawn as a Cherub with a diaper) to make certain a young beauty named Psyche married the most hideous man Eros could find. Instead, Eros was careless (meaning he did it on purpose) and scratched himself with an arrow, resulting in his own love and marriage of Psyche. However, being a stuck-up god, Eros believed that a marriage between himself and a mortal could never work with 100% honesty. So, he only met with Psyche in the dark, informing her that if she ever looked upon him in the light he would leave. As always happens in this story, she is manipulated into holding a candle over Eros. Seeing that her husband was hella hot, Psyche got careless and dripped wax on him. Eros left her and in order to win him back she had to perform a series of tasks. The last task, a trap set by Aphrodite, resulted in Psyche’s death. Eros, having seen how sorry, brave, and determined his wife had been, appealed to Zeus to grant her immortality. And so Psyche was reborn as a goddess.

Analysis:  So Eros is the embodiment of love (real love, not the mind games his mom played on men) and Psyche is the embodiment of the soul. The story is literally the marriage of heart and soul. It’s not just a jazz song the middle school kids learn at piano lessons.

Blame It on the Victorians: Victorians loves literature where women are punished for being curious or independent. Have I mentioned this before? I feel like I’ve mentioned this before. Although really it was the poets of the 19th century who felt the need to retell the story over and over again. Instead of the Victorians, it’s actually medieval monks who got their (I’m sure) grubby hands on this story and tried to turn it into a tale about punishment for (gasp) physical love. Psyche being seduced by her husband is the loss of soul in women instead of redemption of the original myth. 

Last  thoughts: This might have been a bit of a ploy to advertise an upcoming FSF project… just saying.