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dionysia-ta-astika · 2 months

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Apothnesko and the Psychopomp

CW: death, death of sibling, death of parent, death of partner, death of child, illness

Apothnesko awakes to crying. In the dim light of the moon through the window, he makes out the lank childish frame of his older brother Neos sobbing into the arms of a man he’s never seen before. Dressed in the dark garb of a traveler, the man gets to his knees to console the young boy, patting his back and murmuring to him that it is alright to be upset, it is normal. This all is very normal.

Upset to see his brother in such a state, Apothnesko rises to his feet and reaches out to him but his fingers meet cold air where he once would have met warm skin. Horrified, he grabs the post of his bed to steady himself and stares wild eyed at the intruder.

“It is okay,” says the man, “Your brother has died. I’ve come to collect him. He will not be lost.”

“You’ve killed him?” Apothnesko asks, recoiling.

“No, he was ill and his body can no longer house his spirit. I will take him to his new home,” the man clarified, standing up and grabbing a staff carved with twinning snakes he’d leaned upon the wall. He slipped his hand into that of Neos and helped him take a few steps toward the door, never urgent, never impatient. The boy looked to Apothnesko but seemed unable to speak through his grief.

“Wait,” Apothnesko cried, hoping to delay them, desperate for even a moment longer with his brother, “Are you Death?”

The man smiled. “I travel to it often,” he said, gently, “I am it’s familiar friend and servant.”

“Please, tell me sir, how may I live long?” asked Apothnesko.

“I have no way to ensure that,” said the man, motioning to the boy’s brother who was leaning on him as he spoke.

“Then tell me how may I die well?”

The man took the boy’s face in his hand, his own expression soft and deeply, wonderfully kind. “Know that you are very mortal and that very much matters.”

With that, the man turned on the heels of his winged sandals and guided Neos out.

—

Now the sole heir to their family’s small city state, Apothnesko throws himself into his studies. He spends his mornings being trained in several different weapons by his father’s guards. His afternoons are spent deep in discussion with his many tutors on topics of science, strategy, and diplomacy. Every evening is spent with his father Geronto as he tells stories of his many accomplishments and failures. Every moment of his day, he remains committed to learning everything he can. Skill, he thinks must be key to a long and happy life.

One day, an army arrives at the city’s gates. His father and the diplomats dispatch messages to try to negotiate for peace but the army’s leader will not be swayed from taking the city and enslaving it’s citizens. Their defenders ready themselves. Apothnesko, dutiful as ever, is close to his father’s side. He is given command of his own unit of men. Together they descend upon their enemy.

The clash is fierce. Men are struck, some immediately silent and others crying out through the maelstrom of human misery. After the initial clash, Apothnesko regroups his men, finding mounts for them as he is able. He retreats to a hill and commands them to attack the enemy at an angle. Together, they force the attacking lines apart and scatter the remaining army.

As he sees them retreating, he turns to his father to share in this victory but he is no where to be found. Desperately, he searches the field for hours, finally finding his father collapsed in front of the city gate where he fought off a group he’d spotted trying to sneak in. Apothnesko drops to his knees beside him. He scarcely notices a familiar figure in a dark cloak and hat as he approaches and plants his carved staff in the ground beside Geronto.

“It is okay,” says the familiar man, bending to look over Geronto’s body, “Your father has died. I’ve come to collect him. He will not be lost.”

“I have lost him,” Apothnesko says, his head in his hands now, “I am lost without him.”

“The important parts of him are still with you even now,” the man reassures him, taking Geronto’s hand and helping his spirit to his feet.

Seeing the man beginning to take his father from him sends Apothnesko back into his battle rage. He grabs the dagger still strapped to his waist and points it at the cloaked man’s neck.

“Tell me, what right do you have to take this man who has lived so nobly and always for the benefit of others?” said Apothnesko, furious.

“I have no right only a duty,” said the man, smiling gently and motioning to his staff, “Same as you.”

Apothnesko’s shoulders went slack at this. The dagger falls from his limp hand and clatters on the stone pavement below. He looks up and asks, “Then tell me how may I die well?”

The man picks up the dagger and places it back in it’s sheath, his expression soft and deeply, wonderfully kind. “Know that you are very mortal and that very much matters.”

With that, the man turned on the heels of his winged sandals and guided Geronto out.

—

Apothnesko ascends to his father’s throne. He is married to the princess of an allied city state, an arrangement made by his father before his death. The couple are kind to one another and perform their roles well, though there is little real affection between them. Together they rebuild and revive their polis; it’s walls higher and it’s buildings far grander than those in the age of his father. And yet there are still days where his grief pins him to his bed and scarcely lets him leave. No accomplishment, no act of grandeur lifts him.

Desperate to raise his spirits, his wife introduces her husband to a young man named Eros. He is handsome and intelligent but mostly he is kind in a way that reaches Apothnesko in a way his wife’s dutiful assistance cannot. His humor and levity helps the king to feel renewed. Their friendship blossoms into romance and the pair become inseparable. Their days are spent entirely in each other’s company. The young king once again feels purpose and urgency, rising each morning thinking only of what adventure he will embark on with his treasured lover. Love, he thinks, must be key to a long and happy life.

During a great city festival, Eros takes the lead in the great hunt. He is outfitted with the finest gear the polis can offer and he and a company of men set out to bring back that night’s feast. Apothnesko attends to his many ceremonies but always ever has an eye on the gate his lover left through, excited and ready to great him upon his return.

It is close to dusk when the party is spotted, a figure clearly being carried between some of the men. Apothnesko’s heart sinks as they come into view. Eros is limp in the arms of his fellow hunters, bloodied almost beyond recognition. The king rushes to his lover’s side and demands they call the healers. But the hunters insist it is too late, there is nothing left to be done. They withdrawal to let the king mourn.

Night falls and he cannot bring himself to leave Eros, cradling him and stroking his hair. The shadows of the olive trees embracing them both. He feels a warm hand on his shoulder and does not look up.

“It is okay,” says a familiar voice, “Your lover has died. I’ve come to collect him. He will not be lost.”

“I cannot afford to lose him,” says Apothnesko, clutching at his lover’s body, limp but still warm in his arms. “We aren’t done creating the life we promised to each other.”

“Promises are tricky things,” says the Man, taking the hand of Eros and easing his spirit to his feet.

“Tell me, what can I give you to let me keep this man with me even but even for a few hours longer?” pleads Apothnesko, shuffling through his pouches on his waist and drawing out a few gold coins.

“I have no room nor need of gifts,” said the man, smiling gently and motioning to his belt, clearly bereft of pouches.

Apothnesko nods, the gold spilling from his hand and onto the ground. Tears stream down his face as he asks, “Then tell me how may I die well?”

“Know that you are very mortal and that very much matters.”

With that, the man turned on the heels of his winged sandals and guided Eros out.

—

Apothnesko does not leave his room for many weeks. No one can get him to come from his bed chamber and the servants notice he is eating very little of the meals they bring him. His wife and the family of Eros both beg him to return to his duties but he refuses. There is worry despair might claim him.

That is until he hears a child’s cry in the palace. His wife has given birth to a son. He rushes to be by her side and smiles for the first time in months when handled the infant child. At last an heir, a child to secure their many advancements and bring up in the ways his father brought him. His son can carry their traditions on so that they far out live any one of them. Legacy, he thinks, must be key to a long and happy life.

The physician returns to the couple with a worried look. He explains the child appears to be sick and he is unsure how long they may have with him. Apothnesko’s wife clutches the child to her and refuses to let it from her sight. That night they all sleep together, the child asleep on his mother’s chest while Apothnesko kept watch.

Deep in the night, he hears a man with a walking staff enter the room and looks up. The man smiles softly from across the room, walking slowly to toward the bed. His dark hat and cloak the same as ever.

“It is okay,” says the familiar man, “Your son has died. I’ve come to collect him. He will not be lost.”

“If you take him from me I will have lost everything. There is no life without him, no polis, no hope,” he says, his voice flat.

“Everything that is done must be undone,” says the man, nodding solemnly.

“Then what is the point of doing anything?” asks the king, numb, “If everything comes to ruin, why do anything, love anything at all?”

“Doing nothing won’t prevent this,” says the man, cradling the child tenderly, “Doing something won’t either. But the story you tell is up to you.”

“Then tell me how to bring about a good ending,” says Apothnesko, “Tell me how may I die well?”

The man smiles knowingly, his face soft and deeply, wonderfully kind. “Know that you are very mortal and that very much matters.”

With that, the man turned on the heels of his winged sandals and guided the child out.

—

Apothnesko and his wife grieve their child. She decides she cannot have another and they select the king’s nephew as heir. At first, Apothnesko is nervous to teach the boy, knowing that at any moment the strange traveler may come to collect him. But he thinks of his father, he is generous with his knowledge, teaching him all he knows. When he thinks of his lover, he delights in sharing joy with the boy. When reminded of his son, he tells him stories to pass on.

Together, they see their city through many bountiful and troubled times. When a crop is particularly abundant, they celebrate with a festival for the entire city. When they hear of those who’ve lost their loved ones, they go to them and grieve as if their sorrow were their own.

As the boy approaches adulthood, Apothnesko begins to grow weary. His strength begins to leave him and he give more and more of his duties to his heir. One day, he grows ill and takes to his bed. The city is saddened by this news. Many send word of their love and admiration for the king that not only saved them but lived alongside them. His nephew goes to keep watch over him through the nights, determined he will not pass alone.

It’s the early hours of one morning that Apothnesko feels a hand on his shoulder, waking him with a start.

“It is okay,” says the familiar voice, “You have died. I’ve come to collect you. You will not be lost.”

“At last,” says the old king’s spirit, smiling, “Friend of my friends, loved of my beloveds - how great to see you again.”

His spirit rises up to greet the man and takes his hand. His nephew smiles, recognizing the man from the kings many stories.

“You saved our city and survived great loss,” says his nephew, “You rebuilt our home and united our people. Before you leave, please tell me what allowed you to live such a great life?”

Apothnesko turns to his nephew, his expression soft and deeply wonderfully kind. “Know that you are very mortal and that very much matters.”

With that, Apothnesko turned on his heel followed his old friend out.

#original myths #tw graphic death #tw violence #submission

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raffaeleitlodeo · 2 years

Photo

Abbandona le illusioni preparati alla lotta.

“Scusa ma di che lotta stai parlando?”

Qualche giorno fa la rivista operaviva ha pubblicato un mio testo

https://operavivamagazine.org/abbandona-le-illusioni/?fbclid=IwAR2p7k9665_v2dNnR1RTN8UfEv7qmO831r1p8gMzsXrxHgFFoHOUoyGda9A

La frase del titolo non è mia, ma di Mao Zedong, e confesso che la mia intenzione era leggermente ironica. Ma ho dimenticato che il presidente Mao non è più tanto conosciuto come era ai tempi in cui ero studente. A quel tempo, pur non essendo maoista citavo spesso Mao per fare un po’ lo spiritoso. Credo che Martina abbia capito, e infatti mi ha risposto per prendermi un po’ in giro amaramente e cortesemente: ”Ok, da dove cominciamo?”

Molti invece (e li ringrazio) mi hanno preso sul serio e mi hanno chiesto in vari modi: potresti spiegare meglio cosa vuol dire prepararsi alla lotta?

Eccomi.

Credo che tutti abbiano capito o almeno intuito che stanno per arrivare tempi ancor più oscuri di quelli che abbiamo conosciuto negli ultimi decenni.

Il fascismo ritorna, dicono i nobili amici della sinistra, che chiamano a reagire, e avvertono che i vincitori probabili si preparano (addirittura) a stravolgere la costituzione.

Ma di che costituzione stanno parlando? Quella che all’articolo 11 dice che l’Italia ripudia la guerra? O quella che all’articolo 41 dice che l’impresa privata è legittima fin quando non entra in contrasto con l’interesse pubblico? Quella costituzione non esiste più se non sulla carta, perché a nulla serve la legge se non c’è la forza per imporne i contenuti. Quella forza è stata distrutta (anzitutto dalla sinistra) ormai da qualche decennio.

Non intendo affatto minimizzare il disastro del fascismo che ritorna anche in Italia dove è stato inventato. Lo vediamo ruggire dovunque, il fascismo di ritorno: dall’India del razzismo induista, alla Russia stalino-zarista all’Ucraina di Zelenskyy, dall’America di Trump al Brasile dove un folle incendia la foresta amazzonica.

Facciamocene una ragione: il fascismo dilaga dappertutto, ma forse è qualcosa di diverso dal fascismo di un tempo, che era euforia aggressiva di popoli giovani che volevano espansione economica e conquiste coloniali, e si armavano per questo prima di precipitare nell’abisso degli anni quaranta.

Ora è diverso: si tratta della demenza di un’umanità senile, spaventata della “contro-invasione” di migranti giovani che minacciano la superiorità razziale bianca. Si tratta dell’esercizio isterico di un’aggressività senza energia. Geronto-fascismo chiamiamolo così, anche se molti suoi leader e suoi elettori sono in giovane età.

Purtroppo il geronto-fascismo dispone di armi micidiali che possono distruggere tutto, e lo stanno distruggendo.

Occorre preoccuparsi? Non so, io direi che occorre prepararsi a vivere come alieni in un pianeta che non è più riconoscibile, e come saggi in un pianeta popolato da dementi.

Quello che si è scatenato è un cataclisma di magnitudo molte volte superiore a tutti i cataclismi che abbiamo conosciuto.

Al convegno di Comunione e liberazione hanno applaudito con lo stesso entusiasmo la sovranista Meloni e il pilota automatico Draghi.

Perché? I due hanno detto cose diverse, apparentemente opposte, ma questo non cambia niente. Il rabbioso nazional-sovranismo promette sconquassi ma si piega disciplinato alla regola automatica della banca. Chi non l’ha capito continua ad accalorarsi inutilmente.

La mia preoccupazione non è Giorgia Meloni, ma il crollo di interi comparti del sistema industriale europeo provocato da una guerra criminale in cui l’Europa ha tutto da perdere e lo sta perdendo. E’ l’inflazione che schizza in alto mentre i salari sono bloccati, la disintegrazione delle strutture pubbliche che hanno fin qui sorretto la vita civile.

Il cataclisma in arrivo: temperature infernali, fiumi in secca, scarsità di risorse alimentari e di gas, mancanza di energia elettrica, e soprattutto di energia nervosa, depressione di massa e demenza aggressiva. E’ il risultato inevitabile di quaranta anni di privatizzazione generalizzata e di precarizzazione del lavoro e della vita.

Il Geronto-fascismo Meloniano vuole che le donne riprendano a fare figli per la patria, innocenti da gettare nella fornace di temperature impossibili, in un pianeta da cui sta scomparendo l’acqua.

E’ questo lo scenario che ci aspetta, non il fascismo.

I fratelli d’Italia vogliono fare la guerra contro il caos senza sapere, poveretti, che chi fa la guerra al caos non può che perderla, dato che il caos si alimenta della guerra.

Perderanno, perderanno presto. Ma intanto avranno distrutto quel poco che rimane della civiltà.

E allora di che lotta stiamo parlando? Ci saranno rivolte di massa, scioperi a oltranza di settori come i ferrovieri o i portuali inglesi ma difficilmente riusciranno a fare fronte comune, ci saranno folle impazzite dalla rabbia e dalla fame, ci saranno conflitti armati tra le risorte nazioni europee.

Ma nessuna rivoluzione potrà fermare la barbarie, perché la volontà umana ha perduto il comando sull’evoluzione.

Quella che si prepara è un’oscillazione gigante del pendolo della storia, un’oscillazione che porterà l’umanità fuori dalla storia del capitale. Ma non sarà la rivoluzione che renderà governabile il cataclisma-oscillazione.

Sarà la diserzione.

Disertare è la lotta che ci aspetta.

Disertare la guerra, prima di tutto. Disertare la guerra che divampa e divamperà sempre più largamente, perché quando il nazionalismo contagia la mente collettiva la guerra si prepara in ogni nicchia.

Disertare il lavoro salariato che tanto non serve più per sopravvivere, ma serve ad alimentare una crescita che devasta il pianeta e arricchisce solo una piccola minoranza.

Disertare il consumo di tutte quelle sostanze che come la plastica devastano l’ambiente e la mente. Alimentare comunità indipendenti che abbandonano il pianeta in fiamme (per andare dove? a questo ci penseremo).

Disertare la politica, arte inutile incapace di comprendere, e di governare.

Disertare la procreazione per non rovinare la vita di chi per sua fortuna non è ancora nato.

Ecco la lotta che ci aspetta.

Scappiamo, nascondiamoci, non investiamo energia in una gara che abbiamo già perso tutti, mettiamoci al sicuro in comunità solidali e frugali.

E ricordiamo che quando si fugge non ci limita a fuggire. Si cercano nuove armi, nuove forme di autodifesa e di attacco, si cercano radici da mangiare e semi da piantare, e forse un altro pianeta perché questo ci ha stufato.

- Franco Berardi - Bifo, Facebook

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