#mythology
Enid Yandell (1869-1934, US-American)
Atena of Velletri
Nashville Centennial Exposition, 1897
Photo by Bruce G. Harvey
#greek #mythology #pandora #ai
(Our present day Artificial Intelligence. AI. Can we get control of it?)
PANDORA'S BOX
John William Waterhouse
1896
- Something that creates a lot of new problems that you did not expect:
- The god Prometheus stole fire from heaven to give to the human race, which originally consisted only of men. To punish humanity, the other gods created the first woman, the beautiful Pandora. As a gift, Zeus gave her a box, which she was told never to open. However, as soon as he was out of sight she took off the lid, and out swarmed all the troubles of the world, never to be recaptured. Only Hope was left in the box, stuck under the lid. Anything that looks ordinary but may produce unpredictable harmful results can thus be called a Pandora's Box.
Nordic Mythical Creatures #nordics #norway #mythology #finland - YouTube
Hahha! Number 1 made my day!
For #gaoturday
Heidrun the goat!
Heiðrún or Heidrun is a nanny goat in Norse mythology, that consumes the foliage of the tree Læraðr and produces mead from her udders for the einherjar. She is described in the Poetic Edda and Prose Edda.
@Girl Of The Sea
#RgVeda and we want to be careful about whether this degrades everything:
93-94. (?) The Pitṛs named Ājyapās are the sons born of Pulaha who was born of Kardama, the Prajāpati. They reside in those worlds which can go wherever one desires. They move about in the sky in various forms and shapes. The groups of Vaiśyas who seek benefit worship these Pitṛs in Śrāddha.
Their mental daughter is well known by the name Virajā. She was the chaste wife of Nahuṣa and the mother of Yayāti.
The Pitṛs named Sukālas are the sons of the noble-souled Vasiṣṭha, son of Hiraṇyagarbha (Brahmā). The Śūdras worship them.
Those worlds where they stay in the #heaven are #Mānasa by name. Their mental daughter is Narmadā, the most excellent river.
She sanctifies the living beings as she proceeds along the Dakṣiṇāpatha (southern tract and territory). She was the #wife of #Purukutsa and the #mother of #Trasaddasyu.
It is after accepting these that Manu the lord of the Manvantara initiates the Śrāddha rites everywhere.
It's of course a little weird, hard to tell who is intended to be human. Maybe weirder to think of Arya kings as "wedded" to the southern #Narmada #River.
#Rudra is reborn in each of these #Manvantaras, and #Agni and the #Pitrs are the only thing that stays the same.
Individuals change names, classes change jobs, for example Sadhyas are now Adityas, everything else is a flux besides Agni and Pitrs.
So those are two branches that use his two wives, ##Svaha and Svadha, for the #ending of #mantras. They are his #power or, i. e. Svaha carries mantras to #Devas, Svadha to the Pitrs, Sraddha Rite, which upon examination is about #Time rather than #ancestors. Agni shows manifested units of time, the #day, #year, etc., whereas Pitrs are much like #Father-Time, duration in the abstract.
Most streams of Purana have dissipated all this, such as:
Sādhya (साध्य) refers to a group of deities that was once worshipped in ancient #Kashmir (Kaśmīra) according to the Nīlamatapurāṇa.—Various groups of the deities like #Ādityas, #Vasus, #Sādhyas, #Viśvedevas and #Maruts have their place in the #pantheon of the #Nīlamata but nothing significant is said about them.
Or they may be found shuffled in to #Shiva #Ganas that have nothing to do with this.
Where discussed, they may include:
Arthasiddhi
Brahmāṇḍa-purāṇa II. 24. 27; 38. 3.
and importantly:
Viṣṇu, Nārāyaṇa, lying in sleep in the vast mass of water.*
- Vāyu-purāṇa 23. 108.
live in Bhuvarloka; Nārāyaṇa, their overlord
in the [Śatapatha-brāhmaṇa] their world is said to be above the sphere of the gods; according to Yāska [Nirukta, by Yāska xii, 41] their locality is the Bhuvarloka or middle region between the #earth and #sun;
in the later mythology they seem to be superseded by the Siddhas
The easily-copied rosters of Sadhyas are:
Manas, Mantṛ, Prāṇa, Nara, Pāna, Vinirbhaya, Naya, Daṃśa, Nārāyaṇa, Vṛṣa, Prabhu
Mana, Anumanta, Prāṇa, Nara, Apāna, Vīryavān, Vīti, Naya, Haya, Haṃsa, Nārāyaṇa, Vibhu, and Prabhu
The latter, from #Brihadaranyaka #Upanishad, is in the context that they take birth at will, consciously. The same group of entities changes names and kingdoms; the twelve #souls have #continuity. And so they remember that they once were, on the ideal or ideational plane:
Prāṇa, Apāna, Udāna, Samāna, Vyāna, Cakṣus, Śrotram, Rasa, Ghrāṇa, Sparśa, Buddhi and Manas.
There for example is #Mind's Eye, #Caksus, which is unlike #Indra, because #ordinary #vision requires a physical #eyeball and a #psychological response to stimulus, may be easily tricked. This is i#ncorporeal vision that represents #Perfect #Sight.
"Later #mythology" means the Sadhyas appear in #Mahabharata numerous times, but, barely have any references in Bhagavata Purana.
" #Narayana" is in #Rg-Veda as the author of Purusha Sukta. That's it
#celtic #mythology
Mórrigan, was a great warrior-queen goddess in Irish-Celtic mythology.
https://www.youtube.com/shorts/YTyBBusogXM
Legends
I ride far upon a mare of the night
she of high fame and noble descent
snorting displeasure at my feeble attempt
to guide by the stars her unfettered flight.
We ventured to caverns lit by bright vermin.
We enjoyed the charm of enchanting seers.
I held the heart of folk I hold dear in a dream
carried lightly in my pocket, far yet too near,
for the fear came upon me
again and again that I might fail, might fall,
might show cracks of desperation
and who could love me now?
Who could find me bare and broken,
hear the words I could not speak,
recite the words that I must hear
to retrace, to find my place,
on back of a sacred mare,
back on my sacrificial journey?
Love becomes too great a luxury.
I must be free to name my price.
I travel the vast reaches of space for you.
I delve into my deepest pain to offer
painted posies, dripping in consecrated wine.
Where would I not rush in if I could blast the barriers
to bring your treasure, wrapped in shining glory?
Alas, Alack, these treasures I claim in your honor
are not those of your own demand.
Again I face you bent and bowed with empty hand.
I can not face such failure anymore.
We ride, I astride my plucky equine avatar.
She is, as it has turned, my only friend.
Our adventures become legion, become legend.
I’ll not be bringing home that story.
The Mystery of the Kingdom that Sank into the Ocean
Welsh Mythology That Appears To Be Based In History Forgot
#Mythology #HIstory #Wales #Welsh #CambrianChronicles #MedievalHistory
Virginia Frances Sterrett (1900-1931, US-American)
She Whipped Up the Snakes and Ascended High over the City
Illustration for Tanglewood Tales by Nathaniel Hawthorne, The Penn Publishing Company, 1921
Chapter: The Minotaur (page 17)
#VirginiaFrancesSterrett #illustration #mythology #painting #art #paintings
Samhainic Verse
Caught up in my Demeter role
I brought winter to my grieving soul.
Numbing ice, concealing snow,
No nurturing soil for seed to sow.
Longing to sleep in dreamless haze,
Aching for peace from ravaging rage,
I ask to serve, to give to others' lives
what I am bereft of.
But the gods in their wisdom,
send me to fools,
wicked, nasty fools who mock me
knowing not my sorrow, knowing not what I disguise.
Hiding behind hysterically blinded eyes,
I prepare for my journey deep below.
Others have travelled this path before me
and lived to tell the tale,
strengthened by their devotion
to their stolen loves.
In a bubble of my own clouded atmosphere,
I shall fear no evil.
Blood coagulates around my heart
allowing no feeling
but deadening pain.
My lips are bound.
My tearducts desiccated by vacuum.
Thus am I prepared.
I am not prepared at all
for what I may find.
But neither do I care.
This is all about desperation.
This is all about emotion so intense
that I am beyond response;
there is nothing left to feel.
Step by step
I descend.
Something about a veil.
But more like
a brick wall --
there may be explosives
hidden behind that solid image.
It seems unyielding.
There are glimmers,
minor crumblings.
At times the bricks seem to shift.
Unexplained.
If I let myself,
if I am very quiet,
molecules move silently,
disarming resistance,
there will appear a stair
to my senses of solid granite,
wet with the drip of
melting ice.
Treacherous.
A misstep could kill me,
falling all the way,
breaking stair by stair.
I must take care.
Make careful measure:
What is the true worth
of what I might find?
My weight is unsteady.
Gaping below --
a colorless vortex,
a lake of emptiness
sucking in all sensation.
It is enormous, all-consuming.
My salvation.
I leap.
Overwhelmed,
I am sucked in and through,
breathlessly,
silently,
alone in the Universe
of silent, inexorable,
intensity.
Pulled into an event horizon
a singularity
another, nether realm.
Every act
Every thought
Every dream
Every wish
Everyone I'd lost
at every stage of
our shared experience.
Every sin.
Here they live,
each acting out it's own story
in a cavernous space,
of encapsulated dioramas.
I don't sense my body
-- only a vague weight
of uncertain dimensions.
It is time released --
all happening at once eternally.
No choice but to let it wash over me,
wave after chaotic, metaphoric wave.
Sound/light/fragrance/taste/touch/emotion
craftily embodied in exquisite, endless pain.
Is there a voice here?
Is there a way to make it talk
in reasonable tones?
Is there a way to unravel the senses,
to frame neat packets of sense
and talk with them reasonably?
Is there a rationale within which
to deal with the feelings,
to put them in place,
rational and calm and dignified?
Is it too much to ask?
And of whom?
There is no guide, no authority,
none but me, infinitely mirrored.
What will become of all these "I"s
staring at me, demanding
retribution, stark, cold justice
Just Ice and Cold and bitter, stinging snow
to wrap my frozen soul in hope of sleep
while Nazgul track my dreams.
The innocent must bear the sacrifice.
Power too dangerous to the wise
and power-enabled,
that would overtake their skills,
turn them to evil purpose,
may be safely given to innocent hands, destroying
only the sacrificial lamb.
The wise, in their compassion,
may suffer unhealing wounds
of painful knowledge;
but the innocent are destroyed,
pitted inside out by corrosion,
unable to fight,
unable to understand.
I am not wise, nor innocent.
I look into the battalion of
mirrored images
and am left just short of
destruction,
picking at scabs,
unwilling to heal
my agony of remorse
and betrayal.
I didn't know,
couldn't know,
no one told me.
They said:
"Do what you are told.
It will all be alright in the end."
But whose end, right for whom?
What is the treasure I have come here seeking?
That sweet, sparkling child,
who played upon the hillside,
picking flowers
to weave into our hair --
I didn't mean to leave her unprotected.
I left her in the care of trusted friends
while I went off to earn our daily bread.
The screaming
in my heart
as she was taken,
the shattering reverberations,
I'd never known such pain.
It stopped me in my tracks,
overcame my senses,
never leaves me, never lessens,
though in time, like anything, I guess
recedes into background noise
that I may hear my orders,
do as duty demands.
But, duty to what demands?
The gods,
my very brethren,
I realize, have betrayed me.
Cut to my womanly core
to drink my blood in bacchanalia.
The mirror images smile grotesquely.
I am sickened,
brought to my humbled knees,
not in obeisance.
I have not the strength nor will
to stand.
Perhaps I shall dwell here in hell,
unmoving,
unresponsive,
bleeding out,
pale and ashen.
Serving them no more.
No bread upon the table.
Just Ice and snow.
II.
"Mommy," she cried, dead eyes open,
awash in tears,
"I didn't mean to leave you.
I didn't know I would be gone so long."
My desiccated heart bathes gladly
in those soothing tears.
I am brought back to my journey.
The mirror images have softened.
Every face, every form, every failure,
every sin
I can't quite grasp why it would matter,
how these essences
combine with mine.
Perhaps I am hallucinating.
Perhaps none of us
exist at all.
Baby girl, I have always loved you.
Hated you for dying.
Hated life and death for dividing us.
Hated, blamed,
damned to hell,
all those mirror images,
all those wraiths and wretched
wayward souls who pass me by.
I have loved and lost and
lonely wandered.
And wondered why.
I hold you close as
I look into the mirror, deeply,
drink of the magick of lethe.
Falling, gently, easily, even leisurely,
letting go and drinking in,
all that Hell allows
now that we create the rules.
Caught up in my Hecate role,
I feel the power of my soul.
Rain and wind and ice and snow
I feel you all from here below,
and revel in elemental energy.
I am the wind, the seas, the fire
I am all will and all desire.
It is me you love, and me you hate --
I am the master of your fate.
Yet I am hidden from all sight,
beyond the reach or need of light.
I have found my peace,
my place, my voice.
Take heed, O' mortal,
create your choice.
Create it every day.
#poetry #samhain #mythology #persephone #demeter #hecate
https://web.archive.org/web/20091027151908/http://geocities.com/libramoon.geo/cosmicpoetry.html
Jakob Jordaens (1593-1678, Flemish)
The Rest of Diana
1655
#JakobJordaens #mythology #baroque #painting #art #paintings
For time immemorial, a belief has persisted in the collective unconscious: breaking a #mirror brings bad luck, specifically seven years of misfortune. This well-known #superstition has traversed centuries and cultures, but where does it originate from? To answer this question, we must journey back to the time of Ancient Rome, where this peculiar custom appears to have taken root. #mythology https://activite-paranormale.net/news/read/18717/why-is-it-said-that-breaking-a-mirror-causes-seven-years-of-unhappiness
