Sosibos the Lakedaimonian, by way of proving that the fig-tree is a discovery of Dionysos, says that for that reason the Lakedaimonians even worship Dionysos Sykites (of the Fig). And the Naxians, according to Andriskos and again Aglaosthenes, record that Dionysos is called Meilikhios (Gentle) because he bestowed the fruit of the fig. For this reason, also, among the Naxians the face of the god called Dionysos Bakkheos is made of the vine, whereas that of Dionysos Meilikhios is of fig-wood. For, they say, figs are called meilikha (mild fruit).
Athenaeus, Deipnosophistae 3. 78a (trans. Gullick) (Greek rhetorician C2nd to 3rd A.D.)
He was said to have discovered all tree-fruits, amongst which apples and figs are particularly mentioned; and he was referred to as “well-fruited,” “he of the green fruit,” and “making the fruit to grow.” One of his titles was “teeming” or “bursting” (as of sap or blossoms); and there was a Flowery Dionysus in Attica and at Patrae in Achaia. The Athenians sacrificed to him for the prosperity of the fruits of the land. Amongst the trees particularly sacred to him, in addition to the vine, was the pine-tree. The Delphic oracle commanded the Corinthians to worship a particular pine-tree “equally with the god,” so they made two images of Dionysus out of it, with red faces and gilt bodies. In art a wand, tipped with a pine-cone, is commonly carried by the god or his worshippers. Again, the ivy and the fig-tree were especially associated with him. In the Attic township of Acharnae there was a Dionysus Ivy; at Lacedaemon there was a Fig Dionysus; and in Naxos, where figs were called meilicha, there was a Dionysus Meilichios, the face of whose image was made of fig-wood.
Sir James George Frazer, The Golden Bough, Chapter 42
And all the host of heaven shall be dissolved, and the heavens shall be rolled together as a scroll: and all their host shall fall down, as the leaf falleth off from the vine, and as a falling fig from the fig tree. (Isaiah 34:4)
And the stars of heaven fell unto the earth, even as a fig tree casteth her untimely figs, when she is shaken of a mighty wind. (Revelation 6:13)
How my body and the temperature do not match—a basic reminder of how even measurement is subjective and so being bewildered.
Not being able to do “regular” push ups continuously, but alternating between doing two on my knees and two not on my knees and so alternating between feeling impatient and empowered.
Alternating between sleeping on the couch and sleeping in the bed, sometimes serene and sometimes restless.
When San Diego looks tropical because of this plant or that plant. I am involved with Jasmine, especially.
Watching Lester scratch pin feathers from the top of his head, the ones he won’t let me scratch yet. When tenderness feels impossible, I look at Lester.
A floor with dust, feathers and smudges on it. It is not my floor, but I use it. Guilt that I am not cleaning the floor right now.
I couldn’t get the bind today Marichyasana D, even though I’ve been able to do it for the past few weeks, with assistance.
To show up to practice, regularly, and not have expectations or judgments about it.
Many figs just fell on my head, and it reminded me that I have a project about being hit with fruit and throwing fruit. And Jessica Smith reminded me of this section from The Bell Jar:
“I saw my life branching out before me like the green fig tree in the story. From the tip of every branch, like a fat purple fig, a wonderful future beckoned and winked. One fig was a husband and a happy home and children, and another fig was a famous poet and another fig was a brilliant professor, and another fig was Ee Gee, the amazing editor, and another fig was Europe and Africa and South America, and another fig was Constantin and Socrates and Attila and a pack of other lovers with queer names and offbeat professions, and another fig was an Olympic lady crew champion, and beyond and above these figs were many more figs I couldn’t quite make out. I saw myself sitting in the crotch of this fig tree, starving to death, just because I couldn’t make up my mind which of the figs I would choose. I wanted each and every one of them, but choosing one meant losing all the rest, and, as I sat there, unable to decide, the figs began to wrinkle and go black, and, one by one, they plopped to the ground at my feet.”
(The summit of Stonewall mountain—a not very exhausting hike)
We work too hard
We’re too tired
to fall in love.
Therefore we must
overthrow the government.
We work too hard
We’re too tired
to overthrow the government.
Therefore we must
fall in love.
— Rod Smith
The old Spooks By Me is now sitting in an xml file on my hard drive, and may return again when I can figure out how to import those posts into Tumblr. Wordpress became too much of a technical pain to use, so I’m not going to use it anymore.
Rod’s poem has been quoted a lot recently (see An Army of Lovers by David Buuck & Juliana Spahr, Brian Ang’s Manifesto #3: Poetry & Militancy, etc. etc. ). I relate to the part about being tired and working too hard, to the circuitous nature of the poem, the idea that love and overthrowing the government are connected and possibly even substitutions for one another. The idea that certain kinds of love tend to occur in certain kinds of governments and social structures and communities while other kinds of love are not allowed.
But mostly the tired part. Anne Boyer, I know must be tired, too, but how do you write so much? Or Kate Zambreno, how do you write so much? I’d like to lay down on my couch for days and listen to the great blue herons on the Cornell Lab Bird Cam while drifting in and out of sleep, except that there’s no way that could possibly happen, ever. And then I’d just be sleeping not writing and reading. Perhaps some kinds of writing can only happen with exhaustion.