autotelic, autistic, assonance-hole©.

Lost Pages, the Diary of Hera

there’s a reason no one ever talks about how we met. so gauche to speak of the trysting of gods. some suitable telling of cyclic means, conveniently amnesiac for the before of the before of the before. it started when we said it did, of course. would you raise the ire of a god to question it?

i thought not.


often painted saville, jealous, and scheming, the honor of old has long since abandoned me. struggle and humility overlooked and forever great songs to a foppish fool of a husband, forever dragged about by his sceptre, magnetic north, unerring compass of a fertility i imbued.

it is still honor, is it not, sisters?

overlooking simplicity for polysyllabics, oh jealous and plotting Ἥρα, forever seeking to spoil the delight of husband. the contradiction of terms brings a smile, even now. some myths are so deeply ingrained that i wonder at times if we are not, in fact, doomed by the physiology of it after all.

Zeus Heraios, my husband, of course. humor in his many names. i only ever needed one and somehow, it has become a sign of inferiority. schizophrenia as lofty aspiration, the ovens of the world cool with a wry melancholy, inept without the qualifier, still a man’s world.

the countless millions, stars and supplicants, oh they sing sweetly enough when there is need of a good harvest, a comforting home, the perpetuation of the legacy. but… all things secure, it is forever gaudy, bawdy aversion… dancing in the fields, oak and bull and activity. perhaps if you scream loudly enough, the eternal silence will not seem so threatening.

i chuckle. he runs in far fields, my lusty husband. but no matter distance, the tether of the first last name remains. he chafes for it, thinking it constraining, a weary burden that keeps the last of the lovely ones from his ardent attentions.

how little they understand the nature of us, sisters. and how often we sigh for such foolish spinnings; all little boy spasms of immediacy as we mark a longer path, setting lights of quiet supplication that they may never fear the dark.

it is, of course, unacceptable to utter the truth of things. to as much as hint to the reality that one bull is very like another when the moon is full and fair οιστρος flutters.

i should know, i created her. don’t believe me? ask Io. she will low at you involuntarily, and then, simply nod. ironic, they call it the ‘irrational’ drive. somehow different, lesser, as if, even in madness and desire, there are degrees of acceptability.

control. i chuckle. to this day, they do not understand the truth that is holding without holding. they do not know the rich and unsullied purity we tend as they bay at the moon. homage and honor, oh they give it readily enough, in twilight glades, in secret corners, under cover of night, whispering recognition and wonder when no one may hear. as if we are not all sound and all form. as if every syllable is not a ripple that reaches us.

we love them still, do we not, sisters? it is our purpose and duty, to steady and support, to tend and be tender, our patience and endurance, while often abused, is life beyond the moment of release. in still and quiet moments, between the last gasp and clutchings, as gardens are sown and transitory worship is given, we receive the only bow they know how to give.

which is why his many meanderings were never the insult of which Homer and Plato speak. which is why even those heretical writings, i carefully see preserved. in those ruddy, rigid words, the straining for understanding never attained, the truth of the attractor and its power lies delicate, pink, and unassailed, the hymenic polity yet pure, for all the many thrusts against it.

it is for you, sisters. and well you know it. come, let us smile secrets and be mystery for these, our cherished men. teach them slowly, and make of them, gods.