“It was too soon! I’m not ready for you to go.”

“You have to deal with it,” he told me in the halls of the old-school Chelsea Hotel, which we were somehow in, even though the rest of the world was still 2016 and not 1984, again — though this was more the vaguely dystopian 1984 from the film Velvet Goldmine. “Wild-Eyed Boy From Freecloud” was playing over someone’s radio. “They all have to deal with it. It’s what happened, and that’s what people do. Especially people in you position. You have nine years.”

“You and Prince were enough of this! Why do you have to have Peter, too?”

“You can barely compare us, though — Peter hadn’t really made any creative output aside from his image in over fifteen years, and even then, it’d been few and far-between for at least a decade. His flame burned fast and bright, but we were brilliant, and for decades, with careers going back to our teens, image a flash second place to what we could communicate with sound and word. Sure, we all transcended gender in ways very uncomfortable to common people, but… you know.” He almost laughed. “I love him, and I hate saying catty things, but you elevate him with us for the wrong reasons. I’m not saying he’s unimportant, I’m saying you’re giving him more importance than he had for you.”

“I miss you, though.”

“You didn’t know me!” This time, he did laugh. “I know what you mean, though. A lot of people do, especially those like you; the kids who transcended, you lost souls with hearts easily broken, who feel so hard and strong. You need to put in The Work, though.”

“but..!”

“No — just stop. You love me, you want to honour me, then put in The Work.”

“What work?”

“All of it. You’re a creature of senses, you do Work. You work with These,” he held my hands, “with These,” he touched my eyes, “These,” my ears, “This,” my throat, “and This,” my heart. “You do work. You’re far behind where you want to be, but right where you need to be. Just do The Work.”

“I love you.”

“I love you, too. I love you like Apollon has always loved you, since before you knew me, and long before I knew you. I don’t want to be frustrated with you, though. Just do The Work.”

About Ruadhán McElroy

Ruadhán has been a traditional Hellenic polytheist for about a decade, and has also maintained devotions to Eros and Apollon most of that time; his status as a devotee of Nyx is more recent. He also paints, makes music, makes jewellery, and writes novels set in the Mod Revival (UK) and Swampie (Oz) subcultures of the 1980s. He also gets a lot of odd little experiences that he jokes will forever render him an insufferable Goth.

Tykhe in my dream, recently

This one is a few days old, but still very clear, which is why I’m leaning more and more toward considering it a vision or a Conversation, rather than just one of Ruadhán’s Weird Dreams™.

She was dressed very modern; knee-length dress/skirt in white, lacey black stockings, black pumps, and a very full and lush all-fur shawl-style wrap/coat (I think it was fox?) in sort of a silvery colour, sunglasses on top of the head, holding hair back. She looked… The best way I can describe Her is “think of how Paris Hilton might look if she were strawberry-blonde and fat” —very chiselled facial features, but with otherwise plump cheeks, a bit of padding on the neck and chin, a sort of plumpness to her fingers, rounded body-shape, thick legs. She had a small child in her arms (Ploutos?), but I don’t remember much about it other than its face was always turned away from me —which is notable, since mortal children adore me, or so I presume, since they’re always staring at me.

I was on an elevator, singing to myself as I often do when I’m even awake and not just in my dreams, and she got on. I didn’t notice her at first, and so kept singing, but abruptly stopped in the middle of line when I saw her there. She speaks to me with a Cheshire sort of accent.

“Oh, continue; your voice is quite lovely.”

“It hasn’t been the same since I started my medication [HRT].”

“But it’s very lovely. You’re our Boy’s aren’t you? Do keep singing, I want to help you.”

…and that’s about where, even after I woke up from it, I don’t really remember the details anymore. I remember maybe two or three more pleas to help me, and that’s pretty much it.

I’m going to try a couple divinations to get an idea of how literally I should take what I remember, but I’m open to second opinions. Feel free to talk to me, just remember that I cannot pay you at the moment, if you want to do a divination.

About Ruadhán McElroy

Ruadhán has been a traditional Hellenic polytheist for about a decade, and has also maintained devotions to Eros and Apollon most of that time; his status as a devotee of Nyx is more recent. He also paints, makes music, makes jewellery, and writes novels set in the Mod Revival (UK) and Swampie (Oz) subcultures of the 1980s. He also gets a lot of odd little experiences that he jokes will forever render him an insufferable Goth.

Before I went to bed last night….

I tend to turn on music (radio, CD, mp3 player) before I go to bed. Either I or my mother has done this for as long as I can remember. Last night (or, more accurately, yesterday at 5am or something), I started to go to bed and turned on the radio — then this neat, albeit creepy little song came on:

[podcast]http://ofthespiae.hellenistai.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/09/Zambri%20-%20From%20the%20Start.mp3[/podcast]

…and for the duration, until it slipped into Geneva Jacuzzi, I was taken out of my room, all other sensations were relieved of me but Eros’s touch, hands, breath, all possible sights set to focus on His familiar face, hair, wings….

After it finished, I got up to find out what it was (bless you WCBN) and then this led me to their MySpace. That song has since ear-wormed me for a significant portion of the last twenty-four.

About Ruadhán McElroy

Ruadhán has been a traditional Hellenic polytheist for about a decade, and has also maintained devotions to Eros and Apollon most of that time; his status as a devotee of Nyx is more recent. He also paints, makes music, makes jewellery, and writes novels set in the Mod Revival (UK) and Swampie (Oz) subcultures of the 1980s. He also gets a lot of odd little experiences that he jokes will forever render him an insufferable Goth.

Boeotian New Year is upon me, and my dreams are getting weird….

So, this December 17th marks the Boeotian New Year (see here for the semblance of a reconstructed / new Boeotian calendar I managed to concoct), and reading a brief summary of a friend’s dream about Apollon jogged my memory of the weird things my brain threw at me last night.

In my dream, I was discussing with Eros a potential Boeotian New Year party, but the idea was still pretty much in embryo and I’d set nothing concrete. But Eros, being who he is, took it upon Himself to send out invitations to all of my friends for a party. The two weeks pass, and I really didn’t think much more of the idea of a party, since I have friends who host a pretty sweet Gregorian calendar New Year party, and that’s only two weeks after Boeotian New Year observances, so I didn’t think chances were high that anybody I could invite would come for an extra party.

…but no, the day of the party, I’m getting out of the shower for Gay Night at the club, and people have arrived for a party — while I’m in a towel, the apartment a mess, no snacks, etc…. I apologised for the misunderstanding, and invited them to come out with me, instead, and then more people show up. And then more. Then still more. And it was getting rather ridiculous, and many of them getting angry with me — some even accusing me of “having no piety at all” and just jerking my friends around.

But Eros wasn’t angry. He said that he thought he told me, and more importantly, he thought I had spoken of concrete plans and not just an idea I had thought about doing maybe. At some point, it became very clear to Him and myself that He was the only one the who wasn’t angry, so we locked ourselves in my room and performed a simple ritual with an offering of wine and fruit and performed divinations for the coming year until everybody had left.

About Ruadhán McElroy

Ruadhán has been a traditional Hellenic polytheist for about a decade, and has also maintained devotions to Eros and Apollon most of that time; his status as a devotee of Nyx is more recent. He also paints, makes music, makes jewellery, and writes novels set in the Mod Revival (UK) and Swampie (Oz) subcultures of the 1980s. He also gets a lot of odd little experiences that he jokes will forever render him an insufferable Goth.

Just in case you were curious…

I have *many* notebooks, paper notebooks, mostly those speckled, thread-bound “Composition Book” notebooks, filled with Eros, Erote, Apollon, Adonis, and related-religious stuff. About one-quarter to one-third of the contents of these notebooks is coherent poetry, some of it is even something that I would consider good (and I’ve turned being my own worst critic into an art). Maybe one-fifth of the content is ritual outlines and/or draft versions of rit that I swear I will polish up, one of these days. Between fifteen and twenty percent are re-written mythos, including draft versions.

The remaining 30-45% of this content?

Very incoherent!

It’s a mish-mash of half-thoughts, waking dreams, hastily jotted-down “gnosis”-like bits, and so forth. I have a separate dream journal that I have worked out a “system” for, and can totally decipher, if asked to by nosy friends who sometimes go through the books I attempt to hastily conceal under my bed. I’m not talking about my dream journal. Sometimes, I’ll scry or burn bay or get into a quasi-meditative state and wind up jotting down whatever weird shit comes into my head; that’s what I’m talking about. Sometimes, I’ll just be going about my day, maybe I’m in the shower, maybe I’m making my own dinner, and suddenly get a thought that I just somehow “know” has to be logged in this indecipherable system of notebooks (and these notebooks haven’t much in the way of a coherent system), and this thought must get written down, even if I end up dragging soapy water all through the apartment, even if I burn my food, because this is something that has to get logged, no matter how “trivial” (less than two lines), no matter how “crazy” (seemingly unconnected words, speedily drawn flow-charts that suddenly make not one bit of sense two minutes after I jot it down, three-to-ten word phrases repeated for several lines and then stopped with a completely different line written once…); that’s what I’m talking about.

I know that there are people who, upon seeing this stuff, may very well question my sanity. I am well-aware of this. In fact, it is there mere existence of these notebooks, specifically that whole third of them (possibly more) that ends up reading like the literary equivalent of a Genesis P-Orridge sound project or a Yoko Ono experimental film anthology, that I take great offense on certain Hellenic e-mail lists to people misjudge my practise by my tendencies to resort to hard-nosed and often pedantic degrees of logic in threads and claim that “[I’m] not a mystic”. I need these long tirades of logic, reason, and pedantic academia to balance all of the weird shit that bounces around my head throughout my days; I thouroughly believe in this logic, or else it wouldn’t be the logic I use in these threads, but at the same time, I also acknowledge that there are things going on in the “spiritual part of my brain” (for lack of a better descriptive) that I don’t completely understand the mechanics behind. I haven’t had any injuries or prolonged periods of lacking oxygen, nor do I have a sort of seizure disorder that can easily explain these occurrences as a mild degree of brain damage. I have been tested for and lack the typical neurochemical imbalances commonly associated with schizophrenic or schizotypal disorders. In fact, the scans I went through as a teenager seem to indicate that my brain, biologically speaking, is relatively normal. My current knowledge thus suggests to me that these experiences are, to at least some degree, mystical in nature, and I just don’t know how to interpret what any of this means.

So, in the meantime, I write casual essays and articles and re-written mythos and I share that with the Hellenic community on-line. I know what to make of these pieces. I understand where it comes from, and I know what it all means two minutes after I write it down.

If you have any interest in trying to help me make sense of what this remaining 1/3 of my notebooks mean, you can now feel free to contact me at the e-mail address I’ve provided here. Please be prepared to explain to me why you are qualified to decipher this brain-spew; also, be warned, that I’m very poor (on disability allowance for physical reasons) and it is not worth your time to try and swindle me.

About Ruadhán McElroy

Ruadhán has been a traditional Hellenic polytheist for about a decade, and has also maintained devotions to Eros and Apollon most of that time; his status as a devotee of Nyx is more recent. He also paints, makes music, makes jewellery, and writes novels set in the Mod Revival (UK) and Swampie (Oz) subcultures of the 1980s. He also gets a lot of odd little experiences that he jokes will forever render him an insufferable Goth.

From the Dream Journal

I’m not sure what city I was in, but that’s unimportant.  I start out walking along the pavement with this guy I sort of know in what appears to be one of those older, formerly Middle Class areas of a city like Chicago — the houses are all rather tall and almost all of them have these wrought iron gates.  Then there’s this HUGE house.  Did I say HUGE?  Make that HUGE house.  It’s up on this hill and has this HUGE front garden with fountains.

We stop in front of it to look at this garden and the gates open so, curious, we step in an only after we’ve stepped in, we see all of these “people”, whom neither of us saw as we were just standing out on the pavement looking inward.  Most of them look to be in this ambiguous sort of 25-40 age range, most of them fit, but there are maybe three or four who are really skinny and about the same number who are really fat.  All of them are wearing sparse clothing, like ancient tunics and tropical sarongs, all in really elaborate patterns.  They don’t really seem to be paying us much mind at first, and are just merrily gallivanting about.

I remember this garden rather vividly, even after being up for a few hours.  There are a lot of almond blossom trees that are flowering, several lilacs trees, a few elaborately trimmed evergreen shrubs with the branches sort of woven into spirals.  I recall a bunch of rose bushes, some of them pruned into miniature trees, but most of them not, and I noted a bunch of fuschias.

To get to the house atop the hill, there’s this really elaborate layout of steps.  almost all of the steps have some kind of elaborate mosaic that looks rather Graeco-Roman.  I remember remarking to my companion that a few of the figures in the mosaics included Dionysos, Apollon, Eros, Hermaphroditos, Hyakinthos, Adonis, several zodiac symbols, and some writing that I either couldn’t read or don’t remember right now.

The house itself is also oddly elaborate.  It looks kind of like a cross between a Victorian octagonal house and a sort of ancient Graeco-Roman stadium.  There are grape vines and rose vines growing up around a lot of columns places around the house to create a sort of “hanging garden” appearance; the house is at least three stories high and the columns go up about two and a half stories with connector beams placed at even-spaces heights in about three or four tiers.  Ivy is growing up the house itself.

The doors are just wide open, so we walk right in and on either side of the entry foyer is a reproduction of the Praxiteles Eros, and there’s a really pretty fountain, the base of which appears to be all glass except for some discreet copper piping that you can see through the glass.  A woman rushes over to us and announces frantically that “they” have been expecting us.  In a sort of Rocky Horror kind of fashion, we’re stripped down and redressed in some elaborately embroidered linen tunics, and we’re ushered into this hallway.

In the hallway, the walls and floor and ceiling are decorated in similarly elaborate (gawd, I wish I could think of another word right now) mosaics to the steps outside.  Oil lamp sconces are places pretty high up the walls at even intervals of about a couple yards each; high up enough to keep from getting knocked into, but low enough to provide adequate light.  We seem to be heading rather gradually upward, it’s not very steep, but when we get to the end, there’s this HUGE room; it’s got to be about an acre in area, at least, probably more.  There’s a very shallow pool about a few feet in; very shallow, only about two inches deep itself, but the water doesn’t get more than maybe half an inch deep.  There are steps that water seems to be flowing down.  The steps are about deep enough for an adult to comfortably sit on.

The the top of these steps, twelve or thirteen of them, if this huge sort of”window-box” shrine.  It’s about four feet high and three feet deep into the wall.  People have left all sorts of things there: small statuettes, bouquets of flowers, baskets of fruits, candles, hand-written pieces, and in the wall at the back inside of this “window box” is a stained glass sort of mosaic of Eros, Apollon, Adonis, and Aphrodite, and it’s illuminated in the back.  On the steps are sitting and reclining and laying on their bellies several people (about seven to ten each of men and women), but about twice as many statues.

I crawl up the stairs and sit in front of the shrine, almost exactly in front of the illuminated picture.  I beg my companion to come up and sit with me, as he’s stayed back before the pool.  After much pleading and arm-waving, he starts up.  Just as our fingers are about to touch, I wake up.

About Ruadhán McElroy

Ruadhán has been a traditional Hellenic polytheist for about a decade, and has also maintained devotions to Eros and Apollon most of that time; his status as a devotee of Nyx is more recent. He also paints, makes music, makes jewellery, and writes novels set in the Mod Revival (UK) and Swampie (Oz) subcultures of the 1980s. He also gets a lot of odd little experiences that he jokes will forever render him an insufferable Goth.

Dream follow-up

That beautiful young man contacted me in another dream a couple of days ago.  This time, I was falling asleep on the couch in the middle of the day (which is common for me, because I don’t usually sleep very well at night and every few weeks, I’ll have two or three days in a row where I nap periodically throughout the day).  I was only asleep about an hour that day, but I still remember things very vividly. 

This time, I think I was wearing a grey suit (which I don’t currently own, but which looked FAB-u-lous on me) with my white French-cuff shirt with the lavender pin-stripes and my hair had grown some (which I didn’t think much of at the time, and I still don’t, really, because I prefer the way I look with my hair a little longer — but if anybody feels like picking this apart, I’m going to go into detail).  Also keep in mind that I keep my hair white — not “platinum blond” but really white.  My default icon is pretty accurate, though my hair has grown some since Susie did that picture.

He’s the same man, but he’s winged this time — feathery, like a bird’s, and while generally “white”, somehow silvery.

I’m crying for some reason, I can’t exactly tell why, but he scoops me up and wraps himself around me and suddenly, I feel fine, and very warm.  He holds my head to his chest and whispers “I’ve always been here, and I’ve always been with you.  Don’t ever forget that, as so many before you have.”  When I woke up, first I felt like I was going to lose contact with him, then I realised that I can’t.  Also, my “logic” was telling me to find out who exactly this was, but my “gut” it telling me Eros.

Am I supposed to take on a priest role now?  What the hell?  I have no money, an insane fear of leaving the apartment in the winter and absolutely no clue what to do after this, but I have the feeling I’m supposed to be doing something, but what?

Sometimes it’s easiest to just be told what to do.

About Ruadhán McElroy

Ruadhán has been a traditional Hellenic polytheist for about a decade, and has also maintained devotions to Eros and Apollon most of that time; his status as a devotee of Nyx is more recent. He also paints, makes music, makes jewellery, and writes novels set in the Mod Revival (UK) and Swampie (Oz) subcultures of the 1980s. He also gets a lot of odd little experiences that he jokes will forever render him an insufferable Goth.

Strange dream I had last night

OK, I’m at this point where I’ve lost a lot of the details, probably because I fell asleep on the love-seat (for those not in-the-know, yes, I really am that short that I can sleep on a love-seat comfortably) and thus far away from my writing-books.  I’m probably going to have an epiphany on what all of this means in a week or so (as is common with my really weird dreams that don’t seem to make any sense — they turn out to be vaguely prophetic or have some kind of really deep meaning that just suddenly hits me like a hand on a porn-star’s arse), but if anybody else wants to take a stab at it, here goes:

I’m wearing just simple grey slacks with matching waistcoat and my lavender pin-stripe shirt with the French cuffs and a silvery purple tie.  Not that unusual, considering my tastes.

There’s a man, a young man, approximately in the 17-27 age-range and I’d say his hair was maybe a little darker than “chestnut” in colour and kind of wavy.  about chin-length, but just a little higher up on the jaw, like it just had a trim a few days before.  What really struck me was his eyes — that really weird kind of light blue with a sort of dark blue ring outlining the irises — I think i’d only seen eyes like that on some actress playing a with in an old Hammer film.  I’d also say he was fit, but not disgustingly so.  His face was also very striking — chiselled jawline and nose, but not cartoonishly so.  His weird-blue eyes were also rather large for a guy, which probably helped make him look younger.  He was generally rather hairless on the face, but there was a soft dark hair on his arms and legs and running down from his navel.  He’s dressed in a Utilikilt style garment, and not really much else.

So, enough about him.

I was on a train with him.  Trains are actually rather common “stage settings” in my dreams, so I usually don’t think much of them, but this time around, it was one of those sort of fancy trains that you see in films set in the 1920s — I guess we were in “first class” or something, cos we were sitting in one of those little alcoves with the door shutting out the other passengers and with the two seats facing each-other.  He was sitting across from me and somebody else comes in, so he motions for me to sit beside him so that this other passenger can sit across, but before I actually sit, he gets up and takes hold of the back of my head, and kisses me along the jawline and then I don’t actually sit on the seat, but on the floor beside his legs; it’s a natural movement for me to go sit on the floor when this other passenger comes in.  Nothing’s forced, so I’m acting submissive but not actually submitting, if you understand the difference.  I am more like kneeling than sitting with my arm wrapped around his thigh from the underside and my other hand rested on his knee.  He and the other person, who’s either obscured by waiting so long to write it all down or was obscured from the beginning, they begin talking.  I can’t exactly tell what about, but I remember the words “oldest,” “younger,” “he” (in reference to me), and “beautiful.”  This conversation seemed to go on a while.

At some point, the other figure looked down at me, I somehow remember them smiling and then reaching out and touching my hair.  But they never really seemed to end their conversation, it kept going on after that, and I don’t have any recollections of any words that might have been said.

It ended very strangely.  He looks down at me and I utter “why do you love me?” and he responds “because.”

..now, this was strange because that’s about when the cat did something annoying and I just kind of eased awake.  It was not a sudden state of being awake; I think my brain might have been trying to get me to go back to sleep so I could hear the rest, but I just sort of “woke up” and quite pissed with the cat.  I know it was the cat cos I suddenly hear a miaow like one of them was trying to get my attention.

If anybody wants to offer any insight, please feel free.  I’m suddenly at a loss for explanations on what any of this could mean.  Granted, I’ve lost a lot of details which may explain a lot more, so if anybody has any ideas on what to do about that, please, offer away!

About Ruadhán McElroy

Ruadhán has been a traditional Hellenic polytheist for about a decade, and has also maintained devotions to Eros and Apollon most of that time; his status as a devotee of Nyx is more recent. He also paints, makes music, makes jewellery, and writes novels set in the Mod Revival (UK) and Swampie (Oz) subcultures of the 1980s. He also gets a lot of odd little experiences that he jokes will forever render him an insufferable Goth.