Gaia, the Return of the Earth Goddess

Temple worship in Ur, from Sumerian times. Note in the lower panel people are bringing all sort of goods to the temple represented as the abstract structure on the right. 

House founded by An, praised by Enlil, given an oracle by mother Nintud! A house, at its upper end a mountain, at its lower end a spring! A house, at its upper end threefold indeed. Whose well-founded storehouse is established as a household, whose terrace is supported by lahama deities; whose princely great wall, the shrine of Urim! (the Kesh temple hymn, ca. 2600 BCE)

Not long ago, I found myself involved in a debate on Gaian religion convened by Erik Assadourian. For me, it was a little strange. For the people of my generation, religion is supposed to be a relic of the past, opium of the people, a mishmash of superstitions, something for old women mumbling ejaculatory prayers, things like that. But, here, a group of people who weren't religious in the traditional sense of the word, and who included at least two professional researchers in physics, were seriously discussing about how to best worship the Goddess of Earth, the mighty, the powerful, the divine, the (sometimes) benevolent Gaia, She who keeps the Earth alive.

It was not just unsettling, it was a deep rethinking of many things I had been thinking. I had been building models of how Gaia could function in terms of the physics and the biology we know. But here, no, it was not Gaia the holobiont, not Gaia the superorganism, not Gaia the homeostatic system. It was Gaia the Goddess.

And here I am, trying to explain to myself why I found this matter worth discussing. And trying to explain it to you, readers. After all, this is being written in a blog titled "Chimeras" -- and the ancient Chimera was a myth about a creature that, once, must have been a sky goddess. And I have been keeping this blog for several years, see? There is something in religion that remains interesting even for us, moderns. But, then, what is it, exactly?

I mulled over the question for a while and I came to the conclusion that, yes, Erik Assadourian and the others are onto something: it may be time for religion to return in some form. And if religion returns, it may well be in the form of some kind of cult of the Goddess Gaia. But let me try to explain

What is this thing called "religion," anyway?

Just as many other things in history that go in cycles, religion does that too. It is because religion serves a purpose, otherwise it wouldn't have existed and been so common in the past. So what is religion? It is a long story but let me start from the beginning -- the very beginning, when, as the Sumerians used to say "Bread was baked for the first time in the ovens".

A constant of all ancient religions is that they tell us that whatever humans learned to do -- from fishing to having kings -- it was taught them by some God who took the trouble to land down from heaven (or from wherever Gods come from) just for that purpose. Think of when the Sumerian Sea-God called Aun (also Oannes in later times) emerged out of the Abzu (that today we call the abyss) to teach people all the arts of civilization. It was in those ancient times that the Gods taught humans the arts and the skills that the ancient Sumerians called "me,"  a bewildering variety of concepts, from "music" to "rejoicing of the heart." Or, in a more recent lore, how Prometheus defied the gods by stealing fire and gave it to humankind. This story has a twist of trickery, but it is the same concept: human civilization is a gift from the gods.

Now, surely our ancestors were not so naive that they believed in these silly legends, right? Did people really need a Fish-God to emerge out of the Persian Gulf to teach them how to make fish hooks and fishnets? But, as usual, what looks absurd hides the meaning of complex questions.

The people who described how the me came from the Gods were not naive, not at all. They had understood the essence of civilization, which is sharing. Nothing can be done without sharing something with others, not even rejoicing in your heart. Think of "music," one of the Sumerian me: can you play music by yourself and alone? Makes no sense, of course. Music is a skill that needs to be learned. You need teachers, you need people who can make instruments, you need a public to listen to you and appreciate your music. And the same is for fishing, one of the skills that Aun taught to humans. Of course, you could fish by yourself and for your family only. Sure, and, in this way, you ensure that you all will die of starvation as soon as you hit a bad period of low catches. Fishing provides abundant food in good times, but fish spoils easily and those who live by fishing can survive only if they share their catch with those who live by cultivating grains. You can't live of fish alone, it is something that I and my colleague Ilaria Perissi describe in our book, "The Empty Sea." Those who tried, such as the Vikings of Greenland during the Middle Ages, were mercilessly wiped out of history.

Sharing is the essence of civilization, but it is not trivial: who shares what with whom? How do you ensure that everyone gets a fair share? How do you take care of tricksters, thieves, and parasites? It is a fascinating story that goes back to the very beginning of civilization, those times that the Sumerians were fond to tell with the beautiful image of "when bread was baked for the first time in the ovens,"  This is where religion came in, with temples, priest, Gods, and all the related stuff.

Let's make a practical example: suppose you are on an errand, it is a hot day, and you want a mug of beer. Today, you go to a pub, pay a few dollars for your pint, you drink it, and that's it. Now, move yourself to Sumerian times. The Sumerians had plenty of beer, even a specific goddess related to it, called Ninkasi (which means, as you may guess, "the lady of the beer"). But there were no pubs selling beer for the simple reason that you couldn't pay for it. Money hadn't been invented, yet. Could you barter for it? With what? What could you carry around that would be worth just one beer? No, there was a much better solution: the temple of the local God or Goddess.

We have beautiful descriptions of the Sumerian temples in the works of the priestess Enheduanna, among other things the first named author in history. From her and from other sources, we can understand how in Sumerian times, and for millennia afterward, temples were large storehouses of goods. They were markets, schools, libraries, manufacturing center, and offered all sorts of services, including that of the hierodules (karkid in Sumerian), girls who were not especially holy, but who would engage in a very ancient profession that didn't always have the bad reputation it has today. If you were so inclined, you could also meet male prostitutes in the temple, probably called "kurgarra" in Sumerian. That's one task in whicb temples have been engaging for a long time, even though that looks a little weird to us. Incidentally, the Church of England still managed prostitution in Medieval times

So, you go to the temple and you make an offer to the local God or Goddess. We may assume that this offer would be proportional to both your needs and your means. It could be a goat that we know it was roughly proportional to the services of a high-rank hierodule. But, if all you wanted was a beer, then you could have limited your offer to something less valuable: depending on your job you could have offered fish, wheat, wool, metal, or whatever. Then, the God would be pleased and as a reward the alewives of the temple would give you all the beer you could drink. Seen as a restaurant, the temple worked on the basis of what we call today an "all you can eat" menu (or "the bottomless cup of coffee," as many refills as you want).

Note how the process of offering something to God was called sacrifice. The term  comes from "sacred" which means "separated." The sacrifice is about separation. You separate from something that you perceived as yours which then becomes an offer to the God or to the community -- most often the same thing. The offerings to the temple could be something very simple: as you see in the images we have from Sumerian times, it didn't always involve the formal procedure of killing a live animal. People were just bringing the goods they had to the temple. When animals were sacrificed to God(s) in the sense that they were ritually killed, they were normally eaten afterward. Only in rare cases (probably not in Sumeria) the sacrificed entity was burnt to ashes. It was the "burnt sacrifice called korban olah in the Jewish tradition. In that case, the sacrifice was shared with God alone -- but it was more of an exception than the rule.

In any case, God was the supreme arbiter who insured that your sacrifice was appreciated -- actually not all sacrifices were appreciated. Some people might try to trick by offering low quality goods, but God is not easy to fool. In some cases, he didn't appreciate someone's sacrifices at all: do you remember the story of Cain and Abel? God rejected Cain's sacrifice, although we are not told exactly why. In any case, the sacrifice was a way to attribute a certain "price" to the sacrificed goods.

This method of commerce is not very different than the one we use today, it is just not so exactly quantified as when we use money to attach a value to everything. The ancient method works more closely to the principle that the Marxists had unsuccessfully tried to implement "from each according to his ability, to each according to his needs." But don't think that the ancient Sumerian were communists, it is just that the lack of method of quantification of the commercial transaction generated a certain leeway that could allow to the needy access to the surplus available, when it was available. This idea is still embedded in modern religions, think of how the holy Quran commands the believers to share the water of their wells with the needy, once they have satisfied their needs and those of their animals. Or the importance that the Christian tradition gives to gleaning as a redistribution of the products of the fields. Do you remember the story of Ruth the Moabite in the Bible? That important, indeed.

But there is more. In the case of a burnt sacrifices, the value attributed to the goods was "infinite" -- the goods consumed by the flames just couldn't be used again by human beings. It is the concept of Taboo used in Pacific cultures for something that cannot be touched, eaten, or used. We have no equivalent thing in the "market," where we instead suppose that everything has a price.

And then, there came money (the triumph of evil)

The world of the temples of the first 2-3 millennia of human civilizations in the Near East was in some  ways alien to ours, and in others perfectly equivalent. But things keep changing and the temples were soon to face a competition in a new method of attributing value to goods: money. Coinage is a relatively modern invention, it goes back to mid 1st millennium BCE. But in very ancient times, people did exchange metals by weight -- mainly gold and silver. And these exchanges were normally carried out in temples -- the local God(s) ensured honest weighing. In more than one sense, in ancient times temples were banks and it is no coincidence that our modern banks look like temples. They are temples to a God called "money." By the way, you surely read in the Gospels how Jesus chased the money changers -- the trapezitai -- out of the temple of Jerusalem. Everyone knows that story, but what were the money changers doing in the temple? They were in the traditional place where they were expected to be, where they had been from when bread was baked in ovens for the first time. 

So, religion and money evolved in parallel -- sometimes complementing each other, sometimes in competition with each other. But, in the long run, the temples seem to have been the losers in the competition. As currency became more and more commonplace, people started thinking that they didn't really need the cumbersome apparatus of religion, with its temples, priests, and hierodules (the last ones were still appreciated, but now were paid in cash). A coin is a coin is a coin, it is guaranteed by the gold it is made of -- gold is gold is gold. And if you want a good beer, you don't need to make an offer to some weird God or Goddess. Just pay a few coppers for it, and that's done.

The Roman state was among the first in history to be based nearly 100% on money. With the Romans, temples and priests had mainly a decorative role, let's say that they had to find a new market for their services. Temples couldn't be anymore commercial centers, so they reinvented themselves as lofty place for the celebration of the greatness of the Roman empires. There remained also a diffuse kind of religion in the countryside that had to do with fertility rites, curing sickness, and occasional cursing on one's enemies. That was the "pagan" religion, with the name "pagan" meaning, basically, "peasant." 

 

Paganism would acquire a bad fame in Christian times, but already in Roman times peasant rites were seen with great suspicion. The Romans burned witches, oh, yes, they loved to burn witches -- they burned many more than would ever be burned in medieval times. And the victims were most likely countryside enchanters and enchantresses. They were considered dangerous because the real deity that the Romans worshiped was money. An evil deity, perhaps, but it surely brought mighty power to the Romans, but their doom as well, as it is traditional for evil deities. Roman money was in the form of precious metals and when they ran out of gold and silver from their mines, the state just couldn't exist anymore: it vanished. No gold, no empire. It was as simple as that.

The disappearance of the Roman state saw a return of religion, this time in the form of Christianity. It is a long story that would need a lot of space to be written. Let's just say that the Middle Ages in Europe saw the rise of monasteries to play a role similar to that of temples in Sumerian times. Monasteries were storehouses, manufacturing centers, schools, libraries, and more -- they even had something to do with hierodules. During certain periods, Christian nuns did seem to have played that role, although this is a controversial point. Commercial exchanging and sharing of goods again took a religious aspect, with the Catholic Church in Western Europe playing the role of a bank by guaranteeing that, for instance, ancient relics were authentic. In part, relics played the role that money had played during the Roman Empire, although they couldn't be exchanged for other kinds of goods. The miracle of the Middle Ages in Europe was that this arrangement worked, and worked very well. That is, until someone started excavating silver from mines in Eastern Europe and another imperial cycle started. It is not over to this date, although it is clearly declining.

So, where do we stand now? Religion has clearly abandoned the role it had during medieval times and has re-invented itself as a support for the national state, just as the pagan temples had done in Roman times. One of the most tragic events of Western history is when in 1914, for some mysterious reasons, young Europeans found themselves killing each other by the millions while staying in humid trenches. On both sides of the trenches, Christian priests were blessing the soldiers of "their" side, exhorting them to kill those of the other side. How Christianity could reduce itself to such a low level is one of the mysteries of the Universe, but there are more things in heaven and Earth than are dreamt of in our philosophy. And it is here that we stand. Money rules the world and that's it.

The Problem With Money

Our society is perhaps the most monetized of history -- money pervades every aspect of life for everyone. The US is perhaps the most monetized society ever: for Europeans it is a shock to discover that many American families pay their children for doing household chores. For a European, it is like if your spouse were asking you to pay for his/her sexual services. But different epochs have different uses and surely it would be shocking for a Sumerian to see that we can get a beer at the pub by just giving the alewives a curious flat object, a "card," that they then give back to us. Surely that card is a powerful amulet from a high-ranking God. 

 

So, everything may be well in the best of worlds, notoriously represented by the Western version of liberal democracy. Powerful market forces, operated by the God (or perhaps Goddess) called Money or, sometimes, "the almighty dollar," ensure that exchanges are efficient, that scarce resources are optimally allocated, and that everyone has a chance in the search for maximizing his/her utility function.

Maybe. But it may also be that something is rotten in the Great Columned Temple of Washington D.C. What's rotten, exactly? Why can't this wonderful deity we call "money" work the way we would it like to, now that we even managed to decouple it from the precious metals it was made of in ancient times?

Well, there is a problem. A big problem. A gigantic problem. It is simply that money is evil. This is another complex story, but let's just say that the problem with evil and good is that evil knows no limits, while good does. In other words, evil is equivalent to chaos, good to order. It has something to do with the definition of "obscenity." There is nothing wrong in human sex, but an excess of sex in some forms becomes obscene. Money can become obscene for exactly this reason: too much of it overwhelms everything else. Nothing is so expensive that it cannot be bought; that's the result of the simple fact that you can attribute a price to everything.

Instead, God is good because She has limits: She is benevolent and merciful. You could see that as a limitation and theologians might discuss why a being that's all-powerful and all-encompassing cannot be also wicked and cruel. But there cannot be any good without an order of things. And order implies limits of some kind. God can do everything but He cannot do evil. That's a no-no. God cannot be evil. Period.

And here is why money is evil: it has no limits, it keeps accumulating. You know that accumulated money is called "capital," and it seems that many people realize that there is something wrong with that idea because "capitalism" is supposed to be something bad. Which may be but, really, capital is one of those polymorphic words that can describe many things, not all of them necessarily bad. In itself, capital is simply the accumulation of resources for future use -- and that has limits, of course. You can't accumulate more things than the things you have. But once you give a monetary value to this accumulated capital, things change. If money has no limits, capital doesn't, either.

Call it capital or call it money, it is shapeless, limitless, a blob that keeps growing and never shrinks. Especially nowadays that money has been decoupled from material goods (at least in part, you might argue that money is linked to crude oil). You could say that money is a disease: it affects everything. Everything can be associated with a number, and that makes that thing part of the entity we call market. If destroying that thing can raise that number, somewhere, that thing will be destroyed. Think of a tree: for a modern economist, it has no monetary value until it is felled and the wood sold on the market. And that accumulates more money, somewhere. Monetary capital actually destroys natural capital. You may have heard of "Natural Capitalism" that's supposed to solve the problem by giving a price to trees even before they are felled. It could be a good idea, but it is still based on money, so it may be the wrong tool to use even though for a good purpose..

The accumulation of money in the form of monetary capital has created something enormously different than something that was once supposed to help you get a good beer at a pub. Money is not evil just in a metaphysical sense. Money is destroying everything. It is destroying the very thing that makes humankind survive: the Earth's ecosystem. We call it "overexploitation," but it means simply killing and destroying everything as long as that can bring a monetary profit to someone.

Re-Sacralizing The Ecosystem (why some goods must have infinite prices)

There have been several proposals on how to reform the monetary system, from "local money" to "expiring money," and some have proposed to simply get rid of it. None of these schemes has worked, so far, and getting rid of money seems to be simply impossible in a society that's as complex as ours: how do you pay the hierodules if money does not exist? But from what I have been discussing so far, we could avoid the disaster that the evil deity calling money is bring to us simply by putting a limit to it. It is, after all, what the Almighty did with the devil: She didn't kill him, but confined him in a specific area that we call "Hell" -- maybe there is a need for hell to exist, we don't know. For sure, we don't want hell to grow and expand everywhere.

What does it mean a limit to money? It means that some things must be placed outside the monetary realm -- outside the market. If you want to use a metaphor based on economics, some goods must be declared to have an "infinite" monetary price -- nobody can buy them, not billionaires, not even trillionaires or any even more obscene levels of monetary accumulation. If you prefer, you may use the old Hawai'ian word: Taboo. Or, simply, you decide that some things are sacred, holy, they are beloved by the Goddess and even thinking of touching them is evil. 

 

Once something is sacred, it cannot be destroyed in the name of profit. That could mean setting aside some areas of the planet, declaring them not open for human exploitation. Or setting limits to the exploitation, not with the idea of maximizing the output of the system for human use, but with the idea to optimize the biodiversity of the area. These ideas are not farfetched. As an example, some areas of the sea have been declared "whale sanctuaries" -- places where whales cannot be hunted. That's not necessarily an all/zero choice. Some sanctuaries might allow human presence and a moderate exploitation of the resources of the system. The point is that as long as we monetize the exploitation, the we are back to monetary capitalism and the resource will be destroyed.

Do we need a religion to do that? Maybe there are other ways but, surely, we know that it is a task that religion is especially suitable for. Religion is a form of communication that uses rituals as speech. Rituals are all about sacralization: they define what's sacred by means of sacrifice. These concepts form the backbone of all religions, everything is neatly arranged under to concept of "sacredness" -- what's sacred is nobody's property. We know that it works. It has worked in the past. It still works today. You may be a trillionaire, but you are not allowed to do everything you want just because you can pay for it. You can't buy the right of killing people, for instance. Nor to destroy humankind's heritage. (So far, at least).

Then, do we need a new religion for that purpose? A Gaian religion?

Possibly yes, taking into account that Gaia is not "God" in the theological sense. Gaia is not all-powerful, she didn't create the world, she is mortal. She is akin to the Demiurgoi, the Daimonoi, the Djinn, and other similar figures that play a role in the Christian, Islamic and Indian mythologies. The point is that you don't necessarily need the intervention of the Almighty to sacralize something. Even just a lowly priest can do that, and surely it is possible for one of Her Daimonoi, and Gaia is one.

Supposing we could do something like that, then we would have the intellectual and cultural tools needed to re-sacralize the Earth. Then, whatever is declared sacred or taboo is spared by the destruction wrecked by the money based process: forests, lands, seas, creatures large and small. We could see this a as a new alliance between humans and Gaia: All the Earth is sacred to Gaia, and some parts of it are especially sacred and cannot be touched by money. And not just the Earth, the poor, the weak, and the dispossessed among humans, they are just as sacred and must be respected. 

 

All that is not just a question of "saving the Earth" -- it is a homage to the power of the Holy Creation that belongs to the Almighty, and to the power of maintenance of the Holy Creation that belongs to the Almighty's faithful servant, the holy Gaia, mistress of the ecosystem. And humans, as the ancient Sumerians had already understood, are left with the task of respecting, admiring and appreciating what God has created. We do not worship Gaia, that would silly, besides being blasphemous. But through her, we worship the higher power of God.  

Is it possible? If history tells us something is that money tends to beat religion when conflict arises. Gaia is powerful, sure, but can she slay the money dragon in single combat? Difficult, yes, but we should remember that some 2000 years ago in Europe, a group of madmen fought and won against an evil empire in the name of an idea that most thought not just subversive at that time, but even beyond the thinkable. And they believed so much in that idea that they accepted to die for it

In the end, there is more to religion than just fixing a broken economic system. There is a fundamental reason why people do what they do: sometimes we call it with the anodyne name of "communication," sometimes we use the more sophisticated term of "empathy," but when we really understand what we are talking about we may not afraid to use the world "love" which, according to our Medieval ancestors, was the ultimate force that moves the universe. And when we deal with Gaia the Goddess, we may have this feeling of communication, empathy, and love. She may be defined as a planetary homeostatic system, but she is way more than that: it is a power of love that has no equals on this planet. But there are things that mere words cannot express.

 

Not just friends, but brothers. How Russia helped Italy in a difficult moment

An image of the relief mission from Russia to Italy. The sign says "From Russia with Love" (Dalla Russia con Amore). As a name for the mission, maybe it wasn't such a great idea. It is the title of an old James Bond movie, where Russians are demonized as the evil guys of the plot. But, apart from the name, the relief mission was a success and it was appreciated both in Russia and in Italy. 

The arrival of a relief mission from Russia in Italy at the worst moment of the COVID epidemic was described with suspicion and suspect by the Western media. Yet, it was clearly seen with gratitude by most Italians, the propaganda effort to make it look like an invasion was a flop. That might be a little strange because Italians are subjected to a daily barrage of anti-Russian propaganda (although presently more focused against China). But, apparently, the efforts to turn Russians into evil monsters in the minds of Italians mostly failed.

If we think about reciprocal feelings, we may remember that Italian troops invaded the Russian territory at least three times in history. The first was with a contingent in Napoleon's army, the second as part of the Western coalition that invaded Crimea, the third as part of the Axis armies that invaded Russia in 1941. On their part, the Russians have never invaded Italy in recent times, although, if we really want to find a historical precedent, a Russian army fought the French in Northern Italy in 1799.

But, just as propaganda was ineffective, these ancient wars seem to have been forgotten. Right now, there is no detectable hostility in the way Italians and Russians see each other. Italians and Russians don't look very similar in terms of individual characters. Nevertheless, they seem to be able to get along together. So, the current epidemic is not the only case when the Russians intervened to help Italians. They did that more than a hundred years ago, after the great Earthquake of Messina, in 1908.

The Russian mission in Messina was a long time ago, but we can still read about how it went beyond a simple relief operation. It involved true heroism and abnegation; that was noted and it is still remembered to this day both in Italy and in Russia. This story is little known in English, so I thought it was worth translating here a post by Giuseppe Iannello written for the centennial of the earthquake. Hopefully, the Russian help with the COVID epidemics will be remembered in the same way.


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The Russian Sailors in Messina: Beyond the Myth

by Giuseppe Iannello - 25 Dicembre 2008
(translation by Ugo Bardi)

A Russian sailor from the ship "Slava" standing in front of the rubble of the Messina Earthquake of Dec 28th, 1908.

These were days of true glory in Messina. But organization and discipline are not enough to explain the undisputed fame of saviors and heroes of the Russian sailors 

Six days of glory. Real glory, glory able to challenge time and the judgments of the scholars in retrospect. A glory told to us by the press, but above all told by the people, by the people who saw with their eyes and heard with their ears. The Russian sailors entered the collective memory as heroes, as saviors, obscuring all the other rescuers. Why? A useless question if we ignore the narration of those six days and embark on historical and psychological analysis. Because the answer lies, in fact, in the deeds of those thousands of sailors who arrived on six ships of the Russian military fleet. 

There are many myths to dispel and "adjustments" to be made to avoid that the heroism of a people is identified with that of individual figures who, in reality, were only catalysts of needs that were born from a collective soul. We refer, for example, to generals and admirals. The command of the expedition of the Baltic Sea Fleet in the Mediterranean had been entrusted to Admiral Litvinov and while in the port of Augusta he received a request from the local authorities to provide assistance to the people of Messina. But it was not he who "decided" to move, he needed approval from his superiors, he needed an order; which would mean the loss of many hours waiting for that order. It was because his subordinates, officers, ensign, simple sailors, understood the situation and pressed to leave for the Strait of Messina. And so they did. In his memories ("The Imperial fleet of the Baltic between two wars, 1906-1914"), Garald Graf, then ensign on the Admiral Makarov, the first of the Russian ships to leave, tells us, "Litvinov was not a man who knew how to make up his mind," but in the end, he was persuaded. 

From the beginning, obedience and discipline do not explain the efficiency and the success of the Russian relief work. In "La terra trema" (the ground shakes) by Giorgio Boatti, it is even possible to talk about an "almost inhumane discipline". It is true that, during the hours of navigation from Augusta to Messina, the Russians had the time to organize themselves in teams, to prepare everything that could have been necessary for them. But the same could have been done by others. The merit of the Russians is not there. And it is not in the discipline nor in the organization, it is not in the method of their remarkable action. Michail Osorgin, a compatriot of those sailors, debunks the myth of the "method". And he does so immediately, just a month after the catastrophe, in a long correspondence from Rome for his newspaper, the "Vestnik Evropy".  The reputation of the Russian navy had been nearly destroyed by the defeat that it had suffered in the Japanese-Russian war (1905). The only idea that led the sailors was for Osorgin to save as many "souls" as possible, the difference with everyone else was this tremendous need to wrest as many people as possible from death. 

The organization was dictated by this need: the schedules, the shifts, everything was functional for this purpose, the sailors placed no value in themselves; people's lives came before the orders and the simple sailors were the ones convincing their superiors to reshape orders. On the other hand, it must have sounded really strange in the ears of a Russian to feel exalted by the organization of their army: what to say then - says the Russian journalist - about the organization and discipline of the Germans, who were also present at the place of the disaster? 

The Russian sailors became the catalyst of all the positive energies against the resignation, the discomfort, which often turned into apathy, in a sort of indifference that was often transmitted to rescuers. On the contrary, the action of the Russians was contagious and the cadets of the Sutley, the first British military ship to arrive, perhaps a few tens of minutes before the Makarov, felt it and understood how to distinguish themselves.

No stain therefore on the work of the Russians? That of the immediate shooting of the looters, thieves caught in the act: it is interesting to note how this particular is expressed only in journalistic reports and has been judged irrelevant by the collective memory, the oral and written memory handed down by the survivors from father to son, from generation to generation. The Russians did not actually deal directly with the hunting of the looters, but they used their weapons to defend themselves and defend a population totally exposed to the evil of the profiteers or to despair. The Russians (and the English) did not take care of the defense of property and property - as they did not bother to bury the dead - they took care of the people whom they heard whining under the rubble and to cure the wounds of the survivors.

We discuss this story with Tatiana Ostakhova, a researcher at the University of Messina, who lets us read something from her work in progress: the letters of Russian sailors published in Russian newspapers and other articles published in the weeks immediately following the earthquake. The letters are in part those already published by the Province of Messina in 2006, which however were based on an original edition in French. They are letters all characterized by common feelings: the inability to describe the indescribable, the horror of the scenario in which they operate, the madness of the survivors and the absurdity of which every hour are witnesses. The sailors are not exalted, they do not glorify, they only narrate and at times with amazement, they also take note of the immobility of the Italian forces. The comparisons will be made by the others, the correspondents, the other rescuers, and above all the people who will not forget the good received. And the news of those good deeds will run like the wind: in Naples, the first landing of the wounded by the Makarov turns into a sort of apotheosis for the Russian sailors, who are acclaimed. Wherever they went, they were recognized in the city, the Russian sailors could not escape warm manifestations of gratitude.

Michail Pervuchin in his article "The Russians and the Italians", translated by Ostakhova, sums up the difference between the Russians and everyone else. The people of other nations, offering their help, proved to be friends to the Italians, while the Russians turned out to be brothers. The correspondent affirms it on the basis of the testimonies gathered and of what was read in the Neapolitan newspapers: "the others certainly helped; but the Russians have not only helped, they gave everything they had to the refugees, including their spare shirts". "In Palermo and Naples - continues Pervuchin - women and children, refugees from the destroyed cities, still show off their jackets and their sailor's jackets, the officers' jackets. There are no German or English clothes on refugees. Russian clothes, yes ". Then another testimony: "all have given, but while others gave the superfluous, the surplus, the Russians, and we saw it, they gave us what was necessary to themselves, even the last thing they had. Yes, to the last thing they had. This is what struck us ".

However, good does not always begets more good. In January, the Russian sailors were told, "thank you but your help is no longer necessary". A Russian correspondent speaks of envy in this regard, Colonel C. Delmè-Radcliff, military attaché of the British Embassy in Rome, in a confidential report speaks of jealousy of the Italian authorities. The fact remains that only the Italian soldiers and a few other volunteers remained in the rubble: the gates were blocked for everyone else, including Italian civilians. The same refrain was repeated to all: there is no need for more help, because the army has taken control of the whole city. For many, many, still alive under the rubble, the fate was sealed.

Giuseppe Iannello

The red lips of the monster: how dreams die before the civilization that created them

I can understand that someone wanted to do a sequel of the 1951 movie, "The Creature from the Black Lagoon" -- it was a wonderful movie. Guillermo del Toro did that with "The Shape of Water" (2017), but what sense did it make to provide the new version of the creature with bright red lips? It truly escapes me. Did they think it made the amphibian man sexier? 

For some reason, it seems that civilizations on the brink of collapse lose the capability of interpreting the world around them. You could say that dreams die before the civilization that created them dies. And that seems to be what's happening to us. We don't seem to be able anymore to create believable narratives.

A good example is the recent movie "The Shape of Water" (2017) Guillermo del Toro. An interesting movie on several counts, but a narrative disaster. How is it that we can't create a decent plot anymore? It has to be something deep inside the belly of our civilization. But let me examine this movie in some detail.

The cycle of the humanoid aquatic monsters started with the first "The Creature of the Black Lagoon" (1951). It was a good movie, considering the kind of movies produced at that time. It had action, mystery, a breathtaking pace. And the story was fascinating, with the monster falling in love with a human woman. So I can see how Guillermo del Toro wanted to start from there to pursue a related idea: to explore the sexuality of people who are handicapped or marginalized -- even seen as monsters.

The new version of the story can be seen as successful in many respects, and indeed it has good points. Mainly, it is kept together by a truly stellar cast of actors, especially the character of Elisa, played by Sally Hawkins. But the film is an abject failure in narrative terms. It has credibility holes so large that an aircraft carrier could pass through them. 

Just as an example, there is this dangerous monster kept chained in a pool in a high-security government facility. The chain is not so short that the monster can't reach people with its arms, and we see that he snapped off two fingers from one of the characters of the movie. Nevertheless, the security of this place is so poor that it can't prevent a cleaning lady from entering the room to have her lunch while sitting on the edge of the pool and befriend the monster by offering him boiled eggs -- come on!

The real problem is not so much the credibility of the plot, it is its predictability. The evil guy is evil, the good girl is good, and about the pathetic Russian spy, you can see from the first scenes that he will be betrayed by his friends -- hey, Russians are supposed to be evil, aren't they? Given these elements, the movie plods along, as exciting as a Catholic mass.

Let me say something more about the main evil guy of the movie, the character named Strickland (a suitably evil name for an evil guy). Michael Shannon does an outstanding job playing him, but the result is disastrous nevertheless. The problem is the same: lack of subtlety, or, which is the same, predictability. As a character, Strickland is overdone from the first scene when he pees in a urinal in front of the cleaning ladies and boasts that he never washes his hands afterward. It is just embarrassing for everyone, including for the viewers.

I would say that the sin of the screenwriter was to be so nasty on Stickland who is so abused, physically and mentally, in the movie that he may generate some sympathy on the part of the viewer. People have a certain dignity that you shouldn't deny anyone, not even to a character in a movie. So, Strickland has two fingers bitten off by the creature and he suffers because of that throughout the movie. In the final scene, he is hit hard on the face by another character, and then killed by the monster. But what's truly bad is how his privacy is invaded: what sense does it make to show him to us while having sex with his wife? That's a totally gratuitous scene: it has nothing to do with the plot, nor with the fact that Strickland is evil. Again, even a movie character should be entitled with a minimum of personal privacy.

I would say that there exists a general role in literature: the mark of a bad writer lies in despising one's characters. Conversely, a good writer is someone who cares about his/her characters, no matter whether they are evil or bad. Think of the prototypical evil character of Western literature: Shakespeare's Iago in Othello. Shakespeare himself is somewhat baffled by Iago's evil behavior, but he never mocks him, nor enjoys having him suffer punishment. That's why Shakespeare is Shakespeare (and Del Toro is not Shakespeare).

An example of a writer who made the mistake I am mentioning is Gustave Flaubert when he describes the death of his heroine, Madame Bovary. Flaubert indulges in describing all sorts of gruesome details related to the death of the poor lady. In a sense, it is a retribution for the behavior of a person who, at her time, was considered evil. But, apart from that scene, Flaubert's novel is a masterpiece in the art of storytelling and the writer is clearly symphatetic to his character, although he judges her morally flawed. The Shape of Water instead, fails over and over in the mistake of belittling its characters. For this reason, it is only a shadow of something that could have been but wasn't. And probably never will be. 

The Art of Generosity - The Story of a Painter and a Benefactor

More than a century ago, in 1875, my great-grandfather Antonio Bardi -- then 13 years old -- met by chance in Florence the Brazilian artist and scientist Pedro Amerigo. For some reason, the Brazilian gentleman thought that the boy had some artistic talent and he helped him to study in the Florentine Academy of Art. This story is part of the family lore, but it also appeared in the newspapers. And, recently, Marcilio Franca wrote about it in a Brazilian newspaper.

Here it is the piece by Franca, translated into English -- the Portuguese original follows

___________________________________________________________

The Art of Generosity
by Marcilio Franca
Visiting Professor at the University of Turin


It was a hot morning on Monday, August 9, 1875, when Turin's Gazzetta Piemontese newspaper brought good news to its readers.

The cover emphasized that, a few days before, a small boy was drawing in front of the Uffizi in Florence, when he happened to meet by Pedro Américo, the great Brazilian painter who, a year before, lived a few blocks from the museum created by the Medici.

The news was that, on the way to the convent of Santissima Annunziata, where he held an atelier to paint the gigantic "The Battle of Avaí", commissioned by Pedro II, Américo found a poor boy who was able to draw at ease popular drawings in exchange for the generosity of the passers-by. Americo noticed the young man's talent and asked where he was studying. The boy, described by Gazzetta as sad-eyed, thin and pale-faced, reported that he lacked the conditions to go to school. Antonio Bardi was thirteen. The boy's embarrassed response followed Pedro Américo's offer: he would pay for his studies thereafter. Yes!

A few days ago, I had a chance to exchange some words with the great-grandson of that great-uncle's son-in-law. Ugo Bardi, Professor at the University of Florence, told me that Americo made hisgreat-grandfather apprentice and then helped him enter the exclusive Accademia Fiorentina. Thanks to the Brazilian godfather, he broke the life of poverty that had lasted for some generations in his home.
 
Antonio Bardi painted for almost thirty years, until a disease in sight at the age of 45 forced him to stop. He died in 1924, married and with several children.
 
What neither Bardi nor Gazzetta knew was that Pedro Américo, with the gesture, revived his own destiny. A prodigal boy in the tiny Sand, in the interior of Paraíba, Americo was not even ten when, in 1852, he was discovered by the French naturalist Louis Jacques Brunet. There began the profession that led him to win the world.

___________________________________________

A Arte da Generosidade

Marcilio Franca

Era uma manhã quente de segunda-feira, 9 de agosto de 1875, quando o jornal Gazzetta Piemontese, de Turim, chegou aos seus leitores com uma boa notícia.

A capa destacava que, dias antes, um menino franzino desenhava em frente ao Uffizi, em Florença, ao ser interpelado por Pedro Américo, o grande pintor brasileiro que, há um ano, morava a algumas quadras do museu criado pelos Medici.

A notícia dava conta de que, a caminho do convento de Santissima Annunziata, onde mantinha um ateliê para pintar a gigantesca “A Batalha do Avaí”, encomendada por Pedro II, Américo deparou-se com um garoto pobre que desenhava com desenvoltura temas de agrado popular, em troca da generosidade dos passantes. Américo notou o talento do jovem e perguntou onde ele estudava. O menino, descrito pela Gazzetta como de olhos tristes, rosto magro e empalidecido, informou que lhe faltavam condições para ir à escola. Antônio Bardi tinha treze anos. À resposta encabulada do garoto seguiu-se a oferta de Pedro Américo: pagaria seus estudos a partir de então. Sim!
Há poucos dias, tive a chance de trocar umas palavras com o bisneto daquele menino da notícia. Ugo Bardi, Professor da Universidade de Florença, contou-me que Américo fez do seu bisavô aprendiz e, depois, o ajudou a entrar na disputada Accademia Fiorentina. Graças ao padrinho brasileiro, rompeu a vida de pobreza que já durava algumas gerações em seu lar.  
Antônio Bardi pintou por quase trinta anos, até que uma doença na vista, por volta dos 45 anos, forçou-o a parar. Veio a falecer casado e com filhos, em 1924.
O que nem os Bardi nem a Gazzetta sabiam é que Pedro Américo, com o gesto, revivia o seu próprio destino. Menino prodígio na pequenina Areia, interior da Paraíba, Américo não tinha sequer dez anos quando, em 1852, foi descoberto pelo naturalista francês Louis Jacques Brunet. Começava ali a profissão que o levou a ganhar o mundo.

Professor Visitante da Universidade de Turim

The Sound of Waves

Painting by William Trost Richards 1833 - 1905)

by Ugo Bardi – 2020

Because there’s nothing more beautiful than the way the ocean refuses to stop kissing the shoreline, no matter how many times it’s sent away. – Sarah Kay

It is said that, once upon a time, there was a child in the city who woke up one morning and he spoke to his mother.

Mother, I heard a strange sound tonight.

My son, what did you hear? Were you afraid of monsters walking in the night? Or of ghosts haunting the house?

No, mother, it was not the sound of ghosts or monsters. And I was not afraid.

Then, what was this sound?

Mother, it was the sound of waves, the sound of the sea.

Oh, my son, how can you say that? You never saw the sea. And I never saw it, either. And your father never saw the sea, nor any of your relatives. The sea is far, far from the city, and some say that such a thing doesn't even exist. It is a legend, a fancy story, a dream that someone dreamed.

Mother, dear mother. I heard this sound and it was the sound of waves. I know that.

My son, be careful in what you say, because people could think ill things of you and of our family if you tell them of this strange dream of yours. Are you sure of what you heard?

Mother, I am sure that I heard the sound of the waves, I heard the swell of the waves, sometimes roaring, sometimes murmuring. And I heard the water coming and returning to the beach, as if they were mother and child, never tired to embrace each other.

Son, do promise me that you won't tell anyone.

I promise that to you, mother.

Years passed and the child became a man, and he took the name of Lugalzid, which means “strong and trusted.” And one day he went to see his mother and he spoke to her.

Mother, dearest mother, I came to say goodbye to you because I am leaving the city.

Lugalzid, my dear, I thought you would tell me that. And I know where you want to go.  It is because of the dream you had when you were a child, the sound of waves. Am I right?

You are right, mother. It is because of that. From the first time when I told you about the sound I was hearing, I heard that sound every morning. And every morning I woke up lulled by that gentle murmur of the waves crashing on the beach, one after the other. And I still hear it every morning. But I promised to you I won’t tell anyone about that, and I didn’t. But now I want to leave the city and search for the sea that they say exists on the other side of the mountains.

My son, my dear Lugalzid, I can tell you that every morning when I saw you waking up, I knew that you were hearing something that was denied to me to hear. And sometimes I thought that you were possessed by a demon who was sending that sound to you.

Mother, sometimes I thought the same, but the sound I heard was so sweet and so beautiful that I can’t believe it could have been a demon sending it to me.

And I believe that, too. My son, you are grown up and I cannot tell you anymore what to do. You are an adult and you know the path that you are to follow. But, my sweet son, my heart bleeds at the thought of the dangers that you will face. And I could die at the very thought of not having you with me anymore.

Mother, my heart bleeds too at the thought that I couldn’t see you anymore. But I had been thinking to do what I am going to do for a long time, and this is what I will do.

But you know that the way across the mountains is long and difficult. And they say that there are demons in the mountains who attack travelers.

That I heard, too, mother. But I am not afraid and I will be careful.

I know you will be careful, Lugalzid, still it will be a difficult travel over the dry mountains. And if the demons attack you, you will need the sword that belonged to your father.

A sword? Mother, I didn’t know that my father had a sword.

Lugalzid, your father was a good man who pulled water out of the well, and who worked hard in the garden. He took good care of his family, so he never needed a sword. But he had inherited a sword from his father, who had inherited it from his father, and maybe from his father, but none of them ever used it. But there was a time, long ago, when the city was rich and populous, not like it is now, half ruined and with so few people. And at that time the city had a King who led men in battle. And your ancestors were warriors, my son. This is the sword that you are inheriting from them, because at heart you are a warrior, too.

So, mother, I take this sword with pleasure in honor of my ancestors, although I hope I will never have to use it. But if my destiny will be that of being a warrior, I will follow it.

Lugalzid, do you know of the old legend that says that one day a warrior will make the river flow to the sea again?

I heard of that legend, mother.

Maybe you could be that warrior? If you heard that sound, the sound of waves, it must be because the Goddess send it to you as a sign.

This I cannot say, mother. I can only say that I heard that sound and that now I want to see if there really is a sea on the other side of the mountains.


My son, Lugalzid, do you know that they say the sea is blue?

So I have heard, mother. They say the sea is vast and deeply blue.

Dear Lugalzid, I know that I won’t see you again, but make a promise to me.that when you find the sea that you have been searching for, you will say a prayer to the Goddess for my soul.

I will do that, mother. I promise. When I found the sea, I will say a prayer for your soul to the Goddess.

They say that Lugalzid marched for many days, and months, and years. And that he fought thirst, and hunger, and cold, and strong winds, and landslides. And that, one day, he arrived at the ancient shoreline of the sea.

He marched onward and he saw that there were huts lined along the beach and that all the huts were ruined and empty, and the pathways between huts were dusty and empty, swept by the wind. And there were many strange ruined wooden hulls that he thought were what was left of very old boats. And on the ground, there were strands of what he thought were old nets. And he marched onward until he saw the sand gently sloping down. And that seemed to him that the sea should have been in front of him, but there was just brown sand all the way to the horizon. And no vast and blue sea to see, nor the sound of the waves to hear.

Lugalzid marched on the dry sand and he knelt down on the sand, bowing to the setting sun. As he was there, he heard the sound of steps behind him. He rose up and in front of him, there was a woman. Dressed in black, her head was covered by a cape and her face was covered by a scarf, but her eyes were black and penetrating. And the woman spoke to him.

Who are you, sir? What are you doing here?

Lady, my name is of no importance. I come from the city on the other side of the mountains. And I came here to see if it is true that there is a vast blue sea on the this side of the mountain. But what is your name, lady? Where do you come from?

My name is of no importance, sir. I am the last inhabitant of the village that once was full of people. And you can see by yourself that there is no sea on this side of the mountains, although once the water was arriving all the way to were you stand now. But, what were you doing, kneeling on the sand?

Lady, I waspraying the Goddess for the soul of my mother to whom I had promised I would do that once I had arrived to the sea

That was kind of you, sir. But did the Goddess send you here?

Lady, I came because I had been hearing the sound of waves in my mind from when I was a child. And my mother said it could be a sign that the Goddess sent to me, but of this I can’t say anything.

This is strange, because there is an old legend that my mother told me that says that the waters of the sea would return one day when a warrior would plow the sand with his sword. I see that you carry a sword with you, are you a warrior? Maybe you used that sword to defend yourself from the demons of the mountains?

Lady, I found no demons in the mountains. Only whirlwinds of sand, and much dryness, and I almost died of thirst and hunger, or because of the dusty wind that nearly swept me away, or because of the landslides that almost buried me alive. So, I didn’t need the sword to defend myself, but I carry it in honor of my ancestors who were indeed warriors.

But if you are a warrior, maybe the legend refers to you, sir. Would you plow the sand with your sword?

Lady, if you tell me that you would like me to do that, I can try.

And Lugalzid unsheathed his sword and stuck the blade into the sand and down it went all the way to the hilt. And the sun was slowly falling at the horizon, and a gentle wind was blowing. Lugalzid looked at the hilt sticking out of the sand, and the woman looked at the hilt sticking out of the sand. And they looked at each other, and they smiled at each other. And then they both laughed. And when they couldn’t laugh anymore, the woman spoke first.

I am sorry, sir. I told you a silly old legend.

Lady, don’t worry. It was fun to try. Who knows? The legend could have been right.

Oh, sir, we could have imagined that we won’t gain anything by planting a sword in the sand. Why don’t you take it back?

Lady, I will take the sword back, although it just encumbered me all the trip to here and it never was useful to me for anything. Yet, I think that my ancestors were proud of this sword and so, in honor to them, I’ll take it out of the sand and keep it with me

It is good that you honor your ancestors, sir, just like you honored your mother by praying for her. But I think you are tired. And you must be thirsty and hungry.

That is right, lady. I am tired, and hungry, and I have no food left and no place to rest. But I won’t impose to you to feed me and to provide rest for me. Because I saw that the village is ruined and certainly you must not live in abundance.

That’s right, kind sir, I do not live in abundance. But the goddess has been kind to me and She made sure that the well near my home never gets dry and with the water I can take from the well I can cultivate a small garden and that gives me food enough to live. And with the barley I cultivate I can make good ale, too. And I’ll gladly share this food and this ale with you. You can come with me, you eat and drink, and then rest at my home.

Lady, I accept your kind offer and I am now obliged to tell you my name, which is Lugalzid, which means the strong and trusted man. And because of your kindness in offering me food and drink, I take the vow to help you in any way I can, and that I will defend you with the sword I inherited from my ancestors.

Lugalzid, since you accepted my offer, I am obliged to tell you my name, which is Siduri, which means the woman who makes beer. And I am greatly honored because of your kindness, although I hope that there will never be a need to defend me with your sword, I am grateful to you for offering me to do that. But I would say that it would be more useful to me if you were to help me to raise water from the well, because the well is deep and sometimes my bones ache because of the effort.

And I will do this for you with pleasure, Siduri. 

And Lugalzid went with Siduri to her hut and he helped her to raise water from the well. Then, Lugalzid ate a meal in Siduri’s home and drank the beer that Siduri had made. And then Siduri took Lugalzid to the door of the home and they stood together, looking at the sea of sand lighted up by the Moon. And then Siduri spoke to Lugalzid.

Lugalzid, they say that the sea was once vast and blue, and that must have been beautiful to behold.

That is what they say in the city, too, Siduri. And, yes, it must have been beautiful to see it.

I never saw the blue sea.

Neither did I.

But you told me you can hear the sound of waves.

This I told you, and it is true.

But nobody has heard the sound of waves here for many, many years. What is it like?

Siduri, I cannot tell you exactly what the sound of waves is like. But I can tell you that it is a gentle sound, it is the sound of water crashing on the beach, it is coming and going, never stopping, it is like two lovers always searching each other and never stopping to embrace each other.

Lugalzid, maybe I know that sound.

Siduri, do you really?

Listen to me, Lugalzid. Is this the sound of waves? Listen to the sound I make as I breathe.

Siduri, it is like the sound of waves, indeed.

It is the sound of a woman in love, Lugalzid.

I can hear it, Siduri. It is like the waves that love the beach and never get tired of crashing onto the shore.

And the beach that loves the waves never gets tired of the waves crashing on it. Will you love me, kind Lugalzid?

I will, gentle Siduri.

And Siduri took down the cape she had on her head and showed to Lugalzid her black hair, shiny in the moonlight. Then Lugalzid loved Siduri many times, and then they slept together on the couch of the hut, and Lugalzid slept sound and well. And when he woke up, he heard the sound of waves as he was used to hear in the morning. But this sound was a little different. And Lugalzid opened his eyes and he saw Siduri in front of him. And Siduri took Lugalzid’s hand and she led him to the door of the hut. And there, in the bright light of the sun, the sea was vast and blue, stretching all the way to the horizon. And the waves gently crashed on the beach, murmuring and roaring as two lovers who never tire to search for each other.

And Lugalzid marveled at what he was seeing and he could not tire to look at the blue waters, and the waves, and the clouds reflecting on the water.

What happened, Siduri? How long did I sleep?

For quite some time, Lugalzid, my love. The legend was right, after all. It only referred to another kind of sword, the one you used to plow my body. And after you did that, you slept, and the clouds come, and much rain came. And you were sleeping so well, that I didn’t wake you up. And day and night, more and more rain came. And you were still sleeping so well that I didn’t wake you up. And many days passed, perhaps weeks, perhaps months, perhaps years. And then so much rain came that the mountains were dripping it in streams everywhere, and the waters from the river came in a great rush of waves, foam, and bubbles, rushing to the sea as a lovers return to each other after having been away from each other for a long time. And many more days passed, and more water flew into the sea, and the sea became full.

That must have taken a long time, Siduri.

Such a long time, Lugalzid. You slept for a hundred years, maybe.

A hundred years? But who are you, Siduri?

Lugalzid, you know that my name is Siduri, which means the woman who makes beer. But it is only one of my names. You can call me also Inanna, the Goddess of Heaven who is also the Goddess of Earth. And know, Lugalzid, that it was humankind that destroyed the sea with their greed and that a great offense to me, since I am also the Goddess of the Sea. And that's why the sea became dry and the river became dry, and men and women suffered so much. But the Goddess had sworn that she would give another chance to them if she could find a man who was worth of her love. And it was because of your kindness in honoring your mother, your ancestors, and me, that I thought you are such a man, and because of that I loved you and I still love you. And in reward for your efforts that I bestowed on humans another chance to deal with the bounty of the Earth, which is always abundant for human needs, although never sufficient for human greed. But if now they will use only what they need, then the Goddess will give them plenty more, because I am benevolent and merciful and the fruits of my benevolence flood the whole Earth.

Siduri, I am amazed at what you are telling me. Was it all because of me?

Not just because of you, Lugalzid, you were the vessel that carried the blessing of the Goddess and that blessing is now spreading in the world. But you have great merit for what you did.

I don’t think I deserve that merit, my kind Siduri.

I know that you are modest, Lugalzid, and that is one more reason why you deserve it.

But what should do, now?

You may go back to the city you came from if you like. Or you may stay here, and live as a fisherman in the village in front of the deep blue sea. Because people will come here to restart fishing and some are already here.

But, you, Siduri, what will you do?

Oh, I may go back to heaven. See, I have a palace in the clouds. But, if you like . . .

If I like what?

I can stay with you.

Really? A Goddess staying with a mere man? How could that be?

Sweet Lugalzid, a goddess can do many things. I will stay with you and you will fish for me and I’ll cook for you and make good ale for you, and we’ll stay in this nice hut and we will be happy to be husband and wife and we’ll have many happy children. Because the Goddess gives life to everything and she is loves everything and gives life to everything, and nothing and no one is too humble for Her or too small for Her. And now, come with me, my sweet husband. I want to love you again and to love you many times. Kiss me and you can go fishing tomorrow.

Note: this story is inspired by Sumerian lore, in particular by the saga of Gilgamesh. Lugalzid should be a real Sumerian name that I built mixing the terms Lu (great), gal (man), and zid (trusted), although I don’t know if such a name was ever used in Sumerian times. Siduri, instead, is a real Sumerian name and she is the “alewife” that Gilgamesh meets in his travels. “Siduri” actually means “young woman” in Accadic, but in the saga she is both a goddess and a woman who makes beer. The hero sleeping for a hundred years is inspired by the Japanese children story “Urashima Taro”.

Fantastic: Mata Hari's Pinball from 1978!

Mata Hari is a Physical Pinball Table designed by Jim Patla with artwork by Dave Christensen. It was released by Bally in 1978, just as the company was switching over from electro-mechanical pinballs to solid state.

Inspired by the Real Life Mata Hari, the game depicts the exotic dancer and spy performing her duties. The pinball backglass shows her lounging in her chambers, handing a small folded map to a gentleman identified only as The Baron. On the playfield, Mata Hari is passing off documents stamped Top Secret, and is featured stepping out from behind a gigantic knife while framed by oversized feathers and snakes. The sides of the cabinet eschew all subtlety, with Hari pointing at a silhouette of the skull and crossbones while preparing to strike with her dagger.

http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Pinball/MataHari

Below, an image of the playing board and of an imagined Mata Hari's face on the side of the machine.

The Masked World and the Virus: What Have we Done to Ourselves?

This beautiful and eerie clip by seven7lives suddenly acquires new meaning with the arrival of the epidemics. Note the theme of the face mask all over the clip, worn by the soldiers and by the workers. And the red piece of cloth held by the girl acquires an even more specific link to freedom, it is freedom from the need of wearing a de-humanizing face mask. 

Note how, toward the end of the clip, a woman faces a masked soldier before being blindfolded and executed. 

Freedom is a state of the mind, but the mind is easily enslaved and forcing us to wear a face mask is a good way to turn us into slaves. Slavery is another state of the mind. 

And it is not even that we are forced into slavery by an evil dictator. Right now, with the epidemic ongoing, we are so terrified that we want to wear face masks, we want to see everyone else wearing a face mask, we want to become slaves. 

But it is not because of a virus. Everything is correlated, everything has a reason. The virus is not an accident of nature, not an act of God. We already lost our freedom when we destroyed most of the natural world around us. And now we see the consequences of what we have done.