Black Gate

I hope you’ll forgive me for stepping off topic this week. We’ll return to Gilgamesh soon, but today, I wanted to talk to you about something different.

Writing. The process, not the product, which is what I usually blog about here at Black Gate. I’m surrounded by true professionals and artists here, so it feels like hubris to presume upon the subject. But as that has rarely stopped me before, I shall forge ahead.

Many of you reading this have heard of NaNoWriMo, or National Novel Writing Month. For those who haven’t, the idea is that if you write 1,666 words a day for every day of November, you’ll end up with fifty thousand words, or, in some genres, a novel. The idea is that everybody does it in one giant nationwide frenzy, cheering each other on, swapping tips, hosting write-a-thons in which people chug coffee and type like the wind. Winning means getting fifty thousand words. They don’t have to be great. They don’t have to be good. They just have to be on the page.

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As far as heroes go, Gilgamesh leaves a lot to be desired, at least by modern standards. Gilgamesh is not a good guy. Or a good man. Or a good king.

That is in fact how the story begins. Gilgamesh is an impressive specimen, it’s true.

“Supreme over other kings, lordly in appearance,
he is the hero, born of Uruk, the goring wild bull.
He walks out in front, the leader,
and walks at the rear, trusted by his companions.
Mighty net, protector of his people,
raging flood-wave who destroys even walls of stone!
Offspring of Lugalbanda, Gilgamesh is strong to perfection,
son of the august cow, Rimat-Ninsun;
… Gilgamesh is awesome to perfection.”

(Translation taken from the Ancient Texts library.)

Gilgamesh is two-thirds divine and one-third human. We’re not entirely certain how that math works out: we know his mother is the goddess Ninsun and if I had to guess I would say that they considered the mother’s contribution to a child’s makeup as more weighty than a father’s. (As opposed to the Greeks, who considered the mother to be merely a biological caretaker of an implanted seed.) He’s a powerful leader, he defends his people, so what’s the problem?

He’s also ancient Uruk’s biggest frat boy.

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It has been a frustrating few weeks around here.

What I want to do is spend the time not tied up in other obligations writing or working in the garden. What I’ve gotten over the last month is a seemingly endless series of storms (not common in Wisconsin in June; we go more for blizzards than twisters up here), obligations, shenanigans and chaos, and just when I think I’ve got twenty minutes to myself, a minor family crisis pops up.

Which makes this week’s topic – Medea’s visit to Circe – feel particularly apt.

Bear with me, that’s not as brutal a segue as it initially seems.

When we left off our discussion of the Argonautica, Medea had made the startling decision to murder her brother. Well, technically, Jason murdered him, but Jason isn’t the brains of anyone’s operation.

Jason couldn’t find the brains of the operation.

Jason is dumber than a box of hair.

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My apologies, folks. This week is going to be more brief than usual. You may have heard that we had some excessively exciting weather last night here in Wisconsin. That means little sleep for anyone in my house and a shortage of brain power today.

Having decided for Jason and his men over her father, Medea provides him with a potion that will allow him to harness the fire-breathing bulls and sow the dragon’s teeth. These teeth spring up into an army, but Medea gives him the clue to toss a rock into their midst and they cut each other to pieces.

Jason is successful, but the fleece still isn’t in his hands. After a sleepless and frightened night, Medea realizes that A) there is no way her father is going to give it up and B) he probably knows that she is responsible for Jason’s feats. So she flees the palace, returns to the Argonauts, and promises to lull the serpent that guards the fleece. They can then make off with it, provided that they promise to take her with them.

Once their absence is noticed, the Colchians give chase. Medea’s brother Aspyrtus catches them in the Adriatic. Talks ensue and a bargain is reached: the Argonauts can keep the fleece, as they won it fair and square. The real point of contention is Medea. Since no deal can be reached, they both agree that she should be deposited in a temple of Artemis until a third party can judge whether she should be returned to her father or given to the Argonauts.

And here it gets trope-tastic, as Medea executes what is, in this work, a pretty inexplicable face-heel turn.

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When the Argonauts land in Colchis, Jason makes a novel suggestion.

“Hey guys! Let’s, like, NOT storm the castle and steal what we want. Let’s go up, ring the doorbell, and ask politely! What’s the worst that could happen?”

To which King Aeetes responds, “Golden Fleece? Sure you can have it! All you have to do is plow a field with a plow pulled by fire breathing oxen, plant a few acres with dragon’s teeth, wait til those dragon’s teeth turn into fully grown armed men, and then kill them all before they get you. Do it myself all the time.”

It’s a folklore classic: the impossible task. Our hero gets the prize of his dreams (princess, kingdom, unimaginable wealth, golden fleece) as soon as he does something that no human being can possibly do. And then s/he does it.

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