The Gods Are Crazy

By John Elson

Like many another wide-eyed couch potato, I had eagerly awaited each weekly episode of Joseph Campbell and the Power of Myth. Bill Moyers' series of interviews on PBS with the late Professor Campbell, one of the world's reigning experts on mythology, was fascinating stuff, if you're really into fertility cults, purification rites and the like. But the show wasn't all Upanishads and Choctaw legends. Once in a while, with Moyers smirking approval in the background, Campbell would offer some solid, down-to-earth advice. Live mythologically, he would say. It's a means of keeping one's inner spirit attuned to the archetypes and myths that surround us even in this secular age. Well, that seemed a pretty shrewd observation . . .

I awoke early -- too early, barely able to breathe. There was fur in my mouth and an ominous purring sound in my ears. It was Sakhmet, the family cat, sitting on my face. Might today be the Twelfth of Tybi, which commemorates the massacre perpetrated by the Feline Goddess of ancient Egypt? It was too horrible to contemplate. "Get out of here, Sakhmet!" I shouted, sitting bolt upright. My wife Libra opened an eye. Her scales of justice, as usual, were at the ready. "About your behavior at the party last night . . ."

"Not now, dear. I have a headache."

I lumbered to the bathroom and stared uncertainly into the mirror. What stared back was . . . was . . . was it Thomagata, the one-eyed, four-eared Colombian god of thunder, chastened by his encounter with the sun-god Bochica? Or was it Chonchonyi, the revolting, bloodsucking god of Chile with the long, flapping ears? Shuddering, I stepped into the shower. As the hot, healing liquid bathed my shoulders, I felt like . . . like . . . like Kappa, the solemn little Japanese water demon, renowned for his punctilious manners. Or perhaps like Ahto, the water god of the ancient Finns, who lived under a sea cliff. (But then perhaps not. Ahto's beard was made of moss, and I had shaved already.)

Garbed for another grueling day in the urban jungle, I loped into the dining room. Our children were already at the table, finishing their homework over breakfast. Krishna, the elder, was engrossed in the Bhagavad-Gita; Kikimora, his younger sister, was muttering an incantation in Old Slavonic. (They both attended the International School. Such a melting pot!) "What's today's morning repast?" I asked cheerfully, reaching for the sports pages of the New York Times. "Ambrosia," they answered in unison. How suitably mythological, I thought -- the food of Greece's ancient deities. In Manhattan one can buy damn near everything, I always say. And ambrosia it was -- Kellogg's Wheat-Nut Ambrosia, a new product described as low in fat, high in bran.

I was delighted to read that my favorite ball club, New York's own Mets, had won yesterday, defeating Chicago's Ursa Minor (sorry, Cubs) in a thrill-packed game. Once again, the winning run had been driven in by Darryl Strawberry. To those without mythic insight, Strawberry is just a tall, moody rightfielder who wallops long, high-arcing home runs. To me, though, Darryl seemed like the incarnation of . . . of . . . of Nyamia Ama, the all-powerful storm god of Senegal. Nyamia Ama is said to be somewhat remote and invisible. (Well, sometimes Strawberry doesn't like interviews either.)

Time for work. Low scudding clouds threatened the immediate appearance of Jupiter Pluvius, so I took the subway. New Yorkers commonly describe a ride on their beloved rapid-transit system as a journey through Hades, and mine this day was no exception. Heading downtown, I boarded one of the system's older trains -- creaking, crotchety and covered with indescribable graffiti. I looked closer at one cluster of squiggles, spray-painted by the ubiquitous Taki 183. Was it . . .? Could it be . . .? Yes, there in Babylonian script were the opening words of the Gilgamesh Epic: "Sha naq-ba i-mu-ru u-she-ed-di ma-a-ti!"

A garbled voice crackled incoherently over the public address system. The words sounded like "Feng-tu Ta-ti." How strange, I mused, that the conductor would invoke the legendary rebel turned emperor of the Ch'in dynasty through whom the Kings of Hell reported their doings to heaven. Just to be sure, I asked a fellow straphanger what our Charon of the Underworld had said. "Forty-second next," he answered. Hmm.

It was not to be a good day. Just as I finished a second cup of coffee, an editor called me, requesting some fixes on a story. As we discussed the changes, my mind began to transmogrify. His familiar visage took on the horrible features of Tezcatlipoca, Mexico's evil magician-god with blazing eyes and slobbering tongue. If one encounters this dreadful apparition, legend has it, one's only hope is to thrust a hand into the god's bloody chest cavity and seize its palpitating heart.

As I leaned forward in my chair, a trembling hand outstretched, an insistent question broke through my reverie: "Is everything clear?" "Right you are," I answered smartly. "The new version will be on your desk this afternoon." Back in my office, though, it was hard to concentrate. The little cursor on the blank computer screen blinked incessantly, like an accusing Cyclops. I felt like Sisyphus, endlessly, futilely pushing a rock up a hill. Oh, that I were Nabu, the Mesopotamian god of writing and destiny, whose powers could alter the days allotted to men in this life!

Eventually, though, the story was finished. At home, Bacchus-like, I poured myself a preprandial libation, but I was far too tired to contemplate an evening of Dionysian delights. Myths, I thought. Too many demons and deities. They are all about us. Here. There. Everywhere . . .

Libra was in the TV room. As she flicked on the set I saw the shadowy outline of two talking heads. "Oh, look," she said, siren-like. "PBS has a rerun of your favorite show. Want to watch?"

No, I said. Enough already. I've had it with video myths. From now on, it's nothing but Pee-wee Herman and Celebrity Bowling for me.