(1) Beekes, Robert S. P. (2010) Etymological Dictionary of Greek (Leiden Indo-European Etymological Dictionary Series; 10), with the assistance of Lucien van Beek, Leiden, Boston: Brill 

no grand procession followed you

(no drums, no flutes, no horns, no choirs)

when here your marble cradle through

travails was brought and icy waters

the air which hovers from your bed,

untimely opened

and rudely splayed,

is aching;

now air, where once the dead

into this cradle laid

what’s left? the elegiac verse

once bold, now faded into fissures

on this, this here nymph-crested hearse

which bears both brother-sister

your bones have gone, and all your kin

are left unsung and you bereft

perhaps to this your Manes clung

still whisper pleas for rest

I forget when, but it was around a week ago.

I’ll ask my mom later when it was

(she remembers stuff like that;

I really admire that about her).

I had the strange honor

Of being there when she died.

I watched her struggle

and

heave for breath

Before falling limp.

Her tongue fell out her mouth

Like a pink, gummy rag.

I sat there dumb.

I’ve heard of people dying,

and I’ve been to an open-casket wake before,

and I’ve had loved ones die,

but I’ve never seen death so plainly,

so unforgivingly laid out before me.

My mom immediately began to sob.

It was the first time I saw my oldest brother cry, too

(well, actually I had seen him cry before

while watching “It’s a Wonderful Life”

but that’s a little different, I think).

I couldn’t help but cry.

I don’t feel like I deserved to cry, though.

There was so much more love

I could’ve given that poor old girl

that I didn’t give.

I’m not a good person.

I told my brothers that she died peacefully.

But I think she was probably in a lot of pain.

The doctors said a tumor exploded in her stomach

which caused her to deficate all over her bed.

At least we had the backdoor open

so she could behold that garden she loved so much

one last time.

On the way to the doctor

I sat in the trunk with her

and my mom and brother

kept desperately assuring her

that she was a good girl.

I almost fell on top of her

as we turned a corner.

What looked like breathing,

the doctor said,

was actually post-mortem

contractions

of the diaphragm.

“She’s agonal,” she said.

Then, out of nowhere

She started breathing again.

What a fucking carnival of emotion.

I hugged my brother

as I uncontrollably wept

and grab at my mom’s shirt.

I had no shoes on

except my dad’s sandals

which I hastily grabbed

as I rushed out the door.

They brought her in on a gurney

and found bloody fluid in her stomach.

They had my mom sign a euthanasia waver.

And it took several attempts to find a vein

full enough to administer the shot,

which gave us time to talk to her.

My mom got my dad on the phone

and he talked to his beloved dog a little bit.

Her mouth twitched a little,

so I think she liked that.

I whispered some things into her ear

(some hails and farewells)

but I won’t tell you what I said.

Only Sugar knows.

you can say, “you look fine!” ‘til you’re blue in the face

it won’t change the fact that

at this time

on this day

in this very moment

i hate the way my body looks

i hate how much body hair i have

not that i hate body hair, i just have too much of it

and no matter how much i trim it

it will always come back (come back)

i hate the sound of my voice when i’m sick

it gets deep and gravelly

i used to think it sounded kind of badass

i do not think that anymore

i hate how ashy my hands get when it’s cold out

and i hate how stubby my fingers are

i hate how my body is asymmetrical

my left finger nails and toenails (ugly, all)

are smaller than my right ones

my left ear has less cartilage than my right

my left nipple sits higher than my right

so does my left shoulder

which reminds me

i hate how large my areolas are

and i hate the hair that grows around them

i hate the fray that my right eyebrow has

and i hate the shape of my nose

i hate the hair that lurks on my hands and toes

and i hate how skinny my wrists are

and i hate that i’m neither thin nor fat nor fit

i’m in some weird in-betwixt

i hate the eyelashes that grow between my eyebrows

that i have to pluck every so often

i hate that people can probably see the bulge of my cock through my shorts

i hate my cowlick

i guess i should take a deep breath, huh?

Notably, non-Christians are uncomfortable with AD (annō Dominī, “in the year of the Lord”) making direct reference to Jesus of Nazareth as Lord.

One charitable change you could make is changing AD to AC (after Christ). However, it is important to remember that “Christ” is not a name: it’s a title. A title that comes from Ancient Greek (Χρῑστός) and is ultimately a calque of the Biblical Hebrew title מָשִׁיחַ (mashíakh, “Messiah”). And so “Christ” also makes direct reference to Jesus as Lord.

One particularly good argument against BCE and CE is that it also uses the date of the birth of Jesus (in the ecclesiastical reckoning) as its reference point (and “common era” is itself fairly vague and unwieldy). Ultimately, BC and BCE refer to the same event, except BCE uses secular language.

I would like to propose an entirely new convention. It still uses the traditional date of the birth of Jesus as its reference point (as this is arguably the most influential event in modern human history) but sidesteps the issue of referring to Jesus as Lord.

BC and BCE shall become AJ (ante Jēsum, “before Jesus”; it’s in Latin because I’m a prick, but also because it can be eloquently written and pronounced as “antejesum”, cf. “antebellum”), and AD and CE shall become PJ (post Jēsum, “after Jesus”; “postjesum”). Isn’t that lovely?

Alternatively, if you like, you could also go for AN (ante nātīvitātem, “before the birth/nativity”) and PN (post nātīvitātem, “after the birth/nativity”), but I personally don’t like this convention as much.

And so, this post was written and posted on the 16th of May, 2023 PJ.

NB: in my dialect of American English, “antejesum” would be pronounced [ˈeə̯ntəˌd͡ʒɛzəm] or [ˈeə̯ntəˌd͡ʒijzəm]

That night he lay awake for so long, pondering a creeping anxiety, that the sun had begun to rise from Tartarus; a squalid-clouded sky choked her, painting the earth with a surly light. It was in the light of that gloomy dawn, her rosy fingers shrouded, that a scene flashed before Oedipus’ eyes, some long-forgotten episode of his youth: a quarrel with an old man at a crossroads. It lasted for only a moment, and then it was gone. A shiver ran down his spine; he rose from bed and took to another room to find some sleep, trying to put it all out of mind. 

Oedipus had all there was to desire: the cunning to bring down the Sphinx (and the renown of such an heroic deed!), the crown of Thebes, and betrothal to a gorgeous Queen. But all was not well, for a new plague harried his city, and he knew neither whence it came nor what it was. 

His eyes were sore as of late.

Oedipus sat by the window, watching the world awaken. A voice came from the stairwell: “Darling, are you alright?” Oedipus turned with a hiccough of fright, but when he saw that it was Jocasta he let himself breathe. 

“Yes,” he said, “I’m alright. I just can’t sleep.” 

“Come back to bed, then,” she said. He could tell in her voice that she was upset. 

“I’ll be up in a minute, my love,” he lied. At this she hesitantly returned to bed, and Oedipus turned his gaze back to the surly vista outside his window. 

A crossroads… and a struggle with an older man, as he sat awhile in thought. Whatever it could’ve been that teased his mind, it was lost now. It’ll come to me soon enough, he thought as he finally began to nod off to sleep. 

Oedipus walks down a barren road and approached the crossroads. Three roads meet somewhere in Boeotia; a turgid herm, some six cubits tall, lords over the sight. In the distance, a chariot approaches from Thebes. The herald hails him, bidding him let them pass first. Oedipus becomes wroth, and he knows not why.

Oedipus awoke from the land of Dreams for a moment (later that day, he wasn’t sure if this was real or another dream). It wasn’t one of his slaves who woke him, for they knew not to disturb his rest. He felt a dull pain on his temple, and on the windowsill rested a lone acorn. He let his heavy lids fall once more, and back to sleep he went.

A woman lies on Oedipus’ bed, her legs wide open. Her head is entirely bandaged. She welcomes his stonen cock. It’s warm and wet and tight inside her. Oedipus knows not why he is fucking this woman, but he cannot stop.

“Mother,” he cries, “mother…” He reaches out to touch her faces, softly caressing it. But he must know. He must know. He grabs the bandages with the intent to cruelly tear them from her face. She laughs wickedly.

“Oh, Oedipus…”

“Oedipus!”

Oedipus was startled (how cruelly he had been ripped from his slumber!). He looked up and beheld his lovely Jocasta. 

“It’s nearly midday,” she said, “I’ve had the slaves prepare you a late breakfast, though it’s already almost lunchtime.” She bent down and stole a kiss from him. Oedipus permitted himself a hesitant smile.

“I’m sorry,” he said, “I said I would come back to bed with you but… as soon as you were gone I had nodded off.” Jocasta sighed.

“It’s alright,” she said, with a voice that said I’m actually rather upset, of course, but there’s nothing I can really do about it, is there?

Oedipus ate his fill of bread and wine, then a bowl of figs, olives, and chickpeas, and finally some tagenites with honey. Jocasta wanted him to stay for lunch, but he had to say no, for he had matters to attend to in the market, though he would not tell her what.

Oedipus wished not to draw attention to himself, and so he bade one of his slaves lend him his cloak; he cast the hood over his face as he meandered through the market of Thebes. Eventually he found what he was looking for: a small tent pitched by the brothel. He stooped to enter. Inside the tent, laurel leaves burned in a small tray, and an old man sat there breathing in the fumes with his crescent nose. He had not a single hair on his head, but bushy, white eyebrows that sat like caterpillars over his sunken eyes. He looked like a madman. When he felt someone enter the tent (felt, for he was mostly blind in his old age), he welcomed them.

“Oh!” he said in a Roman accent, “what have we here?”

“I have come to see the oneiromancer,” said Oedipus. “That is you, is it not?”

“Yes, indeed,” said the old man, “Spurius is the name for me! How may I help you?”

“I’ve been vexed by my dreams lately,” said Oedipus.

“Well then… take a seat. Let’s hear it.”

∼

“What do you make of it?” asked Oedipus.

“Hmm…” Spurius sat awhile in thought. “This first dream… you say it’s recurring?”

“Yes.”

“Perhaps you’re conflicted about something. Something of a sexual nature. And you feel the consequences of this conflict swiftly approaching. And the consequences are dire, indeed, and this instills anger in you.”

“Mm… a bit vague. I thought you people would be more specific.”

“It’s an incomplete dream, isn’t it?”

“I suppose, yes. I always seem to wake up before it plays out.”

“Well therein lies the problem, eh? Incomplete dreams are difficult to parse. Now, this second dream of yours…”

“Oh?”

“I wonder if it’s allegorical or theorematic…?” he scratched his chin.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Well, if it’s an allegory, then I would say that you are a conqueror… a ruler over some not insignificant tract of land, hm? Perhaps even Thebes herself? More of a tyrant, then.” 

Oedipus grunted. A contempt for this man was fermenting.

“And perhaps you achieved this status through some kind of trickery… Or, if it’s theorematic, maybe fate has it that you’ll fuck your mother. You don’t know who your mother is, do you? Huh… Oedipus?”

Oedipus’ face was grave, his brow furrowed in anger. He stood up, towering over the sniveling dream-reader, and coldly turned to leave.

“You shan’t tell a soul about this, understand?” he said, “Aut tē morte pūniam.”

Spurius chortled: “Ō, Ēdipe… nōn mortem vereor. Sed tū… quid verēris?”

Oedipus left without looking back at that insufferable Roman peasant. But Spurius cried after him: “Er, that’ll be…!” whereupon a drachm hissed through the air and ripped into the tent. He caught it, and felt the heft of it in his hand. 

“Sīve dracma sīve as… nēmō nunc tē servābit…”

∼

Oedipus’ feet bullied the earth as he marched home. “Fie! Vulgar slave,” he hissed under his breath. This wasn’t the first diviner he had seen. 

Oedipus passed by a brothel on his way home. All he really wanted at that point was a good night’s rest. And so, under shroud, he slipped inside and ordered a boy to keep a bed warm for him. He lay in bed awhile, and his lids grew heavy. Perhaps tonight, he thought, I will finally have some rest.

But rest would not have him

“Obviouly mine goes first, you fucking knape!” the old man barked. “Were you born stupid?”

Oedipus said nothing; he stared blankly at the barking old man.

“Or did your mommy drop you on your head, eh?” 

He whacked Oedipus on the head with his scepter as a demonstration. Oedipus was stunned, but said nothing.

“In what backwards land would your chariot ever go first? You must know! You clearly hail from such a land. Pathetic whelp!” 

He whacked Oedipus on the head again, harder this time. Oedipus grew wroth. 

“Look at you! Why don’t you do something, eh? If you’re so sure of yourself!” He brought the wicked scepter over his head; veins throbbed beneath his leathery, olive skin. “Do something, you weak,” he kept hitting him, “pathetic,” again, “stupid—!” 

Oedipus awoke screaming: where he lay, a puddle of sweat remained. The boy caressed him and asked what was wrong. 

His head was throbbing.

N.B.

(Latin Dialogue)

Oedipus (Urban dialect): Or I’ll put you to death.

Spurius (rustic dialect): Oh, Oedipus… I don’t fear death. But you… what do you fear?

Spurius: Whether a drachm (valuable Greek silver coin) or a (Roman) penny… no one will save you now…”

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