E-Offering for Lady Aphrodite.
💌 🕊️ Mario Quintana
Man and Water 🌊🦢
seen from United States
seen from China
seen from United Kingdom
seen from Saudi Arabia

seen from Malaysia
seen from Germany
seen from Hungary
seen from United States

seen from United States
seen from United States

seen from United States

seen from Netherlands
seen from Saudi Arabia

seen from United States
seen from China
seen from United States

seen from United Arab Emirates
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seen from United States
seen from Yemen
E-Offering for Lady Aphrodite.
💌 🕊️ Mario Quintana
Man and Water 🌊🦢
I thought the worst the gods could devise was memory itself— the way it floods the estuaries of a waking mind, drawn across fresh water of a new day by the drag of guilt, a moon of regret. Mother, I would have carried you from the burning city also had you settled for a human fate. Why won't you let me forget the stench of brave flesh after the tearing by beak or hound, the woman whose face and hips still press me in dreams, friends gone without cry in the sudden clutch of waves?
Let me forget, let me push the future ahead in the labor of each blank day, and if this founds a city or brings my boy to stand on firmer ground than heaving waves, so be it. I will work for destiny if you walk behind me, cutting away the last stone of my steps.
Instead today you lead me to believe I am entering a temple of this strange town, but on its walls you paint my own past, scenes as familiar as the smell of my body sweating. I walk sideways down the long hall, a crab, eyes blinking the water as if sleet whipped them, but how can I turn away when gates, towers, trees of my childhood, closets, swords, twisting stairs, and cobbles are trapped in gesso. See how Creusa clenches one last time to heave the wide head down and out, how Ascanias struggles to find his first breath.
But how can I trust these works of art? In every panel I search but never see myself. That portion of my eye is burned as if I gazed too long at the sun. I strain to assemble the figure who is me, but all I see is the blur of browridge, a body shape I wear closer than a jut of helmet, plume that dangles over the visor.
Where am I, Mother? How can I ever know the torment of history you say I must accept if you are always shifting your shape and never let me see my own?
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Aeneas through the Looking Glass
T. (Thomas) Alan Broughton 1936–2013
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Graphic - Salvator Rosa 1615-1673
Mitchell Belamour 💞
Aphrodite favourite son
he’s perfect.... just imagine him saying something bitchy with that pretty face