candlemystar

right place, wrong person - rm

Perfect Helen of Troy. An ideal and a villain all at once.

Helen. Mythological damsel. She’s like a prop. You could replace her with a sexy lamp and the plot wouldn’t change.

Helen isn’t an object. Everyone just thinks she is.

She’s the most beautiful woman in the world. She’s the face that launched a thousand ships.

She isn’t just a face. Isn’t just the most beautiful woman in the world. She’s got thoughts and feelings and ambitions and drive. She’s got her own hopes, her own fears. The storytellers take away a lot of her agency, saying she ran off because a goddess cursed her with love. But she could have stayed. You always have a choice, no matter what you feel. She made the choice to leave it all behind. To do what was unsafe and unexpected. She decided to be selfish.

Aren’t all beautiful women selfish?

I can’t answer that for you. That’s a belief you’ve got. But it’s equally selfish to choose home and safety and the familiar as it is to choose love over duty.

She left her children. Helen had a little girl.

You can think that’s bad or wicked. Immoral, if you want. But there’s drama in that choice. You’re supposed to see your characters, even the ones you don’t like. You don’t just take away Helen’s agency because you don’t like her or don’t agree with her. I don’t think you want to take away Helen’s free will. Her ability to change the plot herself.

Helen of Troy is more than a plot device. She’s more than a beautiful stolen object that needs to be retrieved.

That doesn’t make her good.

I never said she was good. I said she was human. Flawed and real and flesh and blood. Barely older than us and scared out of her mind. Don’t make Helen perfect. Make her real.

If Helen gets to tell the story, she’s not an object. I mean, also, she’s still your idea of who she is. But Helen has always been that way. Does she run off with Paris? Is she abducted? Seduced? Does she ascend to Mount Olympus in the end? Regret her choices? Hate Paris? Love him? Happily resume the role of wife and queen and mother of Sparta? The only thing anyone can really agree on is this—Helen was found missing from her husband’s home and then her husband started a war. That’s it.

Spartan. That was the word. From Helen’s original homeland, Sparta. Utilitarian. Neat. Militaristic, even. The beautiful girl from the most warmongering of the ancient Greek states. If Helen of Troy had really existed, she would have been raised to fight, raised for war. Now she was known for being so pretty, she’d started a global conflict.

She thought of Helen of Troy like everyone who had written her before, and most of those everyone were men.

Her will would have had Helen be the victim. The villain, even. The instigator of all of this unnecessary war, unnecessary evil. Her idea for the whole narrative was to have Cassandra be the tragic, truth-telling protagonist. Worse, she knew she had been right to pull Helen forward. She hadn’t been interested in making the most beautiful woman in the world into the most fascinating woman in the world. But this was different. She had pulled on the thread of Helen’s humanity. She had found what makes any character relatable to so many people—her imperfections. Helen here was vain, but also trying to be brave. She was selfish, but also living in a world that had made her be selfless since childhood. She was a woman trying to walk her own path in this world, despite there being no such thing for her.

Well, as far as I knew, it hadn’t been done for two thousand years. After all, the appeal to stop being yourself, even for a little while, is very great. To escape the cognitive mode of experience, to transcend the accident of one’s moment of being. There are other advantages, more difficult to speak of, things which ancient sources only hint at and which I myself only understood after the fact.

Well, it’s not called a mystery for nothing. But one mustn’t underestimate the primal appeal—to lose one’s self, lose it utterly. And in losing it be born to the principle of continuous life, outside the prison of mortality and time. That was attractive to me from the first, even when I knew nothing about the topic and approached it less as potential mystes than anthropologist. Ancient commentators are very circumspect about the whole thing. It was possible, with a great deal of work, to figure out some of the sacred rituals—the hymns, the sacred objects, what to wear and do and say. More difficult was the mystery itself: how did one propel oneself into such a state, what was the catalyst?

I suppose in a certain way I was misled by accounts of the Pythia, the pneuma enthusiastikon, poisonous vapors and so forth. Those processes, though sketchy, are more well documented than Bacchic methods, and I thought for a while that the two must be related. Only after a long period of trial and error did it become evident that they were not, and that what we were missing was something, in all likelihood, quite simple. Which it was.

Only this. To receive the god, in this or any other mystery, one has to be in a state of euphemia, cultic purity. That is at the very center of bacchic mystery. Even Plato speaks of it. Before the Divine can take over, the mortal self—the dust of us, the part that decays—must be made clean as possible.

Through symbolic acts, most of them fairly universal in the Greek world. Water poured over the head, baths, fasting—Bunny wasn’t so good about the fasting nor about the baths, either, if you ask me but the rest of us went through the motions. The more we did it, though, the more meaningless it all began to seem, until, one day, I was struck by something rather obvious—namely, that any religious ritual is arbitrary unless one is able to see past it to a deeper meaning. Do you know what Julian says about the Divine Comedy?

That it’s incomprehensible to someone who isn’t a Christian? That if one is to read Dante, and understand him, one must become a Christian if only for a few hours? It was the same with this. It had to be approached on its own terms, not in a voyeuristic light or even a scholarly one. At the first, I suppose, it was impossible to see it any other way, looking at it as we did in fragments, through centuries. The vitality of the act was entirely obsfucated, the beauty, the terror, the sacrifice. Quite simply, we didn’t believe. And belief was the one condition which was absolutely necessary. Belief, and absolute surrender.

It was heart-shaking. Glorious. Torches, dizziness, singing. Wolves howling around us and a bull bellowing in the dark. The river ran white. It was like a film in fast motion, the moon waxing and waning, clouds rushing across the sky. Vines grew from the ground so fast they twined up the trees like snakes; seasons passing in the wink of an eye, entire years for all I know.… I mean we think of phenomenal change as being the very essence of time, when it’s not at all. Time is something which defies spring and winter, birth and decay, the good and the bad, indifferently. Something changeless and joyous and absolutely indestructible. Duality ceases to exist; there is no ego, no “I,” and yet it’s not at all like those horrid comparisons one sometimes hears in Eastern religions, the self being a drop of water swallowed by the ocean of the universe. It’s more as if the universe expands to fill the boundaries of the self. You have no idea how pallid the workday boundaries of ordinary existence seem, after such an ecstasy. It was like being a baby. I couldn’t remember my name.

What if you had never seen the sea before? What if the only thing you’d ever seen was a child’s picture—blue crayon, choppy waves? Would you know the real sea if you only knew the picture? Would you be able to recognize the real thing even if you saw it? You don’t know what Dionysus looks like. We’re talking about God here. God is serious business.

We don’t like to admit it but the idea of losing control is one that fascinates controlled people such as ourselves more than almost anything. All truly civilized people—the ancients no less than us—have civilized themselves through the willful repression of the old, animal self. Are we, in this room, really very different from the Greeks or the Romans? Obsessed with duty, piety, loyalty, sacrifice? All those things which are to modern tastes so chilling?

And it’s a temptation for any intelligent person, and especially for perfectionists such as the ancients and ourselves, to try to murder the primitive, emotive, appetitive self. But that is a mistake.

Because it is dangerous to ignore the existence of the irrational. The more cultivated a person is, the more intelligent, the more repressed, then the more he needs some method of channeling the primitive impulses he’s worked so hard to subdue. Otherwise those powerful old forces will mass and strengthen until they are violent enough to break free, more violent for the delay, often strong enough to sweep the will away entirely. For a warning of what happens in the absence of such a pressure valve, we have the example of the Romans. The emperors. Think, for example, of Tiberius, the ugly stepson, trying to live up to the command of his stepfather Augustus. Think of the tremendous, impossible strain he must have undergone, following in the footsteps of a savior, a god. The people hated him. No matter how hard he tried he was never good enough, could never be rid of the hateful self, and finally the floodgates broke. He was swept away on his perversions and he died, old and mad, lost in the pleasure gardens of Capri: not even happy there, as one might hope, but miserable. Before he died he wrote a letter home to the Senate. ‘May all the Gods and Goddesses visit me with more utter destruction than I feel I am daily suffering.’ Think of those who came after him. Caligula. Nero.

The Roman genius, and perhaps the Roman flaw was an obsession with order. One sees it in their architecture, their literature, their laws—this fierce denial of darkness, unreason, chaos. Easy to see why the Romans, usually so tolerant of foreign religions, persecuted the Christians mercilessly—how absurd to think a common criminal had risen from the dead, how appalling that his followers celebrated him by drinking his blood. The illogic of it frightened them and they did everything they could to crush it. In fact, I think the reason they took such drastic steps was because they were not only frightened but also terribly attracted to it. Pragmatists are often strangely superstitious. For all their logic, who lived in more abject terror of the supernatural than the Romans?

The Greeks were different. They had a passion for order and symmetry, much like the Romans, but they knew how foolish it was to deny the unseen world, the old gods. Emotion, darkness, barbarism. Do you remember what we were speaking of earlier, of how bloody, terrible things are sometimes the most beautiful? It’s a very Greek idea, and a very profound one. Beauty is terror. Whatever we call beautiful, we quiver before it. And what could be more terrifying and beautiful, to souls like the Greeks or our own, than to lose control completely? To throw off the chains of being for an instant, to shatter the accident of our mortal selves? Euripides speaks of the Maenads: head thrown back, throat to the stars, ‘more like deer than human being.’ To be absolutely free! One is quite capable, of course, of working out these destructive passions in more vulgar and less efficient ways. But how glorious to release them in a single burst! To sing, to scream, to dance barefoot in the woods in the dead of night, with no more awareness of mortality than an animal! These are powerful mysteries. The bellowing of bulls. Springs of honey bubbling from the ground. If we are strong enough in our souls we can rip away the veil and look that naked, terrible beauty right in the face; let God consume us, devour us, unstring our bones. Then spit us out reborn.

And that, to me, is the terrible seduction of Dionysiac ritual. Hard for us to imagine. That fire of pure being.

1.JIKJIN

TREASURE's race unfolds. As if proving the growth of those who don't know where to stop, even more energetic lyrics and tones penetrate our ears, and the constantly changing tracks and vocal parts heighten the atmosphere.

On the other hand, the song, which offers a twist with a minimal and addictive chorus, ends with a strong sense of hitting and speed at the same time as the dancer. Let's listen carefully to what might be at the end of TREASURE's race.

2. U

It is a sophisticated easy listening pop and an MZ serenade implemented through TREASURE's mouth. Following the mellow verse that proceeds only with the piano without rhythm, it features a chorus that stands out with a smooth falsetto singing method. The song name "U," which resembles a smiley mouth, is also in contact with TREASURE's heart for TREASURE MAKER.

3. DARARI

Is there a fresher R&B than this? Dara-ri, filled with a melody that hums without realizing it in love, unfolds fresh based on the trap rhythm. The combination of bossanova-style guitar, exotic percussion, and refreshing marimba creates a unique sound, and the "Darari" that the members take turns spitting out fascinates the listener.

4. IT'S OKAY

It is a ballad song that brings out another wave of comfort and hope. The song that wraps around the beginning and end with a vocal ad-lib flows smoothly even at its peak. Why don't we wrap up the track by holding TREASURE's hands warmly giving questions to modern people who feel alone in a lonely and desolate era?

CD ONLY

5. BEST FRIEND FOREVER

The development that starts with high-tension guitar sound from the introduction and continues energetically is cheerful. The harmony of the twelve boys is expressed in the last sing-along, making the listener feel good. The song was inserted into TREASURE's own web drama "Namgo Ghost Story" and drew attention among fans. At that time, the song name or specific information was not disclosed, raising many questions.

6. GONNA BE FINE