Carcosa Bound

We were sitting at a lovely restaurant, beside the harbour in Chania, in Crete. Mornings there were cool in the shadows, hot in the sun.

Initially, the Minoans built and used this same facility; then the Egyptians. The Venetians expanded and developed it further, as the tides of empire and the Mandate of Heaven shifted to the ones most worthy to bear it. Now, It has a a number of excellent restaurants and a marina with pleasure boats gently testing their moorings.

We ordered breakfast. My lovely wife, more reasonable and sensible in eating than I, got a generous meal of eggs and bacon. It came with a side of avocado and an elegant and edible fruit garnish; what constitutes a good cafe breakfast and a digestible amount of food pretty much anywhere in the world. What a normal human would eat for the first meal of a new day.

I ordered the “Cretan Breakfast”.

I should have known a people who historically vaulted bulls as an apparent demonstration of vitality and domination of nature, invented writing and built mazes to contain cursed and monstrous members of their royal family would apply the “fuck around, find out” rule.

Our meals arrive, delivered by a waitress who was one of those arrestingly attractive, smart, cool people that abound in the areas surrounding the Mediterranean sea. The Argonautica was an accurate travelogue, if you look at things with the right attitude.

The arrival of meal drew states and doubtful looks from the nearby tables.

Three tiers of local delicacies, in massive portions. Slabs of cheese, bowls of honey, some sort of frittata. Overflowing fruit. Near half a litre of yoghurt. Eggs, bacon, fish. Some sort of caramel coffee cake. Slabs of bread.

I get a beer and another coffee. It's going to be a minute, to get through this.

I start working my way through this – tactically, carefully; saving the heavy, bland carbs til last, as learned from a master of competitive eating, the guy from YouTube channel Beard vs Food.

It's hard going. There is a lot of food.

During this, my wife comments to another waiter, another one of those improbably attractive people, apparently a waiter.

He's jacked, broad and muscular, tastefully tattooed. Sharply barbered to accentuate a great bone structure.

Basically, he looks like a male model with a double bodyweight bench, and a rakish boredom that seems at odds with the indignity of waiting tables. He didn't actually seem to do any work, just hang out in an apron and perfectly-fitting capris and a tight white shirt and lure in passing tourists.

He seemed out of time, if not out of place; more the type who would jump out of a trireme to storm a city, or join a mercenary army on some desperate and ill-starred venture, and return to tell the tale.

His response to my wife was perfect.

“It's a lot of food. Most people can't finish it.”

Then, a devastating pause. The tumult recedes. A singular moment blooms, and we're in the Mythic, outside the circles of time.

“I can eat it, no problem.”

The harbour stills, as the Challenge is given.

It is noted by the Gods, daemons and spirits. The genii loci and the dead, hungry and restless and heroic both.

There is only one Challenge; the only difference is the intensity.

This was on the lighter end of the scale, but still, the rituals must be observed.

I steel myself and pick up my fork for a renewed assault. In time, the three levels of the tower of Crete, conquered.

I can eat this, no problem, too.

A sizable tip left, for ritual services performed and illumination received.

We walk, slowly, out onto the flagstones of the ancient harbour that has received so many adventurers, and proceed out to the lighthouse, and on with the sightseeing.

It's a hot day, but we can take it.

After the stupid story, the tangential point

That the Age of Heroes has passed and is over is the first lie they sold us.

The vector of heroic action is always available.

Anyone can become a hero, by pursuing heroic action. We can all steal the fire from Heaven, though most will not in any meaningful or memorable sense.

A true challenge – given and received – is a transcendental experience. It contacts Potential, and (if successfully negotiated) reconfigures Pattern.

It's not a real challenge if you can't fail.

Heroism is a form of soul building. As such, this could confer a means of immortality.

Several ancient Greek sources relay that the souls of the Glorious Dead – of heroes – shine bright and distinct in the underworld, while those of the nameless and unremarkable dead are flirting, indistinct, of no consequence.

The inference is clear: what you do in this life matters. You become someone worth remembering, or you're a mote of dust in the Hellrealm.