Pixies are described as small fairies, sprites, beautiful, exquisite little magical beings, who usually intend no harm. They can be mischievous, and though they can be tricksters, they are usually helpful and just darn cute.
More elegant than elves, funnier than fairies, and luckier than leprechauns, Pixies are charming: how can anything that has been known to turn into hedgehogs at will be anything less than sweet, like a big stick of flavored sugar in a plastic tube?
Now you may be wondering why I have an image of a Na’vi from the movie Avatar.
It’s a stretch of a connection, but see if you can follow my thinking:
Pixies are very much into nature. So are the Na’vi. Pixies might be blue as are some Na’vi. Pixies are sprightly, agile, and athletic. Again, the comparison continues. What does it matter that the Na’vi are over 7′ tall, and Pixies are reportedly about 7″? They’re also both make-believe.
There is some controversy over the design of the Na’vi. Are they representing another race, the noble savage, is their depiction as a humanoid (part human, part another species) an affront to our earthly creators?
Hardly. Let’s not overthink this one, folks. Remember–we keep telling the same story again and again? Tales of springy little sugar-sprites being driven from their woodland homes, with no other defenses than to curl up in a ball, quills outward, is nothing new.
I think they are just pixies, and proportionally sized to their planet, Pandora. (By the way, the allusionary explanation regarding Pandora is on its way.) Even the name Pixie conjurs images of little things: leaves crunching. Frost on pumpkins. A lavendar petal unfurls. Things found only nature-made, not from a factory. A fireflies’ constellation.
Pixies: flavored sugar, no redeeming health benefits, just fun. Pure fun.
Little known fact about me: we have had two hedgehogs. One was named Juju, and the other SugarPop. They were both pooping pin-cushions. Not the best pets we ever had, but maybe we weren’t meant to own pixies.
We all have to venture out into the world from time to time. For most of us, that’s everyday. We’re moving, walking driving, going, running, catching, all going to or coming from some PLACE. Unless we’re suffering from agoraphobia, we go outside. However, most of us don’t walk through dark woods to get there. Most of us are in a car or a bus. We usually don’t have baskets of goodies. And we’re not visiting sick grandmas.
But most of us want to get where we’re going alive.
And the world is still a dangerous place.
This cautionary tale of a small girl, sent off to run an important errand by her mom, involves, at the surface level, a wolf, a basket, a grandma and the omnipresent red riding cape/hood. (I hope she has a good dry cleaner, because dang, she NEVER takes that thing off. Must be getting pretty ripe by now. Stinky. Maybe that’s how that wolf snuck up on her. She didn’t smell wet dog fur. Sorry. Got off track.)
Anyway, this small girl, known by nothing else than “Little Red Riding Hood,” (not Becky, not Suzie, not Chloe) but LRRH, wanders slowly through the woods, and gives up too much information to a wolf. I should say Wolf. Because the animal represents the Bad Guy. Personifies “stranger danger! stranger danger!” Woof! All he wants, he says, are the goodies in the basket. A metaphor for something else? Perhaps. Red holds fast. She doesn’t give him any treats from the picnic basket she carries to her maternal ancestor’s home.
But Red is not too bright. The Wolf, getting to the final destination before Red, sneaks in the house, eats grandma, but WANTS MORE. He is insatiable! He cross-dresses, disguises, and morphs into a terrible impersonation of grandma. Red questions…but Wolf has a handy answer for everything. Finally, it is he who can’t take it anymore when asked about his teeth. His razor-sharp teeth, wanting nothing else than to chomp.
Some stories have a friendly woodsman saving the day, and getting grandma out of the wolf’s tummy. Other versions have grandma hiding in the closet during the drama. Regardless, the Wolf is vanquished. Red and Grandma are okay. Goodies are served. All is well.
don’t talk to strangers…
don’t give out too much information…(the Wolf is in the Internet now)…
Aphrodite (Greek) or Venus (Roman) is the goddess of love. But…not the personification of ‘motherly’ love, or the “I ‘heart’ (fill in the blank) love” but lovey-love. K-I-S-S-I-N-G SITTING IN A TREE kind of love. Aphrodite (aff-fro-dye-tee) is the daughter of Zeus and Dione. She is made from sea foam and lip gloss. She embodies beauty, romantic love, and the epitome of femininity.
Well, she IS all that and a bag of chips, girlfriend. If she was characterized by a modern representation, not just any vapid female celebrity with a toy-sized dog in her purse would suffice. Those would just be wannabes. The real Venuses are very powerful in their allure, appeal, and knee-buckling abilities on mortal men.
In mythology, she is married to Hephaistos, the lame blacksmith of the gods, but it’s a marriage of convenience, not of love. She cheats on her lumpy little husband constantly with the likes of Ares, she starts the Trojan War, and is a mean mother-in-law. She is one who of the original evil “mother” figures, apples and all.
What would one expect if a young man is given those items for choices? Of course he’s going to think with his heart, and not his brain! Paris, that punk, didn’t want power or smarts–he wants the girl! Duh! Aphrodite is no slouch–she knew exactly what she was doing.
Once upon a time, there were two brothers, Jacob and Wilhelm. They collected folktales and fairy tales as one might collect a bushel of berries. Many of us are quite familiar with the European tales from Germany, France, and other countries about girls with long hair, little evil sprites with identity issues, and the rule of “3,” “7,” and “12.” These fairy tales are as ubiquitous as your neighborhood wolf stalking a goody-basket laden girl. And most of us know these tales are darker, more visceral than the Disney-ized versions many of us grew up with: Cinderella’s sisters cut off parts of their feet to try to fool the prince (who is tricked until a talking tree clues him in), and Rapunzel is freely given up by her parents for stealing some lettuce. They never protest, but accept the child they longed for will be handed over for adoption to the witch next door, whose only advantage was having a better vegetable garden.
But, one thing I learned by reading this annotated version was how deeply racist some of these tales are. They were more than cautionary; they were examples of when modeling even the simplest acts (butchering a pig) can be a demonstration for murder.
The stories are timeless in their creepiness, horror, and forbidding. “Grimm” is indeed an apt name. Don’t go out in the woods alone, dear children. The wolf is waiting.
To know our true identities, our destinies, or our life’s purpose by simply pulling out a sword from a stone.
Any way you slice it, you can’t deny that the Arthurian legends are resoundingly entrenched in Western culture, predominately to the British Empire, which at one point, the sun never set on. (But personally, I think they’re better off not worrying about if the sun is or is not sitting on them, it frees them up to continue to model to the U.S. Parliamentary debating tactics, polish up Stonehenge, and make movies like Son of Rambow.)
Understand that there are those who have spent their lives on studying the tales/legend of King Arthur, and you only need to step in the shallow end of the Internet surf to find out what you need to know for sufficient background knowledge, and “catch” the allusions made in literature, movies, and Spongebob.
I would use up all my blog gigabytes if I wrote a full post on Artie and the Gang; suffice it to say this legend HAS IT ALL! It’s like a great country/western song: loyal friends, cheatin’ wives, and a quest for the Big Gulp in a ’70s Charger. Literally, the 70s. Not the 1970s. Not the 1670s. Most likely, the 570s. And did I say Big Gulp? I meant cup. No, chalice. Holy Grail, let’s go on a Crusade!
King Arthur’s grand apotheosis (yeah, that’s right, I used one of your vocabulary words!) comes from his final battle with his greatest enemy, Mordred. Even Mordred’s name connotes some serious evil, jealousy, and bad manners. Not very cricket of him, what what!? Arthur mortally wounds Mordred, but also receives a fatal blow; after getting rid of the evidence with the help of his homie Bedivere, Arthur is laid to rest on the Isle of Avalon.
So, once you’ve succeeded in filling your noggin with sufficient background knowledge on the “real myth,” (wouldn’t that be an oxymoron?) then you may want to move on to these books and a movies:
Song of the Sparrowby Lisa Ann Sandell (G-PG)
Mists of Avalonby Marion Zimmer Bradley (PG13)
Monty Python’s Holy Grail (movie) (PG-13)
It’s not a question of where he grips it! It’s a simple question of weight ratios! A five ounce bird could not carry a one pound coconut.