If you travel, by sea or by air, to one (I dare not say which) of the Islands of Greece, you may encounter a Temple dedicated to the great Dionysius. Walking inside from the heat of a scorched Hellenic afternoon, the temple is cool, the stone on your bare feet (for they must be bear when you enter the temple) chills your calloused heel. In front of you stands a vast statue of the God, present in this location since time immemorial. It is grand. But allow yourself to detatch your eyes from his and walk down a small flight of stone stairs and there, in a corner of an underground cloister of the temple, you will find the statue of The Goddess Pysartis, who had the power to make mortal men feel omnipotent, as though they were more clever and more handsome than the gods themselves. This is the true heart of the temple, she who sits underground, away from but aware nevertheless of her great husband, Dionysius. She, The Goddess Pysartis. She is, she is.
