A photo a day keeps the Doctor in play.
These twin sphinxes guard the entrance to a Victorian era house on Third Street in old Louisville. These daughters of Echidna are rather floridly Victorian in style themselves whether or not they were part of the original decoration. There’s an odd tension in their repose. They do not smile a faint enigmatic smile of a pharaoh’s face, they are not serene or regal like an Egyptian sphinx. I sense something turbulent in the stolid concrete. There’s sex in there, but not straightforward sex, a sublimate of Lovecraftian squirm returned to solid state, not great art, but some pastiche of chimerical lust–A jumble of kink under hard grey skin.
I find them intriguing in the way Mrs. Dr. Omed finds bad novels interesting, because of the kinks the authors unintentionally reveal. Blake and Yeats, forgive me, but–What mortal hand or eye did frame thy woeful asymmetry?–Shape with lion body and a head of a woman, a gaze blank but not pitiless, not moving its slow thighs, the hour not come round, slouching nowhere, unborn.
Spike and I were discussing the “fallen angel dragged backward through time” in the scissor dance My Personal Crone. At one point, he blurted out, “An angel is a chimera!” Yes, angels are chimeras, and that seems an obvious thing to say once said, but if angels are chimeras they are monstrous, cryptids of the Collective, offspring of Typhon the father of all monsters and Echidna the snake goddess, and kin to the sphinx. Think of the sphinx as a kind of angel, slouching into the angelic order somewhere between Seraphim and Cherubim, burning bright.
And like Houdini in Lovecraft’s story-for-hire Entombed with the Pharaohs, you’ve only seen the paw.