Songs of resilience were sung by children and adults alike. Living a lengthy lifespan was a challenge, added to the fact, the stress of historical contingencies; ever-present internecine strife and economic pressures. Down came the rain and washed the spider out. Out came the sun and dried up all the rain and the ITYS BITSY spider climbed up the spout again. We know how life ended for ITYS, the conclusive blunt edge. We know that the Phrygians entered Anatolia from Europe by means of the straits and according to the historian Herodotus, when the Phrygians were in Europe, they were called Brygs of Birgs. The Phrygians faded out or lost out to the Medes and the Medes succumbed to the Persians who called the region Beautiful Horse Country. The fairy chimneys persist, the rock churches are accessible through tunnels and the underground cities are where much printed matter and incunabula is stored--in scriptoriums. We are aware of Philomela's feelings of total violation, her sorrow and how it mixed with anger that gelled into a toothy revenge, a structure of feeling that collapsed in on itself, pulverized the form, smashed out the glass windows, and blasted the oak of the doors, an atrocity of an innocent--the son of her rapist she murdered, and why this made sense to her is a synonymous madness, the transference of a violence from her body onto the son of the victimizer. ITYS--a little spider, died. Where did the jerk run off to, leaving his son to suffer in his stead? We have no idea how the consequences unfolded in this iconoclastic period of erosion and conspicuous trauma. He might have run to the sea, abandoning his son ITYS out of primordial fear. Philomela, with her somber eyes, perfectly frontally superimposed on life in the thickness of space could seem to disappear, the covering of her body in layers of robe, held out a vessel filled with a liquor from grapes and gave an account to the ministers and figures waiting by her. She was mesmerized by her own actions. She entered a labyrinth of trauma that had many levels and where water seeped through and wind collided. We can admire her struggles. She navigated the complex light and shadows of the various rhythms of her trial. Abel offered a lamb to his god. Philomela offered the world a dead boy. She banished her rapist and slayed his son, abruptly halting a lineage of male violence. Other historians pinned the blame elsewhere, cast doubt on these events. The loose leaf binders we found indicate that Philomela recognized the power of her transgressions. By the time she approached the deer watering at the spring she had transformed into a nightingale with a deep vibratory trill. Collective memory pooled by the rocks. A cruel paradox began to take shape in the form of a psychic aftermath. Luckily she could fly.