I don't know what you all do for fun, and given my two cents I'd really rather be riding roller coasters that go upside down, or lying naked on a beach somewhere fabulous, but with the very limited means here I've been perusing Gnostic creation myths and blending them with early witchcraft texts to create my own creator cosmology for the upcoming 'Believers of the Unpure'. It's still ages away from being completed, but at least its a stone that's fun to chip away at.
So here's the story so far which I realize isn't going to make the blindest bit of sense without all the pictures, but that's the way it goes sometimes and I feel like sharing it anyway.
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| photo by Matthieu Boulard. |
Believers of the Unpure -
Never ask a question first without being able to handle the answer.
Not of the Goddess and certainly not one older than the concept of
time. She never abandoned you. She never forsake you. Step by step,
she followed in the shadows. Letting you fail, and laughing when you did so.
Yes, she is fearsome, but there is a beauty to her cruelty. That is
where you shut down (wings of brutality flying overhead as the light
drains out of the day). Conjuring. There are daemon's dreaming. Three were the
norm – past, present, and future, existing all at once, or never at
all. A conjuring trinity – three women were the norm. Symmetry and
organization.
Could you dream them all at once and hold them within your mind's eye? This
was something we once did. Then things
became confused, and we forgot. We cannot find our back
home. The mirror grew dim and we lost this aspect of ourselves. You cannot
pray for the truth if you cannot face the truth. How can you find
your way home if you don't even realize you're lost?
The three are searching for what they already possess. Three sisters.
Three stages of alchemy. White, black, red. Blood on the chessboard. They are the Fire hanging between the two pillars of creation
“How long has she slept?” “Three days. Three Ages. Three
Aeons.”
“That should do. Time to wake her.”
Did you ever call its name in the dark? Nemesis. Rex Mundi. The
demiurge. The error. The defecit. Jaelousie... Can you feel it whispering the words of forgetfulness as the lights
dim, and reality falls away, and you dream dreams of ecstasy,
despair, and oblivion. How loving is their gaze from the shadowy
corner of the room watching you sleep with psychotic glee. The one
who knows there is a way home is the one who makes you forget and
pulls the wool over your eyes.
“The moon is changing from milk to blood. Time to wake her.”
Once upon a time the dark Mother was endless. She was the vast
Immaculate Darkness. Mistress on the sea of Infinity. Benevolent.
Malevolent. These terms mean nothing and are concepts of cattle. In
the center of her swirling chaos a cunning affliction unknowingly
came to be. Imperfection in perfection. Creation was conjured without
consent. How could perfection recognize Imperfection? And so She
fell. Matter took shape and became finite. It became trapped. Days
became numbers. Binding concepts. The error in the system. The
Demiurge; mad, blind, and insane. But being born out of a deficit it
never knew it was so, and it never knew any different. Like us all it
fights craftily not to cease to exist. But our light reflects its
light. Our light reflects our maker.
“May the curse, cunning, and blessing be.”
“Wake up!”
I realize I've teetered over the border of pretentiousness, but I need something to play with while praying for the sun to return and endlessly rewriting scripts that no one will ever know I've worked on anyway. I suspect I'm fumbling towards my version of illumination, or at least a reason why. Strange visions and quickening the blood is a curse as well as a blessing. Those who can read between the lines will understand exactly what I mean.
In the meantime, here's a picture of the Storm Moon taken last night while there was a fortuitous break in the weather.
Isn't she a beauty?
Much love from where the worlds touch,
S - xx
