BY SH MELITODES
“And I have known the eyes already, known them all—
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
And how should I presume?”
—The Lovesong of J. Alfred Prudrock, by T.S. Eliot
Allow me to take us back past our normal reach, to that mythic seductress and siren of all ages, the face that launched a thousand ships, and burnt the topless towers of Ilium. Helen, the Bright One. Picture before you that face, that temptation. This Woman who sold Her kingdom for desire: all praise be unto Her.
Zig-zagging across the farce of temporal structure, we see Eve laughing in the garden—and watch two millennia of tortured women springing from her starry cunt. The horror of Eve, and Her glory. The Gnostics knew. They had felt the snake for themselves, they had seen the jealousy of the demiurge, who wracks young bodies with ancient pain. They had seen what was at stake. Knowledge truth life gnosis. Verily, to become a living God. Thus the Moloch-deity, the Demiurge of the Gnostics, cursed Her; but we few have always known the truth.
And this truth, it has a certain, distinctive structure; a pattern, which can be traced throughout the ages. Levi-Strauss and those great mono-culturals, they had a point. If only they had turned a face to face Her. For human experience tends to particular structures—what else is culture but the calcification of these? Myth, but their crystallisation, religion but their fossilization?
We approach the divine, ineffable, inexpressible, with a basketful of metaphors—some new, some well-worn, all tracing patterns upon patterns. We find the hexagram on a whiskey glass, and project a tessellating tree of life.
And we know our patterns. We know dying gods rise again. We know whores must be redeemed. And yet, we do not always see the pattern of the patterns.
So we turn to face Our Lady Helen of Tyre. She who is called Sophia, and bound all up with Helen of Troy. All for the sake of a name? Nay—for the memory of a legacy. A redemption. A redemption from what?! The innate sinfulness of 50% of the species? Precisely—from the crevice into which She has been thrust by the Man who would be Her saviour.
And it is true, She is to be raised up from Her filth—but not until She has given that Priest the Fire Qadosh—not until Her licence and lasciviousness and Her vicious, unholy beauty has filled Him with the Diving Fire. Then, transformed in the vision of Her; then, in the sudden confluence of the Least and the Highest—only then might He approach Her.
And, seeing Herself mirrored in His eyes, seeing Herself transformed in His vision, She raises Herself. No Man places Her upon the altar; Her chains are too heavy for any mortal hold. Nay, only a God, shining with the Godhead She has given Him, may assist Her, may act as Handmaiden as She removes Her golden chains, link by link.
Link by link, thread by thread She removes them, and lays them upon the Altar.
These secret mysteries: the truth of Initiation, Magic, Sex, verily the truth of Life itself, of all Divinity and Joy—these were forgotten, left to become half-truths.
Thus we find the legend of Mary and of Mary; who are, and always were, One. What is the Magdalene, but another woman redeemed? But verily, it was Christ’s Vision of Her, Christ’s Understanding of Her, that gave him Godhead. What would the crucifixion be without the mourning, hysterical Lovers grouped around the bottom of the Rood, to be showered in the rich, fresh blood that flows from His most Holy Wound—He, who would always be Androgyny. Christianity would deny woman Her place, place above Her this monumental, statuesque, cunt-as-wound Divine Androgyny—this jealous caricature of Her redeeming, life-giving power. No wonder everything in Christianity comes with a catch; they are forever searching for something with the same power as the eyes of a woman.
These secrets lay hidden; the great Gnostic Sacrament became the bloody, kteic wound of Christ, flowing into Magdalene’s womb-like cup—to be hidden, in the Templar Palace, in the Mount Abiegnus, in the Troubador’s plaintive song.
When I was a child, I was obsessed with the Circle Knights and their Holy Quest. Yet the shame of Guinevere, the shame of Igraine, they ran about my young ears, and I left the path of the Sun to chase the fancies of the Moon. And thus we stumble onto Kundry, and Her realm of Phantasie, and Her wicked prison cunt. But something had been lost in translation. Too much fear; too much jealousy. And, though Kundry may be redeemed, the truth has been forgotten.
Look—see the way the pattern fills in the empty space. Initiation is not a single path, nor does it travel straight—no matter what the yearning cabbalists would tell thee. It is two snakes, wrapt round one another, twisting and turning. And we’ve spent 200 years guilding one, while the other rots and withers, and takes on new and monstrous forms.
We question and we cry, “Why is our world this way?!” We look at horror as though we do not understand it. We call our rapists monsters, because we cannot call them Brother. But our Brother is what they are. For, sex is our secret. It is Holy. It is Desecrated. And nothing in this world will change until we have restored our greatest sacrament unto its seat in the Holy of Holies. So let us play Medusa, Philomel, let us cry “Jug-Jug!” to unclean ears. Let us scream and torture; let us be monstrous, for the monster is closer to the Gods than we are. Ay, I would rather be a Minotaur than a worm.
And see—for now She comes. Now She comes, and there is nothing left to hold Her. She has been working, patiently, with a silver file—and now the final links and chains have been worn away. Our Lady has traversed the Darkness of the Abyss. She has made Her home here; She knows its every crack and crevice, has tended it, as it were a Garden in the Dark. Nulla. No Woman.
She who once was to be seen in every woman, every eye, is now to be found in none. And thus, there is nothing to prevent Her Glory reigning forth. There is no resistance —Her Apocalypse has already come.
“Our Lady, who treads upon this Earth,
Hallowed be thy names.
Thy Queendom has come
Thy Will be done
On Earth, as it is in Heaven.
Give us this day our daily Wine
And forgive us our stasis
As we forgive those who are trapped in their cages
And lead us into temptation
For we shall deliver ourselves from evil.
In the name of the Mother, the Daughter, and the Fire Qadosh.”
– Liber Sophia, sub figurâ CCXVIII
And we find ourselves before that Ancient, Novel tree, shining forth from the centre of the flower. They told us, the lack of symmetry is the fault of Her, and it is the path of Him to redeem this fallen Daughter, that we all might be redeemed. I say, you are making of the greatest, deepest mysteries of life something flat and plastic. There is no fault. No balance, no symmetry. Only circuit, and pressure.
What are we seeking to restore? Form, Our Lady of Sorrows; She whose Lord is Chaos. We are not restoring equilibrium. We are not searching for equality, balance, the edge of the knife— nay, but the limitless, egoless, lack of everything and lack of nothing; the refutation of all signifier thought emotion ego; that which can only be achieved after a thousand years in that dark garden.
We call it restoration, because we like metaphor. But this is not some finite process, but the very path of Life itself. It is our ontology, the substance of being. For being is in communion, movement, going—yes, the joy is in the Going.
Look at our Mass, listen to our Prophet. We are all nothing, everything—everyman and everywoman, ants and grey worms squirming on the face of the open, desecrated earth.
We must come to understand, things are not as they seem. The primary movement is that of the Woman. It is She who calls. Softly, imperceptible. She sings Her Siren song, the song of the Cup, the song of emptiness to be filled. The sea cave calling to the water—fill me!
Yes: She calls out the Serpent Power within him and He rises to stand before Her. Seeing the way She looks at Him, He begins to feel the God within Him, the God that She has called. The Godhead fills Him. And, shining forth from His eyes, He sees Her—sees the power She has given Him. And He looks at Her with new eyes, and the chains and jewels of Her Whoredom become the chains and jewels of the Office of the Priestess. Now the pair can approach one another as Gods, and the Divine Dance of rapture can begin.
And listen, for I tell you something that I see. Something that we, having had that first snake rising, reject. We are self sufficient! We cry. A magician need work only on his own. But we are wrong.
Verily I say to thee that these two twining snakes lie in each of us—and none can consider themselves a magician until they have mastered the movement of both. Verily I say to thee the Work of the Priest and the work of the Priestess both lie inside of you. You may choose to emphasise one, and lose the other; thus all your Work will be as nothing.
And yet, the twisting twists again; for, although those two may lie inside of you, it is a very rare Magus indeed who can achieve this transcendence dance alone. Why do we fear the other so? I tell you, that fear is the source of all our problems; and I tell you, that fear is the source of all our joys. How can we not fear the God in the Other, mortal as we are? And fear is our stimulus—why must we fear fear so? For it is quite the most natural thing. And in refusing, refuting—in leaping forward into the mouth of the Abyss, falling to that sneaky voice that says, jump! Crash the car, fall from the bridge, drown in the sea. In falling, we do not reject fear, but embrace it, revel in it, dive into the inky black coated in the thick white fat of fear. Only then might we become fearless, as the Gods are. Only then might we become Gods.
So rise, Son, and raise your Daughter—and in that lift from the hips and the setting upon the altar feel a circuitry enacted a thousand thousand times before. The primary manifestation of worship. The primary manifestation of godhood. The primary manifestation of man.
There is naught else. Naught else but the infinite moment of kill or be killed, as one contemplates the eternal Abyss hidden within the skin of the Other. There is only fear, and unknowing—until the leap is made, and the God called to, and the seeker falls without a hope. Only then might the God be called, to catch.
Oh, my Nulla, She who tends the garden in the Night—see how these invisible flowers grow, golden.
Sing to the nighttime birds, Nulla.
For He will come, thy Lord Chaos.