You once were all but when you were all, there was no you. All knowing was all doing—only doing. A closed circuit of life and death, pain and pleasure, all one. Opened up by an accidental awakening, a stumbling out of the womb by a terrible startling dream —a start indeed— a dream of death. And it became true, realized (made real) by Mother’s most cantankerous of creatures, man—the being named by his worldview, the Mano, the inbuilt tool for prying apart the secrets of his environment, Mother Nature herself, and with the disposition toward doing so having caught himself in the trap of his hunger for knowledge, having exapted his consciousness through his pursuits of survival—his hunger for meat. And he does still mete out the world, apportioning its pieces according to his dire need for understanding his predicament in sacrifice for further life-sustaining knowledge: the curse of knowledge being the curse of its unquenchable thirst, its pursuit of a solution to death without his individuality suffering dissolution, a return —from ashes to ashes— to the mother—like all natural beings. He may one day decide, having the technology at hand, even to become unnatural in this march away from ego death.
As the Ouroboros turns wickedly leftward into unconsciousness, now afraid of the dark, having imputed upon her the suppressed demons who populated our subconscious, the wheel of consciousness-begetting centroversion, of discovery and further discovery, turns ever-rightward in service of hope and as a bulwark against our death anxiety. The former consuming our very selves; the latter containing a beautiful sunward flight, but quite often a quick plunge into the precosmogonic waters of chaos—unconsciousness: ego death, just the same. A fall in both cases: into consciousness, separation from the spirit (held as chronologically first by the Jews but clearly not so), and into unconsciousness from atop the hubristic heights of the Tower of Babel.
Said another way:
We have punished woman for very long, conflating and confusing her, the personal woman, with the Great Woman, the Great Mother, the seat of life from whom we sprang and in who’s mystical wrath (for we, her sons, our matricide, our continual slaying and undermining of her perfect balance of life with the tools of our consciousness, and worse, our recruitment of her daughters into this mad curse) we live in fear of and demonize, in favor of Father-consciousness. We pretend he knows everything and in so doing we hold a tiny hopeful, jealous, envious —luciferian— suspicion that we might too, but neither omnipresence, omnipotence, nor omniscience can know all; for, Mother’s knowing is in her perpetual doing, and Father’s (conscious man, the ‘spirit being’s’) is in his tooled exploration of the Mother. Perfect knowledge cannot be had by man, nor by his god, his lineage of conscious heroes, subduers of the unconscious, explorers of Mother Earth all amalgamated into one symbol: God, the masculine cultural father of mankind as such. We are only explorers born of earth, inheritors of the spirit of our fathers (why we call god our father). To know all, we would need to change our (human) concept of ‘knowing’ into the mother’s (Nature’s) concept of ‘being’.
Heaven on earth —the restored garden, the original unconscious balance of nature undisturbed by the hand and suspicions of man, the ‘walking with god’— can be had in only one of two impossible ways: by the ego re-integrating all unconscious material suppressed since the dawn of man and his culture, meaning the unbinding of his culture altogether (the death of culture being synonymous with the death of the communal, conscious man and all his reciprocal, cooperative norms); or by a return to complete unconsciousness in death. The middle ground is a technological pleasure-trap, a mesmerizing fascination with consciousness-deteriorating tools of entertainment, contrived of by the modern magi in the name of ease and safety, that bring about hell on earth; this, very likely, through the mental enslavement of the conscience, the dis-individuation of the omni-potent heroic individual, the warm veined suicide of the potential sacrificial hero into comfortable cowardice: the death of god, the death of masculinity, the death of discernment—abdication of responsibility for decision altogether to the techné-wielding gods of earth in search of their terrifying inheritance.
We pretend he, the father god, made her. But we know better—for we fear unconsciousness far more than consciousness.
Everything repressed —all urges and instincts, those presumed stumbling blocks to our calamitous survival— are now the ghosts that haunt our daydreaming nightmares, our consciousness: the wild suspicions of wild creatures, the imaginings of the dog in wonder of humanity’s meaning, the participation mystique of the Ouroboric, fully animalic state of nature that was our permabond with Mother Earth and all of her previously undisturbed ecosystem—our former collectively unconscious being along with all her other species (her sons and daughters just the same). These ghosts we suppress necessarily for our modern ‘cohesion,’ our culture, the cults we form to religiously bind the nature that is in us—our instincts, but in so doing, we create our own blind spots—the places we dare not look: we reckon wrongly it best to ex-periment, to ex-press, to dissect the objects that object to our subjective experience; everything outside, never inward, underneath the conscious science-man’s conscience. All can be ex-plained according to this fearfully enlightened idiot.
Herein lies our deep psychological need for Saturnalia, a jubilee on conscious repression of instincts into the unconscious. When something is unconscionable, it is only so to egoic culture and its maintenance of dominance over frightful ego death, a plunge back into the unknown, back into the earth, the Mother. The reality of our collective unconscious past is seen when we do not allow some cultural un-binding of the natural instincts. Psychic sickness and all manner of collective illnesses abound and obsessions with safety in defense of their manifestation form as these ancient unnamed daemons possess modern man. Repress the instinct, create the daemon.
Man, seeing in personal woman the obviously sacred power of life giving, reveres and fears her in proportion to how much he has suppressed culturally upon his instincts, his nature—upon Her, Nature herself, in service of his fearful survival—the suppression of his instincts being the curse of going it alone in his understanding of nature, his limited knowledge of being compared to Her’s. Ironically, he is only aware of this threat —his death, pain and pleasure that point toward or away from it, risk and reward and their commensurate necessity for bravery and sacrifice including his cultural-spiritual (religious) rules in avoidance of it, and, now having a hunch for time, the general threat of the inevitable future and its commensurate concern, his need for preparation, for saving up, for accumulation in forbearance of it— as a result of his accidental stumbling into consciousness; sneaking too many immortal peaches, encountering too many serpents, apples, and cattle particularly (meat providing the basis for our fatty prefrontal cortices—the seat of our consciousness).
Prometheus did no one a favor. We are all solar worshiping conscious beings now, there is no going back to the mother. We fear her, our own hidden shadows, too greatly to confront death, to admit we cannot beat death with the tools of our hands and minds.
All of our cultural taboos are bulwarks against regression to the mother, the ultimate taboo, incest, sneaking back into the womb of protective timeless unconsciousness, back to safety—but again, safety, being cared for by the mother, means diving back into the Ouroboric womb, and there is no discernible difference to my mind between unconsciousness in the womb and the unconsciousness of death, aside of course from the potential of life to come sooner from the womb and much later, if ever again, from the ashes we become after our passing.
This is the root of our constraining the Personal Woman, the symbolic representative of the Terrible Mother we’ve left behind in the dark of our mind—our Ignorance writ large; Mother Nature is the nature of woman, so woman, to us, is mother nature, we repress our natural instincts via culture —cults being the social organizations that shame and kill their norm-violators in the name of their morality. Ever rounding off our rougher instinctual edges, we repress the liveliness of woman herself, the wild nature of the Great Mother who courses her veins, prying at procreation, wet for the phallus, her hysteric and orgiastic tendencies toward consuming our precious libido, that sacred pro-creative life substance transmutable to solar consciousness—the magic trick of the Magi, the Ashkenazi, the celibate priest who hangs his libido in sacrificial exchange for godlike consciousness, the sacred knowledge he reveres as his only preservative against Nature itself—his enlightened technique against Her violent animalic environment set against him. The priest is hostile to life because he aims at its transmutation into the knowledge that will build his spiritual kingdom atop her earth.
Ignored by our conscious selves, the daemons of our subconscious arise and frighten us; as no woman will stand for her natural needs (protection and sex) being ignored, nor especially repressed, we, the culture of mankind, decidedly and repeatedly bind them these repressed daemons of the Terrible Mother, symbolizing and imputing them upon the Personal Woman. She then becomes the scapegoat for our guilty suppression of the Great Mother in us (in both men and women), our instincts. We conclude that we must bind the devil we’ve created, the devil of our frightful, repressed unconscious, and thus we bind the witch, her representative, her symbol; for, we are the symbolic creature.
Prometheus is Marduk. Marduk slayed the unconscious Terrible Mother—the initial threat as understood by the Dawn Man. Prometheus brought the fire that cooked the meat that gave rise to our conscious brains. In both cases, consciousness arises in man and as fire lights up the dark, as it’s meat enlightens the mind of mankind in his earliest half-conscious days, the same man is thereby cursed to fight the dragon mother, the frightful representation of death, which is unconsciousness.
Death, to preconscious man, was an event like all others, a happening of nature, a urination, a kill, a hunger, an orgasm; death, to conscious man, however, is a leap backward into the unknown, into the unconscious, into the mother: incest, taboo. Culturally disseminated knowledge (dissemination meaning ‘distributed from sem,’ the cultural story spinner, luciferian knowledge accumulator, and writer of books of ‘knowledge’ in effort to shape culture and, ultimately toward his ‘inheritance of the earth’) is man’s contrived replacement as worldly orienting survival device. But what is a mere compass to the magnet that is the mother who spins his needle round by her suspicious forces? To conscious man, death is the end of time, the end of his story, of history itself—for he the individual, anyway (for what is history to the dead man?), for the individuality, the personality, the egoic personhood by which he constitutes himself as ‘self.’
The story itself —time being the essence of all stories; beginnings, middles, and ends— is but another device, an accompaniment to his knowledge, a coping mechanism to understand his animal aging, his woes, his curse, his hope, his own end. A wandering compass to mother magnet, man is a story teller, an actor on stage for the pleasure of the gods—anything to make meaning of meaningless matter, to turn leaden flesh into ideas and ideals of gold, the immortal untaintable element he fancies himself to be—or of this same matter who’s inherent meaning he simply fails to comprehend—anything but meaninglessness. He makes maps, but she is the territory, she is the thing in itself. He is living in her bungalow, and the rent is the knowledge of death—hence the Mortgage. Man contrived, believed, created, cognized, recognized, real-ized his god, for without him —without the god of the storyteller— there can be no narrative, and this curse of consciousness, the knowledge of life and death without the buffer of meaning, however contrived, is far too much to bear.
Thus in the existential buffer against meaninglessness, the story of our kind, the mother was necessarily called death—called all but hell itself (the conscious experience of meaninglessness being the only state worse than unconscious dissolution altogether). But death was always in the mother, always in nature, always in our nature. Our fear of death begets our projection of that fear into her—as if she were the one who had changed the rules of life and not the apple biting, peach thieving, meat hanging, enlightened one. And then to worship the sun, this bringer of splitting light, this rapist what was once whole and undivided, this divider? Blasphemy! Blasphemy of the Mother, to call her hell when our minds violently shook her awake, to bind her every which way in perpetual delay of her inevitable processes, our deaths, out of our own haughty righteousness. And to build whole systems to bind her nature in us in service to this unobtainable goal. Blasphemy all the way down.
Father God’s concept of sin is to strike against the spirit of consciousness, or to cower from it, him. Mother Goddess’ concept of sin is to have awakened from her womb in the first place. The Judaic text recognizes this via their borrowing of the Egyptian myth of the first god-king, the first conscious man, the first cultural and culture-making man, Osiris-Horus the god-king. His immaculate conception represents the inexplicable arousal of consciousness in man, the possession of an “I,” of a Spirit of separation from the animal that we are—our division between body and mind, of original self-awareness, of re-cognition of our selves. As consciousness is inexplicable, so too is the first conscious man, the ‘creation’ of man, thinking man, homo sapien sapien, as such. But the secret to the thinking man and creation is in the words themselves: the word “creation” is formed from Creer—“to believe,” as in ‘to believe a story.’ And we are the post-axial, narrative, storied creature, are we not? The verb that names us, “to think” is formed from pensar—sapiens. We think, we contrive, we storytellers, we believe: we believe we were created, and we do so by our very telling of the stories of our creation. The creation of the whole thing, Mother Earth, the stars, and the sun, these I cannot account for.
Surely we should give Mother more her due, and father as well, but in all cases, we must admit our inability to know that which can only ‘be.’ We must also admit our egoic tendencies toward fear of death and suspicions of the unknown, that we might avoid the Icarian crash back into Mother’s dark ocean. Perhaps with these admittances we might find humility in place of our hubris, love for our fellow cursed ones in place of their misunderstanding, understanding in place of fearful projection onto the personal mother, our women who aim at making life, and hope in place of suspicion of those who dare to shape the future, the only —dreadful— way forward.