Perhaps oneness is the orgasmic enticement of god experiencing his self reflection through two consciousnesses that are both him—consciousness itself folding in, bliss to the body, ancient life energy crackling across the synapses of our minds. This is why the French call it the ‘little death,’ the ecstasy of orgasm, and Shakespeare, ‘to die.’ Universal consciousness’ remembering itself in our unity—but god, never countenancing a visitor, historically speaking, we as his messengers must die at the gates of the white light. Our forgetfulness a blessing in the moment —the acquisition of a single moment itself— from our otherwise constant burden of being—a tiny reprieve into unconsciousness and an enducement toward life, if only for more soothing forgetfulness—to keep reproducing his consciousness and ours. This is our mimetic sexual instinct, a failsafe against god’s dream ending—insurance by way of self-interested creation—procreation that’s called.
To let god die would simply be not to orgasm any longer—why Nietzche though the priestly, the celibate, jealous of their own god and at bottom, against life: and this dream of our god would die a sexless death in our minds, our bodies screaming ever louder at us to come back, not to give up the ghost —that’s the Holy Ghost, or one of them— the Desire that lingers and swirls between man and his kind. A resource game for the limited gods, a sadomasochistic complex who cries “more,” to keep the spirits high, and their potency.
And the Christians and ascetics dane celibacy in the name of increasing their own consciousness—that is akin to the actor’s grabbing for his own lines, in a play he does not know how to produce, from inside a theater upon who’s stage he finds himself standing, who’s exterior he is unable to describe, but who insists on the reality of his over-lit point of view—his blinding light equally useful to his clarity as the complete dark of the audience observing in alternating laughter and horror. Center stage begets his flight, his fight, his fancy and philandry, but unmoored he grasps for lines as other mens’ hecklings from plays gone by prompt him from the rafters: dolts and kings, and fools most loudly. Under a moniker of his own, he flatly flails at fathoming the fates. Even his characters are contrived—not to speak of his fashion: clearly a thing god would have left undone entirely but for Adam’s earliest sign of scarlet shame. A fig, modest? Surely the dead mother inside is no coincidence to the sugar seeking grinder of mother’s bones, ever in the flight path to god, herself. All is resource.
How could the clerics have faith in a god they so rarely visit? And if he’s inducing us to procreate in these previews of ecstasy, of death, orgasm, then why do we choose the ‘little death’ instead of the big one? God and his highest note makes of us all a finely tuned aria, an echo for the ages, subject to Siren, drawing us back toward oneness—to the sound of his own voice in epochal dia-logos. One’s addicted Other we are, begetting our babies—our wars and reasons toward peace, our undoing and our redemption—too entertaining a play and too sweet a coda for the being who’s reality is bent around his concept of time—the story of man, his projections to the audience. The Greeks and Shakespeare concur: all the worlds a stage to the gods we wrote, the gods we’ve lost, the gods we, eternal tribe of man cursed to knowing time and story, have survived.
If man’s god is god of the Word, then man is a maddened contradiction, an outward rebuttal, a wrestler with himself. And here lies Jacob, founder of the conscious man’s tribe, storytellers and brokers: contra-dictors unto themselves, and here we find his obsession with the dialogue. One word for two truths. And the cognate that he worships, the Pontifex and thinking-man as bridge to death’s secret chambers. His cognate is his tongue and his tongue, his god. In speaking he authors, in authority he usurps the throne and makes himself god, feigning timidity now, auto poetic, hubristic, flying too near his Sun and away from all suns.
The orgasm, should it visit, is the holy man’s only redeeming curse. The mother ever sweet, the father ever distant, man the bastard son driven mad by the magnets of time, possessed by their Holy Spirit—Desire.