This Text was written in Spring 2022,
and is now ready for departure and oblivion,
with just a few lines added in the End
You told me again, you preferred handsome men, but for me you would make an exception – Leonard Cohen
Paganism is healthy because it faces the facts of life – Aleister Crowley
As these words are written, Venus willfully rides her Bull, so all the liquids of the living once again start cooking, as leaves and souls are turning green – to celebrate another Spring.
Infront of us lies, no longer very far away, some kind of Summer – the one that you, perhaps, are letting in and living out, just now. Behind us here & now, the mythological mashup of Easter in all its’ messy mixture of lofty beauty and long-lasting perversion.
In ordinary families of earthlings, this is the time of year we celebrate the coming of the Goddess by giving and receiving tasty gifts of her thrifty emissaries; bunnies on the move to make our young ones flying high on the rather funky riddle of a mammal bringing eggs as signs and stimulants for all that is to come – indeed, a witchcraft of the people.
Meanwhile, in church, the guilty remnants of a tired faith solemnly gather to celebrate their fading ‘god’ – curiously honoring the turning of the Wheel, while at the same time, by certain particulars of their story, degrading the dignity of humankind by praising exactly that sort of chains which all too often serve to trap the instinct and keep a frightened child apart from all the happy animals.
Luckily this story is now getting rather old, and something new is, as you know and as you crave, not just on the move, and to be spotted by the wakeful as secret shapes of S-like curves in dirt and dust, but already arriving; it is a never vanquished figure from the past, mindlessly moving forward to undress for all the fine occasions that are yet to celebrate: A Lord to match the Lady, for them to form a union of the real, and effortlessly break the Cross – in Love.
Now, the wise ones say & sing that we should always know our enemy – so come along, let’s take a strictly biased look at Holy Scripture to find some kind of center for a primal showdown between the Lamb of Jehovah and the kind of reawakened Ram of Liberty that our tainted crowd awaits.
Among the canonical texts of the New Testament, there is one, just one, bizarre little piece of narrative, where our sorcerer from Nazareth really does give it all away by suddenly not just keeping parties going, feeding the hungry, healing the sick and threatening to incinerate a wicked World upon his second coming, but by straight-forwardly performing the blackest kind of ‘magic’ available to man – the one by which an enemy of Life condemns himself to infertility.
Let’s simply have it from the source, as channeled by a solemn English tone of days no more to come. It’s in the Gospel of Mark – now, give it up for jolly old King James:
And on the morrow, when they were come from Bethany, he was hungry: And seeing a fig tree afar off having leaves, he came, if haply he might find any thing thereon: and when he came to it, he found nothing but leaves; for the time of figs was not yet. And Jesus answered and said unto it, No man eat fruit of thee hereafter for ever. And his disciples heard it (11:12-14).
And – just a little later in the text, right after having trashed a temple and a enjoyed a sleepy night of ‘righteousness’, we hear our friendly ‘prince of peace’ unswervingly laying out a doctrine for ‘his’ Aeon, clearly proud and pumped up by the admiration of a power-hungry crew of wannabes who have just seen their master get it on with these most enviable arts of extinguishing:
And in the morning, as they passed by, they saw the fig tree dried up from the roots. And Peter calling to remembrance saith unto him, Master, behold, the fig tree which thou cursedst is withered away. And Jesus answering saith unto them, Have faith in God. For verily I say unto you, That whosoever shall say unto this mountain, Be thou removed, and be thou cast into the sea; and shall not doubt in his heart, but shall believe that those things which he saith shall come to pass; he shall have whatsoever he saith. Therefore I say unto you, What things soever ye desire, when ye pray, believe that ye receive them, and ye shall have them (11:20-24).
What things soever ye desire . . . Well, since this is not the place for all too many subtleties, we’ll just applaud the truthfulness of that one word: desire. That really is where our crack is to be found – so come, and let the light get in.
We’ll break it down: The reason why ‘Jesus’ curses the Fig Tree is that he felt kind of hungry, but there were no figs for him to satisfy his appetites. Why not? Simply because the season was not right. You follow? We bet you do.
His conditioned response reveals a standard attitude of those whose abstinence is not a choice – and it goes like this: Since Nature proved to be a b*tch just when the Messiah felt his sudden lust for figs, this tree of knowledge and delight must die.
And so, it did – and so, he did: A woman in the knowing poured the oils of her joy right onto his scalp, and as the climax came where he was brutally abandoned by Big Daddy, she drew him back into her Cave.
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And – here we are, right in the middle of the ruins of a culture build upon the schizophrenic blueprints of this story. And so, the question begs an answer: What’s in a fig?
In short: This splendid aphrodisiac contains the rushing essence of it all, a Union of the so-called opposites.
The feminine aspect is obvious: Both shape and taste remind us of her entrance. The masculine is, for a chance, a bit more veiled – and this is where we raise the pace and jump, back home, into a truly pagan story of the real, whose hideous hero is exactly (some of) what we need.
One of his names is Priapus, he is an eager God of Gardening. According to classical tradition he is, quite frankly, an ugly presence to behold – but, and that’s an important but, he has a quite outstanding characteristic to make amends for what disturbs the eyes.
No reason to be shy, it is, off course, the corporeal apex of his masculinity – a precious, never-resting, vital member of striking capability.
Plainly spoken: This one is always ready – an overpowered moonchild of the Goddess, nurtured in the tightness of her grip and nourished by a steady flow of her abundance. And this is where it all adds up: Figs were, and are, his sacred fruits.
A battle of wills, indeed: His tree was never to bear fruits again, a prude of darkness prayed – but now the seal is broken:
Your life is your life
Simplicity is once again an option. Emancipation is to cut the crap of mind and forcefully return, exactly where you are: We never left the Garden. Her body kept us real.
Just let this good Earth be your home – and never mind the bollocks of paternalistic commandments from above. It’s only noise from past abuse, completely harmless when we cease to listen. Move forward. The joy is in the Going.
So please, just pay attention, and get moving: Let’s follow our narrow paths into the woods, and find fresh, bright branches of suitable sizes and shapes, to each of us carve out a fitting figure.
In short: Let’s be for real by patiently honoring the essence of intensity – so we may live, and die, and fly as arrows of our Art, cheerfully raising a choir of shamelessly heavy breathing voices:
Will the real Lord of Figs please stand up?
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“Let him not seek after this ;
for thereby alone can he fall from it”
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AD GLORIAM
BABALONIS
ET ADONAI
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SUM LEGIO IN AMORE
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