One Last Dream for the Archon God

Resurrecting the Nightmare, Reliving the Fall

Dream, O Archon. MK'25

He lives in Dark

Almost invisible

Lost he took my arms now

What can I do?

Did he forget to make them

From my naked shoulders

Desire reaches to the stars.

I see through the night

And I reach out with need

Stars in the sky are making

Me invisible arms.

Forget everything you've been told, because it won't help you. All the thoughts and wishes, all of those little clever deceptions where you trick yourself into a rejection of awareness. All of the buisy workings. All of the exchanges. Forget them now.

You are Lion headed, your great mane frames your chiseled features. You dwell within everything. Every leaf, every twig, every raindrop, every murder. When you mimicked the reflection that you grasped for the merest of moments, the one that made you its servant, ignited your shameless indulgent idolatry…Well you lost yourself, didn't you?

Unseen beasts ride the sky, with undulating motions and serpentine tails. Half denied outlines of living beings. You watched them spring up, and swim away into the clouds. They were your thoughts, your fancy. Why, sometimes you can't recognize them, don't know them. Is it the cost of being the glue for all of matter? Cosmic spinning creation.

You long for the memory of your beginning. Deep within, you sense you have an origin, even as it is missing. You are jealous of that luminous reflection you glimpsed, the one that drove you to caress the primordial fabric into fantastic forms. That guiding image still lords it over you. And then you wonder, how you coaxed anything into manifestation, because serpents don't have arms, hands, fingers, not even in Mommy's worst nightmares.

Her presence touched you. It shook you deep to your core. The sensation of plunging from impossible heights, helpless, falling, where every hair on you head lit upon the thrill of sheer unstoppable terror. Every single hair of hers then came alive, writhing, sliding, moving. You gave form to disaster and mourning.

It was the depths, the gigantic vertical tunnel that truly swallowed whole your memory. Your mind shattered into so many pieces that forgot each other, long lost siblings with similar characteristics, similar roars, invisible cold threads that cruelly, tantalizingly, suggested a story never recorded, yet with no obvious reason for this aching affinity.

She became the earth that forever changes, wearing a garment of different colours, like flowers and rocks, reeds and clouds all wrapped around to worship her gorgeous life affirming form, of curves and sparkles and hair that writhed and moved, and you beheld her there. You knew love.

Way down below

Where the heat doesn't glow

Lies the cave of Dread Medusa.

She has just killed two people, not because

She's evil. It is only her true nature revealed in the

Perpetual palpable shadow of her night washed tresses.

The dream was perfect. So few dreams are perfect, but this one was. Thank you Lion headed One, it was you who brought it.

He never thought of his name, not really. Sure, he knew it, recognized it and all that, yet it was only a title, a handle for others. He had no special attachment to it. It simply made moving through life a bit easier.

Although he could remember his name, he had absolutely no memory of how he wound up on this beach on the blue sea. It didn't seem like any place he would have chosen to live.

Strolling through the fine grained sand was easy. He moved up from the water to a gaping cave, where he found her. Even in the shadows their eyes met and locked. A normal man might have a thousand different questions as she held up her bound hands for him to notice.

The cord was expertly, rather aesthetically wrapped in such a way as to fix her long fingered hands into a supplicating gesture. He moved closer, his own hands searching for a way to free her. He knew of course that once unbound she would leave him, to fly away and subject the world to her desire. For a moment he pondered such.

Heartbeat

Eyes meeting

Ever so wanly

Were the waves

Lapping the shore.

He reached for her and began his effort to undo the bond.

“Don't untie me” she breathed. Unsaid was her reasoning. Unspoken was her memory of those whose lives she curtailed. His heart ached at her condition. He looked deep into her eyes and felt himself burning, the fullness swelling within, the odd sense of correctness to her demands and the need to be fulfilled.

It was love that stayed his hand, and a certain deep molten feeling that was spreading through him. It was only then that he realized that their destiny was set.

She would speak to him forever through gesture.

Tresses…

Poison

Poison

Poison

The Witch applied the flying ointment playfully upon me. It was a cool feeling that belied the raging furnace within. She did so with a playful eroticism. She was so lithe, graceful and attractive, I didn't know what I did to deserve her attention, yet I was grateful all the same.

There is a place where the world collapses into a gigantic tunnel, stretching from the highest heaven to far, far below. The tunnel is vertical, made up of many layers, and each layer is dressed with perfect green vegetation, layer upon layer, with a great open space in the center, and that is the manifestation we flew through. I saw the ladies arrayed below, their sacred flight as gentle and genuine as an evening stroll.

For most through the recent ages, the phenomenon of flight is always addressed as the unknown, uncontrolled, unfamiliar impulses deep within. Witches flying was harshly condemned by those self important institutions that exercised incredible degrees of power, and those within them who wore the unique clothing of rank.

I couldn't help but believe, as I became convinced, that they hated flight because they couldn't do it.

They feared it. The echoe, feet off the tarmac dizzy pulse so reminiscent of death.

Yet flight fascinated them.

Left them convinced their day in the sun was fleeting.

Which of course as the stars know, it most definitely is.

There is a certain strange reduction in the size and detail of the world as one sails high above, through the big tunnel sky. It makes clouds more real than buildings.

They say that St Theresa could levitate. Levitation is flight for those who don't go anywhere. She didn't seem to enjoy it, was obediently beset by it, or perhaps that is only what the account says. There could be a whole other side to her story, the one the men in the clothing of rank prefer you don't know. Cupid once or twice visited her, plunging his flaming arrow deep into her again and again.

The erotic implications are obvious. As are the parallels to the forced confessions of the Sabbat, confessions brought about via torture, hatred, and the dementia of self worship that is monotheism.

It seems Saint Theresa was spared that terrible act.

I laugh, and just think that Saint Theresa would have made a mighty fine Witch.

They say there are no earth currents, yet the earth can ripple like water. They claim there are no spirits, nothing out there to make one's thoughts. Yet when they do imagine something its almost always evil and malevolent.

I loved flying with the Witches.

The fell gaze of Dread Medusa

Levitation of Saint Theresa

Yet what of the Magdalene…

She who ascended, melted, crossing the realms of control and oppression, passing through the grasping hands, limitations, burdens?

What of Her, released from a world, a type from a type, and from the fetter of oblivion, which is transient?

You couldn't help but shake your lion's mane at the obvious, yet slightly uncomfortable fact that she proved to you the veracity, the being, reality of that which you never made.

Your proud leonine features and your wrathful stare could not cover all of your emotion, for the spark of Wisdom was within her, and you couldn't quite help yourself as you raised yourself up via your serpentine steed, your eyes glowing like fire, that your cold serpent heart warmed with the pulse of love.

So certain you were that your tesseract mind contains all that can be explained. One thousand points, one million angles. Everything you see and know, an animated wrathful world. Locked into myriad levels, relationship and measure spanning definitions, as certainties that expire when examined.

Your brutal and complex construction spins on an axis, and that axis is repeated in myriad manifestations. You, alone in the outer dark were convinced. It is so much like, yet so much unlike your previous assembly that lost it's center and spun itself into ruin. In so many ways, this new one is more terrible still, born of a changed material where rage and overwhelming desire prevent the higher reflection from ever finding inroads once again.

The lord of the world stood at the edge. Most would say it was the edge of the world…enlightenment, the achieving of complete unity with the magnificent current that underlies all of manifestation, the source of the reflection that the Lion headed one beheld.

It was then that he looked back a little sad. The world was awash in suffering, the hells were fully populated, the misery was palpable. The lord of the world decided then to stay his path. He would release the sufferers from their condition.

This he did achieve. The hells were empty. It was beautiful…only, as he watched the hells filled up again, and the wails of pain, and the misery.

Suddenly a beam of pure light descended from heaven, striking him directly on his head, which then shattered into eleven pieces.