Pagan Moir wrote:
Now Zodiac means "circle of living beings" — beings who live outside of time. Forget all the astrology — about Gemini the twins; Virgo the virgin; Aquarius the waterbearer — all those meanings are very new comparatively. We must let go of the signs as well; they have gone through the overlay of too many cultures.
Beings who live outside of time — so they dwell on the aetheric — I think they are groups; not just singular beings or symbolic archetypes, but very real groups. I also get the words "tribe" and "family" coming though. There are twelve of these groups, and each corresponds to one of the signs of the Zodiac.
Ok, now to get to the crux of the matter, at least for me: these groups — and I think that I know three of the twelve — may be here to be of assistance to the members of their family who have somehow gotten stuck on the Earth. I think that the Zodiac was originally meant to be used as a kind of gateway through which we could keep in contact with our group.
The three groups that I have encountered are as follows:
1) The "Felidae" — They are like big cats, and have a panther-like energy to them.
2) The "Draconni" — They have a dragon-like energy, but are white with blue eyes.
3) The "Wolverem" — The name speaks for itself; they are wolf-like, but their energy is golden.
All of the energies have a humanoid aspect to them. They can morph into it.
Brian, have you seen anything like this on your travels? I am most curious to compare notes with others."
Just as every human may have one or more animal forms, so too every animal may have one or more humanoid forms. "Therianthropes," or "man-animals," are some of the oldest images in the history of art. They often appear on surfaces that are covered with zig-zags, arcane symbols, and geometric patterns — all indications of hallucinatory transport. In some cases these figures are clearly shamans, who have undergone a transformation. In other cases, they appear to be inter-dimensional beings — of some indeterminate anatomy, perhaps, whatever the masks they wear — who have chosen to appear in this particular hybrid form.
But why have these cosmonauts been transfixed by spears and arrows, sometimes by the dozen? And should we read these lines as acupuncture needles, placed within a network of meridians to heal, thus opening the cosmonaut to a flood of primordial energy? No, it is probably best to be practical; they are the technocratic probes of the Nephillim, whose doctors seek to reconstitute the genome.
One action is "good"; the other one is "bad."
For the sake of convenience, let us refer to these many geographically diverse figures as a "type"; this hybrid humanoid is clearly moving between worlds — whether up or down or in both directions at once, who can tell?
We may pause to note that the cosmonaut has crash-landed on what appears to be a kind of two-dimensional surface. His scarred eyes are a map of worlds. Ladders and concentric rings and spider webs tilt this way and that way through the vortex. Just whose side are we on? And yet some unknown agency has appointed us to judge. Even we — whose torsos throb with pain; who do not suspect what year it really is; and whose hands have transfixed the hybrid humanoid with probes. Let us simply refer to him as "The Wounded Man," as so many scholars do. His dilemma is as clear as his expression is opaque.
Yet again, we have been attracted to the scene of a great crime, like "detached observers" to the scent of blood.
This realm of experience is by its nature paradoxical; not only are things not what they seem, but we are also not who or what we are.
I have sometimes thought that it should be the Gates of Heaven rather than the Gates of Hell that bear the inscription, "Abandon Hope, All You Who Enter Here." For, however painful or ecstatic our initiation — and to me these are variant interpretations of one and the same process — we will not return to the same Earth that we left; we will not return the same.
In my own travels, I have often met with snake-beings and with bird-beings, who, as the guardians of the dimensions they inhabit, must first determine if we have any right to be there. To this end, they inspire fear. They torture both our bodies and our intellects, in order to resuscitate our memories. They may cut us, piece by piece, apart — to remind us of how we were originally put together. For this reason I have little patience with many of the current crop of conspiracy theorists — such as David Icke and Michael Tsarion — who have demonized these inter-dimensional helpers, and portrayed them as the dark oppressors of our race.
At the very least, it is counterproductive to demonize the energy of the Snake, which is, after all, the energy of Wisdom. One could even view it as a kind of psychic suicide. "It is we who are the good guys! Those bad Reptiles from Orion are the ones who are ruining the neighborhood!" This is little different from saying that the Jews killed Christ, and that this is why Christians have been forced to act so badly. This sort of "reasoning" never ends well. Fears projected into other-dimensional realms will still return to make us stupid.
The true enemy of any paranoid is the energy of his or her subconscious mind — or, to be more blunt, his or her tendency to systematic extermination; some prehistoric insult cries out to be avenged. To the one side, those with 12-strand DNA, an army of the Evolved. To the other side, the League of Aborted Fetuses from Orion. For it came to pass that Eugenics had not yet seen its finest hour. The New Age did not begin in 1985. It is more likely to have begun around 1885, and we ignore at our own risk the occult actions of the "Superman" — as revealed by the last century, bit by contradictory bit.
There is the Superman of Nietzsche and his later Fascist incarnation. There is the Superman of DC Comics and the Superman of New Age antediluvian nostalgia — oddly similar to the Fascist version. There is the real Superman and his almost exact duplicate. For our purposes there is very little difference between the two — except that one may kill you and the other one may not.
In any event, it is towards him that all archetypes converge. He is the shadow of the Apocalypse; the fulfillment of our dreams. It is he who whets our appetite for omnipotence. He prompts us to reclaim our birthright, and, at the same time, takes back what he gives.
The Superman that we think we know is not at all as user-friendly as he seems — at least not on purpose. He puts on the Collective Unconscious like a telekinetic glove. An alien stares from behind large eyeglasses. He is not from the USA, or from the labyrinth that the birds once hid beneath Antarctica, or from any place in the solar system.
He is nothing if not terrifying, as dark as he is bright. His gender is in doubt — the result of one or more mechanical appendages, of one too many transplants gone berserk. He is the stranger born to Chaos and Geometry; an experiment hatched in the depths by the Sitra Achra; the child of an imploded sun, now black, whose arms turn backwards.
It was he who appeared to the Gnostics as Abraxas.
He is the god who falls; the Dawn Star; the master of intoxication; who has been transformed by the taste of human blood; whose heart is good; whose memory is clear. He is the afterbirth of a catastrophe; the flowering of a dream that the Thule Society first planted in the ocean; the alchemical child of Reich Youth Leader Baldur and a test tube.
There is no way to disentangle the threads of the conspiracy against us. Luckily, there is no real need to do so; its beginning is not different from its end — which is the record of our own projections. Encyclopedic knowledge does not offer any real protection against the Shadow; the magic force of Maya turns one conspiracy into thousands, and then each one of those thousands into several thousand more.
However much it might contain each detail of the future past, the Soul is nonetheless only one inch in diameter.
Like the seed of Space, we are tiny; our opponents must help us grow.
Let no passive/ aggressive "victim" look a gift horse in the mouth, lest he be handed his head on a metaphysical platter. For he has broken the law that governs that glad welcoming of the Guest.
Fear not the Killer Klown, as laughter is the best medicine for the dead.
If we refuse to learn what our teachers have to teach, then that says very little about the agenda behind their actions; it is up to us to readjust our focus. It is always possible that, in a distant age, it was we who were the teachers of our teachers. Linearity is a self-created trap. Perhaps, like the world-wide web of megalithic sites, a web of teachers was set in place to serve as catalytic cues; as gateways to and beyond the 12 signs of the Zodiac; as the agents of the Great Year that is not different from one's body — the body of the epileptic Aeon.
Intent on making the same mistake every time, we have taken apart the mechanisms of each clock, piece by perfect piece, only to find that we must put them back together. Always, we are on the outside looking in — except when we are on the inside looking out. Picked up — yet again! — and transported to Pangaea, we are in danger of becoming joyous. It is our blood that potentiates the Stone of the Philosophers — which we ride. There is much "work" left to do. We are the descendants of an eight-armed sphere that has somehow misplaced its circumference.
On a microcosmic as well as a macrocosmic level, some agency has inserted cues into key parts of the story; loaves of bread are left on top of our benches at the circus. Friends appear at their appointed hour, as do enemies and shifts in the Earth's tectonic plates. We watch in a state of suspended disbelief — as nonsense articulates the geometry of sense. In a dream, there is an image that reminds us that we are dreaming. A fossil points to its counterpart in the Ur-Text.
Memory wounds us, as does knowledge. In its turn, each plaything of the 12 revolts. Few signs of our vast technology will be left, or can be; for such would be against the prohibitions of Necessity — at which only the dead cosmonaut may scoff.
We are old — unspeakably old. It was the overflow of our exuberance that once set the worlds in motion. It is our tears that have irrigated the "desert of the real." Out of habit we tend to every city that we hallucinate. We celebrate the Arts. We love War. We are more corrupt than Ahriman, more violent than the Aztec priesthood, and more self-deluded than the architects of the Holocaust. Paradoxically, we are young; we have not a care.
A pose of victimized innocence does not open us to the Infinite.
Once, transported from the Earth by a tornado, I found myself on the field of a great battle. It was Gotterdamerung or the battle at Kurukshetra, or some other even more archaic conflict, in which the fate of the Three Worlds hung in the balance.
The whole of recorded history was played fast-forward on a VCR. Each atom was clearly visible.
It was humans who were then in charge. Their pregnant emptiness gave birth to the gods, who were then little more than mechanical contraptions. They had not yet stolen the keys to DNA, or removed 10 of its strands, or reclassified almost 90 percent of its information as "junk." Death was then a branch of yoga. War was the way the preexistent played. Magicians danced on the black waters of the ocean.
Somehow driven from behind, they competed to reinvent the wheel. Ecstasy drove the brave to throw away their omnipotence.
Absent for millennia, I, the Aeon, had returned just a moment later to the field of a great battle — perhaps slightly the worse for wear.
Cities flew, as planets fell. The scene was bathed in the rays of an alternate sun. As if illuminated from the inside out, all colors were painfully bright. Stupid me — it was my race that had weaponized the rainbow! Banners crackled like bursts of lightning through the air.
Quite oddly, as I found myself projected headlong into the action, my body seemed to move without me; each world-destroying movement flashing into the next. Like the violence itself, my eyes seemed to spin in all directions simultaneously. Feinting West, I performed the martial pranayama of the Vrishnis. Lunging East, I enacted the occult taunts of the Andhakas. I could hear each strophe from the Ur-Text clicking into place. It was hard to believe that I was not already dead. A large portion of the warriors had the heads of "animals." Snake-men and bird-men and boar-men and lion-men attacked me from all sides.
Spears were inserted into my abdomen, and then withdrawn. I was relieved to see that my intestines were still on the inside of my body; recombinant feet by the millions had not yet trampled them. I was struck by swords and halberds and even more exotic weapons — blows which should have taken off my arms and legs, to leave me no more than a screaming torso.
At last, unable to withstand the convulsive flood of energy, I simply fell to the ground, staring, and did my best to prepare for death.
Out of nowhere, I heard the following: "Do you think he knows who we are?" "No, he can't even hear us." "Well, I guess we'll have to rescue him anyway." Behind me and to the left, two bird-headed humanoids were standing motionless in the sky. The arms of one were folded. The other pointed to where I lay in a spasming heap. "Watch and learn, you stupid child!" The taller of the two birds knelt before me. Bowing his head, and throwing out his arms, he asked that his friend should help to illustrate the lesson; "With no hesitation do what must be done." The short bird then circumscribed the cranium of the tall bird with a blade. "You, take it off!" he ordered.
I suspected that this action would result in a horrible sucking sound.
Instead of doing what I was told, I placed my thumbs upon the center of his head, with my hands gently circling around it. I then slowly pulled my thumbs apart, as though I were opening the aperture of a camera. Wave upon wave, the light of 10,000 suns flooded out and over me from the finally wide-open skull. This, I suddenly understood, was the first and most harmonious version of Hiroshima; the illumination toward witch our splitting of the atom points. Standing just behind, and speaking into my ear, the shorter of the bird men said, "You are not as weak as you think!"
Once, in an alternate reality, I was in a car that was hurtling down a mountain road. Kim Hart, my girlfriend during that period, was the driver. Its mouth opened wide, a giant snake was pursuing us. Fir trees towered toward the moon. The scent of resin was like a drug. Energy lines hissed, crackling where they intersected.
With much power in reserve, and toying with our fears, the snake closed on us at its leisure. It had no difficulty in navigating every twist and turn in the road. Each detail on the face seemed hyper-real. Its many coils snapped into and at the same time out of focus. Quite suddenly, an even larger snake appeared behind the snake that was behind us. It swallowed him/ her like an hors d'oeuvre. And then an even larger snake appeared and swallowed that one, and so on and so forth, snake after snake.
The snake soon became the mountain and 12 thousand years of landscape and each hair-pin turn of the road; until finally, a snake that appeared to be the World Snake gulped us down. Sucked as though through a vortex, I saw things through the World Snake's eyes. All of space flipped inside out. The sky cracked like an egg. My vision then became kaleidoscopic.
Dead birds were the judges. Every stone became a Shakespeare. Energy grids copulated, crackling where their currents met, as the whole night rang with the music of the spheres — again audible. Trees ranted against the invention of the hieroglyph. I could see tall cities collapsing along the coast, as, bearing gifts, the waves of a black ocean rose.
The image at the top of this article is Bird-Man with Feather Coming Out of Forehead, Brian George, 2002.