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Information About Your Love

The unconscious side of the human psychic sphere that produces dreams is an organ that can predict the future and inform us about the people we know and especially about the person we love. This is real information about their character and lives. It is given in the usual symbolic way that can be easily translated by my extension of Carl Jung’s dream analysis method. It helps us really understand the other person’s personality, which may be totally different from our impressions and wishes.

Especially when you have a problematic relationship, the unconscious sends you several dreams about the person you love. This is a support you never imagined you could have!

The information you receive in dreams is true and can be confirmed in the future, in your own life. This is the most important part of dream interpretation according to the unique and correct method: the dreamer understands that the suggestions and guidance received in dreams are really helpful, and this confirms their wisdom in his or her daily life.

For example, when you see a dream where someone advises you to wear a coat, even though you don’t feel cold, you are being protected by your own indifference to the dangers to which you are exposed. The dream illustrates that you need protection. Why do you need protection? Because you have many dangers in your road and you are not expecting them. This is how you interpret the necessity of wearing a coat. Don’t be na├»ve: be prepared to face problems.

Our clothes in general have the meaning of the image we present to the world. At the same time, they are also the way we are perceived and the way we wish to be perceived by our society.

Thus, if you see a dream in which you are with the person you love but you are wearing a heavy coat, it means that you need protection when dealing with this person, and that things are not easy for you. For example, they may be too attractive and have many admirers… What means that you have many rivals. Perhaps there is an old love story (or many old love stories) still alive in their lives… The wise unconscious can protect you with its advice and premonitions.

The unconscious also shows you how you have to behave. For example, you see in a dream that you are near your love, but you are dressed like a child, even though you are an adult. You must behave according to your age; in other words, you must be mature. Your behaviour and thoughts concerning the person that most interests you are not adequate: you are being childish, imagining that impossible things can happen.

You can also have information about their past by seeing a dream about the time when the person you love had to travel and stay away for some time, for example. The unconscious can show you in your dreams what had happened then, in a symbolic way.

The unconscious is far better than a detective! However, it is not your slave. All the information you receive will come in the proper way and when the unconscious decides that you have to learn it.

The unconscious is not going to help you understand the personality and life of the person you love because it is an organ that does what you wish, but because it is constantly trying to protect your human conscience from the invasion and domination of the evil anti-conscience. The anti-conscience is your primitive conscience: it has not been transformed through the process of consciousness that characterizes your human side, and it remains very violent, like a wild animal. It is always trying to invade your human conscience by using your ego.

Love exposes you to many dangers and the unconscious is your protector. This is why it sends you several dreams with information about the person you love and this is why you have to really respect the information you receive.

The Apocalypse of the Nosferatu Nephilm

Act III Scene One

The Apocalypse of the Nosferatu Nephilm
[Circle of the Refaim]

[A month has passed since the battle] The first battle between Israel and the Northern Armies of the World has come and gone (Israel has had help, in winning the battle with its friends), and now a greater battle is developing between Israel and its enemies: China, Europe and the Arab Confederation of states, and they are under one head, a Dictator of Europe, called by the Christian world and Israel’s inner circle as: the Little Horn [or the Antichrist]. As this battle develops, the giants of old, and new arrivals from the cosmos, the underworld, and other hidden places: come to the Circle of the Refaim; also the pits of hell have been open and the scorpions have come up and out, by Azaz’el’s command, which he is in essence the legendary Scorpion King. These Scorpions are ruining around the world stinging the death out of those who will not subject their wills and locality to the new king of kings, the Little Horn. Azaz’el has kept Agdo in prison, and many are using her sexually, to include Noge, his first love. They are at the Circle of Refaim, in Israel, in the valley, and have mad campsites here and there, within the circle of rocks and bounders, and outside the Refaim Circle. Presently, Noge is outside with his father Horrep and Agaliarept, the Henchman of hell. Azaz’el is near by a bonfire. Roe the Captain is with his friend Horrep, Noge’s father.

Azaz’el’s Song

I have no old gifts for thee

No perfumes or Vampric words:

Only my hate that storms in me

Like the fires in the halls of hell

Whence the soul follows beyond the earth.

Ye, likened to the moon and sunrise

We are slaves to lustful illume ways

In the valley of sacred multiorgasmic

We have seduced the women of earth

And given birth to hybrid Nephilm.

Note: 5/28/06, #1353

Noge: Father why am I obsessed with lust for this Agdo?

Horrep: Oh yes, I feared this would happen, and especially with Agdo, the harlot of Shamhat, of Uruk. But I shall tell you the long story, in its short version; perhaps you will understand who we are more also. Nothing is as simply as you’d like it to be (at that moment more angelic and demigods were appearing at the Circle of Raphiam, as Horrep spoke to his son; there was Yegon: he was the one who had lead the children of the angels to earth and perverted them long ago; and Asb’el, showed up, he gave to the children of long ago, evil counsel, mislead them, and they defiled their bodies. And there was Gader’el, he showed the children of the people blows of death, and misled Eve. And Pinem’e: who taught the children how to use ink and paper; these angels were the ones who used the forces of earth and the angelic essence of the cosmos and with a cabbalistic formula created energy called MAGI ((now called: Quantum Mechanics)); as I was about to say son, nothing is like it seems.

Noge:

I know Azaz’el is the scapegoat; everyone talks about all the time that is about all I know I suppose. Who slew him long ago?

Horrep:

It was Ura’el, God’s …nothing, we were all God’s angels before he sent Ura’el to bind Azaz’el. ‘T was by sorcery he got loose to come back here I think.

Noge:

He is deaf and blind to passion.

Horrep:

Perhaps we don’t have none ourselves. We were dreamers back then, locked in the clouds, and lust condemned us, like dead lions.

Roe:

Nay! It was God and Ura’el, and now we must make earths people die more slowly! Ura’el slew us all. This is not surely known, he left no mark upon us. Like marble he cloaked himself, and we could not harm him. Who fears not even the death, we did, but then I wanted to die myself, and couldn’t. And now the Little Horn, the monarch comes to demand our help, with his trumpets forth. ‘T is strange he needs our keep, the king of sorcery, demon, and now this girl, whom is seemingly dumb, throws accurse on us all, torments us, we are born to lust.

Noge:

But explain all this to me father, as you were about to before…!

[It is midnight, the demon and angelic renegades, the watchers as they are known are seated about the fire, in a semi-circle, and the lovely captive who had disappeared as a butterfly, now captured again, dances for the immortals, Agdo]

Horrep:

As I was about to say: it all started somewhat like this: we watched the human females for a long time, and along with Azaz’el we all came down, all two hundred of us to participate in human sex, we cold have multiorgasmic results, like females; human males could not, this we were irritable. Some of our children could only perform 50-climaxes, but that was more than the humans. And us Withers were limitless. Then we went to Samara, and Anunnak, became king, about 5000-years ago. There it was started the selection of kings according to how many orgasms they could have, to prove they were of an angelic origin. Later on Gilgamish came into the picture, he may show up here yet.

The Scorpion King was praised by many, he is none other than Azaz’el, or Ptah, or the Divine Blacksmith, he was known by many names, he also help created the Vampric legends, which I will get to soon. Our lustful ways is what triggered God’s anger, and brought forward the Great Flood. I was part of all this history you know. I hid you for a long time. Anyhow, you have discovered multiple orgasms are possible for our kind, and we have no male refractory period; again I say, like human females. This was divine love, something; human males could not compete with.

Nosferatu, the Vampire world came alive when we moved to…(a pause); I should explain who ‘we’ are in this story: we meaning: Samlazaz, Araklba, Rameel, Kokablel, Tamlel, and Asael (Asael, again is Azaz’el)) and myself, also known as sons of God)). We were known as the Watchers, the Nephilm, the fallen ones, thus forfeiting our first estate forever, God forbid, but we did; there was two hundred of us, and it was an exodus to the land of Sumer, and then onward to a new location… we were brothers, and servants of God at one time; it may be she knows what use she is for us: we became obsessed even in Sumer as now, with eroticism, incest, pedophilia, sacred prostitution, as this woman is a symbol of our sexual freedoms we had long ago, and cultivated to the whole world, destined for, she sees us as sacrilege, but speaks she nod to us, only allows us our pleasure…

(Noge interrupts: father, please get back to the story!)

…there was what we called ‘Hieros Gamos’ (the sacred marriage, for kings who had the capacity for leadership, also had to have the capacity for sexual reenactment with the priestess, it was the Sumerians we instructed in this multiorgasmic rite, Inanna (Gilgamish’s mother), the de Goddess was the teacher.

(Noge interrupts: father, where did you go after Sumer?)

…I was getting to that son, be patient. They had sex for 30-hours, this rite of Uruk’s which we demanded of the kings, so only demigods would be elected. Or allowed to sit on the throne. Thus, the Anunnak bloodline started, he was a Canaanite Nephilm you know, the taught women sexual pleasures. King Menes, also known as the Scorpion King, was the first Pharaoh; some of us went to Egypt, around 3500 BC. He was a decent of demigods, like you.

And for your question, after Sumer we went to the mountains, to Transylvania (the Raphiam of Romania), where Vampirism came to light. We were scattered all over the world, and this was one location. We had Rephaimic tribes hidden in the mountains. The stories of excessive sex, derived from us. Here the royal Racoci family line is in Saint Germain, he lived you know 700-years, as was the mysterious count (Cmte).

And through our sexual encounters, we did bit a few people, and we had, or our sons had I should say, a disease, and they gave it to the humans; actually our kind was immune to its death, it spread, and was named tuberculosis. All because one day we decided to quench our sexual obsessiveness.

Young Woman on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown

Pain, the lines of beauty on the face of a lonely girl and her kindly cell, that furious secret place of depression, frustration, suicidal illness, (having otherworldly beauty was not enough for her, mouthing foggy love poems, progeny at her hip, North American prairies and beaches, Paris, her younger brother Warren the Exeter and Harvard man, New York, obsessively-written sonnets and short stories, Otto, Otto, Otto, the Nazi-lover, all the beekeeping villagers have been ripped from memory. The perfect love of parties, the tumbling into and of cocktail parties has gone too. Oh ghost, oh ghosts she was much too nice this empress, much too honest and dignified, she was much too pure, and where was the justice for this scholar, this thinker, this intellectual? How will she be remembered? Oh, just in dozens of books written by other starry-eyed scholars, thinkers and intellectuals and of course her poetry. She warned me, she warned me, she warned me with her words, with the force of her intellect, with her vocabulary, her mind’s eye’s perspective. No witch, atheist, pagan was she just a beautiful memory stuffed with a diary, notebooks, letters home filled with sadness. Did she pray, did she meditate when she was soaking up the sun on the beach?

And then she was thirty in a flat in London with two small children and composing Ariel, her masterpiece. Where was Ted Hughes? What was her last memory of Edward Hughes? In whose arms was he when she was looking for linen and sheets? Who was he sleeping with? What was the measure of the man? Was he extraordinarily gifted? Yes. Was he brilliant? Yes but did he know how to love, wasn’t he impulsive, wasn’t he a creative genius, wasn’t he a cheat? Didn’t he kill people, push and engulf women in sweetness or was it the woman who said kill me Ted, take me to bed? So he wasn’t a murderer, he was a poet, a broken man who suffered, what did he give up?

Men are cruel. Beautiful men are cruel. Intelligent men are cruel. And if girls reject them how on earth will they become transformed into women, transplanted into queens with kisses, how will they see the inside of a church in a wedding dress or a kitchen wearing an apron, perfect roast in the oven. How will they get that ring on their finger if they do not fall in love?

It is monstrous when bipolar leaves you numb, broken. There was always a quickness to it. How it enveloped her, how it enshrouded me. How did bipolar depression leave Sylvia Plath numb, clutching at straws, it left her with avocados in a suitcase in The Bell Jar? There’s nothing dignified about it and the end of love. It is not just the end of fireworks but also that romance is an eternal curve. What’s love anyway when you can write, when you can write poetry? Sylvia in a hospital bed. Sylvia and Anne. Anne Sexton. Sylvia receiving therapy. Sylvia writing. Writing poetry.

Speak. Speak. Speak. The pain felt sharp. It burned. And I felt burdened. The pain felt like a knife. Pain is poison, a silent feast for some, for the vampires camping out in the woods, a winter guest writing a poem.

Ashtrays and cigarettes fill his house, papers, verses, correspondence. His mother is dying in Yorkshire. He has brought his lover with him. His father won’t sit at the kitchen table with her. He takes his meals in his bedroom. This is domestic bliss, golden living matter. The sex is medieval. His hands smell like a butcher’s. He is Satan. He destroyed her and she destroyed him, the dreamer in him, the father in him, and the husband in him. He had knowledge of lovemaking, taught her everything he knew with his frozen skill, his soul’s map, his wide-eyed country of transformations, his white picket fence.

They are swimming in this dark room together, soft dolls with delicate cores surfing over their wounds, touching the surface tension of the interior, wrapped up in the knowledge of the grace of the physical, the mental glare is no longer there. No more anguish. No more Sylvia.

Look at them. We are glimmering, gulping, our flesh and blood is dwelling, shining, illuminating the world around us.

He anointed her. The physical body sinks into another physical body, gnaws at it, its eaten magic, and its sum, its language as they exchange fluids and there is nothing and everything logical about it. There is a story here. Is it love? Does it need to be told? She is here to stay. She needs belief. The exotic, alluring Assia Wevill. She is a killer. A convicted murderous, Ted Hughes’s housekeeper, Sylvia Plath’s rival, a lover, a wife, and a mother too. Will she be another German Jew survivor?

The sex object.

And now we come to the sex object who says, ‘Clothed, unclothed, shamed, and unashamed for now you are mine’.

Sylvia Plath, Assia Wevill, the daughter Shura, Edward Hughes are six feet under, pushing up daisies, dead to the world but not to the world’s imagination. There is a knot of silence pulled tight in my throat, and I am pushed to naming home. Love for me is not home. It will never be home, mean home to me. I wither, men wither, and stories wither.

It is a mystery to me why he did not, could not love me. There was no tenderness there, no constant craving. I could not understand my infertility. The knowing of pain comes after sleeping, after waking from his touch.

I cannot remember lust. I remain unmarked by it. I hurt. You have hurt me. Energy has left me. Humility is like a cloud in the sky with a silver lining. I will not behave. I will not sit still and behave. I will fidget like a lunatic until you say that you love me, until you say that you will not leave me, leave me for her. I am in the garden of fire, of the dead and the living. I am dumb. What do I know about love? I know this. I want to feel your skin, read your bones with my fingertips, bath in your bath as you stroke my back, turn your world upside down, and harvest your moon. I am a mess but I am not your mess. If I was your mess you would stroke my face and ask me gently why I am crying. And I would say please stay with me, don’t go. Tell me that you like me.

Suicides have no glory when they die, they do not go to the last resting place up in the sky. They are driftwood.

The women have no sun, cure, dress, heels, pot of rouge, no furniture to move around, no laughter to speak of, and their family is ghost protocol.

There is a gun, a piece of rope, a fur coat, a car left running, and a bridge, a running leap.

Smile or you’re dead. And then there was nothing. There was silence in the kitchen, children sleeping in the bedroom, milk and bread untouched and gas. There is no longer any breath, any oxygen in her throat. She is deader than most.

This is Assia Wevill’s voice. The voice of the sex object in this experimental article.

He means to put me in a cage. He thinks I have no skills to speak of. And if he loved Sylvia so much and grew to worship not only her but her writing to some degree why did he leave her and make his way to me? To me a cage means the kitchen, her kitchen. Perhaps it is stupid for me to think this way but all I want to do is to please him. Is that so wrong? Who built the universe that way, constructed it so that women can please men before they can please themselves and their children? And hidden somewhere in there are pets and children. Children stroking fur, licking out bowls, holding out their hands for chocolate, who press themselves against you. I am stupid. I longed for him. Pain is like the sea. Deep. You wouldn’t want to go swimming there when it is raining in case there is as storm or lightning. In case you won’t you make it back to the shore because of the current or in case you drown. Scrawling-scribbling-and-the-naming-of-parts. Boyish I-love-him-to-death-till-us-part. I-look-after-the-children, keep-house, proofread his work but still-it-is-never-quite-enough. He does that in his hut all-day-long. He never calls me the interloper but they do. He never takes my side. It is always there’s. Mama’s boy. But I am always intrigued by what he is writing and how quickly his mother seems to recover whenever he is at her side. How am I supposed to interpret that? When I take my meals alone with our little Shura how baffled she must be? What do I say when she looks at me and asks me, ‘Where is papa, where is Frieda, where is Nicky?’

Guts. Space. Breathing room. He is making me look very foolish as if I am running after him (but in the beginning it was the other way round) yet I feel exhilarated when I wake up and see him lying next to me in the mornings. Personal space he certainly seems to need it more than I do. Once upon a time I was so confident, so attractive to both men and women, so clever and now, now this. What he sees, what women of his generation call and want so badly ‘domestic bliss’? I have never wanted children but perhaps it is not too late. And then again what about my verse, what about my poetry, my literary pursuits? Stubborn, ungrateful, unappreciative of my efforts, arrogant but if I leave him now (kaput). All of his London friends think I’m too foreign. His family blames me for Sylvia’s death. Poor, fragile Sylvia. I think she was quite mad. I hate her. I hate her. I hate her and she hated me too I think. I think back to that weekend when they invited the two of us, David and me down to Devon. Of her taking off her shoes and sneaking up to me and Ted in the kitchen. It was him that started all of this not me.

Lifted. Fated. He can’t see what he does to women but I can. All his women, these women who are madly in love with him, clearly besotted, half-smitten, blinded by his creativity, his mad good looks, his seductive charm. I am already losing him. I can see that now. He can see that. And that is not to say that he is not a good man. Ted is a good father but why can’t he accept Shura and me. Why does he shut me out? Why does he make this odd list of do this, do that, run my household, teach my children German, play with them for an hour a day, and introduce a new recipe every week? I must be a terrible housekeeper, and an even worse mother, step-mother. They say he’s a tyrant. If I withdraw then I’m becoming just another version of Sylvia. I can feel this cloud of doom coming over me. Swiftly sweeping the exciting London life as I knew it away, away, so far away and the Assia I once knew doesn’t exist anymore and her ghost. Sylvia Plath’s ghost will she always come between us? Will she always be there? I have never wanted to be a domestic goddess. Goddess yes but there was never anything domestic about me. Monster but wherever he goes I will be sure to follow in his footsteps in this lifetime and the next.

‘Come to bed Ted.’ I think she must have said, the sex object, the filthy exotic dreamer in her orange silks and bangles at her wrists said pouting.

‘I’m writing Assia.’ I think that was all that he could bring himself to say. I’m writing. Leave me alone. I must be left alone to my own devices now that I have you he could have been saying. I must be everything to him. Yet, but I’m a failure in every department. I’m crumbling. My spirit is no more and no one has a kind word to say about me, the adulterer leading the very willing man in this picture to the slaughterhouse. I am made out to be the woman who took an already crazed woman out of her mind to her death. I AM NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR THOSE CIRCUMSTANCES OF EVENTS AND HOW THEY PLAYED OUT IN THE END. But who cares right? I am just another one of Ted’s women, the assassin with his potent words that are and always will be his weapon. I have no friends to speak of. Perhaps it would help this situation if I had friends. I could invite them over to the house and it would not feel so hostile. You can sometimes cut the tension between me and his father with a knife. I did not hold a gun to Sylvia’s head that fateful night. How was I to know that me and little Shura would soon follow her, that I would murder my own daughter, my beautiful daughter and that I would take my own life and afterward all anyone would say in his circle of friends, and neighbours she had it coming. She only has herself to blame after all. Assia Wevill destroyed Ted Hughes. And the arguments. All those bitter, bitter telephone conversations that I wish I could take back but now I never can.

One day I felt brave enough to ask him, to stand my ground. To finally look him in the eye when I thought he was at his most vulnerable, not surrounded by his friends, his family and especially that sister of his who adored him and who could see that he could do no wrong.

‘What about my work Ted?’ And he smiled as if he was looking at Frieda and after that the conversation became a blur. There was no reality. There was no longer the dream of having a life together. Normal. Was this normal? To always be treated like a slave, always slaving away, cooking meals, scrubbing floors and one day he had the audacity to rub his finger along something I don’t remember what and turn around to me with Frieda in his arms and ask me, ‘Really Assia, is this what is meant by cleaning house?’ I did not know what to do. I only knew I had to get away, get some fresh country air in my lungs and then I began to cry once I was away from Ted and the children and his beloved Frieda who he treated like a pampered doll. Shura often forgotten. My little one. What have I done I have often thought of bringing this child into this world? I thought perhaps he would come and find me and comfort me, apologise and say, ‘Silly me Assia it meant nothing.’ I was working all day while he was plotting against me to get away. I was tired. Three small children with so much energy. So of course I was out of my depth sometimes but I wanted him. My Ted but then again there were my hands. My once beautiful hands with their manicured nails were rough now. I had started to bite my fingernails. And the tantrums had returned that I had left behind in Tel Aviv. I had just become another version of Sylvia Plath’s ghost. My hands they felt like Braille.

‘What about your work?’ he answered in return. ‘Whatever do you mean by that? You wanted a family and have I not given you one. And one day we will find a house of our own to live in. Of course you will have to make that decision yourself. Things have not been easy for me either. You wanted children and have I not given you one.’ I have a dead wife. I have a dead wife. No, that is what he was telling me. What have I done? And was it I Assia Wevill who created the scandal. It was him who asked me to accompany him to that house, that ghost house that morning.

No, no, no I wanted to say. I wanted to scream in his deadpan face because I could see deep down he did not care for me anymore. You were the one who gave me two children, two flowers, two forget-me-nots butcher. I proofread your work Ted. I think you are brilliant but I am nothing like her no matter how beautiful I speak English or write I will never replace her.

‘What about my work. My poetry. Does it not interest you that I write too?’ But how soon he forgets me. I’ve become fragmentary in the same way that Sylvia Plath was doomed to become.

‘But all he said was this in return and I knew I was doomed and Shura was doomed too.

‘You have your hands full with running around three growing children Assia, keeping this house, my house in order. What more could any woman your age (and I thought when he said those words ‘any woman your age’ I thought I would just die on the spot. He was killing me. Striking me again and again and again but I had to take it because this was love and this was the life I had chosen).

So I write to my sister in Canada who has three children of her own, a home, a family and I ask her to come and visit me because the loneliness is killing me. Ted Hughes is killing me and the behaviour of both his parents towards me is shocking. Wasn’t it enough for me to escape Nazi Germany with my family, to hear and see and glimpse up close the laughter, the boots, the handsome blonde, fair-haired and blue-eyed SS soldiers walking up and down and then up and then down again on the train. We escaped the concentration camps, and Hitler. I could not ask for more trauma for trauma in childhood is enough to damage you for good, for a lifetime. I thought that we could build a life together. Ted and his Assia. Assia and her Ted. We were made for each other. I could not take my eyes off him since the very first moment we met.

Rain is pouring into me like liquid sun. My moods go up and down like a pendulum swinging back and forth. And every night she hovers at the foot of our bed as if she has a right to be there by virtue of being the dead wife. Ted falls asleep immediately as soon as his head touches the pillow. I lay awake for hours thinking of our dream house in the countryside. Get here as soon possible my dearest sister because I think I have had enough of his mind games and of him controlling me. I never thought he could be this cruel. I never thought he could be this brutal. His brutality washing over me and my little Shura. Frieda and his Nicky are his two angels. Sylvia’s angels. AM I ENOUGH? I am afraid I will never be. I have changed so much. All he wants to do is write and write and write and I am afraid he wants me out of his life. I am waiting for those words on his lips, ‘You do not belong here anymore.’ I am so afraid. Help me. Only Fay seems to understand. My only friend and I cherish the moments we spend together. I confide in her over tea whenever I am I London. I think she wants me to leave him but how can I do that when I have already invested so much in this relationship. Sometimes I think I could just murder him in his sleep, put a pillow over his face but he is a strong man. I know he will fight back. He, everyone they ever knew as a couple have now put Sylvia Plath on a pedestal and they worship her. He won’t even read my work and I won’t show him anything that I have written to him anymore because he is too critical of it and sometimes I catch him smiling as he is holding my papers, my verses in his hands almost as if he is thinking to himself that I of all people think I can replace her, that I bewitched him and not the other way around. There’s an inflated cut that eats my guts. A wound and I wonder if there is a cure for it. I read S.P.’s work. Brilliant, bold word for word and know that I can never catch up to her. Her love medicine was her children. Her mother was as far as I know a Pandora’s-magic-box sealed shut. I know this, that she did not leave a trail of a layer of clothes on her bedroom floor. Her poetry, her short stories, her sonnet was her conversation with rapture. I tell my sister I need proof. Ted is in the garden now. We have a patch of garden where we grow beet, leafy green vegetables, all kinds of things, herbs and I watch them from the kitchen window forlorn and in despair. This man is killing me, killing me and soon I know he will retire to his hut, to his writing and he will not feel forlorn or despair tormented by the past as I am. I already know that he has chosen Frieda above Shura. Is this love? What is the matter with me? All I know is this, and that is I cannot survive without him, without Shura at our side. People are cruel, women crueller. Is it because I have won? I’m afraid he doesn’t respect me anymore and it is all my fault, he’s pushed me to one side, there’s another beauty in the picture now. A beauty who looks like Marilyn Monroe. I think it has something to do with my childhood and background. I think it has something to do with his childhood, his father, his mother who must have adored him since birth, his background, and his good looks. This Marilyn Monroe lookalike keeps showing up at the house. He tells me she is just a friendly neighbour concerned but he must think I am stupid, dumb. Does he not know he has already sabotaged us? Our telephone calls from London to Yorkshire are bittersweet. We fight, tigers in the night and then we make up, make plans for a life together. We bloom but I am rotting even in the dark. It is only Ted who sleeps soundly. I have no shield. I have my suspicions and every day they are vast and new, incomplete and they make me sick inside to have all these unpleasant thoughts. They are like a museum where my spirit plays. The dead spot of S.P. I cannot get out however hard I try and rub it out. Ted knows nothing of this. I am tense all the time and am convinced that this Marilyn with her blonde crotch is a spy. I am weary. Perhaps I should go back to Vancouver. Go back to school. S.P. wrote about bees and villagers and now they praise her but Ted does not tell his friends I write too. There’s too much history here, too much growth and mourning. I make jam now, and breakfasts. I speak in German. It is on the list. It is on the list. He talks about my curves, that imaginary zone less and less and less now. Women are merely an artist’s sexual object.

I should have burnt that hut to the ground that he wrote in but then again there wouldn’t have been much difference between Sylvia and myself if I had done it. I am also charmed by women but I want to kill them all if anyone of them comes near Ted. How he enjoys their attention and it pricks my imagination, and my subconscious. I know he mocks me sometimes, makes a joke out of me in front of his circle of male friends. They are wise. Women are not. But I still give myself up to him even in my grave as he stands at the mouth of it. I remember when he flirted with me, our love letters and how he erased me and Shura out of his life. In Ireland the fields were beautiful and our love, our family life was the best sensation that I had ever felt in this universe. The world was full of flowers, of a green feast in his garden patch, this kind of life of a landscape was meant for a poet, a writer. There were perfect scrapes but we got through them and I felt catapulted into the air. Pity that the sky was blue every day. I loved the rain although sometimes it made me feel sick, troubled, and depressive. And I would look at the knife on the table and I would think to myself is now the time? Perhaps he would look at me, finally look at me with bandages at my wrists and see me but then I would think of Shura. I knew he did not love me anymore. We were not invited for Christmas in Yorkshire.

This bold and shocking creation that choked me until I couldn’t breathe and then my darling Shura began to cry as I did, began to feel as confused as I did as to why her father couldn’t love her as much as he loved his Frieda. I don’t know why I couldn’t love David Wevill, my third husband anymore. I only knew I had to get out now. It was done. Shura and I was done for and then perhaps then I was the traitor. I wanted to scream. We had a German au pair. So I sent her out and then the deed was done in Clapham Common and we were erased forever from his life. Gas, Gas, Gas. When you discover a traumatic incident like a suicide does it live with you forever? I will never know. My soul is still fertile. His betrayal. My betrayal. Snow falling not self-consciousness, as detailed as the gods, the noises of a mother clinging to her daughter, her eyes shut, heart stopped beating as if by a stray bullet, what was my weapon of choice? It was a glass of water and headache tablets, a mattress dragged into the kitchen. A copycat murder. And then there were tears, of course there were tears for my Shura. I had such a mind-blowing headache that I thought it was a headache after that first deed. I should have told Ted that he did not know what love was. He could not love women. He could only undermine them. He could only love children and wanted Frieda and Nicky to grow up in the shadow of Sylvia Plath and not Assia Wevill and Shura. And now it is my turn to execute myself.

After Eve [Part Nine: The Devourer – Mantic Ore ]

A Soldier, of the Stone-Builders

At that moment, at that very second, Big-chest picked this man up, pinning him against the big pine, that was in back of him, holding him a few feet off the ground, his body dangling like a branch snapped off a tree ready to fall; there he held him, looking at him, strangely looking at him, almost stamping him into the tree. [At this point and time, Little-eyes was learning what Owl-eyes had tried to tell him, the nature of man is not what it may seem to be; or what it is he is portraying.] The eyes of Big-chest were paralyzing with its gaze: its dark haunting-bloody deepness to them. The man closed his eyes, surely feeling he would be dead within the second, a millisecond. But Big-chest just kept him pinned against the tree, like stepping on an ant, he pushed the youth’s chest into the tree, I could hear his ribs snap, he, the bowman, couldn’t move, couldn’t hardly breath. As I looked with placid eyes, for some odd reason, I was glad Big-chest had the upper hand, but that was simply a fleeting forgotten thought, as my mind strayed and stayed on the ‘here and now’ the invention of life and Big-chest taking one. It seemed, he had him pinned there for hours, yet it was but a moment, a very tense moment to say the least, for him, and somehow for me, but it was really a matter of minutes to be exact.

At this point, the strangest thing happened, Big-chest took his hands off the stranger, whom still had his eyes shut, and next Big-chest stood back from the tree, possible three feet again. Another moment passed or two, everything was silent: –the woods, even the wind seemed to stop, the sky was motionless, the insects, the insides of me and Little-eyes, all hushed: we were all frozen in the moment; everything stood as it was noiseless as quiet can be. The birds were nowhere in sight, they never are when there is trouble. Slowly the youth opened his eyes, nothing was now touching him, he must have felt safe, free, oddly safe I’d say, –very slowly his eyes opened, as his face turned at the same time into a half smile or smirk, as if to say: ‘he beat the odds, the giant was gone.’ But good fortune did not sway his way: as uncanny as it was, nothing happened, his eyes half open, opening up more, confusion filled his face instantly, the smile disappeared, his world stopped, the storm that was seemingly over, had not vanquished, it only hid for a moment, then in a second, no a millisecond, his eyes opened all the way to see the giant figure in front of him, standing, still staring, swinging his body back and forth, back and forth, back and forth: standing firm as a stone-cliff, a mountain: standing two feet in front of him, liken to a monstrous volcano. In the second, that millisecond I was talking about, he noticed from his peripheral vision [the corner of his eye] the picture of a hand coming towards him with ferocious velocity; you can see those things in slow motion sometimes, even if they are faster than lightening, don’t ask me how, it is simply a fact of nature. And Wack-wwwwwww

Wwww

kkk…zzzzzzz
no more was heard, Big-chest had hit, shattering his lower neck, along with the side of his upper face coming off–hit it so hard–it ripped all the bones and flesh right off his upper torso also. He lay next to Javaa-girl, sprawled out like her, like a bear stretching all his limbs out on ice, lying on his stomach. That is how he looked.

Part Nine

Rare Beauty

With truth ablaze

No falsehoods to gaze at

We found terror with beauty

Purged in death

By Little-eyes

[I must say when this happening took place with Javaa-girl, he: Little-eyes, got emotional, and did one thing for mankind, he opened up his mind, and he spoke in a poetic way, and I have now recited it on stone]

15

The Devourer – Mantic ore

Mantic ore
[A lion body with a human-demonic face]

One creature other than the Stone-Builders that scared Big-chest, that is, made him nervous, if not down right panicky, even though he’d not admit it, not in a hundred years, and I’d not say it to his face, and I doubt if he could even express it the fear he had for this creature whom was called: the Mantic ore [Manti Cora]. This creature appeared about twenty-two years after the arrival of the Stone-People, where it came from, I’ll never know, and I guess in a way, I blame everything on the Garden, so I thought at the time it might have come from there, but to be truthful, that’s not necessarily fact, it could have come from some another place. I had seen up to that point many strange things, that is, since the two beings walked out of the Garden–Eve and Adam, but this was among the most outlandish, bizarre, and weird.

[The Dreamer] I must first think on how to present this: you see even words are limited in this brief of what took place in this dream-vision. Short-legs had on occasions, witnessed the Stone-People, and we must not relate them to the Eve-People, for again, they were the descendants of Eve, but did not go according to the great Mother’s wishes and left their habitat to build great brick cities, and fortifications–alas.

But what I was going to describe was the sex preferences of these renegades–hoping to explain the existence of the Mantic ore–if I may call them, or those creatures–renegades that is, and if I can even give explanation to it. For time and again, Short-legs caught them, the Stone-People, forcing animals to have sex with them, and in a liken manner, had their spouses do the same. Yes, oh yes, with: dogs, sheep, lions, and many other four-legged animals, beasts; this may sound crude and demeaning, even mortifying, but none the less, it became part of the history, their history–like it or not–, yes their world history: and possible mine. What wasn’t expected was what developed down the road: the interplay: sex, that the Stone-People had with what they called ‘demonic-spirits’ [for they also were about roaming the world as they pleased: so it was said; one life form called the: ‘Dog-face Demon’]; yet, it was the Mantic ore [Leucrocuta], the man-beast that was given birth [by the new-breed], as he was known, thus, he could claim the birthright of an innovative breed from their foreplay. He had a treble row of teeth, sharp as a sword; lower body resembled a lion [Lyon], with a face similar to that of the Stone-People [with some demonic configurations], and a tail of a scorpion.

He would devour people faster than Big-chest could kill them, actually, he could kill three at a time, and three or four humans who were trying to capture it and it would mangle, contort, and twist them to pieces. Some of the Mantic ores, and there were more than one, had goat’s heads to the Lyon body, and horse’s heads. But most, and I say most, because Short-legs, only saw three in his many years of life in this Cliff Valley of Caves he lived: they all had feet, faces and ears though, of men; again, with the Lyon body.

[Short-legs–explains] I did also see the Dog-face Demon, creature once, he was huddled up with two others so called evil-spirits, talking away the night, as the Stone-People worshiped them, laid on their bellies rolling around in the dirt, jumping up and down, as if to call, or summons the demon to do some fanciful tricks, and sometimes they did. But back to the Mantic ore, that damn tail that would sting, oh he had a long, freighting end-to his tail, to say the least; –it was sharp-pointed with quills all over it. And its voice was high pitched, a most wild thing to look at, and its nature, its natural world, temperament if you will, was of that same wildness, evil packed tight with a dragging-dread wherever it went, a ferociousness that was only calm when it conquered; it was born to kill.

Mantic ore II
[The Horse Beast]

Mantic ore

The only way to kill it–the Mantic ore that is, or so it seemed (and if there was another way I didn’t know of it): and I saw it done, but I only saw it completed once: only once, was when one of the Stone-People shot an arrow into its butt–no, no, I didn’t mispronounce the word–BUTT, thereupon, it dropped, absolutely dropped to its belly, and they cut the tail off quickly, and then subdued it (had my mother saw this she wouldn’t have believed it).

The world had completely changed in such a short time, a very short time, since my mother had passed on. I thought if this was the case, it wouldn’t be long before everything went upside down; –but let me conclude this brief statement on the Mantic ore. We didn’t see them much, but every time Big-chest saw one he’d hi-tail it the other way, make a 360-degree turnabout, and run. He wanted nothing to do with them [yes he’d suck in his pride]. I always felt it might be a good fight between them two, but who am I to say, or even hope to see such a thing, the Mantic ore was even more coldhearted and deadly than Big-chest. But to kill a beast, you got to find a worse and hungrier beast, so my mother used to say, or become one, or become shrewder: and I was neither of these.

16

[The advance of the Stone-Builders: the victories they had over all the land and peoples, to include the ‘Valley of the Caves,’ where the Horde lived, left the people of the world in a ‘no man’s land,’–that is to say, no one had a real means of security, or better put: protecting themselves; or being protected by the advancing adversary. For the world at large, it was a no win situation, and just a matter of time before it became dominated by the new breed.]

The Great Transformation

[Short-legs] What I call the Great Transformation, of our time, others may have called simply, the changes that were taking place and gave it no more thought. Still others used such expressions of thoughts as, ‘The Conversion:’ still others, ‘The Great Makeover,’ whatever it was to others, to me it was the beginning of the end, that is exactly what was started–what was taking place. The People of the Fire now were copying the Stone-Builders by stealing the males and females of the Horde, our people, as well as the Branch-People; –using both of our life-lines, our children that is, for free labor purposes. Furthermore, they mated with our kind like never before, and we mated with the Branch-People to keep our Horde intact. As the Stone-Builders, year after year came to get more slaves from the People of the Fire, the People of the Fire did the same with us: they did not know [The Stone-Builders that is] they were getting interbreeding slaves: namely us, it took several years of this activity, and you could see a change in the children of the wives and females they took from our tribe, our Horde.

After a decade or more years of this ongoing activity, we had but fourteen members in our Horde left, only fourteen members that is it [out of almost-300], no more to come; my mother and brother being two, myself and Little-eyes making up four–: my mother who was getting on in years now, now whom was not stern as in her younger days, hard as a rock some say–was less rigid now: her nature had turned soft and kind. Quite different from being the matter-of-fact person she used to be: she was soften by age and tiredness, and at peace with everybody and everything, so much love for us two boys was evident in her face, we were her world, or at least a lot of it. A rainy cloud had left her: it was as if the stress to life had dragged everything out of her–she couldn’t battle anymore, even at times lifting her arms were hard for her to do. Although the weight of the world was off her, she had gained weight, and her heart was old and worn: dog-eared; –she breathed hard, walked slowly, and if she could stretch those arms, brought her relief. She knew she had lived beyond her time, longer than she had expected, possibly she was grateful for that, grateful to have seen me and my brother grow up, grow to manhood, grow old in front of her almost: maybe even grateful that she was to die before us, yes, I think so, I really think she was grateful for that, would be indebted for that: had we died before her, she would have died along with us, or shortly after us I do firmly believe.

In her, when she did pass on, die, leave this earth, in her, there was no cowardice, none whatsoever: she charged at life as it came, I daresay, too willingly. And was very protective of us kids, –she was killed by the Stone-Builders for sport. My father then ran off, to where cowards run I suppose, I know not where that is, nor hold any resentment, on this truth, be that as it may, for he must live with himself. And he ran and ran and no one knows where, never to return, which in itself was no big loss; for this reason, it/there was only my brother left–he and I at the end, at the very end of things, I and him, him, whom came to the Horde now to live in the Valley of the Caves.

[The Dreamer: but again I find my story getting ahead of me.]

Unification

What was to be made of all this, to the world at large–unification of some sort was developing and that was it I suppose, or so I thought, and Little-eyes said: the moment was coming. In the past, people adjusted to one’s territory. Now, it seemed, the territory had to adjust to its people, or it would be made to adjust, in particular the Stone-Builders had the edge on this [one time dilemma].

Somehow I knew, or so I told myself, and so it seemed to turnout, I, Short-legs knew, knew what resided on the horizon with the Stone-Builders, –that is, a concept was now developing, and it was called: ‘common language.’ Yet I feared what they had forgotten, misplaced, or simply didn’t think of was: one does not become a Stone-Builder because he or she can speak the/a language alone, should one be forced. For example, I gave myself this question: ‘Do you think because we speak your language, we think your thoughts?’ the People of the Fire–or even the Branch-People, we can take for example–if they were forced to speak their language, or even take my Horde for example, if we were forced to speak their language [the language of the Stone-Builders as this actually is happening with the People of the Fire], does not mean our thoughts are the same; that is to say, the language does not express the real meaning of a people. Something they’d have to learn I fear, and learn the hard way.

Therefore, as I watched the expansion of the new breed, the new order on earth take roots, our lives were affected by their economy and our interest as a people were drained. You see, we really, really tried to avoid war, the Horde that is–yes, we had the cowardly pacifist view, but then we always had that view, and that is why we ended up having little food, or at times no food. In a comparable manner, we as a society, or group, [the Horde that is] had no plan, no policy, no goal, call it a blood sacrifice, we lived in the vein of the world, and when the world started falling apart for our group, suicide also took some of us, and our unborn children. Also, there were no animals in our vicinity anymore, meaning, our ribs were showing all the time now, too many loses to keep a society going.

It was true, very true, mighty true, what our neighbors: the People of the Fire said about us: they implied, we the Horde, ‘…have no weapons to speak of, and now no hope, along with being unwilling to fight, we are cowards.’ What I noticed was our great fault was we had no leadership, like everyone else seemed to have. Even the Branch-People had Big-chest. I mean we had zero leadership. Consequently, we had no ‘Spirit-de force,’ in us; –hence, nothing was transmitted to our masses, what little masses we had. How could we fight a war when we were fighting ourselves: fighting for our independence to be left alone, as we had always been? Had we tried to unite all would have protested, a fabricated protest most likely, but none the less, it would have kept us as we were divided, plus we had no ally, no real friend, oh–Big-chest helped us once or twice, here or there, but had it come down to fighting a war, no way would he be on anyone’s side, other than his own side. The entire world had no ally for the most part, although the People of the Fire, and the Stone-Builders were seemingly or at least outwardly befriending one another,–again, so it seemed; but sooner or later, with passing generations, integration might solve that problem.

A Mother’s Death
[Strong-lungs]

[The Dreamer] The death of Short-legs’ mother: Strong-lungs, was strictly more different than what he had anticipated, thought it would be like, that is, death was a common factor in the Horde, which had been seen on a regular bases, yet when he came to visit his Mother’s cave, seeing his brother there, and trying to understand the situation, he became transfixed, spellbound looking at her dead form. As he caressed her arm, unconsciously almost: from her biceps down and around her elbow, to the other side, her blood was warm–somehow this helped his consciousness and then he let go of it, — his hand from her arm, no doubt she was dead, her face was waxed-white, pale, eyes shut, she seemed at peace, his face showed disbelief. He looked at her intently; the flesh on her was still soft to touch. And he touched her several times. Her arms, her braw, and kissed her check, her brow. He gazed with meaning over her figure, no words just association, sounds, gestures for a long moment. What crossed his mind was the immediate past, as her arms lay by her mid section softly-still; gently he caressed her face, kissed it again. A black silence was dragged over his grieving mind, as if the dread of a lifetime was upon him.

With the gloom of the sky: anger took over his composure, stillness filled his belly and lungs, unutterable loneliness prevailed–nothing, absolutely not anything, would ever be the same again in his mind he felt, his mind told him–his soul, or so called character was becoming unraveled–not, not in his world he thought, it will never be the same again. Yet time would prove a little different, life for him would go on, as life was planned to do; he would understand life was only given for a small period of time anyways, that is, time to each and every living thing, everything was measurable on earth according to time. A little more alone in this new world approaching he’d be, he knew that, but he would learn life did not stop, not completely anyhow, although it did knock him out for a moment, as if falling off a tree and trying to catch your breath back. He never expected this to happen, the shock, disbelief, almost anger, to take his guts and mangle them around, when a life is taken, gone, but it did; now he knew.

The Poem of Sorrow

My flame moves slow now,

Inside my chest

‘Tis lost from my naked world

Of the death: the fate of my mother.

No voice, eyelids weak,

Let us dream some more–

Of days past, days to be:

I remain bereaved.

By Short-legs

It’s A Wonderful Life

Sadly, many pro-choice advocates tend to label their counterparts primitive believers. It would seem that, to such ‘progressive’ people, all priests who oppose abortion are but a lower species, and their faithful are merely a primitive herd. However, they don’t dare to take a look at the man in the mirror, which is proof of hypocrisy and primitivism. Who is displaying a lack of tolerance in this story? Don’t they say that a lack of tolerance is typical of primitivism?

What is the definition of primitivism? Every person must decide for themself, because every person has been primitive on occasion, sooner or later in life (and by this I don’t mean being in the cradle as a child, because this is where we are at our most tolerant). We should sincerely think about it: if faith fosters love, compassion and kindness towards the other in people, then those who call all of this primitive must be the most primitive of all. Love connects people, hatred tears them apart. Each person, as a free individual, is entitled to free opinion, and life should be the judge of who’s right and who’s not. But how are we supposed to get an answer from life if we kill it to begin with?

I don’t know much about victories, but there is on thing I am sure of: compassion is the greatest of victories of the human spirit. I am writing from my own experience because, as a youth, I was a sceptic blinded by myself, by raw lust, alcohol, drugs, cynism, arrogance… and one day I arrived at the very edge of life. I thought I should simply leave this world because I never became as famous as I expected. I cheated on women who sincerely loved me due to raw lust, and then I felt His hand on my shoulder. With the voice of the wind, He said to me: “It’s not time for you to go. Even if you think that your aimless straying is over, know that you’ve only started off on the righteous path. Find your guide in poetry, and it shall take you into the hearts of many. Be the voice of those in need, be the voice of love, be the voice of freedom, and you will turn yourself and others into better people through your verses.”

Since that day, I feel much happier and fulfilled, not because I think that I’m special or free of sin, but because I realized that I am just a sinner who sincerely wants to better himself, and I can safely say that there is a higher holy force that makes us better. I do not know what He looks like, but I do know He exists, with all my heart and soul. I won’t attempt to look for Him here or there, because He teaches me that whenever you’re doing good unto others, He is within you. Ever since then, I have learned that faith accounts for a strong spirit, which is any person’s best ally in times of temptation, because weak-spirited people will be the first to fall. Who is falling?

Those who fail to show compassion for others;

Those who are ready to rebuff themselves for the sake of power and money (such people become slaves to greed);

Those who hate more than they love;

Those who want to rule over nature (A person can only feel all the enchantment of nature if they love it as they love themselves, and in synergy with nature – the sun and the wind – people shall create energy that will take them into space, to shake brotherly hands with other creatures of God);

Those who want to clone stem cells to create human beings in laboratories, while at the same time there are millions of people dying of hunger (We know that a human being is only complete with emotions, which come from the soul that can never be created by another human);

Those who hope that hunger will decimate humanity, because there is too much people in this world anyway (If that happens, the cloned man shall rule, and tears, laughter, sorrow, hope and faith will be gone, as well as humans with souls);

Those who attempt to cure the emptiness within with futile lust (To love is to place our happiness in the happiness of another – Leibniz);

Those who are afraid of solitude (of the man in the mirror);

Those who consider the faithful to be primitive.

Many people like to play with statistics, but I say that those who are slaves to statistics are slowly losing the most important thing that makes them human – their emotions. Yes, life teaches us that the day we master our own emotions, we lose them forever. And, regardless of statistics, we have to listen to our hearts, which tell us that faith doesn’t teach us anything bad. Is faith in compassion a bad kind of faith? Is helping those in need a bad kind of faith? Is faith in love a bad kind of faith? Is faith in the idea that every living being has the right to live a bad kind of faith? I will allow myself to quote a great comment by a forum member at a Croatian news portal: “Those who claim that there are ten thousand abortions a year due to a “bad social situation”, rape (or forced sex in marriage), or medical indications during pregnancy, are fools. Most of these abortions are performed on the younger female population. These are mostly young girls who get pregnant, and then their mothers, who are around 40 and do not want to become grandmothers, drag them to the doctor to have an abortion. The worst thing is the fact that many of them have several abortions. The fact that it’s almost like going to the dentist is shameful. I am sickened by this society’s hypocrisy. The World Down Syndrome Day wasn’t that long ago. Would any pro-choice supporters dare to say – in public, and on that particular day – that it’s acceptable to have an abortion if tests show that the child will suffer from Down’s syndrome. And in Croatia, abortions are performed for that reason, among others! And it is legal. The test is performed during week 11 of the pregnancy, so that the pregnant woman may have an abortion in case of bad test results, as abortion is legal up to week 19. What is the difference between such a pregnant woman and the Nazis, who considered the ill to be degenerate and freaks that should be extinguished?”

Why am I so touched by this unfortunate abortion story? Because I am an extramarital child of a poor mother with a rich soul. My late mother told me at her deathbed that my mother was a great dreamer, and that I must have inherited that trait from her. Grandma admitted that her young daughter was abandoned by her partner, who left her behind pregnant, with the promise that he would return for her as soon as he makes some money up north in the Big Apple, and he would take her to paradise, but she never heard from him again. Grandmother tried to talk her into having an abortion, because they were barely able to survive, even without a child, but at that point she joined her hands in prayer and, looking up, she said: “Thank God, she wouldn’t listen to me… your mother is a hero, she took up the toughest of jobs to be able to raise you… and when social services wanted to take you away and give you up for adoption to a wealthy couple from a big northern city, she said that it would happen only over her dead body!”

My mother drew her indomitable strength from the Texas prairie. She always stood upright like a cactus, she withstood the winter, the wind, the draughts – to cut a long story short, the capricious winds of destiny never drove her to her knees (sadly, the man who left her pregnant and left off to New York was a weak-spirited coward, even though he was Texan). When I went to football games as a youth, I used to compare the football coach to my mother. I remember the words of the late coach, who was adored by the fans almost as if he was a saint. He himself was a fan of the working class, and he used to tell his players: “We always have to think and play from game to game, because this is the credo of the people of this city. We are a reflection of the community we live in. People have to fight in order to survive. Just like them, as soon as we stop doing it, we don’t stand a chance. People identify themselves with us, we are a source of their hope, and we simply can’t let them down. What we feel when we take the field isn’t pressure. Pressure is when these people go home lacking the money to feed their kids.”

Yes, my mother was from a poor family, but her soul is noble, and that’s why I’m always proud to say that my mother is blue-blooded and nobility, because there is no greater nobility than love. I can proudly claim before the world that I have inherited my love of the earth, not just the golden Texas prairie, but our one only planet Earth, from my mother. SACRIFICE, modesty, humility, respect, hard work, faith… that’s the motto, not just of my humble family, but of most people across the proud Texas prairie. There is no government or money that could keep me from fighting for nature, and this is also why I fight against bankers, oil corporations, greedy dictators, political castes (by this, I don’t mean political visionaries like myself, who fight to save nature) because, lest we forget, global warming isn’t a natural process, but a product of human greed. I remember my mother singing the old “Tennessee Waltz” to me when I was a kid. If you listen to the immortal Patti Page, you will know the kind of singing voice my mother had when she was young. I’ll never forget watching her sing and look through a small window into the distance, like a golden bird locked in a cage. But instead of her, her baby bird left the cage and flew off into the world in his early youth. What sacrifice it must be to voluntarily imprison your youth and beauty into a small dark room for the sake of your child, I think while wistfully looking at a pale family photo. One Christmas Eve I asked her if she ever considered an abortion, and she looked into the distance and said in a tired voice: “I must admit that there were moments when I blamed all my troubles on God, but my faith was stronger… My faith kept me from falling, and an angel who whispered to me that I should look for work as a cleaner in the maternity ward. Those newborn children gave me the strength to stand up and fight. Yes, son, there were troubled times ahead, but I saw an ocean of craving in your big blue eyes that made it worth living for… “

After listening to this story, I often thought how great it would have been if all the newborn children had mothers like that. I never turned out to be wealthy, or a great politician, but I wrote some poems, novels and plays that made it worth to live. After all, who gave us the right to decide whether to have an abortion or not?! It’s not important what kind of country or family a child is born into, it might still become a great journalist, poet, actor, philosopher or humanist politician some day, someone who will make the world a better place to live. Or else, they might become the most important thing – a simple honorable human being.

Yes, life is wonderful in deed, and when you think that there is no way out, just remember Frank Capra’s classic movie “It’s a Wonderful Life”. The younger generation should watch that movie in school, because the movie, with acting virtuoso James Stewart, teaches us that life is worth fighting for even when you think that there is no way out and, what’s most important, how to remain human. Yes, this movie proves the positive power art can have on the human soul, and this is why the world should pay more attention to art that enriches all the values that make us human. Literature and motion pictures with noble messages deserve more attention from people, instead of slavery to raw profit.

It is common knowledge that every person has the freedom to choose between good and evil. When I read a true story about a homeless man in New York, who found a bag full of money and returned it to the owner, I was proud to be human, but when I read that the same man became homeless due to bankers’ greed, I am ashamed of being human. It is interesting to find out that the same story happened twice, in the U.S.A. and in Croatia. When journalists asked the Croatian homeless man in Split why he returned the money, he just shrugged and humbly replied: “Even though I lost everything, partly because of my own mistakes, and partly because of the bank’s usuries, all I want is to remain a faithful and honest man.” Yes, this man is a hero of mine. Of course, I do not promote poverty. I want to be successful, but I do not want to lose my soul in the process. I always vote for capitalism with a human face and a human soul. Yes to success, but no to greed! This is my life’s motto, lest we forget that greed is a disease much more dangerous than the pest or cholera. The Croatian political caste is proof of greed being a dark bottomless pit. Imagine a small and beautiful country blessed by mother nature, with a thousand islands and a clear azure sea, fertile lowlands and paradise green valleys, yet with many thousands people, both old and young, going through garbage bins because of the political caste’s greed. Now try to imagine how endless the politicians’ greed is: kind people who want to donate food to the poor must pay taxes to the state on any food or other goods they donate to the poor. Thus, the paradox is that it is easier to just throw away the food into garbage than to donate it to the poor. This political caste (the “reformed” communist party) isn’t satisfied by millions paid in bribery by “investors”, or by selling state-owned companies with brand names for peanuts, like insurance companies and banks, and other malversations. No, they simply must steal whatever little the paupers have left. Isn’t greed really an accursed disease? It doesn’t simply destroy the body, no, it also destroys the human soul. It is a dark bottomless pit that can never be filled, and it feeds on human souls. This is what my noble mother taught me. She would never allow herself to be separated from the family brooch she inherited, displaying a smiling Christ figure. There are many people who look down on people like her, and they think that gold credit cards give them the right to consider themselves the betters of the poor faithful. Well, they’re wrong! The worst kind of poverty is the poverty of the spirit. Those who are working their way towards power and money, looking down on the faithful, should know that those who ridicule faith are those who call His name the loudest on their deathbed. I do not support fanaticism in anything, and certainly not in faith, because the Creator teaches us that tolerance and love for others is the best way towards faith. So, even when I criticize greedy people, I do not hate them. Instead, I am doing it from the depths of my soul, hoping for them to see the world through the eyes of the faithful someday.

History teaches us that even the greatest among unbelievers experienced a sincere conversion at the end of their lives (and I don’t mean Pharisees). On his deathbed, Jean-Paul Sartre said to his best friend: “You know, Francois, I was a great skeptic all my life as far as faith is concerned… but there must be a higher deity that enriches the human soul with all those values I was searching for like a castaway on the ocean of temptation… “

Yes, and I would add: taking a step at a time on the path to true freedom isn’t easy, as the great Plato taught us. Weak-spirited people will choose their safety in the dark, while those who are blessed with faith search for light, becoming genuine messengers of freedom in their lifetime. Those who close the doors on a child at its conception should know that this is how they turn of the light of life on themselves.

Walter William Safar

The Mystical, Religious and Philosophical Culture of the Paleolithic Fertility Cult

Regardless of the diversionary mumbo-jumbo entrapping of magic and religion, the central theory to the shamanic philosophy of the Upper Paleolithic Master of Animals was the solipsistic theory of the God-man: that the world is a dream, the vatic-shamanic personality the dreamer, and, consequently, that the mental states of the shaman are the engine driving the course of events in the real world.

Man had been born with what appears to be a genetically predetermined illusion of centrality with respect to his environment; a psycho-affective predilection which, no doubt, had been fostered by the reality editing behavior of the nursing female. The personal psycho-affective conflicts of the God-king Osiris in historic times, for instance, arose from the conflict between the king and his political rivals. At the cosmic level, the king’s travails translate into the conflict between the forces of good and evil, dramatized in the sacred play of the Osirian mystery cult as the conflict between the god Osiris and the devil Seth. The resolution of the shaman’s private psycho-affective conflicts translates on the grand cosmic scale into resolution of the thematic good versus evil conflict of history. But “good” is not an absolute defined independent of a personal perspective. The shaman’s perspective, however, is the perspective of God, and God is absolute.

Every religious culture is to a significant extent a millenarian cargo cult. The magical and religious culture of Upper Paleolithic man had been in response to the crisis of his time: the gradual desiccation of the fertile, game rich plains and the consequent increasing difficulties in making a living by a wholly hunting-predatory lifestyle. As it has been usual in history, magic and religious techniques of adaptation had been man’s first resort in the face of crisis. But when, as it is usual, magic and religion failed, technological innovation came to the rescue. Irrigation technology was developed to boost agricultural productivity. Human population swelled in the banks of the great rivers of the Fertile Crescent. The shaman’s magic claimed the credit, and the shaman, in an upbeat mood, changed his address from the humble cave residence to the Pharaoh’s Palace.

Historians have long acknowledged that the widespread myths of marriage of a male pastoralist deity to the mother-goddess signify the settling of previously nomadic-pastoralist people amongst sedentary-agricultural people. The pattern in which people abandoning the nomadic-pastoralist lifestyle become absorbed into sedentary-agricultural societies continued deep into historic times and have marked points of major shifts in the course of historic civilization as much as it did in the course of human bio-cultural evolution in Paleolithic times.

The Paleolithic Roots of the historic institution of Divine Kingship had been in the institution of the cave dweller’s fertility cult. The constitution of the Paleolithic fertility cult may be determined from a study of the fertility cult and religion in historic times; the so-called Witches’ Coven.

The invigorating transformation of the earth-mother goddess worshiping societies by infusion of cultural elements of the sky god worship ping nomadic society, which led to the blossoming of historic civilization, finds mystical-philosophical equivalence in the notion of the fecundating-virilizing influence of a masculinized spiritual essence on a feminized material principle.

Mircea Eliade would observe, for instance, that in traditional thought, if any aspect of the physical were of an extraordinary proportion or quality, it was thought of as infused with mana, and was as such a hierophany: a manifestation of the sacred in the profane. Traditional thought proceeds to assert that such hierophany was not merely of symbolic significance but that infusion of any aspect of the profane by the sacred lifts such beyond the realm of profane to participate in the Otherworldly realm of the sacred.

Christian theologians may recognize the language of shamanic philosophy in Johannine Christology. The God-man, in this context, enjoys the benefit of an unconventional form of hybrid vigor, being possessed of sacred as well as profane aspects; he is here and there at once, bridging the gap between the heavenly and earthly realms. He is an earthly “selem” infused with heavenly “demowt” essence or mana. The flesh of the God-man being infused with mana, the Apostle John would have Christ say: “Truly, I say unto you; except ye eat the flesh of the Son of Man, and drink his blood, you have no life in you. Whosoever eateth my flesh and drinketh my blood hath eternal life and I will raise him up on the last day.”

Here, John makes Christ echo the mana imbibing theory underlying ritual cannibalism in traditional cultures. The life essence of the God-man is the ontological essence of divinity. To partake of the flesh of the God-man, therefore, is to imbibe the “demowt” essence of divinity conferring immortality on the communicant. “I am the resurrection and life…I am the living bread which came down from heaven, if any man eats of this bread he shall live forever.”

One may express the view that the Apostle John’s theology, influenced by Greek thought, had developed, over his long life, far beyond that of Jesus himself. But the ceremony of the Last Supper, instituted by Jesus contained, at least, a germ of Johannine Platonic metaphysical ontology. Christ, as the pre-existent word, the divine word of life, harps back to the shamanic Master of Animal’s theory of mind generated thought, expressed in symbolic order, as the genetic essence of bio-physical relational order; a theory which took centuries to confirm with discovery of the DNA symbolic code.

One might argue that in his techniques of fertility magic, the shamanic master of animals had overestimated the power of thought, symbolic order, in effecting its prescriptions of physical relational order, but we may forgive his naivete for he had very little cultural experience with which to judge his conclusions on how nature works. Not even the DNA symbolic code has been shown to effect its thought prescriptions of biological relational order magically; a physical bio-molecular assembly line is utilized.

In historic times, however, the solipsistic theory of the God-man creator of the universe found its most extreme expression in the Ancient Egyptian Old Kingdom. The Pharaoh’s colossal pyramids reflected his solipsistic megalomania. The sacrifice of tens of thousands of human lives to the grandiose dreams of a single individual betrays the shamanic solipsistic philosophy underlying the political system of the Egyptian Old Kingdom. The totality of statecraft dovetailed into the personal enterprise of an individual. Egypt was the Pharaoh’s private estate, the people his property as much as his cattle, sheep, and goats. Egypt was the dream; he, the Pharaoh, was the dreamer, and thus, his personality was central to “ma’at:” the order of things on the cosmic scale. The Pharaoh, his thoughts and feelings, generated the reality he experienced even as it did his dreams. Everyone else become cartoon figures playing on the screen of his majesty’s divine consciousness.

A great deal of needless confusion has arisen from the fact of conflict of sex and gender Identity in the traditional spirit possession cult. While some scholars have taken the data as evidence of prevalence of homosexuality in primitive societies, others have preferred to interpret the data as evidence that, at least, some traditional societies are “genderless” societies. A third category of scholars have argued that institutionalized transvestism, that is, cross dressing, in the spirit possession cults is an expression of the hierarchy of sociopolitical power relations rather than an expression of tendencies in sexual or sexist ideological orientation of traditional peoples.

Most of the confusion, I believe, arises from the failure to sustain active distinction between the concepts of sex and gender as conceived of in traditional mystical-philosophical thought. To begin with, traditional societies are generally far from being genderless; gender identity being always an important factor in the social-economic and political status that an individual may aspire to. Gender identity impacts on social-political power relationships, a fact which, as we shall see, may motivate highly driven but sexually disadvantaged individuals to find creative means of transcending the socially imposed role associations of sexual identity. Traditional societies evolving institutions, under the pressure to adapt to unfavorable conditions, can scarcely afford the luxury of pre-occupation with mere sexuality in the public social-political forum as rich and affluent modern societies can afford to.

Sex is a physical attribute. Sexual identity is ascribed to a person wholly by reference to physical anatomical features. Gender, however, is socio-culturally ascribed identity. Ordinarily, in traditional societies, gender embraces the diverse manners in which sexual identity is construed, in the social context of division of labor and roles between the sexes, by reference primarily to the believed qualifying psycho-spiritual virtues of the dominant gender. It would appear that conflict of sex and gender identity in traditional cultures tends to accentuation in strongly militarized cultures in which a marked bipolarity of social roles attends to duality of sedentary agricultural and non-sedentary military adventurism as an alternative lifestyle.

My preferred case study in this context is the imperial military culture of the African Oyo Empire of the Yoruba. As a rule of thumb, institutionalization of transvestism in religious culture points to incidence of psycho-spiritual stress associated with fulfillment of gender roles in a social environment in which the fault-line of gender identity coincides with sexual differentiation of the population. With regards to male sex and masculine gender identities, it happens that in socio-cultural circumstances in which gender roles are not markedly distinguished, sex and gender identities appear to assort in a familiar and predictable pattern which leads to the assumption that masculine gender identity is the logical corollary of male sexual identity. However, in circumstances of marked differentiation of gender roles, nature begins working to reserve significant exceptions to the familiar rules of assortment of sex and gender identity in individuals to the effect that masculine gender identity cannot be assumed to arise automatically from male sexual identity. Public attention begins to be drawn to instances of conflict between sex and gender identity in certain socially deviant individuals. Thus, may be found, individuals identified in physical-sexual terms as male but in gender-spiritual terms as feminine. This curious, eyebrow raising phenomenon becomes more prominent in militarized societies in which the male comes more than ever under intense psycho-spiritual pressure to express his physical-sexual identity in psycho-spiritual terms by living up to socially ascribed gender role expectations.

The institutionalization of transvestism in the possession cult of the Sango war deity of Oyo appears to have been during the years of exile of the Oyo ruling aristocracy at Igboho. The Igboho exile had been the result of the years of bloody struggle with the Tapa. It is noteworthy that the Yoruba are generally not considered a military “race” by their neighbors. The Reverend Samuel Johnson in his History of the Yorubas describes the Oyo as a generally timid people. The militarized of Oyo society was the forced response to the threat of invasion and dispossession by its neighbors. The cult of Sango apparently emerged as an institution to manage the stressful impact of war in the psycho-spiritual realm and to provide asylum for those male individuals permanently psychologically incapacitated by wartime service.

Since spiritual qualities override the physical in the ascription of gender identity, a seeming male who proves his psycho-spiritual essence feminine under war stress will be denied membership in the exclusive fraternity of masculine men. The spirit possession cult of the war deity thus becomes the institution for accommodating the fact that the military ranks of the male members of society will inevitably produce “men” unable to cope with the psychic stress of fulfilling the expected roles of gender identity in the profession of soldiering; soldiering being the masculine gender profession par excellence. Thus, regardless of physical-sexual identity, the Elegun, or medium, in the spirit possession cult of the fiery war god, Sango, is of feminine gender identity; the priests and priestesses of Sango are Iyawo, wives of the masculinized war spirit Sango. Conscious attempts are made to correct perceived conflict of physical-sexual identity with gender identity by cross-dressing the male Iyawo Orisa. The ascription of feminine gender identity to the male priest is completed in the male priest’s feminine hairstyle, the suku and agogo hairstyles which proclaim the man’s hidden spiritual femininity. The state of spirit possession trance in the medium is interpreted in the language of dominance-submission postures in heterosexual relationships. The Elegun is described as “ridden” by the masculine spirit of Sango. The male medium becomes theEsin, Horse or Cavalo of the spirit which bestrides him. Being ridden by the spirit of Sango, the paragon of male militaristic valor, the Esin becomes imbued with power and in her state of possession may inspire the men to combat with acts of valor.

Most sociologists commenting on the phenomenon of transvestism in the Sango spirit possession cult of the Yoruba have failed to appreciate that spirit possession trance embraces the techniques of psychotherapy for accommodating and managing war neurosis in servicemen.

To understand the social status of the Elegun, we need appreciate that in male dominated societies, there always is a thinking, sometimes unconsciously held, which identifies femininity as a pathological condition of some sort, admittedly not an ordinary pathological condition, but a special psycho-spiritual deficiency in which the “patient” falls short of the intended ideal of masculinity. You are of feminine psycho-spiritual disposition because an essential spiritual element symbolized by the physical penis is missing in you. To express the notion crudely, it might be said that women by nature do not have virilizing souls, only men do. The cure of the pathological condition of femininity is by acquisition of the missing, virilizing spiritual member. It is indeed inevitable that in highly militarized societies, the masculine condition will be contrasted with the feminine condition to the advantage of the masculine. In militarized societies every male comes under pressure to prove his masculinity. It is simply not enough to have physical balls to call yourself a man; you need spiritual balls to qualify for the status of masculinity. The spirit possession cult is the psychiatric asylum to which ball-less men are sent to acquire balls by possession trance therapy.

War time crisis may also occasionally bring up the even more curious spectacle of the masculine woman. Every society has its Joanne d’Arc, the woman who in times of crisis proves the masculinity of her psycho-spiritual essence. At the core of the ideology of the spirit possession cult of the male war deity is the sexist assumption the psycho-spiritual essence of masculinity is the essence of divinity. The spiritual essence of masculinity becomes therefore a valuable essence to be possessed of irrespective of physical-sexual identity constituted of deceptive appearances which cannot be relied upon in passing judgment on the matter of true gender identity of the individual.

The dance and drum techniques of inducing spirit possession trance states of altered consciousness merely afford the Elegun the privilege of partaking temporarily in the coveted divine essence of masculinity, for the induced state is liable to wear off. The Elegun in “her” temporary state of psycho-spiritual elevation is akin to the mystics of oriental traditions who experience divine consciousness as a transient state of ananda, a state which lasts only for as long as the Iyawo is being ridden by her spirit-husband god.

In both the Oriental and African systems, however, are a select few who claim divine consciousness as a permanent state of mind: In the Yoruba mystical-philosophical system, the Iya l’Orisa is female in her physical aspects but permanently masculine in the spiritual aspects of her person and being. However, a sex-gender identity riddle presents to the casual observer with regard to the Iya l’Orisa; a sex-gender identity riddle which appears to justify the postulation of a “third term” sex-gender categorization of her person, a third term not female/feminine, not male/masculine, nor androgynous; a curious Otherworldly condition of masculine woman-ness as opposed to the obviously pathological condition of the feminine man.

The Witches’ Coven is the league of masculine women, the women’s political party in the struggle for power in male dominated societies. The Witches’ Coven has been much feared and respected in all history. In the Yoruba mystical-religious system, the masculine women are second only to the gods in the hierarchy of being. No medicine man dares confront the witches in a contest of magical powers. He propitiates them on behalf of his client even as he propitiates the gods.

When the sexist ideology of the spirit possession cult is viewed from the perspective of the politically ambitious female, society may become plunged into a political war of the sexes. In the fields of power struggle, the female is obliged to concede to the male chauvinist doctrine that the masculine psycho-spiritual principle is a must-have essence for any pretender to power and influence in the polity.

The political party of the Witches’ Coven is the form that the spirit possession cult of the masculinized warrior deity may assume when women members of the cult gain ascendancy. The ideal from the perspective of the female aspiring to power and influence in a polity is the possession of the divine spirit of masculinity on a permanent basis. The theology of the possession cult may therefore be revised or reoriented to the female perspective in the Witches’ Coven. The essence of masculinity ceases to exercise dominance in a rider-ridden relationship demeaning of womanhood; rather the male spirit becomes the possession of the woman, as any other member of her organic whole; a special member, admittedly, but she is the conqueror, the owner of her essential male member, the domesticator of God in her feminine frame. Gone, forever, is the crude form of master-slave relationship in which the male essence mounts and dismounts, uses and discards her body like a sex slave. She cages the flighty bird in her person.

The ideology of the Witches’ Coven preserves the core sexist doctrine of the male dominated spirit possession cult but revises the sexist language and metaphor in a manner more palatable to the masculine woman. In the revision of language and metaphor lies the distinction between the condition of the female spirit medium and the masculine woman or witch. The Elegun or medium is dominated by the wild spirit of her husband-god; the witch domesticates the essence of divinity in her material being.

Now, what becomes of the feminine man in the possession cult of the Witches’ Coven? We may find evidence of his predicament in the pan-Mediterranean traditions of the male dying and resurrecting fertility deity. The prominence of cannibalistic rites in the magical culture of the Witches’ Coven is universally attested to. Practically every culture has traditions communicated in hushed tones of nocturnal rites in which witches indulge in ritual feasting on the flesh, often, of “infant” males. Such flesh is not served as gourmet meal. It is eaten raw, still fresh and warm, much for the same reason as the nutrition faddist eats his vegetables raw.

The Christian ceremony of the Last Supper had very ancient antecedents The magical theory of ritual cannibalism assures the masculine woman that she could enhance her reserves of the essence of masculinity by feeding on the flesh of the male in appropriately designed magic ritual ceremonies. Yet, it is the rule in the world of predators and their prey that you may aspire to satisfy your lust for flesh only by preying on those weaker than you are. It is, in the given context, therefore, predictable that the magic superstition steeped masculine woman will cast predatory eyes on the helpless feminine man of her spirit possession cult. He may have been defined “not-male” by his fellow men, yet the fact of his physical sexual identity could not have failed to make an impression on the masculine woman. The masculine woman also finds that she may reassure herself of her spiritual masculinity and potency by finding a man to dominate. The warrior god Sango is praised as one who turns a man into a woman. The masculine woman seeks to be likewise praised. So, in the history of the Mediterranean fertility cult, we find the masculine woman attended to by a youthful male consort, inferior to her in status: for when the masculine woman looks around for a man to dominate she finds not the assertive male warrior but only the feminine man presenting as vulnerable subject.

The Witches’ Coven’s theological position in which the masculine woman is seen as possessing rather than possessed of the essence of masculinity finds expression in social and magic ritual customs in which the masculine woman expresses dominance of the feminine man. But unfortunately, physical sexual domination of the feminine man by the masculine woman finds, as already noted, a sinister dimension in magical ritual cannibalistic rites.

Might the masculine woman not enhance her coveted stores of the essence of masculinity by feeding on male flesh? Now, if the flesh of the masculine man, the macho warrior, would be difficult to procure for dinner, why not the flesh of the feminine man? Granted, that the stores of male essence in the feminine man’s flesh are rather depleted, yet the masculine woman could horde up a significant store of male essence by gorging herself on large quantities of the feminine man’s flesh? Every drunkard knows that diluted wine is intoxicating when taken in adequate quantities.

Every society, at some time or the other in its cultural evolution, attains that level of understanding and insight into the workings of nature and of the human mind potential in which it begins to transfer its notion of power from its expression as physical coercive force to innovative-creative mental process. Darwin had conceived of the success of novel biological forms and functions in wholly utilitarian terms. In the context of the militarized hunting-predatory culture in which the immediately pressing issue in the struggle for survival is the next kill, the feminine man finds himself in a precarious survival situation.

The scenario in which the masculine woman gains ascendancy in the spirit possession fertility cult appears to have been the rule in the early sedentary agricultural societies of the Neolithic. Historians have noted the evidence that women played a prominent role in Paleolithic societies. Given the subordination of the feminine man in the Upper Paleolithic- Neolithic fertility cult, the original spark of genius which transformed society’s notion of God from a fiery warrior into a somewhat neurotic artificer could only have been the masculine woman’s. Such inspiration had been in the interest of her socio-political aspirations in conflict with those of the male warrior. In the new theology of the Priestesses of God, the feminine man becomes a handy tool in the feminist’s machinations for political power. The evidence is that circumstances often favored her new theology. In the late Paleolithic period, for instance, gradual desiccation of the Sahara leading to increased scarcity of game must have undermined the warrior god’s confidence in the power of brawn. In times of extreme scarcity of game, the warrior could easily have been convinced that his brawn was in need of magical assistance. Glabrous Jacob in league with the political party of the masculine women would begin gaining ascendancy over his brawny brother Esau.

Animal fertility magic became the preoccupation of the spirit possession cult in the Upper Paleolithic era of prolonged drought and gradual extinction of the Saharan hunting grounds in North Africa. Evidence from murals of Upper Paleolithic cave sites shows that the animal fertility cult of the pre-historic hunter was predominantly female. A single male might occasionally be shown with an erect penis, dancing the magical dance of fertility in a ring of women with heavy pendulous breasts. He was, no doubt, the personification of the masculinized spirit essence of life, the fecundating spirit of nature, the master of animal life.

The shaman was Master of Animals because he had acquired creative mastery of the genetic stuff of life. In spirit possession trance states, he could journey into subjective realm, the spirit realm, in which the genetic-pattern essences of living things could be creatively manipulated to ensure the preservation of those species which the early hunting societies required for survival.

The shaman Master of Animals had been little more than a pawn in the political power rivalry of the female dominated Witches’ Coven and the male hunter-warrior class of pre-historic society. The Master of Animals was used, successfully, by the Witches’ Coven to legitimize its pretensions to power. The final triumph of the agricultural-sedentary lifestyle over the hunting-nomadic, at the end of the Neolithic, witnessed the transformation of the shaman Master of Animals into an agricultural shaman. The power struggle between the Witches’ Coven and male warrior class merely went through a gear shift. In the largely matriarchal sedentary agricultural societies of the Mediterranean world, at the dawn of historic civilization, the Witches’ Coven contrived to restrain the power of the divine king by imposing severe restrictions on his person. The king, like the Alaafin of Oyo, was held practically incommunicado, in legal custody by The Coven: He was a god, and as such, mortal eyes could not be allowed to behold his form. The king was displayed by The Coven in public only once in his reign, at the coronation. He ruled by deputation of a cabinet of ministers constituted by The Coven. A limited term was imposed on his kingship at the end of which he was made into a sacrificial victim in the earth-fecundating fertility rites of The Coven. The appointment of a new king to replace the old was celebrated as the magical renewal of the life and reign of the previous king. Thus the sequestration of the king was exploited in support of the myth of the king’s immortal divinity.

The spread of urbanization in the Fertile Crescent, however, provided circumstances which favored the rise of the king to a new height of power and influence. The circumstances allowed the king to shake free of The Coven’s strangle-hold. The king was forced to save his life and secure the independence of his throne by aligning himself with the male military class. With the support of the military class, The Coven’s imposed death sentence on the king could be abrogated. A substitute, the Lamb of God that taketh away the sins of the world, was provided to die in place of the king and appease the blood-thirstiness of the earth-spirits.

After Eve (Part Four: Chapter 4 and 5: The Great Tragedy)

Part Four
4

Little-eyes and the Garden Dominion
The Great Tragedy

[The Dreamer] This was supposed to be the: the garden that is, ‘The Garden Splendor of Heaven,’ -if anything, a paradise on earth itself–a restful place, with the ‘Tree of Life,’ which was someplace around its center, tempting as it was; I wonder if I would have ate that apple–which has of course occurred to me a few times during typing this story out; like Eve did, oh well, this was not part of my dream–just a floating notion–just an observation, we all know the overdelicate climate in the Garden by now, or if not, let me assure you, it was to that extreme: sensitive, by the both Short-legs and Little-eyes observations of the couple of the garden, it was not a ‘chum, chum,’ situation they saw. If ever, one was supposed to avoid this tree, and in consequence, did the opposite and created an ongoing tragedy, or possibly, maybe not so, but a new mission was constructed by their God because of their disconnecting with their God’s will, for a will all of their own; as in the days when God gave the commandments to mankind; of which, God I do believe, gave them commandments simply to show–men and women, they could not keep them. Likewise, maybe He put the tree in the Garden for a similar reason; for example, to show the same cause and effect, that is, to teach the same lesson that with free will comes temptation, and one without the other will never work, that is, God and man must act together, in unison. “The Great Tragedy,” I call this garden mishap, which took place that day, in any case, the day Little-eyes and Short-legs knelt hiding behind some shrubbery in the thick of the forest outside the Garden, –at which time inky-black clouds dominated the sky overhead, when the two–Eve and her husband, Adam–walked out of the Garden.

Yes, it was quite noticeable by Little-eyes, that cold and dark was now felt by these two new folks entering a new world, or time zone–if you will; whatever it was for them. And yes, oh yes, a cold and dark future was the sum of it all one could point to, yet a mystery to the onlookers. However, this the Horde would not understand for a long time; even if one tried to explain it to them, and Short-legs, tried. Getting back to the odd-couple walking out of the Garden, this time he [Short-legs] never took his eyes off the couple for a second.

What was taking place in the eyes of Little-eyes, while observing with Short-legs this happening, was against the law of nature, yet it was dominated by the law of something else; Little-eyes and Short-legs heard the name of God pronounced, [Jehovah]; –was this the being’s name that put these creatures into the Garden [which came to their minds]? A good question they both contemplated. ‘Oh:’ he mumbled, indicating he could not name, or repeat that name, not for the life of him, but it was as it was, tumultuously for the most part: yet he observed with what wits he could, the sanctification of it:

“Yes:” said the angel that lead, and followed Eve and her mate out of the Garden, Little-eyes heard it said, and seeing and hearing was supposed to be part of believing in any kind of language, of which his mind did the quick translation to mean: “Here is the new miracle–” and “the Greatest of all.”

Thought I,

of which I did do, that is to say, I brought this happening to the attention of Owl-ears, or tried to, although she’d only draw circles in the sand, figurines within them, and try to relate all of the earth’s happening, as one circle together; somehow, someday in the near future, I might fully understand what it all meant, I told myself: although Little-eyes seemed to be more the observer, yet within the Horde, he was considered as a sort of tag along for me. Yet, he was by far, much more, in all respects I must say. They thought [the Horde] this simply because he was silent most of the time when they saw us both together, but silence did not mean he wasn’t thinking, matter of fact, to the contrary–this I, Short-legs, knew from the start of our friendship: a virtue I’ve never had; it was just his way of learning, he was not as quick or sharp as I was, but a thinker he was, and a learner also. And we made quite the team, and did not allow speculation or even crude gestures by the Horde to break our bondage.

Now that Eve was out of the Garden, Little-eyes had more time to put two and two together, mainly by closer observation; thereupon, he stretched his imagination, looking for some kind of clarification; and made them confidentially to himself.

By and by he thought [very privately]:

‘There was order to things, but there is not anymore order to anything, not as it seemed prior to the appearance of Eve. Reality was now, but where did the now belong, or go, or for that matter, come from? Before life was simple, it was the ‘Horde’. That is what it was. As for danger, it used to be that it will surely come or may come when we least expect it, but now, it was something new. It was not, as it used to be. At length there came a flash, a brightening to his examination, his theory, the appearance of the Eve-People. He questioned himself, was this the eve of reasoning for the Horde, and was it now their time to advance on the horizon of mankind? Where at one time: time stood still, and now it was counted; he would not explain this to Owl-ears, she was passing on new ideas to the others in hopes of building this new crude but seemingly trait called ‘hope’ into the inhabitants of the Horde, surely, this would confuse her, he told himself, if I can figure this out for myself it will be a miracle; but he’d have to tell her something, as now he kind of understood why she was more intelligent than he, maybe it was seeping out of the Garden long ago, and she breathed wisdom into her head, not the wisdom of the snake, but pure wisdom, because she was smarter than most in the Horde. If not, it will be figured out none the less in time, and kept silent, and one day for the Horde it will just be natural, natural to be smarter; they will think it was always there.’

5

Erudition/Intelligence
And Village Society

[Short-legs brings to mind] A lot of our learning dealt with experimentation, trial and error; nobody in our Horde was born into a musical family, there were no such things as musical instruments, other than a horn type looking thing, and drums. Our interrelations and activities were to laugh, socialize, to climb trees, to live in caves, and fish along the river-way; along with mating, and hunting for food–what more could one ask for, a nice sunny day, a fish on the lap, a drink of cool water, it was by far, all one could expect. Few devices were ever made to create any kind of moderation, it was as it was. And when something was done, it was done; we went on to other things, at least this is how it was up until the time of Eve. In a like manner, sleep was often a stranger to us; in that, our nerves were more inured to danger: danger being unseen, seemed afar off to some, yet it was often just around the corner for us. On one hand we had to be guarded, instantly ready to counter whatever the environment demanded of us; on the other hand, we were as free as the birds, as sparrows. Some might think touch plainness, but it was our world, no more, no less.

We intermingled with one another quite unconsciously, and instinctively; — we were never surprised at how one might ignore their own selfish and hurtful acts on another, and we took it for granted that others had overlooked them also–in all, we never hurt one hurt one another knowingly: but if a quiet life is a kind life, then we lead such a life. However, Big-chest proved this wrong I suppose, or so I, Short-legs took note of this; save for the fact, Big-chest was of the Branch-Sect for the most part, and never forgot anything. And the rest of us, oh well, needless to say, needed one another I guess and now that I think of it, we were a decaying race– promising even before the advent of Eve, but surely we would not have dissolved so quickly had she not appeared on the scene: in any case, we were a dying out one; I assured myself it would be an intermingling one with this New World Order.

As I have tried to imply–and with respect I must admit: no one in our Horde pressed their views upon others, unduly that is, –except Big-chest of course, especially when he wanted whatever he wanted, at whatever peculiar time he wanted it–but again, he was not really part of our Horde, yet he pretended to be in some kind of way and manner; even though his approach was reckless, and careless; –I think he liked knowing he was of a higher race, higher order if you will in the evolutionary line of humanity, even though he did not know these terms called: humanity, evolution: a higher array that is than the Branch-People–which he thought we were. As I was about to say, before I mentioned Big-chest, we had good hearing and could tune into our environment.

[Dreamer] Sort-legs and Little-eyes were quite taken by what they had seen while hiding in the underbrush as these two modern [one might say modern in a conventional sense], creatures appeared–. And here, as time went on, Short-legs got to thinking of them as: humanoids that came out of an invisible garden, possibly even create the term ‘humanoid…’ Short-legs, having brought this to mind, said in essence: that, what was astounding was the way they were explaining: defining, an enculturation none of them had. This he told several times to Little-eyes and that possibly their time was over: and he mean really over. This was a new creature he’d explain, far more advanced than they were.

He would even find out later in life (in my dream), –they had such things as occupations: as such was proven by the Stone-Builders several years down the road; which of course were the offspring of the couple from the Garden. In a short, time would produce this New World Order, as it demanded, and it would demand to have: towers and gates of stone and iron; wood and fixtures not heard of yet, all dominating the world to be.

Village Society
[The Horde]

It was a time of transition for the world at large. When the consciousness, and emotions were on the edge of its next evolutionary step; where thoughts and tools and God, societal-security became issues, a community of wondrous natural reactions were taking place in the souls of the living. This stage of evolution was simply motivated, given a kick start one might say, because of extenuating circumstances.

According to Short-legs [as he wrote on the walls of the caves, and stones on the cliff prior to his death]:

Food: A lot of our protean came from the nuts of the Mongongo Trees. They grew wild in our habitat. Each year I and Little-eyes would collect the nuts off the ground and some time climb the trees to get them, if no insect invasions were prominent. Sometimes there were plant disease, weather issues, we’d get a short supply of the nuts then, –and for the winter we’d remain unnourished; thus, some of the older and younger folk would die. And so like most any society, we had our issues to bear. When I got bigger I was allowed to go with my bigger brother, uncle, and father and seek small animals for protein; –nothing bigger than warthogs, kudu, creatures of that stature. And again I must add, if there were a short supply, and we could not club them to death with rocks, or make use our tools as weapons, it was simply a matter of less to eat, for there were seasons when the natural world seemed to be plentiful, and then disappear for a spell.

[The Garden] On another note: as far as the Garden of Eve, went, it seemed to be in our backyard, but of course it wasn’t, yet, most of the world either didn’t recognize it as such, as mysterious as it was, or did and didn’t want to announce it–meaning for the most part, our neighbors. For in time, bits and pieces of the knowledge of the garden did seep out and circulate into the Horde.

Money: Our ancestors were compelled to do the ‘Act far’. There was a limited availability of numbers in our Horde, numbers: meaning, in members. So the commodity was the citizen as a whole [the most valuable of assets we had was children]. The son of a family, was used for work when he was old enough, that is, if you could catch him to do it. And the female was used for reproduction, for the most part; in a like manner, the father often times would not let their daughters out into the mainstream of society, in fear someone would steal them, or try to mate them, and run off with them. Thus the father would loose not only his pleasure, should he want her for reproduction within his family, or even for the son to mate with her to keep the family numbers up, but he would loose a commodity, one he might have used to feed the family through winter, should the winter be a bad one, and no food around, hence, he would give her to a neighbor who had no course of reproduction, and we’d get a warthog, or two for the eating; one person even got a Giant Bat-beast once in exchange, which lasted a long while in the eating.

Incest: It was not uncommon for the brother or sister to sleep together; it was more a cultural thing than a genetic element I believe. If things were natural, the Horde would have been making fires by this time, or long ago, we were actually pondering on the thoughts during my formative years. It was neither a custom for us to do this incest thing, not yet anyway, but I did understand the need for procreation; –as I was saying, a cultural trait for some other groups, a few in the Horde, but not for us per se; our family. Although this was considered normal, we still saw it as somewhat a scanty thing at best.

Skin Color: I was not white nor was I black, rather universal brown. Our whole Horde was so. Human skin–condensed with melanin lick protected us from the sun. As far as we knew, these other two races did not exist yet. In a like manner, Eve was not white or black, oh no, she was brown, brown and brown, from forehead to heal–bronze-brown, with a glowing beauty–almost a tint of red in the skin. Unlike the Branch-People, or in particular, Big-chest, they did not have to worry, they were more hairy than we were, a natural sunscreen. Hairlessness was really the signature of the New Breed for the most part. And as I noticed, they always had blisters and rashes, infected skin during the hot seasons [skin cancers]. As it would seem, we in the Horde, had more melanin particles per body than they did, the Stone-Builders that is, and even the People of the Fire, only the Branch-People were darker than us. There were not extremes in our world; cultural selection was yet around the corner, yet the darker the children, the better they were in fighting skin disease-or so it seemed.

Art: Many may think we had no art in those far off days, but we did, we really did. In our caves we had beautiful paintings on the walls from our father’s father, and even beyond their time. I, Short-legs even painted many pictures on the cave walls [and in time petrography], we were only allowed one during our very young years of life [although I did draw much more later on in life] because we were young a foolish I suppose and drew stupid things, and so our elders felt the sand was good enough until we showed some refinery in the art area; but then we ran out of inhabitants, and so I drew even much more than I even wanted to for the sake of posterity, and thus, this is where the ornaments came into being also; or as now I hear those images being called: jewelry making. Yes they came into being, into our creative minds; it was so creative it became an obsession in my older years among many of the tribe’s females–as it did much more so in the other groups of the surrounding world of ours. We had pictures of horses, bison, reindeer, and boars, and some carved with the ivory or teeth of animals that we wore around our necks attached to strings of hairs taken from reindeer.

Bisexual: Younger boys were used to go gather leaves for the Horde, so they could use them for cleaning themselves after they had a [bowel] intestine movement, and for the bedding. These young lads, small boys slept apart from the main Horde in a special cave. I and Little-eyes were never selected for this task, which I was grateful for; our mother, Strong-lungs, would not allow it, we were needed at home as was my brother. In any case, we had found out that the Stone-People used them for the same reasons we had, plus, in addition, some times they were used as sexual objects by the men, until they were old enough to find a wife; in particular, they were fun for the older men, thus the People of the Fire were catching on to this new habit, if not sport. The Eve-People and we, the Horde, remained as we did, with the same sex–as far as I know.

Future Generations: It seemed to me, that if the Stone-People and the People of the Fire became one united group, integrated, they’d be quite aggressive; and if we ever molded in with the Eve-People, we would be more passive. What would become of the world then [?] But these were just fleeting thoughts, thoughts that shifted in my head as fast as the wind shifted on top of the cliffs. Dragging-thoughts every which way: for this was a time of much thinking, and deliberation.

Men vs. Women: Most of us men in the Horde were about 5-inches taller than the women, with heavier bones, and less fat. The women were about 65% less strong than us men; mostly in the arms chest and shoulders. It is not to say women were less needed, it is just stating a fact. To be quite fair, they were considered, or carried in a much more esteemed class than the other groups: The Stone-Builders and the People of the Fire, to include the Branch-People.

War: War was based on competition for resources, such as: food, soil or land, supplies, or other such needs to include wants–even slaves for labor, normally not for simple wants as much though. But we never had wars per se–not the Horde, yet, we did get a little pushed around by the People of the Fire now and then, off and on, intermittently, for centuries, but now the new breed, the Stone-Builders, were at war with the whole world, all the time it seemed, wherever they went–they dragged war with them: so war was a new word–alas, or at least it had new connotations for us; ’twas a new invention for the most part. Killing, for killing’s sake,–the New World Order’s mind-set that is, or better put, no reasons for killing were the new and fresh or innovative concept for us, other than the customary cannibalism that was alive and well in stock, in a few locations, frankly, with the People of the Fire, when they got in the starvation mode; that is, a cold winter might trigger such undertakings. And the word ‘compromise’ was not yet invented.