The Scarlet Letter
When the medieval Cult of Mary merged into the lane of Courtly Love, the enclosed garden motif came to signify both the ladder to salvation and the door to sexuality. Entry into this sought-after garden was not only an allusion to phallic penetration, the snake-phallus knocking at the garden gate, "Ssssss, let me in, madam," but also a metaphor for heavenly salvation via Mars; the Christian version of the divine feminine. Is this link between sex and salvation via the polysemous enclosed garden merely casual? Nay, there is some invisible force at work, hinting at something more significant, if only I could put my finger on it. But to put my finger on it is to define it, to lose it, and hence the Fail. So I will try to un-define my version of it all, i.e., to communicate? This is getting weird, but so is this world, so why be different?
A virgin mother? Hmm. Sounds like a wise fool. Auto-redemption, pass go, collect $200. Mary is a Christianized and hence eviscerated version of Venus, Aphrodite, Isis, and all goddesses of love or reproduction. Yet also is she Binah, virginally above the Abyss. She is the vessel of the Light and the Word, the Logos, and the Sun. Mary, the matrix through which piercing arrows of divine light inseminate and illuminate the lower worlds, and in which these LVX Eros in extension are clothed with some form. Or one might say that the subconscious is made fecund by the imagination. The boy gets the gal. Or is that upside down?
Marah, the Star of the Sea, water breaking, Earth Mother, Birth Mother, Ceres and Persephone, changeless change, matrix of manifestation, the active-passive, feminine fire. Warm and moist, within the shell of incredible magnetism, hers is the pearl of great price. She arches her back, writhing through a thousand undulations and lets go an embrace of O love O love X love! Dove stay armore, here lies love. "Hriliu, hriliu," coos at the rim of the well.
Ah, yes. Mystery of mysteries. Mary is Venus is. Yes. Eve is Isis is. Yes. She is I am anima, but to name it is to lose it. Don't fall. There is order in chaos as there is chaos in order. It's dynamic, the garden. It's the moon added to the sun, the earth embracing a seed, a sweet teat to hungry lips. The mother is the daughter and the father is the sun and they are lovers all. Make no difference between one thing and any other thing...Mars and Venus. Dante and Beatrice. Dante trying to climb the mountain without the aid of Beatrice? It can't be done. She is his bootstrap, his Babalon. She is the feminine fire and the elixir of life issues from her fount. To deny her is to be devoured by beasts and she-wolves. She is the dark, the deep, the hidden, the underground in the earth, the body; your bodhi...there ye shall find the secret stone. To deny the dark is to invoke its worst aspects. Embrace her coffee-dark skin, the shiny blackness of her eyes, the warmth and depth of fat, rounded thighs, sink into her milks' bosom and feast hungry lips upon rosy teats. O sweet O!
With the help of Her, the mountain can be overcome. But first one must descend into the darkness, accept it, feel the subconscious surging below the surface. There is power in her surging. The unknown, the infinitely varied, the source du monda. You must dive deep before you can soar to those heights. Befriend Her and She will he your springboard. Know thee thyself.
Sin and Death and Sex and Daath. ls Jesus coming a second time or has he been coming all along? You know Mary gets his cock hard up on that cross O he is risen. Rise on, rise on, mojo rise on...Solve et coagula. Union and dissolution. Got to get back to the garden. For the hour of our birth is the hour of our death is the hour of our birth. That they might be gods two. For I am divided for love's sake, for the chance of union, communion, cum, Mary me with myself that I might marry you too deeper each day as we die daily in each other's arms. A coo becomes a sigh at the rim of the well. And so the world ends as it began with a bang (not a whimper).