Sweet Poison 26 the morass — erase, negate, un-create

When I think ‘Devouring/Death Mother’ I see a shapeless blob. The term ‘primordial ooze’ comes to me and the sense of regression back to or re-absorption back into this primordial soup of mushy, non-differentiated amorphousness. This being its nature it exerts this direction on things. The differentiation into particular, structured form would be the opposite quality of what Death Mother is.

The outline, the edges of a thing make it recognizable as a particular thing, ‘this’ rather than ‘that’. Erasing edges and outlines, blurring the boundaries around a thing is one of the ways Death Mother unmakes, un-forms, un-creates. It’s like a reversal of the process that occurred for the creation of a ‘thing’ from nothingness. It is killing but a quiet killing, a killing by negating, dissolving, nullifying. You won’t hear it like the crack of a bullet or the whack of a sharp axe hitting a neck. Maybe more like that unidentifiable substance after a corpse has been left in a vat of acid by a criminal wanting to leave no trace.

The defined, structured, formed, particular seem to be the enemy then of Devouring Mother. Maybe She resents this as She is amorphousness, lacks that quality of fully created, formed being. A human being then, must seem like an affront to Her, this separate entity walking freely over the surface of the earth. “You’ll see” I hear Her say as she lays traps for him, lays bait with hidden hooks, tries to draw him down from his separateness, an insult to Her. It feels like She’d resent males more than females, as if the male is farther from Her nature than the female, as if by his existence he denies Her power or challenges it.

As I see the toppling of statues of males, the erasure of male names from institutions, from street names, the cursing of ‘dead white men’, the denigration of the word ‘great’ when used in the phrase ‘Great men’ I see Her smile; smug and gloating. The gloating is immense, spreads in tremors of joy across the Universe, spreads out and through the bodies of women coming out in screeds against ‘The Patriarchy’. “My acolytes” she murmurs with the closest thing she has to affection, “my acolytes, they do my work for me” as she lays in Her Swamp-ooze swallowing, engulfing, subsuming into Her Oneness all those centuries of movement from Her. Suck suck suck, bubbling away as particularity and created form dissolve back into Her morass.

Her smile is stretched across her face and stretches across the faces of her acolyte females in a smirk people find hard to name or identify, a smirk that combines condescension and victory and smugness. Not knowing the archetype channelled through, observers are put out but don’t know why. And the females themselves feel the power but are mostly unaware Whose power they feel move through them. They think they choose. They think they act. They don’t know what god they’ve chosen to serve. But She has no respect for them, “pathetic idiots, useful fools, you destroy the world for me and don’t even know”.

For a particular, individual, separate formed person to be nullified they don’t have to disappear, they can be dissolved by merging into the collective, The Group. Absorbed, subsumed, swallowed into It they take on The Group identity and in doing so give up their own. Like a contract signed, a soul sold, without knowing the price. There’s a release in letting go and sinking into The Group, moving as one, with mantras and drums, repeating hums in hypnotic runs of Oneness. Melded into the mass, thinking Group thought, supporting Group causes. No thinking necessary. “Hmm” you might think “that was effortful, being an intelligent thinking human using all the faculties that had been intricately and elaborately created in me”.

Death Mother is happy. See her smile, lick her lips, “yummm” as they meld back, regress back, re-merge into Her. She doesn’t care the cause. She thinks “arms, legs and head and stuff really confuse people, they look and their brain thinks ‘a person’ but that human submerged in Me, appearance just an illusion, really just a blurred enmeshed blob, a hollow empty channel for Me”.

Mass formation psychosis, is She behind that hypnosis? She wants to take credit for it, loves the pervasive, totalitarian reach of it, tentacles into every facet of life, like a boundless empire of submission and subservience. It appeals to Her imperial ambition. She always wanted to be God.

She has persuaded them, her acolytes, that She is the real God. That She was always The Real God but was usurped by some upstart male god. She has convinced them, entered their minds and hearts and souls as they re-write history, re-write myths, re-write fairy-tales erasing the horrors of Devouring/Death Mother and even Her name as She now infiltrates and pervades, like tinier and tinier roots getting into every crevice of culture and society. She smiles. She gloats. Smug. She licks her lips.

She sees they’re incinerating babies again, even nine-month olds, chubby fleshed babies, the smell of their burning flesh intoxicating to Her. Life created to be destroyed- her joy- vats of eggs and sperm, embryos and fetuses, unformed things that could have become…….Her face changes. She’s thinking of a statue by Michael Angelo, David. She’s not sure why this particular statue enrages her so much, something about the perfection…that the sculptor saw and recognized the exquisiteness of what had been created and took such time, such care to render it. She wanted someone to damage it, like how protestors destroy old paintings. She felt rage as if She couldn’t work fast enough, as if someone else would create something else and keep creating and coming into that fullness…..It was that, the realization of the fullness, the possibility, the stunningness of the human. She had to stop them seeing that.

Focussing on the animal- that they are just evolved animals or even less than animals as they do more harm than animals- is simple but effective. Most were actually convinced, had started loathing themselves and actually seeing the human as evil — “Victory for Me”. They go out saving animals and forgetting about humans. She’s getting them to see gardens as Bad, anything that has shape or design, form or structure as Bad. She enters the women’s minds easily as if there’s something open and sinuous in them and so are easier to hypnotize, to seduce with a certain tone. She knows the exact tone, the lilt. She knows the song to sing to them of curves and harmony and sinuous flow. It entrances them and they align to it and, in a daze, take apart structure, form and line and speak of Nature with a capital N. Undoing, un-making, un-forming, un-creating….my little minions.

She yawns, She’s becoming bored. It’s like it’s too easy as even the men now show little resistance. As ridiculous as the females they pull down structure and form and content and erase their ancestors’ names, undo, unmake history. She stops. It’s like a game is no longer fun when you don’t respect your opponent. To see them all now, eyes glazed over, comatose in front of black screens, sucked down. She barely has to do anything. She sits back, bored. It was partly the game or the challenge she enjoyed, no fun if there’s no resistance, if they just give up and sink down.

“They should be thanking Me” she complained to Herself, “it was against me they strove, my yawning great mouth of emptiness, portal to black hole of nothingness. Sucking, insatiable, swallowing, subsuming. Non-being, the true hell is negation. Fires of hell? people being burned? what’s that! the person exists and is being burned. Where’s the horror? True horror, true hell is non-being, is that suspended nothingness, that vacuum, that gaping chasm, that black hole negation I am. That’s hell. No ‘self’ to be ‘feeling’ the fires. They never appreciated me”. She slunks down in a glum slump glowering and bored……“Who next?” her eyes flicker over the myriad masses, “who to catch and bait and hook. Hmmm……let me see now….”