johnthebaptist7

Goya�s �All Will Fall� shows the angels --masculine spirit in the Gnostic sense -- descending from heaven, decoyed by a forked branch, with a puppet of the Nymph stuck on it. The stick � may we hazard hawthorn? � is wielded by the Crone, whose face reflects utter satisfaction. Her gown and shawl suggest a nun�s habit.

Beside her, the other two aspects of the feminine trinity, the Matron and Nymph, sodomize one of the victims. Gaily, they stuff him for their Feast, where the tears of the angels turn the wheel of time.

In a single image, Goya describes the betrayal of masculinity that is fundamental to both civilization and the created world, the realms of matter. The sons of heaven are first lured in, then drained and utilized, and finally scapegoated as villains and cast out, all under highest "moral" standards, of course. The image stands in stark refutation of modern propaganda extolling the innocence of the feminine and the malevolence of the masculine.

The cunning and persistence of the scheme lies in its impunity. In the Western religious tradition, these tiny victims are scapegoated as the �Fallen Host,� the plague of humanity, whose chief is Satan in Christianity, Azazel in Judaism. The �crime� for which they are bound unto eternity in hell is sexual relations with �the daughters of men.� (See, for example, Genesis in the Old Testament, or any of a number of apocrypha, especially the Book of Enoch.) The �innocent girl� certainly cannot be party to the betrayal � that would be blaming the victim, and the victim is always the feminine. Thus the labyrinth is complete, every exit damned.

The most despicable offense in the West is sexual contact between the male and the Nymph. Those who commit it are placed on the lowest rung of the jungle heirarchy of the prison, and their punishment is not only incarceration, but torture by sodomy -- a practice which America not only supports, but cheers with deepest moral satisfaction. First it�s a stake up the ass, and then, for variety � it�s another stake up the ass. Goya had 20/20 foresight and ... well, hindsight. Sorry.

Evil persists, indeed, because occulted so cleverly. Power persists under the gown of innocence, beneath the habit of respectability, appropriateness, and "protection," where it cannot be rooted out. Crone beneath nymph beneath crone, cherub within beast within cherub. Oppressors are named victims, and guarded with all the brutal machinery of State. The real victims, meanwhile, are identified as evil, and sent into desert exile as Azazel, to be bound in chains until the end of time. All options come with a full deniability package. Very tidy. Very tidy indeed.

John the Baptist, Christ, Satan, St. Michael, Azazel, Odysseus, Heracles, Perseus, Merlin � these are all in essence one entity, representatives of superior masculinity. This is the hero, sent by the Father to free the scintillae, the sparks of light trapped in material prison, to release humanity from the darkness of ignorance, and to join the opposites � through the agency of human female and male � in the sacred marriage of the coniunctio. The hero is reeled in with the hook of �love,� then scapegoated, imprisoned, and tortured in an eons-long horror show. Ever is his mission frustrated by the Powers, who feed off the blood of heroes under pretext of �protecting the innocent.� Meanwhile all Creation suffers horribly, crying out in ceaseless anguish, and the true innocents are slaughtered with righteous glee. And the nightmare of history -- scapegoat firmly in truss -- reels through another bloody day.

The way to perpetuate evil is to �cut the head off John the Baptist,� so that the alliance between the Empowered Witch and Toxic King is never exposed by the Logos, the Word. Thus the Powers may rule in false line unbroken, from Rome to Washington, D.C. It is difficult for the flaming sword to burst from the mouth of the servant whose head has been severed. Difficult, but not impossible.

Denial and cunning brutality win every round; every day is Friday the Thirteenth, every hour midnight, and the sons of heaven are kept on the lam. The foxes rule, the lions hide underground. The scapegoat is trapped in a Groundhog Day of detestable hypocrisy and horror, as yet another little man in the making is spitted up the butt, and roasted slow over the cook-fire of mother Earth.

This is what it means for spirit to incarnate in the sub-lunary realm. This is the primal wound of the masculine, a black and necessary betrayal.

As in the day of Jesus and John the Baptist, this world is held in chains, ruled by Powers invisible and untouchable. But the hour of the fox is about up.

And that's what I would tell the kids in my class tomorrow. I guess I won't be teaching in American schools any time soon, huh?

Now the candle flickers, now the candle gutters out.

O.K. John my lad, back into the wicker basket you go. Like old Humpty, one far, far away day we�ll put you back together again. I promise. May this midnight hour pass quickly. Until then, sleep and dream of Eden, of swords into plowshares, of love released from betrayal.