Hymeneutic mutterings en gut mineure
Murmurations of a Stellar Monomyth – Prefigurations of a Grantian Gematria – Discownting the Url of Wreckuning – Three Orificial Processes – The Eleventh Degree – Bitter Moonlight – Legend of the Ambassador and the twelve-year-old prostitute – Amazing Plurabilities – Some 18th century recensions – Epilogue
“Any object, intensely regarded, may be a gate of access to the incorruptible eon of the gods…Theosophos told me so…whom in a previous existence Egyptian priests initiated into the mysteries of karmic law. The lords of the moon, Theosophos told me, and orangefiery shipload from planet Alpha of the lunar chain would not assume the etheric doubles and these were therefore incarnated by the rubycolored egos from the second constellation.” (James Joyce, Ulysses, p. 396)
Thus have we, ironically foretold, murmurations of a stellar monomyth configured in its subcelestial lunar phase. Stars turns to Moon whose lesser brilliance is overcome by what is perceived—by mortals mind you!—as the greater light of the ever-recurring, immortal solar consciousness. The darkness of the lunar rites (themselves a bastardization of a prehistoric astral venereation) was vanquished by the politicizing sun-king, who was figured severally as Osiris, Mithras, Christ, and Lucifer while only displacing worship from one matriarchal all-too-humanity to another, left-brained all-is-vanity.
The bull of heaven is the begetter and fecundator of his mother who was the initial Mot(her) or Word yet unspoken of the Typhonian tradition. She bore and bred without paternity, the self-begotten son Set who guards the sunsetting in his journey westward…Joyce understood this kinder mystery when writing the “Oxen of the Sun” chapter, which takes place in a maternity ward, and includes the entire gestation of human philosophy from embryo to the birth of the great Word of…(authority across time)—the bull is the unrecognized father (the self-begotten Consciousness) and the Son is always the bastard of the bitch!
Penelope Blooms alluding to “Swelling in apoplectic bitch’s bastard.” (ibid, p. 274)—she is transfigured, eternalized in archetype: “…vast over the house of Virgo. And, lo, wonder of metempsychosis, it is she, the everlasting bride, harbinger of the daystar, the bride, ever virgin. It is she, Martha, thou lost one, Millicent, the young, the dear, the radiant. How serene does she now arise, a queen among the Pleiades, in the penultimate antelucan hour, shod in sandals of bright gold, coifed with a veil of what do you call it gossamer!...mysterious writing till after a myriad metamorphoses of symbol, it blazes, Alpha, a ruby and triangled sign upon the forehead of Taurus.” (Ulysses, p. 394)
Virginity denotes that which is ever creative in a spiritual sense. Ever inspiring and renewing in twilight imagery.
The triangle serves as a prefiguration of a Grantian gematria. Three points for threefold femininity (maiden, mother, crone) and the three gateways of ingress and egress for extraterrestrial entities—"Body of a white woman…Three holes all women. Goddess I didn’t see.” (p. 273)
The three orifices of woman (mouth, vagina, anus) are often employed sexually, although Kenneth Grant repudiates the “homosexual” method in favor of a greater mystery: the non-procreative, yet projecting, menstrual secretions. Thus, the Eleventh Degree is the act of magical irradiation on a higher plane, only achieved once naturalistic conception is balked on the physical plane.
What is stopped here, comes there, or some-where in between moonbathed thighs.
There are three types of women: the Virgin, the Mother, and the Scarlet Woman. Joyce also recognizes these three in Gerty MacDowell (maiden), Molly Bloom (Wife/Mother), and Circe (Scarlet Woman). The latter is the Witch-Woman who is ever fecund, but only giving birth to Images on a higher plane. She wanders in the tunnels of Set under the night of Pan. Babalon, Babylon, the Seven-fold name—
“I am powerful and not without a name among mortals and within the heavens.” (Euripides, Hippolytus)
Born of the same sea on which Odysseus travelled, the same sea that churns its whirlpools drowning men in bitter elixirs…Aphrodite, the oystersoft petals slithering through windburned fingers.
“What fools they are! I’d rather stand three times behind a shield than bear a child once!” (Euripides, Medea)—Thus speaks the witch whose power rests in never bearing children…her power flows in the menstrual catamenia symbolized by the Cat being her totem in the Dark Ages. The Cat is the Cut or Cleft or Gut center of her effusions—like the cloven hoof of the Goat she worships at the sabbatic rite.
“Fellowchristians and antiBloomites, the man called Bloom is from the roots of hell, a disgrace to Christian men. A fiendish libertine from his earliest years this stinking goat of Mendes gave precocious signs of infantile debauchery recalling the cities of the plain, with a dissolute granddam. This vile hypocrite, bronzed with infamy, is the white bull mentioned in the Apocalypse. A worshipper of the Scarlet Woman, intrigue is the very breath of his nostrils. The stake faggots and the cauldron of boiling oil are for him. Caliban!” (Ulysses, p. 464)
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every encounter brought its diminishing taciturns, until that was lefts wars a misfireecontrast of contrapunctal manners, bund now she smiles and forgifts him with an unphyled conseqwench.
So played out this fig en gut mineure. King he wasn’t butt-ox got better, till passif-mae his whyf the bull conseeved. Allways lies down the minutour of unfluffilling eratäk esophable confusion, all is sofaring. Ohphoneschia myuse my pen to pluhmb the depths of this missteerie—now as it vass in hayvan, hahajallonino en terre la weltsmerdona santa
Je’ls says dze swiz ich abchiusa tu obvkurwatchuhr obscuritanz ilsemunda-illundation.
Ecks X eqsqueir onlytanz Horr-apalling time forgives morgets begifts bekomms unstill the our of sun’s slackrificial lassing.
Findagain the sours of ower insipidyration.
Ensaint kaween kives up her killt and blast her baybee beimstayque. Childrain are the summersalt of di bearth. Discunting the dour of our disquuntainted mehzure, we fayiil to mesurize the post-knot chairitee of heer benefahktr.
kKkAYT—cree qatura phulkamezza mesa me full I’ll push her off the ledgerdemain or’jurdwee yes-to-her-daze of dust.