top of page
  • Writer's pictureMateusz Zalewski-Grzelak

Fairy Tales for the Insane, Part I

Faces in the Stars

What makes us so unique is the face of our being, the reflection of the soul and our life, the genii; In this respect I see a half-rotten grotesque of myself when I stare into the mirror, a Nosferatu image of twisted things; a deformed agony, congested pain. She was a crystalline soul. How would you redefine yourself when spirits fall in love, embrace, and then death worships an image it loved, a mark that disappears with the grave.

She has ascended, but she is still here. She collapses under the weight of regular things, the social contracts that guard the Dionisian graves, the being that has passed away. A living person, feels, thinks. A holistic perspective on a torn idea: Here and everywhere. If we keep an image of our loved one or a mere mirage, we should let go and deal with the perceptions of the “normal” without a second thought.

Black man from Saturn

Equanimous look of the black man from Saturn. When I - he watched me and her in love, in embrace, I felt that he longed for it, but he did not. It was the curiosity of fate. When a witch summoned the ram, he looked at her coldly, and with an idea that entered her destiny, he disappeared.

When he looked at the fates and knots of the world, he did not feel empty, he did not feel full, he was like a shell, but complete and with a spirit that merged with its blackness.

In - well - rare moments he stopped and observed them for a moment, and then went on, he saw a man in great despair, a woman in agony, the greatest joys, the deepest feelings, he did not inspire them, he only observed them, without sadness, without joy, with the fresh curiosity of a little boy.

Neither cruel nor benevolent, he just inspired the existential and divine, fate detached, an action here, there, towards a strange regulation, some strange mechanisms that were not mechanical, but tactical cuts and polishes, esthetic shortcuts.

He did not admire his work, nor did he pay any further attention to it. He neither expected gratitude nor despised ingratitude.

He was neither pleased nor annoyed, impartial to invocations and yet responsive, coldly waiting. After all, he was a Saturnian hermit.

A holy head, but a strange holiness, not fallen, not exalted, neither in ascent nor in descent. Who planned his destiny when he was a living man on earth?

What share of his destiny did he receive? That is to be silenced, in him it was when he was alive. Neither must there be nothing in time, nor must there be no space in man. He did not even think about himself, a monstrosity for a sentient man who was completely at peace with himself. Someone once wrote that true angels are monstrous for a human being, their perception is too beautiful.

The closeness is imaginary and yet practiced, a mortal worships gods, like the sun, but it shatters a speck of dust - sometimes by pure chance; The black man under the sun and the planets stared down at planet Earth from the moon, unnoticed by all. He planned to save, a cruel undertaking, as if he were reviving someone he loved, but with a cold, robotic understanding, like a doctor who was once full of commitment and compassion, lost that feeling and became a mortician, yet saved lives, destinies and properties of the earth through his


If he would fully comprehend his life fates, relate the content of all the pains, agonies and silent resolutions, the concealment of astralistic constellations and the damages of mischief, of experiments, perhaps a mere breath of air would pass through his lips, and then he would turn into stone, into a living corpse coma. But that is yet to come. Better not to know. What else is there, comfort in a sinking world.

Rotas tenet opera

We are born fools, and since fools play with fate and ride on a chariot, the wheel of fate exalts one and degrades another, the ignorance of blindness chains the devil and death, when we enter the path we are both a fool, a magician and a charioteer.

We can fall prey to death by submitting to negative forces, despair and misfortune.

The lovers consecrate the bond, and strengthened by temperance, they walk the path together.

The devil plots against the lovers and destroys temperance, while they face each other in self-control and close the numinous currents within them. They may part in sorrow, but they must go on; they are magicians, fools, charioteers, and their wheel of fortune is balanced in maturity and moderation.

The mistress becomes the moon, the magician becomes the hermit, he hangs upside down, with his roots in the stars, and his head shines below. The mistress in moderation commands herself and deals with worldly affairs, she rules the world, the magician rules the world himself and becomes the emperor.

The hermit leaves the star and deals with worldly affairs. But being reminded by the suffering and transience of all things, he separates himself from the world and becomes the man of the mountain in solitude, weighing and judging.

When the mistress, thus reminded of the stars, becomes dissatisfied with worldly affairs, she consecrates herself to the moon and becomes a holy priestess, the master likewise a hierophant, they discuss and banish the false towers, expel ignorance and deception, and bring to light the truth of the light of heaven.

The intrigues of the inverted powers, neither of darkness nor of light, but of ignorance and deception, of stupidity and baseness, abhorring both the hells and the heavens, for in their suffering they wage war against themselves and against the world. When the magician is seized by suffering and torment, he himself becomes a devil; on the other hand, when he turns to the stars and recognizes them within, he continues as a hermit.

A difficult task to let love go! But the lovers meet again, and they should link their paths and destinies without forgetting each other. This pyramid is in fact inverted, because when it reaches the top, it is inverted again, the tops meet at the star of consciousness.

With each death, one becomes a fool again, and thus reminded of the path, one can set out or continue, blackened and darkened by troubled times, in robes of darkness, then liberated again, and the robes change from black to white and white to black again.

The sacred steps, death makes us all fools, the threads set in motion in life continue in the dissolution of chance, fate and destiny!

The sun is the supreme deity on earth, the star is guarded by the Seven Righteous, the celestial power is the power that feeds the lions of the purple goddess of the stars

Stars, all justice belongs to the starry heavens, who distribute it to the mortals who enter the way! And this justice is that of return and reconciliation, of liberation and return to the great home of all spirits. Oh, if the parity of heaven and nature, science and spirit, men and starry heavens. Justice would be one! But the gradation of angles in multiplicity - would it not defy variation and diversity that there be variation and differences in a cosmos of order out of necessity, for it would be One and perfect and would never differentiate into a cosmic manifold melody if that were so.

But the ways of the world are those of metamorphosis and change, the ways of the Great and Divine are the perfect unity in the brilliance of all the stars, yet they are not different, they spring from the same source - the power of the heavens and the weight of chaotic fire and the matter that gives it form is an ocean of movement, it is the substance that corrupts and the substance that enables.

It is the great womb from which the cosmos emerges, with the laws of the starry heavens above and within the stars, the dragons entwined.

When they look into each other’s eyes, they mirror each other and the spirit is born, the cosmic egg. When we look into the eyes of the stars and into the eyes of our beloved, when we look at ourselves and reflect inward and outward, harmony in the tension of opposites, upward movement to the transcendent third - united under the stars.

Descent into the abyss

A cylinder hammering on my flesh, writhing in my mind, falling through constant emptiness, a vision - amid the Devanagari, amid the dust of life, the ashes of burnt corpses, a meditor drinking his flesh and blood, burning with a living flame, mirroring me, the victim of a corporeal image, a redhead approaches me, lies with me for a while, then disappears into the ashen fog. Thrown down, floating in the monolithic sounds of the planetary void, I returned to my body, awake all the time, with imprints in my veins, that was my seal. On the wooden table appeared with chalk a word in Hebrew language -

Mahil, that was an angel of the scribes. I wrote it in a pentagram, then threw away.

Did not allied traditions try to claim me as a strategic move? Or was it a gift at the time? Emanationist tantra, Horus was the closest deity I remembered from childhood.

The next day, the next night, thrown over my body, circling, spinning on its axis, my eyeballs felt like they were falling into an empty sacrificial skull. Crowned as king of the demons, a steel crown on my forehead.

The next night they approached the red dragon’s body and tried to feast on me, they were scorched as if drinking the sun. Shadows on red flames, screaming with bitterness, punished for trying to drink my blood. Vampiric, subhuman powers. They summoned the seven fallen, ghouls and corpse-eaters. It tookthem several hours to destroy the blood-red orb that enveloped my body. Then they tried to make me their king, a cheap imitation of their pathetic, filthy aspirations. As if fools wanted to create and crown a greater, depraved, degenerate fool than themselves.

The next day I felt dry, dead, without vitality, I did not know if Iwas alive and the rest were dead, or if I was dead and the rest were alive. My soulless body looked black, sinking down into Thanathos, not to mention all the magical procedures done to me, and done by myself. What was it that kept me alive? That was eleven years ago now. Anniversary, June 3, 2007 of the madness, anniversary sometime in August, maybe on the 12th 2007 descent and slaughter. Since then, many stories have been written, many that will remain unspoken and unsaid.

My voice was played and heard, my madness held my voice captive, vampires made sure to bind my spirit to flesh, my fangs, invisible bioplasmic shadow substance did not crave blood. Yet they reminded me of destinies.

Da’ath, Amentet, the throat and croak of a human voice on the waves of the Aethyrs. Parasites attaching themselves to the vocal cords and causing terrible things to happen. Would the noble things ever be worth saying, illusions of speech-things I never said, doubles-things I would never be. I have been dead for years, and I have become more and more resistant.

Diary of a fallen priest of Isis

Is it reason that, in the face of the collapse of the logos and the onslaught of the iron ages, defends its light on small islands, encircled by a darkness concentrated by the unsuspecting minions of anti-intellectualism, of populism, of division, of the violent display of the opinion of hardliners, no matter how vile or stupid.

That for such reasons one retreats between the earth and the providence of the gods, sometimes oblivious to the horror of it all, sometimes in empty destructiveness and compassionate anger, or to the gardens of a dragon’s heart to nurture that long-forgotten sublimity that can not be found anywhere nearby.

Sometimes we have a hunch that manifests itself in the fact that there are more individuals with such concerns, but we realize that we are in the minority and that we are stepping back from the authoritarian speeches of the hardliners that would strengthen the machine and further satisfy the greed for darkness, for ignorance. We step back to act as underdogs and nurture the things of old, like old scholars who weep silently over times gone by and visit forbidden museums to find greatness with a sense that they delude themselves-it will thrive-that they have kept for others-like archivists-as a testimony;

That they have tried to follow the high ideas, to internalize them, to embody them. O wretched greatness, you shine and collapse, you bring us the hatred of those to whom we are exposed! Then we become a curse, because we realize that we are alone, separated, that we cannot even find a resemblance in those we love.

We loathe and love this world all too much! We turn to the gods who send us back and say in silent realization ‘these things are no longer to be found down here, you lonely hero’.

It breaks our hearts, for the void between earth and sky, between unwritten stories, makes us ponder, like other sages in times of doom, whether to tear the white robes and sink to the ground in spasms of honest anguish and pain, whether to risk tainting the robes with darkness and becoming a pyramid of silence, orwhether to go on with a strong heart and watch the actions and threads of the world - withdrawn, detached, with a heavy heart. With Horusian foresight, great comprehensive wisdom, the penetrating view into all living things. I have dreamed with him of all living things. I have stood with him, strong as a tower - an unspoken acknowledgement of all my plans, big dreams and unhindered aspirations written in the stars that were collapsing, stained by the wretched darkness in this world, making me just another fallen fool.

To live another day! Destroyed, branded, banished, marked, made into drudges! As long as our minds and hearts are needed for even the smallest transition, as long as the gods need their mediators on earth to engage, to intercede. Our words do not need to be spoken, they would be twisted, masquaded, deformed, lied, then we would speak dirt ourselves, because they lose any meaning!

When our forces dwindle, our obligations are difficult to revive from the rut of everyday life, but a flash, a beautiful flash of an hour, a minute,a second of freedom from the vile forces that have encircled us, that live with us, that live us, who have accustomed us and who watch us from the victorious position - this beautiful flash of a single act, of a ritual, of a ceremony that outshines them with its power, its might, its beauty, its awe - unexpectedly, dazzles them, sears their eyes, makes them fall to the ground in misery. Then, when the act is over, they see this potential and make all sorts of attempts to knock us off our hard-won ground, to humiliate and weaken us, to intimate and threaten us.

Then we persevere. Our minds and hearts are shattered and blackened, our robes long forgotten, but we carry on as long as we are needed.


I was on my way home from a visit to my friends. On the way there, I usually get on two night buses. I listen to the drunk people, the silent people, wondering what their heart and mind are thinking about, mask-like many things, hidden lives, superficial, young and those whose shadows are long - rare. Bottles rolling on the floor, spreading the drink all over the body. I usually listen to music, try to meditate amid the chatter of young women looking for love, young men looking for sex or vice versa. I have a lot of things to think about. I feel like an old master, yet I am only 31 years old. Paternal, saturnine strictness, perhaps self-imposed, strict but not rigorous. Perhaps protectionist, self-defensive compensation for not feeling anything more. But ethos commands compassion, instead of malice, cruelty and apodictic anger.

I reached the main train station in Warsaw, Poland. I bought a coffee from a vending machine, rolled a cigarette and stood about twenty metres from the smoking place. Usually they ask for cigarettes and money there, I stood there having short conversations, ex-convicts, thieves, homeless people, random travellers, maybe a few prostitutes. In the midst of all these people busy with their subjective lives, my attention was suddenly drawn to a homeless man sitting on one of the benches at the bus station, not being noticed by anyone.

I asked myself in my mind, “Should I call an ambulance, intervene?”.... “I have done it before, but no one seems to care.” I shook my head, “No, do not intervene”. It was just me and this homeless man. The people who broke the line between my eyes and arms stared at me, sometimes laughing, they were invisible to me as the homeless man was to them.I wore a pair of black wings, Azrail perhaps, an old friend. An angel of death.

We stared together, then my gaze was drawn to the shopping centre “Złote Tarasy,” which Thanathos lit up green, neon-lit. I thought, “This can not be this man’s fate, this is not fair”. Slowly people gathered around the homeless man, checking if he was still alive, some quickly moving away, fearing he might actually be dead. The bus arrives, N72, and passes the man and the crowd. I make a gesture, close my eyes, two coins for Charon. The passing.

I was sitting on the bus. I felt his soul enter mine, commended him to the moon spirit, prayed, called my friends, “may he be safe.” I consulted his soul.

I heard a dark voice in my head “if you do not want your life, he will live with you in your body”. I wondered what kind of life he had had before, before. After a while his soul left him. The bus ride began. I stared at his body from the back seat of the night bus, his leg seemed to be moving. Maybe he was alive after all?

But I did not feel like I had been cheated. I had done my job. The green, dark-winged death I kissed in imagination, a gesture.

Imponderables of a dead year.

They sat in silence, him trying to say a few words to bring the conversation back on track. She was depressed, heavy hearted, as if small implosions of whole worlds plunging to their doom were building up in her lungs, in her chest, in her soul, heart and mind. She began to cry, silently. The only thing he could see was the rotten face of a dead woman draped over her face. He knew she had been hurt in life and was now trying to be understood by recreating her pain through his love. He was helpless and broken, staring blankly down the empty corridor of the pub. He looked again; she was still there. Normally he would speak, reach out to her, but he was helpless, it was better not to see certain things.

But if he did not, would they survive this long? His mind would be distracted, he would leave, she would not forgive. Unconditional love means loving the spirit of the other, everything else is a pretence with which we communicate in between, the gestures, the signs, the bodies, the blood of the soul, all the imponderables, the unspoken, which are a sum of submission to love. The dead woman brought out her depression and pain, through her, he did not blame any of them, it was not even malice. It was the cruelty of the world repeating itself and growing into a mountain of filth. Maybe that’s why most people do not feel or think they feel anything at all, they have all been defeated by a veil of darkness that has grown so thickthat they have a semblance of life. It is as if pure ideas, when recognised, are something foreign to this modern world, as something long forgotten, as something uncomfortable, shameful - when they blossom in the suffered light, they attract too much darkness. It tries to understand them first, then to make itself similar, and when that fails, it tries to defeat them, to mock them, to destroy them, and finds itself with nothing. As in the paraphrase of Shem, the black fire of chaos by nature tries to consume the greater worlds, to disturb them and become them, this is an ancient law of the prison of spirits, when even shrouded shadows carry something hidden, bright and long forgotten.

That the shadows have not grown into them, they remain unsullied, it is that the shadows of our lives, illusions, masks are the threads pulled by the contamination, the deafness, blindness, recklessness, ignorance, all the things that moved us to living ideas, to beauty, harmony, greatness, hope - dead. Dead in shells that move like automatons, masks, our demons and ghosts that we have turned into. What a sham. The iron chain of the past, trapping more in the machine of death. There he remained, cruelly killed years ago, cursing his indestructibility and blessing the Gods for the remnants of sanity. An Egyptian sage gave thanks for a strong heart in dark times. So did he, or the pain would be unbearable. He could not tell her that something else had put her in this miserable position, he could only talk to his beloved about her pain, which she did not understand. She had a hellish life, a life in hell. And so did he. That’s why they had tears of joy and exhaustion in their eyes when they met for the first time. They saw through each other without a word. When they returned home, they kept their distance. Thenthey turned, hugged and kissed. The black limousine that was parked next to them drove away with Whitesnake’s song “Is this love?” in its ears. The synchronicity, a tired one, was confirmed.

I have seen things that you, as a human being . . would not want to see.

I have seen things that you humans would never believe. Neither would I, because I grew in fear and terror I internalized the nightmare I began to see with the splendor and awe of the gods. Tired of the masks I have to wear, a professional among adult children, a clown among adults. I should not, I should wear my curse with the solitary pride or ease of a craftsman. I need others to keep from going crazy, companionship, an illusion of sameness.

Years ago I disclosed what I had experienced and that scared others, some even dared to mock me, I was branded crazy among old acquaintances. All the hundreds of faces I used to know are meaningless to me, just masks of the same grave I escaped. I see the invisible worlds and interact.

I see bloated, rotten faces imposing themselves on your children, your ancestors who have found no rest trying to call you. My curse and blessing is that

I see.

From this and from ordinary human knowledge, from the revelation of occultation, Ihave found my universe of meanings. They are everywhere, and they are intelligent as the departed and the living in many invisible worlds that surpass what other mortals can comprehend.

When an undead ethereal corpse of a murderer takes over my mind and body, my mind is twisted to the worst atrocities that I control and try not to commit.

When a whore of hell, a woman addicted to the lust of life, leered at me from the face of my beloved, I knew. Her shattered, cut, rotten face found no rest.

Was it her fault?

No. I hate religious fanatics. Religious arrogance of the bastards of history. Sacrosanct ignoramuses. Half-truths of domini canes - cruel dogs of a God who is irrelevant to me. A god is a word stuffed with projections of their stomachs and dirty desires.

I wanted divinity, not religion. The higher worlds that revealed themselves to me did not want religion either. They even spurned it. Who would ask angels and archangels to profess the religions of monkeys? The gods scoff at these kneeling crowds of slaves.

I have developed my own cosmography, occult philosophy, theology and philosophy. I have no need for religion. Pagan theology and modern science fit my goals. The ancient ethos, the esthetics of the classics, so as not to get into a chaotic mess, and the modern method, applied to empirical metaphysics and the divine movements of concept, intellect, feeling, imagination, the inductive-deductive method of revealing, interpreting, understanding, weighing, balancing. A gigantomachy of madness, of good and evil, of inner reason.

harmony of tension in resistance to the pull of emptiness” - reformulation of the Mithraic axiom

It was the same misery that we share in the world, I would not call it misfortune, but the mutually created interdependent hells that we have created for ourselves in this world.

From this perspective, this world is hell. To find solace, we must remain strong, indifferent, detached, a bit like a Hindi Aghori who pays no homage to forms, no matter how twisted, horrible or disgusting they are to others. On the other hand, keep the joy and overcome with a smile.

Another comfort is to find wisdom from the old days.

I was committed to a psychiatric ward years ago and stuffed full of debilitating medications. It did not help me one iota, but I developed a cover story and a social security backbone as ‘mentally disabled’ that gave me low resources and an alibi. The psychiatric script helps some - it silences their fears, their beliefs into delusions, their visions into hallucinations. It gives them an explanation to live by, as some live by myths.

But that was not enough for me.

Over the years I developed a highly complicated, sophisticated, beautiful system to work in these worlds, a system of philosophy, theology, and technical occult tools that helped me survive.

I have seen solar discs floating in the sky, gold-heavy and steely deities incarnated in my body.

Forces from world systems aware of us. We communicated in the silence where I was the lone one among the people and they were the understanding mothers and fathers. I was not on my own, otherwise I would have committed suicide long ago. Years in limbo, with interruptions for two women who survived me and my instabilities caused by mediumships and possessions, the last one I tried to train to be a mistress and I was proud of her and still am.

The more you know about the other worlds, the greater the arsenal of intrigues, ordeals and trials against you. As if the plot against the human freedoms of knowledge or punitive measures against you. I have seen through so many intrigues that all human stratagems in history seem like child’s play to me. I know you all too well, I learned that in the other worlds.

So far, I have not found anyone who is my equal, but I do not intend to boast and puff myself up. I am keeping a low profile, as I should, and trying not to point fingers at others, because who is to blame? There is something about transcending the human world, rising above it and interfering with people, while being constrained by the human form, being suffocated by it.

Each new person, each new interaction, each new mastery of a mask, a persona. Someone said ‘be real’, I took him for a child - split personalities, masks, entities taking over these masks and personas and playing them as I allow them, or being mastered by them and yet recursively aware, acting and acting, puppeteer and puppet.

We are but an illusion, the only true self is a combination of all our movements when taken for single moments - they are merely a dream our being dreams. But there is a twist that many people often ask: what becomes of us when we die? Wheels of fortune, preparations, works, transformations. What will be taken away from them? This question has been answered by ancient masters, Ihave merely repeated and expanded it based on what I have seen and experienced.

No ‘divine knowledge’, no ‘revelations’, only what I could make of it and offer it as a gift to others, write it down, think about it and process it. An honest person who errs in what his mind and senses interpret, but he errs in a great way - by creating models of these worlds and trying to approach their truth, their essential core.

When I am among people, even people with some magical zeal and belief in such things, I find that their understanding is incomplete, so I disseminate limited information from a monolith of my experience, fragments scraped from the surface of things. I do not remember everything at once, I have collected all moments in a hidden structure, I simply retrieve what is to be retrieved, build on my past experiences, collect what can be collected and keep learning new things.

If I had to know everything I know all the time, I would break down and go crazy.

That is beyond the capacity of my mind. I did not write this to find understanding or to tell an entertaining story. I wanted to write myself out. I loathe myself for things that should be endured in silence. I hate voyeurs as much as I hate exhibitionists.

I have partially made myself both.

I watch the world and show the world. But I only do it once in this form. It’s far too personal. I prefer to be guided by objective considerations and scientific methods, to keep things formal and structured, and to avoid chaos.

And once - once I knew love and despair, these are memories implied with arms outstretched.

Feeling is a dangerous thing, after years of pain, tears, mental and physical anguish I have repressed myself. In recent years I have felt something honest only twice

- when a woman whom I loved with an idea, supreme unconditional love, mutilated herself before my eyes. I forced her to stop by restricting her movements and she said she wanted to kill herself, she was suffering from depression - I burst into screaming despair and cries, a purgatory and started punching myself in the face to make her stop. Within five minutes I was back to being a disciplined, blocked off, dignified person. She worked her way out of depression over a few months, I’d like to think I helped her do that. The other moment was when

I decided to rid myself of all the pain, a catharsis. They say you have to live through your pain, flush it out, get rid of it, to get rid of it. I landed on the floor in a neuropathic spasm, shaking like a centipede as the waves of pain passed throughme until I stopped them with a whisper.

I am a surface, just a surface, my soul is deep in some cosmic void and I do not want to shout it back. This surface of my persona is attached to a star above me, my consciousness. Let me leave the torment behind, let me go with my lamp through the darkness illuminated by gods and spirits. There is nothing more to say.

Too many threads that would write volumes, taken to the grave like the whispers of a madman.

Yet I am free, I am not a slave. Recognized as a free man among gods. Therefore those who hate freedom will disfigure my mind and harass me. I have won my gladius, which is no longer a commodity, but my own tool in this world

Blade Runner’s Pris and Batty as Ops and young Saturn: The Archetype

"Batty gets up and goes to a chess set in the corner of the room, a game is obviously in progress. Batty studies it for a moment, then moves the White Queen to the Bishop.

Pris walks over to him. Her tone muted but demanding. (. . . ) They stare at each other for a long time in silence, communicating something with their eyes... without expression. Finally Batty breaks the silence.

BATTY I’ve seen things... (long pause) seen things you little people wouldn’t believe... Attack ships on fire off the shoulder of Orion bright as magnesium... I rode on the back decks of a blinker and watched c-beams glitter in the dark near the Tanhauser Gate. (pause) all those moments... they’ll be gone.

Batty holds Deckard’s eyes like a hypnotist."

- Blade Runner Script

In astrological parole Saturn is considered malefic and represents the age of the ancient wise sage. I have been pondering whether this aspect is not only associated with the lower metaphysical octaves of this planet, while in the higher, imperial octave it is of use in a most unpredictable way. It acts as a wise teacher, cutting through superficial business and ties for every age of man, when one matures decidedly according to his age. The right of a child to play is different from that of a senator to go about his business, for each according tohis age, duties and responsibilities. It has a cold and dry character and indicates melancholy. Therefore, various people of young age who are troubled by pain and suffering, including sensitive people who tend to become melancholic when they are hurt, also exhibit saturnine traits through the law of learning, deep foresight into causality, and drawing on life experiences that solidify their approach to the world and shape their way of thinking. They think deeply and are silent a lot, are solitary but loyal to friends and the few things they deem worthy enough to pursue, and they are loyal to

Deities and powers of various origins. In humans, it shows power and firmness, earthly causes, possessions, supervision of activities, intelligence, boldness, toil, arrogance, and harbingers of death. Saturn nature, by its tendency, its nature, the collected honey from the life experiences of black bile, tends to vile and evil things, bitterness, cruelty, malice, when hurt, harmed, offended, humiliated. Therefore, he must strive for things of ethos and intellect to defeat that which the heavy lead symbolizes. The Mercurian way is fast and yet slow, but beware of the Saturnian way of turning lead into gold by ceaselessly engaging in alchemical endeavors to subdue, overcome or submit to the harm. Only with great strength and great intellect can you take the substance of the damage and refine it into something better, nobler, stronger, greater - indeed. With great valor, his nature settles into these traits of the fatherly sage and a refined seer, an assassin or a shadow witch, a holy man or a vampire. The eagles of Rome were the Saturnian “Pater Noster” rank, the great initiates of the highest rank in the mysteries of Mithra. Great dangers occur when the nature of the beholder in this process behaves unrestrainedly abominable, including vicious murders, unthinking bestiality. Great good occurs when nature overcomes, great wisdom, benevolence and the power of justice prevails after the trials.

Considering this astrological environment, we should recall some Gnostic concepts. In the Hebrew Manichaean gnosis, the whole creation was considered by an evil

In Hellenic gnosis, on the other hand, the demiurge, often symbolized by the dodecahedron or a small model of the universe, was seen in Platonic terms as wholly good, simple, and benevolent. The term henosis was reserved for the point at which the divine meets a man or woman and awakens the divine within. The means were varied and reminiscent of the late Neoplatonic theurges such as Master Iamblichus or the advisor to Emperor Julian, the Theurgist Maximus.

The way there, according to the testimony of the Chaldean oracles written down by Julian the Theurgist, a miracle worker and soldier in the army of Marcus Aurelius, required the deepest concentration, consecration and invocation of the divine powers and receiving from them in the act of Theion Ergon - Work of Men, Work of the gods - with the help of homoiosis Theio - the sacred work of heroization and embodiment of a mortal man, who was thus destined to join the procession of the sacred and divine.

Batty’s death wish, the sacrificial Thanatos, was transformed into a monolithic desire to perform an act reserved for the demiurge to save himself, similar to the schools of Theravada and Hinayan Buddhism, where self-liberation was more important than the obligation to work for the welfare and restoration of all out of compassion, as in the Mahayana traditions. He embodies the self-governed and the liberated, the Saturnine autonomous. In a sense, he is a superman who is detached from human beings and yet perfectly understands the great stases (issues) and small vagaries of their existence. He has no need to re-humanize himself, for that would rob him of his status as a demigod, a futant in sci-fi parlance, a modified future man. He has mastered the human world in such a way that he can play it virtuously.

In fact, it is not an act, but an authentic, masterful performance in which he plays at being a human being while wearing a mask of God, a transcendent deity composed and arranged in human harmony, ratio, and proportion, yet completely self-contained, standing there like a mask of a god.

The dominant psychological dynamic of the Neoplatonic saints and theurgists was the threat of misanthropy, of a certain elitism, but only when they fall away from an overarching definition of a perfected human being and become human wretches, when they have lost the thread of communitas (community) comitas (brotherhood) and severitas (severity). Is it not the case that when the human form is preserved but the arch-human strife seethes within, species parity can be lost in solitude, to the detriment of both parties, one is lost in the obsession of separation, like Empodecles who jumped into a volcano-as the legends of Diogenes Laërtius relate-to prove that he is a god, and men are lost without their “heroes with a thousand masks,” in Campbellian henotheistic terms. Batty suffers from the human form because he knows he is a demigod. Yet he tries to transform the lead beyond that form before it threatens to turn him into a psychopath or murderer. It is a battle of Faustian cuts with Macbeth, in which Mephistopheles plays the role of Moire. Indeed, inasmuch as Faust was to Goethe was as Zarathustra was to Nietzsche, Deckard and Batty were to Philip K.


We are the actors we create, they reflect us and our imagination, the dynamics of our projection, re-projection, introjection from within and without.

At the moment when Batty rescued Deckard, there was a withdrawn tension in which the lead turned to gold, the alchemical pelican that fed its young with its own blood turned into a phoenix.

Pris is the Uranian-Neptunian element representing a liquid-narcotic, reality-playing lover killed in an instant. By losing the water of life, the redeeming element, he loses the reason to sustain his life and must reappear as quickly as the action continues. Here everything retains the quality of an instinctive choice - the sum of one’s being in a quick decision or the decision of fate to be a shell or a ghost, an android or a human.

The game of spiritual liberation was accentuated by transforming the transformation of an inner territory of discipline from an attempt at constant revenge to an attempt at salvation by recognising in a human being a familiar face that knows to its core a certain uncanny sparkle of hope, in which the bridging of brotherhood and otherness is accomplished and then carried by a golden thread found in despair.

Batty wanted to know his creator, the genetic architect, and then murders him - the young Saturn as the voice of an aeon, the old one deposed by violence, perhaps liberated, a new generation of time slaughters the old Chronos, Saturnalia releases the austere energies of an ordered society in December for all to rejoice. The old year goes, a new one begins, the winter equinox marks the new season. The androids, with their genetically limited life span, know the thread of time that the Architect donates, transmits and sustains; he is their god and clock. He is the master of life and death. Kill him and the roles reverse and the android Batty rules time. It is a common scheme to kill the father, usually a matter of maturation, initiation rites in tribal communities, here done very specifically. In a normal scenario it would be called psychopatology, but the architect’s son overdid it and gave in to bloodlust. There was no more room for the self-builder and sovereign, regicide was committed to take his place. Here, a new archetype of the demiurge - Lucifer, the fallen one - becomes Prometeus again. Indeed, in Greco-Roman traditions, Prometeus was a secret story about how the divine fire descended into the world to free captives from the Platonic cave in order to set them free.

But does Prometeus become the new demiurge of a world he sought to liberate? It is a Socratic irony that things that should not be spoken or written about must be so after all! After centuries have passed, he tries to destroy his creation, devours his children like Kronos - and yet both look at their works with deep insight, bring the fire of divine life, the spark of enlightenment and the fire of destruction until the new cycle begins. In a Gnostic sense, after the murder of his father, Batty opens his eyes to the prisoner - Deckard, mirrors himself in him and tries to free him, to support him, to save him.

It is a tension between the despair about the continuing existence and the affirmation of this existence in the cold wasteland of the cosmos. This is where a transcendent element comes in - some uncanny, transcendent, supra-stellar worlds weave a thread of understanding that neither Batty as young Saturn nor Deckard as his inferior brother understand.

The key passage of “Blade Runner” is Deckard’s vision in which a white horse gallops, then he collects a small origami horse made of tinfoil. At these two points, the invisible world of synchronicities enters, the anomalies that seem reasonable only to the eyes in the stars, the divine that flashes humbly in a technocratic totalitarian system, mutely underscoring the whole film’s ‘alas, all is not lost’.

The renewal took place by murder, the old demiurge-Saturn (Chronos) is slain, perhaps freed from the bonds of his own creation, his time, the new one sees only continuity, not suspecting, yet how his own creation turns against him in the end. Following the vision, it disintegrates and destroys the seer, making him a crusader. For a new one will come as long as the world lasts. He points to Deckard: ‘ecce homo’ - the cry seeps into the wells of the past. Pris as ops is the earth, the companion, after her loss she becomes Rhea - time of memory, the memory of loss. The only one who preserves true love is Deckard. Was it not Virgil who wrote: “Amor Vincit Omnia”, and thus Eros stands triumphant as Titan among the gods - after the humanity of an innocent mortal fool.

15 views0 comments

Recent Posts

See All
bottom of page