Showing posts with label Short Fiction. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Short Fiction. Show all posts

Sunday, 18 December 2022

Life Into Shape


 The burnt out trees will leave you cold…
 – Beth Orton









At that moment, when I thought I was about to die, I saw my entire life unravel. It was an indistinct vision, a split second in time. Can I describe the shape of my life as I saw it then, at that moment?
The starting point, the point of departure, as it were, was a Point – I saw a microscopic, metallic point lost in a black void.
Is it possible to call a point a shape?
Should I think of this point as a complex entity, like a trefoil icosahedron or a Medusa-like tangle of helical forms unwinding through time? Undoubtedly the split-second itself was The Point, the horizon of infinity enclosed in time by perception.
Within the temporality of that second, as it split asunder, the point unfolded, unfurling with agonising slowness. It would be very tempting to describe this monadic point as a tessellated surface of Celtic spirals. Perhaps it was a multifaceted crystal, its flat walls conforming to the laws of low energy directions, or even a gold crystal with a pitted surface like that of Saturn’s moon Iapetus. Yet, in close up, this entity (my life) appeared more like a donut of magnetic fluid.
However, I knew that this was an illusion and, being the extrapolation of mathematical co-ordinates derived from my imagination, it would mutate into a web-like form, a network, each node a scintilla generated by the primal departure point itself. The majority of these secondary points represented co-ordinates outside the narrow parameters of the linear time-line of my ‘life’ as understood on a mundane, day-to-day basis. This web extended beyond the antechamber of memory, encompassing ancestral events and unconscious experiences, producing patterns very different from the past-present-future trajectory of the arrow of time.
If the synchronic shape of my life is a light-cone of consciousness, then the diachronic shape of my life is the broad-leafed arrow of time, emerging from womb-darkness, vanishing into darkness beyond the grave. But the multidimensional shape of my life is this network of co-ordinates.
Looking more closely at the filamentous matrix, it was clear that some scintilla had a reddish hue while others were ice-blue. The red points signified moments of pain or negative emotion such as – for example – crises during critical illnesses, times of bereavement, early nightmares and several road accidents (including this one). The few ice-blue points represented instances of clarity. The vast majority of nodes were of neutral, indeterminate, off-white complexion.
I looked in vain for lights indicating moments of passion, for the centre of desire is a Black Hole from which, as we all know, light cannot escape.
At this moment my perception of the multiform shape of my ‘life’ registered another change and the fascinating web mutated yet again.


The resolution of the image degraded. Black turned to white and the interlaced network changed into a vision of bare branches: burnt out trees, stark against a greying sky.

First published in Headstorms Short Fiction Magazine Vol 1, Inclement Publishing, 2004

Thursday, 8 April 2021

Against The World


 

THE PSEUDO-CARPOCRATIAN TRACTATUS CONTRA MUNDUM

 

A Brief Bibliographical History

 

 

 

 

The Tractatus Contra Mundum (Tract Against The World) was written in Greek by an unknown Hellenistic author in the year 203AD. This text, which displays powerful Gnostic cosmological features, was falsely attributed by its anonymous author to the notorious heretical teacher, Carpocrates of Alexandria.

However it is true that, on a superficial level, the Tractatus, does invite comparison with some ideas of Carpocrates – given what is known of them from the prejudiced writings of the theologian Irenaeus of Lyon. Many modern commentators, it should be noted, have long recognised that Irenaeus, who fulminated against the Carpocratians for immorality (whilst ridiculing their metaphysics) in his Libros Quinque Adversus Haereses (AD199), was ignorant of the fundamentals of the doctrine of the transmigration of souls and was, therefore, prone to misinterpretation. Furthermore, the Carpocratian ‘libertine gnosis’ is now defined as just one of many manifestation of an antinomian ‘spiritual’ or existential, tendency intrinsic to the human condition; such tendencies are much better understood in our ‘post modern’ epoch than in the third century. Why the anonymous author chose to attribute his or her text to the notorious and much-vilified Carpocrates must remain a mystery.

Perhaps he or she was a schismatic Carpocratian?

Perhaps the author(s) wished to take advantage of a certain aura of controversy surrounding this anathematised heretic?

 

                 A partial history of the Tractatus was uncovered in the eighteenth century by the eccentric English antiquarian Barnabas Scarfe. His compendious book Ye Reliques of Olde Norfolke (1749) refers in some detail to a volume called Opus Contra Mundum (The Work Against The World), found in a London book shop on an inhospitable, rainy, autumnal day in 1738.  Scholars have since identified this as a copy of the so-called ‘Paris edition’ of 1718, itself an expurgated reprint of a version of the Opus issued in Germany under that incorrect title in the year 1618.

The Opus Contra Mundum, known as an ‘engraved variant’, was an illustrated version of the original Pseudo-Carpocratian text, reproduced, so far as we can tell, with scrupulous faithfulness to the original, but accompanied by an extensive and elaborate, theosophical, Hermetic-Alchemical commentary.

 The heavy, macabre engravings illustrating the volume give the impression of some Faustian Grimoire, and, without doubt, it was this magical-hermetic imagery (and the accompanying, convoluted, even opaque, exegesis) that first attracted Scarfe to the volume.

               After extensive researches on the continent in the years 1740 to 1741, involving travels in France, Germany and the Balkan countries; after searching numerous dusty and forbidden archives, Scarfe traced the Opus Contra Mundum to its source manuscript. Some experts dispute Scarfe’s theory, but nevertheless we will explain it here, as it is still the only coherent account extant.

               Scarfe eventually tracked down, and indeed obtained, a rare copy of the 1599 Eisleben edition of the Tractatus Contra Mundum during a stay in Moldavia in 1741. This was not, of course the first printed edition of the text which, we now know, appeared in Thuringia in 1587. However, the owners of the 1599 version also provided our indefatigable antiquary with a short, printed pamphlet (undated) which contained an account the traditional origin of the work written in a peculiar and outmoded form of scholastic Latin.

Thus Scarfe learned of the Gariannonum Manuscript, copied and illuminated by the Monks of St. Fursa in the year of Our Lord 632. It was this document (transcribed in awe and trepidation from a decaying Latin original) which, despite condemnation by the Holy See, circulated in the ensuing centuries among secret sects of initiates in Central Europe.

Scarfe was in no doubt of the significance of this information, having engaged in antiquarian researches into the origins of Fortress Gariannonum, built by the Romans on the Norfolk coast in AD275 as part of the Litus Saxonicum. In the Post-Roman era Gariannonum was, of course, known as Burgh Castle, but in the seventh century, the ascetic Monks of St Fursa established a monastery within the abandoned walls of this forbidding, ancient fortress. Before the arrival of the Romans the site was, according to local archaeologists, an Iron Age cult centre of the Iceni tribe, the locus of unspeakable rites.

 

Scarfe’s 1599 copy of the Tractatus Contra Mundum is not present in the archives at Buckden Palace, neither is the strange little pamphlet. We know of his researches only through his voluminous letters, and extensive references in the first edition of Ye Reliques of Olde Norlfolke integrating the tales of the Gariannonum Manuscript with the folklore of his native East Anglia.

Much of this has been summarised by Wlosok in his invaluable Die Philosopische Gnosis aus Pseudo-Carpocrates of 1965.

As a modern scholar, Wlosok was aware of the more complex history of the text. Permitting himself a tone of understandable scepticism with regard to the outdated researches of Barnabas Scarfe, he devotes equal space to an almost-complete Aramaic Version of the Tractatus. This version was unearthed in 1928 by a team of Italian archaeologists excavating the ancient city of Oxyrhynchus, in the Nile Valley south of Cairo.

 Copies of this papyrus, obtained in difficult circumstances, were made by specialists, but most were destroyed by the Nazis and the Italian Fascists during the war years. Fortunately Wlosok gained access to one of the few remaining copies in a private collection in Vienna. This text, translated into elegant and poetic French by Alexandre Rollin, provides new insight into the history of the Pseudo-Carpocratians.

The accretions to this version, which differs in minor but significant details from the Latin version, disclose a more ancient perspective. The author of the commentaries, possibly a high initiate in the movement, claims an extensive lineage for the cosmology and doctrine of the original Tractatus.

We are told that the Alexandrian Pseudo-Carpocratians were known to themselves as Charontes and claimed to be the inheritors of a tradition dating back to the times of the Babylonian Empire, or earlier. To indicate this they also referred to themselves as the ‘Muttabriqu-Saghulhaza’, or simply the ‘Saghulhaza’ meaning, in an ancient pre-Babylonian language, ‘Upholders of Evil’. The term ‘Muttabriqu’ means ‘She Who Erases’. The real significance of this nomenclature is unclear, but the Charontes took pains to dissociate themselves from all other religions, ‘secret’ mysteries and cultic superstitions. These they condemned out of hand as childish illusions and distractions.

The Oxyrhinchus author defines this ancient language as ‘Chaldean’, an obviously fanciful invention. He says that the Saghulhaza were persecuted, and almost exterminated, by an ancient bloodthirsty, tyrannical king called ‘Akurgal’. Wlosok identifies this personage as Akurghal of Lagash who reigned about 2465BC. The extreme antiquity of these events is startling, but Wlosok is not apologetic, noting that the Aramaic initiate depicted a mythic ‘proto-Gnostic’ emanationist (Wlosok’s terms) schema of divine origins, stretching back to the dawn of time and the creation of the cosmos.

In this tradition the ‘gods’ of the Saghulhaza belief system, known as ‘Isua’, ‘Khubilkhu’ or sometimes ‘Tiruru-Geshthu-e’, were born into an epoch of darkness in a ‘time before the stars’. These divine pre-stellar entities perpetuate themselves in ‘our world’ through various modes of metamorphosis or ‘transmigration’. Each trans-aeonic incarnation or re-incarnation, being, in fact, another stage in a cosmic ‘fall’, leading to a progressive diminution of divine potency. To them, and their worshippers, ‘our world’ is an abomination, a degraded sphere of creation inspiring nothing but negation and hatred.

The purpose of Saghulhaza initiation was to bestow insight into the process of transmigration, to assist in a mighty task ‘against’ the nature of ‘our world’ (the hiemarmene, to use a Gnostic term familiar to the Hellenistic Alexandrians). This task is a reversion of the transmigration process; an infinite war against the Light to regain primordial darkness.

The original Carpocratians were denounced for believing that the only way to overcome the power of the angelic hegemony, the hiemarmene, was ‘to commit every deed there is in the world’, including sinful deeds. This liberation could only be accomplished by living through a series of lives or re-incarnations. The Pseudo-Carpocratians assimilated this idea but distorted it almost beyond recognition, attributing the desire for liberation from ‘our world’ to the divine, angelic oppressors themselves.

The need for brevity ensures that only a fragmentary outline of the complex system of the Tractatus Contra Mundum can be described in this note. Interested readers seeking further clarification are referred to Rollin’s lengthy article in Revue d’Assyrologie 25 (1932) entitled ‘Le recit epique des Khubilkhu’. We must discount the pseudo-science of discredited folklorist Vincent Roke, whose idiosyncratic researches into Scarfe’s unreliable observations are rejected by most serious students.

 

In summary we have recounted the bibliographical history of this curious document. From the lost Greek original, to the 1718 Paris edition based upon the Garionnonum Manuscript transcribed by the Monks of St. Fursa, eventually issued, in a rare printed version, in Thuringia in 1587. We have also described the more recently discovered Aramaic variant, also, in part, a copy of the lost Greek primary text, translated into French in 1930.

What became of the lost original?

Allusions in the Aramaic commentaries (tantalisingly incomplete at this point) infer that fanatics destroyed many Pseudo-Carpocratian texts; this was in the turbulent and dangerous years AD390-391. Zealous Christians, encouraged by Theodosius the Great, attempted to eliminate all traces of heresy and paganism, even burning Alexandria’s precious Sarapeion Library in their successful bid to establish a new religious or theocratic hegemony, throughout the known world.

Many secrets were lost during the terrible events surrounding the destruction of the Sarapeion; it is not inconceivable that diligent archaeologists and historians may yet uncover further clues regarding the identity of the original Pseudo-Carpocrates - but, for the time being, we can only speculate.

illus: Sphinx Galactica, 2003

 

Monday, 19 October 2015

In The Soft State Zone

Meanwhile, Cornfield came upon a tattered figure, shuffling ahead of him down the hollow corridor, illuminated so vividly in the glare of the overhead strip-lights.
He slowed his pace so that he was following this curious old woman who, though stooped with arthritis, was moving with an air of urgency. She led him to a door inlaid with panels of whorled glass, decorated with undulating metal tendrils; iron blossoms creeping across pearl grey-pink panes engraved with angelic, ethereal faces Drugged eyes, drooping lips.
               Silence.
               He listened but could hear nothing.
               Ahead and behind, just a deserted corridor with gleaming white tiles and veined, marble pillars.
               Knowing the old crone had gone inside he was compelled to follow and – for his audacity – was greeted by the most fascinating vision.
               He was standing high on a gallery fashioned out of iron, its balustrade extending around the perimeter of the entire room. Across the other side, exactly opposite, was another door of the same design as the one now swinging gently shut behind him.
               Between was an abyss.
               Blue air.
               Streaks and eddies of  violet light.
Trailing streamers of purple tinged with black. In the centre a shaft, rising to the empyrean, falling to infinite depths.
This was the Soft State Zone.
               Soundlessly, gracefully, continuously, slabs of golden metal drifted past, sailing upwards with a turning motion, slowed down images of jet aircraft at high altitude, where all sense of speed and direction has been eliminated in favour of a feeling of weightless progression. Busy machines scuttled across on wires that led nowhere. Boxes, bristling with metal arms and tubes, latticed with ostensibly decorative holes in arabesque patterns, floated static for a second or two before dropping away into some abyssal realm beyond all perception.
               Neon lights flickered. Black holes in the fabric of the almost tactile atmosphere opened and closed with obscene noises. Wires and electrodes gleamed in the suffused light.
               Cornfield noticed a vague, female figure suspended in space. It was slowly revolving, feet together, arms outstretched, fingers hooked convulsively, head thrown back in ecstasy or pain. Whole metal plates encased her limbs like sculpted armour. Cylindrical objects revolved in a circle about her. Above her head billowed a black thunder cloud where lightning flickered with subdued ferocity. White plates the colour of asbestos floated on the surface of this cloud and letters of the Greek alphabet appeared and disappeared on their surfaces in random patterns.
To the left of the cloud, above the radiant face of the female entity, was suspended a curious contraption. Its main component was a square cuboid apparatus with a curved horn-like feature projecting from one of its corners. Clipped to its side was a complex of pipes and wires from which was suspended a tube with a bulbous swelling at one end supporting a metal plate. A cluster of delicate, pronged instruments reminiscent of dental equipment was in contact with the figure, constantly probing, tapping and massaging the figure’s back with wide sweeps as she floated this way and that, suspended in viscous luminosity.
               Below the figure and to its right three shapes glowed silver. The first was a diagrammatic representation of an exploding star, a sort of giant asterisk. The second took the form of three concentric rings. The third consisted of twelve oblong blocks of silver laid together in such a way that their inner edges formed a circle.
 Lights flashed on and off beneath the glass floor as, suddenly, a brilliant flare lit up seven gold cones, luminous forms materialising for an instant before vanishing amid drifting rainbows.
               His attention was again drawn to the suspended figure. He noted the wide open eyes and fine black wires trailing from her russet coloured nipples, so swollen and inviting, twin crowns for her hypertrophic breasts. He saw, blossoming in the air below her feet, three grinding cylinders surmounted by an inverted crucifix drifting among sonographic echoes of extinct birdcalls, among a galaxy of component parts arranged in six zones. There were ascending, coiling Soft State paths of black and silver.
               Gripped by vertigo Cornfield clung to the rails of the balustrade. The whole area seemed to tilt and roll like the deck of a ship caught in a storm. The central figure opened and closed her legs thrusting her body in a contortion, moving her arms in slow circles – a blind swimmer in an acid bath. The near zone was drenched in a sticky, oozing cloud of white, milky light that dripped over the quietly whirring machinery, sending impulse needles spinning behind glass plates.
               A cage materialised. A vicious portcullis above her head which descended around her body, moulding itself to her throbbing, armoured, plastic flesh. There was a spasm of mechanistic carnality and a spurt of crimson was ejected into the shimmering haze.

               As Cornfield turned to leave the centre of this vast hollow space became brilliant white, glowing with the intensity of lava in the bowels of a volcano or metal in a furnace. Bolts of red shivered across the scene illuminating the inferno in a hellish glare. He heard a long, breathless sigh, an eerie sound on a descending chromatic scale of soft, warmly textured notes, melting into cascades of snowflakes, congealing into the faces of Netherlandish angels – wide eyes, cheeks formed from the wings of hummingbirds – blue, turquoise, violet – all the colours of unattainable dreams.

A FRAGMENT from ‘DEBRIS’, 1970

Illus: Bridal Viscosity, 1972