Saturday, May 15, 2010


"And when they of Ashdod arose early on the morrow, behold, Dagon was fallen upon his face to the earth before the ark of the Lord. And they took Dagon, and set him in his place again. And when they arose early on the morrow morning, behold, Dagon was fallen upon his face to the ground before the ark of the Lord; and the head of Dagon and both the palms of his hands were cut off upon the threshold; only the stump of Dagon was left to him."

I Samuel 5:3-4

Morning now, at last, long dead, delicious dream of Dagon, drunken icthyophagous and anthropomorphic God of Biblical/Ancient decay, stagnation…the gibbering 'Lord of Fishes and Waters': floating high above the Earth, revolving with the sun in the heavens, cyclonic in the cumulus clouds - disintegrating, atomic, turning putrescent, raining his Avatar's offal and filth down upon the upturned faces of his delirious devotees…an old woman, gray, wrinkled, opening a rustic gate, strangled, with her black tongue flapping greasily, flopping like the wings of a crow or a death's head moth…staring starry-eyed to the black rotting heavens…the trees behind her reaching [tenebrous] transcendently towards the lowering sky…the rain, then, of x:

where x = {blood, ichor, mana, ambrosia, slime, bile, mucus, semen, vaginal fluids, tears, sweat, mother's milk}

infecting and maddening the animal populace, entering by any gaping orifice…then an overview of Dagon's body, torn, pierced by earthquakes, ripped by lightning, settling into the ocean and becoming the continents…his madness behind and underneath that strata of our lives, the ground that we walk upon, the reality of the 'everyday'…

She said to me, in a sort of prayer to Dagon [at least that is how I interpreted it]:

"When I would go outside it used to only really be in the search for beauty. Transcendental beauty above all. The sort of perfection of form that would take my breath away, that would allow me to lose consciousness of my surroundings in its presence and to step, as if through a door then opened before me, into another world…a better place? I don't know, but one where the clarity of the dream world would surface, and not retreat in shame or modesty when I glanced at it too piercingly. I just recognized this duality, this conflict between the search for truth, honestly, and the longing wish I have for another place, another time, a place where none of the horror of our modern world exists. Where would that be? Hyperborea? The Stone Age? A location and era free of other humans? I had a taste of isolation a couple of times when I was lost in the wilderness…is that what I really want?"

"Are you afraid that this time, this wilderness would reject you? I would be."

"Shouldn't I be? I seem to carry a taint, a sickness, a virus with me wherever I go."

"Just because you're human, yes."

"There are places that naturally resist us - or resist me, I should say. And it doesn't matter how contrite and apologetic I seem to be on the outside, or how different I am or think I am, or what I believe or feel, these places, these worlds seem to know better. They don't want me to even enter them, because of what I am on the inside."

"What are you on the inside?"

"A dreamer, I guess. And human."

"I like how the word 'human' sounds like a curse when you say it. An insult."

She smiled. Finally.

"I feel sometimes like I'm...just someone who is ready to leave this world - and never look back. What do I have to keep me here?"

I couldn't answer her. I knew what I wanted to say, and yet…

"Or maybe the two 'lusts' are the same, you know, the longing for a place, different from here, where truth does reign…or at least 'my' truth, I have to recognize that…"


"And…the need to escape this world, the need to just disappear, to not leave a trace, to sink into nothingness as if I had never been born. To not leave a history behind me, to not leave a life that people would recognize, not to be 'mysterious' or anything of that sort, but just to be free, to finally be completely free.."

"Truth and flight? Truth and escape? The same?"


Dagon is the progenitor and issue of nature's most malevolent aspects, its most insidious instincts, the dark underbelly of the "natural", the onus of "physical law". 'Progenitor' in that he is the link open to us in our researches - the first demigod tossed to our dissecting fingers by the shores of the unknown, the impenetrable. He is an atavistic symbol, and a symbol of atavism, his form reaches into the depths of our collective unconscious, consciousness and its opposites…the fish we caught and fed upon, the first deities of the seas and streams of our species' childhood, our own personal childhood. He seems to be the Earth and still the Ocean Father, 'issue' because he is of material nature, separated by his earthly form from the more transcendent varieties of air spirits without avatars, manifestation, or corporeal semblances - without names, without form. In his material nature he is too closely related to us [flesh of fish, flesh of Adam, flesh of Eve] and our reality to be assumed a deity of a 'higher' nature - unless one subscribes rashly to the theory that we are made in the image of God…in that case he is still something lower, something even more primal, and only the blinded fetus, at a certain stage of development, resembles him.

Your tragedy is still, in itself, a call to Dagon, a call to the Human inside:

"It seems to me, more than ever before," she continued, breathlessly, "that I now place people in these few archetypes, these pigeonholes which I am not sure really exist for any of them anyway, or for me. I look at so many men and women around me, mostly women…and I was just thinking of this when I was outside on the balcony a second ago, looking into the water…about how women assume, almost automatically, certain characteristics of their race, their true creed - their occupation, and how they develop a body form, a shape, a posture, etc. as a mask, as a costume, as an identity which they wear over their true selves like a shield, a wall…"

"What does my body say to you?" I asked her, hesitantly.

"Well you're different, you always stay inside, so…"

"So I don't reflect that world, fair enough…but if you saw me for the first time what would you think I was? What kind of person?"

"A swimmer. A person who…swam only at night." She laughed.

"That's…imaginative. I thought you were going to say something different."

"I have absolutely no respect for unimaginative, uncreative people. People? How are they people? I have very little respect for the imaginative ones either."

"One has to be fair."

"But…it has beneficent powers, for me, to find people that I can respect. Otherwise my misanthropy begins to choke me. Literally, I have trouble breathing, I can't leave the house. All I feel is…hate."

"I hope you don't hate me."

"Give it time." Another laugh.

"I seek everyday heroes, if only, at times, to cure myself of my melancholy, this persistent sadness…I need to believe that we are capable of something more. What do you wish for?"

"I wish I could find someone I could really relate to."

I shrugged this off, because beneath my eyelids there is still Him, and His dark dream:

Dagon's own flesh crumbles into the dust of the earth, his veins open to bleed the rivers and streams, his eyes shed the salt of the ruined fields, of Carthage, of tumbled Troy, the white spires of Alexandria filled with ashes. Dagon's form shifts through the strata of our shallow surface geology: his sides, heaving and wet with the dew of remote stars, dry under the searing sun of our own forgotten deserts. Dagon is the sacrificed one, given as a gift to die, decay, and sow the fields of our Mother with the warmth and nutrients of dissolution. Darkening fertilization through putrescence. Earth lay dormant on her broad back, and Dagon fell from the black sky, devoid of all cheering light, to rot; the light of his transition to inanimacy glows in the eyes of the Elders, and they warm their gnarled gray limbs over his corpse-fire.

And I gave her what she was looking for. All the time in the world.

Oh, his heat radiates across all spheres and worlds of light, and the effluence of his body falling away, sloughing off in continents of once-divine flesh, spread his undying essence into our air…even now, below, the process continues, deep in the heart of our Father laying curled like an unborn, dead in the womb of our Mother, beneath the benign surface where magma churns in the caverns of his silenced viscera.

And all creatures, unseeing parasites of his fallen form, worship and pay homage to his transition by our own involuntary decay and return…

U. Amtey
22 September 2003
18:12 EST