Simon Magus

Simon Magus is an interesting guy. He reminds me of Timothy Leary.

Simon is one of that obscure and disparate bunch who go by the name of early Gnostics. They are obscure because we don't know much about them at all, really, and most of the info comes in the form of vicious put-down by rival early Christian dudes. And they are disparate because there are loads of different Gnostic groups or 'sects'; though just how much of this has any real basis, and how much is later commentators trying to bring order to delicious chaos, is unclear.

Simon first caught my eye in the final couple of pages of Jung's 'adventures' in the Red Book. It's not exactly climactic-apocalyptic stuff: events in the book do not proceed in linear fashion. Rather, the path is serpentine in nature (in more ways than one, it transpires). It may even, I surmise, take on the form of the Uroboros, the snake that bites its own tail, circular, never to end.

Anyhow...... , here, right near the end, Christ, a rare player in the Book, makes a cameo appearance. He is spied lurking in the shades, and Jung's 'I' realises who he is. Christ has a bit of a chat with Philemon, another obscure Gnostic who has taken on a bit of a Wise Old Man role in the life of Jung. Christ is not overly impressed with this aged Gnostic, and at one point - it always reads to me as expressed in dismissive irritation - calls Philemon 'Simon Magus, or whatever your name may be.' Funny this, taking Philemon to be Simon Magus.

It is from Simon, apparently, that the word 'simony' derives. He was, after all, Simon Magus: Simon the Magician. And when he caught sight of Peter doing some magic tricks with the Holy Ghost, he couldn't resist asking the price for letting him in on the secret. This didn't go down too well.

More interestingly (personally at least) is the way that Simon goes around with as his constant companion one Helen or Helena. This young lady it seems was a slave and a prostitute, who Simon picked up in Tyre. She was in a previous life Helen of Troy, no less. So the story goes.

Gnostic metaphysics have far more room and respect for the feminine than does orthodox Christianity. This was one of the focal points which led to the early Christians demonising and intending to get rid of the Gnostics. You see, in the Gnostic systems, God is female. Or, rather, God's first thought, the Ennoia, is feminine. God is Goddess, at least in so far as the divinity impinges upon our life here on planet Earth. There are many variations, but the main drift goes like this. Sophia, the Goddess, falls from the Pleroma, the abode of the gods and goddesses, eventually touching base on this planet, the life on which is her creation. She is stuck here, however, unable to get back to the Pleroma. In Simon's version of events, Sophia incarnates in female forms, eventually turning up in the body of Helena the divine prostitute.

In alchemy, and for Jung, Helena is the soror mystica. She is the divine companion who accompanies the alchemist in his work. Without her presence, her assistance, he has no hope of success. Jung of course talks of 'anima', the sacred other, a term which a number of readers of this blog don't like. Be that as it may. It is significant, I suggest, that in the life of Simon Magus the soror turns up, not as a Virgin Mary type, or Princess Diana, not even as an inspired Pre-Raphaelite muse. She's a divine prostitute-slave. Sexy, no doubt, sensuous, possessing dark, dangerous beauty.

Equally, the female alchemist may find turning up on her doorstep unannounced one morning the frater, her mystic beloved counterpart. I am conflating alchemy and Gnosticism here; I am aware of this. They are not the same, but the similarities outweigh the differences on the theme getting an airing here. Simon Magus, Simon the Gnostic, is Simon the Great Magician, after all. Magic is essentially the art of transformation. And there is nothing that will get Simon going more than the transmutation of transmutations, that of base metal into gold.

The females in the stories from the orthodox solar, masculine religions always get a bad rap. Get this. Helen the prostitute does not fit in to the prostitute-and-whore demeaning fantasy of orthodox-based renunciate religiosity. She is sacred, she comes dripping sexy divinity. She is Sophia. Without her the great Simon Magus is lost, nothing.

The women are always the seductresses, luring the young male hero away from his noble quest. They're the bad guys (or gals). Take Odysseus of Greek mythology fame. There he is, doing all sort of important stuff. Then he gets seduced by the goddess-nymph Calypso. Seven years he wastes in her arms, before finally escaping her evil clutches and getting back on track. A similar fate befalls Aeneas in Virgil's 'Aeneid', captivated by the lovely Dido until he is reminded of his 'true purpose' and leaves her in the lurch.

What rubbish stories. Who are these pathetic guys, who allow themselves to get diverted for so long? I always thought that spiritual life involved taking personal responsibility for your actions. It's one of the oldest tricks in the book: get waylaid by the beauty of a girl, then blame her for your own lack of conviction. Or there is another take on the story. Maybe Odysseus's seven years with the lovely nymph were not a waste of time at all. Maybe he was learning a whole bundle of stuff from her. Maybe his time with her was a necessary part of his journey through life. Maybe she was the soror mystica all the while, but he was too much of a wimp to own up. Just maybe....

P.S. In an unpredictable turn, I can report that the Wikipedia entry on Simon Magus is not bad at all, a decent reference for anybody wanting a little closer acquaintance with our wacky hero.

Images: The Magician from the Hermetic Tarot
             Calypso's Isle by Herbert James Draper. Those Victorians liked to lay it on thick ....
     

A Few Flowers and Animals

The Daisies

The Michaelmas daisies in the back garden have just about had it for another year. The handsome white flowers are long-lasting, but even their beauty fails to stay forever. Since the inhabitants of this house are less than prompt with their gardening clean-ups, there remain large numbers of still-sturdy stalks, capped by dead or nearly dead heads of a sickly off-yellow colour. Some look putrid, as if they will smell bad, but they don't. Daisies past the sell-by date.

I recently had a dream. I was in a house set above an empty street. The town below appeared rather old, maybe a picturesque little place tucked away among the Tuscan hills. All was completely silent, apart from music that was playing in a room near the window overlooking the deserted street. It was on a vinyl record, played on an old gramophone player like His Masters Voice records once boasted as its emblem. The music was crackly, the stylus scratchy. It was vaudeville music that had been playing, the same, same music, for years. It was all old hat, the house was empty. All my life, since I was a little child, I had been listening to this same old piece of music; it had been going on since the beginning of time, it seemed. It had become increasingly tiresome and tiring, the tunes more desperately cliched, the quality of sound now painfully thin, crackly, tinny. I knew that people continued to listen to this record, but the room was empty of any other life; the music appeared to be playing to itself.

I suddenly yet calmly realised that I was under no compulsion to listen to this music any more. I quietly walked out of the house, into the bright morning sunshine, leaving the music to continue playing repetitively to itself in an empty room.

Walking out, walking away from the music that is still apparently doing its same tired and tiresome thing. Listening, entrancement, not obligatory......

The Dark Rose

The artwork of Luis Royo will not be to everybody's taste. I get that. Young females dripping dark sensuousness, clad in tattoos and body adornments more than clothing; wielding glistening swords, their most faithful lover, as they prowl the night under the stormy sky of the full moon. Yes indeed. But still.....

Beauty is subversive, according to Royo. "When we talk of beauty in our society, it always appears slightly fickle and superficial, when it's completely provocative."  "Pleasure and beauty as subversion, even in power and religion." Our 'weapon of splendour' he calls it.

It's funny. Declare that art is subversive, and everybody nods their head in sage approval. Replace the word 'art' with 'beauty' and it feels a whole load more uncomfortable. It's no longer safe.

I have watched a couple of interviews with Senor Royo, and he comes across as an unpretentious and modest man. He has studied Tarot seriously, and knows it well, he states (he is the creator of three Tarot decks, again not to everyone's taste). However, he cannot read and interpret properly for other people, he admits: he doesn't have the gift. I like this kind of straightforward honesty.

A major theme in some of Royo's work can be termed 'beauty and beast'. Such drawings or paintings generally involve magnificently-crafted nubile females in the company of some powerful Pan-like figure, or kind of monster or semi-monster. To some, this undoubtedly appears as just another excuse to depict sexy girls in various stages of undress in borderline taboo/transgressive (transgressive of what?!) perversion. To others, though, it may unfold as a meditation on the juxtaposition of contraries, extremes, and their relation to, communication with, one another. Are they truly distinct, parts of a greater whole, or what?

There's probably some truth in both of these stances. They are not mutually exclusive. Anyhow, Luis Royo sometimes likes to accompany his pictures with a little story, often based upon ancient or oriental mythologies. Here is one.....

Once upon a time, the mortals lived their lives in ignorance and forgetfulness of the gods. The divine beings were angry at such insult, and sent a messenger, a kind of emissary of death, to sow terror among the humans as a kind of punishment, or in an attempt to shock them out of their amnesia. Humans lived in constant fear of this figure of death and darkness who walked amongst them. One day, however, the dark emissary came upon a beautiful maiden who, instead of running away terrified as she was supposed to do, felt 'bewitched and attracted by the cold touch of death, and the bloody and sensuous kiss which turned them into sinister ladies of the night.'

Not much of a story, really. Some might consider it a bit sick. I find it interesting, thought-provoking.

A Bird of the Night

I had never visited Dundee before. There are many folk in the same position: although it is the fourth largest city in Scotland (which doesn't mean an awful lot....), Dundee still feels like a bit of a backwater. It is en route to nowhere in particular, with the exception of Aberdeen.

I was looking forward to seeing the statue of Desperate Dan, an iconic figure from the 'Dandy' comic which, along with the 'Beano', held a certain place in my childhood. The publishers, Thomson, remain in Dundee. I was very disappointed in the statue, as it turns out. Smaller than I had anticipated, grotesque and ugly, not fitting for the comic book hero at all.

In an effort to even things up, my wife and I paid a visit to the Dundee Wildlife Centre. It is located right next to where we were staying, which helped. Everything was going smoothly until we reached the Great Grey Owl enclosure. There are a number of impressive owls living at the Centre, the Great Greys being just one. But there, peering straight out at us were two enormous birds, their saucerlike eyes fixing us with an unalterable stare. "There's another one" exclaimed my wife, pointing to a motionless eminence perched on a branch high up. "There's another" she said, gesturing to a slightly smaller character sitting on top of their wooden house set aloft. "Oh no" I chipped in, "and another."

Five Great Grey Owls. All utterly silent, motionless. All bearing down on us with fixed, magnificent stares. We, in turn, stared back, trying unsuccessfully to match the focus of these birds. The only movement in the owl enclosure came when one of the inhabitants cocked its head at an angle, to get a better look at us, I suppose.

Streams of communication seemed to emanate between us. The nature and content of that communication, especially from the viewpoint of the owls, was way beyond me, and profoundly mysterious. But communication there undoubtedly was.

Unnerved and not a little disturbed, my wife and I eventually moved on, feeling, to tell the truth, relieved to be away from the owls. We examined the enclosure next door, and I made the error of casting an eye back at the owl residence. There they were, all five of them, still fixed intently on us. Their heads are like corkscrews, rotating silently on top of motionless bodies: all they needed to do was effortlessly twist their necks. We almost fled in terror, to observe brown bears ripping apart whole cauliflowers, nice and cheery in comparison to the Great Grey Owls.