The 'Remembered' Primal Scene and the Inquisitor's Lash

If you worry all the time, God thinks you don't trust Him as a parent. Dads should put their children at ease. The kids should fear only truly fear one thing - His wrath. When they love him but fear his wrath they don't stray from the fold for they feel protected there. But even then, in the dark depths of their Mordor basement subconscious, everything is topsy-turvy, so that dad they so adore by day--that peerless God of love and light whose wrath is easily avoided by being good--is a devil of darkness and evil for whom no amount of goodness will suffice. His hugs and head pats distort into sexual molestation and abuse; his carefree protective spirit morphs into ritualized endangerment and evil laughter. These things are inescapable as one can't will away the distortion in one's reflection on a pond after a frog jumps in. Closing your eyes does no good. The waves have you pegged. Serial killers are born when they identify with the rippled reflection when they become what they fear.

In HAXAN: WITCHCRAFT THROUGH THE AGES we see several medieval women of various ages and class strata tortured by the clergy into revealing the sabbaths they attended, naming names and citing abusers, leaving us to wonder if these confessions are real, just lies to get the torture over with, or some kind of primordial unconscious shared memory kicked loose by prolonged agonies. Maybe if you torture any person long enough, they'll 'remember' the witches sabbaths they attended, the torture itself will create the sabbath from the ether; they will name onto you the persons there and who did or didn't kiss the arse of Lucifer. Hypnotize a kid deep enough they'll remember some kind of occult basement ritual involving all sorts of sexually depraved initiations (sex with parents and neighbors and demonic chanting robes); hypnotize an adult and they'll remember going aboard a space craft and being probed by aliens. Either way, maybe it's the same innate response, the primordial color bars, like the video from Heywood Floyd that pops onto the monitors to explain the Jupiter mission after HAL is taken apart (the mechanical equivalent of hypnosis) in 2001: A SPACE ODYSSEY.

The question arises: is it all the same psychic phenomenon? Does prolonged trauma and psychic intensity suspend conscious discernment between truth and illusion, dream and waking, and thus triggering either FMS (False Memory Syndrome) or some kind of vivid sleep paralysis reflection of the current scene being endured (i.e. the hypnotist or inquisitor being reflected as Lucifer) or that aforementioned primal extended trauma in the delivery room and then the baby ward behind the glass? Does it kick loose the barriers put there around our minds, the way a sandcastle hems in a piece of the ocean suddenly kicked open by a bored child as the tide rolls over it?

The "remembered" Satanic rituals in the Middle Ages occurred in the deep woods, which at the time were still full of strange monsters, especially in the dead of night.  If you lived in the deep woods just getting up to go the outhouses at three AM was probably the scariest thing in the world. still largely unexplored and perfect for the unconscious's projection of itself. By contrast, for modern rituals, in the suburbs, it's always the parents' basement. My therapist told me that when we were doing dream analysis - the basement is always the unconscious. So now anytime your dream takes you to a basement, you know where you are.

Hold that "thought" for a moment dear listener... but you can't. It's already gone, until lifetimes from now someone tortures or hypnotizes it out of you.

I've come to some bizarre conclusions about the way differentiation of self occurs - the 'break' from total unification with the oceanic Mother/I AM beyond space and time. Wanna hear 'em? Maybe I can first explain via this collage:

Keep it in mind while you consider the delivery room where you were born and initially, painfully, differentiated. Consider the total darkness of the womb with closed eyes, and then opening them with a painful spank on the ass the immediate intake of air into the lungs like kickstarting a lawn mower, kicking a wonky TV. Remember the utter dependency, feeling of paralysis as limbs first begin to move, the various nurses arms, varying from sweet and nurturing to robotic and callous. Adults get all misty about it, but artists remember all too well the adjustment period from oh sweet nothing to a world of wipes and shots and shitting and--especially if you were born in the 60s-70s-- when breast feeding was considered unhealthy--being bottle-fed. No breast action ever; instead being forced to sleep in dark rooms with rows of other infants, each of you sequestered from the others by plastic or glass trays. This was considered preferential; meanwhile giant parents and masked nurses loomed over you like moai, peering through the glass, feeding you powdered formula from plastic bottles while they smoked unfiltered Luckies and exhaled in your face. Once in a while a very big nurse, meaner than the others, grabs you, roughly, and gives you some painful shot or demeaning diaper change, with all the nurturing care of a tired surly underpaid fast food worker.

Eventually, hey, it all works out. You get out of there and get to go 'home' with a crib (a new kind of cage) all your own - a nice mobile above it. You get a playpen, toys, stairs to climb like Everest. But oh man what a scary start. That infant care room is so cold and rough we endeavor to forget it as soon as possible; it's the original trauma, and it creates a kind of instant PTSD amnesia. Maybe we try at first to recall where we were before we got stuck in the roach trap womb, what important papers we never got to finish before the other guy shot us, or goodbyes never said because the roof collapsed or the killers got away because we were dead before we could identify them.... but unless we were experiencing stress high enough that our PTSD continues past this amnesiac barrier, we don't remember that trauma, the soul carries over only when it can fit on the head of a pin. Anything too traumatic might stick to our soul like chunks of flypaper, leaving us to scream with terrible nightmares of burning up in our fighter planes over Midway.

It's the same thing really, as Manchurian Candidate Monarch 7 programming (1). The trauma of delivery is duplicated, the orienting into a new identity compressed.

So do the math: masked figures, obscure chanting (medical jargon, foreign language?), pain, degradation, parents, aliens, giants. demons, arse-kissing and degrading ass related issues. lien anal probing = rectal thermometers = molestation = giant mean nurses = Satanic ritual. it all fits, man, like Freud fits into the drooling infant's crib.

Rather than try to insist aliens or Satanists are real or not, I prefer to take the Schrodinger's Cat approach - which is to study the phenomena of myth in these cases, for in 'knowing' for sure the aliens, or the Monarch mind control subjects, or Satanic basement pedophile cult networks in your neighborhood, etc. are real or not, the myth, the paranoia, dissipates, becomes either shame (how could you be naive enough to believe) or depression (good god the world is one evil cesspool). But when we don't know it's pure myth, a creeping dread tempered by doubt.

So instead of picking a side, think along those lines, the fluidity of the Schrodinger's Cat box, the in-between state is what gives these myths their hypnotic power. I only reserve judgement for those who would try to debunk too hard and vehemently, as if any doubt or open-ended phenomenon is their personal enemy, for they are like the audience member at the movies who--rather than get into the story and enjoy it--has to loudly scoff at how fake everything is, ruining it for everyone else. In the end, perhaps, this is the only way we can  contemplate such things. Just believing in magic might somehow will it into being - maybe the church understood that, they knew reality was not concrete, but ever fluid and leaking in all four directions.

As humans stuck in one mind, trapped in space/time, it's futile to try and separate the real from the imagined, the 'cover memory' vs. the dream symbolism as per Freud. The sabbaths recalled under church torture in the Inquisition, the ritual Satanic abuse at an institutional level 'remembered' by hypnotized children, and the sex power trips of higher dimensional reptilian alien beings inhabiting the bodies of powerful figures in world orders. and the primal scene of the "child being beaten" scenario in Freudian infantile sexuality - and the mysteries of adult initiation - the enigmatic terror and excitement of those childhood mysteries surviving into adulthood, kept alive through the magic of paranoia.

The old saying 'just because you're paranoid doesn't mean they're not out to get you' might well be reverse-engineered to mean that if you're paranoid they WILL be out to get you. Whoever 'they' are, they can somehow sense your senses sensing them. Your paranoia might be like a magnet, the way a person across the street senses you looking at them and turns to see you too --neither of you ever turn to look usually until that one moment.

Notice the men in black sometime, and suddenly they're everywhere. Ignore them and they disappear. Stare at them and they know you know and, suddenly, without a word, you're on their list. Unless you forget about it, and tell no one. Those you'd tell would only think you were crazy, anyway. How do you know you're off the list? When you stop worrying you are. It's not like it's going to get around the workplace or school. Your thoughts are your own; your vilest subconscious distortions are kept deep in the dungeon. Or are they? Someone is always listening. Only a fool believes they can't be fooled by their own perceptions. The ruler of your own unconscious, the unconscious's own ego (anima), is not always your friend. It depends on how well you treat her. Give her an artistic outlet, or sufficient sleep to whip up wild dream canvasses, give her a voice, a hole in the floor, and listen to her whispers, and she'll be your ally. Bottle her up and lock her in chains and she'll flood you with nightmares, and hysterical symptoms, until you see witches everywhere, and they devour you.

Eventually torture, fever blows open a hole in the floor. But hey, it's not your fault. You don't even know her.


NOTES
1. presuming that exists in reality blah blah