On this night of the Worm Moon, sacred to serpents and dragons, for myself symbols of the wisdom of our darkness and of unknowns beyond all limits and all laws respectively, especially those of water as turbulent systems of primal chaos from which all things are born and arise, we rejoice and celebrate death and chaos in their positive forms as regeneration and metamorphosis, rebirth and transformation, as the Conqueror Worm liberates us from the limits of our form.
On these three Nights of the Worm, fleeting herald of a new and liminal time of change and transformation, like a gate opening in the celestial spheres, letting angels through, or devils, and I welcome them both. For as Nelson Mandela once said we are not in a position to turn down help from anyone, and as the Ides of March resurface the battle cry of Sic Semper Tyrannis against the fall of the Old Republic to tyranny in the captured state of Vichy America as in Caesar’s Rome, and under the spell of an idiot madman, Nazi revivalist, and Russian agent whose criminal regime is all about the subversion of democracy and our enslavement to elite hegemonies of wealth, power, and privilege and the theft of our souls through falsification, commodification, and dehumanization, this I say; if our angels will not help us, perhaps our devils will.
Let us go not quietly, for all Resistance is War to the Knife, and those who respect no limits and no laws may hide behind none.
As written by Friedrich Nietzsche in Thus Spake Zarathustra, Prologue, part 5; “I tell you: one must still have chaos within oneself, to give birth to a dancing star.” In the original; ”Ich sage euch: man muß noch Chaos in sich haben, um einen tanzenden Stern gebären zu können”.
Of the destabilization and destruction of order, law, and authority as revolutionary struggle and seizures of power I have written often and will again, for the songs of liberty are sung throughout all of history and the world and among all humankind; herein I wish to say to my comrades now dying in such struggles without number or simply of being human and the limits of our flesh as an imposed condition of struggle, there is nothing to fear in being destroyed and recreated, for death is nothing but freedom from the limits of our form.
As I said to my mother when I awakened in her arms at the age of nine from being cast out of my body by the force wave of a police grenade at Bloody Thursday 1969 in People’s Park Berkeley, and a moment of awareness beyond time wherein I contained myriads of possible futures, Most Sincerely Dead and then returned to the sidereal universe for reasons I can not understand; “Don’t be afraid. Death is nothing, nothing but awakening from an illusion.”
So many echoes and reflections of that moment of illumination and Awakening under the light of the Worm Moon now fill my thoughts, seize and shake me with wonder and terror as Rudolph Otto described immersion in the Infinite, of stories which take form in us and unfold as motivating, informing, and shaping sources; Lewis Carroll’s Jabberwocky, Beowulf, and Poe’s The Conqueror Worm, which together form a manual of Rituals of the Worm.
This is also the night of the Hindu fire festival of dancing and ecstatic trance which precedes Holi, Holika Dahan which like the Festival of the Worm Moon celebrates transformation and rebirth, and curiously in India also the triumph of good over evil in the cannibalistic eating of a wicked king by a hero were-lion, which resonates with the diasporic cult of the Rakshasa demons whose role as a warrior brotherhood is to punish transgression by the mighty beyond the reach of the law, a form of revolution as justice which I call bringing a Reckoning.
First among my intertexts and references here is Poe’s beautiful allegory of death as liberation from a fallen world of madness, sin, and horror. Here human history is a theatrical performance for utterly alien and cruel tyrant gods whose designs for us must be resisted, a poem which founded the Absurdist-Surrealist universe within which H.P. Lovecraft lives, and the Worm a heroic liberator.
The Conqueror Worm
by Edgar Allan Poe
Lo! ’t is a gala night
Within the lonesome latter years!
An angel throng, bewinged, bedight
In veils, and drowned in tears,
Sit in a theatre, to see
A play of hopes and fears,
While the orchestra breathes fitfully
The music of the spheres.
Mimes, in the form of God on high,
Mutter and mumble low,
And hither and thither fly—
Mere puppets they, who come and go
At bidding of vast formless things
That shift the scenery to and fro,
Flapping from out their Condor wings
Invisible Wo!
That motley drama—oh, be sure
It shall not be forgot!
With its Phantom chased for evermore
By a crowd that seize it not,
Through a circle that ever returneth in
To the self-same spot,
And much of Madness, and more of Sin,
And Horror the soul of the plot.
But see, amid the mimic rout,
A crawling shape intrude!
A blood-red thing that writhes from out
The scenic solitude!
It writhes!—it writhes!—with mortal pangs
The mimes become its food,
And seraphs sob at vermin fangs
In human gore imbued.
Out—out are the lights—out all!
And, over each quivering form,
The curtain, a funeral pall,
Comes down with the rush of a storm,
While the angels, all pallid and wan,
Uprising, unveiling, affirm
That the play is the tragedy, “Man,”
And its hero, the Conqueror Worm.
Here is the Project Gutenberg archive of Beowulf, the figure of Grendel’s Mother, a sea dragon who reigns over abyssal chasms of darkness in her cave, being a figure of the Worm near to the Biblical Leviathan or Melville’s Moby Dick. As Jean Genet said to me in a burning house, in a lost cause, in a Last Stand beyond hope of victory or survival; “When there is no hope, one may do impossible things, glorious things.”
And last of three parts of this liturgical assemblage of texts, is Carroll’s glorious Jabberwocky, in which the hero takes the place of the Conqueror Worm as a liberator in a battle with his shadow as a dragon which must be embraced and subsumed, completing the exchange of qualities and transpositions of symbols and metaphors which occur throughout Beowulf as a manual of shapechanging magic.
Jabberwocky
by Lewis Carroll
’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.
“Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
The frumious Bandersnatch!”
He took his vorpal sword in hand;
Long time the manxome foe he sought—
So rested he by the Tumtum tree
And stood awhile in thought.
And, as in uffish thought he stood,
The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
And burbled as it came!
One, two! One, two! And through and through
The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
He went galumphing back.
“And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?
Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!”
He chortled in his joy.
’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.
On the reverse face of this time of spring and rebirth with its many rituals from the vernal equinox to the Worm Moon to Easter, I have written in my post of June 1 2021, Death is a Secret Twin; Death is a secret twin which shares our face but not our dreams which lift and exalt us beyond the limits of our flesh, so Death must steal the echoes and reflections of ours, a thing of shadows filled with secret histories, unspoken truths, unsworn oaths, thousands of myriads of loyalties to private loves and desires betrayed by our failures to make them live and become real by action.
Death is the terror of all that we may have been but did not become, the loss of our disconnectedness and the emptiness of meaning in a world where love cannot redeem us, the grief for beauty which loses context when it is no longer shared and is lost with the fragments of memories which like the genie of perfume escape their bottle to trigger moments out of time and then evanesce like the ghost of a beloved hand which no longer grasps ours back.
We are tattered and broken things, our secret shadows and ourselves, who live in the incandescent now with these repositories of our beautiful dreams and our terrible nightmares, bearing them on into eternity; for this is the great secret of being, that our best selves are formed of all we would deny and keep hidden, and which live beyond us as figures of our glorious sins.
Death is an ambush predator made of our histories, memories, and identities, which must steal these things to become real in the moment of our awakening into its realm of beautiful and terrible dreams, a realm of true being beyond the illusions of our lives which bears names including the Bardo in Tibetan Buddhism and the alam al mythal in Islam, called by Coleridge the Primary Imagination, the Logos in neo-Platonic philosophy and the Gospel of John, and by Jung the Collective Unconscious, and waits to seize us unawares and carry us off to eternity while it replaces us like a faery changeling with the image of our unrealized hopes and unexpressed desires.
Death is a unique and personal demon created by our denial of ourselves, such denial acting as a parasite which destroys its host and operates through a process of falsification like the distorted and captured images in a wilderness of funhouse mirrors, but it can become instead a symbiote, a terrible and monstrous guardian spirit and a guide of the soul which speaks from within our greatest darkness with Forbidden wisdom, like a remora borne by a shark on its journeys through chasms of the unknown not as its nemesis and conqueror but as a servant which grooms from us that which we must cast down from the thrones of our hearts; we humans and our silent and unseen partners the angels of our deaths whom we must wrestle not for victory, for everything in life is more powerful than we are, but to become Unconquered in resistance and free.
Thus may we bear without breaking the flaws of our humanity and the brokenness of the world, become greater and more real and alive than we were born, transcend the limits of our form, and become sublimed as figures of our truths in Sartrean total freedom and authenticity as an art of life, for all true art defiles and exalts.
Here is a faith which asks us to renounce nothing and embrace our true selves, to reimagine and transform ourselves; and offers a path of working with grief process and death transcendence not of control of our passions and dominion of nature, but as seizure of power and autonomy, of the embrace and celebration of our wildness as beings of nature and of those truths immanent in nature and written in our flesh.
Let us embrace our monstrosity and say of this secret twin who knows no limits and is free as Prospero says of Caliban in Act V, Scene 1 of William Shakespeare ’s The Tempest; “This thing of darkness I acknowledge mine.”
How shall we answer death and the terror of our nothingness? Let us challenge and defy such death, and while it waits to claim us with its cold hand of entropy and unraveled time we must seize and shake our shadow and secret twin of longing to become, transgress the boundaries of the Forbidden and perform our best selves, our hopes and our desires, as a guerilla theatre of identities upon the stage of the world in fearless grandeur, and let nothing be lost or remain untested among the limitless possibilities of becoming human.
Let us answer death as Bringers of Chaos and Transformation, and make of our world and humankind a thing of beautiful, terrible truths written in our flesh, and of our dreams and nightmares a brave new world.
As I wrote in reflection on my mother’s death, now years ago; Who then shall we become? Asks our self of surfaces, images, and masks which each moment negotiates our boundaries with others.
To which our secret self, the self of darkness and of passion, the self that lives beyond the mirror and knows no limits, unbound by time and space and infinite in possibilities, replies; Who do you want to become?
As wrote in my post of May 28 2023, The True and False Crows: a Fable; A crow confronts his image in a pool of water, and as Nietzsche warned the darkness looks back. Of this I have written a paragraph on the Nietzschean idea of the Abyss, and of tragedy as failure to embrace our monstrosity and those truths immanent in nature and written in our flesh; the wildness of nature and the wildness of ourselves.
As Nietzsche’s warning in Beyond Good and Evil goes; “He who fights monsters should be careful lest he thereby become a monster. And if thou gaze long into an abyss, the abyss gazes back into thee.”
It is also an origin of evil as the Wagnerian Ring of fear, power, and force; written in the tyrannies and systems of unequal power which hold humankind in their iron grip of force and control as Kristevan abjection and learned helplessness, and the ecological catastrophe which threatens our species extinction as disconnection from nature, control of nature as capitalist exploitation of resources and theft of the commons, carceral states of force and control as embodied violence, and our falsification, commodification, and dehumanization through the Wilderness of Mirrors.
All of this requires the renouncement of love, as Wagner’s figure of tyranny Alberich the Dwarf must do to seize the Ring of power and dominion, a story more familiar to us as Tolkien’s retelling of the Nibelungenlied in his trilogy of novels which recast World War Two as an allegory of the abandonment of addiction to power. This has a corollary; the redemptive power of love, like the power of poetic vision to reimagine and transform ourselves, can free us from the Ring of Power and bring healing to the flaws of our humanity and the brokenness of the world.
As written by Jean Genet in Miracle of the Rose; “A man must dream a long time in order to act with grandeur, and dreaming is nursed in darkness.”
Here follows the paragraph of my thoughts on seeing this image, which if considered as a poem I now think of as the True and False Crows: a fable.
Who is this imposter? If he is me, where now am I? Avaunt, my nemesis, for I shall pursue retribution for this theft of myself beyond all wrath now remembered, through death and hell and the terrors of our nightmares. Come and let us grapple for the truth of ourselves in this place where angels fear, and end not in silence but in exaltation and fire, with roars of defiance hurled against the chasms of our nothingness, supernal and magnificent as the Morningstar, and illuminate for all humankind the path of escape from this prison of illusions and lies.
To this my sister replied, Such poetry!
This is as direct as I can be, o my sister. Should I merit some kind of monument one day, an absurd fantasy as I mean nothing to history and will vanish from the world without a trace, and nothing to anyone beyond yourself as the remnants of family, Dolly as my partner, and those few friends and allies who know my true identity, inscribe this therein.
I have tried to salvage something of our humanity and to become a fulcrum and change the balance of power in the world these past forty years since I was sworn to the oath of the Resistance by Jean Genet, and often failed, but this is not what is important.
What is important is to refuse to submit.
And one thing more; to act with solidarity in revolutionary struggle. As the Oath of the Resistance created in Paris 1940 by Jean Genet from the oath of the Foreign Legion in which he once served, and given to me in Beirut 1982 in a burning house, in a lost cause, in a Last Stand beyond hope of victory or survival, and which I offer to all of you as a tradition to bear forward into the future; “We swear ourselves to each other, to resist and cease not, and abandon not our fellows.”
In this my chosen life mission I have held true, for if each and every one of us stands in solidarity with others regardless of how different they may be from ourselves, we will become liberators and guarantors of each other’s uniqueness, and in refusal to submit will be victorious and free.
He said it was the finest thing he ever stole, the Oath of the Resistance, but I often think of this in terms of a definition of the beauty of human beings; to become Unconquered and free as self created beings in refusal to submit to authority and its instruments of violence, force and control, and the repression of dissent, to refuse our dehumanization and the theft of our souls and autonomy and to do all of this in solidarity and absolute loyalty to each other.
As he once said to me; “Is this not the beauty of men, to resist and never yield, to cede nothing to the enemy, not love nor hope, not our history nor the chance for a future of our own choosing, neither our monstrosity nor our grandeur, nothing of our humanity nor of any human being whose life is in our power to harm or help, to live beyond all limits and all laws and to risk everything to do this for each other?”
I dream of a future something like the future envisioned by Gene Roddenberry in Star Trek. Infinite Diversity in Infinite Combinations; the idea first put forth in the episode Is There In Truth No Beauty?, described in the first issue of the fanzine Inside Star Trek as; “that beauty, growth, progress — all result from the union of the unlike. Concord, as much as discord, requires the presence of at least two different notes. The brotherhood of man is an ideal based on learning to delight in our essential differences, as well as learning to recognize our similarities.” As stated in the episode The Savage Curtain; “I am pleased to see that we have differences. May we together become greater than the sum of both of us.”
Liberty as freedom from authorized identities and truths, and equality and its corollary solidarity; these are the personal and social preconditions of democracy as a free society of equals.
With all of the horrors I have witnessed in a life lived in the unknown spaces of our maps of becoming human marked Here Be Dragons, beyond the limits of the human and the boundaries of the Forbidden, through wars and revolutions as a maker of mischief for tyrants and a monster who hunts other monsters for the chance to salvage something of our humanity, though in this I often fail as I did last spring in Mariupol and in the year of the fall of Afghanistan, regardless of the brokenness of the world and the flaws of our humanity, something in us refuses to submit to the abjection and learned helplessness of authoritarian systems and reaches toward exaltation and freedom. Whether such hope is a gift or a curse remains for each of us to discover in how we live our lives.
In this I speak to you of truths which are immanent in nature and written in our flesh; we must embrace our darkness and claim our truths, and celebrate what Walt Whitman called the songs of ourselves as victorious seizures of power, freedom, and joy.
Love and desire are innate capacities of reimagination and transformative rebirth, which like Dorothy’s magic ruby slippers cannot be taken from us and bear the power to send us home to our heart’s desire, to restore to us the self which is truly ours.
My flesh is a map of private holocausts, written with silent screams, nameless loves, causes lost and won, ephemeral signs of our secret histories and the lies and illusions which capture and distort our images in a wilderness of mirrors and the pathologies of our falsification and disconnectedness.
We have but one escape from the limits of our flesh and the flags of our skin; and this is love. In love we transcend ourselves and become exalted; through the redemptive power of love we may heal the flaws of our humanity and the brokenness of the world.
Love is crucial both to poetic vision and as solidarity in action as processes of self-construal and becoming human; Siegfried walks through the fire and becomes human. There’s a good retelling of it in Buffy the Vampire Slayer’s musical episode, Once More With Feeling; plus it contains a marvelous re-enactment of the myth of Persephone.
Let us always take the risks of our humanity, and place our lives in the balance with all those whom Frantz Fanon called The Wretched of the Earth; the powerless and the dispossessed, the silenced and the erased.
In the end all that matters is what we do with our fear, and how we use our power.
My friends, please feel free to perform and enact this spell with me; A Hymn to Chaos and Transgression:
I invoke Chaos, freedom, and the limitless possibilities of becoming human against Order, Authority, and the boundaries of the Forbidden.
I perform acts of transgression by which to break the chains of law and illusion woven by those who would enslave us, to seize our power and our autonomy from hierarchies of elite wealth, power, and privilege, from authorized identities and divisions of exclusionary otherness, to create myself in the image of my own imagination and no other, and to shape human being, meaning, and value to the forms of my desires.
In this time of the turning of the tides I refuse and resist subjugation by force and control, I become Unconquered and free, I run amok and am ungovernable, and to Authority I reply with the Four Sacred Acts in pursuit of Liberty and Truth; Question Authority, Expose Authority, Mock Authority, and Challenge Authority.
By these invocations of Chaos and Transgression (Herein be free to make wishes, and to consecrate acts of defiance of tyranny, disruptions and subversions of good order and discipline, violations of normality, seizures of power, and celebrations of autonomy and living beyond all limits in the glorious embrace of our monstrosity, of the wildness of nature and the wildness of ourselves) I curse all fascisms of blood, faith, and soil, patriarchy, state terror and tyranny, elite hegemonies of wealth, power, and privilege, and inequalities of power.
On this night of the renewal of the world in which the old order is consumed in fire and the spirit world moves among us and is unified with our own in its reimagination and transformation, I name to my brothers and sisters of Chaos these enemies of humankind as rightful prey; first, upon all tyrants and their forces of repression of dissent and enforcement of the Law, for order appropriates, law serves power, and there is no just authority; second upon Donald Trump (herein please feel free to name tyrants whom you oppose and seek to cast down from their thrones; mine include Vladimir Putin, Benjamin Netanyahu, and many others) and all who serve and support him and the cause of fascism, and all those who in voting for him in the Presidential election of November 3 2020 have signed the confession of their treason and allegiance to white supremacist terror, theocratic- patriarchal sexual terror, and to the tyranny and terror of a police state.
So upon Trump, his puppetmaster Vladimir Putin, and all who claim him as their own do I place my curse and invoke ruin upon their fortunes and their lives and destruction upon their cause. May they be forgotten and become nothing.
This I balance with equal blessing, protection, and good luck upon the lives, fortunes, and causes of liberty and equality upon all who are powerless and dispossessed, marginalized by exclusionary otherness, falsified, commodified, dehumanized, silenced and erased, and those who place their lives in the balance with them in solidarity as champions and bearers of the Torch of Liberty and a free society of equals.
Tonight our wildness will eat the moon and set it free.
Final Thoughts
Bury me at sea, for I belong to no nation but to the world
Send me out in flames, for this is how I have lived
Not silent but incandescent in the night
An agent of change and illumination, like fire itself
A Crow Confronts His Image
The hatter recites the jabberwocky poem
Walk Through the Fire, song from Buffy the Vampire Slayer, episode Once More With Feeling
Worms | The Atlantic Religion
https://atlanticreligion.com/tag/worms/
From dragons to dreaming serpents: tracing the cultural history of the monstrous Lambton Worm
Ring of Power: Symbols and Themes Love Vs. Power in Wagner’s Ring Circle and in Us: A Jungian-Feminist Perspective, Jean Shinoda Bolen
https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/451808.Ring_of_Power?ref=nav_sb_ss_2_13
Siegfried & The Twilight of the Gods, Richard Wagner, Arthur Rackham (Illustrator)
https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/12448164-siegfried-the-twilight-of-the-gods
Miracle of the Rose, Jean Genet
“Is There in Truth No Beauty?” episode 5 season three, Star Trek
Thus Spake Zarathustra A book for all and none, Friedrich Nietzsche
Beyond Good and Evil, Friedrich Nietzsche
The Tempest, William Shakespeare
https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/12985.The_Tempest?ref=nav_sb_ss_1_1 1
Julius Caesar, William Shakespeare
As we are now in the American Late Republic Period, some studies of the Late Republican Period of Rome:
Rome and America: The Great Republics: What the Fall of the Roman Republic Portends for the United States, Walter Signorelli
Perils of Empire: The Roman Republic and the American Republic, by Monte L. Pearson
https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/5957189-perils-of-empire
The Storm Before the Storm: The Beginning of the End of the Roman Republic, by Mike Duncan
https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/34184069-the-storm-before-the-storm
Rubicon: The Last Years of the Roman Republic, by Tom Holland
https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/91017.Rubicon
Rome’s Last Citizen: The Life and Legacy of Cato, Mortal Enemy of Caesar, by Rob Goodman
https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/13538752-rome-s-last-citizen
Cicero: The Life and Times of Rome’s Greatest Politician, by Anthony Everitt
https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/84593.Cicero
Caesar Versus Pompey: Determining Rome’s Greatest General, Statesman & Nation-Builder, Stephen Dando-Collins
https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/188541745-caesar-versus-pompey?ref=rae_1
Caesar: Life of a Colossus, by Adrian Goldsworthy
https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/60432.Caesar
The Death of Caesar: The Story of History’s Most Famous Assassination,
Barry S. Strauss
The War That Made the Roman Empire: Antony, Cleopatra, and Octavian at Actium, Barry S. Strauss
https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/55711554-the-war-that-made-the-roman-empire?ref=rae_0
The Roman Republic in Political Thought, Fergus Millarhttps://www.goodreads.com/book/show/2265411.The_Roman_Republic_in_Political_Thought?from_search=true&from_srp=true&qid=Jk1nHO9enB&rank=62
Torch of Liberty 
