Nymphs and Satyr (1873) by William-Adolphe Bouguereau (1825-1905)
“What pleasure appears in incarnate clarity in the dance of the satyrs, a chorus of natural beings who live ineradicably, as it were, behind all civilization and remain eternally the same, despite the changes of generations and of the history of nations.”
– Friedrich Nietzsche, The Birth of Tragedy, S7.
Once we accept that our personal opinion holds little sway in the grand scale of things and that by repeatedly pushing our ideals up hill gets us nowhere, are we not compelled to gaze upon those who seemingly have all the luck and worldly success; that not only know how to land their ideas but can also erect them from the ground up. How delightfully exquisite for man to send rocket fueled ships into space or create laws that allow companies to remain unimpeded. Don’t they inspire us to muster our own dispersed impulses into one consolidated will, if not imbue confidence that all things are possible.
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So what drives these entities that make up our society and how do they continue to last over the course of centuries? Do governing bodies have a collective conscious of their own, a pool of slithery urges that somehow take on its own unconscious yet hedonistic desire, and on the surface a perpetual right to exert its might, or are there hideous creatures well out of sight who are controlling affairs under the moonlight. Are politicians really at the top of our food chain or are they spinning a story to keep the populous distracted and docile while the real movers and shakers go about their business scot-free.
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This brings us back to an ancient story that has been repeatedly told down through the generations. One variant consists of a so-called-hero that found himself alone in the company of the devil; namely, Lucifer, but here we shall use the name Satan instead, for to repeat his actual name three times unleashes a mindscape that supersedes our best intentions, and now is not the time for such bacchic encounters eh, for dancing under a blood moon requires other deities that may not be so kind to those who invoke them without the appropriate psychological and/or spiritual preparation.
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Back to the story then: Jesus could barely spend 40 days by himself in the wilderness when he called out to his father in outer space. Save me from this wretched earth he said. Then the Lord God came down from on high with much exasperation for his ass of a son. What is it this time, Jesus, pain in my royal ass. Good Lord can’t you see that I am famished here in this hot and barren desert; please turn these stones into bread. Seriously, son, how many times do I have to tell you; man cannot live on bread alone!
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Then for crying out loud put me on top of that hill over there so that I can throw myself down and be done with it. You fool hearty boy, don’t you understand that we are immortal. Very well then, so why not give me control of your kingdoms of this world. Because you would likely f–k that up too; why don’t you become a preacher man instead. Poor baby Jesus cried his eyes to sleep that night, for he knew deep down in his heart that he sucked as a carpenter and would likely be even more ridiculous as a teacher.
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So what is the moral of this story; to be careful what you wish for, or sovereignty comes at a hefty cost? Neither, or in the case of the latter, few actually have the ability to wheel great power. Even the Son of God was unable to rule and would rather run to the hills than take the reins. Christians far and wide keep asking him to return so as to establish his kingdom on earth, and to this day he is nowhere to be found. The two aliens dressed in white that abducted him said he would return in like manner but still no sign of him.
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On second thought, perhaps he did return when no one was looking, and the Church has him locked away in the basement of the old Castel Sant’Angelo for defecating on their ‘premises’ with contrary dogma. It is said if you place your ear on the grate above the sewage that passes through the bowels of the castle you will hear Jesus bemoan: ‘I-say-ya, my kingdom has fallen into ruin and all her Cardinals have come to nothing. Thorns have come up in their palaces, nettles and thistles in the fortresses thereof, it is but a court for prancing peacocks, a den for demons to commune with wolves. Throughout the night the satyrs call to each other; the night monster is very much at home in this place.’
