A Dinner for Saturn

Inside the stone castle there was a large dining hall. In the center sat a large square black onyx cube. A round table of ash wood was constructed around it. On this cube, inside this ring, a man named Saturn would eat one of his children. But he would not rip his child’s head off like in the painting. Saturn merely licked his own fingers from a job well done. He would chop his son up into bite-sized pieces in front of his family with a cleaver. Saturn gave no warning as all of his children sat for dinner. Saturn called his precious son Tiamat over as his voice demanded the room. Young Tiamat obeyed as he approached his father’s throne. Saturn cupped his son’s neck like a fresh sapling tree and proclaimed, “My sweet and fresh, Tiamat, I have prepared your destiny. Tonight you will feed your brothers and sisters. You will prepare us a meal so memorable, my name will live forever.” Tiamat gulped at the honor as he cocked his head and asked innocently, “Father, what shall I prepare us that could be so memorable?” Saturn pulled his son’s face into his. He gazed into the soft pores of his sweet boy’s skin as if to see the blood rush. He quietly shoved a three-pronged fork deep into his gut. He captured every last photon bouncing off the cornea as Tiamat fell into the abyss of his father’s madness. Saturn ripped his instrument to the left and then the right. He ejected his trident as fast as it entered. Tiamat’s shock agreed with the ceremony as his intestines spilled from his belly like a scooped pumpkin. Saturn pulled his son’s carcass onto the top of the cube for everyone to witness. Tiamat was gargling spent blood and his arms and feet were still convulsing. Saturn pinned his supple neck to the table like a fresh goose and chopped his child to bits with the cleaver. The butcher gave all of his children an ultimatum, “Eat, or perish.”

Saturn was the first cannibal – the first satanist. He wanted his memory to outlive the sun. He would place himself as the dark ruler. He sacrificed every one of his sons to the trauma. There was only one survivor that first supper. Tiamat was the only one spared. All of the children ate from his pulverized body as his chunks were dumped into a stew.  Saturn watched each child drink the bloody broth from their plates like animals. Every piece of bone – every chewy string of tendon was swallowed. As they finished, Saturn demand they lick their own fingers. When satisfied he commanded each of them into an spinning orbit around the table. Each child began their march to the sound of a virgin trauma. It was the first Hajj.

Every year, 2.5 million pilgrims ascend on Mecca. Every year they circle the cube seven times – once for each child. Their psychic energy and focus spins the black sun. The cube is a prison of trauma. There are no longer seven children. There are six caught in the dimensional prison of cannibalism. One side for each child; the eternal spell of Saturn. We were trapped inside that box. We mutilate our children even today through the subconscious practice of circumcision. Half the world mutilates the girl while the other half mutilates the boy. Each side demanding the other one is the real savage. We hide our trauma cycles now behind words like health care or sanitation. Abortion is psychological trauma. It’s not reproduction – it is a form of self-mutilation. If you don’t think a life is growing inside you, at least admit it is a part of your body and that you demand the right to mutilate yourself. Calling it anything else is manipulation. We are still blinded by a first trauma. We still do this in remembrance of him. What would happen to our world if we all stopped spinning around the black table?

Saturn was the first elite. The first to decide his name was more important than his blood. A name is a psychic tombstone and he has been immortalized in the black stone. A hexagon mounts a maelstrom on a planet. It’s spins the giant like a giant dreidel in its trap. The storm is slowly shrinking. We are no longer too terrified to stop. We know now what we do. There is no guilt. There is only the vibration of trauma. We crucify ourselves for being hollow. We retreat underneath the flat crevice of our own feet. That time is over now. Someone is whistling. We all agreed to a new era. A new gear has engaged the transmission. We are bodies again – not heads in jars. May our children spin around themselves slower than we did; if that’s all we can do then we must. The meaning of fire and ice is the alchemy of proportion. Love is perfectly warm. It neither burns nor pierces. It wraps itself around what choses to be still. The spinning of trauma stops love’s absorption. We are told to keep spinning and spinning around the table. Each of us with our eyes closed as we eat each other at a black altar. This is not our fault. This was our destiny. We have come to emerge from a tub of burnt black oil. Our skin will shine like golden barley in the sun again. We are seeds who asked to be buried long ago.

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