Venus and Her Lover

by Becca Tzigany

  Re-dreaming Timelines

  Men invented time to feel comfortable in space.

  But it doesn’t actually exist.

  All experience is happening at once.

  ~ Albert Einstein

  When I had the vision of me (Inanna’s high priestess) telling me (Becca), “You know what you have to do,” I fortified my resolve to heal my Shadow parts, live a harmonious life with James (contributing to peace in the War Between the Sexes), spread the messages of Venus and Her Lover, and embody my radiant self/Self. So it should come as no surprise – even though it did – that some time later in a personal breathwork session, I found myself back in that most traumatic moment of my lives.

  My body lies restrained on the rack, and the large Reptilian man is approaching me. I struggle against him getting on top of me. In my present mind, I decide I should change the scenario: rewrite it so he never raped me. But I cannot succeed in visualizing this scenario.

  Instead, he enters me, as in the original rape. I understand now the power of his assaulting penis pounding trauma into my sacrum (the “sacred bone”). Not only does sex join our energy fields, it sends energy up the spine, engulfing chakra, emotional, and bodily systems (such as the nervous system) along the way. Most notably, the mind can splinter into pieces, many of which are numbed into amnesia, disassociated, and then buried in the Shadow, where they become available for manipulation by others. Sexual energy, employed in trauma-based mind control, is the key to the Dominator System. Breaching the sacrum, the violator mutilates the temple of the self. Then he can become the hidden hand that reconstructs it to suit his own ends.

  In a flash, all of these realizations are present as I re-live the rape. Instead of struggling or giving up, however, I feel a fire igniting in my womb. Strengthened with righteous rage, I allow full penetration and then clamp down with my vagina, severing his penis from his body. Revenge of the vagina dentata!

  With his penis inside me, it is boiled alive. It begins to dissolve in a cauldron of lava that is my womb. It melts down into its base elements. It becomes nigredo.

  The Reptilian stumbles away from me in shock. My fury grows. I break my bonds and stand before the group of men huddled around me, fire in my eyes. My rapist is writhing on the floor, screaming with the pain of his castration. He is losing a lot of blood.

  “You will not have me!” I affirm. “Give up your plan. Earth is no longer available to you.”

  Between wails, he curses me. I have a dual awareness that while I am re-living an old scenario from my past, I am simultaneously acting in the now. My decision and actions are informed by all the lifetimes I lived the effects of my torture and murder, all the time Earth languished under the Reptilian Dominator hierarchy. It is the end of the line for it all.

  Focusing my fierce gaze toward the dying Reptilian rapist, I begin a magic dance, channeling the energy of Kali. It is seductive yet grim.

  “You have a choice,” I tell him. “Release your grip on this planet. Give up being a predator. I can help you. You and I no longer have to be adversaries. Choose to serve life. Otherwise, you will die.”

  In agony, he dies.

  As my dance continues, the heat is melting his body. Soon there are but clumps of flesh and pools of his body liquids. Amid these clumps I see shiny little metal devices – nanites, I suppose. I focus my energy into several of these nanite receivers, delivering a salvo made of the power of the life force that I know reaches their masters far away. The nanites blow up. Then I hear a high-pitched sound resounding continually in both of my ears. Despite this disturbance within me, I keep my body moving.

  The ground rumbles, and cracks appear in the Earth. The liquefied Reptilian flows into the cracks. Earth Mother Pachamama receives the disintegrated remnants of him, to begin the composting process.

  Fully charged, I continue Kali’s dance. The men in the underground chamber are cowering in fear. Some of the more Reptilian types puff themselves up with bravado, but I can clearly see their panic. I offer everyone the same choice: to change or be recycled. Dancing for them, I show them the advantages of being self-sourced instead of being predators. Some of them are willing to give up predation, and I work with them, opening up the flow of energy along their spines. I can see two cones of energy: one from their heads and one from their roots, meeting in a spiral at the heart – like the inflowing and outflowing of energy funneled into a double torus. I work with each man who is willing to learn how to tap into the energy of the Earth as well as the energy of the cosmos.

  I understand that Pachamama is here to teach this connection. That’s why we come to her: to open up to being fed by love, the energy of the Mother, the organic energy of our being.

  Some of the men in the room remain defiant, and for them, the fire and heat of my dance are unbearable. They fall to the floor, stricken. They die and begin to melt. Again, I see the shiny metal nanites revealed as their bodies liquefy. Their remains drip into the cracks in the ground. Pachamama drinks them in.

  As I move my arms in the dance, I feel they have become wings... big wings like Isis has. With all the willing men now grounding into the Earth and running energy, I can leave them. My wings begin to lift me off the ground.

  The doorway out of the dungeon which had been blocked now magically opens. I see that my scientist friend is opening the doorway by waving his ceremonial feathers. In this version of the story, he resolves the karma of his betrayal and does aid in my rescue, after all.

  I soar on my wings and visit many places from lifetimes on Earth. Flying above the red rocks of the parched Australian Outback, I remember the white-toothed smile of the Koori man and understand why my deadly fire dance was necessary... because “burning is for learning.”

  After soaring for a while in the freedom of flight, I see below me a familiar, broad river valley. I swoop back down into the underground torture chamber. I know that many were tormented and killed here. But it appears that much time has passed. The roof has collapsed in some places, letting in rainwater and patches of sunlight. Flowers are growing where the bodies of the Reptilian and other men died.

  The chamber has a sweet quiet about it. It feels as if Pachamama has purified and healed all the suffering there, leaving a freshness of air and purity of light. I am grateful for being able to tread this Earth, and for the years of relationship I have had with her.

  I remember so many lifetimes tangled up in the control grid with its false covenants, perverse gratifications, brutality, and grim logic. I have chosen to no longer participate in it. Feeling like I have been washed clean by a thunderstorm, I touch my hand to the ground, saying, “The Earth is my witness.”

  Gaia, Pachamama, Earth Mother... She has been the witness to my process of purification and remembrance. While being a playground for the illusion, she has also been the one to engender an entire Creation of organic life, the beauty of which helped to restore reality to my being.

  THE ROAD TO AGUADA REDUX

  The stars are like letters which inscribe themselves at every moment in the sky... Everything in the world is full of signs... All events are coordinated... All things

  depend on each other; as has been said,

  ‘Everything breathes together.’

  ~ Plotinus

  When we discovered that there was a Fort Aguada in Goa, rust-colored stone ramparts built in 1612 on the headlands above where the Mandovi River flows into Aguada Bay and the Arabian Sea, James and I felt compelled to see this piece of land and sea, reminiscent of its Puerto Rican namesake. Fortified with cold mango juice we had picked up at the local grocery store, Cash & Carry, James and I headed south on the Road to Aguada.

  We passed Pele’s Guesthouse, and I thought of how the Big Island had been a guesthouse akin to Hotel California... “you can check in any time you want, but you can never leave...” in that Madame Pele had dictated the terms of our stay in Hawai’i, and ki
cked us out when she was done with us, but not a moment sooner. How valuable were the lessons Pele taught us!

  James piloted our motorino through Anjuna, our new hometown, slowing down for several sets of rumblers. They call them muertos (dead men) in Puerto Rico, I thought. I rode my bicycle on this road to go to yoga and well knew every bump, pothole, and ragged edge. Past the Blue Tao, the restaurant we most frequented. Blue Tao, my mind mused. Blue Lake, sacred point of origin of the Taos Pueblo people. Maxwaluna, the World Mountain who had taught me so much about Earth energy. Blue Taos. Blue Tao. Now that’s really funny... Jostled by another set of rumblers, I thought, They call them speed humps in northern New Mexico.

  Coming out of town, we crossed an arched bridge over a slow-moving stream. Garlands of waterlogged marigolds floated by, presumably set out as offerings at the Hindu temple upstream. The warm yellow marigolds gave a happy accent to the brush along the banks, all the leaves coated in an orange dust. The cane fields and rice paddies of brown stubble baked in the sun, holding their dusty breath just a little bit longer until the dry season would finally be over. In about a month the monsoons would arrive, infusing every blade and shoot with the impetus to be green.

  Beep beep! James nudged past a herd of cows that was hogging the road. Here sacred cows roamed freely, and the chickens were kept penned up. In Puerto Rico, it had been the opposite.

  We sped along a narrow two-lane road lined with palm trees and then turned onto another road of cement houses with ironwork in the windows and potted plants on their porches. A thin brown woman in a blue sari, balancing a basket on her head, walked up the steps to her house. A girl walked behind her carrying two plastic jugs of water. Grand old mango trees arched over the road, heavily laden with fruit. It was another Mango Lane! Maybe my efforts to save Mango Lane in Rincón had somehow kept these trees intact, too. Wouldn’t it be great if it really worked that way? Leaning back on the motor scooter, I smiled up at my favorite trees: coconut palms and mangos. Under these trees I was in heaven.

  As we continued on, we wove our way through the jumble of traffic at the tourist beach towns. A familiar name caught my eye: Albuquerque, the capital of New Mexico, the airport we always flew in and out of. Here it appeared as Albuquerque Guest Villas and Albuquerque Money Changers. What was Albuquerque doing here? I wondered. Well, in 1510, Alfonso de Albuquerque, a Portuguese conquistador, had sailed up the Mandovi River and seized the lands of Sultan Yusuf Adil Shah, claiming them for the Portuguese crown. Old Goa ceased being the port that sent off pilgrims to Mecca and became the port that exported spices.

  On we drove, past a sign that said Tuscany Gardens, Ristorante Italiano. “James, that restaurant is called Tuscany Gardens!” I called up to him.

  “Yeah, Tuscany Gardens, I see. Are you hungry?” he replied.

  “No, it’s just that back there was Albuquerque and now here’s Tuscany... I mean, isn’t this strange? Don’t you think it’s strange?”

  “What?!” James asked, trying to weave among three-wheeled rickshaws, motorbikes, motor scooters, bicycles, cars, and cows.

  “Never mind!” I called to him, realizing that he had to devote his attention to the road, while I had the luxury of noticing all these odd coincidences on the Road to Aguada.

  When later in the day I recounted to Rocco that in addition to encountering Cash & Carry, the Blue Tao, Pele, and Albuquerque on the Road to Aguada, there was a restaurant called Tuscany Gardens, he laughed so hard he snorted out his cigarette smoke and went into a coughing fit. When he regained his breath, he said, “Ma!... but if you told me you found Benabbio Gardens, I would have had a heart attack! Mamma Mia, ragazze! Venus and Her Lover makes magic! Look at how you make magic!”

  In fact (now that I thought about it), what was Rocco doing here? Just the other night we had eaten at an Italian restaurant together, sipping wine under a rainbow-colored PACE [PEACE] flag (exactly like the one that used to hang out of our window above the piazza), ranting about our art project just like the old days in Tuscany, and for a moment, I wasn’t sure if I was in Italy or India. Italia/India/Italia/India... I felt my reality blur, flash a 3-D scenario from some parallel universe at me, and then shimmer back to normal. Was I in a circus House of Mirrors? Was I making all this up, arranging elements according to my taste...? Oh, I just love the sound of the word, Albuquerque, so I’ll put it in my path as often as possible? Or... my reality simply must have mangoes and coconut palms! And lava rock helps me feel so grounded, let’s always have some around!

  Could reality be arranged the way you arrange the furniture in your house? Could we really pick the color of the event pillows and throw them with artistry onto the sofa of our lives? According to the Holographic Universe Theory and the Simulation Hypothesis, Consciousness (via our Higher Selves) projects the 3D circumstances our souls most desire for our life lessons and experiences. Was this what we meant by reinventing the myth? Not just grandiose archetypal themes but our favorite flavors of gelato, too?

  My mind was reeling, and I tugged at James’ shirt, indicating we should stop. The jumble of the touristic zone behind us, we got off the scooter to behold an estuary below us. Palms towered above mangrove trees that ringed the shoreline, while canvas-topped boats and fishermen’s skiffs bobbed in the lagoon. Sea gulls and white herons glided overhead, and in a big mango tree nearby sang a koyal bird. “Ko-YAL! Ko-YAL!” its melodic cry started low and leaped up to a high accent. Very much like the call of the coquí, actually! Whereas the Puerto Rican coquí was a frog that sounded like a bird, the Indian koyal really was a bird.

  After talking about the strange coincidences on the Road to Aguada, James and I remounted the bike to follow the road up to Fort Aguada. At the lower level of the ramparts, we beheld the rolling waves of the Indian Ocean below us through the cannon bays. Waves crashed onto craggy sheets of black lava rock, which was unusual as most of the lava rock I had tread in Goa was orange instead of black. Following the line of the walls, I noticed a turret, exactly the style of El Morro in San Juan. That turret, usually surrounded by the orange-red blossoms of the flamboyán (royal poinciana) tree, was a ubiquitous symbol of Puerto Rico.

  Gazing at the black lava rock, I let my mind float again to Hawai’i, remembering my ceremonies with Madame Pele at the volcano and the dolphins in the bay. The dolphins... I had not seen a dolphin since that last day I swam with them – the day we left Hawai’i – and while they often glided into my dreams, I would love to be with them again. So why don’t I call them? I thought. I could call to them. So I stood there, staring out to sea, silently calling the dolphins. But they did not come.

  “Let’s go up to the next level,” James said. “The fort goes all along and above the shoreline. There’s a lot to see.”

  With a longing glance at the sea, I turned to join James on the motorino. We drove up and over to the bay side of the promontory. Suddenly he stopped, to check out the view. As we gazed out to where Aguada Bay met the Arabian Sea, movement just below us caught my eye. It was just a flash, but there was something there... Then I saw it: the familiar rounded shape, the puff of an exhale...

  “A dolphin!” I exclaimed.

  James leaned over the ledge and peered at the patch of water below the cliffs. “Not just a dolphin, Becca! Look!”

  Sure enough, not just one, but a whole pod! A pair here, three over there, and others splashing and playing 200 meters below where we stood. I could hardly believe it, and my heart swelled with joy. Beaming love to our fine flippered friends, I stood enraptured by their presence, feeling them close, remembering how my body would swim in rhythm with theirs, through the clear turquoise waters of Hawai’i. Unlike the grey spinners of the Pacific, these dolphins had sleek black skin that glinted in the sun. James and I stood for a long time transfixed, thanking them over and over again for the blessing they were bestowing upon us.

  When we finally turned to continue our trip up the hill, I said t
o James, “Can you believe this? Can you believe it?”

  James smiled. “Well, Venus, my goddess, you keep calling it in, and I will be your charioteer and get you to where you need to be. Together, we can work wonders. It’s like what Rocco often says. It’s magic.”

  Time for a New Myth

  Our mythic life demonstrated a magic wrought of opening ourselves to immortal stories and allowing the archetypes to rise within us to their numinous proportions. As James and I matured into nobler versions of ourselves, we gained access to more information and more power. Whether fathoming the Goddess Mysteries or trekking through the Hero Cycle, James and I had discovered that Time, sprung from the linear rack, curled and curved.

  Capable of showing up in the rational meme for a 6:00am train departure, we just as easily rounded the well-measured track of mythic time to find ourselves gazing, again, into a hypnotic winter solstice bonfire. We especially enjoyed the spontaneity and synchronicities of the magic meme, as our tribal roots fed the flowering of the Dreamtime in our lives. The Road to Aguada, for example, had just taken on archetypal significance. The archaic meme’s Eternal Now reverberated with quantum physics trappings to remind us of the soaring peace of Kosmic Consciousness. All these time frames seethed in our awareness, in a comedy hour competition for predominance.

  For an added twist, literally, Time seemed to be speeding up. According to the Mayan Long Count Calendar,172 the evolution of consciousness was racing toward singularity in a tighter and tighter spiral. While it took written language, for example, thousands of years to take hold, the internet had become a worldwide library in only ten years. Russian mathematician Dr. Sergey Smelyakov asserts that evolution is supposedly occurring in decreasing cycles of time, each successive cycle being a Golden Mean fraction shorter than the previous one. Phi (Ф) spirals!173. If mythological archetypes were to be reinvented, now was the time. James and I were two of the many who had received the call to mission, with some urgency.