To Hand-Build a Demoness: A Sunday School Craft Project.
Before this fateful eclipse, before the lunar shadow of the Dark Feminine overtakes and devours the ever-burning masculine star, we must meet in an ancient, seaside cave and handcraft the perfect deity who will save us all.
She will be our demoness savior, our She-God who no one will see coming, and this long-fanged and wide-winged beauty will crawl onto the sand, whispering the very incantations we chant in unison now, as we wrap seaweed around driftwood to form her bones. Let’s be artists starving for a truer divinity, and the Dark Feminine Holy shall be our medium.
Gather your totems, and meet me on the seal-covered rocks just before dusk when the mists are thick and the strangers have gone. I’ve brought all the magick I have in store. I’ve grown tired of the deities they’ve offered us, and I believe they’ve grown tired of me too. I’ve been told the Divine Feminine longs for a new shape, so let’s give Her one.
We’ll burn these words of rage, hope, and transmutation into her twig-ribs and paint symbols of the Primal Feminine into this hefty, snake-filled iron cauldron I’ve been saving to fashion the divine pelvis from which the holy future will bubble forth.
Fetch me some black tourmaline and veiny malachite, and let’s forge Her stony, beating muscle to be impenetrable lest She become disheartened by the wickedness of this world. Bring your secret brews with you to be Her blood, my love, and this will be the last deity we shall ever need. Tell me, what do you desire of your She-God? She’s ours, after all, and we alone decide who She is and what She will become.
She must be subtle but ruthless in Her power to dismantle outmoded governments and backward religious systems that house the Feminine within demure, weeping statues, insidious tales of male rule and female wickedness, and Gods who spit forth fire and brimstone more readily than compassion and wisdom.
She must resist appropriation, and Her slippery skin must ooze a particular poison that is fatal to the war-mongers. Let’s set a fire to burn in Her belly that will not be dimmed no matter how relentless the soaking rains of corruption get once the skies begin to darken. Tear some blood-stained fabric from the uniform they made you wear, and soak it in the ever-inflammable oil seeping from your Primal Feminine pores.
Don’t worry, Her wooden bones are fireproof, licked by the undersea sirens who long for this world’s coming evolution as much as we do. She will be the living antidote to spiritual apathy, a cold-blooded and loud-mouthed protest against those who consider themselves superior, and a never-ending chant for choice and change.
To be worthy of our worship, this She-God must have arms so long they drag on the ground when She walks, her lithe fingers tipped with knife-like nails to surgically pluck out the black hearts of the powers that be and leave nothing behind but the collective vibration of the purest, cosmic web.
Go and find an understated shell to be Her head, with grooves worn into its sides from years of strong currents and creaturely needs, and we’ll crown Her with the feathers of sea-birds and bid Her foresight be stronger than ours.
She must be able to see in the dark, majestic diviner of holy truth that She is, and, for that, She needs a bit of loamy soil nested there in the depths of Her shell-skull. We’ll breath Her to life, you and I, for She is our most blessed creation. Call Her to wake now. Bid Her rise on Her shaking, wooden legs. Animate Her with the sheer power of your will, and help Her to stand and march.
I’d like to think that there are those starved for feminine authenticity crafting their own Goddesses in every cave in every part of the world. I’d like to think we are not alone in our longing, and I’d like to indulge myself and imagine an army of these sea-born, hellish Aphrodites coming together to wreak their particular havoc on our most oppressive systems.
Before we send our firstborn on Her way, let us gift Her with a resonant voice that cannot help but howl truth and speak out in favor of the humble healers, the innocents, the Witches, the activists, the artists, the freaks, and the poets. Let’s round up these wise ones and bid them join us in our She-God-building.
Let’s fashion more of our own deities together, my love, and we’ll spark them to life with our breath and our Witch’s want. This demon daughter of ours was only the first of many, and we cannot let Her be an only child of darkness in a world of brilliantly radiating Gods and Goddesses.
How many demonesses will it take to consume the war machine, to liberate the child brides, and to clear the chemicals from the skies?
I don’t know about you, Priestess, but I’m wide awake and can go for days. How many fork-tongued fearsome Goddesses do we need to rage and rally before the eclipse is over and the blinding muscles of our manly God-Star can again grip our world till it bleeds?
I’m not waiting around for someone to save me, Sister, and I’m making my own incarnation of the Feminine Divine now out of stuff coughed shoreward from Mother Ocean. I’m not resting until the babes have been rescued and the planet’s been healed, until the freedom of each and every soul has been set to top priority, and until the wild in us all has been resurrected and given permission to dance.
Let’s be builders of deity, my love. If not now, then when?