Orison to Orion
I have always been fascinated by the Orion constellation: when I look at it I experience very positive sensations—it moves me on the deepest level. The reason for this to be so is that Orion is synonymous with Sirius, the Dog Star, upon which it almost stands—and Sirius, the Dog Star, was the most holy star to the Egyptians, the star from which their souls emanated and to which they returned. Indeed, the entire Orion constellation was taken to stand for Osiris and, in turn, to stand for Sirius itself. So it is no wonder I feel such a deep longing when I look at Orion.
I have always had an interest in the stars, though it was never really scientific—even though when I was younger I had a telescope. As a teenager I said to a friend, more scientific than me, “I have a telescope but I don’t use it in a scientific way, it’s more artistic.” I didn’t even know what I meant by that at the time really, other than to say I was no good at science and the opposite to science is art—therefore, I must have an artistic relation to the stars (the only explanation). Now I would say that it was all a preparation; as when, for example, my grandmother would send me a cutting from the newspaper every month that set out the constellations that were visible in the month to come—and my grandparents early took me outside to learn the constellations and the stars, for they said we return to them.
In this context, Robert Temple’s The Sirius Mystery (1976) is worth a reference: the book examines the beliefs held by the Dogon tribe in West Africa—the tribe has advanced knowledge as regards Sirius, as regards its tiny twin star (only discovered by modern science); and Temple uses this observation to argue that we in fact descend from aliens who come from Sirius, the Dogon having preserved aspects found in the ancient Egyptian and Greek traditions (Temple holds the Dogon are descendants from an ancient Greek tribe that went into Africa). Our creators, per Temple, are the fish-like Nommo—and they will return on “the day of the fish”, say the Dogon, when they will emerge from the sea; and credence is given to this idea because UFOs frequently pop in and out of the sea.
I disagree with Temple: we do not come from “ancient aliens”—we come from star beings in the sky, the gods; it is profane to say these are actual aliens. Why Temple thinks this to be so could be because he is related to a branch of Freemasonry that is associated with America’s very foundation—he presents as a tweedy Englishman, hence proving my point that America is just Englishmen larping. The Freemasons are opposed to all religion—and so it is natural they would hold that “the gods are aliens”, a reduction to the material level. Temple, despite his name, opposes traditional religion.
Anyway, one point Temple raises that is worth consideration is that the Dogon called Sirius B the Digitaria Exilis—they named it after the smallest seed they knew, a popular foodstuff in Africa. Sirius B, invisible to the naked eye, is held to be the origin of all matter by the Dogon—Temple claims this is a remnant from some scientific knowledge the aliens possessed and passed on to Dogon holy men. He is incorrect. The “smallest seed” that is the origin for all things relates to “the grain of mustard” found in Christianity and Hinduism—the heart, the fire from which all life emanates; the smallest thing which is the greatest.
This is what Sirius B is—not some “super-heavy dark matter”. With its larger companion, it forms a cosmic syzygy; to create the Godhead must divide into two cosmic twins and the Dogon hold the stars to be black and white, prakriti and purusha in Hindu terms—the cosmic dance of creation. Temple mentions that the Egyptians loved wordplay, but he misses the obvious link: Sirius is “the Dog Star” and the Dogon “dog on”—or, to reverse it, “no god”; they know God.
Temple also unknowingly hits on the secret behind the stone circles—for it is held in many traditions that men sprung from stones, just like the dragon’s teeth sown by Cadmus; and hence the entities I saw at the Rollright Stones—some of which are said to be men turned to stone. Temple notes that the Greek word kirke is Latinised as “Circe”—it means “unknown bird” but kirkos can also mean “a hawk or falcon”, “a wolf”, “a circle”, or “an unknown circle” (hence circus—the circus ring; a magical space). Further, kirkaia means “an unknown plant”.
Horus, the solar god, is the falcon—the Peregrine Falcon. He was worshipped in stone circles, just as with the Rollright Stones; and Apollo—the analogous solar deity in ancient Greece—was symbolised by a wolf.
Circe was the ancient enchantress who bewitched poor old Odysseus; and as a witch she used “unknown plants”, kirkaia. Indeed, did not Archimedes say, just before he was run through with a sword, “μὴ μοῦ τοὺς κύκλους τάραττε.”? Circles are holy—whole, whole-y, holey. The circle is complete.
I know this is true because when I wrote out the outline for this article earlier today on Twitter a very posh woman in the café turned to her child and said, “You’ve got a golden eye. You’ve opened your third eye.” Then she looked right at me. Later, as I turned through the Temple book I found him reference a “golden eye” in relation to hawks and falcons. The gods are real, you see. Now, it may be that different races come from different stars—and Serrano certainly associated the Aryans with Venus but that is yet to be revealed to me. Nevertheless, I now know why I feel blue-black deepness when I look at Orion.