I am Mary, touch me not

Beset by the symptoms of dysmenorrhoea an immortal Goddess Mary is no less immaculate, and she is loved by her faithful because of it. And though her cramping pain diverts from tradition, she is no threat to the orthodox past. And know that the word ’men’ though root to the word menstruation, is no coincidence, for the Goddess Mary is the mother of all things passionate men let flow, and men do like to worship her. From the fruits of her unique and blessed womb there spreads all men’s joy, the joy of her Goddessness. And it is her destiny that her menstrual blood flows freely, that it shall replace what she cannot feel, and to her loving mortal men she’ll be an image consciously unreal.

Within her expanding uterus she holds tight the nerveless pain of an unpredictable universe. And through her birth opening she draws in the chaos, groaning in travail as matter, anti matter, dark matter, black holes, everything, and reshapes it; then she rebirths it. This is the Goddess Mary’s eternal offering; a new incarnation gross and pure, made immaterial for mortal man’s mind to examine in detail. She knows after each new delivery of the universe’s uncontrollable temperament, when insanity is massaged into new everydays, a temporary peace might follow. The pain of the birth of the Universe will not diminish until chaos diminishes, because this is a cycle which continues to grow. This is the Goddess Mary’s lot.

Those who sense mental pain have an instinct for suffering. And those who understand suffering have mental pain. And they that understand pain will think they are suffering from emptiness. And those men who suffer will create in their hearts a Mary unimaginable, filed with grace, yet too beatific to be possibly true. Mary is everything to all who worship her, and all things gestating in her womb are to thrive under her expert guidance, and her breasts, filled with the milk of her perfection, shall point in every direction, ever available for feeding. And though Mary is not perfect, she is more perfect than her universe; her infinite blooming being that of a soulless tempest.

Her machinations are written into myth, and each new myth chronicles a new kind of resurrection surrounding her eternal body. And while she repairs and reshapes the free Universe within her womb she sings to herself:

Ob Menschen noch so grausam sind

Shall I this down of eider keep piled

My murky cavern’s heavy air

Is heavier than yesterday’s

Aus diesem Felsen starr und wild

Hail me, Mary! I am never defiled

Foul troubles of matter and the air,

There is more emptiness to be filled

From this its wonted haunt exiled

And all sorrowful come unto me

Wir woll’n uns still dem Schicksal beugen

Et benedictus fructus ventris,

Blessed are the fruits of my womb

Stars, spirits, and animals abound

Men most, shall know my love

And I return what is sometimes lost.

These are words made from the sounds of solar winds crisscrossing Mary’s ever expanding womb. In Mary’s womb what is time? She has no watch or clock ticking. She did not begin from something, she just began. And though some of what is happening will be written down, it is Mary’s absence that is to be her renown. And she sings:

Ne plus ultra, I make of myself

And while I live the universe does

Ignotum per ignotious

I can explain myself

A la bonne heure, though I have none

I am ever changeable

And a capricious thing,

And as I call myself mother

I count nothing universal

That is indifferent to me.

In Mary’s timelessness amplitudes of unexplained things are happening inside her. Chaos and order are strangers in one instance, and fused like blood siblings in the next. Planets collide, black holes eat, suns explode, galaxies rearrange; and on a little blue planet sometime in the future Mrs Brown is yelling at her teenage sons, soon to join up for WW1, to stop horsing around and get outside and clean up the yard before their father gets home from work. One son won’t return from the war, the other survives shell shocked and traumatised, suffering from PTS long before the syndrome will be formally recognised. And the Goddess Mary had it happen inside her womb, the universe, and tragedy was this young mother’s curse; a boy, who was born on a particular day to parents proud to be free, in a country too young to realise its place on a little blue planet too young itself, a boy who died on a cold misty morning on the bloody battlefield at Pozieres.

And through Mary fate has every chance, for to the returned son are born a boy and girl who might carry forth good sense down generations and return to history something of itself, their heads full of tomorrows and full of ideas with a courage of conviction to speak their minds and to persuade and entreat ideas unblemished by wild authority and prejudices from fear, to speak openly to a panicky public willing to listen hard to the sound of visions and see the flames of passion this brother and sister emit from deep conviction, who are aware of something in the human condition that is strained and feral and gone away with indifference and strangeness and with pirate agendas stiffened by the option of apocalyptic benders, and if one system will not bow to another system then a new despot will announce his superiority, which will bring nothing but cramping pain to followers who fail to believe and who struggle to free themselves from the binds of authority and be made open to new voices from outside which speak of change as may come by the light of the silvery moon and the beating sun and from the dark of a universe the goddess Mary remakes in her image binding body and mind and genes with an unpredictable future and whatever is doesn’t necessarily mean it should have to be, if there truly is a right and a wrong.

In Mary’s womb the universe is remoulded, evolved, devolved: a men’s shed, a factory, a hangar, a cave, robotic arms, human flesh, sniffer dogs, machinery, tables, test tubes, computers, make, find, model, and turn, and heat, and cool, used by alchemists, surgeons, sculptors, artists, cells, organisms, plants, fish, animals, species, humans, seared by fire, cooled by air, filled with water, covered by earth, filling emptiness, emptying rivers, oceans, atmospheres, explosions, fissures, temperatures, extreme, pleasant, transforming civilisations, cultures, primitive, advanced, travel, depression, love, procreation, death, bones, ashes, souls, heaven, hell, graveyards and the noise and the silence, in dimensions unimaginable to runty and disjointed minds apart from the acute mind of the time traveller Doctor Who. She is a Goddess Mary whose name was also given to the official immaculate Virgin Mary by Marian moles who have toiled long and hard in dark chambers. And she, the most perfect of all human beings, is now assumed into heaven and worshipped by men and women. If that Mary suffered from dysmenorrhoea, and nobody will ever know, then she has much in common with Our Mary, the one at the centre of this mythology, and whom also nobody knows; and if nobody knows anything about the two Mary’s the contentious mythology concerning them and tensioned by this little fable has ended in a mighty draw.

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