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The Demiurge

A woman sits cross-legged,  her head is bowed forward and 
cradled by both of her hands.  She is wearing white and the front 
of her tunic is stained opaque by her tears.  Around her, in the 
immediate vicinity are twelve stone jars, vessels for holding stuff 
such as salt or wine.  They form a perfect circle around the 
woman , and each vessel is complete in its perfection.  Complete, 
that is apart from one.  One lies cracked and battered, both 
handles have been taken away.  There is a fracture gouging the 
vessel from lip to base, and the vessel’s contents have been spilled 
onto the sand where it lays.

Further out still there is a vast are of nothingness surrounding the 
tableau.  Zoom out, from woman - to vessels - to nothing.  
Infinity - of you wish to call it that.  It has no colour or sound and 
neither does it occupy anything which we might categorise as 
space or time.

The woman sits where she is.  She is lonely, forsaken and ripped 
inside.  She created and aborted in a sequence of fluidity with no 
time allowed to meditate or reflect,  The creation fulfilled her.  At 
the instant of creation she instantly knew that she now was,  she 
existed in wholeness, fully, and felt the swelling of an affirmative 
'I AM'.  The abortion left her desolate and barren within an 
enormous desert of life, so much space and energy, but she is 
now condemned never to use this energy again.  The abortion 
was not a raging success.  The coercive treatment that she was 
subjected to was not sufficient and her own energy had ensured 
life of a kind to her creation.

And now she sits, crying so intensely that there seem to be lines 
etched into her face from the saline trickles.  She can her a 
thousand million voices crying out 'mother!'. She is powerless to 
help and impotent with rage. She turns to the noise and sees in 
her mind’s eye the greens, blues and wispy whites of her aborted 
creation and impotently wills herself to be within the scene.  This 
however can never be, for so many intraversable dimensions exist 
between her and her product to make her presence in it 
impossible.  Her creation is our Earth.

Sophia is her name and she is the Demiurge; the generator of the 
abortive product. At the centre of her being is a core of pure 
light, trapped within the cage of her body.  This is how we are - 
souls of the purest light, enclosed in our earthly finite bodies.  She 
unwillingly casts her mind back to the instance of creation and 
wills herself to recall the beauty of her action and to forget the 
pain of the reaction.

She used to sit around, not doing a great deal, just thinking, 
meditating and existing.  She was fit for no more than this 
because out of the whole Plethora she was the sole female with 
no pair.  For everyone else within the Plethora, whether humble 
or exalted, the affirmation of existence was contained within the 
act of creation.  In order that the end product may be good, 
balance is requires so that the created would be influenced by 
harmony, synergy and coexistence.  Sophia was the lowliest 
within the Plethora and had no partner,.  She was forbidden to 
create in any way.  This often proved difficult, because within the 
Plethora even thinking too strenuously had its bi-products. 

Aeons of watching the perfect creations of her compatriots 
fostered a growing jealousy within her.  She was a woman - why 
should she not create? The answer was simple, she should not 
because it had been forbade her.  As time passed Sophia felt 
energy welling within her and attempts at suppression were 
largely unsuccessful.  To begin with, she allowed herself minute 
creations, such as particles of ice and patterns on the wings of 
birds.  Soon it became evident that more was needed to satiate 
her desire to create.

Twelve vessels were made, in order that she might store her 
energy within them,  Wave after wave of her energy flowed into 
the vessels and they never became full.  As she filled each vessel 
one by one, she became increasing  angered about her coerced 
impotence.  She was angered by having to divert her energy into 
vessels of diffusion.  She reached the tenth vessel and fury rose to 
her throat; at the eleventh it left her as a scream of rage. At the 
twelfth all that flowed was pure creative energy.  As it flowed 
she shaped and moulded as a potter with wet clay.  She teased 
and urged, breathed life into the objet in her hands.  The last 
trickle of breath eased out of her and into the earth, and  she was 
ripped; her energy terminated as the creation unwillingly began to 
abort.  She screamed and wept ad searched for the initiator of the 
termination; it came from the entire Plethora. The God was 
displeased at her disobedience and  became vengeful to her 
creation.  The world was too advance in its genesis to terminate 
and the abortive world faded from her hand, full of flaws and 
unrectified anathemas, to the place it was designed to reside in.

Wordlessly she left the Plethora and willed herself and the vessels 
into peace.  She found herself within a circle of  amphorae, unable 
to leave, forever condemned to the remembrance of her only 
creation - beautiful and aborted - the Earth.

©1998 Aimee Fiore