“What is this ocean of orange, Don?” Wonders Doris the second next to departing from the whiter than white core of Saturn – the planet. On a side note, Doris and Don have been ever since missing from the story. This is why the author needs to inform the reader about two Earth-dates related to this sequence of events.
Between Saturday, June 23rd 2012, and Friday, August 13th 2021, they’ve been mostly offworld. Not that they returned to Earth after this interval.
“The ocean of orange, as you call it, Doris, is the flame of the universe.”
“The flame? It burns then? Thought that whiter than white is the defining color, and state, of the primordial matrix. Cold white.”
“Indeed. So it is. We perceive the machine in whiter than white. But how many realities have been layered between the ultimate and this orange sky, I do not know. What I do know is that here we can find the island.”
“Ah, the island. I see a garden. No island.”
“Your garden is my island.”
“And the orange ocean?”
“What about it?”
“Tell me what you know about it.”
Don won’t tell. Instead he moves his hands across a pattern in the thick air, leaving golden hues in the wake of his palms. “Look at this, honey. It’s a dodecahedron. A tiny schematic to approximate the layer of reality where space and time are contained.”
“The abysmal colors of darkness. Guess that I can distinguish them.”
“Yes. Within the twelve pentagonal faces of this shape there are clusters and galaxies falling apart, quassars and black decks, unknown strings and untold singularities, planets, worlds and, yes, our Earth.”
“Who owns this realm of orange?”
“Like Kronos owns the core of Saturn. Who is the owner here?”
“Did Kronos tell you that he is the owner there?”
“Uhm, a tenant maybe...”
“I’ve heard the word prisoner.”
“Then who is the prisoner of this orange sky?” Insists Doris.
“If he’d ever be a prisoner of something, that would be Ouranos. But this one is a free person.”
“He’s free, you saying. Is he around?”
“I don’t know. Technically he...”
“...must be around, like in omnipresent.” Doris steals a thought, then continues with a dare. “Let me call him. Hey, Ouranos, where are you?”
The canvas of orange flickers to gold. A trained eye would have noticed the ripples before compensating each other back into monotony.
“This guy won’t show up, my dear. But, uhm... I suppose...”
“You suppose that you know why and where and what – is – going – on... Incredible!”
“Believe it or not, Ouranos is already using our minds and our words to answer our questions.”
“I’d buy one more ounce of patience to learn from his answers. How about you do the same. Let’s meditate.”
“Oh Lord, Yasu Khrist, Son of God, have mercy on us.” On the tune of this mutual mantra, Doris and Don immerse themselves into the openness and spontaneity of nature – because Ouranos has no self, or has no self any more, or is self-denying, or arrived to be self-denying, to such a degree that a person like you and me could call him ‘nature’ or sky or heavens.
Investing another ounce of patience, we learn that he remains a person in spite of this lavish altruism. Because no excess and no extravagance are capable to erase a person.
Like Kronos, Ouranos has no father and no mother. He was created by the Logos before Enoch had the chance to propose Astarte.
In Ancient Greek literature, Uranus or Father Sky was the son and husband of Gaia, Mother Earth. According to Hesiod’s Theogony, Uranus was conceived by Gaia alone, but other sources cite Aether as his father. Uranus and Gaia were the parents of the first generation of Titans, and the ancestors of most of the Greek gods, but no cult addressed directly to Uranus survived into Classical times, and Uranus does not appear among the usual themes of Greek painted pottery. Elemental Earth, Sky and Styx might be joined, however, in a solemn invocation in Homeric epic.
To our myths, the selfless guy in the orange teaches us about deceptions and their inventor: Chaos – also known as Lucifer. By correlation, Lucifer or father of lie was the son and husband of Astarte, Mother of Nonsense. According to Astarte’s memories, matching our current meditation experience, Chaos was conceived by Astarte alone, unlike her clone Gaia – which Enoch had fabricated before fecundating her to stir the myths, rumors and gossips, to divert and deceive the deceiver.
“According to the Logos, you are a woman in your garden, flanked by two men: yours and an alien one.”
“Good that the other has no balls. Look, Don, this meditation makes me dizzy. Instead of finding bliss and relaxation, we’re swamped with names of bygone daemons...”
“Or not so gone...”
“No matter, it’s a data base too complicated for me to understand. Can’t you see the rain? It’s acid. It burns us. I don’t like it. Your island is no vacation place, Don. Take me out of here. Now!”
“At your command, Doris.”