The Dress of Ashta’hara
This story is incomplete. Some names have been changed, improvised, remote viewed, or otherwise tweaked to protect certain immortal interests and arses. For the rest of Ashta’hara’s story, do stay tuned. You may just be dancing upon it…
For the planetary consciousness of Venus to become, at least in part, material, she had to pass through a portal, or wormhole, for an energetic sentience this can be extremely uncomfortable, having a fluid awareness without boundary wound up tightly and shredded as it passes into the dense domain of solid materiality. To a human it might feel like the slow process of turning inside out from every conceivable angle, and very tingly at that. In short form the art of emerging from a black hole yoni occurred on the axis of what They remember fondly as the Midnight Sun.
As she passed through the black hole and begun splitting , Ishtahara was informed she would endure not one, but one thousand deaths in the life she had chosen, for, “it was no less than one thousand that I could bear”. These deaths were the price she must pay while still living to create a bridge to heaven for mankind. Not only would she know death one-thousand times, but its equivalent in rebirth, one-thousand times. The bridge of Tau would be a purple road ; each stone an alchemy of two souls. When complete an arc of rainbow shoots across the bridge. The prismatic herald is a feature of the seven sister stones in the helm worn by Ishtahara. Standing in the shadow of the hills, many may not see the rainbow. Perhaps Ishtahara herself will linger in the shadow of a hill and there will be no bridge.
Ashta’hara’s dress twirls upon the solar wheel, a mirage of turning faces. Only an uncanny eye can perceive it. But all stories from their glossy film are one day peeled from the dome of Time:
Ashta’hara’s prison unglued from its frozen honeycomb coffin in the lungs of the ocean when opportunistic Jupiter impaled with his spear the open eye of coughing Saturn. Like a drop of dew , a glimmering orb is shaken from the cradle of a fallen ruin. She is the seed enfolded upon the sphere ; freed from the infernal matrix of a black cube, she wears a molten dowry from the underworld; a golden gown. Nurtured for aeons entombed in her sunken ark, at the moment of Eclipse the lightning arm of a spire awakens her, and she begins to rise like the eyelid of a new age.
The ocean, despairing to lose Ashta’hara, wept ripples of deep blue waves into the seams of her gown. The ocean had only known her as the princess of a lost dream, but this dream’s beauty seized the soul of the salty waters, and the seaweeds wriggled to squeeze the budding stem of the rising goddess, but the buoyant egg bled through the coiled caress of the abyss and rose and rose to rejoinder at the brow of the siblings, where the four elements meet.
The seed of Her slithers and breaks, spilling into the sky, where her liquid limbs are cast in skin and begin to grasp at a stony spire. As She climbs with newly formed fingers and toes, Her dress frays in brazen departure from the chasing shore below, and a clinging sheen of white foam resolves shimmering folds of fabric through cascades of murky azure.
When she reached the temple’s peak, The fiery sun sheared shining radiance from the clay mould of her dress – like a hand wiping mud from a jewel, golden threads leapt out from the darkening sand, which fell away.
She is neither either shoulder of the whirling spire that propels her through the pleroma – thus when Ra beams at Dawn her dress is blanched in splendor, white and gold, but the tears of the dusky moon cast black shadows that break like waves upon blue scales and black. So this dress pirouettes with the poles, but the rosy heart of the daughter is still, and the uncanny eye alone perceives her.