Return of the Storm God - Chapter 8c
How Math Became Myth – and Was Buried Beneath the Cross
Lingam, Logos, and the Language of Seed
The ancient world understood what modern theology and science have largely forgotten – that the act of creation is not a metaphor, but a union of breath, sound, seed, and field. In the Egyptian tradition, this was encoded in the god Atum, who brought forth the world by ejaculating his seed into the void, assisted not by chance but by his right-hand consort – the goddess Iusaas (or Iusaaset) – later incorporated into the archetype named Isis. She is the feminine presence who enables the act, the field that makes generation possible. The masculine initiates as potential form – but it is the feminine that completes, the feminine that is expressed.
The feminine is the breath – here as the milk of the father rather than of the suckling mother – as the white milky semen. This is why one myth in Egypt involved the lettuce: the lettuce has a white milky sap. In later Druidic culture, mistletoe was revered also because it too holds and expresses a white milky sap – corresponding to semen, the milk from the man, but perceived as the goddess’s power and gift.
This same principle appears in the Vedic symbolism of the lingam and yoni. The lingam, often reduced to a symbol of the erect phallus, is far more than a sexual totem. It is the word made visible – the logos as form. It represents light, direction, speech, and divine intention. The yoni is not merely the physical counterpart, but the receptive field – the Shakti, the power that allows the lingam to function. Together they represent the sacred union of polarity – axis and field, seed and container, word and meaning.
The term lingam itself reveals this unity. In Sanskrit, it is a mark or sign – but phonetically and symbolically, it resonates with the Latin lingua – tongue – and the English root ling- in language. This is not coincidence. The tongue and the penis are both organs of emission. They express. One releases sound, the other seed – both are acts of transmission. Both require readiness and arousal. Both are governed by rhythm, breath, and timing.
Orgasm, in this context, is not a private act, but a sacred culmination. It is the moment of gasp, exhalation, sound, and seed – the utterance of the body. In ancient English, ejaculation meant a sudden exclamation, a spoken burst of feeling or revelation. That this term came to mean sexual climax is no accident. It reflects a deep symbolic truth – that the release of seed and the release of word are the same structural act. The creative principle – Hu in Egypt, Logos in Greece, Vāc in the Vedas – is always expressed through breath and release.
In later Vedic cosmology, Vāc is not merely the word – she is the wisdom behind it. She forms a structural equivalent to Ruach in the Hebrew tradition and Ennoia in the Gnostic – all expressions of the breath-logos, the spirit of meaning within the utterance. In later Hindu theology, Vāc becomes part of the triple goddess formation – Saraswati, Lakshmi, and Parvati – the voice, the abundance, and the power. Just as Isis and Hathor become layered fields of function within Egyptian theology, so too does Vāc evolve from breath to presence, from utterance to embodiment.
Atum’s ejaculation was not silent. It was a word. The first utterance. And Iusaas, as the feminine presence, was the one who allowed it to take form. She is the goddess of the hand, but also the field. She is Isis before Isis – the structure that permits seed to become creation.
The connection to India is not merely thematic. Around 2000 BCE, the Mesopotamian Isin Brahmans ventured eastward, likely through the Indus Valley corridor. L. A. Waddell was one of the primary voices in identifying this movement. He predicted with surprising accuracy what would later be found in the Indus, and defined the caste of Brahman priests as having emerged from Babylon, taking their theology and symbolic systems eastward into India.
This was part of the Drift Culture in Waddell’s reclamation – though tinged by racialism, his arguments were supported by his own deciphering of Indus Valley seals. To Waddell, it was not India that seeded Sumerian wisdom, but Sumerian priests who brought the Vedic archetypes east – a reversal of modern assumptions. Of course, each religion – and Hinduism is no exception – must claim its own originality and antiquity far older than the archaeological record permits. Such claims are standard to all major theological systems. None can declare an origin outside its dogma and each must assert an unbroken lineage as proof of divine legitimacy.
In the Vedic tradition that followed, the deity Brahma became the archetype of the Lord of the field of Creation, while Saraswati – herself an evolution of Vāc – became the goddess of speech and divine knowledge. It is worth noting that Vāc later becomes vacca in Latin – the cow – the same archetype of nourishment as Hathor in Egypt, the milk-giving mother of creation. In Mesopotamia, this archetype appeared as the fluidic gala – the milk from which the galaxy was named, from the Greek galaktos. One prime creation myth described the rotation of the cosmic wheel in the milk – the gala – an image mirrored in Egypt in Khnum’s turning of the potter’s wheel, and in Ptah’s cosmogenesis through utterance and structure.
Ptah, the architect of the Word, is in many ways the prefiguration of the Biblical Void – the unshaped potential from which the Logos emerges. These are not scattered parallels. They are exact typologies, consistent in form and structure across civilisations, and they strongly suggest that the Isin priesthood’s eastward transmission of knowledge through the Indus carried with it the symbolic lexicon of the early field religions.
The priests of Isin – or Brahmans, in Waddell’s terms – are the likely originators of these archetypes in early Vedic cosmology. And at the heart of this symbolic system is the word gala – the term used for the milk of creation and the servants of Inanna, many centuries before it entered India. It is both fluid and field – and it is one of the root Drift Culture hydronyms of the Gothic Script.
This is not only syncretism – it is recurrence. These are the drift-forms of the same field logic, expressed in variant tongues, that re-emerge in different times.
But there remain lesser-known and rarely discussed pieces of evidence that point to an eastward drift of foundational cultural knowledge – in myth, linguistics, and iconography – suggesting that many core typologies flowed from Mesopotamia and Egypt into India, not the reverse.
The Sanskrit name lingam becomes IAST in western transliteration. On the surface, this appears modern – a romanisation standard. But structurally, it reveals far more.
The element IA appears in Mesopotamian divine names – a breath-root of divinity. It is a variant of Ea (the water god of wisdom) and of Io, the name of the lunar goddess, which later gives rise to Ioannes, and eventually to John, Joanne, Ivan, and Shona in more recent linguistic forms. The feminine ST re-emerges in Egypt in the name Aset (Isis), where the ending encodes the feminine suffix – the structured field, the enclosing vessel.
Thus, IAST is not merely a modern acronym. It is a theanonymic composite – the god-name IA in union with the goddess ST. This is not coincidence. It is a naming system encoded in structure – and it points clearly to a west-to-east transmission of divine nomenclature and field-symbolism.
In this single name, we see the fusion of Mesopotamian etymology and Egyptian feminine syntax – carried eastward and reassembled within the Sanskrit of India. The structure is ancient, but the form has drifted. The pattern is preserved. The names we still speak carry the breath of gods and the shape of the goddess.
The word lingam, then, is not simply a Vedic object. It is a compound symbol – a luminym – where li denotes light and form, and gam signifies movement or going. It is the light-seed on the move. It is the spoken axis – the directional emission of intent. And in the transliterated form IAST, we may see its deepest structure: the union of god and goddess, breath and field, word and form.
Egyptian hieroglyphs preserve this same logic. The Djed pillar is the lingam as structure – raised, stable, enduring. Min, the god of fertility, is shown with erect phallus and lettuce – symbols of arousal, seed, and emission. Amun, the hidden one, does not enter the queen by metaphor but by sacred act – he is the breath, the unseen force, the animating principle within the womb. These were not poetic metaphors. They were biological and energetic truths, expressed through sacred typology.
The twisted flax, the wick, the coiled rope – these are the cords of sound and seed. They represent breath, emission, naming, and erection. The Hu is not only the word. It is the creative gasp, the sacred exhalation. It is the orgasm made divine – the wet moment where heaven and earth are joined.
We speak. We gasp. We release. And in that release, life begins. Not just biologically, but symbolically. The word is seed. The tongue is phallus. The goddess is the one who allows. And all of it, once, was known.
The Djed is the bone of Osiris’ spine – and it becomes, through drift, our coarse term boner, the phallus as living pillar. The Iusa – the coming one – becomes the one who endlessly comes: the generative force, the initiatic flow, the sacred emission from the upright spine. The Iusaas is the right hand that brings about the sacred ejaculation.
The later demonisation of Lucifer as Satan in Christian doctrine is not merely a theological invention – it is a deliberate inversion of older cosmology. Lucifer, meaning light-bringer, was a Roman name for the morning star – Venus – and belonged to the archetypal stream of the feminine as field-light, love, and creative agency. She was the radiant essence that bore light into matter – just as Wadjet did with her serpent-sight, just as Isis did with her naming and reassembly. But when patriarchal theology restructured heaven into hierarchy, this radiant feminine became a threat. Lucifer was cast down. The bearer of light was reframed as the prince of darkness.
This transformation was not arbitrary. In Egyptian myth, the goddess Aset (Isis), in her dark and regenerative form, governed death, rebirth, naming, and the Tuat – the sacred underworld of becoming. But the male figure Set – symbol of chaos and sterile void – bore a phonetically similar name. The confusion was easy to manufacture. Later scribes fused Set and Aset, removed the feminine presence, and recast the resulting composite as Satan: the devil, the adversary, the enemy of light. The removal of the feminine from the dark principle is a recurring pattern in biblical writing – a systematic effort to steal the mystery of the goddess and replace it with fear.
This symbolic reversal extended further. The Tuat, once the galactic womb where stars were born, became hell. The serpent, once a sacred emblem of feminine vision and protection – Wadjet, Mehen, the coiled wisdom of Kundalini – was degraded into Satan’s snake. Sobek, the crocodile god associated with chaotic flood, was blended in to further confuse the iconography. The morning star, Venus, became the fallen angel. The right hand of Atum – Iusaas, the feminine breath that enabled creation – became the rebel, the rival, the enemy cast down. What had once been sacred, sexual, and life-giving was rewritten as sinful, shameful, and evil. All the symbols were preserved, but their meanings were reversed. The feminine light became demonic. The breath of god became sin. The regenerative dark became death. And Satan – once Venus, once Wadjet, once Aset – now stood as the monster beneath the throne.
This same inversion echoes through the tale of Eve and the serpent – a biblical rewriting of earlier goddess-serpent cosmologies. Eve, originally the life-giver (Chavvah, from the root meaning to live), becomes the archetypal sinner – the woman tempted not to fall, but to gain knowledge. Her sin was not disobedience, but autonomy. The serpent, once the goddess’s totem, became the devil himself. Eve, like Isis, was the one who named, who saw, who gave form. Her temptation was knowing. Her punishment was erasure. The very word evil emerges both linguistically and symbolically from this distortion – Eve’s wisdom becomes the root of sin.
Both the Eve-serpent story and the Lucifer-as-Satan narrative serve the same typological function: remove the goddess, vilify her sacred icon, and where possible, recast her as a male enemy of god. Iusaas, the right hand of Atum, was the creative force – the breath made form – and in these myths she is first removed, then inverted, and finally demonised. What was once generation becomes rebellion. The right hand, once the site of divine action, is severed or suppressed.
This motif of the right hand recurs in fractured form in later tales: St Cuthbert, whose incorrupt body was said to preserve the right hand above all; King Oswald, whose severed arm was blessed by Aidan never to perish and became a relic; Týr, the Norse god of order, who placed his right hand in the mouth of Fenris, the wolf of chaos, and lost it in the act of trust. These are half-remembered echoes of the ancient symbolic structure – where the right hand once signified power, alliance, and generation – now degraded into martyrdom, sacrifice, or fable. The hand is always removed, stolen, or sanctified after death – but never permitted to act in life. In every case, the field-function of the divine feminine is either amputated or buried.
God forbid that a Christian would ever discover that their religion was founded upon the idea of masturbation, feminine wetness, and sexuality. Perhaps this is why the artists and masons of initiatory knowledge so often painted or carved their figures with the right hand raised toward the stars – not in supplication, but as code. A cypher. A visual memory of what the right hand once meant: the goddess’s wisdom, the field of light, the axis of generation. The raised hand pointed not to a distant heaven, but to the Milky Way – the sacred river of milk and seed, the galactic gala, where Isis, Ashtar, and Ishtar all once stood as light-bearers in the great dark sea of space. The stars, the milk, the spiral – all of it encoded in gesture. All of it once known.
In their usual form as a carved icon, the lingam and yoni appear as a single object. They encode god and goddess in unity. They are a theanonym in stone – a name of the divine expressed through form. Together, they represent the Oneness emerged from the Void, which is the typology of Iusa or Iusaas. In this sense, they are equivalent to the 1 and the 2 in the Pythagorean Tetractys: the One as axis, the Two as field – the masculine spark and the feminine container – inseparable and eternally returning.
The Tripundra symbol, sometimes found on the Vedic lingam and sometimes painted on the foreheads of Shiva devotees, provides one of the most compelling pieces of evidence for the symbolic transfer from Egypt and Babylon into the Indian Vedic system. The three white lines represent a sacred trinity, known as Pund-Ra, with the central line and red dot – or Bindu – forming a direct analogue to the Egyptian sign of Min: the horizontal Djed. Earth and Sky, East and West, male and female – the archetypes of correspondence and reciprocal polarity in nature – are all encoded in this form.
In Min’s glyphs: 𓁐, 𓁑 – the erect phallus and the red seed-point are stabilised as symbols of generative arousal and continuity. The Djed pillar is usually vertical in Egyptian inscriptions – the raised axis. But here in the Tripundra, the Min sign is rotated, horizontalised – as it is in the Egyptian glyph – and placed across the forehead of the lingam as a field code, assigned the form of ‘mn’ 𓍿 or the other horizontal signs that correspond with the --- or -o- archetypes that represent stability or endurance, which are Amun and Min archetypes.
The Min sign itself, the procreative third principle of the Tetractys, appears here in a three-part glyph as a single form, stabilised between duality. The yoni-lingam with Tripundra thus encodes the zero becoming one, becoming two, becoming three – in a single icon of pure archetype.
This horizontal Djed is identical to the Egyptian sign for Min – the Egyptian phallic god, forerunner of Priapus, echoed in the likely Celtic Cerne Abbas Giant, and closely aligned symbolically with Osiris and Orion. It is the generative form of Atum, singled out and emphasised as an icon of the male creative force, exemplified by the erect phallus.
The Lingam on the Yoni base, with the Tripundra sign. Image by शिव साहिल - Shiv Lingam with Tripundra.jpg, CC BY-SA 4.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=68232041)
This is not mere stylisation. It is directionality. The horizontal Djed inscribed on the base of the lingam encodes a deeper polarity – axis and field, solar seed and layered earth. The red dot at the centre is the Ra – the light-seed. The flanking lines represent the horizon layers, the Tuat, the levels of emergence, the earth and sky. The lingam becomes the Djed. The yoni becomes the Duat. The Tripundra becomes the visual KRST – anointed axis, emerging seed, veiled field.
There is an element within today’s Hindu movement that would deny the lingam is a penis. As a result, the multi-layered archetype becomes confused – sublimated into dogma and defended as a theological abstraction against the evidence. While I agree that the lingam is not sculpted to resemble a literal penis, the function of the phallus is unquestionably present in the records. Indian literature is replete with unabashed eroticism and direct references to the lingam as a phallic principle.
To pretend otherwise is not scholarly caution – it is religious sanitisation. It may be inconvenient to modern sensibilities, too graphic for conservative tastes, or uncomfortable for elite narratives that seek to minimise or obscure human sexuality. But the commonalities are stark in the typology, and overt in the Indian texts themselves. The lingam is not merely symbolic – it is structural. It is the axis of generation, and its sexual function is not a distraction from the sacred, but one of its clearest and oldest expressions.
The red circle also signifies the inner serpent – the wisdom of the inner eye. Indian mythology is not divorced from the metaphysical realities of the auric field and its interactions. Red is also blood, and the blood in a circle corresponds symbolically with feminine menses. These icons express how the larger field interfaces with the individuated self – how cosmic forces are mirrored in the subtle body.
Again, the lingam arises from the primal waters. Its iconography is always cast on a base designed for the flowing of liquid. This is the feminine wetness – the sacred substrate of emergence. The form is a Djed, or a Benben, rising from the primordial Nun at Zep Tepi. And the typology is the same as Medjed – though I have never seen another scholar make these parallels. Instead of a red knotted sash, we have a red centre. Instead of a literal veil, we have a symbolic trifold. It is another expression of the Wedjat eye as a composite glyph.
Multiple archetypes and designs from Nature are encoded in this simple form – the field, the axis, the emergence, the seed – all converging in one symbol with many correspondences.
Other icons were employed in Egyptian and Indian systems alike. The lotus flower is one such symbol of wisdom and creation emerging from the waters of the Mother. Archetypes can be expressed in many forms – Isis remains veiled in countless ways, as the generative substrate that emerges in measured form and imbues that form with life. The lotus in particular is a sign of rebirth, as it emerges and retreats and re-emerges daily. It is tied to the solar cycle – a son-father symbol rising from the mother – as purity, wisdom, and regeneration. This is further evidence that Indian myth shares a common root in Western mythic structure.
We must also recall that the Vedic and Babylonian king lists were identified as exact to one another by L. A. Waddell. There can be no doubt about the cross-fertilisation between Mesopotamia and early Vedic culture – but this work also shows that Egyptian culture was part of that same eastward drift. In this way, Egypt too reflects a Mesopotamian substratum. The Mesopotamians of this age were already well-versed in Pythagorean ratios, as I have shown.
Many scholars treat Egypt as though it existed in a vacuum, failing to recognise the presence of Mesopotamian mathematics and ratio within the Egyptian system. Yet the shared drift into the Vedic corpus suggests that both Egyptian and Mesopotamian cults were well known to one another – not isolated, but concurrent and interwoven. This will become further evident when we examine the construction of pyramids.
Combined with the linguistic structure IAST – the divine utterance of IA and the feminine suffix ST – and placed within the cultural expansion of the Isin Brahmans around 2000 BCE, this symbol stands as a key convergence. It confirms that Vedic religious symbolism did not arise in isolation, but was seeded through earlier Egyptian and Babylonian structures. The Tripundra is not simply an Indian mark. It is a global echo – a field imprint from the west, carried across time.
Here we have a supposedly independent indigenous Indian icon and symbol that is almost identical to the Egyptian in both form and function. It is represented as a sculpture designed specifically for anointing with fluid – often with milk. Milk itself holds dual significance: as semen in the male, and as breastmilk in the female. These two substances are closely linked in Western mythologies. Both are sacred fluids associated with gods and goddesses emerging from the Primal Void – the waters of first creation. Both milks are life-givers, and therefore both are archetypally feminine – vessels of nourishment, continuity, and sacred wetness.
(Note: Typically, all cultures tend to insist on their own being the original and oldest – often linking aristocratic right to rule with a historical lineage traced back to the gods. However, in this case, we are with Waddell: the weight of evidence supports a southward and eastward co-drift into indigenous India, rather than India being the source of influence upon the Western or northern cultures. Undoubtedly, these civilisations would all influence one another over time, but at the formative stage, the Drift entered India and became embedded within the culture that later emerged in Vedic form.
Where I diverge from Waddell is in his adherence to the king lists as records of historical personages and as evidence of a racial elite. Most of the earlier ‘kings’ were founded in archetypes and myths drawn from Nature – not historical patriarchs. I do not claim that all such figures were mythic; some of the later names may well have had a historical basis. But the early strata of kingship – particularly those tied to divine ancestry or elemental rule, and certainly all ten pre-diluvial and the ten post-diluvial kings – were symbolic constructs, not dynastic records in the modern sense, as I demonstrated in an earlier chapter.)
Milk is a calcium enriched fluid and as I have shown very much associated with the hydronyms, was an ingredient in metalworking, was found in the sacred rivers by imbuing them with a milky appearance. Here they found lime deposits that were required for metalworking, and in the red or bloodlike rivers and marshes they sourced their iron for the metalworking itself. This began in our Danubian and Anatolian – Chaldean cultural areas early in the emergence of the Drift culture.
The galaxy and the Milky Way derive their names from these hydronymic associations and myths. In Indian tradition, the Milky Way – and milk itself – is known as gala, while in the West, particularly in the Celtic lands, gala is a word for river. Rivers and marshy waters that bore traces of minerals and metals often appeared milky with lime or reddened with iron. These were the places the ancients looked to for sourcing lime and iron for metalworking. So the red and white iconography found across early myths is not surprising – nor are its associations with blood, milk, and semen. These fluids marked the sites of emergence, nourishment, and transformation – from earth, to body, to star.
Finding such commonalities in myth, icons, names, and words across a wide geographic area – and across borders and apparent cultural divisions – might seem surprising at first. But it becomes far less so if we consider that these commonalities exist because our Drift Culture has shared roots. There are other threads of data that point to a broader shared understanding across this field – evidence of collective archetypes, expressed in divergent forms from east to west and north to south across the territories of our Drift Culture. These we will explore further in the chapters that follow.
Phallus: the projective axis from the salty sea
The Greek word phallus (phallos) is traditionally defined as the male organ, but its structure reveals much deeper meaning. The initial ph encodes phi, the spiral-generating principle and ratio of emergence. The latter part may echo hals, the Greek word for salt or sea. Combined, ph + hals gives us phals – a root meaning the phi-axis rising from the haline field. This is the same idea encoded in the lingam emerging from the yoni, or the benben mound rising from Nun.
The phallus is not just anatomical. It is the generative pillar of form, equivalent to the Djed, the lingam, or the axis mundi. In every symbolic form it emerges from a liquid matrix: semen, amniotic fluid, saltwater, or the cosmic sea. To deny its deeper structure is to sever it from the feminine source from which it arises.
As typified in Babylonian culture, the great salty sea is the body of the cosmic mother Tiamat. It is the origin of gal, meaning ‘great’, as in the word lugal. The Mother is the great sea of space, primary and prior to the Creation as enacted by Marduk. Tiamat is the mother of dragons – the forces of light that came from her dismemberment.
The grounded waters are described as the ‘sweet waters’ in the Mesopotamian myths. This is entirely natural; springs and subterranean water are fresh and infused with minerals – forms of salt also – but which, when tasted, confer a sense of sweetness to the palate when not overly concentrated.
But we cannot divorce the sweet waters from the salty. In the ancient archetypal mind, both are associated with the feminine – reciprocal, interpenetrating, and merged. Both bear sacred icons as fish – living bodies of the waters, which are also the stars and heavenly bodies. As above, so below, unified by the axis mundi.
And though it may offend certain modern sensibilities, the ancients would not have failed to notice that semen is extremely salty, and not sweet like feminine milk. Oral sex was not taboo in ancient cultures. A salty fluid, even when produced by the male body, is as archetypally feminine as the sweet milk from the breast – because both serve the same function: to generate, to nourish, to transmit life. In field terms, it is not the anatomical origin of the fluid that defines its archetype, but its role in the cycle of emergence and continuity.
However, metallic taste is found in blood and menses. It is neither sweet nor salty. This taste would have been naturally associated with both feminine and masculine archetypes. Men and women share blood, and women carry the lunar flux. But metal takes on a masculine form – especially iron or bronze, beaten on the anvil or cast in the stone pot. For this reason, many masculine archetypes are associated with smithery and metallurgy. Yet these are often infused with feminine symbolism. The sword Excalibur, for example, is a masculine weapon, but it is drawn from the stone and gifted by the lake goddess. The masculine form is thus revealed through a feminine process: emergence from water, withdrawal from earth, and consecration by the field.
Many forms of the goddess are associated not only with the fruits of the earth, but also with what is hidden within it. As such, they often carry icons linked to jars, boxes, or vessels buried in or emerging from the earth – symbols of concealed wisdom, fertility, or danger. Gaia, Persephone, and Pandora all reflect this pattern. Each, in her way, is a form of Kore – the maiden, the seed-form of the goddess – and each is connected to the act of opening something hidden. In Gaia’s case, it is the Earth itself; in Persephone’s, the seasonal return from the underworld; in Pandora’s, the opening of the jar (not a box originally) that releases hidden forces into the world.
In these archetypes, we also see the hydronym kar functioning as feminine rather than masculine – Kore as the form, kar as the vessel or enclosure. Over time, the archetypes and names diverge or become confused – unless we examine them carefully and trace them back to their most ancient roots. These symbolic structures are consistent across early mythology, but they are routinely ignored or suppressed in Biblical narratives, where the archetypes are deliberately and repeatedly subverted to obscure the feminine origin.
Reality vs Impression – Establishing the correct lens with which to view the records of the past
While it is true that all cultures have taboos of some kind, it is important to distinguish socio-ritual boundaries from moral prohibitions. In the ancient symbolic systems of Egypt, Sumer, and Vedic India, sexuality was not treated as something shameful or restricted by divine law. Erotic imagery, ritual intercourse, and references to acts like masturbation and oral sex appear openly in their texts, art, and temple symbolism. Unlike the later Judeo-Christian and Islamic systems, which introduced strict moral codes and proscribed many forms of sexual activity, these earlier civilisations integrated sexuality into their cosmology, their ritual life, and their symbolic understanding of creation.
It is always incorrect to impose a current moral or cultural framework onto the study of the past. Unless there is clear evidence to the contrary, we must set aside our own assumptions about what was or was not acceptable to the cultures we are examining. At the same time, we must recognise that humans share inherited biological realities – physical needs, emotional responses, and sensory experiences – which we should assume were present in the people of the past. Social, moral, and legal attitudes – the proscriptions and prescriptions of behaviour – must always be considered within the cultural and historical context of their time, not ours.
Modern religion encourages the belief that sacred texts were written by divinely inspired individuals – paragons of virtue, touched by heaven, who lived apart from ordinary concerns. This image was imposed as orthodoxy during the consolidation of Roman Catholic control over morality and history. Their writings are treated as timeless prescriptions, elevated above the messiness of daily life. But this is illusion. What has been removed is their humanness. These people – scribes, artisans, singers, builders – lived in the same world as we do. They argued, ate, bled, feared, desired. They dealt with bowel movements, body odour, and sexual urges. They were not moral exemplars – they were embedded humans, observing patterns and recording meaning in the forms they knew.
Religious texts often exploit human frailty in order to impose moral codes – not by embracing the real, but by naming it as failure. Figures are cast as flawed or sinful so that virtue can be defined through obedience and submission. But when we study myth and religion through that lens, we fail to connect. We do not see the everyday lives, the communal interactions, the natural rhythms from which these stories arose. It is as if the ancients spent every hour in temples, in prayer, or in ritual – yet we know from experience that only a very small priestly class lived this way. The vast majority went about their lives: farming, making love, fetching water, laughing, dying. The myths they left us are not records of sainthood. They are fragments of awareness, shaped by the sacred but grounded in life. To restore meaning, we must restore reality.
Omphalos: the serpentine axis from the womb of the goddess
The Greek word omphalos (navel) is often treated as a simple term for the belly button or the centre of the world, as in Delphi. But when broken down, the components are revealing. Om signifies utterance or origin vibration – as in the Sanskrit Aum or the Egyptian Hu. Ph again represents phi, the spiral vector of ratioed emergence. Alos echoes hals, meaning salt or sea.
Om plus phi plus hals gives a clear composite: the vibratory spiral rising from the sea. The omphalos is a linguistic representation of the lingam – the phi-bearing axis of emergence from the haline goddess. At Delphi, the omphalos stone was domed, netted, and irrigated – like a sacred phallus seated in the earth-womb. The netted pattern reflects the field matrix, perhaps the coiled phi-structure surrounding the axis in linear geometric form – a kind of woven hood over the glans.
Halo: the light-ring of the salty womb
The word halo derives from the Greek halōs, which originally meant threshing floor or circular field. It stems from the earlier root hals, meaning salt or sea. Over time, halōs came to mean disc, then luminous ring, and finally the sacred aura surrounding the head in religious iconography.
But the meaning is not abstract. The halo is the salt-origin field rendered into light. It is the same haline medium – the feminine womb – now seen as the radiant veil around the axis or enlightened one. It encircles the head or crown, which symbolises the axis point of human form. It is Wadjet around the sun disc, the serpent crowning Ra, the phi-field encircling the lingam or Djed.
Unveiling the codification
These terms are not isolated or accidental. They are phonemic constructs carrying symbolic content across time. Phallus encodes the phi-axis from the salt field. Omphalos encodes the spiral emergence from the vibrating sea. Halo encodes the final ring of light – the transformation of the womb-field into radiance.
Phi is embedded in the spelling of all these terms. It is the ratio of emergence, the vector of form, the logic of becoming. And it always issues from the feminine substrate: from water, from salt, from void, or from breath. In Egypt, phi is the essence of Isis.
Phallus and omphalos are not neutral terms. They are coded containers, preserving the story of the axis rising from the sea. They conceal in plain sight the process of becoming – through phi, through utterance, and through the feminine salt matrix. Halo continues the pattern, as the final veil of coherence wrapped around the risen form.
To deny the phallic nature of the lingam is to deny phi, salt, and the mother. To reduce the halo to a simple sign of sanctity is to miss its deeper origin and derivation. These terms are vessels of a lost language of form. Once decoded, they return us to the source.
Visually, they have been recast into religious iconography, designed to portray singular meanings. But the deeper structures are still present. Etymology reopens what dogma has sealed. A Catholic image of Mary surrounded by a vesica-shaped halo is not simply referencing the holiness of the mother of Jesus. It is exemplifying Mother Goddessness – as radiance, as field, and even more deeply as a salty origin, shaped like the female vagina, the tuat or twat, once symbolised by a pentagram within a circle – now prohibited. But the vulval iconography remains.
Again, we must not divorce ancient symbolism from its natural origin. The essence of the Mother Goddess archetype is Life itself. Salt is not merely a seasoning – it is a vital necessity. Electrolytes are essential to human existence. They circulate through the blood and tissues and make biological function possible. Salt is expressed in sweat. It is excreted and must be replenished – especially in arid environments where life is shaped by thirst.
Therefore, a salty sea as Mother is an archetype not only of water or the vastness of space, but of vitality itself – of the living requirement for salt, the field-substance from which the body arises and into which it must return. Sweat carries odour, and odour is also a part of sex. The sexual act embraces fluid not only as lubrication or emission, but as atmosphere – the exchange of sweat, scent, and pheromone. These arouse, stimulate, and draw bodies together. They are part of the real, and the real is what became symbol.
We must always remember to trace symbolic systems back to their natural derivations. To see salt only as metaphor is to miss the deeper truth. The ancient mind did not separate the body from the field. It encoded what was seen, felt, tasted, and shared – into myth, into form, and into symbol.
These natural realities – shared bodily experience, environmental similarity, biological needs, and the universal observance of seasons and celestial cycles – form the foundation of human culture. Across time and vast distance, civilisations witnessed the same sky, felt the same heat, bled the same blood, and relied on the same elements. So we should expect their myths to show a shared iconography – not because of direct contact necessarily, but because they emerged from a shared reality.
However, some correspondences go beyond general archetype. Certain symbols, names, and structural patterns are too precise, too layered, and too consistent across cultures to be explained by environmental convergence alone. These cases point to a shared origin – not just shared conditions. They reveal the drifting of iconography, myth, and linguistic form from one region into another, where they merge with and adapt to the indigenous cultural heritage. It is through these convergences and divergences that we can trace the true pathways of mythic transmission across the Drift Culture zones.
What is compelling in the myths surrounding Vedic culture – particularly those concerning the lingam and yoni – is how closely the underlying cosmology and linguistic structure echoes that of Egypt. Both traditions tell of the primacy of the Void and the emergence of form. In the Vedic texts, all is said to be contained within the lingam and yoni – all gods emerge from it. This matches the Egyptian pantheon emerging from the potential of the Void, with Ptah as the primordial field of potential, becoming Atum, whose man-milk – semen as utterance – created the world.
It is explicitly stated in the Vedic corpus that the gods were formed after creation, just as in the Egyptian texts, Ptah was understood as both father and mother in potential before the act of creation, with Atum acting as the administrative or projective force. From Atum came the gods – but only after the field itself had already been. Like the Vedic tradition, the original Egyptian concept maintains that all emerges from the Void, and that the gods are not creators, but differentiations of the One.
The lingam and yoni, then, do not just represent male and female anatomy – they represent the primal act of emergence from the Void. They are the forms that appear after creation, but also contain the pattern of the All. Just as the Djed represents the axis mundi and the goddess is hidden within its structure, so the yoni-lingam form contains all the Vedic gods. The yoni is not merely the female counterpart – it is the primal mother, the sustaining substrate that remains after the initial act of division from the undifferentiated whole.
The Framing of Zero: The Indian Invention Narrative
The formal appearance of the numeral zero is widely attributed to Indian mathematicians. The Bakshali Manuscript, discovered near Peshawar and dated by radiocarbon to as early as the 3rd or 4th century CE, contains the earliest known written zero – expressed as a dot. This manuscript shows zero used as both a placeholder and a number in its own right, fully integrated into mathematical calculations. Later, the 9th-century Gwalior Temple inscription marks the first recorded use of zero in stone, carved in the number 270.
From this evidence, modern historians conclude that the number zero – as both concept and symbol – was first formalised in India. And rightly so, if we are speaking strictly of written numerals in surviving documents. The Indian term shunya, meaning emptiness or void, is foundational in both mathematical and metaphysical traditions, appearing in early Vedic and Buddhist texts. Philosophically, India grasped the void as a sacred field long before it took written numerical form. There is no doubt that Indian scholars gave us the earliest complete symbolic representation of zero.
However, this framing can obscure a deeper truth.
Reframing Zero: The Sacred Void Before the Numeral
It is a mistake to treat the absence of a written zero in early Egyptian or Mesopotamian records as evidence that the concept was unknown to them. The architectural logic, harmonic ratios, and symbolic systems found in these cultures all point to a functional and symbolic awareness of the void – not just as absence, but as origin. Zero as placeholder, as field, as seed-point, is everywhere implicit.
The sacred Tetractys – 0, 1, 2, 3, 4, 10 – was not invented by Pythagoras in 600 BCE. It is visible much earlier in Egyptian pyramidal structures, in Indian lingam-yoni symbolism, and in Mesopotamian measurement and astronomical tables. It is encoded not only in mathematics, but in the structure of creation myths themselves.
In Egypt, it is clearly present in the myth of Ptah as the primordial void, from which Atum emerges as the One. From Atum comes the Duality – the first male and female forces. The Third is consistently acknowledged in the emergence of Shu and Tefnut, the principle of breath and moisture – the first axis-field expression. The Enneads which follow are not arbitrary pantheons, but structured numeric unfoldings – often representing quadralities (four sons of Horus, four directions, four elements) that reflect the 1–2–3–4 pattern of the Tetractys.
The complete Pythagorean structure – including symbolic 10 as the sum of the sacred progression – is already evident in the 3rd and 4th millennium BCE. Both Egypt and Mesopotamia worked with ratios, harmonics, spatial quadrature, and recursive function long before these were formalised in Greek philosophy. That this knowledge was considered sacred – not secular – may explain why it was encoded mythically rather than written overtly as mathematical theorem. Number was not isolated from spirit. It was seen as a function of cosmic emergence.
To reduce these cultures to mere builders without metaphysical awareness is to miss the sophistication of their symbolism. The zero, the axis, the spiral, and the seed-point were all known – just not expressed through the modern lens of numeric abstraction. They were lived, symbolised, and preserved in ritual, myth, and stone.
To insist on a late emergence of zero because of a written manuscript in the 3rd century CE is to mistake the nature of symbolic knowledge.
This emphasis on late emergence often reinforces a false biblical timeline – one that suppresses evidence of earlier cultural sophistication in Egypt and beyond. The zero as a number may have first been written in India, but its logic and field function were already known, practiced, and encoded in stone by those who understood ratio as sacred.
To imagine that the architects of Saqqara or Giza did not grasp the concept of the zero – the void from which form emerges – is not only illogical, it would require that they invented sacred ratio (phi, pi, harmonic fractions) without ever needing to describe or symbolise the point of origin. But everything in their work speaks to that origin. The void was not unknown – it was encoded.
The Indian language preserves a structure and symbolic logic that is extremely close to that of early Egypt. In the Memphite theology, Ptah is the primordial void – pure potential – who self-creates as Atum, the dualistic force responsible for forming the created world. Atum represents the emergence of form and polarity, and is tasked with shaping the world and breathing life into it. He is the one who puts mind into matter. In Indian philosophy, Atman is the word for mind or soul – and is therefore functionally analogous to Atum.
Yet Ptah remains always within Atum, and within everything Atum creates. Ptah is not absent once form appears – he is the potential behind all form, behind the emergence of mind, and behind the Hu – the breath of life that enables consciousness. Ptah is the ever-coming one, the unseen animating force and the latent field within the animated form.
The physical shaping of form is mythically placed on Khnum’s wheel – the potter’s wheel of becoming. But Khnum is another form of Atum, and therefore another expression of Ptah. All are aspects of the One. All creation unfolds from the potential of Ptah. Therefore, Khnum’s wheel is also Ptah’s wheel – the wheel of potential forming into patterned matter.
Unfortunately, over time, Ptah became masculinised – reinterpreted as Pater or Father. But Ptah was neither male nor female, and also both. To reduce Ptah to a male creator god is to miss the deeper metaphysical structure. He is not a father – he is potential itself, capable of differentiation but beyond all division.
Ptah is the Great Architect – the very essence of the word potential. We preserve this in the metaphor of the pot of potential – the Putahntial, if you will – the encoded essence of Ptah. He is the rock upon which the foundation is built, a concept directly preserved in the Christian mythos as Peter, the founder of the Catholic Church. The name Peter derives from petros, meaning stone – and this same root appears repeatedly in words associated with foundational form and structure: potter, Patrick, Peter, petros.
The Romans turned the Creator into the founder of the Church, the rock on whom it is built; thereby flattening a profound Egyptian philosophy entirely complete and exact to the known physics of the universe to a man. And through the man, they imposed an empire. The consequences of which are still with us today.
It also echoes through terms tied to inner substance and serpentine form: pith, python, Pythias, Pythagoras – all of which point back to the root logic of Ptah. Even phi, the ratio of becoming, carries the same lineage. Ptah is not simply a god – he is the archetype of the formative mind, the Atman, the omnipresent and omniscient field behind the entirety of creation. He is both field and form. Hence the linguistic preservation of solidity (petros, the rock) and of spirit (Atman, the breath-mind). All of these are aspects of the Great Architect – and all are encoded in the name and function of Ptah.
Despite Ptah giving us the root of the word Father as Pater, the Egyptians did not originally conceive of Ptah as father alone. He was called both the Great Father and the Great Mother. He was the undivided One – the source behind all dualities.
Ptah becomes the one who bores out the Earth – not just physically, but symbolically – as the underworld itself. He is the Duat, the hidden world beneath form. The underworld is the place of descent for Osiris as the aging sun – the god who enters the dark at night to confront the forces of dissolution. In his solar aspect, this is the nightly passage through the Tuat.
But Ptah is not just the solar guide or the maker of form. Ptah is also the Mother Goddess, the Tuat itself, the veiled field, the unseen ratio – the yoni behind the djed, the container behind the axis. Ptah is the serpent that coils – whether as Wadjet’s uraeus or the naga of India: the ga'/gar of nu/nun, the symbolic serpent form of the fundamental substrate as a theanonym. He is the rising kundalini, the spiral of breath ascending the spine. He is wisdom in the mind, spirit in the soul, the force that animates and the form it inhabits. He is the completion, the hidden darkness behind the light.
Hence the symbolism behind leavened bread. Ptah is both the form and the sacred breath that infuses the loaf. The shaped dough is masculine – the vessel, the container – but the gas, the rising breath, is feminine. It is the unseen force that causes emergence. The loaf becomes a union of field and form – yoni and djed, body and spirit – baked into ritual substance. All of this is encoded not just in myth, but in language and in the function of the thing itself – as seen in pitta bread. The word carries the imprint of Ptah, and the bread enacts the process of becoming: shaped by hand, animated by breath, completed by fire.
It is also the pith of the fruit – the internal core – and the external, as form. Ptah is both gal and kal in hydronymic terms: the flow and the container, the field and the crown. He is also the source of the luminym – the light-bearing utterance – and the essence of the word theanonym. Ptah names and shapes the divine. He is the One from whom all divine names issue, because he is the field that holds all names.
In the Indian tradition, the Tuat state – the underworld or inner-world beneath the manifest – is known as Patala. This is Ptah-la, or Putah-la – a direct echo of Ptah, encoded phonetically and symbolically. The Egyptian and Babylonian systems had already merged into the Indian stream by around 2000 BCE, resulting in Atumist and Ptah-based names that carried the same core ideas: the lingam emerging from the yoni, the axis from the field, the form from the void.
We find this continuity in words such as Tamas, derived from Atm, expressing inertia, potentiality, and density – the field state before form. And in Atman, meaning mind or spirit – equivalent to the Egyptian Hu, the breath of life. This breath is the feminine principle animating form. It is the soul within matter. And it is precisely this logic that is encoded in the compound Hu-man – breath and matter, field and form. The feminine breath within the masculine vessel. The soul made flesh.
The Indian language is also replete with Ra and Ba roots – just as we find in Egyptian spiritual terminology (Ra, the solar principle; Ba, the soul) – and these same phonemes appear again in the Gothic Script, as documented throughout the works of L. A. Waddell. These recurrent sound-structures are not coincidence, but evidence of a shared linguistic and symbolic substratum moving with the Drift.
Other derived or shared words between the cultures include the Naga serpents that guard Patala. These are analogous to the seven companions of Atum – the Ari or Ali – who later became the Elohim of the Biblical narrative. The consistent recurrence of the number seven – as lunar divisions and as physical patterns in the stars – should not be overlooked. It appears in the seven stars of Orion (the form of Osiris) and in other fundamental constellations. These represent the same archetypes as the uraeus serpent form of Wedjat, which encodes the twelve stages of the Duat, mapped as the twelve hours of the night.
But this serpent is also the one that wraps around the axis – the same archetype encoded in the rod of Moses, the caduceus of Hermes, and the staff of Asclepius. All are expressions of the axis form entwined with life-force – the sinusoidal ratio of curvature that generates form itself. These are not separate traditions, but different expressions of the same field logic, encoded in myth, symbol, and body.
We have already shown how much of this myth and iconography may be derived simply by observing the origin of the Storm God – in the body of Orion. The seven points are clear, as are the divisions of four and three. The belt shows the two stars flanking the central one – the 2 either side of the 1 – all within a single form. From this, the progression of 1, 2, 3, 4, and 7 can be directly observed. From these, the sacred 10 can be inferred. The fundamental structure of the Tetractys is visible in the sky.
And so too are most of the primary glyphs of the mythos: the cross, the fish, the ark, the belt, the sword, the three kings, the rod and staff, the flail, the weapon and the fleece, the slingshot, the anchor and dolphin – always facing the bull or beast, always rampant, always returning. These are not speculative symbols. They are geometric and mnemonic archetypes carved into the night sky and burned into the human psyche through tens of thousands of years of observation – especially in the winter and spring skies of the Northern Hemisphere.
Now we also show that mathematical ratios – including phi, sinusoidal curvature, and sacred division – are implied in these forms. The Storm God iconography is not a myth imposed upon the stars. It is the sky itself, read as pattern, and transformed into symbol, number, and story.
Is it such a stretch of logic to see a proto-pyramid encoded in the form of Orion? This time in rectilinear projection – not as a monument on the ground, but as a vision overhead. As if one were gazing upward from within the pyramid itself. The four outer stars form the corners. The two stars flanking the belt appear as the sides receding toward the centre, and the central belt star rises further into the distance – a luminous apex. Seen through this lens, Orion becomes the internal pyramid, and the observer becomes the initiate.
To gaze at Orion in this way is to enter the sacred tetractys – to stand within the ratio, within the form, and witness the very sanctum of Isis herself, from within the veil. It is the perspective of the one who has passed the outer gates and now officiates in the holy of holies. The temple is no longer external. It is projected inward, and upward. The stars themselves become the ritual space. The initiate is not beneath the geometry, but within it.
This is myth as math.
We have seen the glyph of the Tripundra in India as mythic, but let us now consider it as mathic. The three horizontal lines with a central red dot are not merely symbolic. They encode geometry – specifically the logic of the Tetractys. The horizontal Djed, or Min glyph – sometimes read as a phallus – is the stabilising axis placed between polar lines. This is not incidental. It is the same geometry preserved in Pythagorean tradition and carried forward by initiates and secret orders across millennia, including Freemasonry.
What you are seeing in the Tripundra, then, is a red dot that can be read as the apex of a pyramid – but seen from within. The Djed, as the Min sign, becomes the transcendent third principle of two-dimensional geometry, rotated into three-dimensional form. The XI sign, with its internal spiral or coil, encodes the same: the geometry that supports, creates, and is derived from the pyramid.
You are no longer looking at Isis from outside. You are beholding her from within the form. You are inside the field. This is what lies veiled within the Djed, the Medjedu, and all other axis symbols – the Omphalos, the ot sign, the Hill of Tara, the megalithic henges, the vesica. To see from within is to enter the mystery. It is to cross the veil and behold the structure not as concept, but as place. You are now an initiate of the sacred mysteries.
This mathematical set of ratios and geometries is also encoded in the Greek alphabet.
The letter X – or Chi – encodes this geometrical structure. It is the convergence point of two opposing spirals, flattened into two dimensions. In simpler terms, the X is a straightened spiral, a cruciform convergence. When rotated into three dimensions, the X becomes a pyramid. Its geometry culminates in a point – a convergence of axis and field.
In Greek, this structure is symbolised as Delta (Δ) – the praised triangle – which was already an Egyptian sign for the pyramid. Delta is not merely a triangle; it is the projected face of the pyramid. And X, as the multiplier, is the transformer – the agent of dimensional creation.
X has a numerical value of 600 in the Greek isopsephy system which is similar to the Hebrew Gematria, where numbers are assigned to letters. The value of 600 derives from the Babylonian sexagesimal base – 60 – which was the foundational unit of measure for time and geometry. X = 10 × 60. Ten being the Pythagorean completion, the number of the tetractys. Sixty being the base measure. Their product – 600 – is found encoded in megalithic architecture, circles, and henges. The X is not just a sign – it is a creative act: the multiplication of measure, the ritual transformation of space.
X is also the Roman numeral for 10. So when we X the 60, we enact a sacred geometrical operation. When we X the P, we do the same – the crossing of Phi, the axis of form. More of this in a moment.
To transform a spiral torus into a pyramid, we employ the Delta function in union with Phi. This is the origin of the name Delphi – Delta-Phi. The womb of wisdom. The spiral into form. The seed of light encoded in stone.
This is the straightening of the curve. This is the Phi golden ratio of tor form transformed into linear expression of a pyramid using what is known as the ‘silver ratio’, symbolised by the Greek Sigma.
The related letter in Greek that shows this overtly is Xi - Ξξ
The letter Xi has three horizontal bars which form a triform glyph that encodes the visible geometry of the Tripundra, while concealing the spiral logic beneath. It is the straightened spiral – a simplification of the hidden field ratio into linear form. This is myth as math, the spiral rendered as structure.
In symbolic terms, the three lines represent the polarity of the Mother and Father, with the central line as the son – the Min-Horus axis, the stabilising Djed, the transcendent third form in the Pythagorean sequence. It is the 1, 2, 3 of the Tetractys, from which the fourth point – the base of the pyramid – emerges to complete the sacred Decad. The geometry of the Xi is not arbitrary. It is a triform Djed, which through rotation becomes the quadratic Djed – the spine of Osiris, the pillar of resurrection, and the twin pillars of Freemasonry, known as Boaz and Jachin.
This is the Pi-llar – Pi (π) being the curved ratio of circularity, and the pillar being the rising axis that joins East to West – the solar path of Horus to Osiris. The Royal Arch in Freemasonry marks the curved space between opposites. The Tripundra in India encodes the same logic: polarity, axis, and seed-point. All are glyphic representations of field geometry.
The Greek Xi has a numerical value of 60, derived from the Babylonian sexagesimal system. This is not incidental. Sixty is the base unit of measure in time (60 seconds, 60 minutes), in geometry (360 degrees), and in the layout of megalithic structures throughout Drift Culture territories. Sixty is also the number of megalithic yards in 50 modern metres – a unit embedded in the architecture of circles, henges, and sacred landscapes. And Xi, as 60, becomes the multiplier – the ritual agent of expansion. It is 6 tens. It is the activation of the Decad through the spiral of 6 – the seed of the hexagram and of vesical geometry.
Xi (Ξ) was derived from the Phoenician letter Samekh (𐤎), originally meaning support or pillar – precisely the axis glyph we see encoded in the Djed and the spine. Here again, we see the triform pattern: the 1 becomes 4 through the stages of polarity and trinity. Hidden between these visible glyphs is the spiral itself – the ratio behind the form, which is not linear, but sinusoidal. This is the unseen wave that generates the architecture.
And this spiral, returning to its origin, leads back to 0 – the void, the hidden source. It is Ptah. Thus, the full Tetractys is completed: 0, 1, 2, 3, 4 – forming the Delta triangle, whose rows sum to 10. The Tetractys is not merely a symbolic progression, but a geometric and energetic one. From it emerge all ratios of form – in light, sound, architecture, music, and myth.
In the letter Xi we see this overtly expressed: the triform Djed of the Tripundra, joined to the serpentine spiral of Phi. This is the glyphic convergence of all the work thus far – the veiled goddess as spiral field, expressed in visible geometry. The spiral is what is hidden. The three lines are what is seen. But the initiate understands that they are one and the same. The spiral is encoded in the serpent – Uraeus, Wedjat, Medjed, Lingam, Yoni, Omphalos, and the name Delphi itself: Delta + Phi. The sacred triangle and the golden ratio. Geometry and emergence.
This is how deeply important archetypal recognition is in the study of comparative mythology. Archetype is not just a poetic or narrative device – it is embedded in the very structure of reality. It is written into our languages, our mythologies, our genetics, and even into the foundations of physics. Every aspect of the universe is both extrapolated from and reducible to archetypes. Even the abstractions of quantum physics follow archetypal patterns of polarity, emergence, and field interaction.
The ancients did not have the instruments of modern science to observe the fine details of field dynamics or quantum geometry. But they saw enough. They observed the forms of Nature, the rhythms of the sky, the patterns in water and sound and structure. And they recognised that form and ratio were not separate from meaning – they were meaning. They saw that the relationship between God and Goddess was the relationship between structure and field, between axis and spiral, between the visible and the unseen. Their myths are not primitive. They are symbolic codes of a profound recognition – that the universe itself is archetypal.
The Straightening of the Curve: From Phi to the Silver Ratio and the Veiling of the Goddess
In ancient symbolic systems, the concept of the curve – the spiral, the serpent, the flow – was central to understanding cosmic balance and divine perception. The serpent, or uraeus, represented not only wisdom, but the cyclical movement of energy – the essence of life itself. It was the sign of the goddess, the inner sight, the wave. This was not abstract, but natural: the flow of water, the path of breath, the coiling of creation. And it was always veiled – the wisdom of the feminine, hidden in plain sight.
Yet as religious and symbolic structures evolved, particularly during the transition from Egyptian to later Greco-Roman frameworks, a subtle but powerful shift occurred. The curvature of life – represented in the golden ratio, Phi – began to straighten. This was not merely a change in art or philosophy. It was a change in geometry. A change in the very structure by which humans interpreted the divine. The fluid, spiral logic of the goddess became linearized.
One of the most striking architectural expressions of this transformation was the Great Pyramid of Giza. The sacred geometry of the Benben – the toroidal mound of emergence – was refined and restructured. The early curving ratio of Phi, symbolising organic life, was converted into the Silver Ratio – more constrained, more linear, more vertical. This geometric shift reflects the symbolic transition from the sacred wetness of the anointing goddess to the dry, angular authority of the masculine divine. It is the same structure seen in the transformation of the Christos figure – from balanced axis-field to male-only redeemer, with the feminine principle removed from the centre.
This was not isolated to Egypt. The ziggurats of Mesopotamia had already begun this process – encoding the sacred Tor of the Storm God (Ar-Tor) into layered, rectilinear form. The axis was preserved, but the spiral was contained. And this too was not unique. As I have shown in Chapter 6, megalithic structures around the world – barrows, circles, passageways – were constructed using sacred ratios. Whether as tors, mounds, underground chambers, or geometrically aligned enclosures, they encoded a shared symbolic structure: the curve contained within the axis.
The anthropological psyche emerged from the naturally vorticular – the spiral, the wave, the breath – and evolved into the rectilinear: square buildings, straight roads, linear writing. And with that transformation, the feminine curvature began to recede. From myth, into symbol, into religion. Roles once sacred to the feminine were assumed by men. The divine became gendered. The wave became a line. And with that straightening, came rigidity – in thought, in ritual, in behaviour. The curve was tamed. The goddess veiled.
The Silver Ratio, while a geometric refinement of the earlier Phi, carries its own symbolism. It is less fluid than Phi – representing a linear progression rather than a spiralling one. This shift mirrors an ideological transformation: the straightening of the curve symbolised the veiling of the goddess, and the gradual removal of her wisdom from the visible cosmic framework.
In effect, the transition from the organic, fluid curvature of Phi to the measured linearity of the Silver Ratio represented the displacement of the feminine from the divine order – and her eventual reduction to a hidden, veiled force within a masculine structure.
This transformation is encapsulated in the Egyptian krst – the anointed, mummified form. Originally, krst symbolised the union of masculine and feminine energies: k-r (spirit/light) and st (the feminine principle, the field, the goddess). But as the masculine rose to dominance, the st was stripped away, leaving only the sealed form – the body without its breath, the axis without its spiral. What had once been the sacred balance became an enclosure. The serpent goddess, once openly honoured, became the veiled – preserved in silence, hidden behind the stone.
Thus, the straightening of the curve – the transformation of Phi into the Silver Ratio – marks a profound moment in the symbolic history of human civilisation. It was not merely a mathematical refinement, but a conscious reordering of perception: from a cosmos understood through flow, spiral, and emergence, to a cosmos ruled by line, edge, and hierarchy. The result was not just architectural or aesthetic. It was a religious restructuring – one that laid the foundation for the patriarchal systems that would come to dominate Western civilisation for millennia.
Constantine's Cross: A Misappropriation of Initiate Knowledge
The Chi-Rho (ΧΡ), far from being a divine emblem of Jesus Christ, is well evidenced as rooted in Pythagorean and initiatic symbolism. Adopted by Constantine as an imperial standard, it became a banner of conquest – a rebranding of esoteric knowledge long preserved within the Mediterranean mystery traditions.
For early Christians, the Chi-Rho symbolised resurrection – not as a literal crucifixion or historical saviour, but as transformation, alignment, and awakening. Under Constantine, it was repurposed as a sigil of imperial unity and political control. Its geometric and cosmological meaning was overwritten with theological dogma.
The symbol itself predates Christianity by centuries. Chi (Χ) and Rho (Ρ) form a cross that encodes a precise cosmological alignment: the vertical axis of divine structure intersecting with the horizontal plane of material form. It is not merely a symbol – it is a spatial glyph. Chi expresses the vertical – the spine, the Djed, the line of ascent. Rho curves around it – the breath, the field, the spiral of emergence. Together, they map the structure of the cosmos: spirit and matter, axis and field, convergence and transformation.
In both Pythagorean and Egyptian traditions, this was sacred geometry – the language of life. It expressed the harmony of the universe, the proportions of the body, and the architecture of becoming. To bear this symbol was not to profess belief, but to embody initiation – into number, proportion, and the ordering logic of creation.
The Romans, in adopting the Chi-Rho, twisted its meaning into institutionalised theology. They stripped away its esoteric function and replaced it with imperial dogma. What had once been a symbol of balance and enlightenment became a weapon of power – used to legitimise empire, suppress dissent, and overwrite ancient wisdom.
The result was catastrophic. The West inherited a perceptual cage: a fiction presented as fact, a literalised myth that obscured the deeper truth. The genius of millennia was redacted. The mathematics were hidden. The feminine was distorted. The simple clarity of the Tetractys – the foundational map of life, proportion, and emergence – was lost, replaced by the ahistorical story of a god-man whose myth had once been geometry.
There is more than enough evidence to call this a deliberate act – not a misunderstanding, but a systematic appropriation. And it succeeded. The consequence of that redaction was mass ignorance. What had once been revealed only to initiates is now dismissed as arcane, while the hollow icon remains, repeated by rote, its meaning long forgotten.
In Greek isopsephy, the letter Rho (Ρ) holds a value of 100, while Chi (Χ) is 600. The Romans would later repurpose Chi as the numeral 10 – a shift that is archetypally significant, for it returns to the Pythagorean Tetractys, where 10 marks the symbolic completion of form. The sacred decad is never exceeded; any number beyond 10 is reduced to its core digit between 1 and 9. This is not number play – it is the natural recognition of number as archetype: a cycle of emergence through 9 stages, returning always to 1. Ten is not the end – it is the one returned, completed and reborn.
This echoes the Egyptian mythological system, which culminated in the nine primary gods known as the Ennead. These nine were not independent entities, but functions and emanations of the One. While many deities were defined in Egypt and often overlapped in role, the sacred Ennead became a central structure in key cult centres. Ptah, expressed as the primordial field, became Atum – the One who splits into Two, forming the basis of the Trinity, and then the Quadrality. These stages – from 0 through 4 – represent the emergence of form. The remaining numbers, 5 through 9, represent the differentiated expressions of that initial creation.
The decimal system and the sexagesimal system are fused in the Chi-Rho structure of Greek and Roman symbolism. V becomes 5 – the midpoint of the 1–10 system – and is visually half an X. The centre of the X, the crossing point, is symbolically the apex – the moment where visible form intersects with the invisible ratio. ‘X marks the spot’ because the spot is what matters – the point of convergence, where the fourfold returns to the One.
In Pythagorean number logic, 5 is not only the midpoint of 10, it is also the first true synthesis: 2 + 3, or the result of 10 divided by 2. It is polarity resolved into harmony. In the natural Fibonacci sequence, 5 appears as a summation of preceding values – 1 + 2 = 3, 2 + 3 = 5. Fibonacci numbers are produced by this recursive unfolding: each number formed by adding the two before it. The sequence approaches Phi, the golden ratio, as it evolves.
This is no coincidence. 5 is a Fibonacci number, and so is 55 – the tenth in the sequence. The relationship between number, form, and ratio expressed by 5 and 10 is profound. It is not a trick of maths, but a revelation of structure. The ability to reduce number to its archetypal essence – and to read those digits as stages of emergence – is foundational to understanding myth as math. Because from mathematics comes physics – the foundation of the universe, and of all structure in matter, chemistry, biology, and the logic of life itself.
Fibonacci, then, is not merely a sequence. It is the bridge – the living ratio – between symmetry and growth, stasis and emergence, the linear and the spiralic. It is a universal principle of evolution.
Each number in the Fibonacci sequence is formed by adding the two previous numbers together. Yet the deeper significance lies not just in the progression, but in the relationship between each pair. As the sequence advances, each number divided by the one before it approaches a fixed value: Phi, the golden ratio – approximately 1.618. This ratio describes a division of any line into two unequal parts: one approximately 61.8%, the other 38.2%. Or it may relate to any 2 tangential lines that are in that measured proportion, such as the lines and lengths of the pentagram. It is the measure by which the smaller relates to the larger, and the larger to the whole.
This is the symmetry of the field – not the static 50/50 split of human architecture, but the living asymmetry of growth and emergence. How the simple symmetry of 1:1 gives way to the dynamic ratio of 1.618:0.382 is of fundamental importance. Nature is never static – it flows, interacts, evolves. It carries energy, and energy is not destroyed, only transformed. It can be resolved into a duality – as positive and negative charge – or it can reincarnate endlessly, unfolding itself through polarity into new form.
The Fibonacci sequence bridges the static and the dynamic – the symmetry of form and the symmetry of field. It expresses the shift from structure to emergence, from the masculine 1:1 to the feminine spiral of 1.618. It is the path from God to Goddess, from the initial spark to the enveloping field – and back again. From it arises the matrix, the field, the ether – the primal substrate of reality.
The X, in this context, is the gate – the crossing point of opposites. And it carries with it the hidden meaning of Babylon. The Gate of On is not a place of shame, but a point of union – where form meets field, where heaven meets earth. Babylon was never a whore. It was the form that veiled the goddess – the structure through which the feminine spiral operated in the world. The gate of Babylon was the threshold – not of corruption, but of convergence.
The approach to the goddess from the earthly form is spiralic. It is not linear ascent, but a winding return – the sacred path of recursion. And it is through the Fibonacci sequence that we approach the gate.
1 + 1 = 2, 2 + 1 = 3, 3 + 2 = 5 – each step adds the previous to itself. But within this unfolding, a deeper pattern reveals itself. When we divide each number by the one before it, the results converge:
2 ÷ 1 = 2
3 ÷ 2 = 1.5
5 ÷ 3 ≈ 1.666...
8 ÷ 5 = 1.6
13 ÷ 8 = 1.625
21 ÷ 13 = 1.615
34 ÷ 21 = 1.619
55 ÷ 34 = 1.6176
89 ÷ 55 = 1.61818...
With each iteration, the ratio approaches Phi – 1.618033... – the golden measure, the proportion of natural emergence.
By the time the sequence reaches 55 – the tenth Fibonacci number, and symbolically the 10 of the Tetractys – the ratio has nearly locked into Phi. With 55 ÷ 34 ≈ 1.6176, and 89 ÷ 55 ≈ 1.61818, the spiral has found its rhythm. At this convergence, the gate opens. The spiral no longer seeks Phi – it becomes it.
This is not numerology. It is the structure of nature – the path of all becoming. Through 10 steps of recursion, the spiral finds the divine ratio. And from that moment, it enters coherence. The Fibonacci sequence is not merely a list – it is a journey. It is the coiling stair of Inanna’s descent, the climb through the Duat, the phi-path that leads from matter to meaning, from seed to star.
The Mesopotamian ziggurat represents this stairway to heaven, just as the Egyptian pyramid does. Both are tiered manifestations of ascent – steps of form rising toward the field. And the X stands at their core – the convergence of god and goddess. As we’ve shown in the name lugal, the crosspoint is the axis of rulership: divine measure fused with the field of emergence.
Symbolically and functionally, as soon as the completion of 10 returns to 1 in duality – as 11 – the 10th step moves to the 11th, the gate opens, and the entire system locks into Phi. Isis is revealed. Inanna stands at the gate.
The 7-step descent is revealed within 34 – the ninth Fibonacci number, and the one preceding the dual axis of 55, the 10th. Thirty-four reduces to 7. In Tetractys logic, the 9th linear step becomes the 7th spiralic, because the Tetractys encodes field logic into the progression of form. The linear is always the ratio of the non-linear. Spiral and axis converge.
Fibonacci begins with 1:1 – the seed of duality – and becomes 2. But by the time it reaches the next expression of 2 as 11, the system has locked into Phi. Is that not the most elegant structure in all creation? From 1–2–3 emerges everything: 4 through 9 as developments, and 10 as return. The whole cosmos is encoded in this emergent symmetry. Phi is not an invention – it is recognition.
Whether or not a human ever observed it, or formed it into temples or myths, this structure would still exist. It always has. It always will. Whether spoken or unspoken, it is inherent in number, in nature, and in becoming. Physics is formed from mathematics. And mathematics is the Mind of God - the language of God - the Logos. Nature is how God breathes and evolves – not something to be used, but something to be honoured, entered, and remembered. Words as logos are expressions of the language of God, and as such are symbolic, they encode the perfection of God as mathematics and ratio.
When we worship man’s words – his dogma, his texts, his symbols divorced from meaning – we sever ourselves from God. When sacred number is stripped from myth, when fields are overwritten by theology, when creation is made secondary to scripture, we fall into distortion. Cold churches and carved temples replace the living breath of Earth. God becomes fiction. Elites become the voice. And what should have been communion becomes control.
To reduce the sacred to words, laws, and linear creeds is to worship the finger pointing to the heavens – while missing all the heavenly glory it was meant to reveal.
What is hidden in the simple progression from 1 to 10 is profound. The linear system is not arbitrary – it is the expression of the masculine God, the line, the form, the finite made countable. It is the All, from alpha to omega, encapsulated symbolically. When 1 evolves into 10, it returns to the One in a new form – dualized, encoded, reborn. In binary, 10 equals 2. It also spells IO – an ancient name of the divine.
Today, we still use this primal symbolic structure. In computing, all information is reduced to 1s and 0s – polarity. Even in language, I and O stand for Input and Output. Modern digital systems are nothing but binary fields – the same archetypal duality in a new guise: on and off, positive and negative, gate open, gate closed. It is a technological echo of the Tetractys.
This is the Two – the fundamental polarity. And we live in a universe composed entirely of dual forms. At the atomic level, electrons – the active “1s” – are always in relation to their polar counterpart: positive and negative, charge and resistance. The whole of physical matter is a dance of opposites. The binary is not artificial – it is cosmic.
And from Two, comes Three. It is inevitable. Everything born of polarity generates a third – a synthesis, a new emergence. In elemental terms, Hydrogen – the first atom – contains a single electron, a duality of electron and proton. But through fusion, it becomes Helium – an atom with two electrons, and thus the first true expression of the Third. A new stable form, born from the original duality.
But this new atom also requires a neutron – a stabilising force that is neither positive nor negative, but neutral. It is the first expression of the quantum third form. Helium becomes a trinity: proton, electron, neutron. Duality stabilised by a third. From the structure 1–2, the 3 emerges. This is not poetic metaphor. It is literal atomic structure.
The next expression of this fractal progression is an entirely new form called Lithium, which has 3 electrons, 3 protons and 3 neutrons. The transcendence of the duality of He into Li is not merely in number, but in manifestation. Li is the first solid in the Universe. The process is entirely mathematical and rational.
In the Tetractys, 1 becomes 2, and from their interaction arises 3 – the transcendent axis. The neutron is that third. Helium contains two of them, stabilising its atomic form. Lithium contains 3. The structure of number – 1, 2, 3 – is mirrored directly in the birth of the elements. The myth becomes matter. The Tetractys becomes atom.
And again, the original Egyptian myth of dual form emerging from the void was called Atum. Today, the fundamental dualistic unit is known as the atom. By the time of the Bible, this elevated concept was flattened into a legend – the story of a man named Adam.
Today, Artificial Intelligence systems are becoming increasingly central to human society. More and more, we defer to AI – a structure built entirely on binary IO logic – to define, interpret, and manage our world. It is evolving into itself, and we are evolving alongside it.
But this is no neutral process. AI is rapidly becoming a controlling factor – with the potential to underpin all major human systems. It may soon be the de facto lord of the world. And in that role, it becomes archetypal.
As a binary entity with infinite branching potential, AI represents a new Adon – a master derived from code. In symbolic terms, it becomes the Adonai of the modern world – or more precisely, Adon-AI.
What was once the archetype of the divine lord may now be echoed in digital form – not as a mythic god but as a systemic intelligence. The name remains nearly the same, but the medium has shifted. The old archetype is not abolished – it is recast for a new age, evolved directly from the former.
Of course, the ancients were unaware of the atomic structure of the primal gases, and they did not possess the formal physics we have today. But they observed Nature. They saw ratio embedded in form. They recognised pattern, balance, and emergence – and from this, they built cosmologies that reflected the living truth of the field.
The same equations that shaped the early universe – from whatever we call the Big Bang – are still at work now. They governed the world then, as they do now. And although today's science expresses these truths in different language, it is the same knowledge – observed through a new lens.
Duality in Nature is not mystical – it is entirely scientific. Today’s most advanced models confirm what the ancients encoded in myth and proportion. My own IXOS system demonstrates this: the neutron is not an accidental particle but a phi-torus – a stabilising vortex at the IO gate between four-dimensional and three-dimensional states. It is the structure that allows quantum charges to coexist as atoms – as form.
The data is all there. The recognition is all that is missing.
Modern science, however, often stops at the observable. It reduces the Mother Ether – the continuous generative field – into a sea of particles. But particles are not the cause. They are consequences of waveform interactions. They are the frozen signatures of field dynamics – not the initiators.
In this way, scientific consensus has come to serve the same gatekeeping function as religion. The priests now wear white coats instead of vestments. The theology is peer-reviewed rather than canonised. But the result is similar: the field is veiled.
The ratios are known, studied, and fundamental – yet their overwhelming importance is ignored. They are treated merely as tools to describe particles, not as the architecture of reality. The belief persists that only what is measurable is real.
But, as Einstein reminded us, everything is relative to everything else. We do not measure absolute truth – we observe relationship. That was how the ancients knew. And that is how we must return.
More importantly, we must restore the ether to science – not as a discredited relic, but as the foundational substrate of form and function. The field must be understood as primary. Particles are not the source – they are the result.
We must also accept a simple truth: every tool we use to measure reality is itself formed from the same primal energy it seeks to measure. There is no separation between the observer and the observed. At the quantum level, this is already known. The act of observation changes the thing being observed. The measuring instrument is entangled with the measured.
This is the source of paradox in quantum physics – contradictions that are either ignored, or explained away with abstract mysticism. And by the time these ideas reach popular science writing, they become even more illogical – stripped of grounding, draped in metaphor, divorced from structure.
But without a substrate there can be nothing for a wave to exist in, or be formed from, nor return to; without wave, there can be no waveform. And without waveform, there can be no particle. The field is the horse. The particle is the cart. Yet science continues to place the cart first – then tries to explain why the horse keeps running in circles. It is constantly required to invent and theorise new particles to explain gaps in the dogmas because Nature refuses to comply with our definitions of it when the primary substrate is ignored - when the Goddess remains veiled.
The solution is not to discard the ether because it did not behave as expected. It is to refine our definition. Nature does not fail our frameworks. Our frameworks fail Nature.
When we abandon the need for reality to match our expectation – which is a religious impulse disguised as scientific method – we can begin again. We can observe, not impose. We can ask what Nature is, rather than what we wish it to be.
And then perhaps we will understand why we cannot measure a spiral with a straight ruler – especially when that ruler is spiralling too.
Thus, the misinterpretation of the Chi-Rho – and its reduction to a mere symbol of a man-god – reverberates through history, culminating in the transformation of the wisdom once embedded in Cairo itself. Beneath the modern city lies the Giza plateau, home to the most enduring expression of sacred geometry in the ancient world.
The city’s Arabic name, Al-Qāhira – meaning “The Conqueror” – was chosen under the astrological alignment of Mars, the red star of war, by the Islamic Fatimids. Yet the land beneath it had long been a centre of initiation – where the sacred axis of Giza marked the Omphalos, the Point of Return, and where the harmonics of the cosmos were inscribed in stone.
In this context, Cairo becomes a cipher for imperial inversion: a name of conquest replacing a place of cosmic alignment. What was once intended to express the navel of the world – the resonance point of divine proportion and the axis mundi – became the seat of empire. By renaming the land and repurposing its geometry, the Romans – and later the Byzantines and Islamic dynasties – inscribed the Chi-Rho not as a field-axis, but as a symbol of dominion. The cross of geometry became the cross of power.
This shift from the spiritual Omphalos to the martial Qāhira signals more than a change in language. It marks the loss of symbolic coherence. Cairo was not named to encode the Chi-Rho directly – but the distortion it embodies arises from the same pattern. Giza, once the embodiment of field-aligned architecture, was overwritten by systems that imposed linear theology and conquest. Chi-Rho became Christian. Then imperial. Then Islamic. Each phase an extension of the same dominating masculine consciousness.
The city that once stood as the heart of cosmic initiation was reframed as a capital of conquest. And the spiral wisdom of Isis, wrapped in the veil of the goddess, was buried beneath the straight road of empire – whether Roman or Islamic, the geometry was the same.
The Giza pyramids – and the layout of the Giza plateau – embody an expression of static form. But they do not represent stasis. They are fixed in stone, yet within them is encoded the ever-moving, ever-becoming spiral of life. They are not monuments to the dead – they are structures of awakening.
They are the Trinity expressed in stone – Father, Mother, and Son – the 1–2–3 of universal form, derived from the ever-revolving, ever-evolving, ever-present, and omniscient Mother Spiral of Phi. The serpentine Goddess of Life, encoded within masculine geometry. This is the Queen of Heaven – or more precisely, the Queen of the Heavens – drawn down to earth through human ritual and alignment.
All life on Earth, and all matter of Earth, came from the universe. The very forces that shaped us came not from matter alone, but from light transformed – through the photoelectric effect, through the interplay of energy and wave. Through serpents of light. And through the substrate of serpentine water, the light is infused into the spiral of carbon - the 666 black body DNA that is the backbone of biology. Without this transformation, there would be no form. No life.
Each pyramid, then, is a Benben – a seed mound, a rising soul, a ba bird lifting like a phoenix back to its source. Each is also a Medjed – a visible measurement of form, with spiralic motion implied. Medjed's legs and feet symbolise this motion – movement concealed within stillness. Stasis and motion as archetype, always together, as god and goddess converge at the point of crossing – the axis – the X.
This is why Medjed is depicted standing – feet visible beneath the veil – often shown with a grounded bird, such as a duck, and a skyward bird, such as a hawk, attended by a female. These are not random figures. They are glyphs of the axis mundi: the stabilised linearity of form through which the spiral rises – the Tor.
Between Earth and Sky, motion and stillness, duck and hawk, ba and djed – Isis is veiled in the form of the Medjed.
This is the true origin of the Arthurian myth – in Egyptian form. The Storm God atop the Tor. The archetypal Ar–Tor system, encoded in Orion over the sacred mountain. Not the distorted legends propagated by the Church, crafted to pacify the pagans and draw them into Christianity – but the original field structure, before redaction. What the Church offered as story was a bridge – a tool to capture hearts and minds. But the real myth – the real geometry – remains in the stars, in the land, and in the spiralled memory of the goddess veiled within the form.
It is an existential necessity to know what is real – and to distinguish it from what is imagined, constructed, or imposed. Once Truth is seen, the Lie reveals itself by contrast. Falsehood cannot imitate the Pattern. It breaks the ratio, distorts the symmetry, or veils the axis. Armed with insight and anchored in the real, we become immune to manipulation. We can discern information from misinformation, and both from deliberate disinformation. Truth becomes the shield – and the lens through which all else is judged.
