The Alphabet of Evil

The human story is not told in straight lines but in spirals—returning again and again to the shadows we would rather not face, and yet must, if we are to evolve. Across epochs and cultures, the archetypes of darkness have emerged like constellations in our psychic sky: Tiamat, Chronos, Set, Ahriman, Ereshkigal, Lilith, Yahweh, Yaldabaoth, the Demiurge, Lucifer, Satan, Beelzebub, Kali, and the spectral Pindar. To invoke their names is not to glorify them, but to recognize their enduring hold upon the human imagination and the energy fields that shape our collective destiny.

These are not simply villains of myth; they are mirrors of the human condition, each revealing what we fear, resist, or repress. They embody duality—creation and destruction, light and shadow, chaos and order. To study them is to map the contours of our own unconscious, the fault lines of civilization, and the patterns that repeat across history.

The alphabet of evil begins with primordial chaos itself—Tiamat, the ancient sea goddess who was torn apart so creation could emerge. Her dismemberment is not only a tale of Mesopotamian myth, but a recurring theme: that which threatens order must be slain, and yet, from its fragments, worlds are born. From there, Chronos, the devourer of his children, reminds us that time consumes all things, and that power seeks desperately to preserve itself through sacrifice.

Yahweh enters as judge and lawgiver, embodying both mercy and wrath, a paradox at the heart of monotheism. Set, the desert god of storms, reflects necessary disruption—brother to Osiris, yet his slayer. Ahriman, spirit of destruction, opposes the luminous Ahura Mazda, while Ereshkigal reigns over the underworld, offering not damnation but transformation through death.

The line continues through Lilith, archetype of defiance and feminine autonomy, demonized because she would not bow. Into the Gnostic age comes Yaldabaoth, the blind god, false creator who mistakes himself for the supreme, a symbol of the ignorance that binds humanity to illusion. The Demiurge follows—architect of a flawed material world, teaching us to question appearances and seek liberation beyond form.

Lucifer, the light-bearer, emerges as a paradox of brilliance and rebellion, mistranslated into villainy yet carrying the spark of enlightenment. Satan, the adversary, once a mere accuser, grows into the embodiment of temptation and moral struggle. Beelzebub becomes the lord of corruption, while Kali, the dark mother, dances with terror and grace, annihilating ego to free the soul. Finally, the modern specter of Pindar—the serpent king of hidden power—reveals the lingering fear of secret dominion and esoteric manipulation.

 Do these figures exist only as symbols, or do they pulse as living currents in the energetic architecture of our world? The mystic would say both: they are patterns of consciousness, archetypal intelligences that we invoke through myth, ritual, and collective fear. They inhabit the threshold where psyche meets cosmos, where unresolved shadow takes form.

In this sense, archetypes are not inherently evil. They serve as catalysts, pressing humanity to confront what is hidden. Our refusal to acknowledge them perpetuates their dominion, while our courage to integrate their lessons weakens their grip. Chronos teaches us not only the tyranny of time, but also the liberation of the eternal. Lilith warns us of the cost of suppressing feminine sovereignty. Lucifer beckons us toward illumination, if we can withstand the fire of pride.

Transmutation is not about eradicating shadow, but about alchemy—the conversion of lead into gold, ignorance into wisdom, fear into love. Mary Costello speaks of “ruby plasma,” the living current of transformation that arises when shadow is neither denied nor worshiped, but integrated. Ruby, the stone of blood and fire, becomes a symbol of the heart’s alchemy: passion purified into compassion, rage transmuted into resolve.

Such work is personal and collective. On an individual level, it asks us to break ancient agreements—whether ancestral karmic cycles or unspoken contracts with fear. On the level of civilization, it calls us to recognize how religious, political, and cultural narratives have weaponized these archetypes to enforce control. To reclaim them is to reclaim our sovereignty.

The ultimate purpose of confronting the alphabet of evil is not to become fluent in its darkness, but to restore wholeness. By naming these archetypes, we strip them of their hidden power. By integrating them, we transmute their shadow into fuel for awakening. As Carl Jung observed, “One does not become enlightened by imagining figures of light, but by making the darkness conscious.”

In this lies hope: that humanity, weary of repeating cycles of fear and domination, can step into a new epoch of consciousness. Not by erasing the adversary, but by recognizing that every adversary conceals a teacher. Not by fleeing the shadow, but by walking through it, ruby plasma in hand, until light and dark reconcile as one.

The Alphabet of Evil is not a closed lexicon but a living text—one we write anew with every generation. If we dare to read it with clarity and courage, we may yet find in its letters the syllables of liberation.

Watch The Alphabet of Evil: From Yaldabaoth to Lucifer  from Symposium 45 with Mary Costello, David Sereda, Laura Eisenhower, Harald Kautz-Vella, and Dave Emery