The transformation of gods and matter:
Work in Progress: When The Gods Fell
In my new book When The Gods Fell: The Biological Origins of Earth and the Landscape of Creation I make a bold claim about Earth itself: that everything you thought you knew about this planet may be wrong, and that instead of being a lifeless rock hurtling through space, it is in fact a biological relic of a living, conscious and god-transformed world.
The book seeks to show how to view geology, myth and spirituality as one continuous range, opening up the radical possibility that every mountain, desert and ocean has a lost biological and metaphysical origin. The book tracks this idea across myths and symbols of ancient times, through the arcane practice of transmutations to modern evidence that is radically dissolving the line between matter and life.
Concept and Structure
The book unfolds across twenty-five chapters, each exploring a different layer of this theory — from mythic creation stories and petrified landscapes to the metaphysical implications of a living, conscious Earth.
It begins with the premise that our world could be the remnant of a divine collapse, a “fall into density” that transformed celestial beings into the very fabric of creation. From there, the narrative explores:
The transformation of gods and matter — how ancient stories of beings turned into stone, rivers, and trees might contain a literal record of transmutation.
The biological memory of the Earth — veins, striations, and organic formations that resemble tissue, bone, or blood, interpreted as remnants of a once-living system.
The sacred anatomy of the land — the possibility that the planet’s terrain mirrors the anatomy of colossal beings, hinting at the unity of form, function, and spirit.
The metaphysical implications — what it means for consciousness, life, and divinity if matter itself carries memory, intent, and awareness.
A Bridge Between Science and Myth
The book offers a different perspective: It does not choose between empirical and spiritual accounts of reality. Instead considers both to be translations of something true, each with different strengths and limitations.
Instead of allegory, this text uncovers a common code in ancient writings. Tales of Creation and Fall encoded in one form or another throughout cultures and languages, hinting at a mutual remembrance of events involving a shared origin story.
In this light, the book poses the question: If the Earth is not just the host of life, but the physical form of Life itself, what does it mean to live on it, within it, and as it?
A Reflective Undertaking
It is a serious, non-fiction work that weaves together mythology, geology, biology, and metaphysics in one singular mode of inquiry: a shared mode of thought that challenges both the materialist and the purely symbolic worldview.
Put simply, this book is an investigation of memory: the memory of the divine in matter, of the sacred in science, and the living that still pulses beneath stone. Writing When The Gods Fell: Reimagining Earth as a Living Memory
When I first started mapping out the structure, I never intended to write a book that would interrogate the very notion of existence. I wanted to investigate a shared space between myth, matter, and mind, the hidden continuity between creation myths, rock formations, and the human desire to know where we come from. But the more I dove into that rabbit hole, the more I found myself standing at a threshold: a place where biology, geology, and divinity seemed to melt into each other.
The book’s premise may sound radical, and perhaps even heretical, but it was born from a deeply intuitive question: the Earth looks alive. Not metaphorically, not symbolically, but structurally. Mountain ranges have muscle fibres across continents, there are arterial formations in canyons, and the sedimentary layering of rock resembles organic tissue. For centuries, science has attributed these peculiarities to coincidences of erosion and mineral composition. But what if there is more to the story? What if the very land we walk on is a vast biological relic of an ancient universe — a petrified memory of a living cosmos that once pulsed as one living body?
The Seed of a Theory
The first glimmer of this work was a question I jotted in a notebook years ago: “What if myth was not the opposite of science, but its precursor?” The Babylonians, Greeks, and the early desert-dwellers of Israel all wrote about falling gods and gorgons, worlds made of corpses, mountains that bled, and oceans that wept. For millennia, academics have rejected such stories as allegory and metaphor. But what if they were the ancestors’ best attempts at recording actual transmutation, biological or energetic transmutation, that was beyond their understanding?
I approach these myths as encrypted memories of a fall, certainly not a fall from grace, but a fall from zero-gravity. The “Fall to Density” was the moment divine consciousness coalesced into a physical form. Mountains, oceans, and deserts were not “created” they “became.” The Earth is not an object of study. It is a subject. The Earth is a fallen being that still has consciousness.
The consequences of this idea both upend and unite geology and spirituality. Fossils, strata, and veins of metal are not records of dead and inert processes. They are biological inscriptions, the once-living forms of animate bodies that dissolved into the elements through theurgical alchemy.
Bridging Myth and Observation
Writing this book, I found myself trying to speak in two tongues. The tongue of scientific precision. The tongue of mythic obfuscation. The clash of these languages is where this book lives. Geology speaks in facts and statistics. Myth speaks in parable and archetype. But they are both trying to answer the same question, however obliquely: how did we get here?
I started with a saturation. I spent months collecting all of this material, mythology, scripture, geology, satellite photography, fossil excavation, paleobiology, sacred geometry, and not in service of confirming a particular theory, but of having things reveal themselves to me. Patterns. When I started looking for correspondences between ancient myths of divine transformation and the actual physical landscape, I saw patterns that chilled me to the core: throughout the world, we find stories of gods petrified in stone that match disturbingly with local formations in shape and layout; flood myths that had uncanny topographical correspondences in localized biotic death; repeated leitmotifs of dragon or serpent or leviathan slumbering beneath the surface of the Earth across independent cultures that never had known contact with each other.
I realised then that I wasn’t writing a book about geology or religion. I was writing about memory. Not the memory of any one person, but the memory of the world, of creation itself, what the planet still remembers of its own death and birth.
The Writing Process
At the outset, I chose to make When The Gods Fell non-fiction. The ideas themselves might have been as much at home in a mythical story, but there was a method in this madness: presenting the idea as factual.
In structure, the book is 25 chapters of educative study presented with a narrative flow, but based on comparative observation and analysis. The chapters work like sedimentary layers in their own right: each one explores one part of the theory, be it mythological, biological or metaphysical, and builds on top of the previous one.
Ch. 1. The Premise of a Living Earth presents the philosophical base. Ch. 3. Blood in the Rock describes formations in iron-oxide that resemble haemoglobin-rich tissue, and Ch. 10. Divine Anatomy in the Landscape compares topographic mapping with biological morphology. By the time the reader gets to the later chapters, Petrified Breath and The Revelation of the Carcass Earth, the book takes on a transition from physical to spiritual, describing a consciousness embodied in the very material itself.
The working process itself was simple: observe, compare and contemplate. Observation meant examining scientific data as well as mythic narratives. Comparison was about recognising pattern in both and finding parallels – not forcing connections but recognising archetypes that speak in both. Contemplation was in the asking, What does it mean if true?
The structure was intuitive – not scientific writing in that sense. When a correspondence presented itself in both rock and mythic symbolism, it was taken as a data point of correspondence. It was not an exercise in proving beyond doubt, but in using those data points to open a new perception – one in which geology and divinity might be two expressions of a single intelligence.
Philosophical Motivations
At its core, When The Gods Fell was exploring this question: What if the material world is not separate from the divine, but rather the divine in a fallen state?
This question isn’t new. In fact, you can find it in many ancient wisdom traditions that speak of creation as a condensation of spirit into matter. I’m not taking this metaphorically, but literally. If consciousness can collapse into density, then is it possible that the physical world is God’s body in metamorphosis, the living residue of a divine consciousness that lived and died across dimensions?
This is a counter-narrative to two powerful currents of modern thought: Materialism would have us believe that life emerges out of dead matter. Spiritual idealism would have us believe that matter is an illusion. This book suggests a third way: the notion that matter is alive because it is consciousness in another form. In this worldview, death is not an absence, but rather a transformation, the divine process by which energy takes form, and form becomes memory.
Metaphysically, this re-enchant the Earth. It changes our relationship to the planet from ownership to kinship. If the Earth is the body of the divine, then ecology becomes theology, caring for the planet becomes reverence rather than resource management.
The Human Mirror
Writing this book has also been an interior journey for me. If the Earth is the fallen body of a consciousness, then so are we. Made from the same substance, we are participants in that fall. The archetypal pattern of that fall is our own psychic and spiritual crisis: the feeling of separation, loss, and longing we know so well may reflect the fall of the great spirit.
If we would heal ourselves, we must heal the Earth. We must help her remember what she is: not a planet of exile but a body of living, divine intelligence. Every moment of awareness, compassion and truth is a microcosmic reversal of the fall, a return of consciousness to its Source.
Why It Matters Now
In an age where the spiritual and the scientific sit in opposition to one another, one question threads through both, uniting them through different lenses and different tools: What is life? This book is an attempt to mend the perceived dichotomy by showing that life is more than just a quality or characteristic of an organism. It is both everywhere and a way of being. This simple idea has the power to change our perspective on everything from climate change and extinction to the human meaning crisis and purpose. The climate crisis, for example, may no longer just be the sum of us destroying resources; it becomes a problem of our home killing itself.
It also asks the reader to consider the idea that there is as much spirituality in stone, soil, and silence as there is in our spiritual texts or temples. Gods may not be dead. They may be dormant, right beneath our feet.
Closing Reflection
Writing When The Gods Fell has felt less like an act of creation, and more like an act of recollection. For every page turned, it was as if dust were being brushed from an old engraving, chipped into the bones of the earth itself. Metaphorical or visionary, philosophical or prophetic – I want to look again with fresh eyes, and see not two halves but a question mark.
For what I learned while writing it, and believe now that I know it is not dead: the Earth is still speaking. These mountains and these deserts are not silent, they are simply slow-moving tongues, still with the breath of the gods who made the world.
And perhaps if we listen we can remember we are not witnesses to its revelation but agents of its becoming.
