The Lover’s Ethic #2
Don’t listen to them, my humble readers, even when they say unto you ”love is not about being guarded and building a fortress, you can’t fall in love if you’re so guarded”. “Stop being so guarded, let down your arms” they shout, and you must smile, nod and walk away from them. They don’t know, they are foolish these clowns, these drifters and decaying bodies. Build the biggest guard possible, just make sure you’ve left out a space for a door somewhere. Even the mightiest castle and fortress conceivable needs a door, a door for your own escape, and that door is all one needs for love. Don’t listen to them, my humble readers, they would much rather have you fight with them until the last breath, these clowns, than love you. They are comical, these fools, they make for great jest. But, do not hate them my humble readers, have empathy for them, they do not know, they are foolish. Life has been unfair to them, it has not given them enough strength to love. They condemn life, and they condemn you, but do not repay them with the same treatment. Life knows not about fair and unfair, these distinctions are much too anthropomorphic to be applied to life. Life both equalizes and favours at the same time, don’t forget that my humble readers; life is unconscious.
And if they disappoint you and place you on the corner, do not fret, you are not alone, love is with you, it will shine forth from your bosom and your smile. You need no God for this, and you need no after-life and heaven, don’t listen to or be fearful of their hell either; for it is in their bosom and on their shoulders — it need not be on yours too. That is justice. You have all you need: yourself and your ground. In these moments you can proclaim to them, “love needs a door, a way in, that is all”. And if they be sceptical, these weaklings and clowns, bestow onto them, “my dear fools, don’t confuse a way in with a way through, or a way past”.
“All you need do, is ask.”
The Lover’s Ethic #1
Sex is not a function, it’s not even a form of leisure, neither is it a special union, or a union of any sort. Sex can mean one of a myriad of things, or even ‘all’ at once and none at any particular time. To reduce sex to one meaning and educate children on that one meaning, such that that meaning becomes the social norm, the way people communicate about it, is to destroy an experience. It is in this sense the most decrepit form of robbery. Sex has no particular meaning, it can mean anything you want it to mean, set the meaning to it yourself in your encounters and communications. But, always realize that its form can always change. Words and experiences concerning people are more formal than they are material.
The responsibility falls on you to create your own environment: man and woman alike.
The Dynamics between Man and Woman
There are still, even in this time and age, a vast number of women incapable of principles and of an answer to the two-fold question: “who am I and what do I want?” These women have only one answer and it lays in the man that enters her life and gives her his principles, or her principles according to him. It lays in the conviction with which he gives them to her. Man still commands woman, and it is perhaps because that particular woman desires his seed. Perhaps, the drifter form of woman, the woman without principles that are beyond and outside her counterpart, is the one that courts pregnancy, the one with the drive for pregnancy.
This dynamic relationship of command and obedience through conviction has been such a customary means of engagement between men and women that it has hardened into a drive within our women — it has become a hereditary trait in woman. Leaving open, of course, the possibility that there is no woman alive in this world that cannot be lead or made to obey if the conviction is strong enough. “If your conviction is weak, then stick to the women whose principles are weak or not present” suggests the Seducer. “Encourage her to find her principles, and if they coalesce with yours, great, if not, leave her be” sounds the gentle words of wisdom from the Lover.
Principles and convictions come hand in hand, like young feminine twins hopping subtly along and around each conversation, even around all forms of communication. The higher the principle, the higher the conviction — height is measured by the quantity of energy and time expounded on it. The result of these two is command and obedience, there is not one woman alive who is not ready to obey a man with principles stronger than hers. Quite often women lack principles altogether and it has been their source of misery. Now that woman is faced with the push – the command — and encouragement to find her own principles, now she must jump to the opportunity and define herself, as opposed to letting man define her, for whether she likes it or not, he will do so in his favour. What is there left from this but sublimation, but destruction, out of its ashes one hopes for a new set of principles.
The woman with the highest principles will be a force of nature, and mother to a beautiful human being. If she so chooses, or if nature has chosen her to do so. The mother with the highest principles is the highest mother.
Look you at some of these traits we once affixed to femininity:
gentleness, patience, kindness, care, quiet, compassionate and aware of others, motherly, timid, elegant, mannered, obedient and many more of a less fruitful nature i.e. yielding…
I need not say much more. Woman has been defined under the convenience of man and his needs, his desires, there’s not doubt about it, but then again who could blame man for doing so? This has been and is still the case on a high degree, even in our enlightened era. It is time for women to define themselves, and the only way to do so is strip bare all the customs and hereditary constraints that bind her, even those in the form of drives. This if and only if woman desires to express herself and be a person in and for herself. Perhaps and with the arising of this, man can begin to define himself too in his own image, and regardless of woman.
The golden question arising from this:
“Is this possible?”
My personal opinion in the matter without much thought into it, is at the moment, that it’s not possible. And I bemoan the pessimism, but I haven’t been able to think this whole thing through completely. How full can the thinking of a 22 year old man be? Unless, definitions take a new form, that are other than linguistic and grounded in the fluidity of the social realm of communication that is apparent to us now, this cannot be possible. Principles need to be established in forms other than the linguistic, and this is the hardest part of the endeavour.
…
Jason’s Judgment
A toast to the double genitive.
There has only even been one judgment for Jason: “sinner”. The foam of fury that accumulates at the corner of their mouths every time they utter his name has lead to the baptism: Jason the Hedon. He’s always been a peculiar person from birth, the black sheep, with a sharp wit and an unusual self-resolve and self-confidence — he’s always known how to make himself happy. Yet, these two abilities coupled together have been the source of both his pain and wonder. They label the former as pride and the latter as hedonism, as heresy, and both as sin. In his pride they hang their monstrous paws with a heavy torment, they hold their breath in anxiety as they await his fall — their holy book says so.
Jason’s notoriety grew throughout the years and the older he got, the more insipid he became to them, and the more wondrous as the black sheep that he is he became to those outside and sometimes inside their circle. He has now become a phenomenon, a test to their faith by his very presence. In the good ol’ days they would deal with someone like him by simply picking up a rubber and erasing him from the book, so to speak. In this commercial and media-infused world of ours, people are waiting with a camera and story, an unflinching capacity at reinterpretation, at the ready for such an occurrence — they, unfortunately, are wiser than that, and as fortune would have it, infinitely more stupid. They opt for the one thing they’ve lied to themselves about, they opt for a miracle, for the power of their faith and innocence — viewed from the distance, one can only smile and admire as much as feel nausea at such an endeavour. They set on Jason the Hedon, their most powerful item of faith; their glower, their staff of God. They give Jason exactly what he wanted, what he would have hoped for, they give him the attention and spotlight that when viewed from a certain distance, one can do nothing but admire and proclaim, “at last, a real miracle.”
Jason is to be visited by the holiest they possess, by the Pope himself in a direct flight from Rome. They hope to make him see ‘reason’, to make him reform and repent. They believe in the power of their almighty. They believe that ‘he’ can give him ‘faith’, that ‘he’ can ’save’ his soul.
The Pope arrives to Jason’s homely welcome, whereupon they converse for six hours over tea and lunch in the topics of life, death, god and the world. He sets his blue eye upon Jason for the last time, a subtle flicker is to pass through it almost to signal an impending tear of surrender and a feeling of what they call compassion. Jason doesn’t doubt that the Pope is a beautiful soul. A caring and motherly bosom emanates from the Pope’s eyes and Jason can only set forth his ironical smile in both admiration and an unyielding sadness at the sight. Breaking away from that motherly state, the Pope brushes aside his gaze as a fire ascends from the deep blue – he smiles. The smile is that befitting an imminent winner, a proud smile with a furrowed brow of anger that screams one word: irony. He addresses Jason for the last time,
“You and I managed, beautifully, to conclude that indeed you are not sure whether God does or does not exist, but it is more likely that he does and that you, with your set ways, impudently ‘hope’ that he does. Granted that he does, please grant me this, and you are likely to find out the truth with your death. What are you going to say and do when and if you appear naked in his presence before all your doings and intentions, with the heretical and sinful life you lead, with that incessant pride that blazes from your bosom, with that unflinching and unmalleable will?”
Jason’s head dropped, and the Pope thought himself victorious as a smile of relief began to ignite his face.
Jason, head down, eyes closed and a sigh of relief bubbling up to the top he thought to himself, “The stench of victory is like the sweet and sensuous odour of a wet and glorious vagina, everyone is ready and fully energized for the experience, men and women alike.”
He took a deep breath and slowly brought his head back up with a smile mixed with half-mockery and half-relief as the blazing pride in his chest began to utter, looking dead into the Pope’s cold and victory-infused gaze,
“I would bend down, take his hand and kiss it. Then I would thank him for giving me the strength to do what I did. For if I didn’t I would have never been happy, life for me would have been an utter misery, a complete torment. I would thank him for making me who I am. I would thank him for allowing and giving me the means to be happy — happy no matter what. Then, if he so wished, I would spend an eternity in hell tortured and in torment. For nothing is more valuable than happiness, and if God wished that I’d be not happy but miserable, then let the Devil and the pain he promises be my home, my eternal resting place, my loyalty.”
War and Peace
It is ironic that when we encounter times of peace in history we gloss over them with a sentence or two and a dismissive nod, but in our encounters of war we write and write books upon books, and theories upon theories, with an ignited gaze… Yet, we strive incessantly for the former. Ironic indeed, and fully hypocritical. This betrays a mass paranoia, coupled with sadistic and masochistic tendencies.
War fascinates us and makes us fearful, whereas peace simply bores us. We seem to strive for boredom, unbeknownst to us that war never leaves, it simply changes form and conceals its true face from us, such that it may continue igniting our faces. From physical war with each other we enter metaphysical and linguistic war, or even war against other things, i.e. nature and its creatures. War never leaves, it simply wears another mask. Peace is nothing but war in the process of changing its mask, of transforming.
There can be no…
…diplomacy between men and women, why would one desire it? With diplomacy comes mediocrity, with it comes an absence of tension, the kind of tension necessary to sexuality and attraction. No, men and women can’t always hold hands and forever, it’s absurd to even expect or assume its possibility. To desire peace between men and women is, as weird as this may sound, nothing but the desire for more conflict, or rather conflict in a different plane, a different terrain. A different type of conflict is what I hear when someone speaks to me of peace in places where conflict is a necessity, places such as attraction, such as romance. Why? – I hear you ask with a furrowed brow and sudden gulp. One can’t achieve diplomacy with someone else unless they understand their point of view. An understanding that will always be held back from men and women by each other, because that misunderstanding is precisely the basis for the fascination and electricity between the two, it is what draws one to the other. Diplomacy is the desire for either the loss of attraction, or the impending change in form of attraction — these are the only two options. The former is a lie and a conclusion by those nature intends to be rid of. There can be no end to attraction, nature’s law is attraction, she is a gatherer of sorts and what tensions lay in this form of gathering — how the things sparkle as she puts her arms around them to bring them close. She is a cold and brutal wench, our nature, a selective coquette who flirts only with the ones she desires, the rest she finds the means to their self-destruction, the means to their discarding.
A contradiction must be seen as an impending transformation, a reconciliation to come, and nothing more. This is where Philosophy takes us with her arms aloft and embracing us in her bosom, these are her heights. Indeed wisdom is a wench of all wenches, always shifting, always concealing herself and never yielding, no matter how many a-times we’ve embraced her in and out of her tender and passionate bed. Wisdom is the wench of all wenches, a coquette at the height of her game. Fool is he who thinks he can make one such as she fall in love with him.
Isn’t it ironic…
… that supposedly women receive more sexual pleasure than men, but it is to be men that chase sex like a stray, famished dog chases a sirloin?
I am now, to add, fully convinced. There is indeed nothing more beautiful in this world than a full-body female orgasm. I envy it as much as I admire its being under my gaze and touch.
Courting
The Philosopher courts the necessary. The Artist courts a canvas. The Scientist, their limited field of perception. The Religious, fear. The Spiritual, themselves. The Bussinessman, time. The poet, words. The Casanova, a young and ’seemingly’ innocent beauty. The Don Juan, women. The Mystic, Nature… What does the Lover court? What is there left?
The Bowerbird
The Lover is akin to the bowerbird that asks its mate to build the nest together: one part each and at a time – the dance of love, like playing chess, one piece at a time but no-one wins and no-one loses. There is no check-mate.
The demon of tomorrow…
I am a walker. I walk the dreary road of existence with a smile befitting any fool who fancies himself a lover of life and thinker of the world. A road worthy of those who are too much for the too-little. A road marked out conspicuously for those who fall on the outskirts of what-is-given. For those who court the skirts of the new, the original, the alive, the creative, the sublime, the self-surpassing. One fine morning I watch upon that which makes my heart tingle with life. I look upon that which makes me burst with a fire from my bosom and sends a pleasant current to my head, making my face extend a warm smile. That which awakens me from torpor – she, is more to the point. I am, alas, at the heights of the romantic age, I am a young man. Yet, this day is different from all the rest, a demon decides to make my acquaintance. A demon who’s truly an angel in disguise, here to test my strength of heart – here to test just how much power is me, and I am her. There is a yardstick to power my good friend, a good healthy and simple yardstick for measurement of power. It’s not in metres, centimetres or miles, no, it is in degree of attachment. A lesson I learned the hard way from an angel disguised as the demon of tomorrow, which we shall call Kalxara. It spoke thus to me:
Kalxara: I see thou thinkest and feelest most deeply for she. Thou art a remarkable man.
Me, You, No-one: I think and feel yes, but why don’t I do?
Kalxara: Thou knowest the result of thy doing before time, thy doing prematurely.
Me, You, No-one: Yes, but I yearn emphatically for her embrace, for her touch, her kiss, her hand on my heart, her head on my bosom, my hand on her head and playing with beautiful, short, blonde hair.
Kalxara: Thou are a true romantic, an emblem of thy age. For thy distance arises not from distance, it arises from intense proximity. Thou fight thyself most profoundly for thy desire. Thou fight thy desire for desire itself, thou fight love for love itself. Thou art a silly man to the world, but an emblem to and for its future. Thou pushest the world to its limit, and in the process, thou causeth thyself harm.
Me, You, No-one: Oh, how you understand me. And how you bring misery to my paradox. You know I’m sure of my capability, you also know my desire. You know how easy doing is, how simple it is to do. Yet, something inside fights me, it will not allow it. It implores me, and reasons with me to be patient, to allow, to be open.
Kalxara: That it does, and it pains thee so. Does it not?
Me, You, No-one: Yes, it does, it really does. But why? Why this tension, why this torment? What am I being prepared for, what is testing me so?
Kalxara: I will tell thee. Rather, I will show thee. I will also speed thee up, take thy preparation, clutch it and place it a gear higher. Dost thou liketh this idea?
Me, You, No-one: … Show me.
Kalxara: Let thy eye rest upon thy beauty. Let it fall upon her and feel her presence. Let the emotions betake thee, thinkest and feelest most deeply for her, as thee always do. Now, I will tell thee the truth about thy beloved whose name thou knowest not – what a hopeless romantic thou art, what a work of art, what a bizarre creation, truly incomparable. I will tell thee, for I am after-all a demon and I know the minds of the mortals, all too well. I hear her think and feel.
Me, You, No-one: I understand.
Kalxara: She cares not for thee. She has seen thee and thou have seen her, and she thinks thee handsome, but shares not thy passion. She loves thee not. She thinks thee only interesting, but she harbours a passion that’s not to thy degree.
Me, You, No-one: *With a smile.* I understand…
Kalxara: She is most hopelessly in love – it is not with thee. She wishes to be wed, and the future holds her wedding, two children and happiness, but not with thee…
Me, You, No-one: I understand… do continue… I see in your eyes more waiting to pour forth from within you.
Kalxara: She finds more interesting thy friend than thee. Thou art nothing compared to thy friend – thou seemeth emotionally decayed and oft over-confident, thou shineth arrogance in her eyes. She thinks thee a liar and a fake, she thinks thee a child. How dost thou feelest?
Me, You, No-one: I desire and love her more.
Kalxara: But she cares not for thee, thou art nothing but a passing glimpse, a passing feeling, a fleeting candle light that gives itself away in smoke as it is confronted by life’s winds, by life’s temporal gusts. Thou art not as important to her as as she is to thee. What dost thou hold onto?
Me, You, No-one: For the first time in my life… nothing. I am. It is. She is. We are. I hold on to nothing. Finally I can now feel… free. I can now not own or be owned, I can finally… be… I can love at last. Whether she loves me or not, or I love her or not, it matters not – so long as she is happy, and I am also. The feeling speaks its own language, and my distance, my paradox does its own job. I am incapable of judging. I can only admire, and I can only celebrate. I can only live… as I am… as I feel… I can only be.
Kalxara: I have lied to you.
Then, out of nowhere, Kalxara tore her clothes apart and revealed herself to me. She flicked her fine, long and radiant blonde hair back, spread her beautiful wings sending a gust in my direction that almost blinds me. Saluting me with a wink, a nod and a smile, she thrusts her wings and flies away.
The modern yardstick of power: attachment.
