I have burdened her in days of old with the heavy weight of expectation. Have contrived to make her magnificent and missed the greater spectacle before me, as if I knew the blueprints to a grander display than the greater powers at play could manage.
Stepped away, and saw her afresh. Refreshed. Came carrying an empty cup, allowed her to fill it by the bottomless reservoir of her wonder, and to empty it again. Fixed, then, my eye on her beauty and witnessed her become the beauty I could not see, previously.
Nature knows a greater philosophy than my faculties of speech have an allocation for, so I hold my tongue before it. And so, too, with a woman, will become busy now with my sacrifices, and ardent in my chivalry and reverent before the providence in her presence.
Why would I expect her to be anything but beautiful? I do not expect an eagle to be anything but an eagle. A man does not live by double standards, and her beauty is inherent.
I receive you, now. As I failed to receive you before. You are not for me to create in my own eye, but a target to adjust that eye to and know there that I see truth. And of love, money, fame or truth, I choose truth. I choose truth. I choose the man who will lead me there and I choose your beauty, unconditionally.
I rid myself of the filter of age, occupation, predilection, predisposition and like the clothes that fall delicately around your feet at the end of a long day, drop everything and stand nude before you, nude in reflection and see only beauty. Thank you, goddess. You need to do nothing for my gratitude and nothing to be beautiful. All that requires change is the perception of the institution that tells you otherwise. Thank you. Thank you.
Giving. Not to receive but receiving. Being a conduit for her pleasure and elevation. Mastering yourself to master the moment. Unconquered and radiant. Divine.
Loving, in that giving. Not to be loved but being loved. Being loved so dearly. Taking a step back and tending to the raising and releasing of her energy before your own, if your own at all. Do not be conquered by her. She will test you. Remain strong. Unmoved. She awaits the unmovable man to truly move her, if you are anything else you will tire against her resistance. See no enemy. Defeat your enemy by having no enemy. You are victorious.
If you are a lover of women, love women. If you a fighter of battles, fight battles. If you are a writer of words, then indulge these faculties as often as your potency would permit it. If you wish to love, fight and write then do these things yet be the master of them. And do not disperse your energy towards that which you will not master. In time, master all. In short, master just one thing, and that is the first stone in the chapel of mastering all.
Know not to talk of what you know. I shall not talk. I know little and what I do is for me, you may not have it. Yet you may have its fruits as I elevate you lovingly and patiently – all in good time. For now I tend to my own garden. There are beautiful flowers budding there for me to sit and drink tea with.
Destroy her. Be destroyed. In the inferno of passion hold stance and authority. Be gentle when the moment requires it of you, firm when necessary, also. Bring her to her death, and by her hand, die yourself but on your terms, when the time comes to do so. Select the moment, and if you must release do so into the womb of surrender, only. Take on only as much responsibility as you are capable of managing. Manage that responsibility well.
And remember, none of it is real, anyway. So have fun with it, also.
There is a time for solitude and there is a time for celebration. A time for discipline and a time for balance. Ergo the essence of balance, itself a necessary precursor to stance.
What comes to me is mine. You came to me. Am I to infer then, that you are mine? If I wish to take you, then yes. Do I wish to take you?
This is power.
I am not at the mercy of emotions. I sit, wait, watch for what comes and then CHOOSE. Having stripped away all that is not necessary I now see I need nothing to be joyous. Therefore, I may take you or I may leave you. I am, in other words, perennially accounted for.
You do not come to me for correction, which is perfect: I am in no position to correct. I shall, then, keep all that I know through APPLICATION within. Conserving the energetic weight I have put on like jam. And I do not spread myself out, lest I wear myself thin. Plump and sweet I remain. I will, however, see to the elevation of my peers (as per my duty). So come to me for love and you may have that. Therefore you will shine like a lake, winking back at me with stars in your eyes.
Through watching as I do you may find an example of foundation, and benefit from that, too.
Bath in the waters of discipline. You may become accounted for if you are not so careful.
And I may discover the abyss of feminine divine in the grottoes of your eyes. Show me up. Test me. I wait, still and patient. I hope you come ready to murder. For I am ready to die at your hands.
Soft you may touch me with graces and airs and well placed smiles insinuated between winks and hair flicks. I have mistaken you. Beautiful shadow. Our eyes meet, I see you. I see me. Hello, loyal friend.
I once peeked behind the veil and threw mystery into the relief of light – looked back at my reflection in flesh in the dead of night, yet did not see the mirror.
I believed I had unveiled you. I believed you were distinct from myself – and, later, that in letting a sleeping dog lay, your mystery would remain more beautiful. And, still, a mystery you remain. Yet, thankfully, I learn more of you each day. The more I learn of me the more I learn of you. I thank myself for your beauty, and thank you for your frankness, dear child. Let’s play.
Like the space that sits quietly and patiently between music notes on rickety old pianos, your presence in my life is pregnant with a divine wonder – my own, mirrored dumbly back at me.
You, woman, belong to a garden. There you would smell sweetly with the orchids, exploding spring-cherry trees and frangipanis. Kissing the air on its cheeks as it wafts by and upwind to me – rosy red. The garden ought to be your domain, and not a man’s bed. There you would be but smelled, picked and discarded like grey bath water when done. Yield to the sun, and not to your desire. Open to each day, and not to met expectations. Fall with the rest of the leaves come autumn, when it is time to do so. The God awaits you.
The sun has woken up from winter sleep, and beats down upon my back, doing the job of the sun. Just as the warrior awakens, now, from ignorant sleep. In discipline, I train. In fertile soil, I grow, and soon, too, will I join you in that garden where after blossoming we might die in union.
Between now and the illusion of that auspicious end (there is no ultimate death), I accept life as but a divine refinery, cold pressing me through stone-hard walls, shaving off my corners, and letting the excess drop to the floor at my feet as I am processed through perfection until, like a polished ball, I shine beautifully. I am reborn. I integrate. You disappear. You are integrated. The Man has arrived.
I want you in flesh but I do not need you and I take only what I need so you shall remain untaken by me. You will not be smelled, or picked, or discarded like fingernails. Instead I shall quietly honour you as I quietly honour myself: you will be cherished. In time, together, too, we will unravel ourselves like Christmas presents to each other. Having sat, waited and watched: the boy has disappeared, the Man, in turn, has passed – here, my love, is the God.
Impetus for love, she will be, as if love needs an impetus. Of its own volition it should burst forth, like water from the mains, frothing at the mouth onto the street and caressing the tarmac like it’s missed it. But it doesn’t always, does it?
There are times when I look at the women around me, and through the eyes of a boy I am able to perceive of only girls. I live in this world of girlishness, and I know in truth that they only reflect my own inner boyishness back at me. Were I a MAN, I could look at a girl and see the WOMAN she is becoming, just as a Master may look at a seed and see the tree it is becoming or a log, and the fire already within. The potential coming to fruition.
Boy I may be, yet nonetheless I prepare. Each day sharpening the blunted sword of my perception. Cutting away anything unnecessary as I go. For I will need to be ready.
When my perception shifts, and I am able to view the world through the eyes of a man, it will not be long before a WOMAN will appear. A loving, cruel-bitch, goddess of a woman.
And when she comes for me I know she will come ready to unfold, murder and enlighten me and I will be ready for her. I will meet my death gracefully and be reborn from the ashes of us both as we burst a-cinder unto each other again and again in each moment together.
She will come with lust and serenity and chaos all at once in the pools of her eyes and show me why storms are named after people, and I will meet her there – at peace, unperturbed, ready to fill the vessel she has brought to me with love that she might be ready to accept that love and let it destroy her as beautifully as she destroys me.
Even in my destruction, at the very moment of my death – genuflecting lovingly before her – my inner lake will remain without a ripple. Stillness shall prevail in spite of the beautiful storm she brings to me to quell. Balance.
Until I am able to keep that lake as still as the Buddha scared-to-death, however, I will continue to look at women and girls are all I will see.
And so I shall remain chaste, and so I shall remain still – In solitude and in silence, meditating on my power. Realizing myself. In preparation. Not for her, but to honour the me in her and the her in me.
I saw a woman at the markets today. She stopped me dead in my tracks. Up rose the gentlest of affections, the simplest of longings, untarnished by the violence of the modern sexual psyche.
I mention her because she punctuated that shopping trip with inspiration for what I knew I was already going to write about today – the beauty in the wild woman.
I need not address what a wild woman is. However I would like to address men’s bastardisation of her, and our propensity, with boyishness, to force her to be masculine and then to leave her for what looks like greener pastures. What a joke. And I’m hypocrite number one.
At the temple my guru once told me that Krsna (God) is the energetic and Hare (Krsna’s female form and lover) is the energy, the supreme reservoir of all energy. The gate to life is between her legs, the source of all you see around you is in her womb. She is the creator. The divine mother. What have we done? … What have we done?
The feminine is the most violent of cesspits, delivered with gentlest touch. And yet at the slightest hint of unbalance, or a waver in the gentle delivery of her power, we become frightened little boys, and start throwing around ‘slut’ and ‘crazy’, using language and manipulation to undermine her stance and outwit her credibility.
When I hear a “man” tell me that his ex-lover was crazy it just says to me that he was too much a boy to handle her ferocity. Like a kid playing with a shotgun. Just a bad idea. Someone’s going to get hurt.
Let me ask you a question, you handsome devil, if she was inactive, complacent and disengaged, would she still charm you so? Would she still be so compelling?
This is what we are doing to the women in our lives with our inability to be men, and then leaving them for a more refreshing source of femininity elsewhere. And we wonder why it’s called “a man’s world.”
Her rage is a test. It is a calling. It is perfection beckoning you, it is your future knocking at your door. Her seething and the juxtaposition of the bat of her eye and the lash of her words is an opening, if you choose to take it, to being a real man. To being man enough that she can relax into her femininity and be radiant there. What the fuck would I know, though. I’m still a boy and a have a long list of women behind me that weren’t “enough.”
In reality, I wasn’t enough for myself so I used them to validate myself. I desecrated the walls of the temple on my way out. And wondered why God didn’t answer my prayers for the woman of my dreams. It’s actually farcical in retrospect. I guess that’s a benefit of growing, huh?
As discussed previously, the first access to being a man is discipline. If you can remain unperturbed by the outside world, including women, and continue to do what must be done, then you have begun the journey towards embodying Shiva, the divine masculine.
I’ll leave you with a picture of a famous Hindu statue – of Shiva (the divine masculine) and Shakti (the divine feminine). In this picture, Shiva is meditating, supreme presence, unperturbed, pervasive while Shakti is passionately making love to him in his lap. They exist is cosmic union while she allows all of the world’s feeling and energy to channel through her and acts it out in a divine dance of all that there is to feel and be. Despite this, Shiva is unaffected and cuts through her chaos with his masculine presence, allowing, and indeed further engendering, her beautiful wildness.
A woman is an undeniably beauteous creature. A chaotic, distracting, oceanic, BEAUTIFUL, violent creature. And like the ocean, she is endless, expansive, sometimes still on the surface, violent at times underneath, with a wonderful world beneath the surface to boot.
My teacher sometimes says that women are like a flag. They flap in the wind, here and there, following their feelings and being blown around by emotions and circumstances. In this freely flapping, I believe, however, is a mystic and transfixing beauty. Like a flag flowing in the wind, she is frolicking about, whipping and flapping and folding and delving into herself. He continues that a man is like the flagpole. He is strong, with stance anchored into the ground, unmoved, unperturbed by the wind or that which happens around him, and in this way he is a perfect anchor for a flag. A woman can depend on his strength and fly free anchored to her port in her man.
Women, however, largely end up flapping about on the floor rather than high atop the flagpole where the wind can catch her and she can dance in all her feminine beauty.
And men are often too flaccid a flagpole to reliably hoist a flag high to do her dance for any period long enough to be considered worthwhile hoisting the flag in the first place. This analogy is getting out of control.. And the scope of this post is broader than a diatribe on flags, I promise. (More on this in the next post)
Naturally, any male and any female can have any combination of masculine and feminine energy so appropriate this as is relevant to you and your life situation.
Far too much of what we do is for women. I’m not saying don’t do things for women. In fact, the biggest thing you can do for your woman is to stop doing everything for your woman. Bare with me.
It would be true to say that if Male X woke up in the morning to go to the gym (to look good for women), bought a certain hair product and styled his hair (to look good for women), paid money for clothes (for women), got in his car (that is more expensive and flashier than is practical… to pick women up in) to go to his job or uni that was selected because it sounds good (to tell to women) to save for a house of his own (because he can’t shag you at his parents’)… Male X is, in a remarkably unbalanced capacity, eliciting his sense of self from the arena of others’ opinions of him. Which are always out of his control, and in any case arbitrarily set by fashion houses, celebrity taste and the catalogues of tomorrow. It would also be true to say that in doing so, Male X is exhibiting a traditionally feminine trait – chaos. He is blown around by his need to impress, and thus is liable to be blown around by any other whim a female may have of him. This is not what a woman needs in order to be free to express her true femininity and bath Male X in the dulcet effulgence of her feminine radiance.
Here’s a new concept, Male X. Do it for you. Craft a life around honouring yourself and doing what must be done. Inside of this, you have become a flagpole. Unwavering in your commitment to what must be done, and pervasive in the knowing of WHAT and WHO you are – which comes from inside, and not outside, of you.
The trick with women, I think, is to notice that when you are not yet yourself a masterful man, it is all too easy to be sucked into the chaos. If you are not yet solid enough to be a flagpole and direct your woman with your loving presence and masculine strength, you end up bickering and investing in drama, story and routine. Instead, step back, practice your mastery, so that when you return you can do so with pizzaz. This is the tricky bit. As a wise man once said “Women: you can’t live with ’em, you can’t live without ’em.” You don’t have to live without them, just try not being so inside them for a while. Step back, bro. Look how arrestingly beautiful she is without feeling the need to destroy her.
It’s like a flower. Walk past it in the morning. Stop. Look at it. Know it smells sweet. No need to pick, no need to take with you and keep for yourself. No need to disturb. No need to destroy. Observe from a distance in the knowing that the smell is sweet without needing to act on it. In this way attraction can become beauty and the flower can stay beautiful, and undisturbed, forever
When you can control this desire. When you can resist the need to act and circulate that attraction through your body, THEN you can see her blossom and bath in her radiance without being perturbed by the chaos. Then you are a man. Then you can have your woman but do not get lost in the cycle again by being the flagpole to have the woman. That’s a hidden backdoor trap. You do it for you. Because it must be done. Because you are a man, this is your mission. Mastery. This is all there is to do. The rest is bullshit. The rest is low-vibe. The rest is a waste of your time.