Love, mirrored.

He who lives in knowledge – and who has forgone his ivory tower of belief, and gleaned from deliberate steps in philosophy that all he sees is a reflection of his internal world – knows his lover as his closet and dearest reflection. Through her, sees himself.

Never does he get caught pointing the finger, for that finger will be pointed straight back. Through correction of self he elevates his reflection, in love.

He is a reflective soul who knows, that his world is his creation. That ‘the world’ is an illusion. That the agitation he sees is his own, that the reaction he sees is his own, that the love he desires is his own: cultivated and then purified and reflected back to him by his woman.

His woman is beautiful. Because he loves himself.
His woman is powerful. Because he is unafraid of self-correction, and her.
His woman is loyal. Because he is honorable.

Anything the Gentle Man does not wish to see in his woman he must rid of in himself. This is life’s lesson to him in accountability. The Gentle Man is an example. He lives in a world, beyond time, perfecting his technique with repeated strokes in discipline. His craft is his love. His woman is a reflection of his love for his craft. She, too, loves her craft. And through and with each other they move slowly, in a spiral pattern, towards the perfection of their craft and the mastery of other through self.

He knows he. He knows all.
She knows she. She knows all.
Love, mirrored.

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Photogaph by Alex Dram

 

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Le Gentilhomme

Do not mistake my gentleness for weakness.
The strong hand is a gentle one.

 

Your Tension is fearful.
Violence is fearful. Anger is fearful.

 

For the rowdy male is frightened. Internal eye on only his weakness. He knows he is weak. They know.
And so he attracts the weak, for the strong disregard him. His company, who he dominates to falsely validate himself, is his reflection.
He is a playground bully – stuck in the little boy.

 

The gentle man, by contrast, is silent.
Still.
Certain.

 

Weakness is an inability to do what must be done.
The blemished male has an eagerness to act violently in mad defence of a rotting kingdom of blame, shame and excuse.
The gentle man will be aggressive if the moment calls for it, but never violent, and always benevolent in his correction of the adversary. He, loves all.

 

Yet few are willing to look at themselves and make the necessary corrections before attempting to correct others.

 

The gentle man, by contrast, corrects self.
Perfects art.
Elevates others.

 

Through the necessary internal adjustments I embolden and enlighten my reflections and therefore myself.

 

I am the dark angel, emanating from the light.
Your death has come to save you.
As I gracefully walk, things gently weep and wilt around me,
reborn beautifully in my wake.
Untouched by chaos.
I am a beacon of peace.
The eye of the storm.

 

My woman is my art. I cut into her with the blade of my stillness, and then mend her up with the light of my love.
I, her great destruction. I, her loving healer. She, the bubbling, churning abyss of my passion.
We die. We are reborn. We integrate.

 

And as I foster the seed of her might, the tree of my power thickens and entrenches itself deeper into the earth, becoming increasingly unmovable,
and unfathomably solid.

 

I am fluid. I am strong. I am gentle.

 

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Artwork by Josh Courlas

The Eye of The Beholder.

What you give your attention to, expands. Drama, love, peace – make a choice. You are the creator.

Similarly, if you hold your eye on the beauty of a woman, you will be witness to her ever expanding beauty.

It is your responsibility to make your world beautiful by holding your eye on only beauty, not the world, or your woman’s, responsibility to be beautiful for you. Correct yourself lest you see only an enemy and be ruled by the ubiquitous despot – the ego.

In each woman; mother, daughter, child; there is the seed of the goddess. She may plant this seed in fertile soil, step into vulnerability (her power) and tend to this garden herself and channel the divine goddess deliberately. Or, you (the God) may foster it in her through channeling your own divine masculine energy.

Therefore, if you see only girls, or are unimpressed by the women in your life, it is you that is the problem, not the women. You are bringing to these people only a little boy, keen to be looked after and tended to like your mother did for you. You are looking for a woman to take care of you to avoid stepping into your own power, and therefore reflected back at you you see only women who are yet to step into theirs.

A man watches intently the woman in all female forms,  knowing all he must do is listen, watch her spin around, admire the beauty and that this is all that is required for the seed of divine femininity to sprout into a mighty oak under which you might find shade. Allow her to cool you, be her sun.

This is your path, gentlemen.

Now walk.

 

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Illustration by Robert Fawcett (1903-1967)

(Featured photograph by Vanina Kalovsky)

The First Steps.

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.

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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.

– M

 

 

Warriors II.

What is it to be ‘a warrior’? …

It’s the doing of the necessary – the peeling back of egoic desire with the sharp ribs of the blade of correction. It is a quiet, still certainty – a resolute stance – uncovered through repetition. To be a warrior is to mindfully give up all that obstructs the path through application of deep discipline of body and mind, and from this platform of simplicity to relax and therefore draw power through speed and agility. He is gentle, and finds not only power, but beauty in his simplicity.

It is a daily practicing and re-practicing of the basics of the basics until utterly faultless. Looking from every angle at how you can improve. To devote your life to the mastery of skill through repetition, and live it every day – without excuses. The warrior humbles himself to correction – the path to his mastery… And in humility pilgrims to touch the feet of correction, and the person that benevolently administers it, to exchange what little he can offer – gratitude and energy – for the great wealth and sophistication they bring to his life.

… He will remain invisible until the time comes for necessary action. When ready, he bobs into the light, strikes fast, in grace, and stance. Yet you will not see him – there and then gone. Perfection worked at; every day, every month; year upon year, life upon life such that when required he might act in perfection, to defeat adversary with fierceness and love, kindness and firmness, power and technique.

He will not make a show of it. You will not be made aware. Yet though invisible, you will not miss his presence.

Back into shadows he retreats, and returns to his art. In a temple built on a lifetime of tiny adjustments, he returns to the throne, sits down, and waits once more, in silence, for timing to create the next moment for action.

Wisely, silently, gently, he prevails.

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Artwork by Yaroslav Gerzhedovich

 

Refinery.

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.

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Hylas and The Nymphs (1896), John William Waterhouse

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.

And now:
To us,

– M.

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The Creation of Adam, c. 1511-1512, Michaelangelo

 

Goddess.

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La Naissance de Venus (detail), 1862, Palais des Beaux-Arts de Lille. Amaury Duval.

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.

Perfect.

I die to her already.