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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Ex-lovers.

In days of old, through self-hate and confusion, I found women of beauty, made them mine, and conscripted them into hating me, too. I did not see that I hated myself so they came to me as a mirror, to show me what I lacked internally. What a beautiful service they provided to me, by pushing the knife deep to wake me up, and sending me in the right direction towards my ultimate healing.

 

Instead I called them ex-lovers and thought of them negatively – blaming them for my hatred of myself.

 

Now, as a man of power, my reflection in feminine is before me whispering that I rob her of the full force of my godly love until I can say I love all women, as she is all women – the goddess in full.

 

So I accept her correction and return these ex-lovers from the floor to the shelf where I will once again honour them as all women and thank them for the service they lovingly provided. All as beautiful as the next, they were the loving signs along the way saying “go this way, your woman awaits you.”

 

For this, I thank each of you. I love you. I love you. I love you.

 

I love all.

 

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Photography by Alex Dram

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Goddess pt. II

When, from the morass of obscurity, she makes herself known – and you will know: apple-plump with beauty, soft and radiant – greet her in masculine presence, invite her in and return to business.

If then she remains, when all is let go of, she is yours and you may take her. Take in first, her femininity, absorb it in the crucible of your presence, foster it in the crucible of your strength.

Do not be afraid to meet your end at her hand if she offers to you this most precious of gifts. Therein is a new beginning. Your meeting is a dance of energetic polarity and an alchemy of two lovers to the ultimate benefit of you both.

Love first yourself, then fill her with that love.

With loyalty in your heart, know fruitful abundance in the love of your woman. Nothing else will have your cauldron be so overflowing.

Return, at times, to solitude. Attending to the business that men must at times attend to. Let her always know you will be returning. Forever returning to the beginning with her. Knowing her anew each time. Seeing her afresh each day. See her with your eye and not your mind. For only the eye can understand the depth of the reservoir she drinks her power from. She is the goddess come to kill you.

Die gracefully.

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Photography by Shae Detar

 

Preparations (Ophelia).

You shuffle about your life, wistfully, absently filling once empty spaces with your vision – yet never deliberately, or with the toothpick of intent. As I do, you comment here and there to people who have no ears to receive you, realize the fruitlessness of this endeavor and return to silence. Subtlety with regards to the delivery of truth is not a fineness either of us can attest to.

From afar I can feel you, too… Going about your business as I go about mine, gloriously ignorant to the crossing of roads ahead. I know not what form you’ll take or what gifts you’ll bring, only that I am for you and that there is work to do in preparation.

A daughter. Ophelia. Bright. A spark. More powerful than is good for her in her formative years, although we will be well equipped to make the appropriate preparations for a child of such energy.

Yet upon close observation the future escapes through cracks between the fingers of the present, returning my attention to the hand I’m given. So I file these thoughts away to a cabinet at the back of my mind marked “return to” with my other uncashed cheques and await that prosperous seed to take fruit in your appearing before me complete with curls and chocolate-dark irises.

… I hope you drive fear into the hearts of men greater than I. I hope you come ready to humiliate me with your feminine glory. You will find me unafraid for under the bright light of philosophy I have corrected my fear.

Back to my silence. Back to watching it turn.

I surrender myself to timing.

 

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Artwork by Shae Detar

 

 

Tall.

Winter mist on misty windows.
Trees poking out of the ground,
numerously surround us.
They stand tall,
like adults do.
Swaying too,
like emotions or the opinions of the men,
that plant and cut them.

Should I stand taller?
Deep in my roots,
solid in foundation,
yet pliable above ground?

In a silent field we sat.
Leaves singing our names,
and foliage crunching under us as we lay,
while we use each other as cushions.
This is ground, I think, we must tread carefully,
lest things end precariously.
Yet still you stare at me,
– you are not one for being careful.
And so I, too,
stare back at you,
– the warrior is never fearful.

I saw rock pools in your eyes,
in a wooden bathing house,
standing nude before you,
physically and otherwise.

I caught, too,
a failed disguise
for something rare these days.
Something real.
And I have known women in my life,
in more than a hundred ways,
but this is my favorite.
This.

What gifts,
have you come to bring to me, angel?
Just peels of laughter
and prettiness?
Or something you apportion less regularly?
Something special, just for me?
In exchange for something special,
just for you?

You have come to me to be at home.
This, I know.
Relax my love.
I will die,
willingly.
You have come to kill me,
finally.
So let us walk home together,
fearlessly,
and find the truth in each other,
beautifully.
For we will live forever.
Let’s walk this path together.
The God and Goddess await us.

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Photograph by Vivian Maier

 

 

 

 

 

Reverent.

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.
Thank you.

– Michael

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Artwork by Becha

 

nb: featured image by Jamie McCartney

 

 

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.