Winter mist on misty windows.
Trees poking out of the ground,
numerously surround us.
They stand tall,
like adults do.
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.
And I have known women in my life,
in more than a hundred ways,
but this is my favorite.
have you come to bring to me, angel?
Just peels of laughter
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,
You have come to kill me,
So let us walk home together,
and find the truth in each other,
For we will live forever.
Let’s walk this path together.
The God and Goddess await us.
Silently, I sit…. Admiring her softness.
I have a stone upon which I sharpen my sword – a woman – whom through serving I build my tolerance for sacrifice and thereby step further into my strength. Service to her and to all women is my daily practice. And I have become fond of repeating the basics until perfect.
I was served by a woman as a child, and I now serve this woman and all women as a man. So turns the cycle of birth, death, and birth.
Woman, I now need nothing from you. Not your romance. Not your sex. I have everything I need internally. And all that is mine, externally, is coming to me. All you must do is be what you are and you will be loved deeply, and unconditionally. You will be listened to, and seen. You will be cherished for all that you are.
So do not clean after me. Do not cook for me. Do not exert yourself for I am not a kept man.
Accept me, consume me, and I will be a God for you that we might perpetuate this eternal dance of energetic polarity into each night and spill it over into each morning.
And when you wake I will be here. Unmoved. Unmovable. The warrior.
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.
nb: featured image by Jamie McCartney
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.
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.
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.