I never could want it enough, love. Sure, when someone’s loving you its nice to feel it in the moment: its a warm blanket for the cold morning that is the monotony of life. I have little desire for a new blanket every so often, like other men do. More, I can’t stand the thought of years of being witnessed. It is to a man’s shame that he is known by a woman. She already knows so much by intuition, that spark buried in nature—in her nature. How much scrutiny can a soul’s mask bear? And you’ll say ‘not scrutiny but acceptance’. Well, we men —our ego’s— they don’t wish for acceptance, for they do not accept themselves; that is, they do not wish to make of themselves a study—by their own science or by woman’s natural intuitions. Comprehension means naught but leverage. Understand me, understand my levers, and control is at hand. Whether one means to love only to grow intertwined, toward alchemical salvation, or to make some masochism of themselves for complex reasons, nevertheless that comprehension is a hand which hovers over her lover’s gearbox. It may rev him up into production or downshift him into his animalic state as one fancies. Worse, she being her master’s emissary knows not her unconscious purposes. If she does, she is instrumental and he a tool. If not, she is drunk at the wheel and his fate is but a matter of her nature’s own course, which, it should be said, does have sober aims. For reproduction, for biological continuity, and even to seat consciousness, paradoxical to each man’s personal fate, progressively higher on her throne. These are her aims, and a sober man is wise to comprehend her same as he is comprehended. And this is the eternal embrace, the sacred couple who continually remakes the world. But to know it—to know it by the book as fact, to comprehend the whole of the thing is a hell of a burden. Its probably the case that man is best left less than half conscious of his use case; left to labor and procreate, and to bear that burden side by side with other men who share his fate and can raise a beer in solidarity, to fate and labor and the banality of it all. I mean to say that I have the philosopher’s curse. It’s not that difficult of a corner to see ’round. You just have to wait out the game play long enough in order to comprehend the patterns. In chess they call them complications, the issues into which a player runs when he engages the enemy on questionable territory. Complexity is the ambivalent domain of the divine; where the infinite admixture of blind ambitions and stringent limitations collide, complexity itself wins every game, nevermninding the player. But we play by compulsion. To watch the game from the outside, to commentate —to philosophize about it all— is little understood by those with their noses down fervently collecting points, but the commentator on this divine comic complexity, he is typically nonplussed in being mistaken for a player when he sits at the board.

Understandably so. And it is his duty to proclaim loudly and clearly enough to those who will otherwise presume he is a man like every other man they’ve known—that he is not in fact here to play seriously, but rather to contemplate the game. And a man must sometimes play a game in order to comprehend it. In this he risks his outsider status. He might get caught up, caught out, with his player’s cap on. And then he will be in a gambit, mired in complexities rather than observant of them, and the levers of fate will squeal with excitement to be oiled and ready to grind the meat that has too long evaded the cogs of nature’s recycling method. He might well fold like eggs. And she’d be wise to cook them ‘low and slow’. And so, she gets her ‘love’, a romantic frosting pavéd atop a gravel belly of truth—sugary seduction is but a highway to anonymity for a man, and it deals in a grand and glimmering romance. “What does he do?” is the first god-damned question the chickens all cluck. That is, which type of tool is he to you—does he have much leverage, this instrument upon which you exercise your own leverage upon? What are the quality of his hands? What can be attained, possessed, should you wrap fate around him? This is all cynical. There are couples who both demand love’s illusion, hold it as the real, the true, the good, and the beautiful, as I think I once did—they are perfectly deceived by Pleasure.

But one —either man or woman— can subtly use love itself as a tool against the other and for one’s self. ‘Subtly’, because this lever can be both used by, and simultaneously hidden from, its user. Some worried and protective part of me has used love. For what? To grasp at a hope of braving reality instead of shrinking from it; in order to essay really, instead of by semantics, to assert my own psychic position atop nature’s reality. If you stake a claim upon a woman, you claim a lot in life, as one claims a lot of land, by staking its boundaries: ‘here, these four defined corners and whatever indefinable enigma between them lies, these are what I claim.’ That’s a metaphysics of possession of the real. And what one claims, he claims, implicitly, to be able to defend, support, and make fruitful by his labor, as consciousness potentiates —makes a use of— matter. Ask a woman if this is not what she deeply desires, to be made good use of. You will quickly find yourself in a fructifying position. But where man lays claim, woman has most often levered love in order to entice that claim upon her. She seduces him as ripe fruit seduces the animal —Adam— who can’t reasonably turn down natural sugar, and he in turn is supposed to subdue that lot of earth for further fructification. “Be fruitful and multiply,” as the mitzvah goes. That’s how life gets on, by casting claims to lots. “Lot” because fate, experienced as chance, is tied to will as participation in the world is tied to action’s consequences. One casts a lot and draws his fate. To choose a lot —a woman— is to choose one’s lot in life, his fate. And to her, it amounts to being claimed as one such prized piece of fate—a fate chosen is a fate honored. It is the man who proposes, but it the woman who more truly offers the proposition—she offers a lot in life, a fate into which to plunge his potential, his power, in faith. He takes an oath to this end: the marriage oath is said to be to “God”, implying, to the patriarchally minded, the masculine, but truthfully he pledges to the bride and ultimately the Great Mother: “I will plow this land and tend to its fruit faithfully each season. You have seduced me and I will subdue you honorably in my dealings with your offspring.” He is a shepherd wed to his flock. It is easy for man to confusedly blame the personal for the actions of the archetypal because the drama is played out through personal experience. As such, it is disingenuous to blame a woman for seduction while she is nature’s and not the other way ’round; that is, there is an implicit misunderstanding, a trick of semantics, when it is said that ‘it is in her nature’ —that is to blame the personal for the archetypal; however, nature is not her’s—rather, she is ecotype to nature’s archetype, the individual instance of the infinite macros. It is in nature’s nature to seduce the masculine by way of the personal feminine. The gods work through us, and we are apt to confuse their desires for our wills. Most usually, we justify ‘choices’ via post hoc rationalizations of Nature’s desires and Culture’s demands.

These are at work upon man’s gestalt. If man has a Will to Power, its servicing is but proof of the necessity to service Nature. A patriarchy exists precariously upon men’s comprehension of his own susceptibility toward instrumentazlization by way of his instincts—which is to say, it rests upon both the comprehension and, paradoxically, the incomprehensibility of the archetypal feminine manifest in the personal relation between the sexes.

The difference between agential men seduced by cultural power and those more directly seduced by natural desire, each stemming from Nature’s own desires at bottom, is precisely the difference between esoteric and exoteric religious knowledge. Religion has had longest to exercise the comprehension of seduction and subduction. If man is religious or political or economic, all of these together at once, he is reducible to nature, bindable and controllable by the lot of them; and all of these occulted teachings, accumulated techniques and instrumentalizations, these set to work upon individuality with the seriousness of a mother bent on retaining her creation ad infinitum. That men, by the slight edge of their greater capacity for violence as final say in cultural matters, maintain control by culturally instrumental means, these means are but a confirmation and confession of man’s nature, which, as I have said is a misleading phase; for, he confuses both the woman’s and his personal desires for those of the gods that work in and through him: the mother, still aiming at reproduction, reigns over and directs that consciousness. If it is not clear, all of culture, in its effort to bind feminine seduction by way of masculine subduction, only confirms seduction’s power.

The only party partially immune to these complexities, these religious covenants, is the philosopher, and they are all he can write about.

He can participate in mystery, man, by living, reproducing, and by dying, but these offer him not an explanation of himself or the plain on which he participates: that is the job of his sciences, to gain, atop his participation, perspective. These perspectives mean knowledge, knowledge that comes from the participatory plain, and with it potential and power —leverage— over that plain. Yet, man’s attempt at participation in the mysteries by way of science only keep him in the plain as much as in reign over it. These sciences have yet to explain the plain, which is human existence, itself, in terms of its proposition for (to) man. Power over it, yes; an explanation of ‘what’, surely; but the why, the necessity, of his participation, no, not by the material sciences can that be had—one cannot derive ‘ought from is’, as Hume says. And so he has delved into the mysteries themselves, codified his participation (however obscured to the masses), and endeavored to explain the proposition of the ‘living out of the mystery’ in that code. These perspectives, participatory and half-conscious, are the mythico-realities inscribed in the great religious texts by the prophets, priests and their scribes. To my reason for considering the nature of this participation: the mysteries thus codified (as sacraments) are: baptism, confession, reconciliation, communion, death, and marriage. Am I un-catechized by my lack of participation in the mystery of marriage, of reproduction? Shall one not ‘meet god’ if he goes unmarried, or does he simply violate the priests’ and laymans’ sensibilities in favor of his own? A man has his choices, but they are framed by Nature’s realities: death and desire, these are her tools. The god-king —each man being a king in his own house— sits upon Isis’ lap for such a length as his kingdom, his life, which is hers in as far as Nature gives and takes life back at her whim, will last: he serves at her pleasure, and his will is as extensive as his healthy days are long. And so a struggler against fate, against death and desire, he is. He is wise to know this about other men, and wiser still, to employ them in service to his earthly temporal kingdom; that he might prosper and even extend his days (the rich do live longer), by trickery as it were. How then might Nature be pleased toward these ends? Surely by service to her. She is desirous of life, and of death. All our ceremonies and pageantry say so — celebrations of her desires. A man may be a husband, may practice bullish husbandry; we conceive of bridal exchange as the matrimonial trade, but it is he who is sorrowful in the binding act, where she, in secret representation of the Great Mother, has, on Her behalf claimed a bull —or else a servant— for her procreative ends. Or he may be a priest, who dons the Mother’s gowns and, as a celibate, is celebrated by her as a steer a castrated, more direct, servant. That is, the patriarchal religions —Christianity most especially— are secretly Matriarchal. And, lest a man think unwisely that he may remain in between, pursuing his own ends, ignorant of those of the Great Mother, he will find himself a lonely philosopher. Desire will creep, and longing too, each in service, within him, because She is in him, to Her, and he will be as sad as a Mother disappointed from her throne. This makes him an Apostle: his refusal to take the throne, a fool to leave it empty, a fool to live and die without attempt at usurping Nature by way of everlasting life (where she would have him certainly die), he is —we are— in each case fools of Nature, bodies to Her grand design, and fools-come-saviors if we are clever and bold enough. What explanation does this apostolic apostle, the philosopher, gain for all his sorrows? The priest escapes husbandry, servitude to the personal woman, only to serve the Mother herself (albeit ‘in the name of the Father’); and the husband forgoes heroics and deeper thinking and counts orgasm his reward from the Mother…truly he is little more than a stud. I will tell you: the philosopher is nearest rebellion. Rebellion is all he writes toward, in fact. Nietzsche, who will be counted with Hermes one day, made his heaven run at greatest cost —perhaps greater even than Jesus’. Camus has so directly given us this ‘philosopher’s truth’, in his Rebel. That is, the philosopher is nearest metaphysical rebellion. His tool, his leverage against the despair he experiences on account of his rebellion from either marriage or the priesthood, and his (sub)version of direct participation in life, he finds in his ability to assemble a salvific story—his own sacred trade, his own ‘way’ to heaven, his own baptism, confession, reconciliation, communion, death, and marriage. The philosopher, too, has his sacraments: just ask after Nietzsche and you will find them in his apotheosis. In short, the philosopher’s sacred trade: his misery for the magical ability to speak the Logos. He communes with the gods by his participation in this mystery; one unsanctioned, nay, un-mentioned, even, by all but the other great rebels of history, themselves victim-victors—psychopomps all, who’ve made that same trade. And, we know their names—their tricks have practically worked, they have, in as far as man continues their names, gained access to the pantheon against the will of the gods. Nietzsche’s name lives alongside Christ and Hermes, and there is nothing to be done in recourse: he made the sacred and terrible trade, and the laws (of metaphysics) are as hardened as those of physics. Success leaves clues. The philosopher takes a perspective and so becomes perspectival; by his word, his writing, he explores the propositional; and because he makes the sacred (that is, sacral) trade, he earns his sacred participation. Specifically, his sacrifice is that of his own bloodline’s continuance. His sadness is, essentially, the Great Mother’s own sorrow at the cycle of life and death being ‘stopped up’; this is the very act that tears a veil (her veil, perhaps) between heaven and earth, allowing a new psychopomp entrance. Who communes more with Mary, in her pious misery, than the childless Christ who must pay the price of making a mere dirt man acceptable to the heavens? If his science studies only material, he has stopped short of Glory, for if he digs deeply enough, he would realize the mystery —that is the kingdom of heaven— is within him. How narrow, now that we have described the criterion for entrance, is that ‘way’? This is the alchemist’s insight, the fact of the need for metaphysics, the laws regarding consciousness, alongside those of material physics—that they are one: this is the lapiz philosophorum, the pursuit that modern science has forgotten; that is, the need, if man is to transform all the Mother’s material into its highest and best use, for man to transform himself. “Man lives not by bread (material substance) alone, but by every word (Logos) that proceeds from the mouth of God.” The proper philosopher, therefore, pursues transformation of himself. The holy power of naming, as Adam was commanded to undertake, of every thing —categorization, that is, to the modern scientific tongue— of transforming what is into what ought, which is the Telos, the function, of the Logos which man (Adam, Christ, Hermes, Nietzsche) uniquely possesses, if he will only make that sacred trade and name himself, finally, a god, one with god, consubstantial with the father; this naming will be his salvation. The philosophers, if they will only follow Nietzsche’s and Christ’s examples, tear themselves to pieces, they will become the bread of life to others, and will themselves join God—whether at his left or his right. In philosophers’ attempts at metaphysical rebellion, they necessarily put themselves on the Altar, and in return earn their holy exchange: a perspective on life’s (Mother’s) proposition, and in that self-sacrifice, happiness— a psychopomp in true participation in the Divine. This is why sisyphus should be imagined happy. All thanks to John Vervaeke, for his brilliant ‘3 p’s’ and his kind heart.

If we can conceive, we moderns, of a Spirit of the Mother in nature, that from biology an immaterial experience emerges; if we recognize the spirit, the patterns in and of Nature ('Nature's nature', that is),  then why is it so inconceivable to us that the Spirit of the Father which notices those natural patterns, the spirit which is embodied in our very bodies has 'come into', or 'inhabited' these bodies of ours?

The body is tangible, a basis for spirit; just as the spirit acknowledges the body and gives it existential "life." 

The two clearly interdepend.

Matter may well pre-date spirit but its life —the life that comes from being known, named, that is 'life as understood by spiritual experiential beings, begins with, from, and by the naming function, the Logos, the 'word in the beginning'—Being. 

The potential of mother / matter is made real in the World of Being by the pattern that the Father / pattern introjects in relation to her usefulness to and in that same World of Being (that is, usefulness in relation to pattern-recognizing Beings who pattern recognize for a living—literally, in order to survive). 

Even time —the time by which it is conceived that matter might pre-date consciousness— is but a re-cognized pattern (of suns and moons and spinning); but there again—'of what?''...pre-"existent" material. 

And so it is in one way that material nature comes first, and in another that her practical existence is only made (usefully) relative to, and by, the father's patterning function which names the 'nature of Nature'. 

In the world of Mankind, the one which sits atop the natural Earth, without the Individual's spirit, recognized as such, Man is, when he becomes de-spirited, also simultaneously re-Natured (re-animalized) and de-natured (reverted from pattern recognition into animalic pattern obeisance), and this is the very end of the "World." 

Today we are rushed—foremost by the State, who enjoys itself most when governing animals, and also by entertainment—to denature our spiritual inheritance, to hand over our Gift of Consciousness to screens and the mind-grasping ('enter' - 'taining') stories atop them. It is no wonder, then, that those very stories —those that grab or minds most tightly and posit for us realities both supposedly real and imaginary— those we pontificate, speculate, and theorize about long after they've finished playing, are those of Armageddons of just such crises of human consciousness. 

Can we, in time to avoid imitating our art, recognize the root of these introjected potentialities ‚ can we keep our freely given Gift of Conscious Spiritedness? Can we, by its magical use, court our Spirits'  continued presence? Only if we practice fervently that Spirit's needs, its requisites: small, accountable communities allied against the largess-seeking state of the State (Leviathan, that is), and the avoidance of that which de-natures Spirit by means of sin: entertainment of the mind in place of communal reality. 

Should the cozy alliance between State and Entertainment succeed in denaturing we Spiritual beings, they will (as they clearly intend) generate a false world, and without turning inward to that ‘still small voice’, they will dominate our Being —our entire experience— with those false realities. The struggle is not between left and right, nor between economic classes, but between those who secretly know of the profits that can be had by way of the process of denaturing of the Spirit of the Father that resides in the otherwise natural chthonic man; if he is stripped of identity with the father, in his natural nakedness which yearns for a name, he will labor indefinitely in order to purchase some seemingly available, if false, identity in order to fill that generated void.

How might this really end, this endless desire? Do you doubt the limitless want of the gods within—to live eternally in the pleasure of the present? I would count that foolish. And a god of this very sort comes promising “rest” —we do not want it. We’d rather agony if agony promises, however remotely, this grander ideal: eating and having. Only to press atoms and Adam far enough. This is not heresy but Truth: we are pressors for pleasure. Hereby the Jew is more true than the Christian, to the nature and spirit of the Göttmensch. He is a master of the trade, the trans-action; man is this transaction—a ‘from this to that’, a “down-going” of spirit into flesh, and, thereafter, from flesh to spirit; a suspension that —who— enjoys its present. He desires most deeply to remain, and not for salvation; solution from his dilemma, not to escape but to persist, as a god in flesh: his ‘evil’ is death, that rest; and so the presser of rest is executed, for he is the heresy against Life, everlast, remanence, suspension—pleasure’s sake (what else does a god have?). Didn’t God himself —and not his salvific son— hand man that fiery lever of techné bent against death itself?

But if spirit declines that refreshing tide, then the gods writhe in their heaven, nevermore descending in their temporal turn at time, at fleshiness—at pleasure! Man, this ‘last god,’ he to would write in fleshly decay. Does the vampire maintain? No, he forfeits, and is a forfeiture, of spirit; why I cannot say—the spirit simply flees the cannibal. The gods issue a recall, and so he ‘lives without living,’ for what is this game of transactions without its consequence? Without death, life is static—life becomes a death, meaningless, action without trans-action. Life is in the joint, that “árthrosi” between heaven and earth; hence man’s art is about nothing but this handshake with heaven, this turn-taking in temporality, this recess and recession, this tide of gods spewed ashore like psyche from her mother’s foam. If he hopes for another turn as god in flesh, he must render himself up as such, take pleasure in temporality —for it must be lacking in eternity— and then die. Man’s true dilemma: Jesus or the vampire—which is to say “It’s Jesus or the technical vampire.”

Christ and Nietzsche both crucified in knowledge; one to God, of God; other to Satan of Satan. And to what great end but victimage: martyrs to great kingdoms each; one to heaven; other to earth. Who's message persists? More importantly, who's saves man—his readers?: to die to self; or to kill for self; in service to that sense of fullness of Being—each in respect to despair's reality in man's soul; to give being or to take it? Has one assimilated more, closed desire's gap? 

One: I and the father [of Being] are One; Other: I Am destroyed, nihilism in the name of greatness. —each, annihilated? No. The former in body but aggrandized in spirit—spiritualized, infinitized; the latter destroyed body and mind.  

Simply: 
Nietzsche counted the devil and got his hell in his pursuit of: temporal affective knowing. Christ "won God" and is the ruler, the very measure, of the gap between man's Being and God's—and their bridge across that gap. Eternal effective being.