Though love is a warm blanket against the cold morning of life’s monotony, the philosopher’s cold intellect cannot seem to dare it and make a whole sacrifice of himself to it. He cannot stand the thought of years of being witnessed—for he is the witness and must make a distance from his subject. 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 ‘love is not scrutiny but acceptance’. But he does not wish for acceptance, does not accept himself; that is, he does not wish to make of himself a study by woman’s natural intuitions. Comprehension means naught but leverage. Understand him, understand his levers, and control is at the hand of an infinitely more powerful actor, the feminine mystique. 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 her lover’s gearbox. It may rev him up into production or downshift him into his animalic state, each of these a threat to a detached and rational philosophy, to his comprehension of the whole of life. “A married philosopher belongs to comedy” says Nietzsche. Worse, she, being her master’s emissary, knows not her unconscious purposes. And if she does, she is instrumental, and he her personal instrument. In either case, Nature has ever sober aims: 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—this, a counterstrike to potently seductive unconsciousness. Despite the philosopher’s comprehension of the machinery behind Fate’s illusion, her machinery grinds on. His knowing does not impede the divine pair’s eternal telos.

The eternal embrace, the sacred couple who continually remakes the world, they can do naught else—Shu and Nut, esposada: cuffed in marriage for the reproduction of the world. But to know this—to know it by the book as fact, to comprehend the whole of the thing from the philosopher’s outside perspective is a hell of a burden, for it means alienation from the regular course of life. The philosopher is punished physically and mentally for this stance outside of substance. He foregoes the material grounds upon which to stake his claim; that is, via the marriage, with recourse only to metaphysical grounds. This is his (Kundera’s and Nietzsche’s) Unbearable Lightness of Being—he is unanchored to the mater, matter; and so it is with ease he slips into nihilism—the state of pure being in which ‘no material thing —nothing— matters’. It is probably the case that men —at least the generic bulk of men— are best kept warmly half conscious of their 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 what is to the philosopher, the banality of it all—the banality of the eternal return.

I mean to say that I have the philosopher’s curse. It is not that difficult of a corner to see ’round. You just have to wait out the machinations of game play, to resist the feminine, long enough, in order to comprehend life’s eternally recurring 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 king loses his agency, where the infinite admixture of pure masculine ambition and stringent physical limitation his situation collide. Complexity itself wins every game, nevermnind the player’s machinations in the meantime. But most men 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 coins, but the commentator on this divine comic complexity, he is typically nonplussed in being mistaken for a player when, by accidental compulsion by the instincts, he sits at the chess board and engages the divine machinations.

It is his duty to proclaim loudly and clearly enough to those who will otherwise presume that he is a man like every other man a woman has known—that he is not in fact here to play seriously, but rather to contemplate the game itself, sometimes by quasi-accidental participation. 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 find himself in a gambit, mired in complexities rather than observant of them, and the levers of fate will squeal with excitement to be oiled, ready to grind meat that has too long evaded the cogs of nature’s recycling method, a brutality to his individual consciousness. He might well crack, and fold like eggs. And she would be wise to cook them ‘low and slow’ if she is to keep this would-be enlightened man a flightless cock. If so, she gets her ‘love’ along with a romantic spice to cover the gravely belly of truth seeking. But this ambivalence (seduction/subduction) is but a blind highway to anonymity for the philosopher, and it deals in a grand and glimmering romance that he too —the feminine in him— secretly harbors. “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 —the mother’s— leverage? What are the quality of his hands? What can be attained, possessed, and borne, should you wrap fate around him?’ This is all cynical of me to say. There are couples who demand equally love’s illusion, hold it as reality, the True, the Good, and the Beautiful. They are perfectly deceived by Pleasure in their re-creation of the world. But again, the philosopher means to avoid this pleasure trap, that he might escape it by means of analysis from without—even if he finds himself playing the game in order to better observe it.

Either man or woman can subtly use love itself as a tool against the other, for one’s self. ‘Subtly’, because this lever can be both used by, and simultaneously hidden from, its users. Some worried and protective part of me has used love in order to grasp at a living claim; in order to essay really, instead of by semantics, to insert my own psychic position into nature’s reality. But to stake a claim upon a woman is to claim a lot, a fate, 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.’ A false 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. But matter is more adept, older, and winds up making use of consciousness instead.

Should a man ask a woman if this is not what she deeply desires, to be made good use of, he will quickly find himself in a fructifying position, trading his philosophical distance for personal knowledge of the feminine. Where man lays claim, woman has most often levered the intrinsic love of consciousness for material, in order to entice that claim upon her. She seduces him as ripe fruit seduces the animal —Adam— who can’t reasonably turn down the apple. The philosopher is unreasonable. And he, in turn, is supposed to subdue that lot of earth for further fructification. This, the sacrifice and sacred trade between male seduction and female subduction, is at the heart of all religion: “Be fruitful and multiply,” the mitzvah says. I am not so sure that the god of the bible is not —though it is heresy to patriarchy to say— Female. That’s how life gets on, by staking metaphysical claims to physical lots in life. Hence, consciousness experiences participation in life as fate. To choose a lot —a woman— is to choose one’s lot in life, his fate. And to her, this amounts to being claimed as one such prized piece of fate—and a fate chosen is a fate honored. It is the man who proposes, but it is the woman who entices the proposition—she offers a lot in life, a fate into which he may plunge his phallic potential, his power. To do so knowingly is legitimate faith, but to do so only semi-consciously is fate. He takes an oath to this end: the marriage oath is said to be pledged to (masculine) “God”, 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.” —a shepherd wed to his flock, a promise to make good use of his lot in exchange for pleasure and temporal pride. These of course precipitate his fall from pure consciousness into seduced labor, all while fulfilling the oath which, as he soon finds, was not in fact an oath to the Father, but to Mother—God, who by these means is indeed almighty.

Because the eternal drama is played out through personal experience, it is easy for man to conflate the actions of the personal woman for the actions of the archetypal feminine—and for her to make the same error. 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. Nature is not ‘her’s’—rather, she is the personal ecotype to nature’s impersonal archetype, the individual instance, subject to divine will’s desire: infinite creation. 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 our ‘willful’ choices via post hoc rationalizations of Nature’s desires and Culture’s demands. If there is an argument against Free Will, this is it—for even the conscious philosophers are subject to it—to Her. Desire is constantly in service to Nature.

A patriarchy exists precariously upon men’s comprehension of their own susceptibility toward instrumentazlization by way of the 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 ascertain the telos 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 combination of these primeval forces; and all of religions occulted teachings, accumulated techniques and instrumentalizations, these set to work upon individuality with the seriousness of a mother bent on her own Eternal Return. 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 phrase; 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 the Great Mother’s ambivalent power.

The only party partially immune to these complexities, these religious covenants to which we are infinitely and automatically subscribed by Nature, 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.