‘Contradict yourself. In order to live, you must remain broken up.’
I am a bad leader insofar as I tend to be disappointed in the people who follow me. I do not mean those who follow me on social media, but those who mimic me. If I was a better schemer, perhaps I would find a way to betray those people for my own gain… sell them a course, perhaps, that would trick them into thinking they could be like me, if only, if only they paid me, let’s say, $79 for a course that taught them everything from Sales to Seduction. The easiest way to corrupt a man is of course to lead him astray by his two strongest desires—wealth and the promise of beautiful women. Never mind the fact that those two things are accessories of what he wants, and not the actual embodiment of what he really, truly desires, which is an eternally elusive thing that he may only dream of grasping.
The best women are the ones who are wintry and aloof at first, maybe even sadistic, like cats who play with live mice, who then, after a few weeks of verbal jausting, reveal an inner gooeyness which they conceal in order to not corrupt the sweetness. It is boring, even, to talk with girls who are immediately willing to offer themselves up to you. Yes sundresses and piety and dimples and all that. But what about all black, hexes and a weird fetish draw towards knives and other sharp things that they hold, softly, but only for photos and in paintings they brush stroke in aim of themselves? Very interesting to see that girl, for instance, then send you poems and love songs, yes? But perhaps it takes a Clyde to reveal the Bonnie. What is passion except for a negotiation between desire and reality? Are you waiting for me to get to the point of this article? Have you missed that I’ve already visited upon it in gesture and analogy? Alright then…
Have you seen the Sigma Tik Toks? It is quite funny—the recurring theme is a rejection of dogma in all its forms, except for the fact that it desires to command a legion of men who reject dogma… and this requires a uniformity. The thing cannot exist at scale without corrupting itself. Fight Club commits to this error as well. The idea of honor among thieves is a complete impossibility… unless this honor is not in service of the community (of thieves), but to everlasting committment to what one is. It is in fact expected that you would be betrayed by the people you commit a heist with, and a good con man makes contingincies in this case. Double triple quadruple crosses and conspiracies within a conspiracy… one can only remain sane if he always expects the unexpected. Heraclitus makes an interesting point about this when he talks about the phenomenological reality of the River…
‘No man ever steps in the same river twice, for it’s not the same river and he’s not the same man.’
Now, one doesn’t need to be a scholar in pre-socratic philosophy to steal or even misinterpret that passage to take from it some meaning which may be useful for our own aims. The so-called Sigma male is as stupid as the self-professed Trad (reactionary/traditional) person. Where the Sigma identifies with a label that is externally developed from himself which in theory preseves in him an instinct that would survive, the Trad relies upon an allegedly tried and true way of being (whether sourced from religious commandments or cultural customs) that may also help him (and by extension his descendents) survive the present (and following) times. Both things exist, fundamentally, as a philosophy, or rather ethos which preserves a way of being that is commonly thought to be threatened under the current environment. This is certainly a deep rooted instinct in both men that expresses itself in different ways but shares in essence a Will to adaptation, which also seeks to identify itself in terms of a community which emboldens its existence and (allegedly) furthers it. Never minding the fact that, in the end, by embracing the label, or professing ones devotion to a certain commandment, you are giving up your greatest tool within the adaptation toolset…
The martyr is the fraud. He is existentially like the actor, the comic, or the celebrity. But why is this? What do they all share, in essence? They all proclaim to be something in order to receive a prize, which in turn destroys the thing they claim to be. Does the man who actually is the thing the actor claims to be also destroy it? No, not at all. And what is this genius? Certain political philosophers pay close attention to this, and rightly so… an esotericism is, for the king, the magician, and the thief, an essential pathway to what he desires. And I certainly do not mean the kind of esotericism that some people write about… these people do not understand the way of the esoteric… they are liars, frauds, wanna-be celebrities… and nothing more.
Now of course, the king, the magician, and the thief, they linger in the shadows, in the backdrop and alleyways and corridors, in the domain of imagination and terror, but not always. No, there is a time, and a place, where they may emerge, and say plainly what they previously only gestured towards. And what kind of moment could that be? Something powerful, something not here yet, but which is coming, and comes like an army arriving to a gate from the far side of a hill… as a storm, a sound, thunder screams in the ears and a stirring in the heart… what kind of man will be ready to kill the storm (and not be killed by it)?
I make fun of pick up artists a lot (and rightly so). But not because they love women, but precisely because they don’t love women. A romantic man does not dominate love as he would a business, or a craft. It is a common trope in romantic comedies for instance for a young man to see a girl and, for whatever reason, find themselves moved by the mere sight of the other. Moved to what? From where to where? From death to life—perhaps.
Such a man sees such a girl someplace, somewhere some distant day ago or from now. He sees and stops. He feels a storm in his body all around, not in his heart or mind, but a visceral stirring to life, to want, to desire, to yearn, FOR… I have a place to be for a reason prior to my being here. Yet I see her, you, her, an interruption, and suddenly, without reason or rational cause I wish to forget all of that, for now and forever, to sit down across from those grey storm eyes which narrow themselves at me, stuttering and incapable and without a script, desiring to say something, anything which could get her to say something, anything back that would implicitly or explicitly say please, yes please talk with me… fuck this book, I don’t want to read it, I would prefer your company over it. What could a man do in this state, or in love, for his love? The great songs are all love songs—no wonder why! There is nothing that could match up to this, there is no drug, whether crack or ecstasy or alcohol or nicotine inhaled on a long summer day which could measure up to how this feels, which could compare to the routine malaise, monotony of every other god damned soulless day where even the most religious among us feel the deafening silence of faith. What pick up artist, what businessman, what machine among us could ever be persuaded of the human heart in such a dizzying state? The man who is not romantic is not capable of love. Full stop. The only reason he doesn’t kill himself is because he doesn’t know what he is missing out on. More than any political cause or philosophical ideal, love is the thing that makes a man commit like nothing else. Love, the romantic movement of passion. The irrational, the inspired, the poetic. A man in love would commit unspeakable atrocities to protect the woman he loves. He is the ultimate transgressive, the ultimate rebel. And why? What is it about women, about sex, that overcomes all else? Such an instinct is natural in all animals which haven’t strayed far from what they are… who would give up any eternity, any heaven, any cause which didn’t contain their lover. Such a thing… no, one cannot speak on it. The truth is only said without words, felt between a common crowd, known in conspiracy.
Is the man in love the only man who is finally being what he truly is? Is he the man who sees a moment, an opening, a window, where he could rush through and change the world as he knows it, and take, in the name of all that is beautiful and natural, what is his? Does he appear as other things from time to time? Does he speak like a poet? Transgress like a thief? Emerge like a hunter? Manipulate reality like a magician? Rule like a king?
He abandons religion, custom, law, and any consistent conception of himself… in search of what? For what? There are no words, perhaps such an answer is only felt. It calls your name—do you hear it?