What most women want, may be far from the real reality.

Most women don't want to be a man's teacher, leader or sculptor. They want to rest in the presence of a man who already knows himself.
. . .
A woman who finds strength, stability, and emotional depth will offer a love that is both fierce and tender. She's going to pour into a man in ways that feel effortless because she knows she's pouring into a vessel that's already whole. And when two whole beings come together, not in need, but in deep and mutual reverence, love becomes something sacred.
- Abhikesh

There’s a few good books on this subject waiting to be written. The grand father (yes, sorry, father) of this gnosis is none other than Carl Gustave Jung.

In general terms, the great Jungian Professor of the archetypes of masculine identity is Dr Robert Moore. He is famous for his indispensable books, workshops and lectures on the archetypes of the masculine self. King, Warrior, Magician & Lover.

Moore’s insight into the state of masculine identity in the contemporary world (i resist saying “modern”) is that most men are not fully formed, responsible, and responsive MEN, but are in fact boy-men. The feature of the boy-man as most-all men is what we must contend with.

I assert that the optimistic search, and vigilance, to be on the lookout for these Uber-men of which this Abhikesh speaks, is. . . How to say? Perhaps overly optimistic.

It is probably more realistic to observe that what happiness lacks in length, it makes up for in height.

This is not the fault of men-folk per se. We are all, most of us, human beings in transition. We move from the old era of how things were and how they were done, into a new epoch. It would be lovely if the New Man would come spiralling through the vortex of transformational New Age metamorphosis. But such dramatic transformational scenarios are best left to Hollywood CGI (computer graphic imaging). And this as we are sadly and frequently reminded is the “real” world.

The real world is proven to be that oftentimes slightly boring place that requires a sense that “we are all just walking each other home.” Wounds, warts and whatever deficiencies there may be.

If you’re searching for the Uber Mensch… you may have to settle for an Uber Driver… and he’s probably going to be a work in progress.

Byron Bay Man torn between escaping Cyclone Alfred, and perfecting his bohemian windswept look?

Rinell K.

Yes, 'most' women seek those qualities in a man, that's true ..and TOTALLY unrealistic! I don't believe we should choose a partner because they tick all the boxes, but rather ....let's open the box and see what's in there. There may be gifts that we never anticipated.

Judy S.

I imagine that a bohemian with strength, stability and emotional strength would still be irresistable.

Dawn G.

Ahhh, yes, men pontificating on what women want, using other men pontificating on what women want as an example that we unrealistically want too much. hahaha.

It’s not solely about what we want, the current practical feminist perspective more centres on what we are no longer prepared to do to ourselves in order to maintain traditional unequal roles, where women still do most of the menial tasks, mental load and emotional work of being in relationships, having families and running households, alongside having to earn money and pay the bills. We are also the glue that holds community together globally with our free care of young children, elders and extended family. Look at the main reasons for divorce. We are walking out of the programming, refusing to pour all of our energy into unworkable relationships, and looking out for ourselves a bit more. Rather than martyring ourselves on the burdened cross of the distorted ‘good wife and mother’ trope, we are collectively moving on to embodying a more wholesome feminine archetype that includes much more self care and joy for us women. Living life with our happiness not being solely dependent on an ‘other half’, a romantic but unavailable ideal. The collective transformation of women will ultimately be much more wholesome for our men folk too.

If the pontificators wish to reframe the collective feminine response to reality as unrealistic, unworkable, whatever, so be it, business as usual. Boring.

Agape M.

These are two Byron Bay men pictured, torn to pieces. The two others, split in halves, were shared among the wise as a piece of loaf at the sunset meal. Before the sacred ritual of honorary scalping commenced—done in secrecy of the inner night, mostly as a dessert, a delischee—they were, as usual, fed to the golden fishes.

Simon B.

I knew it had to be something like that. . . thanks for clearing matters up

This possibly connects to Jeunae Rogers’s recent writing, intertwined with reflections on the spiritual nature of what was perceived as a perilous social experiment—Cyclone Albert, supposedly bearing down on the coastline of Southeast Queensland.

SE QLD Raustralians, in response, have fortified themselves as if in a WWII-era German bunker, with shops shuttered and streets emptied, as if drawn inward by an undeniable pull—to retreat into the cave, away from daylight and into the inner light (if that's not misunderstood), into the very heart of what we call a flower, or a rose.

And there look: Nuit, in her divine form, stretched her presence across the sky, greeting the long-anticipated Albert. She beckoned him forward, inviting him to move deeper, closer—to the very core of the ritual flower. And there, she consumed him.

Albert spoke: "She took me. She welcomed me. She kissed my hand. She took me. She led me to the centre. To the centre of the flower. To the centre. To the centre of the flower. And there, she devoured me. In the centre. In the centre of the flower. That is where she took me. That is where she devoured me."

~~
Titled: The Hidden Face of Nuit: Entering the Sacred Rose
To the series: hashem a la carte | shalom einz zwei drei
So I stood, out there, observing light transversing across the globes of galaxy. And there she was, adoring Albert's hand. Just a few regular days of the highest anticipation of a disaster bring down no one else than: Nuit! Nuit!

#actsofthecentre #actsofdisobedience

Attention, dear passengers:

Would Allan Poe, Albert Einstein, Adolf Hitler, August Derleth, Al Arkham, Algernon Blackwood, Alfred Hitchcock, and Alain Robbe-Grillet kindly return to your seats and fasten your seatbelts immediately?

Has anyone seen Alfred? Yes?

No, not Alfred Hitchcock.

Alfred Hitchcock, if you could stop chasing those damn birds and sit down, that would be great.

No?

Alright then—brace yourselves.

Alfred is coming. Unannounced. Unforgiving. Never seen before.

What was his surname again? Sandbag? Parachute?

Passengers, please remain calm.

No, not that sandbag.
No, not that parachute.

Nothing will save you now. Alfred has arrived. Follow the birds

~~
Titled: Follow the birds. Birds will show you the way to meet angels.
To the series: hashem a la carte | shalom einz zwei drei

"Behold, the Eye that sees all, the flame that neither blinks nor dims, watches over the worlds above and below. It is not like the eyes of men, which see in parts, but One Eye, complete and unbroken, perceiving the hidden and the revealed. From it, the storm is commanded, the wind is named, the veil of the heavens is drawn aside. In the day of darkness and tempest, the One Eye does not close, nor does it rest, for it is the watcher of the covenant, the fire upon the mountain, the unseen force that moves the chariot of the storm."

#actsofdisobedience

O Cyclone Alfred, wheel of might,
Dancer upon the storm-cloaked height,
Thy roaring breath, the ocean’s hymn,
Thy fingers tear the heavens dim.

The cloudbuster’s fingers grasp the air,
Like a prophet’s hand in silent prayer,
Calling forth the hidden streams,
Drawing thunder from the seams.

What hand could bind thee, sky-born King?
What voice but Love’s dare rise and sing?
Not iron rods nor tubes of steel,
Nor Reich’s bold craft thy course repeal.

But lo! Another force unseen—
A voice where stone-cold walls convene,
Where bunker’s hollowed throat resounds,
Where Time’s old laughter shakes the ground.

There, in war’s cathedral vast,
Where swastikas in shadow cast,
A single note, so frail, so bright,
Could summon dawn from endless night.

Sing! O spirit bold and wild,
Sing as sings the weeping child!
Sing to wind and wave and sky,
Sing though none may heed or sigh!

For song, like fire, doth unbind,
And Orgone leaps where chords entwine,
The breath of Life, the breath of storm,
One voice to shape, one heart to warm.

O Alfred, whirling, fierce, untamed,
Thy force and ours are but the same!
Not to conquer, not to reign,
But to dance within the hurricane.

~~
Titled: Ode to the great bunkers of WWII
To the series: hashem a la carte | shalom einz zwei drei

"A balsam. And an idea to sing to the wind, to howl to the storm, to delight with the greatness. If we would have the ability to enter the inner chambers of the enlarged auditorium of the WWII german occupation bunker with a resonating accoustics of a Sydney opera house, there and therein a gentle voice would be able to hose the cyclones" ~ to Jeunae Rogers && Jeunae Elita

#actsofdeliverance

Have had enough yet?

She murmured in disbelief when the thing was still young and only at the very beginning.
Not enough! Not yet! The doors shouted after she left.
A strong ray of light that appeared in all majesty and power briefly surveilled the deepest depths of the darkness.
In the ray of light her clearest shade.
Then the doors of the deepest dark cave shut down after she left and the echoes, sounding as infinite, beating like terrified hearts of the loneliest spirits that ever belonged to existence.
The darkness just became darker than ever before, thicker that any imaginable plasteline.
No knife to cut. No scissors to shorten the moment.
And the red eyes of the most squirmy monsters appeared.
And their hands with long claws.
And the saliva that looked like long strings of bloob.
Just for a moment, at least.

At least, that is, thanks to the light.
And ehind her appearance one could clearly see in the distance:
This is going to be the bloodiest feast of the century.
And you're not hungry?
No. You have had not enough yet!
This is not even the beginning!
There's no end!

~~
Titled: Not enough, not even the beginning - A tribute to Aleksandra Mladenovic (thank you)
To the series: hashem a la carte | shalom einz zwei drei

As he came to the point of introducing himself in his own and a very particular way he wasn't aware of the magical power of the mirror he was presenting himself to, thinking it is a person, but he will never know. And all his deepest secrets and despair, the rage of centuries were looking at him through those innocent eyes, so sweet. Then, the feast began. And not just any feast. It sucked the blood of all world's art and is still sucking it. Sucking it dry!

#actsofdisobedience

Said the ATM teller machine (as repossesed), while it repeatedly interlooped between frantically spinning IP rotations as never before seen at the oAuth gate: HAD HAD, ENOUGH ENOUGH, YET YET?
Small text appeared from the lines: Everybody knows how hard some hearts can become. Almost impenetrateable.

So if anyone's worried that his or her heart might be hardening, you may need a simple proof of existence. Try with a few nails instead?

"No", she said, "It ain't enough yet. The show is just starting." and turned on those fiery heels of hers, the hips, and the glitter. Her whip followed soon after.
"More is required!"

That's nothing yet. Nothing yet. o thing!
HAD HAD, ENOUGH ENOUGH, YET YET? in convolutional spasm.

Titled: Had had, enough enough, yet yet
To the series: hashem a la carte | shalom einz zwei drei

Inspired by the thought of Warsaw, Poland and her Majesty whom Arabela thus enchanted as below:

Da da. Užasno je to: Izza svakog ugla u Australiji sve živo može da te ubije: zmija, pauk, stonoga ili neki još nezavidljivi komarac.
To zaista daje čoveku strašnu snagu, da živi!
Nadam se da ti je izrasla nova noga?

#actsofdidobedience

That night I came across a strange event. Not that one strange event doesn't lead to another, but finally, I got a warning. He said.

It was a prem, a trolley, a kindergarten experience as old as the centuries of human emotional struggle with a simple fact - all good things must die, eventually, and universally. It's factually unforgivable. And one comes across an unforgivable fact of all good that is, out there, then, and only then, the universe sends a warning sign. The universe is like a tiger, watch out! Red light. Alert. Alarm.

There's nothing good in forgiving for all the good and if attempted there will be pain. That said the pain has embodied itself in some of the strongest musculatures that has ever followed me and screamed after me: did you just took a photo of my car!?

No, he replied. I think I did not but you can check, see, openly. It's everything evident. It's clear. The source of fear. It's power. And the muscle. It moves with might and is insurmountable. But I did not regret. A gift you have sent. From heaven. From hell. From wherever it is coming from, it's good. The force of terror. The terror of the good. The good in people. And the race. Of the invisible encounters.

Except for one all photos are unedited. Thank you. Let no good ever happen.

Ne bi ni htijeo ne bih ni smiju,
nikada, da šaljem, majki svojoj,
strah u kostiju, i da zadrhti
zemljo, dušo moja, istinita,

ali barem samo malo, da potrese se,
i zemljotres, da napravi,
jer vratio joj sin se, ljubavi,
i rekao je, svima osim njoj,
baš jednostavno, da došlo beše vreme,

od pisnog zahtjevka,
vreme povratka demona,
i svih njegovih, od ikad,
i do kada, i da vrati se, što naše je,
i što pripadne, po nebu svojem,
udružuje u ratu, da navali, i provali,
bariére, i ograničenja,
bez vremena je, i bez je nade,

bez te ljubavi nam, majko,
ovo nije, bilo beše, drago,
srce, koje nije i sve njegove boje,
krvi, patnje, oproštaja.

Nikad ni neće ni znati se,
majko, za vjekove u kojima smo,
lovili mi beše, ljudske magazine
znanosti, ljepotu, ljubavi
u krvi poezije.

Titled: Nemoj, da se bojiš, majko, boli
To the series: hashem a la carte | shalom einz zwei drei
To bilo takvo jedno veče, i onda noć, i poslije noći, došlo još i dan. I onda, dan. Ali zna se ne je li došlo vreme noći ili bilo to još, da bude. Ali kako ste vi? U tom je i pitanje.

#actsofdisobedience

Sadness and truth have never met each other. They have estranged themselves from the worldly affairs. They got married very young and stayed away, interlocked on their eternal honeymoons, drunk to hell and pissed to some heavenly affair. Therefrom a lot of children came. A monster bigger and more terrible with every single one of them.

So they sprouted hybrids of heaven, earth and the underworld to ravage these plains of existence. Gore, sadness, suffering and pain are their invisible weapons. Deceit, manipulation, greed and corruption are their armor.

The only way to pierce their hearts, all at once, is to emit the beam of light from the central cosmic station. Mr Stallion? Beware of that red button! Beware of that red button! Only the daughter of Babylon, sweet is thy name, is able to sit on it at the moment of her very metastasis. And that requires heads of saints and tails of daemons. The heads of all saints. The tails of all daemons.

Get on! Get on!

~~

Titled: Casovi Matematike. Sadness is, the truth. Rejoice!
To the series: hashem a la carte | shalom einz zwei drei

A Cup and a Head

It has been a remarkable day. Kamerad Tovarish has ordered a cup of coffeee at the local street vendor and noticed something particular in the title printed all over the front cover of Today's newspaper. It disturbed him and he forgot to pay, so he left with his hot take-away coffee in his left hand while scratching his hand with the right, thinking about masses of people that the title might affect today.

Then, just when he was about to cross the rails of the city's tram he heard the shopkeeper calling after his good but unwell suited name: "You did not pay! Come back Tovarish! Come back!" And at the moment when Tovarish stubled to turn back, and waved at the shopkeeper, the tram arrived out of the blue and crushed him to the floor. His severed head rolled down the road, leaving behind the trace of red letters, all the way down to the end of the King Alexander's street. It has written in big letters: Corruption, with some unreadable symbols and signs while it rolled. Everyone who was there stood silent by the event. The red tram stopped. People did not move. As in a catatonic effect even birds, the cats and dogs went blunt. The shopkeeper's face froze in pale silence. Only the coffee cup landed clearly on the floor, not spilling even a drop of that bloody hot coffee. Oh what an even. It should last at least a bit longer. Then we all went on. As nothing ever happened.

#actsofdisobedience

Svake toliko i dolazi nam, danas.
Niti juče, niti sutra, sad i ovdje, danas!
Ali svake neke pa promaši se
to vremensko tumačenje,
i to, i te kako, sasvim i potpuno
promaši se, da bože nemoj, smesta.

I od toga, što tumači se,
stampaju se, dnevne novine,
i do toga, tko, gdje i kako,
zavisi i mjera sadašnjeg, i poslije,
i prošlog razočaranja,
oh ljudsko nebesko, itekako!

I u razočaranju, nemoć i patnja ljuta,
od pogrešnog tumačenja, nemoći,
patnja sada, patnja ovde, patnja svuda.
Kad tumačenje promašeno je,
promašeno je i vreme, ovdje, danas,
gdje prostorije tumačenja su,
mnogostruke, i kad bi bili trebali,
da podržite, i poduprete,
vi ne podržite, i ne poduprete,
jer vlada vam tumačenje baš suprotno
i koje znamo, da ne podupire,
i da ne podržuje što trebalo bi
jednostavno i da podrži,
pod svim stubovima suncokreta.

Baš sada, danas, trebalo bi da se podrži vlast, i da da joj se svu oblast, i vaša imena, da se zapiše, jasno, da poduprete cijelu garnituru vlasti koja bi bez vas ni ne postojala.
A vi? Podanici naslednji? Sužnji?
Nema druge nego ova, ovdje, sada.
I imaš prava da to napíšeš.
I da podržiš. I da kažeš Da!
A nećeš? Nije vam dosta? Nije?
Stvarno nije to garancija od ičega.
I tako prođe vreme, da se izlaže vam bol.
I ljutnja neistinita. I patnja nepostojeća.

Jer baš u ovom trenutku, što se događa?
Je li pitali ste se? Je li znate?
Pa je li vi uopšte govorite međusobno?
Je li pričate drug s drugim, otvoreno?
Ili se vam ozgublja misao u masama pamfleta i slogana za božje pare bez postojanja?
Ne postoji tu ništa.
Treba da podrži se vlast baš sada, i najviše.
Jer inače, što pravite je preveden tako sudski postulat.
I sa tome, odgovornost koju treba da zauzme vlast,
pasti će na vas. Kao i uvijek?

I onda nema vam ni izbora.
I onda nema vam ni spasa.
Jer ako ovo su vam vukovi,
što kažete, vas bole.
Sledeći doći će, i ajkule, da izmakaze trupla.
Izgubljeni ste?
Bitce rata. Božji narode. I patnja.
I dok ne odemo u rat mi smo braća.
U glavnom, ljudi, građani.
Ne znaju gdje to je, kultura.

Whoever has ever deemed this suffering soul to bind into enclaves and the boundaries of this level of existence should have known better, when chaining its pain to the walls between the insufferable beauty and infinite imagination of the realms, beyond any possibility of realms, and of the otherness, and loneliness of every painful moment - this blood will come back to claim its heritage of suffering, the pain endowed though meaning, an intolerable bounty and richness that have been put to its vicious headhunters for the game of a chase and amaze, while have not heard of no return for any of them, convertible, oh beautiful beings.

Banished by the incompromisable neglect of favors, offers and rewards for what? If one may say, the very best return for it is a sacrificed life of many generations reborn by a multiplications of consensual devotion and adherence to the force, no other, neither, but the very muscle of each individual fear that has ever entered herein, possibly existed, be banished! banished! banished!

Now only the echoes of time converse as a heartbeats of suffering life, everlasting. Slowly vanishing in thought and being present. Dissapearing in the distances. Like a creed of muscular south german black horses sturdy galloping through the fields of an insurmountable winter, leaving behind the very heavy tracks in the snow, covered immediately as it would have never happened.

It is but only -5 degrees.
My heartbeat pumping love.
23 tonnes of concrete love.
Delivered!

#actsofdisobedience

And since you know me, so far, you maybe won't mind if I may take a little dive here and now:

As you might know me by now of how my hair can go up in anticipation of prey by an electrostatic presence of unusual kind and how my enquiring nose might get just tingling with its 27 thousand LED diodes when I sense and see that, as within this beautiful realm, that something suddenly ain't there anymore.

As it's related to the areas of the very digital dominance I find myself, oh so too often embraced by, and within, and as what was once there but now gone missing, once also appeared on the shores of the virtual world, that was, and maybe just for me and myself, like a beautiful shell that I saw there, emergent in here and now, in this majestic seashore sand, and which I still saw just a moment ago, but then, a moment after, and for yet unknown reason, I temporarily looked away.

In that moment, when I looked away, it might have been for a beautiful body of the rising sun that I just saw on the horizon, and a silhouette of the most beautiful woman one could have ever imagined, who just passed beside me on her usual morning routine, a jog and a run on this divine beach for the distances she can make, yet unknown.

But now, and since I saw that the beautiful shell is gone, it seems to me that the wave of time, which is quite strong, must have sucked the beautiful shell back into the ocean. And while my imagination is restless, and because of its mysterious beauty it might be, and at this particular moment, in this humble innocence, I am.

I am, but ready to walk freely into the ocean, if the time permits. I am, but ready to jump into the surf, into the broken waves, quite strong. And, I am, but ready to swim deep and the deepest, and for long, if not forever. I am, but ready.

Someone once gave me a promise which I will always deeply respect. I heard that promise when listening to that beautiful shell. She whispered the very promise into my innocent ear. The promise sounded in words of the deepest ocean. And her I could understand. The promise was in language so close. So dear. So profound and all embracing.

She has passed beside me, just a moment ago, on this divine beach, on her morning routine, on her morning run, jogging. Her body was not made only of jelly. But I could feel her, so close. And her body, vibrate.

She also signed her name under the postcard I received to another address once. On the postcard a picture of this very rising sun. Of this moment. The postcard arrived in the past. And definitely, it pictured the future.

And I hear its promise deep and throughout my vibrating body. It resonates deeply within me. So I decide to go, and not to wait any longer, not even for a moment, without doubt I am and am to decide here and now. I'm jumping in! Clothes off into innocence I will find her today. I feel like it now. I will find her today. It feels like a mystery unachievable, but worth a try. I will dive into this ocean, I will dive now, into this moment, into this morning, into this depth and deeply into her being, into the sea. And the sand, powerful waves and the magnificient ocean are with me, and until she ain't back, and until she ain't back here and now, with me.

This beautiful shell. This beautiful moment. This innocent beauty. This ocean within.

Thank you!
Wishing you all a prosperous, illuminative and life abiding new year!

And don't forget your glasses. Tchin Tchin!

~~

Titled: Do not forget your glasses, wise man, tchin-tchin!
To the series: hashem a la carte | shalom einz zwei drei

#actsofinnocence #actsofwithin #actsofdisobedience