The Beauty of the Refined Eros

“Love is clear-sighted with the lust of deadly rage, anatomizing its victim with keen energy, seeking where best to strike home mortally to the heart; it becomes

Pygmalion and Galatea, Ernest Normand, 1886
Pygmalion and Galatea, Ernest Normand, 1886

blind only when its fury has completely overpowered it, and thrust it into the red maw of the furnace of self-immolation.” – Aleister Crowley

High romance is a refined art in perpetual transition, always spellbinding with mystery and intrigue upon an embers-laden cliff. Below, the sea froths upon jagged rocks foaming at the mouth with love insanity, moved by the entrancing wind like passionate breath. The romantic wagers all to find him/herself here with the counterpart placed inside a body like a pearl inside a seashell. The pearl never leaves one, yet only manifests when placed upon a shell other than oneself, which causes a life of its own to manifest. The conviction that one’s original pearl has not lost her/his integrity may tempt one in calling him/her the one, or what many may see as soulmate.

The concept I have adopted of a soulmate is of a self-fabricated pearl not unlike Pygmalion’s Galatea, yet which can never truly manifest competely into physical form, for the level of beauty is ungraspable. However, there is a high level of excitement in discovering a good vessel or medium with which to see aspects of this asethetic fruiting. This all only works, however, when both vessels are met as equally fruitful mediums. Once this is established, the two enter a game. The objective of the game is to conjure up as many metaphors and actions expressing how fascinating one is to the other. The two lose themselves in a dream logic web which gets more mutually understood the deeper the two go.

I am in the dream business.

The romantic that knows oneself knows what pleases and acts upon the desire while a sembance of morality tags along. Dreams and fantasies are the base domain–instigators to sensual direction in life. With craft, one dips the brush into the astral field and manifests art with the resources available at waking state. Often, the creations walk along a tight rope as catastrophe awaits below, mocking with open arms. One may, however, find oneself too entranced by one’s very own open armed manifestation to mind the fool below.

The ones who go well together seek the ultimate challenger in themselves, full of smoke and mirrors, veils, and surprises–each one-upping each other in gestures of creative romance, endlessly redifining the base at which romance even sits. Each have the most refined jewels within themseves, yet are guarded by the most alluring labyrinths lined with the most delicate display of poison-thorned roses flowering like a constant stretching of the arms to a sigh of euphoria. If either of the two manage to reach the center, they will find themselves inside Lady Death’s womb, stricken by a momentary coma. Upon awaking, they will have merged eros with agape, romance with something seemingy beyond it. Then, before them, the gate to another labyrinth will creep open.

Anything not approaching this is not me.

The two ensnare each other with rooms full of open doors. They paradoxically reinforce each other’s independence, which only lure them further from higher degrees of merit–willingness to be together regardless of their lack of “need” for each other. High Romance duos need not “need.” They integrate and desire of each other’s endless facets, yet do not “need.” “Need” waters down the will to the level of perhaps a machine–something predetermined and lacking the flavor of novelty. The choice in-and-of-itself to be together is something to be worn like two lovers’ matching love necklaces. Endless gestures are to show the solid choice of nearly drowning within each other’s waters.

The refined eros is a play within the playground of the romance artist, a game of high stakes and grandeur, quivering with life upon death’s front door. I’m in this business to stay, with every catastrophe transmuted into a base to reconstruct future notions of the romance arts more nuanced than before. The phoenix burns and resserects like my heart. Time to craft more, to manifest Galatea.