Life as a grown-up in the modern world is interesting in that it's never simple for a man to live a right life. There is little in the way of orthopraxy for the man who is outside the cult of whichever choice, the cult that has all the answers for all the questions for each and every occasion. Outside the cult, man is man alone, on his own to do his best. Sometimes, even most times, it's simple to do the rightish thing, to pass up the chance to do something nasty just because it appeals. There are still some general social rules, norms and mores, as we call them, that one can, in a pinch, rely on if in doubt. But mostly, there is nothing left but ones own internal wisdom in the face of life, so long as one is not part of the cult. The automatic answers provided by the poligions, from Left dhimmi fascism, from Islam, even from middle-class convention, don't suit the independent man, even if they are right-- because they are automatic. One must think and measure before deciding, even if it means doing the wrong thing sometimes. One's own naked common sense is a guide for the perplexed if one has some basic honesty and desire to do rightish. It takes time to figure out what that is, experience telling over the decades. Why reinvent the moral wheel? Who's so smart? Who has a better idea than a world of smart people experienced over generations? No one in my experience. But the point is, that to know, one must know, not simply accept on authority.
So it is with love affairs. The solitary guy is never going to get it down to a good system. He is a solitary guy. That leaves much open in life, even if much of it is wrongish. Sometimes there is something more than love to make a life rightish. There's fighting. It's a good thing. But it's not a girl thing. It's not a family activity a grown man would take his family to. Fighting is for solitary men. That leaves women to be occasional lovers in a long line of lovers. That has its moments, over the course of a long life-time. A good blend of love and hate, of sex and violence, of peace and war, makes a man of a certain kind a fairly happy fellow.
I bought a nice silk tie recently, and I have some beautiful silk/wool slacks and a new blazer. I'm dressing up this evening for dinner. I have a bit of lovely beef to go with greens and a glass of California pinot noir. Hannibal Lecter would feel at home dining with me this evening. But I'm dining alone, the table set with Imperial Russian silverware and crystal goblet, fine china dishes, Victorian candle-holders and bee's wax candles. I'll play some Hayden on the music box. I'll entertain myself with visions of jihadis suffering. I have a new and beautiful leather chair to sit in, and I'll rest my feet on a hugely expensive oriental carpet. I'll think of destroying my enemies. I'll think of women I've loved, and of women to come in time. Rare red meat on my tongue, the scent of wine, flowers in a vase, candle light, beautiful antique cutlery in hand, I'll think lovingly of destruction and love and happiness.
I share this life with other men, and women too, who appreciate the fineness of this fully aesthetic adventure. Dining with Hannibal Lecter, discussing the intricacies of jihad, bantering with a fellow over the delights of cookery. Tis love unbridled. Share it with me soon.