tête-à-tête
Something different. A stream of consciousness.
We opened the iron gates onto the sidewalk, where the residents of the energetic-black-hole neighborhood shuffled. The comical liberals were peddling false hope and certainty across the street—branded and smiling. Thinking you’re helping the disenfranchised can do that to people who believe they’re changing things—or at least it gives them a selfie to be proud of. Meanwhile, across from the deluded do-gooders, a different kind of illusion was being peddled—the promise of the next fix. This side of the street knows better than to believe well-funded cheer and pamphlets will change anything. They hold out hands full of brown and white, plastic-wrapped—tiny packages of sorrow, madness, and death. Ever vigilant, usually with a trusted homeless person nearby to hold the goods in case the 5-0 roll through.
The smells as we walked down the street were a rolling cacophony, dependent on who walked past or a nearby restaurant/bodega/sausage cart, or how much and how recently the homeless shit in the street planters. You don’t make eye contact—you NEVER make eye contact. Especially not in this neighborhood. Those that catch your eye have a reason to do so, and most times, it ain’t to be friendly. We’re walking to the subterranean rail station that takes us to another world/neighborhood. The escalators are long, but we walk quickly down them. The brief pleasure of speed through space is irresistible. 3 mins to board. I’ve got this down pat now. In the beginning, I might have ended up going the wrong direction, and wondering how I misread the signs.
Boarding. Find a place not too near the others. Try not be conspicuous with conversation. Just because so many are rude on the metro, doesn’t mean we should be. We surface at the edge of the city, where the buildings are tall and humans are sparse after business hours. The “city” part of the city. We broke out our bottle of wine. A philosophical debate ensued on whether or not a brown paper bag would be more or less conspicuous in the eyes of the cops. We landed on more. Threw away the brown paper bag. We walked and drank. Ended up in several worlds in a few hours. Neighborhoods in certain cities are like that; they become montages of difference. We saw American versions of China & Italy—plus other centuries of architecture on our trek. The terrain in certain cities leads to callipygian development.
Looking back to that time from my current Hermetic state, would I have traded all the horrors that followed for an easier time? No. I wouldn’t. It woke my DNA up in ways most couldn’t imagine. I see through things I would never have seen before. Protecting one’s honor and innocent spirit whilst in hell is the chance of a lifetime. So many fail to protect those priceless virtues, if they happen to wander though hell for years. So many cling to comfort and they stay the same. The same values as their peers and (probably) their parents, or whatever the media tells them to do. So what exactly is passed down epigenetically? What good is an unexamined life?
Death Glamour (noun):
The luminous quality possessed by those who have survived multiple encounters with annihilation - whether literal, psychological, and/or spiritual - and emerged not merely intact, but radiantly capable of love, desire, joy, and creative expression.
Unlike conventional glamour, which alters surface perception, death glamour emanates from depths forged by proximity to destruction. It is the paradoxical magnetism of someone who has been touched repeatedly by forces that should have consumed them, yet continues to generate beauty, passion, and art from the same concentrated core that endured the trials.
Death Glamour cannot be manufactured or performed. It is the authentic residue of transformation through fire - visible only to those calibrated to recognize the difference between polished surfaces and transmuted substance. Those who carry it often appear most alive precisely because they understand, intimately and empirically, what death preserves and what it spares.
Etymology: Original term coined in esoteric practice to distinguish the aesthetic power of survival from mere resilience or recovery.
Though, living with Death Glamour is a death sentence in today’s world, socially I mean. She has gravity, she’s intense, she’s fearless, she’s intelligent, she won’t bow to the local (or any) hierarchy, she says things you’re “not supposed to say”...They would call me eccentric...But that term is reserved for wealthy people. Mostly, they just attack. Like I’m foreign a organism in their sterile, bland, pre-scripted, programmed environments; they collectively become bleach. All they have are words and character assassination—that’s what happens when a violent species has no outlet for their natural impulses. [Upcoming post about this.] They use language as a weapon. In another era, they would have burned me at the stake. I don’t hate them for it; we’re practically different species… I pity them, and I’m grateful to them. Without them acting the way they do, I’d never have learned the joys of solitude, creation/building, and a well-ordered, disciplined life. Monastic modern hermit with a side of masturbation—imagination as my erotic muse.
Now I have 2 books published and a third on its way (projected June 2026). A ritual practice that is getting sharper with each session. So much more to it, but I’ll spare you the rest of the details of my highly ordered life. Maybe another time.
Hell is other people. Or to me, hell is people who have no inner architecture for truly seeing you as you are. So that’s just about everyone. Some of us require a lack of projection to be understood. As far as I can tell, most people are either projecting or competing these days, usually both. It’s exhausting—and boring AF. “You’re not like us. You don’t play the prescribed social games, and you won’t bow to us for acceptance—so we will smash you and make sure (using the internet) no one will be on your side, ever.” This is the world we live in. This is how outliers get crushed by the programmed, obedient ones. It takes a strong will and a penchant for solitude to fight this environment—just to be oneself. I bet most don’t make it, or they fold. Not I!—says the flame-woman. I’ll never fold, nor will I submit. If that means dying alone and penniless, so fucking be it!
Thankfully, I really bloom in solitude. Though I do wonder what occasional tête-à-têtes with like minds would do for my petals. A salon with only discerning members. Everyone brings something to the table. No one would be trying to step on others to elevate some perceived position in some ridiculous imaginary hierarchy. Just conversation and fresh ideas and recognition. Combined with wit, passion, intelligence, and openness. Yeah, I think about it a lot. But that’s not the same as believing it’s possible in today’s world. The vetting alone would be arduous.
C’est la vie!
Majeye
♪ “Like A Stone – trentemøller Remix” by Tricky, trentemøller ♪
When monsters go tête-à-tête, it’s rarely about teeth and fire. It’s about recognition.
Two (or more) apex predators, comparing notes. No screaming villagers. No pitchforks. Just a quiet, mutual understanding: Ah. You too.