Foreplay in this case is bound to fall short of consummation
Conservative men declare that behind every successful man a woman resides. Although women are emerging from the relative obscurity demanded by sacred and profane sensibility, Kali remains, in her nude virginal state, in absolute darkness. No mortal man can have carnal knowledge of her or knowledge enfleshed, for she is the self-conceived immaculate conception. All the reasoning in the world, as far as Kali is concerned, shall leave him empty-handed and empty-headed, for reason eats away reason until, in the final analysis, nothing is left to analyze except, perhaps, what was originally hoped for, if that can be said to be anything at all; to wit: the immortal union of unconditional love in the one and only One.
We have already alluded, pursuant to our alsharptonian critical dialectical methodology, to the ancient gamblers of the Kali age, and how the ace of their dice game, the calculating kali, caused one to win and many to lose. Kali is the one unlucky to many but fortunate to one. She is no synthetic unity of different units, but the one and only fatal One, the fatal face of the die that conquers all other faces with a mere glance. Thus, for awhile, her looks make of a man a king, and his house the winning house for the time being; but let him beware, for Kali's face in eternity will efface all faces including his very own. We mean to say that, behind the scenes, where women actually rule, the ace rules the king and all his subjects until the next hand or throw. Which is to summarily say in another way, that Kali always rules.
In yet other words, for no words are ample enough, Kali is the eternal One of those particular ones who look out for number one until one's number is up. Some people think she is the ultimate Femme Fatale. Others, mistakenly in our opinion, bluntly call her Death. Whatever our terms might be, the general practice is to avoid the underlying Subject, whatever or whomever it or she might be, or at least to skirt it with poetic allusions. Indeed, for some metaphysicians if not for most poets and poetasters, life is the avoidance of death by the means of convenient fictions and figures of speech.
For example, over the course of verbal combat in the Romantic Court, our Hero rises above the Field of Battle to contemplate all contradictions in the most vague and glittering Generality of generalities. Having valiantly fought his way to the Heavenly Summit, having laid claim there to the Eye of the Pyramid and the Universal Genus of species, the Metaphysical King of the Mountain is not fully fulfilled in the Empyrean Realm until he abandons on the Peak all the dirty details of the world below. Only in that final capitulation can our Black Knight lose his head in the starless night and find peace replete in the meaning of Meaninglessness. Only then is he united with the Midnight Queen who shall appear ironically to him, as his Sacred Foil in stark and brilliant contrast, as the White Altar upon whom he shall forever sacrifice his illicit love.
We shall not castigate here the Black Knight who rushes off to death for the sake of romance. In fact, we shall resort to even more abstract paraphrases, all to his enduring fame and fortune.
In this Kali age of rapid change and multiplying prospects under the illusion of a future progress, nothing is good enough--possibility puts reality to shame, expectations invalidate the facts. No perfect woman or man, circle or straight line, can anywhere be found. Only the unavailable Ideal will do, the Ideal we want to be real although it is really our complaint about the real. In comparison to the ideal of perfection, reality is always corruptible: once had, forever ruined. In any event, since the real is always incomplete, and, since we are discontented by the vicissitude of this Kali age, we can always by fictional inversion seek permanence in ideals abstracted from reality, and call those idols 'real.' However, since ideals are themselves multiple and constantly changing due to their original relation to nature, they must by further abstraction be reduced to a singularity absent all their peculiar predicates and accidents. The one devoid being thus derived is a nothingness that is everything to us, a negative that cannot be disproven, upon which we would fain hang our various hats. By avoiding differences some solace is found, especially in the solitude of the Alone or All-One, for we are still alive yet now have certainty in the ultimate fictional Identity. Wherefore we say all things not conforming to that Identity are vanities.
However, on the other hand--if there is a left hand left--it might be argued that our metaphysical Identity, or Sacred Singularity, is itself the Vanity of vanities, and not the allegedly vain world obliterated to arrive at that Supreme Vanity. Furthermore, the Vanity that repudiates nature, that voids the world it refuses to take literally, is really neither singular or plural, neither personal or impersonal, neither creator or created. It is, rather, in the absolute negation of the Divine Creatrix and Mother Nature, the pathetic atheisms of monotheism and pantheism. We opine that such atheism is death-worship, a destructive plot to rob gods of their personalities and heroes of their souls by either distributing the Divine Life so thinly that it is nowhere to be found, or concentrating it so densely that it vanishes into a non-dimensional point forever out of reach. No better plots could be devised by any authority, any totalitarian dictators or democratic demagogues, than these conspiracies of the self-appointed priestly castes to bring everyone under the purview of their deadening bureaucracies by means of psychological warfare on the helpless, credulous, and superstitious.
The glittering generalities of our Black Knight lose their glitter when we speak of the pathetic atheism of monotheism and the vapid atheism of pantheism as forms of death-worship. Atheism is preponderant where men predominate. It sometimes goes to its most ironic extremes in cults that seemingly glorify women; for even there, as a matter of course, men dominate. There a man may overcome his fear of life by loving death, and death may appear to him as the Terrible Mother, perhaps named 'Kali', who gave him the terrifying life he would gladly exchange for the renewed comfort of her womb. A real woman is not sufficient for such a man because she is the natural cause of his own suffering mortality, in response to which he grasps for that ideal straw woman who can never be realized or revealed except, perhaps, in the death of reality. Hence he may in reverent awe perceive the imperceptible Kali as Death, personified in her Maya, her creation, whether illusory or not. But Kali is not death per se, nor is she the Destroyer, at least not in our considerate opinion. Rather, 'kala' is the finite time and finite death, while Siva is the Destroyer. Kali herself is the Mother of times and the Mother of her consort Siva. She does not destroy, but she does receive his destruction, all of which he blames her for.
The aforegoing foreplay brings us to the Metaphysical Rape of Kali, for foreplay in this case is bound to fall short of consummation. Yes, Kali does have some factual complicity in Siva's crimes against her Maya, but the formal facts be damned because they are, according to alsharptonian critical dialectical methodology, beside the point, which is as follows: Kali bore Siva as her son, whereupon, having no father to restrain him, he brutally raped her. Ever since then, white-hot Superconsciousness, the accused attorney for the Aryan District, has defamed and slandered Kali to save face before the progeny of that infamous union.
We must note here that during the course of the Metaphysical Rape, Kali virtually rolled over on Siva in self-defense 'there', to the effect that, if she dismounts, he is a lifeless form, a dead body. And, in anticipation of that fatal fact, Siva is depicted as a corpse beneath Kali, hence it is said that the sivas of saktis are dead husbands. Moreover, it is claimed that, absent Siva's formal presence beneath Kali, the Cosmos would devolve into utter chaos. Here on Earth, during Kali Yuga, the example of that first instance of abuse is ritually practiced to this very day, though it is gradually being reformed by the feminization of men and the masculization of women: the twain shall be restored to microcosmic unity in each atomic microcosm during the cosmic dissolution.
It is becoming increasingly evident to us that, although morbid men may think of Kali as 'Death', she is the Incentive of life, the First Cause, the Creatrix. Men may do their best to misappropriate her energy as their private property, but they cannot get away from her Power. Witness that all great artists call upon their feminine muses in order to proceed creatively. And a man who truly loves himself loves not, like Narcissus, his own mere reflection in the pool, but he loves a woman, his feminine soul--homophobes do not have to hate themselves. 'Wo-man' is the crown of man who crowns man at his birth. A 'wo-man' is not to be set aside, like a rib, as his private property, as just a 'wife-of-man', for the root of 'man' is 'ma' or 'measure', as in 'mother' or 'matr',or she who measures out Maya, including his most intimate thoughts. 'Man' is 'he-who-thinks' because of her. We find the root 'ma' in 'matter', but our materialism is Sakti-Motherism, not the dead formalism of the Siva-formalists.
No ma'am, no sir, Divine Mother is not 'death'. Kali is not nothing at all. Nevertheless she remains immaculate for our conception. She cannot be spotted. She cannot be injured with defamatory male projectiles. She loves her children even when they curse her. And it is with that in mind that we shall continue below as we have above, that our conversation may not end pending our demise.