I rarely know what subjects i will pair prior to writing; this morning i thought perhaps drunk and sober might be apt, but puzzling over some better idea of what woman means is much more appealing to me, though i can speak with greater authority on drunkenness. I enjoy both, and i’ve found that both can be quite painful when taken to excess. That might be said of nearly everything known to our species. However, few things inspire me to abandon my normal probity as liquor and women. I have occasion today to be repulsed by both, and not. Last week on my way back home, i stopped to pick up my paid-for loaf of sourdough bread, but unable to remember the pretty cashier’s name i remarked in my execrable Spanish “i forgot your name, because i was looking at your eyes when you gave me your name. “She laughed, and i was elated though mindful of my precarious circumstances. I know that giving offense to pretty young maids can be lethal within some cultures - even the one in which i live. It is something of a double bind in which man exists with respect to the fairer sex. For example, the home in which i reside is also a habitation for three pretty young gringas, having grown by two within the last day. The vibe is as unpleasant as i can remember in terms of simple amicableness. I try to parse my feelings in any case of tension to discover my role and rectify, because why not. The root of my discomfort may be as simple as rejection, but not from any forwardness on my part that i am aware of; the original resident (a dynamically pretty young woman) gave a party to which i was uninvited.
Where she a man, that would be considered punk-ass behavior given we are two foreigners within a household of 4, 3 of which are over 60 years old. At 63 years old with 3 ex wives i have experience with some of the nuances of the mating dance and am extremely circumspect about reading “come on” from a woman, especially the young and pretty variety. So much so, on my way here i stopped and offered my apologies to the young baker who inscrutably nodded back with happy dancing eyes. I have enormous regard for the torments of the attractive, my mother and sister both being beauty queens. But i am a man in a world run amuck by leering demands for a salacious surrender to the wonders of money and its perverse relationship to love - that is not the kind of human i wish to become. I am erotic to a fault, but far more interested in the wonders of a sexually responsive partner, yet the intimacies shared by loving hearts between considerate partners is a mystery i mean to learn. I know that subservience has no role in human relations, but beyond that i have no clue. It was late in life that i acceded to the reality that love can be predatory, not the least of which, my own dark love. The more i accept and nurture that shambling beast rather than dress it up in manly homilies and chivalrous raiment the more readily apparent the parallel darkness of woman seems. In my zeal to take possession of those personal failings that would result in so much derailed love much less the holocausts of three domestic collapses the less inclined i am to pursue a woman that is anything but open and forthright - however even the ballsiest broads i’ve known had guile about them even if only to themselves.
So what of woman, would i ask her to be different. Is it a finely tuned sensitivity of my party giving housemate that discerns my unapologetic beast and simply wants no part of it as i do her conceits? To say there is no difference between man and woman and that equality is legislate-able is a conceit of the modern world when we are unable to codify peace and fairness, two keys to human survival. I am tired of being afraid of woman for her ability to break my heart, so i’ve learned to carry on with a broken heart. What confuses me about that condition is that i invariably become better for the damage. Is that the heart of woman - her capacity to find growth in destruction, therefore she breaks that which she loves just to make him better? I enjoy the concept of C.G. Jung where he channels the anima and animus of yore into plausible aspects of either gender, and then there is Hank Williams’ observation about woman “it’s better to talk with them, than to talk about them which may be closer to the root of my conundrum. As much as i enjoy speaking with the housemate, that explicit insinuation that her beauty is sufficient to presume an inability on my part to resist and which requires from her an outward state-of-siege behavior which turns party invitations exclusive is a tad pompous. I know this because of my own bloated anima that gets orgiastic about its inability to resist what Arundhati Roy describes as the “pursuit of beauty to its lair” in my own work. Then again, it could be simple fear of that repugnant feeling of my own fury having been insulted; i don’t know.
I do know that without understanding we are doomed, so i try to commune with my peace and learn how to understand what others want and give it to them if i am able; as the good Dalai Lama remarked kindness is always possible. However, i am only just now coming to believe that my absence from all circumstances is not necessarily kind and to seek those circumstances and that woman who enjoys the company of me and my beast. A deep and close woman friend of mine once asked after yet another debacle of one sort or another, “has it ever occurred to you that people might be afraid of you?” How is that even possible to fear one so shackled by socialization that he could get himself in dutch with one woman for possibly being too shy and another for being too forward? What remains is there is no form of manliness which when conformed to, results in harmony, so i’ve taken Jung’s advice “privilege of a lifetime is to become who you truly are.” I also search for gender neutral language and behavior, not because i am so compliant, but because it would be bullshit to advocate liberty without seeking it for all people, creatures, places and things - the same for happiness, peace or nearly any other esoteric concept one would like to propagate in this profit driven miasma we inhabit. Woman and men are more effective together than either is apart, though it is well documented women fair better in solitude than the hapless, short lived male. Why is that¿
My father, g_d rest his soul, distilled his concept of woman down to a single question for her, “what do you want?” For all my protestations about self expression to ask another “what do you want?” strikes me as peremptory, pushy, and officious, though my divining rod quest using sensitivity as my pack mule is killing my mule. I have learned this much from my last three wives - what a woman wants you to know she will tell you, and what she doesn’t want you to know is indecipherable by and immune to any forensic examination or force of will. Men pride themselves on willfulness, but if your anima is a wilting lily, good luck in the blood sport of love. The cowards effecting women’s policy in the testosterone bubbles of D.C. and Wall St boardrooms believe their imagined dominance to be from will rather than the Naked Emperor charade tumbling down around their ears for no other reason than the lack of actual information they function with, believing instead what computer models tell them from data extracted by the mighty data mining apparatus which defines so much technology today. No model for human relations is valid without a deep and profound appreciation for the formidable will of woman. I am currently drawing the profile of Maria Sabina gazing across a valley comprised of rugged terrain and determined human habitation. Her expression is etched with pain and endurance while remaining utterly open to what it is she sees. For me to presume the content of her sight would be ignorant, but to beg any form of welcome to her patient vigil has given me greater peace and hope for the survival of our species than any lust i’ve ever run to ground, however ravishing she may have been. Only g_d knows the limits of that animated power of love which resides in the heart of woman; i most certainly have not plumbed her depths, but i’m trying.
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man - the sonnet
Out gunned, out fought, out thought - the lot of man,
yet like every other day, out he goes
to lie in graves from the battlefield plan.
The bad soldier does it still though he knows.
The fighter does not make war, he makes love
the more he understands, the more he makes.
A man won’t do much without a good shove,
trouble is, once going he ain’t much without brakes.
The one thing that makes his life practical
would be his mate - his love for which he lives
be that a purpose, a god, or more pull
you know he’s wallowing in what he gives.
a handful of men are thinking they won
by not using hands and taking a ton.
jts 09/29/2017
http://stoanartst.blogspot.com
http://josephtstevens.blogspot.com
reprinted with permission - all rights reserved
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