Who Concedes the Need?

December 18, 2012 § Leave a comment

How does a man have self-esteem when he’s barely allowed to admit that his body contains testerone? “Vanity” and “positive self-image” have been assigned as the male and female definitions of the same thing. Woman, though, musn’t admit a desire or need for man. So, everyone’s alone: the man tired of rejection and the woman who won’t relinquish the first-right to reject. He’s gone from being what he thinks she wants to what he knows he is, but still hopes it’s what she wants. (The faith weakens, but it never dies.) He stops pursuing and waits for her to stop waiting for him. So, they’re both alone. Who’s wait is more significant? Less impatient? Who concedes the need?


Stale Cake/Fresh Bread

December 7, 2012 § 1 Comment

The man I am, somewhere in me, is the man I was taught by feminism to be ashamed of, yet the same man the same people tell me I have to be to attract them. How can I be anything at all and expect to get what I need? How can what I am measure up to an ideal? Cinderella will starve for want of cake. The man who is expected to do all the pursuing is the person upon whom all of the rejection is heaped and whose emotional skin is thickened to deadness. That’s what control gets you: a dispirited simulacrum of your ideal; a stale, tasteless cake. Is that still to be coveted over fresh bread?

It’s Coming Back to Me

November 20, 2012 § Leave a comment

(To the tune of “I Can’t Stand It” by the Chambers Brothers.)
The associations abound and are unavoidable. They abound because I don’t allow myself to avoid them. After all, I created them, as I did the grudge of their presence. I created the entire drama from my own exacting specifications. If I didn’t always know what my actions had set in motion, I knew I’d get a story out of it. The blueprint was subject to perpetual revision, yet I could never figure out how to attach the happy ending. So it’s the association I try to make happy, which amounts, simply, to allowing them to be what they were. Nothing abouty my association with Herself was unhappy before she rejected me. But it wasn’t happy, either, living on hope and adrenaline, every movement a leap in a dance around a motionless partner, enacting the flight of my fancy. The story lived to be near her, died trying to bring her closer. I had forgotten nothing but the happiness. It’s coming back to me.

All I Meet Are Cinderellas

November 9, 2012 § Leave a comment

I used to call it the Cinderella Complex. I applied it to one person, and bitterly. I couldn’t understand the rejection; I hadn’t been given a chance. But Cinderella didn’t sit around waiting for Prince Charming and had no suitors to reject. She didn’t pretend at martyrdom to her drudgery or claim an exclusive wisdom that instantly validated her judgements. She was unique. No one else will wear the glass slipper. Prince Charming is taken for Ever After, and there was ever only one of him. None of this knowwledge does me any good. I know I’m not Prince Charming, but all I meet are Cinderellas.

That Leaves Me with Whining

July 3, 2012 § Leave a comment

It’s always been about me. To you, it’s always been about you. What else? I’m not convinced there is a pure altruism or compassion. (I’d feel all the worse if there were.) I know people who are always giving, but I don’t envy or admire them. Is that why I don’t try harder to give? because I see how so much spent can be so little bought? There is only the asking. Call it a cynic’s view, but it’s what I see, and I don’t call myself a cynic. Who gives that doesn’t ask, however guiltily, for something in return? Why not just ask? It otherwise seems a passive aggression–or, rather, an aggressive passivity. People aren’t subtle. Hints are, at best, resented, but, most often, missed. Rejection is painful, so asking without asking is the safest–and least effective–way to go about getting what one wants. Each path requires a certain painful acceptance, of either ignore-ance or rejection. The path I chose was not the one whose negative outcome I was prepared to handle, and I’m not prepared any better now to take the same tack; but neither am I going to moon about with puppy-dog eyes hoping to be taken in. That leaves me with whining.

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