Etalkinghead

Alas, her name is not important.

She was what one would have called a cultured, bona fide, intellect; circumspect in her considerations, defined in her outlooks, open minded and coroneted with a crisp, unsentimental, sensitive, and sensitizing virtue. A woman of firm proclamations and restraint, she was the anti-sign to the sign of our times. She was the anti-glitter to glitter; she was a royal rotund in a world of anxious anorexics; seemingly androgynous. Today, she is no more. She was, in fact, a lie.

For she died a death many die in the Post-Modern cosmos. An illness that began in the after years of the second world war as the communist banner and the new world eagle parsed continents into a test of supreme will, the minions of mass production and mass media pitted against the agents of mass propaganda, mass collectivization, and mass liquidation.

She died that day, that day, when the music died, in those many days that were ‘that day’; the natural, organic, one entire half of humanity, proclaimed its ‘independence’ and essential secession from the binding duality of XX and XY. In 1953 Simon de Beauvoir published the book ‘The Second Sex’. In 1955 the first lesbian organization was formed. In 1963 ‘The Feminine Mystique’ by Betty Friedan was published; it sold five million copies by 1970. In 1965 Civil rights workers Casey Hayden and Mary King distributed a memo about sexual inequality within the civil rights movement. The Industrial machine had transformed something organic and essential into something fabricated and manufactured. “After the [Second World] war, the new plastics that had been developed entered the consumer mainstream in a flood. New manufacturing were developed, using various forming, molding, casting, and extrusion processes, to churn out plastic products in vast quantities. American consumers enthusiastically adopted the endless range of colorful, cheap, and durable plastic gimmicks being produced for new suburban home life.” (Wikipedia.com)

So too, the woman of cultured, bona fide, intellect; of reserve and tempered femininity was in fact a façade of secret cancerous internal deliberations. In my interactions with her she did exactly what her gender equivalents have done out of a most profound compelling disease and psychosis.

In my interactions with her, brief but thorough, she took me, my existence, as a template, and created a ‘quasi-me’ as it were, upon which she piled her innermost insecurities and longings. She built into this alternative scaffolding layers and layers of emotional, post-modern complexities. In the dialogues I had with her, she did not speak to me. She communicated instead with this alternative she had created of me. And in that secret monologue the illusion of a dialogue proved untenable, and the alternative crashed into her. She was left with the real me, but she could never differentiate. She said to me “you hurt me”, “you think you are superior”, “you are a wordsmith”. Her illusion of dialogue had betrayed her. She stood, stunned by the monologue, in denial. She was a post-modern wreck. She was, in fact, a feminist. In this world of her’s, I did not exist, and she knew it.

It is my theory then that women see in men two things: the image of their father: the virile, rugged, matured, gnarled phallus of a male whose sperm had conjoined and fused unto her. And then, the image of a son: the sensitive, vulnerable, maternally dependant vaginally extorted boy infant, who in him, carried some defining portion of her egg.

The woman thus categorizes her interactions with all male through the various gradients of the father figure and the baby boy; of admiration and compassionate condescension. The post-modern woman in her sexually ‘liberated’ will of ‘equality’ is perplexed by her private parts. If the question is, ‘what came first, the chicken or the egg?’ the preceding question arises, ‘Who’s your daddy?’

I tell a girl I know, let’s call her Perplexa, ‘I’m studying feminism right now’. She comments, ‘Oh’.

I continue, “I’m studying feminism right now to truly understand the trenchant decadence and distortions of a simple organic human existence by industrial machine-thinking plastic culture; or rather, to truly appreciate in a knowledgeable way, to find anecdotes and dates…”

I admit, “I despise the post-modern female.”

Perplexa says, “Hmmm”.

She adds, “I can see why, in my own way”. I answer, “Seeing it is better than living it”. Perplexa says, “True, but then I often wonder what to live.”

I continue adding, “I find it to be something repulsive, I find the idea of feminism insolent, degenerate, and destructive; and I find the feminine ego to be intolerable-the scheming, fantasizing, nymphomaniacal self-deceit, conniving, and sybaritic that the post-modern female practices as an impostor of liberty.”

Perplexa comments, “Hmmm”.

I concede and extrapolate, “…of course the individuals affected by it are simply unique victims, duly transformed by industrial thought, defined by the principles of production, and ‘profit maximization’, and the illicit toutings of “diversity”: that infertile buzzword which in reality represents the specter of mass collectivization; so they [post-modern females] must be treated clinically, the interactions with them must be firm, intuitive, spiteless, discrediting (their statements)-that is the only way to deal with them.”

I remind her that “I am strictly speaking about the post-modern woman. The so-called western woman, one can call her even, the G-8 woman; the woman whose standard of living is on par with the 1st. world. The intellectually plain amongst them, these post-modern females, are simply harmless, predictable, and banal- they are the clichés that one finds in magazines, and performing acrobatic, cunt-stretching antics on the television screen.

“The so called intellectually developed amongst them are the closet-feminists who devote hours upon hours of their existence cloaking their innermost instabilities, manipulating those insecurities, and ultimately finding ways to rid themselves of it by engaging in acts the female equivalent of chauvinism, and drawing a rather pathetic joy from it.”

Perplexa comments, “Hmmm.” I am reminded of her whose name is not important.

“I was just thinking, how much of all this is in me” Perplexa says.

I suggest, “You might want to know your place just as I know mine.”

Perplexa pauses and replies, “I don’t think I do. I am always looking. That is most of the struggle, and it defines me.”

I tell her, “I would not attempt to impregnate myself or breastfeed my new born son or daughter.”

Perplexa interjects, “Hahaha”.

I go on, “…just as it is not seemly for you to pretend that you are capable of tasks that require a phallic grit. We are the architects and scientists, you women are meant to be our conscience and inspiration. We can both be romantic, poetic, and effusive, for we find that stuff in each other. That is our common ground, that is where the bond lies, this bond of mutual dependence.”

I go on “…not a single shred of rationalization will make it a falsity, not a single infertile attempt of post-modern political correctness will make it a criminal faux pas, for that is the truth; and it is best that you women and we men accept it and learn to love it as we are both meant to in spirit and essence of the ancient, primordial, and androgynous roots that have conceived us and that are conceived in us. We men must learn to love you and you women must learn to love us, we both must learn to love each other for the fact that one loves the other; and we must both understand the reasons, spoken and unspoken, for that love.”

Perplexa responds, “Yes I know that. But it is easier said than done, and a lot of what you say that you find annoying may just merely be an attempt to protect oneself from the hard way to truth.”

I say, “It’s hard for those that are contaminated.” Perplexa replies, “It’s not for everyone.”

I ask, “Is this so called ‘hard way’ simply the ‘challenge’ of accepting one’s place with pride and humility, and ceasing to live in psychotic denial? Is this the hard way?”

Perplexa replies, “I don’t know. I haven’t seen any easy way in anything in life at all. I may be contaminated. I don’t know.”

I reply, “I disagree with it almost as completely as you incompletely reconcile with it. One must first come to terms with one’s sexuality and define it. One must find in oneself sincerity. One must learn not to lie and not to manipulate. Is that so hard for you women? Is that so hard for our men? I speak for myself. It is the only way I am, and in the resolve of the moment, I say it is the only way I ever will be. It is as natural to me as the air I breathe.”

Perplexa says in a haunting and tell-tale conclusion to this contemporary dialogue, “I cannot speak for all women or any men. I can only speak for me, and sometimes not even that. I am an oddity. A very confused oddity. Especially now.”

She pauses, and she adds, “I must sleep now. Good Night.”