I am on a train, but I don’t see the train as the train because I am lost in the desire by the images in the magazines and the others on the train that are driven by the images in their small immediate environment before them as they sit in their little seats unaware of the train that is them that is movement that is life. And in this little seat they have projected a HUGE mirage that is a desire/dream as what they believe to be real. Meanwhile the train is moving along. life is moving along. Eventually, the dream, where desires are lived out with the limited things the pictures offer for the play out of the dream suck all that is the dreamer and consume them, and POOF, they are gone. The mirage has eaten them up. As it should be.
The mirage maker is the mind leading the self. The self that has allowed only that which the mind is capable of imagining. And that is just it, image-ing. And 2 dimensionally at that. What we actually do with our children is whip them into becoming this 2-dimensional existing entity.
So, if I look at my own desires, that which I want, or believe I want, of have allowed my self to lead to believe I want by the images, sometimes built with words, that surround me I should have no problem realizing what the carrot is in front of the “donkey” I have allowed my self to become.
I realize that many of the words that have been said to me by parents and their friends is how sad it is that I am a widow, and that I need a man to take care of me.
I realize that the women friends I have had around me talk endlessly of men. One was even a very permisscuous woman and I have had a couple of female friends that are this. This latest friend developed a term, she said we had to find a man to put in our “man chair”. So, there is a barrage of talk about how I need man. Is it no wonder that I am at the moment having a hard time letting go of the desire for a man?
I am sitting on the train and allowing 2-dimensional imagery to be the directive of my self. And my self had been talking to me before I was consumed. I remember thinking that there was nothing wrong with being single, and that maybe I wanted to be single. But I didn’t listen, I turned and watched the picture show, and now the picture show is so big I am having a hard time taking my eyes off the screen that is my mind, emotions, and feelings.
But that I am here writing this, is this picture show dissappatting. I am slowly, pulling my self away from this image and reconnecting with the train.
So, I am going to rant about men, about the IMAGE of a man as a man, because, each man is a unique expression, where no man is more than another. I am going to rant about the man image. To voice my own judgement.
I remember in college there were girls who went after professors, as though being with an older man made them more intelligent. There is even a local high school teacher who married a student. Now, my experience with these men, these learned men, is that they end up sounding like they say the same thing again and again. And sometimes I think this, because I fought with my father endlessly, and he would get mad at me. With such men, they simply walked away, they just wanted to be listened to, the same thing again and again. I realized that a university class was where a person had studied something, read a lot of books and assembled a few spoken/written words to create a “well-rounded” point of view. Once one understood the point of view, they then became more knowledgeable. The professor was obsessed with his point of view as a self discovery. And to some extent this is true, but they became “stuck” in their discovery and went no further.
I find that many men are this way, men as “man image” men. I have had moments were I am sitting there thinking that I will explode if I have to here/hear the same litany again. ( Even though, at the moment I am one and the same with my own litany)
If I participate in this, I allow this, I enable this, all I need do is say that this man is stuck in his own discovery, limited in that it does not really do anything for the world, and move on.
Here is where my mother and sister and friends tell me that all men are this way, that this is what men are. And I am supposed to accept this because that is the way it is. Some part of me just cannot. And honestly, I am willing, more than willing to live without sex for this, because sitting and listening to a man support his ego is not worth the sex. Even the many things a man could buy, are not worth this. I eventually want to escape. And this is when men usually get really mad at me. And I have never understood why.
I like to drive fast, I like the feel of my stick shift car moving forward, almost like playing the violin, me behind the wheel directing with speed. It seems so much more alive than listening to a man ego.
But there is a recklessness here, in some way. And this recklessness, this desire for speed, for movement will remain reckless unless directed with purpose. This restlessness I become when I realize something that I am morally supposed to support and uphold has to be directed fearlessly and productively. All this has to be pulled together, or returned to point of origin, self, and then directed, without desire.
In many ways this is what needs to be done with our present existence, as within so without. All the chaos that exists, where some can merely sit and spew their thoughts that manifest as obsession and others starve, or have not the means to realize any kind of discovery because they are locked in a game of survival because of some pieces of paper that say that a few men can own and profit from the earth’s resources, what is here as us, collectively.
So, if I watch the images before me, and listen to the words spoken to me as what I am supposed to accept and believe I will die. I am someone that cannot drink alcohol, I get sick really fast on the stuff, listening to men and playing the female role does the same thing. Right now the idea of love, that there is something more than this with a man has caught me. It is a mirage desire, one that has no constancy, where eventually the man would tire of the audience and be disgusted with himself anyway, would want a fresh pair of eyes filled with amazement supporting his obsession.
After all, the last time I was criticized for not liking the stories a man told. I said, that is not true, I enjoyed the stories, it is just that I have heard them 20 times! And if I say that the stories are about s singular theme, then I am too analytical. Well, in a way, what the fuck else is there?
Some of us just don’t want our carrots taken away. HEE HAW!