It’s no longer a surprise to most that I am drawn to tragic male romantic figures.
Why is that, but of course my female orientation, and the celebrity of the male artist to whom I find myself both sexually and intellectually aroused by.
In discussions regarding male and female icons, I naturally favor men, seeing the male artist as the ultimate martyr of dedication and vision.
But why is this? Is it:
1. Personal ?
2. Societal ?
In exploring these questions I become aware of my prejudices, that of the male and my own sex, and a penis envy that has pumped aggressively through my veins since childhood. Maybe it started in elementary school when I was grudgingly made aware that my male peers’ raised hands, and selected answers, were valued over my own. My consequent jealously may have played root to something then, or perhaps it was the betrayal of my female teacher that poisoned my hope?
Anyway, it feels that I have struggled respecting both men and women as equal, and here lies the conflict. And what a beautifully sick one it is.
I find it surprising that your url is “j-aidan” just like my younger brother. His name is Aidan aswell(to me he’s the only and original Aidan) &his last name is “J”. I know this is random and unimportant but, thanks for following :)
Do the manipulated feel their backs press up against the walls built around their shackled brain?
And why anyway do the loved long to be fucked and the fucked ache to make love?
We can all admit to pretending he or she was someone else…someone better. Someone more worth it. More deserving.
I can’t remember exactly when I started to question the words that fell out from their mouths, but it was around the time my thoughts started to play tricks on my intensions. Disturbing, wretched thoughts. Split moments when I saw people doing things that were awful and inhumane. Stabbing, touching, and eating. Men and women morphed to beast.
The horrible waves washed ashore my innocent membrane, leaving a gooey, shadowy residue that ate into my moral conscience like acid does silos of anything worth holding on to in bulk quantity.
I could tell you their story but reality is too often misconstrued and not even what I can tell you is wise trusting.
All there is to say about the matter is don’t listen to anyone who tells you to iron your shirt before a funeral. It’s old fashioned and polite. You’re not polite and I can read in the expression on your face that funerals are not amusing to you for the right reasons they should be. Don’t look into the eyes of the sobbing women and buckling men. Look at the wrists. The necks. The clothed feet. What do you see?
Thinking tonight was poetry night, I sat in a cafe through three musical performances, waiting for a reader to take the stage…never happened. My thick skull cheated me yet again, however there were three lyrical quotes worth sharing:
> “Don’t you give up anything???”
>”Friends I am hiding from.”
>”My hair was on your leg.”