Tuesday, October 27, 2009

Myth


I don’t fetishize the working class. That mythology, of rampant, authentic sexuality, is, like all mythologies, mundane from the inside. Even the stories you tell to explain your own life require some distance (of time, or space, or fiction) before they become interesting. To grow up in it, choked by it, is to know that it is as hollow and dehumanizing, snobbish and transparent.

Maybe if I were an honest to goodness, I’m-worthless-please-fuck-me, sort of faggot I might feel differently. Maybe if I had grown up in a more genteel situation, wherein I could look out from the nursery at the rough boys playing football on the grass, if I could put some distance between me and the grime of poverty, that ill-educated film, the suffocating loss of hope, maybe I could be a sexual tourist on council estates and public bathrooms. Perhaps then I would long to be knifed too. Sometimes I wonder if it isn’t every straight actor’s greatest, and most secret (need I separate the two?) desire to be murdered by a repressed, and acne pocked thug, in circumstances filthy but somehow transfigured by the tragedy, into a thing more beautiful than the truth. Bourgeois masochism is always thus.

I don’t believe that bratty boys in tracksuits in any way make better lovers. I don’t accept that they are in anyway a more genuine expression of masculinity (or however else you might choose to name that quality which you feel you are lacking and so desperately hope to draw out of another body through sexual osmosis). Call it masculinity, call it male privilege, call it power.

You feel disempowered, I see that. You think that if you can mimic the slave drivers and maker’s of propaganda then you will somehow be stronger, more worthy of the world’s time, of respect, able to crush that all-consuming self-hate, that self-doubt that misinforms you that you will never be loved, ever.

Not truly. Not like people are loved in idiotic paperbacks commissioned by idiotic publishers and sold under the pseudonym of an idiotic writer.

Not really, not like people are loved in decrepit films bank rolled by decrepit producers and released under the silk lined letters of decrepit actors.

You want to be loved in the manner of a mainstream commercial product, you want love to be a mainstream commercial product, so that everyone can read it, see it, buy a souvenir, for it to be so simple that any idiot child could understand its meaning. Because, you reason, if everyone else can be see your love, if you can splash it about a bit, maybe you could convince yourself.

But you won’t, you can’t. You can’t sew up those wounds because you won’t acknowledge them, you must always go on rubbing in salt as you repeat to yourself, like a Satanic catechism, those same old lies your teacher told you. You want to be a man, and so you have to invent what that is, or more precisely make yourself a facsimile of it. Always scrambling in the darkness of your own ignorance, always dressed up in irony, at a cold distance from the spirit, and insistent on primary biology.

You want to be loved in the most obvious ways. You want to mirror prefabricated role-models, and so you ape, because you don’t have any imagination. You can’t summon up a way of being for yourself, you can’t dream up something of your own volition. You lack faith, you have not the courage of your conviction, you need a love ordered from a prix fixee menu, written in black and white, in English.

But here, alas, lies the crux of the matter; power is not to be found in imitation. It fades ever more with each replication, like a ray of sun reflected, lost, in an infinity of mirrors. Power comes from breaking new ground, within yourself, from hiking through your own recesses, forging through the murkiest aspects of your own inner life, and striking gold with the realization, Oh, that is who I am.

I have not forgotten the Virgin Mary, nor the Goddess Athena. There is a great power in that which you insist we call the female, so named that you may keep it separate from its precious, apparent opposite. I live on a fault line, and I harness its power, I admit to my seismic ruptures, to my torn apart at the seams nature. I admit that I am a child of God, I wasn’t spewn out of an eternal darkness to spend these eighty years in semi-darkness before returning to the abyss. As such I know that we’re all in this electro-magnetic soup together, we’re all floating, weightily, in what we barely comprehend, and more so I know that I am not fish nor fowl, and more so I am grateful. For it speaks of possibility, does it not? Of freedom. I recognize that sixty percent of my genetic make-up is shared with fruit flies, so if tomorrow I grow a moustache what are the odds?

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