Monday, September 18, 2006

Cerebral flatulence, or simply: brain fart on how Men=Women=opportunistic egotistical parasites; and other disjointed meanderings within walls

Nobody. No single body or being that exists with the slightest smattering of a consciousness is above abusing power and manipulating clichés to achieve it.

Men of course, ARE the cliché. [now now bwoys, queue up at the ‘launch offensive here’ counter.]

Odious nursery rhyme:
What are little boys made of?
Frogs and snails, and puppy dog tails,
That's what little boys are made of.
What are little girls made of?
Sugar and spice, and everything nice,
That's what little girls are made of.

‘Sugar and spice and all that’s nice’ indeed. Women. Ha ha. [Come again, thank you.] Ha. Many who often slip in and out of stereotypes like schizophrenic mermaids, conveniently, shamelessly, happily and almost innocently, like I do. It doesn’t take a moment does it, to express at one instant a deep frustration with not being perceived as an ‘individual’ and at the other, happily expecting that ‘he’, universal bastard, should understand that all the world’s problems are 99.9% because of ‘him’ and the remaining 0.1% perhaps sometimes maybe because of perfectly understandable menstrual syndromes – post and prior.

[Weeeemen, there’s a separate ‘ladies-queue’ at the selfsame counter]

Audacity is what it is. To smirk and swivel well polished tongues at those who really toil. It is them that divide the intellectuals from the working millions. Men or women. Men and women. Just people. And they fool them into believing it’s a battle of troughs and crests [vaginus vs penis]. But it isn’t. [Well sometimes.] The difference is in the intellectuals and the nons [suffixless too as they cease to be worthy of an existence-qualifying noun by virtue of a more-than-qualifying prefix].

The one will break wind of any kind from any orifice and the other will toil. Ceaselessly. And yet, the one thinks they are superior to the other.

The one will trudge and wear out every bone and breathe and drop of sweat in the living; and the other will fight wars with eloquent nouns adverbs and pronouns strung cleverly upon breathless punctuations.

Personally, I struggle between the absence of a tongue – spilling suppressed frustrated virulence in half-coherent echoes within walls; and a disconnected, disjointed ability to speak before only those who I know will not disagree. [Self-indulgent aside.]

And we are so proud of our brains. Exquisitely wired bits of circuiting that we had no hand in soldering, nor ever will. And yet we believe, and in that belief we are unshaken, unhesitant, not even for an atomic nanosecond, that the brain and we are One. Such pride in a gaksome mass of grey gook that we, till death do us part, KNOW is the immutable, indivisible [and often insufferable] I.

But what if you were to lose bits of yourself every day. Bit by bit. And not even know about it? What if all that were left of you was a fragile dust-self held together by a silvery, almost two-dimensional cobweb outline of your Self, so tentative that a single breath could scatter it all. Forever.

Then what brain?

What self?

What I?

Where does I end and Fate begin?

Why are there so many non-believers really? Why must magic be tantamount to unreality?

Am I to believe that pink-shirted-man-on-motorcycle who swerved and nearly came under my wheel, making my car stop and causing a heated argument that lasted over thirty minutes, that just happened to utterly and entirely shake the shape of events through the day by a thirty-minute-delay and foul temper; be the result of just a moment of wavering suffered inexplicably by Mr. Pink? Was it just an aberration in Mr. Pink’s motor functions? Or was it the function of Fate in a larger picture that wanted me to not only get delayed and miss an important appointment that might well have serious implications on my future project, but also continue through the day in a foul mood and mess up more personal and delicate equations that could have devastating repercussions on my life?

This tiresome thought too is such a bloody cliché. Top to bottom.

Where does it end really?

[Disclaimer: I, Left-brain-of-H, don't subscribe to/ support/ or believe in either the argument (if there be one, hidden in the layers of text here) or the counter-argument (if it's possible) to any view (or views) that might, wittingly, or unwittingly be presented here by either Right-brain-of-H, any-other-renegade-organ-of-H, H-in-whole, or any other of the many bogus 'I'-the-Hs you may encounter.]

10 comments:

Lizza said...

Good lord. Now that is one eloquent rant, the likes of which I have never seen. Men, infantile behavior notwithstanding, are adorable creatures most of the time methinks. I also think we do lose bits of ourselves gradually...to what? To whom? Who knows. I would hate to think, though, that my sense of self is so fragile that one breath (again, from who or what, who knows) could render me identity-less.

Great post. Sent my mind into spasms (kinda like what your innards go through if you eat strange yet delicious food).

NanNan said...

Jeesh--- i can't for a second believe there is a man on this earth, especially pink-shirted on motorcycle, who could match wits in an argument with you, let alone for thirty minutes---- as upsetting as it obviously was, I would have stood by stupidly in adoration of the words streaming from both sides of your brain!!!

houseband00 said...

The pink shirt says it all, Nan. =)
I'm not profiling, ok? I was just saying...

=)

H, princess! I can imagine the accuracy and pain dealt by your verbal barrage on said man. Go get 'im, girl! =D

H said...

Lizza, dahling. I agree that men are, severally, adorable creatures. [Not all though.] I thought that’s what I was trying to say… ummm. Maybe it didn’t quite emerge the way I intended it. Oh dear. Under normal circumstances [and here we subscribe to a commonly understood notion of ‘normal’] you’re right, we are not that fragile… but what really is the definition of selfhood under circumstances surrounding Alzheimer’s or Schizophrenia for instance?

Nanster! If only you could see the sight I am when I try to ‘argue’. All that emerges is an incoherent, inarticulate, ugly red-faced sputter. At Shout here, I know I am surrounded by people who to whatever measure it is possible to love and support a nameless, faceless identity, do support and [err umm well, presumptuously I say this] love me. If for instance you were to turn around and say H, what a bloody confused, nonsensical, pretentious post that was, I’d either tuck my tail between my legs and go hide in a well, or I’d sputter at the screen for a bit and then simmer down – so deep down, that yes, you’d find me at the bottom of that same well.

Hbeeeee, you sweetie! Yeah. Blame it on that bloody pink shirt. But actually, if the entire truth be told, and here I’m being completely honest [and exposing myself for a fraudulent scamster] no such argument ever happened. Yes there was a pink shirted man on a motorcycle this morning in front of my car and he did swerve a bit, but nothing happened. We moved on. That’s when it occurred to me that the thirty-minute argument could have been a reality. All in all it was transferred angst, from a completely unrelated incident [which I haven’t quoted here for obvious reasons], to a more harmless one, featuring Mr. Pink.

You guys, Lizza, Nan & HB, thank you. You guys have no idea how your comments today have cheered me. [ok, run for cover, this is one of those, I’m in a soppy-accepting-bouquets-on-stage-mood]. Thanks. Hug.

B diddy said...

you might be the smartest person on Earth :)

Anonymous said...

H,

Ditto.

=)

H said...

and why does my little B Diddy proffer such a generous title? or is that sarcasm? Duh. obviously not smart enough to decode that one. hmmmm.

HBeeeeee. and which of these two interpretations might you be dittoing?

Anonymous said...

H,

Neither. =)

Prometheus said...

Prometheus, at the risk of indulging in shameless self-promotion, would like to suggest this nice poem as suggested reading.

H said...

poem is read and appreciated!

And let Prometheus know that H is an undying fan of Ogden too.