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?
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.]