Whereas the predominant “masculine” expression of societal order might be the grinding mechanics of The Categorical Imperative (“submit yourself to the machine or else”), the basis for the “feminine” resides more predominantly in treating every little manifestation of self expression as if it threatened to be a dropped stitch in the social fabric. Huge sensitivity is required to earn a living by maintaining the taboo against free thought. I do not have this sensitivity — and hence, when I am hired for a job and later find that my success depends upon my “femininity” (even in the military this happened slightly), I can be relied upon to rage like Polyphemus, because of the headaches given by very little dropped stitches.
—
I search for a place in the world where I am not liable for dropped stitches. I don’t want to have to tear my eyelids from my eyeballs, stretching them in order to focus, against the possibility of dropped stitches. Oh the blinding headaches of shortsightedness, the urge the will to see, to exacerbate perception as a purely mechanical device, avoiding the mad consequences (but not the dislike) of dropped stitches. Oh, the terror of the overlooked link, the mild emotional connection unmade which blows up into a firestorm and smites my face. Oh the angst and anxiety of stern looks, big eyes, subtle then more vicious reprimands on the basis of my dropped stitches. Oh, hell freezes over and I continue to drop stitches. I scratch myself in madd’ning self abuse, for I have no good answer on the matter of dropped stitches, or the why or wherefore, merely that they drop. Oh the self contempt that bends like an arrow of light only to strike me, metaphysically dissolving my body, rendering me out of work in my astonishment at dropped stitches. Oh the radiant sky, the feminine contempt, mine eyes being purely blinded. The masculine realm registers and shudders. Stitches, stitches, little stitches in your eyes, your souls, your minds. I call them Western, but for you they make up the essence. Stitches, stitches which I cannot see. Stitches! I tore apart mine when I visited your fair shores – came to you naked. Girt by sea the rage of my lost stitches. And you delicately plod, your little binding hands, undergirding all your stitches, pointing out my errors for political ploys, wreaking vengeance through the ‘universality’ of the stitches in your own eyes (but somehow not in mine). Oh stitches and the ploys of stitches. I will drop them in the fields and in the schools and manage to rejoice. Your invisible web of ‘culture’ is the negation of mine!
—
I search for a place in the world where I am not liable for dropped stitches. I don’t want to have to tear my eyelids from my eyeballs, stretching them in order to focus, against the possibility of dropped stitches. Oh the blinding headaches of shortsightedness, the urge the will to see, to exacerbate perception as a purely mechanical device, avoiding the mad consequences (but not the dislike) of dropped stitches. Oh, the terror of the overlooked link, the mild emotional connection unmade which blows up into a firestorm and smites my face. Oh the angst and anxiety of stern looks, big eyes, subtle then more vicious reprimands on the basis of my dropped stitches. Oh, hell freezes over and I continue to drop stitches. I scratch myself in madd’ning self abuse, for I have no good answer on the matter of dropped stitches, or the why or wherefore, merely that they drop. Oh the self contempt that bends like an arrow of light only to strike me, metaphysically dissolving my body, rendering me out of work in my astonishment at dropped stitches. Oh the radiant sky, the feminine contempt, mine eyes being purely blinded. The masculine realm registers and shudders. Stitches, stitches, little stitches in your eyes, your souls, your minds. I call them Western, but for you they make up the essence. Stitches, stitches which I cannot see. Stitches! I tore apart mine when I visited your fair shores – came to you naked. Girt by sea the rage of my lost stitches. And you delicately plod, your little binding hands, undergirding all your stitches, pointing out my errors for political ploys, wreaking vengeance through the ‘universality’ of the stitches in your own eyes (but somehow not in mine). Oh stitches and the ploys of stitches. I will drop them in the fields and in the schools and manage to rejoice. Your invisible web of ‘culture’ is the negation of mine!
No comments:
Post a Comment