It must have been an oversight when he said: harm no others.
Didn’t he rather mean: harm no one? But it makes sense
when you think about it, because it gives us back the freedom
that the gods we created have robbed us of.
What we do with it, though, is a whole other story.
As I talk to a man of tough words
across the two centuries standing between us,
I try to recall the youngster who has grown
into myself over the past three decades.
I wish I could have told him that there was nothing
inherently wrong with being the protagonist
in his own drama, even if it’s not particularly well staged
and the audience is composed solely of critics.
But in truth, I doubt I would be able to say anything
that he wouldn’t have figured out himself eventually.
After all, I may be more well-read, but I’m still just as clueless,
only disillusioned—though that comes with time.
How far have we come from the caves
of Altamira, Lascaux, and Chauvet-Pont-d’Arc
to the pit on Mare Tranquillitatis—or how little?
In a way, it’s ironic that we plan to live in a cave
again, although the moon is no laughing matter,
since we like to think we’ve grown over the millennia,
even if in the end it’s just demographics.
In the comfort of an old cardigan, your world stretched
between Cassirer’s The Problem of Knowledge, The Avengers,
and a fridge singing its lullaby at night, all hidden behind curtains
when you watched your rotund neighbour cross the street.
I always wondered why you had never found it peculiar
that you felt sorry for him, but then you closed your eyes,
counted to ten, and moved away from the window
as if this were a way to apply kintsugi
to a soul.
I adore Helena Bonham Carter, but for whatever reason, any time I see her, I picture a crazy cat lady. But this aside, I just watched Conversations with Other Women, and there is a one-liner there that I just love. It goes like this: a woman played by Bonham Carter says, “You’re just a dirty old pervert,” to which a man played by Aaron Eckhart replies, “Yes, I am. But I’m your dirty old pervert.” If only I had a chance to say something like that.
What a disappointment it must have been to discover that someone else had suddenly appeared, whose very existence undermined one’s uniqueness amongst the many creatures in the Garden of Eden. Imagine no longer being the only one of one’s kind—the king of utopia, the sole proprietor of the realm of plenty, ill-equipped to leave the bliss of la-la land. Imagine being a man.
What does it mean to be a man? I really don’t know, to be perfectly honest. All the significant social functions defining my existence, like citizen, employee, or parent (I deliberately avoid the word father), have nothing to do with my gender and could just as easily be fulfilled if I were a woman. Even biologically, my role in maintaining the species is rather minor and purely accidental. Once I donate my semen, I might as well cease to exist if the mother obtains stable means of subsistence independent of my providing. One might say that I’m the role model for the children, but honestly, what are the roles that I’m supposed to teach them that specifically require my gender? And aren’t lesbian couples as good at parenting as straight ones, despite the lack of that extra accessory in their underwear that some men are so fond of? In the past, it was all simple—muscle power and ruthlessness—and once men consolidated their position, all they had to do was make sure that women had no chance to rise above their assigned roles, as perfectly captured in the slogan used under the German Empire: Kinder, Küche, Kirche, although the 3Ks mentality wasn’t something specifically German. Thus, men’s entire position and identity were based on oppression. This couldn’t last forever, despite continuous—in some places deadly—backlash all over the world, and when this whole structure started to fall apart, we discovered that the king was naked—the whole manhood thing was nothing but a hollow eggshell. The answers to this vary: bloody violence, right-wing extremism, Incel, depression, alcoholism, suicide, and so on—all destructive, all wrong. I’m sure there are also positive initiatives, but they are unnoticeable in the shadow of the above. I, myself, like many others, I’m sure, somehow managed to avoid the worst, but I’m still confused, insecure, and trying unsuccessfully to find my way through all this to define who I am as a man. The first step is to tell myself there is nothing wrong with being lost and vulnerable. Boys don’t cry no longer applies. We’ll see where this takes me.
I always know when my next-door neighbour is watching a comedy or when the couples downstairs
have burned their Sunday dinner. On the ground floor, there is a rather odd man who lives in his car
instead of the flat and keeps the building door wide open and the floor wet when constantly washing
or repairing his equally strange old vehicle. I guess, for a poet, living in a multi-apartment building
could be a great source of observations on people’s habits, but I will not lie, it also annoys the hell
out of me sometimes. I just hope that talking to myself out loud at four in the morning while writing
does not get anyone on their feet. All in all, I seem to fit in quite well here.
hidden pilcrow 