The ugly

There’s a sense that humans are competing a lot. They may be but much of the time they’re not. Something called play may be a factor.

I was reflecting on the number of people who change their gender, male to female, or female to male. If we believe the Marxist feminists then men are superior and changing gender to male is an advantage but what of the men who change gender to female. I could accept the young where the attraction of being a sexy young woman without menstrual cycles and possibility of pregnancy might give one the possibility of advantage not just against their own sex but against men.  The slighter man shorter in a society where bigger huskier men have advantage might find success as a female. But he older male who is outwardly successful becoming an ugly woman who was gangly and really not competitive. What’s that?  Beautiful is in the eye of the beholder of course and it’s look shaming to consider the 6 foot 8 inch rug by player with the best of plastic surgery and make up and very nice clothes being at best able to compete with old Camille. She’s not going to be Lady Di and they both did get a prince.  I doubt this gives competitive advantage but rather comfort.

It’s like finding a tribe of trombone players in a world of violins.  There’s the recognition of difference and a life of fitting in but finally a desire to try to be the ballerina not for the audience  but for some thing inside oneself.  Of course there’s that sacred humour. An old lady takes up painting and/or violin and among her neighbours she’s welcomed not as Picasso or Luc Ponte but as one who is trying something new and frankly having fun. There’s a cage in the routine and learning new and rather useless things, quickly becoming antiquated in a world of dying romance and rising Maoism, the stockings and garter belt aren’t much.  Yet its light years ahead of the critic or those who judge.  The reformer is of course an enemy of anyone who benefits from the status quo.  

She’s been pretty and it’s served her.  Here comes an ugly and it’s a bit of mockery and well it’s not wanted.  People should stay in their place. The long hair and countless other challenges run counter to the militaristic norm MASH mocked.  Humour does that.  Hawkeye and BJ surgeons who were clowns and the understanding general and Klinger and a metaphor for medicine that has gone the way of the earth, bulldozed over by the need for a super intergalactic highway in the Hitchiker’s Guide to the Galaxy.  

I like wearing soft clothing. I really liked my first pair of stretch jeans and was shocked learn women weren’t having waist bands cut their bellies for some years before levy  dared allow a ‘relaxed’ waist.  

I would rather go nude and live with at most some shorts or a sarong on a beach in the tropics.  I’d not care if I was sexually approached by male or female, which ever one was going to lead on.  I’m so weary of leadership.  But of course I don’t particular trust the others.  Trust and belief and faith. All these are values that are worth reflecting on. It’s working for others but not for me. 

I’m waiting a lot these days.  For a phone call.  For a part. For a letter. I seem to have gone far ahead of the main body of the army.  One step ahead of the crowd you are a leader, two steps a Martyr.

I’m just bumbling along, a kazoo in the symphony wondering how I aimed for the top but now the top is corrupt and rotten and I want none of it. What can I do now that I’ve left the rat race and in the elder pool where people putter.  I’ve done enough to be respected.  I’ve got epaulets and such but I’d rather something else.  I don’t know what to do in this future and am again the explorer and adventurer.  I have a ship and I have geographical areas that I could experience but hiking through jungles doesn’t appeal to me. My sore back  has so much changed my outlook on life.  There is no joy and even fear in being on top. I may as well be in a wheel chair and yet I’m among people who don’t assist me despite my saying what I need. I feel betrayed and let down and imagine soon I’ll be in a wheel chair and hoping that a nurse or someone offers me a cup of tea because I wont be able to ask and I will depend upon someone initiating the conversation and coming to my assistance. I’ve been the doers and shaker and yet today I’m afraid.  

I’m left weak. I was only wanted strong. I expect the same will occur when I’m poor.  Aging isn’t much fun.  The emperor has no clothes.  

I wonder about these things and ask what it is that makes it all fun. Costumes and parties and the last hoorah.  The safety of anonymity.  The lack of expectation. The space.  I do enjoy the space.  I am certainly not invited to do another go at rugby or play any of the games of social form that I excelled in before and grew bored of. It’s hard to ‘chit chat’ at the best of times.  Someone really has to want to relate if they speak to the clown at the circus. There’s all the beautiful people and then there’s Cohen’s Beautiful Losers.

I’m not even sure where I am since I’ve been such a success considering the odds and the betrayals and denials.  There is no place for self pity and Andy Warhol said that everyone has only 20 minutes of fame and the perpetual victims have their own theatre and loudspeakers galore.  I am the introvert, the reflective one . Slouching towards writing.  

I could be bear hunting this weekend but instead I’ll hopefully write. Or at least explore and drive.  

I have some books to complete. 

I am thankful that God remains a fixture in my world and I meditate and pray and seek guidance and continue to trust God.  All shall be well. All shall be well . And All manner of things shall be well.