Man destroyed, then Woman destroyed

 The title to this poem is a modification of the title of a book by Simone de Beauvoir, Woman Destroyed.

Man becomes hobbled with waning of truth
As lifetime progresses from bounds of his youth
Deceit is embedded so deep below skin
As misleading message sinks deeply within
Man could be coruscant, shining so bright
Except for embarrassment hid in the night
The man is befuddled as lie fades from view
Deceit in the heart as the specters renew
Now, comes a lady, the heart of desire
Lighting the essence, release spinal fire
Deceit in the loving encompasses life
Deep in the heart, lust plunges the knife
The fire is not lit, but the woman endures
'Til the bane of the man escalates and ensures
That the man is unhinged and unreason pours out
Then, only then, is the woman in rout

Unreason comes forth in so many forms

But all, in their essence, resembling storms

Seeking the love, which the heart does pursue

But, falling away, as they're falling for you

Or, ranting distractions to hide from the view

The failure men know, as the loving comes due

w

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I've deleted alot of my ramblings but I will leave this.  For now.

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I thought I would try a few poems to convey these very foreign ideas.  Maybe that will work for some people. 

Simone de Beauvoir was a genius.  She clearly knew woman was not at fault for humanity's predicament.  Her work, Woman Destroyed, led to this poem.  

What she, understandably, missed was that, perplexingly, the man is destroyed first, causing all of the havoc.  He doesn't seem destroyed because it was conditioned into him to act like everything was alright.  The man learns early to put on an act displaying himself as confident and sure, even though, deep in his heart, he knows he is destroyed.  There lies all of our confusion and the demise of our sentient state.

-It is stunning how the female gender has operated to keep the human race from sinking into its own filth and madness for millennia.  I have not explored that at all but, the more I think about, if there is any reason to explore our past once we become Human, I think this may be it.-

From reading many of her works, it becomes clear that she never admitted to herself that men have destroyed our situation thoroughly since day one. - That is poorly stated and possibly incorrect.  It may very well be that she, like every woman alive, knows that pointing out the actual problem just leads to disaster.  In fact, that seems most likely.  As an analogy, I've always known that there is no point in negotiating with a madman.  Still, the results, in this instance, are the same.

She started the trend that all that was needed was for women to break free.  She may actually have been right in that it was necessary to do so in order to lead the male gender (that would be me) to think things through.  It may have been a pivotal move made in desperation, which just increases my respect for her intelligence.  

She always focused on the desperate struggle of the women's freedom, never suspecting (or, maybe, realizing) that, until the man is freed from his bane, no one can be free.  It's understandable.  It was a man's issue to discover what men have endured.  It took three millennia.

I am even more stunned as I realize what seems likely to have been a completely intuitive sense of the situation in which her hands were tied to address the issue directly.

If you don't think humanity's affairs are a mess (the general overall dysfunction and destruction), then you have a much higher tolerance for stupidity, viciousness, and unreason than me.

This makes me want to rewrite The Garden Of Eden and lay fault where it really belongs.  It's really a minor tweak.  Just portray a man writing the whole damn fictional diatribe against women and sentient awareness pretty much clears things up.

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The depth of these poems escaped me until now, almost a decade after I wrote them. The poems contained far more meaning than I ever realized.  The poems are like a condensed version, a shorthand, of the nine books I wrote.

 

I stopped writing rhoetry on the subject years ago for a couple of reasons.  It was necessary, as I became convinced that the general prehuman public would never read the rhoetry regarding the bane of mankind with relish, much less understand it.  (like I said, it took me about a decade to figure the complexity of this poem out for myself, a lot of the meaning is somewhat hidden) (funny thing.  I have never touched this poem since I wrote it; very unusual for me).  So, I began writing the books.  They are thorough, if somewhat laborious.  What can I say?  Three thousand years we have been held in thrall to the animal.  So, yeah, it's complicated.  There was another reason I moved away from this subject in poetry.  I found beauty, angst, and despair where I least expected it and it just about killed me.  I was also overwhelmed and wrote about six hundred poems (I think it's about eight hundred now, maybe a thousand) about the most amazing woman I have ever encountered (along with  the eight (twelve) books of prose on our sentience and lack thereof).  She is incredibly unique.  New under the sun, though She will never admit it - She even wrote something that describes the situation perfectly from a woman's point of view!  Of course, in shorthand.  It actually highlights an interesting point: the situation has changed somewhat since the days of Simone. in many ways, due to Simone)   Ummm, let me just clarify.  As Desiderata so perfectly explains, every step along the way, as full of anguish and anger as it has been, has been necessary.  I am just so tired of playing the part of Pangloss.  So, I guess there is still a remnant of Janus in me.  I know Desiderata is accurate to a great extent.  That doesn't make it easy to take.  The question is when do we achieve the tipping point?  One of the most powerful points of Desiderata applies.  All I have really done was try to give the concept of a sentient existence and loving coitus a jump start.  It will happen.  It's just a matter of how much longer before it does.  One could say I'm tired of waiting.  Like Really Tired.

It probably sounds crazy but rhoetry works to secure my intuitive thoughts.  To nail them to the wall, so to speak.  Prose took it the next step along the way, in much the same way.  Rhoetry explains everything so well for me.  Just not for most anyone else, so far.  I cannot be the least bit ambiguous to convince anyone else, which is why I turned to prose (to my lasting regret, it works. it was necessary, it's just that I'd rather be writing poetry and I'd rather be writing about my favorite subject).  

I just began to realize that, maybe, rhoetry works well when the answer remains vague.  After three thousand years of obscurity and intentional deception, the subject is extremely vague.  This may go a long ways towards confirming something I've toyed with for awhile.  That, for the most entrenched difficulties that the human race will face, rhoetry may become a crucial tool for unraveling.

It is also why I rewrite like mad (and, also, one reason I am so annoyed by the publishing process).  Unlike anything written before, precision and accuracy of what I convey is crucial.  At least, until humanity catches on in a big way.  It is not enough to just slap interesting words down on paper and change them as I please to make them pretty.  For the first time in history, the meaning is critical to get right.  It is important, since it is so far beyond the known animal reality, that I portray the situation as accurately as possible.  I think I've shown well enough elsewhere just how difficult that is to do when faced with the mad reality of a sentient creature caught in the throes of an animal's perspective of stupour.  I have had to connect so many disparate dots as to boggle the mind of just about anyone else.  I've explained that well enough elsewhere, also.  More importantly, I have had to strip away the conditioned madness from my own thoughts.  All of these were incredibly difficult to do.  Hence, fifteen years of effort.

"Intuitive" thought, in essence, is nothing more than collecting a number of observations of our bizarre, unfulfilled existence and piecing them together into partial answers as to what I knew in my heart was true (kinda the ultimate intuitive thought): humanity can be whole and put away the animal forever.  The only approach possible was to scrutinize the query, what is wrong with humanity?  That was best done, initially, after decades of observation of the madness, by walking along the beach and writing rhoetry, initially.  That intuitive realization was buried so incredibly deep beneath the pile of garbage that we have tolerated since the beginning I couldn't initially even put it into words.  It began to pour out of me in rhoetry.

With rhoetry, my conscious mind gets caught up in the details of creating the rhyme and the rhythm.  That leaves the rest of my mind to roam free through the subconscious to connect culturally-suppressed observations regarding human life collected over a very long lifetime (in other words, I didn't kill myself off at 30;  just saying). Most of my life was spent observing, not interacting; the prehuman condition does not agree with me at all.  All I could do was observe the insane antics of an insane prehuman race and, then, analyze like crazy in every way possible; try to poke holes; it ends up that the best way to poke the initial holes was rhoetry).  It made for a very lonely life.

Let's see if I can convey in prose what this particular poem hints at.  I was inspired for this poem by Simone de Beauvoir and, in particular her book, Woman Destroyed.  It was read soon after my intuitive realization that men are broken and there is no need for it to remain so.  I read a lot of Simone.  I was gobbling up, on any front, any information that might clarify.  Simone helped a lot.  Understandable, since she is of the gender that is not the source of our insanity.  The best a woman can do is attempt to break free from its awful grip.  Men are the ones that need to gain their humanity.  But, first, they need to admit and understand what is going on.

I am still not sure if she got that men have always been playing a shell game on humanity.  "Look over there, not over here!"  Again, understandable.  How could she possibly understand how failing to love breaks a person?  (I continue to wonder)  A woman never fails to love (read my books.  that is not as you may think) until the ability is beaten out of her, either figuratively, verbally, mentally, or physically.  Even then, it seldom disappears.  It just goes into hiding.   I'm not even sure a woman can understand the concept, the despair that rules men.  I guess not surprisingly, that is encouraging for a future in which both men and women know how to love.  It says something about the inborn nature of sentience that will never go away but can only be completed by Loving Coitus.

Her husband was bad news.   Besides being an awful husband, Sartre also pisses me off because existentialism is a perfect example of the shell game (see poem "Escapism").  The shell game of the male gender:  "Look over there, not over here!" I guess another quote to describe it might be, "Look at this shiny new toy!"  It is always a game of distraction.  Sartre's worse than any scifi author because the scifi author at least admits that it is all fiction.

Basically, the male gender has always been so desperate to hide its failing, that they have been scamming ever since they realized their failure and failed to overcome it.  Let me emphasize, it is easily overcome - for a human.  Instead, we got "look over there!" for more than three millennia.  And, it has just been continually getting worse.  Look around.  We are accelerating our pace to embrace the animal as we get closer to throwing away any shred of our humanity.  If I wasn't so disgusted with spending fifteen years dissecting and explaining the animal, I could go to great lengths to show that we are becoming more and more adapted to the disgusting animal viewpoint as we throw away every remnant of our humanity.  The noble characteristics have just about withered away in our depths of confusion and certainty that we are no better than an animal.  If you are reading this, you should have progressed enough to see it on your own.

The male gender had to scam in its attempt to hide its failing.  That has been the biggest disaster of our existence.  If only we had owned up to the awful failure that does not need to remain.  The scam artist became a trait of the gender.  That can change in a virtual heartbeat.  Of course, the alternative, success at Loving Coitus, was not initially possible for the feeble intellects of the first generations of a sentient race.  Let me caution to not misread that sentence.  Only the initial realization of how to succeed was complicated to understand.  It only requires a sentient mind to succeed, not a hurtling, boundless intellect.  In other words, a man can be dumber than a post and still learn loving coitus, if he can read.  In the not too distant future, it will be as natural as being human, walking, and talking.  No need to read a thing.

So, to get to the point of the rhoem, man is destroyed first.  He was destroyed long ago.  He can never attain his humanity until he puts away the scam artist.  He has passed it down to every single male descendent in every generation in one form or another.  For no good reason!!!!

Let me just emphasize that there is no reason for the failure to continue.  Men have endured it all along because animal life had endured it for a billion years before that.  Animals can't do a damn thing about it but humans can.  Humans think.  Humans can master their bodies.  All we need do is wake up and invoke our sentience.  No pills, acrobatics, alternatives, or appurtenances required.  We are not just animals.  Unassisted Loving Coitus is required for men to finally gain their self-respect.

You have no idea how badly it pisses me off that it had to come down to me to grasp this fact and, more importantly, that it took a lifetime to do so.  If men had not been scamming all along, and making stupid prophetic utterances in their early thirties (always trying to bask in the damned spotlight), they would have figured it all out long ago.  Yes, yes, yes, Desiderata...

The long paragraphs and run-on sentences are in honour of Simone.