Blind Spots and a Green Cigar

The notion that universal wisdom in a human being is possible presupposes that it is also possible to remove one’s blind spots prior to death.

We all have blind spots. The more one has, the less likely one can see what is really going on within the various inter and intra dynamics of the archetypes. This applies to all of the possible archetypes of the human experience:

  • The girl baby
  • The boy baby
  • The girl child
  • The boy child
  • The post-pubescent girl
  • The post-pubescent boy
  • The mother
  • The father
  • The childless woman
  • The childless man
  • The grandmother
  • The grandfather
  • The great-grandmother ad infinitum
  • The great-grandfather ad infinitum

Perhaps it is my own conceit to imagine that as a childless woman I have greater access to wisdom given the absence of the blind spots of parenthood. I think it is also possible to become childless in one’s heart given a supreme betrayal by one’s offspring or a competitor for one’s affections such as chemical dependency. Mothers have also alienated their own children against their fathers and fathers have done so against mothers. I have known all sorts of variations on these themes. The shame of such a betrayal is not something easily understood by other archetypes and it isn’t always obvious who is the villain in these sorts of betrayals.

It don’t think it is an accident that most of the men with whom I have both achieved and sustained intimacy have either been childless by biology or in their hearts even if that wound just won’t heal.

A childless man or woman may also be stereotyped by mothers and fathers as being of either great evil or ignorance. I believe that it is possible to be both good and evil; wise and ignorant, albeit it is generally more advantageous to attempt to accentuate the positive both for oneself and for the benefit of intimacy or love.

My track record of survival is such that, yes, I am alive. My track record of wealth on the other hand is a comical tragedy. Which represents greater wisdom? Survival or wealth? Self-containment or intimacy? Each of these binary decisions reflect one’s values whether they be based on experience, religion, ideology, parenthood, or simply a survival mechanism in relation to one’s captor whether that captor be economic, psychological, or geographical.

Who do you feed? Who do you consume? Who do you fuck? Where do you shit?

I think that perhaps I need to go looking for a convent that will have me. Such a convent would have to be one in which I am unlikely to be consumed or shit upon by over-aged post-pubescent girls nor am I likely to be pressed into prostitution or service by or for over-aged mothers. Nor am I to be robbed or brutalized by their male enablers.

By taking an oath of celibacy perhaps I can also avoid rapacious lesbians.

It would seem that men who remain alive and who desire to protect me do so only in service to the other female archetypes of such a man’s life who then attempt to both consume and shit on me.

Men who attempt seduction of me by appealing to my maternal instincts are revolting to me. I’ve heard that works on fat chicks. (Already my stress-related belly fat has diminished. It has been less than a month since Axel passed and even less time since…three female archetypes…tried to rob me. But the game isn’t over until the fat lady sings.)

I can’t believe it but I recently met a younger man in real life who managed to appeal to me without attempting to engage my maternal instincts nor by insulting me. He obtained for us each an unusual cigar and we smoked and conversed about all sorts of things for hours. It wasn’t until I got home that I realized that I am attracted to him. Something like that hasn’t happened to me in decades. Have I been hypnotized yet again? Oh no. I don’t want to be a cougar!

It is unlikely however that he should desire to protect me from the other women of his life. There is no damsel here to be saved from the female dragon. That’s OK. I have no need to parade my finery before the harpies and reptiles albeit my lack of makeup and only the simplest of jewelry seems to enrage them all the more.

There is a reason why I don’t publish close-ups of my face. It would appear that my living presence inspires robbery and deceit as if it is I who is the dragon. I am not. How dare I be so rude as to go out for a drink and a cigar alone on a Saturday night.

It would also appear that a group of young men obviously in service to the mere image of a young woman managed to deceive the waitress and only pretended to buy me a drink. It showed up on my tab. Or perhaps it was the waitress who was deceptive. What do you think?

I’m certain that none of the group of young men in service to the young woman actually partook of her starved-to-kwashiorkor arrested body that evening because she proudly retreated to her prize, a man larger than the others, and older. He remained at a distance as he watched the group dynamics of his more youthful competitors. I wonder if he was also calculating how much the evening was going to cost him and whether it was worth his prize later—or was she planning to plead “headache”?

One of the young competitors was her ex, as was explained to me, and he decided to see if he could make her jealous by flirting with me. It worked. She was so enraged at the sight of me she practically shoved her inflated belly button in my face. I suppose I should take that as a compliment. Don’t you worry, young lizard. He’s all yours. They all are.

As they got up to leave, the ex asked me if I was coming. I declined as gracefully as I could. I was delighted that at last a dry seat outside was available where I could enjoy a small cigar. I was also delighted to be rid of them all.

I happened to sit next to a fascinating young man who gave me a cigar that was previously unknown to me. I am now a connoisseur of the candela. It reminded me ever so slightly of green cardamom, my favorite spice.

There’s something poetic about a woman smoking a green cigar who has just been made the butt of a “guess my birth year” game of a group of young men and one young woman, and enrage both the first one to “guess” me to be way too old and the last—the same reptilian arrested-development post-pubescent woman, and an effeminate arrested-development post-pubescent man, respectfully. I’ve been insulted by better people than they. The “winner” (the ex of course) invited me to accompany these spoiled children to their next haunt. I declined as gracefully as I could. He had won $100, reportedly, for his “talent”.

She of course paid no penalty whereas the runner-up, an erstwhile frustrated child star, not only paid up but was dispatched to fetch me a drink for being such a good sport. Later on, I noticed an extra drink on my tab, but I paid it without comment.

Guess who the child star lost to in his bid for stardom? You’d never guess it. She’s a famous blonde. I wonder if she also has green eyes. It’s impossible to tell for sure nowadays by photographs alone that always show her in blue contact lenses.

Not that I care. I don’t care. I cannot afford yet another rich man and certainly not a rich boy.

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