love & language & love & language & love

Men Know Everything

I came across a file on my computer titled “Men Know Everything.”  Sounded interesting, so I double-clicked it.  I don’t remember writing it; I don’t remember the barbecue it mentions; I don’t remember any of it.  The piece doesn’t quite feel finished, but I thought it interesting enough to post — uncut and (almost) unedited.

***

I am a man.  I know everything.

I went to one of those Labor Day backyard barbecue party things this year, the year 2000 A.D.  It didn’t take long to feel like 2000 B.C.  But it did begin with all the pretense of innocence.  The guests trickled in over the course of an hour or so.  Greetings were given, hands shaken, cheeks kissed.  We talked, we drank, we munched.  It was very pleasant.  There was even a kid.

When barbecue time came, we all chipped in where we could.  We ate and we talked.  Then something interesting happened.  And it happened with elegant subtlety.  The women, they were gone.  Vanished.  I suppose they were inside, although I couldn’t see what they were doing.  They had left the men to themselves.

And we men, excuse me, those men did what so many men do when they get together.  They grab their dicks, metaphorically of course.  Not one subject could be raised where a bona fide expert wasn’t present.  From computers to oceans to driving to You want to know the half-life of selenium, well I’ll just tell you then.  I never knew they knew so much.  I don’t think they knew they knew so much./Neither did they.

Did they know these things, these arcane, succulent drops of information?  Or did they not?  They spoke with such ease and confidence that disbelief wasn’t — shouldn’t, couldn’t — be an option.  I was honored to be in their presence.

Now I don’t know why guys act this way.  I suppose in all fairness, I should disclose that I Ann can act this stupid.  In my case it comes from wanting to know everything, but realizing that the more I know, the more I know the less I know.  That is as frustrating to swallow as it is for you to read.  But more and more, when I don’t know something, I say I don’t know.  And what liberation that is.  Sometimes it’s so easy it’s too easy, and I have to watch myself.

There was one guy at the barbecue who knew nothing.  And he repeatedly, and with admirable ease, said I don’t know.  In his case, I suspected true ignorance was the culprit.  I can’t tell you how refreshing that was.  I don’t know if he knew ignorance was bliss, but if he didn’t, he’d say so.

Running Man

Poor, poor running man
Squashed like hot tar
You wear gum/paper/footprints
And tire treads from a car

Running Man

Kitty Love (def.)

The love of a cat. Warm, and prickly. Deep, but on its own terms. I think that’s the perfect love.

To scratch someone, then rub against their leg, with all forgiven and forgotten (except for the maybe scar).

To spurn your mate’s affections, then purr in their ear, your mate loving you anew.

To be yourself. And to be loved for it.

Kitty love.