The countryhouse

The countryhouse was built just a couple of kilometers up on the mountain over the Corinthian gulf so that the balcony had a view of the gulf as far as the eye could see. The girls would sit on the balcony and chat vibrantly often breaking into small screaming laughs. The conversation was so lit, flowing easily and rythmically so that one could hardly follow, all you could hear was a tat-tat-tat-tat-hahahahhahaa-tat-tat… and then one’s attention would inevitably fall on the small pack of adolescent boys, awkwardly sitting in close proximity to the girls and even closer to each other, staring at the sea and not uttering a word. You could tell that they were paying attention to every word the girls were saying and that they idiotically felt they were fooling someone. You could see in their side stares that they weren’t even prepared to admit to their fellow pack members what their precious carefully calculated conclusions were concerning what they had heard and processed. The information those little geeky creeps were processing was more vital and challenging to them than a maths equation. That equation was a piece of cake to the girls, all they did was play around with social and emotional intelligence that was so innate they never even got around to deconstructing it (I would assume up until they would hit 30). But to the boys every word that came out of those pretty mouths was a piece in a puzzle that would take them years to complete and you kind of knew that once they cought a glimpse of the larger picture depicted, their efforts would finally start paying off, but they still had a bit over a couple of years before that happened. So for now they depended on the compassionate nature of the girls and the helping hand they were graciously offering. Of course the girls were all aware that the boys were listening and of course they knew that at that point in time those creeps were in the palm of their hand and if it was power they craved then it was theirs. But they didn’t abuse that power, instead they did everything they could for our entire stay in the countryhouse to make up for all that they boys lacked without complaining and without even asking for anything in return.

My allegiance in reality lied with the creeps, since it was a son a brought to the table and not a daughter and that provided me with in depth familiarity of the overgrown dumb-asses they all are. But watching those baboons finally listen, finally begin to develop their deconstructive abilities was such an exciting glimpse back to the time when I was one of the girls and my now middle aged baboon yet lit male friends were the pack of creeps. Also that point in a person’s developmental personal history filled me with anxiety, as I realised that this could go two ways for the boys. One is that they would appreciate the compassion and understanding the different looking individuals of their dimorphic species were exhibitting and that later in life when their own skills and strengths would start to light up, that they would give back and remember that they couldn’t have done it without the girls. The other way this could go, would be to turn on the toxic masculity and use all the information they were let into so that they gain power and control.

The boys naturally clinged to me a tiny bit more than the girls, partly because they still felt comforted by the presence of a maternal figure and partly because we knew each other better I guess. But really, the girls needed nothing from me, in fact I was the one asking for their help most of the time, which I ended up complaing to the boys about, asking them to step up their game a bit, so one of them said “you are a sexist, you keep praising the girls and we are always willing to help as well”. Oh god that made me laugh so hard, they actually were still at the “approval and praise from mum kind of stage”, poor darlings. Well I didn’t only laugh, I also thought hard on whether he was right, but in the end I decided he wasn’t. The whole trip was dedicated to the boys maturing more than anything else with the girls showing the way and me jabbing them from time to time and trying to maybe narrate the memory that they were once helped out graciously and subtly by the females peers and that they should not forget that when it’s their time to give back.

You know I don’t think that the story of our dimorphic species is one of power thirst and domination, it’s also one of compassion and incredible diversity even from a simplistic binary sex point of view. Toxic masculitnity to me is the personal and global loss of diversity. It is the global trauma that a political and social instance developed into. I don’t think femininity entails that much greed in material terms, the greed might just come from the masculine eagerness of adolescence to catch up and a blown-out-of proportion sense of achievement once that is inevitably accomplished.

Oh yeah and I introduced the girls to Kathleen Hanna.

A schizophrenic girl-only upbringing

No one is to blame for this communal boredom girls share on social media

no one but their powerless disposition

a social norm wanting them to be more productive, more motivated and more independent

than any man

feeding them fairytales and encouraging adorable lameness

up to the point where they realise what it is they’ve done

a point of no return, since they are no longer virgins

they are grown up women who have learned that happiness comes from good sex

sex which you get when you’re pretty

ungrateful bitches of shared perception on social media

talented artists who challenge everything

but hardly ever get any joy out of it

as they have to try harder

jealous tarts who blame each other for their own shortcomings

something has gone terribly wrong

girls can’t enjoy themselves and boys can’t enjoy them either

everyone’s gasping for contact

but they are ever so hesitant due to the constant guiding guilt of their parents

maybe there should be a shift in investment

an appreciation for the terrible worrior girl

who fights for survival

maybe feminism is not about combing girls’ hair and telling them how pretty they are no matter what people say

but about telling them to their face that they’re on their own

Reference

http://christineheppermann.com/poisoned-apples/

Waiting with Rania

A girl friend pointed out that all females surrounding her seem to be waiting for a certain male to get their lives going in some way. However, as I looked at her horrified at the truth of this observation, I also felt deeply handicapped with the realisation that even if that certain male magically moves his wand and sweeps some of us off our feet, the event will be followed by no other than further anticipation of course.

As we sat talking, smoking and arguing about who of us has it worst that the other we questioned whether this was our own fault or the male companions’ fault. Well obviously, as another good (male this time) friend often points out, it takes two to tango. And that must be true. Are we repressed idiots to be waiting like this and are they heartless assholes to keep us in this hopeless state? Well it seems to be much more complicated than this.

The family ties are strong, solid, persistent and painful, causing us to be in search of an equally persistent alternative, while we carry our extended family burdens on our shoulders. Women being more volatile, seem to swing more easily, while males on the more solid side of things seem to always be stuck on some ex from the distant past. As it is with work, art or any creative activity, progress always happens with such strong resistance in Greece.

However, as I am all alone this hot and moist evening, trying to breathe under the air-conditioner, with a pc prone to overheating and shutting down now and again, I am night-swimming along memory lane, not quite sure whether I dreamed about all these things floating through my mind, or if they actually happened. I float through the dimensions of all the things we said and their continuum through our brief series of encounters and I always seem to end up with this one moment.

You were standing there, on the pavement, looking away into the street towards my house, while I was just leaving school. I must have been wearing my baggy clothes, teenage, low self-esteemed and full of wonder and life. You were so strange and pretty with your piercing eyes and your anarchist attire. I couldn’t help but look at you, wonder where your mind was off to. I must have seen you before, but never noticed you before this deeply contemplative moment. You looked straight back at me with clear eyes. At that moment my petty low self-esteem seemed to vanish under the weight of a mature reference from the future, which I would only find out about several years later.

In this small country full of microclimates, micro-space-time continuums everything connects to everything and so we continue to wait until the connection is made, girls painting nails, reading horoscopes and smoking tobacco, while boys run around spending the money they’re making.