Masculinity

Alcohol dissolves the body and leaves only the mind intact. It floats around the room musing at itself, grinning and gurning with a smug look on its face; filled with self- importance.
Lately the urge to write has only welled up in me when I’ve been inebriated. Actually to be fair to myself the only times I’ve have had the opportunity or inclination to write has been in the wee dark hours of the morning and whisky just happens to be the catalyst.
Tonight my musing is on man-hood. A lot of my intellectualising is often spent on documentaries of times long past, Romans and Greeks and what-not. I am something of a geek. My geekiness only stretches to a few subjects. Generally these are physics, astronomy and of course ancient history. Although my mind can be pulled in different directions inadvertently I find myself returning to these disciplines. I’m lured back to the cradle of civilization or the quantum world or the glorious magnitude of the universe.
These glories capture my imagination. I wonder at the philosophies that are inspired by the laws of thermodynamics or special relativity. I’m humbled by the concept of infinity and the modern theories of physics that elevate maths into the stratosphere; giving it the un-attainability of a religion, demanding a faith in the numbers, knowing that a tangible proof would be impossible.
But more often than not I return to the classical world; the Roman emperors, the Greek generals and the Hebrew leaders of Biblical legend. These times are shrouded in myth and third generation hearsay. Story-telling, finally put down on paper after being passed on, word of mouth, for decades or sometimes centuries. Exaggerated self-interest and in later times retrospective politicising. These tales are our histories, these people are our forebears and more importantly these people are us; stripped of our sensibilities and good manners, they show us ourselves in simpler times. They show us ourselves in times when people knew themselves. Their place in the world, the limits of their aspirations; what they could hope to achieve within the confines of their particular reality.
The Roman emperor was a God and could be worshiped as such; the lowly slave had to content himself with his life of servitude. He lived on his wits and the philanthropy of others for his success. Winning one's freedom was possible. You could buy your way out of servitude or in some cases fight your way out of it.
The Gladiators of old were slaves. Bought and traded but within the arena they could become Gods earning more than a soldier yearly salary for a single fight. Scarcely more than animals, vermin in civil society, they were lusted after by noble women. A bit of rough yet idolised for their bravery but more to the point their masculinity; their manliness, their man-ness.
We have nothing to compare nowadays. Fighting in the street is shameful, chavy. Nowadays we are above that. We should know better but we are still weighed down with the concept of being a real man. How now do we prove our worth?
In days gone by we could have fought in the arena or on the battle field; sword to sword, nose to nose and claimed our honour. Today the battles are mired in political controversy, hindered by rules and concepts of humanity. We can fight but we become political pawns or charity cases when the worse comes to the worse. Sob stories cast down at the feet of politicians. The art of war, of manly pursuits reduced to apologetic sound-bites of respect and regrets.
What have we left? We can still fuck. We can be that guy, the conqueror of innocence and chastity. We can dominate the pussy if we so choose. We can be the cock, the romantic hero, the lover. Or we can strut and barge and brag; blast the world with our confidence and alienate others that way if that is our preference. Bluster our way through, clinging to our manhood by our fingertips.
How, in this complex feminised world, can we re-establish ourselves; regain our status as protector and pillar, breadwinner and foundation.
The question really is... are we really needed anymore?
Have we just become a shoulder to lean on? Have we become merely an ear to listen silently to our women’s fears and needs? Are we only sounding boards as they talk themselves into a decision or play out their psycho-babble? What is our role now? No more are we the hunters or protectors; brow beaten and chastised we question ourselves; question our man-ness. We dismiss it as macho bullshit.
From beneath my weights I don’t want to dismiss it. We are men, we are man! This world is built on our shoulders and our legacy has brought us to this sanitised, feminised, moment in history. Our success is in danger of rendering us obsolete and bringing us to the brink of extinction. We’ve managed to fashion a world that scarcely needs us and now we have the daunting task of finding our place in it.
Yes, I can fuck. Yes, I can fight if need be. My muscles are strong and in them is a cultural memory of toil and hardship. My DNA has fought to be here today. Countless generations of battles and victories have preserved my essence. The blood that flows through my veins, in times gone by, has soaked the earth as it’s wrestled for its survival. These victories aren’t forgotten; they pulse inside of me. They fuel me. They wait for the moment when they will be called upon again. Ready, as history turns, and we, once again, can rise to our birth rite.