A tiny
puzzlebox, gilded and jammed with intricate gears and fly wheels and
movements that no man can ever really fathom, stands dazzling, a noon day sun to blind eyes. How can he relate to the ocean of emotion that hides behind the desires he rides like waves? A
glass bottle has no concept of
depth. The whirring, buzzing fantastically
complex machinata of woman is his to admire, to seize upon, to
worship from far and near. No
wonder the compulsion to place it on a pedestal. Cave man
logic before a cosmologically infinite possibility device. We have no real hope to see, at least with eyes.
No, to serve
woman, you must try to understand woman. You cannot truly learn, nor anticipate, but you must
empathize. This is of utmost
importance. Hope is womanhood. In all things, they have hope. All women are
futurists in their heart of hearts. Know this and you begin to understand.
Consider a
butterfly lotus. What practical use is this alien construction to savage Nature? Thin petals are weakness. They tax the leaves, strain the roots, represent the final great growth of a season. Flowering is a
mad enterprise, but it represents a long term view. The bee thinks only of
nectar, the tiny window between sun and moon, of collecting, amassing, digesting, returning, plundering,
owning. The frames of time
belie the gulf between their minds. The Bee-man, concerned with lapping nectar and moving on, and the Lotus-woman, dreaming of the
Springs her seeds will see far in the distance. In all things, this mismatch of minds is
true between man and woman. It is fundamental.
Mismatched perspectives are a
boon and a
plague to humanity. Men dream of
soft women, never seeing the true iron behind their eyes. The million little compromises they make everyday against their
dreams of tomorrow. Women dream of hard men, never seeing the
desperation behind their thoughts, of the blind groping from problem to solution that leads them invariably down an
unknown path. Goals shift for everyone.
Thus is born the magic of
sex. Within it, boundaries are blurred wonderfully. Lines between bodies become indefinite, mingled sweat and clawing fingers, and sweet blood coursing into flushed
flesh. The feathering of
viewpoints is like clambering up a great mountain to consider the sea beyond, and it gives
men a moments taste of the distant
horizon, while in the same breath, dragging the women into the
now of physical lust, thinking of only the next
tiny moment. For the briefest interval, we live between
Sodom and
Gomorrah, in the desert, only the sand and ourselves to tear into, Lords above be
damned.