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2006-09-18 - 7:38 p.m.

To be a man is a paradox.

One hand is strength. Through the shoals of adversity and long, gray days of heavy toil, there is the expectation to raise your head up, to indicate among one's fellow men and women that while despair is not shameful, you will be damned if any thing can drag you down so far that the mind is numbness and the heart a craddle of capitulation.

While a stereotype, the conventional notion is flawed, for perseverence and charity of the noble spirit is as an iron rod to strike, to build, to extend out into a new somewhere, someway, somehow. It is the patois of character and not fists that governs this open, powerful, pulsing hand.

I would like to believe I am strong when I need to be.

The other hand is compassion. Strength alone will not develop a community, touch a mind, nor raise a child or others up from the dusty ground of ignorance and reaction. It is misunderstood because it sometimes misses. There is an agreement necessary for the role of mercy, and enlightenment, and just not being a punk-ass bitch.

A balled fist that only strikes will break. An open hand that applies no pressure is rarely felt.

And somewhere in between, yet at either extreme, yet nowhere near the field at all, there is some idealized notion of the character of being a man. It is more powerful than position or rank because, as death comes, it is those two hands that made everything that anyone can see. They become plain when life cakes off and is brushed away from them.

* * *

Lately I have felt a powerful emotion, and my all too often sense of serene stoicism sways, a tree caught in a sudden storm that fell from nowhere. I don't deny it. I can't. I am too old and weary to lie to myself anymore, not about something like this.

It is the quality of foolish hope that is as much invigorating as frustrating. I have been here before and said too much. I have been here before and said nothing. I suppose what I never really did was just let flow what needed to. I failed to do that first, too. This is something I've often failed at. There was no nobility, only desperation. I feel none of that here, but I wonder if it comes across that way anyway.

Yet I have conviction that the earnestness of this call is not in vain. I have hope. I feel like a goddamn fool waiting the market squares and cave-knit cafes, but I am patient. I always have been for what seemed the most important.

And you were just that, long after you left while I worked through all the shit here by myself. You are just that.

Obviously there's a lot to resolve. Sometimes at night I'll wake up, like I used to back in the day, and just wonder. I hate what you did, what I saw. It was selfish and it tore me up inside. It fucked me up for a long time, beyond a long history of similar things fucking me up. Still had been. Still kinda does. As much as I say this or that, or the general fact that I love the hell out of you, I also can't deny a deep resentment and anger. You did me wrong.

Partly I wait just to know why.

But mostly I wait because, somewhere in my head and heart, you just click.

On some level it's unreal and perhaps scary, to where I wonder if it's just my memory playing tricks on me.

But you just click.

Who knows: you may be with someone; you may not feel the way you used to. I might have perceived things incorrectly this whole time, lost in the rhyme scheme where the snare drum was somehow a whisper. I've done that before, wouldn't be surprised if I did again.

Wouldn't be surprised if my confessional or pursuit backfired or backfires. I don't know what it is to be a normal man in these ways. I only say what I mean, and hope that love wins out over bullshit just this once.

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