We all consider that there are significant differences between the sexes. Indeed, we often each insist the other is crazy. And of course that’s not the case. Us fellows are quite sane. Albeit in a combative, world-annihilation, shag our own sister after enough pints kind of way. But who doesn’t get that? Fucking loonies. Now, of course we are dissimilar. Our entire make-up is distinctly different – we tend only to go for the brylcream and lynx at most. Bio-chemically, physical attributes (which seem to be evening themselves out more and more as society strives toward a more economically viable medium), and often emotionally – you know how guys simply cannot deal with the sniffles – we vary greatly from one another.
It’s there for all to see without having to resort to feeble methods of personal identity: the adoption of cultural roots from regions of the world alien to us. Flocking to a specific pocket amid the cosmopolitan texture of a civilization like inconvenient fluff statically fixed between the more independently prominent strivers for unity.
But in terms of partnerships are the gender variances truly relevant? Or do we fall into specific roles? The Yin and Yang of a perfect union. Isn’t it the same for all alliances, regardless of the intended product? Music, comedy, procreation, even religion (imagine the self-righteous sods trying to sell the word of God without the poor Devil acting as His alter-ego. Never would have worked. God would have just come across a vindictive wanker). All the successful unions consist of a dominant personality and a submissive one. However they are interpreted: straight guy and funny guy, good cop and bad cop, Pinky and the Brain, the roles are distinctive. And when the balance is right the relationship works.
It even manifests itself physically. The stereotypical gay relationships in the cases of both genders – butch and effeminate. Man and woman, as we are propagated to believe. And for same sex couples of less clichéd appearance, undoubtedly one member of the partnership adopts certain attributes less inclined within the nature of the other – work ethic, aspiration, sartorial or domiciliary pride…
But as time passes does the relationship take on its own identity? Governing the roles of its inhabitants. Moulding each character to maintain the equilibrium of the sphere. Shifting the dominant figure back and forth depending upon emotional well being or to facilitate unambiguous responsibilities.
Man becomes woman, who becomes man. The metaphysical aspect will always sound on the tossy side unfortunately. But it occurs all too often. The late worker adopts the characteristics attributed to the 1940s husband. And the home-worker is the ‘wife’. Especially poignant in emotive instances: any low or depressed period misshaping the Yang and the Yin will seize control. Should the man suffer a crisis, the roles become reversed. The whole dynamic spiralling out of control until you have a scenario where she’s standing over him impatiently scratching her labia through well-worn navy blue suit trousers while he cowers below remonstrating on loveless relationships and complaining of cramps.
It’s all been documented. Pigmallion. Higgins and Dolittle. In the end their established roles or identities begin to falter and shift. Even Pinky’s simplicity can outshine Brain’s sizeable intellect (though it’s obviously a metaphor for man’s foolish assumption that his head should necessarily know better than his penis).
So in the complete package, personal identity is lost. Or possibly found. Perhaps this is what’s meant by the philosophical principle of the human ‘soul’ having been split in two upon reaching the earth, resulting in our principal constraint to seek out the other half to which we belong and reform in a union of majestic serenity? Or may be we’re too lazy, too trusting and too expectant. So once we’ve ensnared somebody for the main purpose of gratifying us when we feel restless, we gradually palm off the stalwart strengths of initial attraction. Slowly succumbing to Delilah’s grooming shears without realising it until eventually she looms above you sporting a mighty beard constructed from your shaven locks and an entire roll of sellotape.
It’s there for all to see without having to resort to feeble methods of personal identity: the adoption of cultural roots from regions of the world alien to us. Flocking to a specific pocket amid the cosmopolitan texture of a civilization like inconvenient fluff statically fixed between the more independently prominent strivers for unity.
But in terms of partnerships are the gender variances truly relevant? Or do we fall into specific roles? The Yin and Yang of a perfect union. Isn’t it the same for all alliances, regardless of the intended product? Music, comedy, procreation, even religion (imagine the self-righteous sods trying to sell the word of God without the poor Devil acting as His alter-ego. Never would have worked. God would have just come across a vindictive wanker). All the successful unions consist of a dominant personality and a submissive one. However they are interpreted: straight guy and funny guy, good cop and bad cop, Pinky and the Brain, the roles are distinctive. And when the balance is right the relationship works.
It even manifests itself physically. The stereotypical gay relationships in the cases of both genders – butch and effeminate. Man and woman, as we are propagated to believe. And for same sex couples of less clichéd appearance, undoubtedly one member of the partnership adopts certain attributes less inclined within the nature of the other – work ethic, aspiration, sartorial or domiciliary pride…
But as time passes does the relationship take on its own identity? Governing the roles of its inhabitants. Moulding each character to maintain the equilibrium of the sphere. Shifting the dominant figure back and forth depending upon emotional well being or to facilitate unambiguous responsibilities.
Man becomes woman, who becomes man. The metaphysical aspect will always sound on the tossy side unfortunately. But it occurs all too often. The late worker adopts the characteristics attributed to the 1940s husband. And the home-worker is the ‘wife’. Especially poignant in emotive instances: any low or depressed period misshaping the Yang and the Yin will seize control. Should the man suffer a crisis, the roles become reversed. The whole dynamic spiralling out of control until you have a scenario where she’s standing over him impatiently scratching her labia through well-worn navy blue suit trousers while he cowers below remonstrating on loveless relationships and complaining of cramps.
It’s all been documented. Pigmallion. Higgins and Dolittle. In the end their established roles or identities begin to falter and shift. Even Pinky’s simplicity can outshine Brain’s sizeable intellect (though it’s obviously a metaphor for man’s foolish assumption that his head should necessarily know better than his penis).
So in the complete package, personal identity is lost. Or possibly found. Perhaps this is what’s meant by the philosophical principle of the human ‘soul’ having been split in two upon reaching the earth, resulting in our principal constraint to seek out the other half to which we belong and reform in a union of majestic serenity? Or may be we’re too lazy, too trusting and too expectant. So once we’ve ensnared somebody for the main purpose of gratifying us when we feel restless, we gradually palm off the stalwart strengths of initial attraction. Slowly succumbing to Delilah’s grooming shears without realising it until eventually she looms above you sporting a mighty beard constructed from your shaven locks and an entire roll of sellotape.
5 comments:
Hi. Self-righteous sod here. Not impressed.
That was so deep, and profound and so deeply profound. The end result is that we are always seaching for that missing bit of ourselves.
It is the 1st of April isn't it?
"shag our own sister" ???
Don't think so - should we be worried about you?
Oh, and I believe Pygmalion is the reference you're looking for.
You might have something here. My grandad used to be a roaring drunkard with a submissive wife at home bringing up the kids. Now the old ratbag restricts him to two cans a night and spends almost every waking hour making his life a misery of dusting, cooking, bingo, and Catherine Cookson DVDs. He wouldn't have put up with her lip twenty years ago, now he's a broken man and she's triumphed.
Worrying to think about if you have a seemingly submissive other half ... when is she going to turn?
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