9.

So I'm just gonna level with you right now, about a subject that is actually very close to my heart. See, I'm out on the town a lot—playing music with strangers and for strangers (though none of us really are), running around to restaurants and sharpening knives, dickering over prices like a gypsy, and drinking coffee black at any good cafe I come across. I go to shows. I go to bars. I drive and drive, talk and drink and talk, meeting, meeting everyone I can. And listening to people's stories. Listening, and sometimes, soaking up little pieces of their world along with my coffee.

When I talk to folks, I'm all in. I'm not bored, and on the few occasions that I am, I'll straight up tell you. I don't want to waste anyone's time, see. Conversationally, I'm big on eye contact, nonverbal communication, and communication in general. I don't fuck around with my phone unless I'm desperately trying to find a song that is unequivocally appropriate for a given conversation, and even then I'm sure to express that clearly. See, when I talk to you, I realize that whatever secret hidden self that lives within my body, that makes my mind blip little electrical signals and forms my words and so on, is secretly talking with your secret hidden self, almost irregardless of what our brain-blips are conveying to one another. I talk about anything and everything; I talk to people as they are, wherever I find them. Sometimes I talk to men, sometimes women, sometimes kids. I'm not terribly picky. Rarely do I talk to men about what it's like to be a man. It would seem like, for most people who are male, the subject isn't of particular interest. But more frequently, I have the opportunity to discuss with women how they experience womanhood in this bizarro-world we all cohabitate. And you know what? They tell me about it.

Let's see, what is today, Tuesday? Must have been just a day or two ago that I happened to be out playing, and at the end of the night, as I was wrapping up my gear, I happened to notice a young woman, something like my age, mid-to-late twenties, maybe early thirties, talking—uncomfortably—with a man, possibly late thirties to mid-forties. I hesitate to gauge any more specifically than that; I don't care really, because you get the idea. So, there was I, about quarter to one, swabbing out my sax and coiling mic cables, and in front of me about six paces or so was this unlikely couple.

I could tell that despite this man's bringing to bear his most charming advances, the conversation was not going well. The woman wore a look of hopeful despair. It is a look I have seen many times, though not one I've often worn, myself. The look says, “please, for the love of all things holy, and before I have to actually get physically violent with you, leave me alone, you clueless oaf!” Clearly the point of polite conversation had passed some time ago, and the man, probably thinking he had some kind of chance here, pressed on doggedly, talking about shoes, talking about money, talking about stuffed animals—anything so as not to let the poor girl off the wire. He even jockeyed for position, hemming her in with his arm and leaning casually against the wall in something like a not-so-subtle show of dominance. I could sense that one possible next step involved mace, and so, chuckling to myself at what I was about to do, I figured I might as well wade into the fray. I approached from behind the man, who was still talking loudly, and made eye contact with the poor woman.

“Oh my God hi!” I called out to her, stepping past him and interrupting something that sounded like a pre-rehearsed one-man Coke vs. Pepsi debate (give him marks for the effort I suppose). I offered her a warm smile and hugged her to my chest. “I can't believe it's you! How are you? Wow, this is great! How's work? How's your boyfriend?” The man, who initially seemed put off by my approach, was now thinking hard. So hard, in fact, he wasn't talking: miraculum!

Understanding my motives, the woman returned my smile, relief playing out on her features. “Yeah, hi!” She said to me. “I have to talk to my friend, nice to meet you,” she called over her shoulder to the man, as we walked, briskly, away. “Thanks,” she said. “You bet, glad to help,” I said, and then asked, “how are you, by the way?” She froze. I could tell the thought had just occurred to her that I, rather than actually trying to be genuinely helpful or friendly, might merely be exercising my alpha status as the younger, taller, more fitting candidate for courtship. She looked like she wanted to be anywhere but talking to me. The thought made me laugh.

She gave me a confused look. I explained that I was laughing at the idea that she had just exchanged one douche-nozzle for a slightly newer model. I clarified that I had no intentions of sweeping her off her feet or dragging her away to a cave by the hair. I then complemented her hair, which was chestnut-colored and lovely, laughed again, and this time she laughed with me, although I could tell she still didn't know what to think of me.

Few do, at first (and some never really do).

Now, I will say this woman was by no means unattractive. As a man standing around 6'3” without boots—and in addition, being someone who loves to dance—I am drawn, naturally, to those others I meet of some stature. I'd put her at about 5'9” or 5'10”—just a great height for a dance partner. Her hair was soft and flipped up at the ends, she had intelligent eyes, freckles on her cheeks, and an extremely cute nose. Her neck was long and elegant, her hands slender and fingernails painted a quiet shade of blue, and she wore colorful clothes to match her eyes; raiments that did everything to accentuate her hips, and play over the lines of her figure. She smelled not like perfume, but like a woman who's been out dancing for the evening: warm skin, dark wine, and possibly tea-tree oil conditioner. All told, it was a joy to stand next to her.

Now just in case you felt the need just then to start pigeonholing me into some deviant man-corner in your book, my dear (feminine) reader, let me assure you that appreciation is, in fact, the correct thing. Men and women are designed to be attracted to one another. Yes, believe it or not, for a woman or man to find something desirable in the other is by no means a bad thing. It is—dig this—an essential thing, and a beautiful thing. Men and women have been eyeballing one another up and down since before forever, and while that in itself is terrific, it is at this point where things really start to go downhill. See, the way in which we proceed forward at that exact instant is very telling about us as a people, as a culture, and as a sex-crazed institution—for some reason, it seems like the new kind of “normal” is perfectly acceptable to the men I speak with; it's the most natural thing in the world. In fact most men I've talked to about this don't seem to think there's even anything wrong with the way the equation currently sits at all. Most of these guys—certainly most who are my peers, age-wise—will tell you it's simple. Chicks are hot, so you do whatever you need to do to “crack their lady-brain code” and get them to sleep with you. ...Excuse me, what? So they put on airs, they act cocky and assured of their own greatness, they try and erode boundaries from the moment they walk up to a girl. For these men with their man-brains, everything is a tool, a means to one end: the buying drinks, the trying at humor, the downplaying of all the other males out there and the playing up of their own prowess. Just ask any one of them; they'll tell you. They're hot shit. No, really.

But then of course, this dynamic was designed by these men and for them. They are in competition with everything that moves, and the mood reflects that. So they glide about with a singular purpose, knowing in their hearts that these women must surely secretly desire to be hit on...otherwise why would they be here in the joint at all? In their own twisted masculine version of manifest destiny, they see themselves as the great conquerors, the masterful hunters, the Don Juans of the modern day. They are the coolest guys around, and they've got all the best moves.

What they don't got—or even understand the existence of, actually—is the special burden borne by most women from about puberty till well after menopause kicks in. The wanton objectification and the double standard. Most men don't seem to have the first clue what it's like to be at a club in a veritable sea of tools and still try to enjoy oneself, to dance, to drink and enjoy music and chat with friends, let alone meet anyone interesting, without fending off desparate dudes at every turn, these wild, hungry man-bear-pigs out on parade. One begins to see the reasoning behind going out with one's girlfriends—there is, fortunately, still some safety in numbers.

So somewhere along the line, the mysterious force that binds us together, the feeling that quickens our pulse and prickles with something like desire—the energy that attracts and invites us together—was overtaken mostly by something else. The great Dance of couples became a game. A sport. And this troubles me, because it is not, and has never been, as some would term it, a game. When my fellow men talk to me about “having game,” or “working on their game,” often my first fleeting reaction upon hearing this is to want to smack them about the face and head until they wise up.

I will state this once for the record. Neither women—nor men—are objects. They are people, yes, they are unique, surely, and quite often they are phenomenal both in their character and, energetically, there in the room. I should reference Buber's I and Thou here, and reiterate that we must strive, as often as possible in our lives, to maintain a relationship with everything—people, places, and objects—based on mutual respect and love, and not on objectification and manipulation. Though many men do not believe me, there is something to be said for making love to and spending time with someone because you both desire it, and not because you have managed to paint a significantly less-disturbing mask of yourself than the truth would imply, one that is passable enough for another person to stomach spending an evening with.

So to begin with—women, never settle, and men, SMACK! SMACK-WHACK-!

There in the room just then, I sipped my beer and talked with the beautiful person in front of me. I said, “that looked pretty bad, you know, for a barnacle-guy.” She said yeah, it was, and looked at me again. Then she gave me another look that seemed to say, wait a second, you're talking to me like one of my girlfriends, you must be gay. I smiled, but she didn't pose the question. We talked for a while then, about her, her job, her boyfriend, my ex, her ex, my sax, what it's like to live as an almost thirty year-old woman in NH, and what it's like to live as an almost thirty year-old man in NH. Remarkably, the two were very similar. Then, all at once, her friend swooped over in a flash of shortness, blondeness, and unseeming haste, and nearly yanked the both of them off their feet. “I have to go,” she said. “I noticed,” I said. “Safe journey to you.” “You too,” she replied, and, for an instant, it almost seemed like she wanted to stay.

If she had, I would have toasted her to her strength, to her resolve, to her wit, and her desire to remain herself, unchanged by a too-hungry world filled to overflowing with takers.

The greatest joy of the selfless man and the selfless woman alike, is to give selflessly and passionately, to pour oneself out upon the boughs of a worthy and appreciative being who will, in their way, pour back. To attend to their needs, and in so doing, draw closer to them. The greatest joy of this place is to let all the barbs and the thorns abrade us, polish us, until at last we who were diamonds in the rough have become diamonds glittering in the moonlight, pure and shining, able to withstand the worst this life can fling at us and what's more, to reflect back the light of the best. The Sufis call this phenomenon "dying the black death," and celebrate the loss of the ego thus:

"To endure the suffering occasioned by people, one is not oppressed by the harm they do and is indeed no longer hurt by them at all. Rather, one ultimately takes pleasure in it, as one knows all experience must originate from the Beloved, the Most High:

Sweet is the blame for desiring You; So let them blame me for my love of Your memory. Seeing myself to be just like my enemies, I made up my mind to love them, too. May I fare as well with You, As I have fared with them! You belittle me, so I made myself small, But who is more honoured than one thus scorned?

Therefore one sees all abuse inflicted on oneself from the cosmic viewpoint, where all actions are absolved in the action of the Beloved, the Most High. Henceforth does one live by the existence of Truth, sustained by the presence of absolute liberality."

And so I submit to you that the world does not belong to the sharks, or to the jaded, bitter masses who have lost sight of their own brilliance, but rather to those of us who, against all odds, have kept it. We who are fierce in our innocence, who strain against the tide of indolence and apathy to battle mediocrity with each cutting breath.

It's not easy, but there are more and more of us all the time, agents in the shadows, masquerading as musicians, servers, salesmen, secretaries, police—who knows?—and always, with a little work anyway, able to see one another, perhaps indeed to understand one another, for our hearts skip ultimately to the same beat and through them we possess the same decoder rings.

Imagine, if you will, the sacred masculine, before feminism felt the need to tear at its noble throat: the gentle man, full of fire, the peaceful warrior, devoid of ambition, full of simple purpose. See him now, the protector, the honor-guardsman who knows well the right from wrong; the selfless man, the humble man, who expresses himself in word and deed and conducts himself with a supreme dignity. Strong he stands, shoulders back, tall and warm, and he moves with a practiced grace. His charge is the world, and for it he would trade nothing. His manner is direct, and his lips speak sweetly; his very presence ennobles and inspires. History is his teacher, and he is wise, having leaned heavy on its counsel. The arts are his weapon, and he wields them with power, with surety, living on the very edge of self-expression—he has learned to trust the brush, trust his intuition, and as to the Cosmic Dance he knows well the steps. His desire—immediate, all but permanent in the depth of its longing—melts our hearts. His way is free from cunning, his intention free from deceit, and he is free at last from the perils of the self. He is never afraid of his feminine counterpart, but strives instead to honor her in all things.

We knew him, once.

Now see his partner. Lithe, radiant, winged, and wild, she is delicate-wristed, with arched back and wry smile, and her wit is silver and bright, flashing in the heat of her brilliance. Hers is also strength, but flowing, as water—with the green things she resides, the beasts of the field flock to her, and all is sustained by her sweetness. She whose breath creates worlds, the whole of creation she takes in her bosom. Infinite, all-encompassing, she never compromises herself, and she is liquid, taking on the shape and the suffering of everything she touches, healing from the inside. See her tease, see her delight, now, in the long-winding corridors of the mind, see her idle now, at play. The teacher, the maiden, she who mothers all; yet never was there fiercer a foe than she whose loves have been threatened. Nurturer, she spools out music from her hips, unravels herself to nothing, knowing that she is made more whole each time she empties herself. Her words are as a balm, her grace unmatched; so without effort she turns the plans of men to ash, reaches instead to the heart of the universe, her own heart, and fills the day with newness. There is an improvisation that comes only from her womb, a play of light that leaps to her touch, a Cosmic Dance all her own, and she invites all who would dance with her to partake in this profound re-birthing. Knowing her, you will never need another, and yet having known her, you can never be satisfied with another. She is kind, though firm; careful, though fervent; she is the storm spitting white lightning in high summer; fleet-footed and quick-tongued, still she remains the pliant pillar that sustains the world, the vivid spark that gives it life. Hers is pleasure, sensual moans and tinkling laughter: truly, for her pleasure do all the things of this earth strive.

So too, we remember the sacred feminine...sweet Goddess, how we loved you!—now hidden, though still quietly making her way; how well she might fill her station, but for petty men in a world of petty men.

The question is, what will it take to remember ourselves, the way we were meant to be? Is it music, is it art? What will change this world, so that in the evenings, men and women will come together and dance once more, free from the stigmas that have attached themselves to our should-be complementary sexes? Speaking as a man, I dislike talking to a woman and having to prove I'm not another slovenly idiot. Speaking as a woman might, I certainly dislike having to wade through a sea of slovenly idiots to find anyone worth speaking to.

What do we do, people? Let us celebrate our differences, support our common struggles, and most of all I think, let's all punch the next asshole who smugly says they're "working on their game.” Remind them with a nice fat shiner that people are not objects. Just one idea. I mean it can't hurt (not that much anyway).

I long for our renewal. I wait, breath held but lightly, for the time when we might know one another by our deeds, and not our given genders; by the light glittering in our eyes, and not the awful suspicion, too soon proved true, that we ultimately do not care for one another. Let our interactions be joyous again, let our hearts feel for one another again. May we beautiful women and men together find one another in the great Dance, as it was, as perhaps it will be again.