I had a dream a few nights ago about pain and war and raising a family. None of these ideas cohere, really, but here are some post-waking remnants of thought that eventually, after a few minutes, evanesced a bit like smoke in a high-ceilinged, well ventilated room.
To whom does a man say “I’m in pain” these days? His kids? No, they’re to be 100% shielded; their world is the future. Wife/girlfriend? Maybe, I suppose, but it’s always fraught; with enough prodding they will eventually desire stronger, higher status men, their princess-day vows and protestations and fake “unconditionality” notwithstanding...I mean, eventually even the feminists will turn away though we know they already have. A boss or co-worker? You’re fired! or passed over. Social media? Even cannibals will eat less of you. Other dudes? Maybe not in this weak age. Anyway, other men should generally be brothers and partners not therapists or confessors. Only one vector remains I think: inward deeply, like Augustine or Buddha or Montaigne, though none of these were warriors (well, Montaigne did serve at the siege of Rouen)...then out...out to the world, like the steppe Khans with horse and bow and a vast continent opening in front or maybe like the scourge of the North Sea, complete with longboat and axe and seax and spear. F’n McClay, and Goldmund, had it right all along but maybe I already knew it; idk. Thus sprouts the toxic, stoic myth of men, of course, but none who are not men or God can really judge any of this and I submit judgment of me, now, to me and God alone. My kids can vote, if they want, but I own the deciding one.
Even my second coffee could not shake me of the faint scent of the saddle or of the North Sea and polished seax. I fold laundry, now, and complete a dishwasher load. Then I oil my four seax with a fine textured mineral oil that is well-matched to their carbon steel.
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