Meet my inner man (and my inner voice of fear)
Meet Bob
Recently, in a farmhouse among the forests of inner Ibiza, I sat down with two friends, an older woman and a younger man. I like to call them the Witch of the Void and the Warrior of Light. Dark woman and a shiny man. Shadow and light, flow and presence. They felt like the only two people in the world to be with that night. With the two of them, one on each side, I felt utterly complete and safe, with a little undercurrent of an expectation. Something extraordinary was about to happen and I could sense it. There were candles, and a moment of silence. I curled up on the sofa and shivered under my blanket, but not out of cold.
We had decided it was to be the night of the Masculine and a ritual spontaneously emerged. The two spoke first, strictly from the place of inner manhood, quoting their names and explaining how they see they world and what matters to them. The dark woman’s inner man likes to sit in the forest, under his favourite tree, and meditate. Unlike a lot of other men, he doesn’t really believe in action. Sooner or later, everything will be destroyed. Everything that can be created already has a death sentence written on its face, which is profoundly sad and utterly beautiful at the same time. Because of this, it’s often more interesting to him to sit and listen than to act.
The shiny man’s inner masculine character wakes up early, looks out on his village, his countless children, young and old, from a viewing point in the jungle, then looks to the horizon. He takes in the scent of the beginning day, hanging with the early morning mists above the forest. He already knows this will be a hard day, and he looks forward to it. He throws a leather sack over his shoulder and goes to war, the way he does every morning. The war doesn’t really involve killing anyone, it’s a war with the limits of reality and his own inhibitions.
My inner masculine, or, to be more precise, one of them, is called Bob. The characters described by others, the forest meditator and the war hero, are a bit much for him. Bob is middle aged and has a little pot belly. He hangs out with blokes more like him, usually down the pub after a good day’s work. He doesn’t go to war though, he goes to the office. Which he tends to see as a necessary evil. He wouldn’t even consider meditating in the forest all day though. Who would provide for the woman, who’s a little all over the place, bless her, and the child (read: my inner child) if it weren’t for him? Who would be the stable point amidst the ever-changing storm of visions and feelings (woman), and never-ending tantrums he understands little of to be honest (kid). He does what needs to be done, because that’s what it means to be a man, to him.
The meditator and the hero seem so enlightened, or whatever. Who is he to compete with that, now or ever, really. It pisses him off, if you care to ask, that he’s ended up in one space with them. They don’t seem to care about the things he does. And don’t seem like blokes who’d be into footie either, so no chance for small talk to make the time pass while they’re stuck here together. To hell with this, he’s already sick and tired of feeling inadequate. The whole world seems to be sending him this message, over and over again. And now these two, for fuck’s sake. This won’t be easy, or nice.
As the meeting of the three men progresses, challenges are discussed and advice is sought. Bob’s main challenge is that he is sick and tired of almost everything. Of what his life came to. Not that anybody gave him many other options, mind you. At least he manages to give others, particularly the forest hippie, a little friendly bollocking. Apparently he has had a finished book, unedited, on his laptop for the last ten years (!). It doesn’t seem right to get it out there though, what’s the point anyway since everything will be destroyed, the hippie moans, taking a crap under that tree of his (presumably). Bob doesn’t dig it. I mean, seriously? Bob wishes he had a book to write. But what can he write about, surely not office life or football? He’d rather watch it anyhow. It gives him a little buzz and a sense of being part of something bigger (he lacks in all other parts of life), particularly when the good guys are winning.
Bob feels angry with the hippie and tells him so. Do your thing, man. My kid will surely die one day but does that mean it’s pointless to look after her now, while she’s alive? Do what you’ve got to do or go jump off a bridge, don’t waste people’s time. The hippie listens, clearly intrigued. Nobody’s listened to Bob like this in a while, it feels exciting and warm. Then the jungle tarzan talks about his worry that he intimidates other men. Bloody hell, some people have problems. And so it goes.
Then even more sticky issues are discussed. Sex. Bob hates that one, particularly when it gets personal. Him and his woman, Freya, sleep in the same bedroom, and that’s that. It’s been like that for years, shit knows why. Forest hippie, once he’s taken a crap under his tree (presumably), fucks his woman everyday. Or so he says. Sometimes he jumps on her unexpectedly, she likes that. They often do it in the forest (which Bob can’t really imagine, what with ants down your pants, man?). However, to his relief, things ain’t rosy for the tarzan, either. His missus and him are good companions apparently, they feel safe together, he can rest when she’s around. But no messing about between the sheets, haha, Bob knew it! Long term relationships and sex don’t gel, end of story. Hippie’s probably still in the honeymoon phase, only solitary handjobs after that. In the shower, less mess.
Bob couldn’t even say that he gets to rest with his woman around, bless her soul. She really is all over the place, like the wind. He can’t catch her, he rarely gets her. He hates to admit it, but he wouldn’t know how to please her. He no longer believes that he can. And it kind of doesn’t feel necessary. She seems happy enough with her handmade clay sculptures and her weird rituals, and what have you. He honestly doesn’t know how to be with her. He’s never told anyone that he’s terrified she’ll leave one day and that will be final proof his life really is pointless. At least as it is, he’s got a hint of a sense of a mission. Something to live for. He feels like crying and that makes him angry. Cry for what, loser, for what??
He wishes they could make love like the early days. But he no longer knows how. She is beautiful, he sees that. She can be down in the underworld for months but then she emerges one day, shining, and that makes him scared. How do you handle a shiny woman in bed?
Meet Ferdinand the Great
Who’s in control here? What’s going on exactly? Who let this loser Bob utter a single word? He’s just made an idiot of himself. And who exactly decided it’s ok to talk openly about his misery of a sex life (or, rather, a lack thereof)?! Completely uncalled for. Who would ever want to listen to a guy who can’t get his woman into bed… Tragic. We’ve got to keep up some sort of an image here, no? Why would anyone read a book featuring a shadow of a man. It needs to inspire, right? And so, I recommend some personal branding work for Bob I will take care of, as I’m convinced I’m the most productive out of you lot.
And so, first things first: let’s photoshop the belly out and fill in the bald patch. I like easy wins. Secondly, let’s invent a lover hotter than Freya, a woman who can actually appreciate him for the man he is. Let’s call her Lola. Lola with long legs, long nails, an epic prow and a pout. Everyone wants a Lola, right? Now, we’re getting to a higher ground, an aspirational ground. Next: Bob doesn’t get overwhelmed when other men speak. At the very least, he never shows it or starts blabbing like an idiot in the hope that someone will hear him out. Let’s position him as the quietly confident type. With an air of sophistication. Maybe a sprinkle of a good cologne or, better, a discreet shine of a Rolex, would help. And a little spray on tan. There you go, much better. And why Bob? If you ask me, the branding expert, I would introduce the guy as George, or even Napoleon. Let’s give this miserable piece of shit a bit of a royal glow. It makes him a little bit more trustworthy right away.
And no idiotic, embarrassing banter! If he doesn’t know what to say, or whether what he is about to say is going to be received well and contribute to his image, let him be silent. Or all my hard work here can crumble to dust in a matter of minutes. Bloody hell, if it wasn’t for me, keeping this ship upright, god knows what would happen. Honestly, no one here can be trusted. No one but yours faithfully. And who ever thanks me? Without me, none of this shit would hold together.