Tag Archives: sociology

A Word.

contemplative essays, , , , ,

There is nothing else like an unhappy woman.

A man who is unhappy turns to escape. He drinks heavily. He watches porn. He spends a lot of time in crowds.

A woman who is unhappy gets out of bed at the start of her day and tears into it like a Sherman tank. She spends alternately little or significant time on her appearance, depending on which people are likely to see her during the working hours. When she comes in contact with others, the first thing she notices are the flaws – in everything around her. And, then, she attacks.

These attacks may be verbal, even confrontational, but not necessarily. Sometimes, they come in the form of the casual reference, done quietly as an aside; at others, full on, in your face accusation. Either way, equally deadly.

This is her pattern. Perhaps this pattern is the result of the role power has played in her life. The function of woman couched since time began in social expectation, even the emerging females of this fledgling generation can bear the imprint of those who came before. She finds herself in a convention – be it a job, or a marriage, or a locale – recognizes that she is neither satisfied nor content, yet sees no clear path toward change. Leaving would upset too many other people – children, employees, friends and their families – to whom she would then be beholden. And, perhaps the woman might just be programmed to keep the village running smoothly. Or, maybe she is paralyzed by fear – fear of the unknown, of forces stronger than she might be. Forces like those which might present in the form of superior competence. Though she has been granted power of position, she finds nothing in herself from which to draw strength. So, she spends all her energy trying to endure.

And, as for meeting personal need, well, a woman is far likely to defer self-care in favor of self-promotion. So, passing moral judgment is a form of succour to the unhappy woman, such an act temporarily shifting the spotlight away from self-examination and, ultimately, self-nourishment. She is caught in the convention which she either chose, or which was chosen for her. And, she sees no recourse but to live it out to its final breath.

Beware the exerting force of an unhappy woman. She will see to it that those around and under her walk in trepidation, with extreme caution. Spend a brief encounter with such a woman, and her overall effect is likely to be minimal. Spend any significant length of time, however, and feel the burn. The response is actually physiological; the thymus gland, located in the sternum, begins to shrink. The chest feels tight. The heart rate changes. The muscles of the face contract.

Most importantly, be not misled or fooled by ebullient laughter, enthusiasm, charisma; the unhappy woman has polished these traits to perfection. For her, these are merely tools, intended to disarm the uninitiated.

An unhappy woman can wield a major weapon. She can run a whole operation. She can get the job done. And, when it is done, anything living remaining in the room is likely stripped to the bone, entirely and comprehensively exhausted, and at a loss to know why.

Nine times out of ten, the last to know is the woman, herself. She does not recognize who she is or what she has become. She only sees the image she is hell-bent on projecting to the world. If you find yourself in her trajectory, stop; consider your options. Then, move.

In fact, keep moving. You might move toward her, with your arms outstretched. You might gather her to yourself. If you have anything in your heart that is driven to comfort, to compassion, to healing, proceed in her direction. But, prepare to be pricked.

If you need to turn away, do so with courage; in the end, the best course of action is always the one which hurts the fewest among us. Because, unlike any angry man who has ever raged across the terrain of civilization, an unhappy woman has the capacity to destroy the human spirit in a single instant. And, she can do so with just one word.

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© Ruth Ann Scanzillo

2/27/15  all rights. Thanks.

littlebarefeetblog.com

Tanglewoodstock.

classical music, contemplative essays, mystical experience, sociology, , , ,

Summer, 1994. “……..and the people bowed and prayed”………

Well. Not exactly.

But, religious ardour was definitely in the air. And, devotion. And, this time, everybody stayed fully clothed. The blanket which, according to recent review, had been “the price of admission” twenty five years earlier on a flatter (if muckier) patch of land came all dressed, too. Be-decked with wondrous fare, from the simple to the lavish, from fresh fruit and elegant drink to full buffet replete with everything short of the proverbial ice-sculpted swan…..”Woodstock”? Schmoodstock. This was the Tanglewood Festival.

There was grass all around – on the ground, this time – a sheltering tree or two and, at the center, a covered amphitheater instead of the riskier if rustic open-air stage whence the music was sure to come.

But, whence had the people come? This cross-generational throng of celebrants and worshippers, lovers and friends, wearing no ideology on their sleeves (though perhaps a tattoo or two beneath) had left political persuasion at home. They, like Christians gathering to remember the Last Supper, had made their pilgrimage from Everywhere to Lenox, Massachusetts again this summer and I, for the first time, had joined them.

Filtered conversations diffused the atmosphere like sounds in nature. A bit of food, a little drink….

Settled on the ground surrounded at arms’ length and on all sides, our interaction was discreet: a polite smile, an admiring glance. We hadn’t come, after all, to act out. Gone was the urgent need to romp noisily; we weren’t puppies who had to play. Electronic distortion would obliterate neither our consciousness nor our auditory nerves tonight. We needed no illusion, no hallucination. We had brought our collective imagination, now almost fully recovered; we would partake together, and commune without saying a word.

In tempo with the setting sun each flame was lit, from citronella to candelabra. Soon, there were innumerable points of light on this horizon. Don’t get me wrong. Symphony orchestras have been performing breathtakingly live for centuries now, but hardly for or in the company of ten thousand people maybe more, sitting on the lawn. And, maybe ten thousand against two hundred of same isn’t a valid statistical comparison but, from the moment the Maestro turned toward the orchestra, a phenomenal hush blanketed the grass as ten thousand people at once fell absolutely silent.

Now, this was distinguishing. Silence?!

Many lay back to gaze at the sky or close their eyes; others sat casually, clasping their knees, and still others, reminiscent of that by-gone event cocooned themselves in pairs as the music suffused them. And, n.o.b.o.d.y. made a sound. A mystical mass-meditation had descended upon that valley. We had all become part of something greater than ourselves – most of us, this time, with our senses intact.

For those who had taken that other trip in 1969 and now found themselves here, there might be no need to pencil in “Woodstock ’94” and wonder, biting nails, who else and if anyone would show. Since having re-structured their lives, acknowledging the passage of time, the birth of the “re-establishment” and the re-enfranchisement of themselves by having, like, grown up? There might be no rhyme or reason to reconstructing the past just for the record (or, the CD). Enough, perhaps, to – like the man said – just “let it be.”

I’ve been to Altamont, New York. It’s a quiet place. One gets the impression that Altamont likes itself the way it is and would rather have preserved its piece of the earth, or place in the sun, or whatever, from, well, never mind. No; I’ve never been to Woodstock. I wasn’t there in 1969 and, unlike many, I’m sure of it; I was twelve years old. But, like Judy Collins said, in one sense many were there who weren’t counted at all.

There were fourteen counted at the Last Supper. Millions attend the retrospective. That event, considered holy by many, will never happen again. Other, less-than-holy occasions may evolve. Let’s learn to know the difference, and move on.

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© Ruth Ann Scanzillo 1994 all rights reserved. Thank you.

littlebarefeetblog.com

A Twisted Evangelism.

civic commentary, contemplative essays, prose, , , ,

AUGUST 4, 1998

Mom was no saint. She was much like you and me. She cared more about how others saw her than she should have, or than was healthy. A martyr to three very selfish children, she lived in denial. And, the black spot on her lower right calf, to a daughter’s more carnal visual sensibilities, was definitely malignant.

But, no cause for acknowledgement, oh no; there were the more important things to do, like cleaning the house and  keeping up all sincere appearances of pure intent and aspiring godliness. If there was a cancer, it most certainly would not appear on her body and disrupt all her determined efforts to keep the house, the peace, and everybody in the family from succumbing to the onslaught of the enemy and their own, inner corruptions.

The spot persisted, though, as cankers do, and grew, and finally met the resident’s awkward knife and the pathologist’s grim telephone call two days after Christmas. And, Mom met her own mortality as seen through the eyes of her desperate daughter, eyes that would learn to stare down an unforgiving world and develop a canniness for cancers of all kinds.

I am that daughter. In defiance of all previous announcements to the contrary, I am you. Voyeur to The Play of Fools, peering nose-pressed-to-the-looking-glass at a drama not of my own design but double-exposing what binds me to every player-as-archetype in the theater of human absolution. I am Matt Drudge, Voice of Dripping Honey in the Wilderness; President Bill Clinton, the Alleged; Lucianne Goldberg, Mouthpiece of Moral Authority; Monica Lewinsky, Dorothy on the Yello-Brick Path of Least Resistance; Linda Tripp, Recorder of All Deeds Other Than Her Own; and, Kenneth Starr, Public Accountant and Pre-Destined Confessor. Covetousness, greed, lust, slander, back-biting, busy-bodying, face-lifting…an agenda run rampant, germ war already fully precipitating. A twisted evangelism has set up its outdoor tent and all are drawn inside. Current polls indicate that 49% have joined the tour, but feel nothing; 27% don’t care; and, 24% remain unrepentant. But none are immune, and there is no vaccine.

The issue, in subtext, is a feast of moral schism, a feud at the American family reunion. We haven’t a clue what to do about it because it exploits not just the President’s seminal fluid, but all that is seminal to our social consciousness in the face of what is flawed within the system designed to deal with it. Our jargon is rife with the roots of Christian notions long since discreetly discarded: “corruption” (sin); “dishonesty” (broken commandment); “accountability” (confession); “immunity” (absolution). Is it any wonder that Christians are having a prayer fest on the one hand, and a field day on the other? Why?

Because every system (political/social/judicial – let alone religious) is forced, into the spotlight, half-dressed, to face accountability. And, the gavel is passed like a hot potato.

My seeking eye reflects relentlessly on the seemingly-expanding black spot, just beneath Mr. Starr’s left temple, as he smiles ingratiatingly into a world-wide lens. (is it my retina, or can you see it, too?) “it’s just a birthmark; I’ve always had it, ” he might contend. I wonder if, when the final act is selected from among a jury of three scenarios in a test-audience, and the show runs to mixed reviews, and the last print closes at the dollar house, Director Starr, most Independent of All Counselors, might quietly search out his own pathologies. Maybe denial is the best panacea for deadly ills; maybe one martyr is required to save what remains of the day, this protracted, post-adolescent society from its moral maelstrom.

When Mom died, the family cell gave up its nucleus to a virus, and fragmented. Which of us would step up to the bar, swear on a stack of Drudge reports, and likely volunteer?

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© Ruth Ann Scanzillo

August 4, 1998

all rights reserved. Thank you.