Let’s face it, men and women are completely different, no real news there I know – I just don’t want to feel bad anymore because I want to fight and fuck, well not so much the fighting thing because I hate being punched in the face, but I do love a good fighting film and here lies the topic of this blog.
We men are wild, deep down something primal sits waiting to be set free – as Steve Biddulph put it in his book “Manhood” “We are like Tigers raised in a zoo, confused and numb with huge energies untapped”.
“We are generations of men raised by women” – as stated by many including of course Fight Club.
Back in the day, men went to work and mothers raised the kids. Fear of being accused of something evil eventually drove the majority of men away from teaching and other areas of child development. Without men in the schools male energy started to be deemed as something that needed to be controlled, ADHD was invented and with a name, a “condition” we can now drug it.
Us men looking back at the wars we have started, the pain we have caused and with constant statistics thrown at us in regards to domestic violence and sexual abuse started to believe that maybe there is something wrong with us and we began to paint ourselves with the same brush.
We lost our mojo.
But this of course is ludicrous. To paint myself as a monster just waiting to be unleashed upon the world because a small handful of other men have acted as monsters… That’s a fucked up way of thinking.
I’m no monster, but I am wild.
Take the typical home. Most have the “woman’s touch” everything around us is sterilised and feminised – I know this from experience as a builder, where 97.3% of the time it’s the woman’s call around the home as to what gets done and how it gets done.
What part of the home does the man control? The TV! Come on, you know it’s true. And what do we watch on it? Men being wild! Action movies, sport, playing violent video games and in the old days before the internet, porn.
This is it. This is our wild, just like that tiger in the zoo but given a small window he can look through that shows what he really wants, just enough to keep him alive but at the same time to slowly torment him. We don’t actually live, we escape.
There’s no one to blame here. We’ve done this to ourselves and we sit there wondering way we’re so fucking depressed?!
I don’t want to spend my life escaping; I want to live, truly live.
To find my mojo, I need to find my wild.