Long term committed

With so many marriages ending in "I don't want to anymore", one wonders whether when women talk about being in long term committed relationships they are making an observation on how long the relationship has, as a matter of fact, lasted so far, or whether they set out with the intention of ensuring things got to that point. It's not that the men are off the hook in this state of affairs. After all, if men can't commit or won't commit or both at the same time (it makes little difference; the result is always the same), it is triumph even for women to achieve a long term committed relationship, something more traditionally guaranteed by prisons and mental hospitals. Impolite are inmates--those who rate a life sentence--who talk amongst themselves about having "got the bitch". What must their women make of them? Some bargains are not worth having.

The smart money has always been on Jean-Jacques Rousseau and proto and post anthropologists everywhere: it is incumbent on women to secure the cooperation of their men to stand by them for the raising of their young.

The only certain thing about offspring, Rousseau tells us, is the mother. Paternity, he thought, is a mug's game. Not surprising come from a man who was himself a serial philanderer with several illegitimate children, none of whom did he raise or support in any way. Of course a man other than Rousseau might be swayed to "do the decent thing" and settle down with the mother of a child on the way by some regard for his reputation, if he were at all motivated by other people's opinions. If not, there was always the chance that a woman might appeal to his vanity after the fact--announcing that the child looks like the father. Or when things got really promiscuous in the 1970s, there was the paternity test that could add credibility to the name recorded as that of the father on a birth certificate. But if he is without morals, even an order of child support can't ensure that his progeny will be looked after. Where have we heard a man say "The kid is not my son!"?

And to Dr Paterniti, with whom I had a fateful interview, I took the test, and, guess what? Oh those dead beat dads!

Comments

Animals and aliens

When you think of Orwell's Animal Farm , you get stuck on the idea of some being more equal than others. But world peace, galactic harmony, the celebration of diversity and the active practice of inclusion are all achieved in science fiction by casting minorities in the role of animals and aliens. Star Trek comes to mind in this regard, where even hippies were disposed of, Federation style, as sensitive dissenting aliens, not forgetting Spock with his pointy ears! And then there were Wookiees, still man's best friend. Viewing animals as humans--anthropomorphizing--or treating different races as aliens, all of this is shape shifting. This shape is my shade, there where I used to stand--that's Steely Dan.

Of course she's not a true red

As the parent of a "ginger", and having red heads on both sides of the family, and having married into two Irish families, I know first hand that ginger covers the whole spectrum from strawberry blonde (to my way of thinking a classic ginger!), to orange (carrot tops), to a real rust red (what my father in law would call a true red). When Pat Todkill first set eyes on his granddaughter, he remarked, "Of course, she's not a true red". For one thing, Emily the Elder lacked freckles on her face and upper body. For another, she really was and is a strawberry blonde. A further observation. Even people with the raven blackest hair have rust red lights--caveman red, soot covered ochre if you like. Woolly mammoth red. Sometimes it takes just the right light to pick out the smoldering ember, but beard and eyebrows tend to incorporate the tell tale ginger strain, like chili pepper in a spice jar of mixed pepper corns. And, of course, brunette...

The city mover beat me to the chicory this evening maybe if I had passed by earlier I could have caught a glimpse of them but they will rise Phoenix like from the close cropped pile of grass and weed and present their brash and uneven beauty once again before the need for carpet and trimming loops of magic made by subterranean rug weavers is once again mandated and duly executed by the city crew in the burnt orange cabs of their ride along mowers browning the backs of their hands and letting the heat weather beat their faces to match the cabs and fulfill some unspoken contract between landscaping and maintenance and the gods of Chance Fortune as ever favouring the bold there will be other routs of the mover before the Summer is done and more rain hopefully if I can contain the fear of thunderheads building and more returns of visible biodiversity Nature never surrenders unconditionally but like a lover choosing her battl...

Search This Blog