It's easy to say privacy is dead but deception ain't goin no where, deception has alway been a public event in that it requires participation. I mean, women spend a lot of energy defending themselves and men spend a lot of energy protecting themselves. Both require deception. I mean protection is private and defense is public and misty eyed. I mean manhood is dead, not privacy, because a man is a private thing jammed between his gazes and his lies. They say slavery is dead but that's a private lie or euphemism for why manhood is dead, as thing / as private / as evermore. I've been trying to perceive the differences by looking scandal in its soft administrative eyes, wherein ministers of the divide between appropriate and appropriated believe that public morals can roll up on a ghost and absorb its essence and save yours if they know how to hide in the breach of locked eyes, that phantoms live on your anxieties and why would you apologize for having survived manhood. We accuse man's failure of success and that is the deepest scandal of all.
I heard a loud belligerent woman proudly defending her agony, put your hands on me again, put your hands on me again, and made my eyes into a quiet bravo as she walked out on her pimp once and for so long and he could have cried but he had his other minds to retreat to. My life is all performance, a woman admits, while her man tries to clone his scorn in pride. Something dies when your faith in that thing dies, no sooner, no later. What liberation to no longer believe a man can do anything but plan for his next life one phantom, one numb matinee fantasy at a time. What freedom, to be there before it happens since privacy tricks the imagination into holding back what satisfaction disappearance has become when it means shape shifting, being absorbed into a higher self that only scandal will recognize.
