Woman on women. Part 1.

Oh man, some women are such a pain the ass!

They are difficult to befriend, work with, walk with, walk towards, open up to, look at. They say this and then say that. They compare asses. They collect shoes. For me, women are these formless beings which appear in my life, waiting behind the corners, waiting for me to stumble and break my neck.

Let me be even more direct. I am afraid of women.

And I have a very strong feeling that they have the same emotions about me since I have a rather masculine approach. I am not picking at their tits or asses, no, that was not what I meant. I mean that I have quite high moral, physical and mental needs. Is that ONLY masculine?!  I do have a perverse pleasure in seeing  dangling tits and tilting asses walking around. I also have lowered my expectations and strengthened the standards by now. There is no need hitting the wall head first.

“My women” always take a different form and dissipate every time I address them directly.

I made it to my 30th anniversary recently (An overwhelming wave of applause coming towards me!!  I thank you! And thank God as well, now I am closer to THE END!) and the fact that I am having a hard time sharing life with women is still curious for me.

I guess this is because of the past experiences. We expect to get what we have already known. We also have as many personalities as many people we interact with.

I have different voices for different women I meet.

The voice talking to my sister is an attentive, not completely trustful (past and recent bruises) I would say avoiding, but still very interested and open in case she is also  opening up, looking for a real connection. I can also feel her tension and apprehension(she has a life!) and my voice starts to respond to that, not to what she might be saying. The voice is also sometimes taking a I-Know-it-Better tone which for the sister might be off putting but useful for me since I don’t know any other way how to interact with her.(But I do know better!) We have different interests also.The voice talking to her wears  a protective layer, ever since we were little. I don’t know why!? She is autonomous in all ways, no need for my almighty presence! Maybe my behavior was compensatory for that which we both missed, an almighty female presence. Oh yeah, we all need a women in our lives!

The voice talking to my mother is loving, open, comprehensive, Freudian, at times weary. Basically, it is a scared voice. At times I hear the What-NOW! voice. At time the Here-we-go-again voice. At times Are-you kidding- me voice. When talking to my mother I have to take into account so many aspects and what- ifs that in the end I might as well say nothing. When I say nothing she get worried. When my mother gets worried it is better to wear a protective shield. I like to wear the Bring -the -shit -on shield. Let’s deal with it!

The voice talking to my grandmothers, from both masculine and feminine sides, does not exist. I have never spoken directly with them, or they have never addressed me in a direct way. There has always beeing a filter, an adult that would translate what I might have meant. Do you find this strange? I don’t. I did not trust them since they the did not even try to get to know my real voice. I know that one has to have a lot of patience and adapt their language when talking to old people, even more if they are part of La Famiglia, one has to show a lot of (not merited) respect and be servile. These are things I refuse to do if the other side ignores my very presence. I don’t want to jump up and down or impress them with my life story before they could notice me. My mother’s mother was a tough warrior. That is why my mother, at her turn, got out of the relationship with her mother, with a cracked soul and numerous unmet human needs. One of them is called real presence and compassion.

When visiting this grandmother I used to wear a steel shield and shut my mouth up. But my eyes and ears stayed open. A strange impulse used to take over my senses, my mind, my hands when in the presence of this particular grandmother(and mother as well).  It was the impulse to do everything  contrary to what she prefered. To what she ordered. I am sure there is a psychological term for this. Oh yeah, it is called OCD (Obsessive- Compulsive Disorder) or the Doubting Disease. I had that. Still comes over me sometimes. Want an example? One time we were visiting her. Imagine a traditional moldovan village. Imagine a basic village,OK?  Well, it was winter and I needed to use the toilet. It was cold. There were no in house toiles on that planet. I had to go outside. But I don’t know why did the grandmother have to specify ,as if I did not know , “don’t do it in the yard!” Which for me meant: Do it in the yard! I found a place, inside a big corrugated container which was lounging outside, and did it. Mission accomplished. She somehow discovered it. The voice of an old woman screaming at me is not my prefered sound. My father’s mother never looked into my eyes. Don’t recognize a voice for her.

The voice talking to my aunts is also on mute. Any time we met, years ago, when I would come home during the academic holidays, there was the danger of encountering one of them. They usually asked me if I have a boyfriend, if yes, when exactly will I get married. I had no plans in that direction. I used to think: What the fuck do you want from me?! Leave me alone creature of the darkness!  It was a frozen subject in my family. Also a frozen subject in my soul. That is why I never had one. Yeah, right! you might think, this one is trying to pass for the purity of nature. But it was so.

The voices of these aunts were not very interested to know what am I doing for real. They would start talking about their problems  immediately after. I can’t find any connection that would lead me to talking to these voices.

Oh god, I still don’t know how to do the aunt -genre, these piranha set free!


The voice talking to same aged women whom I might work with is a neutre voice. I take the position of an understanding, open to talk about what they want, accepting, non judgmental human being. I am not interested in coffee/beer /men =pigs/nails/ dress or pants/alla sex in the city talks. That is such a barrier for many (most) of them. But I choose an understanding attitude, which is not understood. Women are most likely to talk to someone who shares the same neurosis, and usually we don’t.  I try to understand and go through neurosis which is uncomfortable and icky. It took me years to arrive to a point when I have accepted myself. My voice is still in formation.

The voice talking to italian women is a whisper. I am afraid of what I hear. Walking down an Italian street today, and listening, is a disturbing experience. I hear chimneys talking. I hear strident, demanding sounds. I open my eyes to look at what I see. I see these dark creatures, dry as sun dried tomatoes. Coughing sun dried tomatoes. I see succulent watermelons, I see cabbages, I see tall celeries waving their frail hair in the wind.


Yes, I see nude onions as well.

Most of them have a cigar hanging in their lipsticked mouth. I close my eyes fast but keep listening.

I hear spanish, desperate romanian or mouth-full-of-bread romanian, african languages I don’t recognize, I hear all types of Italian…

God help me.



To  be continued…



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