DABOISASTRGLEDT – Ivaniel “Ivo” Georgiev
DABOIS, don’t take the title as a joke. I must say that morning wood is pretty hard, man: pretty darn hard to replicate (let alone claim you have it all the time). I also know this isn’t the “phrase” edition, but I came up with a sentence that will introduce you better to what I’m cooking today:
“I want to die like Charles Bukowski, but not in the way Charles Bukowski lived and died. I want to be like Meursault, but not in the way Meursault was. I want to have a life as meaningful as Jesus Christ’s, but not in the way Jesus Christ lived.”
I wrote that at 2 a.m., and I still mean it. That’s where this piece ends up – now you know where we’re going; the question here is how we get there.
What I want to share next is deeply personal. So personal, in fact, that nobody might even care; yet, at the same time, it is a universally shared suffering. We massively neglect it, ending up as hostages of our own minds while paying the price for living completely free in this free world.
Nevertheless, I’ll pour out my thoughts in the next ±20 minutes of reading. As the title suggests, today I’ll be talking about what it means to be a man, or rather, what I understand by “masculinity” and what defines a man as a man – besides the “handle” that any woman can grab onto in times of trouble. It’s a cheap joke, but what are men really good for? Eventually, we all fall into the same categories, even if we tend to believe otherwise.
Yet, even the exact same recipe tastes different depending on where you find it. If a favourite dish disappoints you once, you don’t stop loving it. Imagine a dish you adore, your universal go-to. Ordering it requires a silent contract: you trust the process, you observe, you evaluate – at least, I do. And while this text addresses men, my genuine hope is that women apply the exact same logic. Now, take that favourite dish and give it a face, a gender. Voilà. You have a human. A human who is your favorite or at least should be. Except here, choosing “the favourite” is a matter of survival and legacy. The tragedy of modern society is its absolute artificiality – it’s not that we manufacture our hardships, calling them ‘success’ or ‘trauma’ to force a sense of meaning; while they may be true, almost always we tend to create a story around them, making them worthy of a feature picture. That is why, in a world of endless choices, finding your favourite ‘flavour’ of human has become our greatest challenge.
My point is, at one point, a man imagines who he wants to be. The problem is that very few look at who they actually are right now. The same goes for women who see what they have in front of them and fiercely refuse to accept it – never stopping their search for the hero from their favourite book or movie, or the one who can at least provide enough to satisfy the lack of such.
You’ll probably say that every man knows himself well but doesn’t reveal it to the world – precisely because he is a man. If he’s honest, though, a man would tell you he knows nothing real about his life. And he would most likely be exaggerating. But does that mean he’s lying?
“Somewhere there” is always at least one such man hiding, and sooner or later you will meet him, and you will have much to learn from him, if you want to, and there will likely be much you can teach him, if you manage to find the path to his grey matter. Because that’s where what makes a man a man is often hidden – besides his heart, the romanticising part, the readiness to lose everything for something greater than life itself. (That last part is probably a relic in the postmodern world.)
If I know myself well, it means I also know most men. On the whole, we have so much to reveal, but for one reason or another, we don’t. And even though men hide their inner world, they are certainly among us (I’m here). So what we do with our lives is entirely our own business. (Not that it isn’t yours too.)
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Before we continue, thank you. (YES, I WILL NOT STOP REPEATING IT!)
I know that any given moment can’t be returned (NEVER-EVER), and I’m genuinely glad you’re sharing this one with DA BOIS and DA GALS here.
If you’re new: this isn’t a place for preaching or selling. It’s a courtroom with no verdicts – only questions that open into more questions. My goal is to reveal what has not been revealed – or if it has been, to at least give a different point of view on it.
I point out the things that we accept, swallow, or hide and pretend daily that they don’t shape us – even though we’re under their control. If something here makes you feel uncomfortable, then you’re on the right path – discomfort is perhaps the best sign that we haven’t yet learned how to anesthetise it.
- Curiosity lights the match.
- Action keeps the fire alive.
- Effort is what everyone talks about until it becomes necessary.
Of course, I can’t forget today’s loop on DABOIS’s radio: It is indeed “Troubleman” by Electric Guest – it doesn’t catch today’s frequency entirely, but it does contain the spirit of what I’m about to dive deeper into; whether you like the blog or not, whether you prefer to listen to it as you read or not, if you haven’t been introduced to this tune yet, I’m sure it will definitely become one of your favourites – for whatever occasion you may have.
Let’s see now what Mr Ivo is having on his mind. (I hope you stay until the end… but that’s up to you.)
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I propose we take a look at men and what the ideal of “being a man” actually is. Since not every man talks to other males or females – and these days, fewer and fewer do (I’m still here) – you either form an opinion in advance due to the various factors that predispose you to do so, or you simply aren’t interested because your lives are far more important.
And if that’s the case, you’re absolutely right. Every single man should make his way in life. There is no room for nonsense or, at least ideally, there must not be; there is no time for second thoughts because visible and timely results are needed – this is what the socio-economic processes we create demand. On the other hand, if we look at the observation of the very same phenomenon in the animal world, where there’s a social environment but no economic one. (In other words, without an economy, men can truly be men – but that’s just me theorising.)
I wouldn’t be lying if I said every man wants his own Caribbean Queen or his own Jennifer Grey – why exactly those two, I wish I could tell you, but you get the picture. And just like women who are always searching for something “better” as mentioned previously, how many men actually manage to find what they’re looking for? The number isn’t small, but it’s minuscule compared to those who don’t – and that number is growing rapidly. So who is to blame? We could start by pointing fingers at the other side. That’s probably exactly what they want.
I’ve spread myself thin today because a man’s life has long since ceased to be about chopping wood and guarding the door from another man. To be fair, it is exactly that, but with a much more layered theme: a modern version of the wood-chopping game where there are too many houses to choose from, too many axes, and too many attributes attached to the axes.
The truth is, men like to play games, not like games that women play, but also including a lot from their narrative, and eventually turning them into male-dominated games. And as a man, I too should want to play games. Truth is, I did. The problem here is that I never played any game with a clear conscience, meaning I was oriented toward the goal while skipping important steps toward it. Then I got fed up and, if I may put it like this, exiled myself from them. Now I do want to play again, but when the moment comes to actually play, I lose the desire because I already know the mechanics. That said, I must be clear that I still play some games more or less – apparently, because that’s life – and I’m still not happy with the way of my participation, but… the butt smells. Quite honestly, the answer is so simple that its simplicity hides the deep complexity of my character: that’s just who I am.
I have no problem losing the games over which I have at least partial control. But the ones that don’t depend on me – and here you could argue that everything in one’s life depends on one’s actions – I just can’t bring myself to play with any normal level of enthusiasm (if any). Hence, the more I want to change and escape from who I am, the more I find myself back in the same place, with more insidious consequences. So the solution is to accept who I am and live according to my will, which is sometimes lacking, and that creates a problem, but at the same time shows a natural side of me. (Which is also both beautiful and dreadful.)
So, what exactly does it mean to live according to your will? Does it mean you can’t do everything you want to? Does it mean no matter what you do or don’t, at the end of the journey, you’ll feel that empty sensation that every other man felt at some point and couldn’t disregard until his last day? Is it a feeling that can’t be replaced but ultimately leaves you with a memory that’s neither glamorous nor memorable? If it’s really irreplaceable, what makes it so? And why should you live with such strong willpower?
I’ve been through this process, and at certain stages I’ve maintained the momentum for longer. But once you step back, you can see that the whole act was nothing more than a deception, just another scam in the vast life journey, because you did something you wouldn’t normally do, thinking something needed to change.
It all lies in the excuses a person finds in certain situations or in the moments when they have to make a decision. I wanted so many things from life that I can’t even say what they were anymore. And right now I want things from life, but the simple truth is this: I want absolutely nothing.
You’re probably wondering how a young man, at the beginning of his adult life, could want nothing. First, it’s none of your business. Second, for that to apply, you’d have to care in the first place – and I doubt anyone really does. But here I am, telling you anyway.
I want absolutely nothing because that is, in all sincerity, the easiest of all choices – easiest from my perspective, which comes with lots of burdens, which somehow turns into the hardest and most foolish when looked at from another person’s perspective. There’s a hypocrisy when I say absolutely nothing, because even though I have no desire for things, I still use what’s in front of me, and I will use anything I set my hands upon. Which sparks a debate whether I speak from my heart or from my fear – and honestly, I can’t tell the difference.
⇑ In case you were wondering what the differences are: there aren’t any. (This is my point when it comes to the big picture.)
Let’s put it like this: I imagine what it would be like to have a girlfriend, who might eventually become my wife, and we’d start a family and so on. But after all this thinking, it takes effort – which is itself a form of self-torture – because I don’t feel like wasting my time explaining to any woman why and how I ended up here and somehow charming her into spending the rest of her days with me. Yes, there were women I liked very much in the past, but I never pictured ending up with one of them – and I think that applies to them as well. And even if I make a woman laugh, there’s a point of real intimacy where burdens are shared, and compromises are to be made. And while I thought I was ready for this part, currently, I’m aware I’m nowhere near. First, because at some point, I will start not liking things about her. Second, because I will have to pretend and improve myself just to keep her, because, apparently, she wouldn’t want me otherwise.
That requires trying, and lately I haven’t even been trying. I exist in a complete vacuum. And as stupid as that may sound, it is very real to me.
Most people describe me as anxious, traumatised, bored, depressed and lacking meaning. On the contrary, there’s a significantly smaller group of people who see me as a dark, cold, enigmatic, carefree person. I think those are the same attributes, but people see what they look for. I confirm their statements, because I really do nothing but write, eat, read, listen, stay physically active, have some insignificant interactions with people, and generally help fill the septic tanks.
Everyone – especially other men – put themselves in the shoes of their peers without really putting themselves in the shoes of their peers. Those are usually people they admire or hate and make decisions for them. That’s just not me. I know that the moment I put on somebody else’s shoes, the game is brand new – similar rules, entirely different setting – and there is no point in such action.
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Right now, this text might make it seem like the situation has completely spiralled out of control, but please, don’t worry (if you ever did): everything is fine, and each of us has a plan (whatever that plan may be and wherever it can sit on the foolish-great arc).
This isn’t specifically about being a man; rather, it is more about being a person, but being a man means also being a person, so I’m including it anyway: outside this window, people are protesting. In Serbia, for two years now. All around the world, in tune with what is happening to the Palestinian people in Gaza for almost three years and in Ukraine for five, which, not a fun fact, is longer than WWII. There are all sorts of atrocities that people report, so many in which they participate themselves, and almost all of them are marching, however many times, to wherever they’re marching in brand new shoes, streaming it live or reporting for days via their social profile platform (some even making money off of it). I ask not so much why they’re doing it but what exactly they’ll get in the end. How about that, hmm? A lull in the overall storm, with the hope that another hurricane won’t strike – though the next one will strike anyway, and there’s no guarantee it won’t be worse.
Sooner or later, we humans always get more of the same in different shapes and colours.
So what are men, after all? What ideals? Who even thinks they’re a man? Is it a fighter or someone who’s always in the spotlight? Is Ivaniel Georgiev a man, and if he is/isn’t, why so? Is Conor McGregor more of a man than Khabib Nurmagomedov or me? Or Donald Trump or David Beckham? If we take the idea of the Monad from the previous blog, then it doesn’t matter what anyone has achieved, how or with whom, or what they’ve left behind – because nothing of what we think exists actually exists. Maybe I’m wrong. Perhaps I am. But who exactly can convince me otherwise, and what would be the point if we are all eventually turning to dust?
Look at me, talking about people and seeking attention. That’s not who I am. I started with the idea to tackle something personal, and so far I haven’t said a single personal thing – in between the blurred personal hints scarred in the text.
Well, that’s just how men are. We love to talk about what interests us; we’re often interested in far more things than we can possibly take in, and we think nobody understands us – quite frankly, because we alone don’t understand ourselves. And “somewhere there” comes the idea of helping – helping whom and why, you’re not sure, but you believe in something. Something that might just be another piece of nonsense. But it might not. So it is you, at the end of the day, who decides what to do – and the consequences are all yours.
But what do I mean by all of this?
Fine, I’ll stop with this ramble. But then what? It’s time to go to bed and think about the same nonsense while I doze off. Two hours with my sleep mask on and I still can’t fall asleep – I may not see anything in the dark, and yet I see so many things.
Really, tell me: how exactly does one stop? How can you stop a man who has set his mind on something? You can’t! Because he’ll die in the name of the pursuit he set himself, no matter how meaningless it may be to everyone else.
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I want to die like Charles Bukowski, but not in the way Charles Bukowski lived and died.
I want to be like Meursault, but not in the way Meursault was.
I want to have a life as meaningful as Jesus Christ’s, but not in the way Jesus Christ lived.
I want less with time, but I get and give as little as before. Why? Because I’m a byproduct of the contemporary and non-contemporary lives that shaped me.
All honesty to God, as they say – even though I’m agnostic – I do care for things. The problem is, I don’t know why, and more so, how I can care and be careless at the same time.
The only thing I know is that I will die an Ivaniel Georgiev. My only hope is that I will do it in a way that only Ivo could.
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The Burden of Being a Man
Hardly among men will one appear
a man entire, complete and true;
Thus, man’s a myth – a mosaic of ideals:
gentle in daylight, devilish through.
A title more than incarnation,
cold and warm in equal measure;
thousand faces, no conviction –
featureless outside and inward.
And somewhere among the crowd – myself:
no more no less – as lost as those behind;
You look at men, they seem unbroken –
yet that is where the deepest lies reside.
A man stays up till late at night,
surviving in whatever way he can;
A man keeps speaking, saying nothing –
whatever road he takes turns into a trap.
Not one or two such fates exist;
The road of men is paved with grief.
Man understood: no, he understands nothing.
One task he has: a lifetime spent in failing it.
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BOIS and GALS, thanks for being part of this headache of mine.
Until next time.
Yours,
Ivaniel “as-strange-as-it-gets” Georgiev
If you missed the last blog, feel free to check it out @ Plato, Dante, Kant, Hegel, and Bonnie Blue: the Material, the Physical, Accepting and Li/oving…
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