We sit uncomfortable in a circle
formed with uncomfortable
navy-blue plastic chairs
on thin metal legs.
We sit in a circle because
apparently this increases participation through eye-contact
and a non-higher-up-ical structure, which means there is
allegedly no leader of the circle. That we are all equal.
But this is The Bullshit.
There is a leader. There is always a leader.
This one sits beside the large white paper set up high on sticks – he calls this a flipchart but it looks to me like a surrender flag. A loser sign.
He calls himself a facilitator.
He says this quietly as if to disguise his power role.
This is what he calls a Men’s Group.
I have been told to attend. For my anger.
But this group is not for me.
I am not like the others here.
I am not a man. I am an Orc.
I say this with no pride, merely to make the truth clear.
The organisers seem content to let me be here,
content at the very least, that I am the male of my species, if not a man.
I am not a man. I am an Orc.
There is a lot of silence in this circle.
There is nothing natural about sitting in a circle,
talking about your insides. Skin was made to hide secrets,
To keep the outside out.
To keep the insides in.
Read my skin. The scars tell I have been cut.
Many times. Know that.
This is a circle of silence and discomfort. I mean,
who actually thinks this is good for you?
Except for the Facilitator, who is paid by the hour, including prep time, whatever that is. He told me this at the coffee break - that he was paid by the hour.
He was trying to be clear about things, he said. Why?
This is his business. The man is a mercenary with pens and paper set up high on sticks. I understand this – he chases ambulances, follows pain with a smile.
He makes a living talking about violence and its’ Afterwards.
If there was peace on earth, he would be out of a job.
He will never be out of a job.
He goes where the pain is.
Digs with his words and his hand gestures and his circles of men.
I am a single Orc surrounded by a circle of men.
A circle of men mostly staring at their feet or the ceiling.
So much for contact of the eyes.
A twig of a man (with a roll-up cig behind his ear that he touches like a talisman)
breaks the silence and shoe-gazing,
tells the group about how he got involved in his war tribe:
he was a teenager then, keen to help, impressed by older men with status and hard glances.
His community was being attacked by an enemy he never knew. But the Olders knew, they had the wisdom and the weapons. They could see and send, discern and dispense.
He tells of how he learnt his craft. Plastic chairs creaked as the circle leant in, listening to his violent path. Two of the men glanced and head-jabbed the air in agreement to what he said. His Community. Attacked. Fight back.
This twig of a man tells about how he grew in his craft, how it took time, how it took time and practice to get better at watching without being seen, to learn how to torture, how to kill without getting caught. More head-nods from the room. Are they all from the same war-tribe? I’m impressed that such a slender creature could have once been so brutal. I show my teeth at him: Orc-approval, Orc acknowledgement. He looks away, confused.
I want to say
I too am a killing creature – present tense – always. Just because
I’m not killing now,
doesn’t mean I’m not a killer. Life is straight and forward when someone else tells you who you are,
tells you right and now and do it!
The thing is this – if you are bred for violence, then you most know who you are
when being violent. The body knows its cause.
Blood pumping-pounding.
Senses most alive when death-dealing.
I am the fleshy truth of what the world is: a Wounding Way.
No circle of men can convince me otherwise. Words on a flipchart are flimsy, have no power over me.
And then this twig of a man ruins his story.
He talks about how killing others was killing himself.
He is talking The Bullshit. He was carrying out orders.
He had a cause. He did what he was told.
Stand! Stand!
Stand over that!
But no, he doesn’t. The circle has weakened him.
He is wetting his face with his eyes.
The circle is encouraging him to lie, to be weak, to keep on talking
when he should shut up, stop and be solid.
Facilitator, do your job. Command this man to stop. Give an order with your pen. Write it on the flipchart: Shut the Fuck him up!
Slap his sorry face. Life is not ok.
This is the world is the Wounding Way.
*For context, see Paul’s earlier piece Bred for Brawls.
