Of Men and Their Caves

Long overdue, this post is.

If you are a member of the gentler gender you may quail at the site of the 'Man-Cave' where there is seemingly no order except for the uniformity of the dust depth. Take comfort in the knowledge that this is a facet of the masculine creature; where James Fenimore Cooper's Natty Bumpoe would say a man could live 'according to his natur'.

I look at my own cave and, despite the disorder there is a place for every dog; a sufficiency of electrical outlets; convenient sources of ignition; a fridge replete with beer and chilled pint-glasses; evidence of my habitation and of course, my world-wide-web eye.

This bear den is no more kid-safe than it is adult-safe; the electrical service panel is exposed; there are guns and ammo I can get to; knives, a bow and many arrows, easily improvised bludgeons, controversial writings and literature, a microscope, bones, feathers, rocks and shiny things, incomplete projects and sketched theorum; a mace from the middle-ages and of course, my own poison pen.
Life as a struggle is the allusory drawn in it's chaos of form; the dramatic anti-order. The dweller depicted in the string theory that is implied by the distant, elusive common theme: This is 'Me' as reflected in a shattered mirror of the things I ran back in my burning life to save.

Grant the man his cave and rejoice that it is there to serve him as refuge. Throw food in there once in a while and re-stock the fridge or cold window ledge when you venture in to pick up the dirty plates and cups half full of moldy coffee. The more sanctuary he is allowed the safer he feels to emerge and pick up his underwear and socks; make sandwiches for, and bathe the children.

His cave is not a place to watch TV or sleep but a hollow place that echoes his unspoken voice. In that sense, it is 'usable space'. It grounds me and allows me the tactile connection to the places, people and events that form my past and shape my present.