Boys like cosmology - creation myths that start with thunder, chaos, vast panoramas. Canvases that wrap around the studio. Or the globe. And then they people them with gods that lust for archetype, always quite certain that their own little selves will first be invisible, then annointed with the glory they've spewed, the smoke and mirrors they've concocted.
Unfortunately it very rarely works. Homer, perhaps, had it right, but nowadays it's very difficult to hide behind the special effects.
Girls, on the other hand, tend to start with domestic detail. The sharp heat of fire on the stove or in the hearth. The icy shudder of terror when it wanes in hearth or heart. Or the careful calculus of a suitor's estate [Jane Austen, always]. Emotion are registered, rooms are given measure. By revealing all, by baring themselves to ridicule and bullets, they become invisible. And - if they are lucky and good - the myth, the archetype, the story, is all that remains.
Which means, among other things, that I would much rather polish the silver than watch that excruciatingly dreadful "epic sweep" of a Western folly that Spielberg has on the airwaves right now. It serves just to creep me out with visions of how else the poor boy is managing his midlife issues.
There is a point here, and I have no problem whatsoever with gratuitous gossip, but that will come later.
I am suggesting the need for more anima - and less animus - projecting for the "left."
Perfume instead of smoke, kohl-rimmed eyes in lieu of mirrors.