Day: December 24, 2000

  • Apparently, the author of the following rant never read about Pedro, amigo of the Doc in John Steinbeck's Tortilla Flat/Cannery Row novels, who would fuck anything with a hole, even a hole in the ground....Other than this oversight, his/her theory is quite, well, mannishly commendable, i.e., it would appear to have very few holes in it.




    171 On "Sexual Theory": A Correction.— Biological theories of sexuality are too often reductive and general. Using animal attraction and the brute physiology of genitalia to guide description, the phenomenon of attraction is typically reduced to the masculine desire for holes and the feminine desire for, forgive me, poles. Males will fuck anything and females in heat will accept which ever male is strong enough to beat the others to her. But this abstraction applied to human sexuality hides the truth of the phenomenon which it purports to explain.




    Holes. Though some men may be aroused by a close-up photo of a vagina that excludes the rest of the body, the rest of the body is still perceptually and psychologically present as that which is excluded, unseen, out of the camera’s reach. Few are the demented minds that may honestly be said to be aroused by a bodiless vagina as a bodiless vagina. Even those who utilize artificial sexual substitutes, for example, a rubber "pocket pussy," presumably charge the sensations it offers them with sexual fantasies the focus of which is a body the rubber tool is designed to mimic through implication.




    If the man were attracted to a hole per se, it is difficult to understand why he would choose a woman's over the many other and more easily attained holes the world has to offer. Rather, the man is attracted to the very opposite of a hole, namely, the voluptuous, fleshy abundance of the enveloping female body. The male does not wish to enter a simple hole, but to enter this or that person's vagina or mouth or anus. A beautiful face beckons one to its mouth while an ugly face repulses. "Hole" theory cannot account for this simple truth. Men want to be enveloped in a body at the heart of which is found--not as a goal but as one of the body's intimate dimensions--an orifice in which he and the other may simultaneously enjoy one another.




    The mistake is to think it is simply "a hole" or even simply "any woman" that is desired. Though historical and cultural, as well as personal sexual proclivities and fetishes, influence and sculpt for us a general sexual milieu, the situation, nevertheless, is always particular. And the particular, in sexual theory, has for too long been neglected.






  • In Xanga-du did Kubla Khan a stately pleasure dome decree…





    No, wait…the geography has changed. Let me start again:





    In Xanga-land did not-a-prophet a stream of consciousness unleash…



    where words could flow as truth unhyped



    and interiority meet light as typed



    for all the world to see….





    OK: so start with bold aspirations, then live up to expectations…or die in the search for meaning.





    I am going to run up a mountain. I am going to run up this mountain and back down without falling, without stopping. As Jack Kerouac observed in Desolation Peak: you can’t fall off a mountain…. So let me imagine this mountain:





    Even before getting to the mountain, there is a long, long run through civilized constraints of asphalt-alley weaves and overbearing institutionally-slabbed hotels and artificed informational checkpoints that read: “Keep off the Grass” , “Stay off the Mountain” , and “Etc.”. The run up the mountain will be the real, physically-demanding torture once I get there, but the run to the mountain is now the ultimate mental anguish. Just getting there seems an ordeal comparable to the notorious WALL that overtakes marathon runners—the 23 mile or so letdown, comedown, slumdown. It is almost like the known-world wants to keep me off that magic imagined mountain and double-weights gravity to that end. So legs seem like lead and the head is slogged and what started out as a spirited sprint-run degenerates into a decelerating jog. “Oh shit, I quit!” remarks the little-walking-man inside my head. (oh-no little-walking-man, cousin to King’s garbage-can-man in The Stand!) It feels like on my road to my mythical mountain oz, I have encountered some mental poppy-like fields of forgetfulness, of sleep, of fatigue and release. But instead of beautiful fragrant poppies releasing a scented narcosis on a golden but dizzying road, I am encountering huge structures, massive architecture, and constructed trapments that pull in a jovian-fashion upon me and energetically yearn for me to linger…forever…among them. “ Stay here! Don’t go!” the mutli-faceted mausoleums that I’m struggling to pass seem to groan-sing. I reflect: I really could reside without ever wandering and die easily in such grandiose structures. After all, Kahlil Gibran pronounced: "The house is thy greater self!” And Emily Dickinson had need for no more than a farmhouse and plot to discover her cosmos both within and out… But in choosing the freedom of my mountain over the security of mapped terrain and known-world, I am letting go of—to be honest, losing— all that. You’re damn right I’m losing it…and just one thought is my last hope: if I could just get to the mountain….

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