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Thirty-Second Sitting

Oh yes yes yes! there is more SEX to come, though not as sensationalist as the pro-religious propaganda. Yes, chickie, it is pro-religious... symbols are just symbols after all, and God's name is not God, which is why He doesn't come when you call Him. Duh. We don't know His name, and aren't allowed to, which makes Him much more alluring and leaves the worshipper transformed... Duh hay. And by relating what might actually be wise (though I wouldn't bet on it), if Herr Profesora (Me, that is, for the moment) always spoke as if to Obvious Man, thereby insulting the audience, His/Her/Its message will be lost on the masses, of which all (both) you readers are a member (the one in charge of the Bake Sale), and so not corrupted and misunderstood by You. (Just so you know: this kind of chicanery is known as Rorschach Philosophy, and is, technically speaking, just plain wrong. Nonetheless...)

I'm not being very reader-friendly, am I? Well, look at it this way (and if you don't, I will cry and scream): Every once in a while, probably for long periods of time, your mate, your significant other, your relationship-partner, will act like a weenie. He/She/It will do this merely by being Itself, by pressing into you Its field of experience, Its world-view, Its patterns of perception and expression. As these are necessarily somewhat different and irrelevant to Yours, You will feel affronted, annoyed, and probably a little sick. This is part of the CHEMISTRY, and it always happens sooner or later, unless you're dating a clone of yourself, which at least would probably be convenient in that you could wear each other's clothes without the stretching of fabric or gender roles. For the relationship experiencing this part of the CHEMICAL reaction, it is the Late Middle stage: the truth of the situation cracks down, barriers are put in place and rammed against, and it doesn't matter if your honey doesn't have a Him waiting, as in an explicit actual human shining person, because the Him is always there, the Other than the Other (i.e. other than either of you yet still as insistently in the way as your own nose), and barriers will come, put in place to keep one's aesthetics, one's sense of self, intact. I will rebel against Kris Kristofferson, and She will continue to like Him, and that tension will be there and leave its mark, preventing the feeling of total union which is both our goal (as in sex) and our dread (as in death). And if I get so I actually like old Kris, or at least grow to understand why She might... well, a million other barriers will take His place.

No, the point is not just to sound pretentious by chocking up musical disagreement to a cosmic inevitability... I was in the process of defending myself for acting (i.e. writing) like kind of a jerk to you. Whether you actually feel I was/am doing so depends on your whole aesthetic set-up, including and especially whether you are on an explicit or underlying level ruled by notions of traditional piety. And maybe you'd be offending me as well, depending on your aesthetic stench... yet to be safe I'm feeling the need to ask you to please be merciful on me for being who I am... I suppose if you're a total stranger I don't actually care what you think of me, at least not too much, but the fact is that I'm just thinking aloud, making a desperate attempt to understand the things that control me, and if coming along for the ride is helpful to you, I welcome you with mostly open arms (...If they were really open, You'd see the blood and veins and scales and stuff. Ewww.).

My point, my defense, my suggestion as to how to look at this book so as to actually find it worth reading, has been developing since page one: concretization of the Self in order to accept the Self, even though the languages of acceptance -- aesthetics, morals, and love -- are so dubious -- aesthetics being so ultimately flexible (I can get myself to like Kris Kristofferson, or pork, or porky women with beards, after only a few mind-destroying sessions of getting used to these), morals being so damn irrelevant and useless (replaceable as they are by concrete evaluative considerations, i.e. purposes that we have {e.g. "this is evil" = "this conflicts with our general purpose to live or whatever}, purposes that can, at least theoretically, always be changed), and love being, as I said, nothing but the usage of other people on a variety of levels (which once again boils it down to purposes).

The idea (finally) is this: Just like in a real relationship where your mate acts like a weenie a lot, but you ideally want to put up with It anyway, you should keep reading, please. (Sing along:) If you leave me now, you'll take away the biggest part of me... If you can't stick it out with me, given how close we've become, given the CHEMISTRY, given that you can just look and see that the majority of this book is over (almost), then you'll certainly never make it in a real relationship, or at least one that is sufficiently confrontational so that you and your creature see each other's ugly deficits (after all, your special someone might like John Denver and the Funky Bunch, or think your favorite nourishment is just a tooth-staining wussy-drugged cup of tar, or have the rebellious taste to point out, say, that all that talk of God's vastness is just away of euphemistically expressing the fact that He's grossly bloated and fat), feel the consequent barriers press in... as opposed to being distant enough to conceal the conflicts, to romanticize each other, which will only leave you in the end as pissed at your lover as I am at God. In this way I will justify any stagnation in writing-style for My part, and while I shall always try to overcome it, to keep energized by this writer-reader relationship of ours, you'll have to help and be a little tolerant, because I will not lull you with literary charms... As stated, I am incapable of such dishonesty (i.e. skill).


...So She was staying at my place on the long weekend that was not in fact a weekend at all, sleeping in the guest room, which used to be my older sister's room until it was attacked by fake-Victorian redecoration featuring photos of all the dead relatives. It's amazing how similar the set-up and gestalt of that room is to the one She stays in here. Not surprisingly, then, today's habits (or at least those of a few days ago before I got ousted to the couch) got themselves set up there.

Now before I attempt to paint this lil' narrative picture, I must take precautions to keep it from being boring and irrelevant. What does the event symbolize? Can I demonstrate the sweet agony of existence as a separate entity that is LUST? No. Why? No, not because I'm such a sucky writer. I've admitted that, okay? So lay off. I can't show the agony because it wasn't agony, because anyone who sees love as agony is just being an existentialist and phooey on him (and Him). It's not obviously agony because there is separateness in the pretense of love (which pretends that there is no separateness, that people can be together in as harmoniously as the organs of your digestive system and moreso), and with that separateness comes romanticization, or, as is grammatically correct, romance.

The way We spoke, the magnetism between Our eyes and bodies, the sound of Her so-beautiful-I-could-scream soft voice, the mood created as I serenaded Her in Her bed -- these lulling charms are a dishonesty if anything is... a deception and a distraction (or a celebration if you like), from (of) Our central purposes, Our uses of each other: It, the need, the LUST.

On the other hand, Our situation was/is exceptional, as we're only supposed to be friends; we're not supposed to have designs on each other, at least of the comprehensive sort that true erotes have, so maybe it was honest enjoyment. Plus, is it really dishonesty to focus on the good vibes of the moment and not the underlying conflicts of purpose and aesthetics? Or is "selective emphasis" just another name for deception, including in this case deceit towards oneself? The correct answer, of course, is that the scene was both lecherously and perniciously deceptive and also an honest enjoyment of a good situation, which just shows that honesty vs. dishonesty (which connotes good vs. bad), is a crummy way to think about the issue.

So why did I bring it up? I brought it up because like the rise of moral terms to describe everyday aversions, the use of the vocabulary of honesty is useful here to give a rough picture of what's going on: what I wanted from Her, to the extent that I was or ever could be aware of It, was simple closeness, attention, and growth towards the less-apparently-simple forms of these (concluding with the not-at-all simple and probably hopeless "fulfillment on all levels"). Instead of asking for these, though, I was just taking, as She took from Me, and in the drunkenness of our togetherness We vicariously enjoyed the illusion that We were in harmony (I resist the urge to capitalize that word), that our connection was complete and thorough, whereas in fact one false move, whether it be a lustful advance by Me, a mention by Her of His name, the sudden appearance of Kris Kristofferson, or demonstration of My lack of an unconditional work ethic or Her possession of one... any of these and a thousand other occurrences would have tipped us off to the depth of Our separateness, disharmony, and isolation (known as Boo, Hoo, and Hoo). The barriers would become apparent, and then there would be anguish, however slight, that would need to again be dispelled (by forgetting the number "4") just to let my over-sensitive head fall asleep. But the mood was not broken, and after I tucked Her in and told Her a story (or tried to... the Characters kept dying off), I placed my head on the covers above Her chest and held that lump of blankets containing God-knows-what, and felt Its hands running through My hair...

Imaginative readers may wish to be Me...

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