Dizzy Circus.

Experience is the teacher
in the classroom of life,
and you’re not saved by the bell,
nor the flat line.

Beyond the door, perhaps a hallway,
like a grave between periods
where one sentence ends,
another begins

through another door
in this spinning prison,
this dizzy circus
of cyclic indoctrination.

And what the fuck is moksa,
if not graduation?

Canal to the Sky.

Born out of mother’s womb, we are born into another, so says Joseph Campbell. As an upgrade from the manner of the marsupial, this second human womb is the home: the security around mom and dad and the sheltered area of settlement that, given their clear governance of the premises, clearly serve as some extension of their security-providing space.

Then we achieve adulthood, hopefully experiencing some rite of passage to smooth the transition. Adulthood is achieved when we are borne out of the second womb, graduating to the status of an individual of the culture, a member of society, a resident of the “real world” which, if we graduated high school, forever feels like little more than an entirely unsupervised 13th grade, for some strange reason. From this womb we are not borne individually as we have not graduated as a species through space migration, true settlements in the sky. Given we survive long enough, we will one day push the threshold of human experience, exploration, settlement increasingly far beyond our blue nest. As a species we will be borne into an environment similar in some respects to the environment of very first womb.

As in the womb, so in space.

Maybe then our species will finally uncover the giant space vagina at the center of the universe and enter into it in a giant rocket-shaped spacecraft. Perfect porno ending.

A.I.pocalypse Never.

Doomsday? You’ve cried wolf too often, so shall your sheep be eaten.

Our culture has certainly run through its share of doomsday scenarios. In waves of trend the vampires and werewolves take over, then perhaps the zombies have their turn at the feast. We become obsessed with the notion of plagues for a moment, maybe mix it in with the zombie or vampire and werewolf thing. Then that fad ends and we begin getting anxiety boners over the looming threats of asteroids and atomic war.

Plagues, asteroids and the bomb scare the shit out of me, and my interest is fueled by fear (and perhaps serves to fuel it further as well). Save for aliens, the creature feature never really conjures up fear or sincere concern over it as a potential possibility.

To each their doomsday bias.

Don’t misunderstand what I’m saying here, either: I’m entertained by the notions of werewolves and vampires taking over, I guess, but it doesn’t breed any concern in my gut. A popular show brought me to appreciate zombie entertainment, but my mind doesn’t consider it a potentiality.

What I find entertaining in the doomsday stories regarding machines taking over, however, is the absurdity inherent in the idea. I would expect werewolves and vampires clawing at the apartment door before I would expect the “rise of the machines.” Though I never put much stock into the whole idea of an AIpocolypse, still, I get it. I understand the fascination. Rather than a literal prediction depicting our fears for the future, though, I see it as a metaphorical representation of literal and present fact.

“Robots will rise up and overpower us, control us, enslave us!” Hollywood screams. If you ask me, it’s all just another delayed reaction.

They have. The machines have already taken over. They’re already in control of us. How reliant are you on your cell phone? How reliant is your cell phone on you?

Then there are those curious gremlins from hell. The motion-activated paper towel dispensers at work don’t come on when I wave my hand in front of them most the time, and yet they often release paper towels when no one is around them. People have no relevance to the machine’s activities. A persons desire for a paper towel and the dispenser actually dispensing it as it is supposed to only coincide by chance. It’s a bit different with the motion-activated toilets and sinks. I clean the sink just long enough to begin to zone, during which time I forget that washing an area inside the sink and beneath the faucet may inspire a rush of water. So when the faucet does go off and water blasts out the spout in the sink, piss nearly blast out the spout in my pants it catches me so off guard.

So sometimes the machines work. Even a broken clock is right twice a day (unless its digital, but I digress). Still, when the machines work, it seems they elect the most inconvienent times. The toilet doesn’t flush automatically like its supposed to until its backed up with toilet paper and shit and as I plunge, it flushes and overflows, flushes and overflows.

The fryers at work tell us what to do with their digital message displays. You cater to it. You answer its questions when it asks or it irritates the fuck out of you with annoying beeps to get your attention. It tells you what to do, when to do it. What you can do, what you cannot do. These machines? These are “self-maintaining” machines. This is the new wave of “automation.” These are steps towards artifical “intelligence.”

My bone-white, hair-covered, perpetually-itchy ass. The machines aren’t rising, the wired-up bastards are just dragging us down to their level.

Death Throe Battle Cry.

Live fast, die young,
is our species-wide,
death-throe fueled battle cry.

Insatiable desires clouding our eyes
as we take the high road,
the fast lane to suicide,

all just to jump off
the cliff
like a swift slit
of the wrist,

choking on our own echoes,
rationing blame
before accepting the fate
elected by our ignorance,

crying out for mercy from gods who,
if they were to exist,
would not care.

If we don’t wake up and change
we’re just left sleeping in the bed we made
no lullabies left
to ease our minds,
to give weight to our eyes.

Time Bombs for Our Easter Island Earth.

Any social system, society or culture, when you get to the marrow, seems to be a style of living practiced by a population due to their shared beliefs and values. This system governs how people relate to themselves, one another, other cultures and the native environment. We are born into a social contract. It is as if a seed, an enculturalizing spore, is planted deep in our childhood minds. Taking root there, it goes on to blossom in our behavior, through our participation with, debts and contributions to, and consequential validation of the social system.

When it is said that a society collapses, then, it could mean at least three things. First, it could mean that things got so bad that people were forced to abandon their homes and the way of life inextricably hinged to it. They then were forced to set up residence in a new environment, necessitating the adoption of a new way of life. Instead, their may be internal conflicts, civil war, and the old power structures may be overthrown and replaced with a new system, ushering in a new way of life in their familiar, native environment. Last and most certainly least comforting, the populace itself may meet extinction due to their ruthless determination in plowing on forward as they were, tunnel vision fixed on their illusions of immortality, undaunted by the warning signs on their merry way down to their imminent doom.

All those scenarios spawn some monstrous questions, of course, most central of which would have to be just how and exactly why societies fall, and this is something Jared Diamond explored in his 2005 book, Collapse: How Societies Choose to Fail or Succeed. Using his “five-point framework” of contributing factors, he takes on a comparative study of societies in our history that have faced a fall. Early in the book Diamond outline these five points when he suggests that a more befitting title might have been “Societal collapses involving an environmental component, and in some cases also contributions of climate change, hostile neighbors, and trade partners, plus questions of societal responses.”

The first factor, environmental damage, arises out of an interaction between the resilency or fragility of the environment and the degree and speed at which the given population manages to exploit it. Resources may be renewable, but socieities have nonetheless collapsed by sucking dry renewable resources before they had a chance to cycle back. Resources may also be “nonrenewable” — which is to say that they are renewable, just not on a time scale relevant to us as a species, let alone a society. The consequences can be pretty disasterous, and Diamond draws parallels between our potential fates as a planet and the ominous Easter Island, home to all those amazing statues. When the inhabitants had finally devoured their forests, they could not make fires, shelters, or the canoes they required for off-island trade. Soil erosion caused by the deforestation effected agriculture, leading to food scarcity.

Similarly, there is the extensive damage caused by what author Daniel Quinn calls “totalitarian agriculture.” In his book, Ishmael, Quinn writes about the nature of survival strategies in the community of life. All life, he explains, is governed by immutable laws. If followed, there is survival, and if the laws are ignored, there is extinction. Consistent among all species, he explais, is the “Law of Limited Competition” which he defines as follows: “You may compete to the full extent of your capabilities, but you may not hunt down competitors or destroy their food or deny them access to food. In other words, you may compete but you may not wage war.”

Elsewhere the notion is wrapped up perhaps more simply: essentially, you take what you need and leave the rest. The logic behind this law is wrapped up by the words of Peter Farb: “Intensification of production to feed an increased population leads to a still greater increase in population.” Clearly our consumerist, expansionist, species-centric collective behavior and perspective would seem to imply we are on a road to catastrophic ruin in this respect, as we are consuming all the more all the more swiftly, not inching but leaping towards the ceiling in exponential growth-spurts.

Totalitarian agriculture is not the only pressing problem in this category, either, and we can see how these problems can exacerbate one another in the nightmarish scenario offered by Michael Rupert, who expressed his views on peak oil in detail in the documentary, Collapse (which is in no way related to the book written by Diamond, save for significant areas of overlap in their concerns, of course). The documentary gives an overview of just how dependent we are on oil, and its quite frightening.

We fertilize the land with petrochemicals in order to produce more food on less land, but the petroleum-based fertilizer destroys the topsoil, one inch of which can take up to 500 years to replace. Oil also is used in the transportation of the food. Oil produces nearly all the energy in transportation across the world, which accounts for some 70% of the barreled oil we use. Roughly 28 gallons of oil can be found in your tires, too, and that’s not counting the spare. Oil is in the plastic, in the paint, and in the toothpaste and the toothbrush in your glove compartment. Oil saturates our lives, and to make matters worse, this finite oil ultimately has no replacement. “There is nothing anywhere in any combination,” Rupert insists, “that will replace the edifice built on fossil fuels.”

And that is a problem, he stresses, in the light of peak oil — “the point of oil production when you’re at the top of the bell curve, and so have used up half of the available oil.” Rupert believes we are at the peak if we haven’t passed it already. “As of 2008,” he says, “the international energy agency has admitted that there is a global 9% decline rate in oil production. That’s the equivalent of about 8 million barrels a day.” He adds that we would not be going into areas such as the Canadian tar sands unless we’ve used up the good stuff, which seems to be a good point.

Over-consumption can be found in our “disposable culture,” too, given that what we waste we tend to replace with either a newer duplicate or an upgrade. This value seems to be an engineered one, as indicated by Victor Lebow in his article “The Real Meaning of Consumer Demand”, published in the Spring 1955 issue of the Journal of Retailing, in which he wrote:

“Our enormously productive economy demands that we make consumption our way of life, that we convert the buying and use of goods into rituals, that we seek our spiritual satisfactions, our ego satisfactions, in consumption. The measure of social status, of social acceptance, of prestige, is now to be found in our consumptive patterns. The very meaning and significance of our lives today expressed in consumptive terms. The greater the pressures upon the individual to conform to safe and accepted social standards, the more does he tend to express his aspirations and his individuality in terms of what he wears, drives, eats- his home, his car, his pattern of food serving, his hobbies. These commodities and services must be offered to the consumer with a special urgency. We require not only ‘forced draft’ consumption, but ‘expensive’ consumption as well. We need things consumed, burned up, worn out, replaced, and discarded at an ever increasing pace. We need to have people eat, drink, dress, ride, live, with ever more complicated and, therefore, constantly more expensive consumption. The home power tools and the whole ‘do-it-yourself’ movement are excellent examples of ‘expensive’ consumption.”

As filmmaker Annie Leonard outlines in her web-based documentary, “The Story of Stuff,” this is no accident. There are, she tells us, two main strategies corporations utilize in order to make consumption our way of life. The first, planned obsolescence, deals with eingineered disposability: designing things to have a short shelf-life so as to force us to buy replacements or upgrades. The second, perceived obsolescence, deals with manufactured waves of fashion — manipulative strategies aimed at convincing us to discard and upgrade to stay in style. These strategies continue to prove effective as well, keeping us on what Leonard calls the “work, watch, spend” treadmill.

Despite being mammals, it would appear from multiple angles that we have adopted the values of a virus, as Agent Smith so elegantly explained in his Carl Sagan knock-off kind of voice. This parasitic emulation inspires us to behave, as Joe Rogan has observed, like mold growing on a sandwich. Edward Abbey was allegedly the one who wrote the great line: “Growth for the sake of growth is the ideology of the cancer cell.” Our values make us behave like a cancer upon the earth.

The second factor is (non-global and global) climate change, distinguished from the first factor in that it is a natural rather than human-produced variance in an environment that may help or hinder a society. Droughts that last for seasons, uncharacteristically long and harsh winters, and other such localized circumstances is essentially what Diamond is talking about here, though global climate change would clearly apply as well.

Then there is the matter of neighboring populations. Here you get either Hostile Neighbors, the third factor, or Friendly Trade Partners, which stand as the fourth. Considering the resources gleaned through the relationship are often quite essential to the society, trade relations provide friendly, cross-border fecal transport for when the shit in one society sucessfully hits the fan. The Friendly Trade Partner role in collapse, then, is in its act of bringing two dominoes close enough together so that when one falls, the other goes Humpty-Dumpty-fucking down right along with it. Until the rise of global trade, it was safe to assume that such issues would remain localized at worst. Hostile neighbors may be not always be hostile. In fact, they may play the role of Friendly Trade Parters when ass-kicking is in its off season. In any case, in the fashion of impatient vultures those hostile neighbors would likely percieve the weakened, vulnerable state of the enemy society as a golden opportunity to strike their epic blow.

While not every society had each of the first four factors as an ingredient in their collapse, Diamond explains, the fifth factor remains relevant to them all. In all cases cultural values influence how they manage the dire circumstances, as do the relevant social, economic and political institutions, but a society has a choice with respect to how they respond to these problems. A society could be unaware of their problems and so unable to respond, of course, but they could also have at least a lingering, dimly-lit awareness of the issues before them that only elicits a dedicated ignorance, or perhaps try to solve the problem only to fail, perhaps even exacerbating the problems in the progress. Facing a fall, yes, many societies proved to succumb to gravity, but others managed to land on their feet, averting collapse, saving themselves through ingenuity and the strength to adapt.

No longer is it so simple, however. Circumstances in our modern globalized culture present a threat far wider in scope than the more localized impacts of collapsing societies in the past, and this harkens back to the falling dominoes of friendly trade partners. Now the entire world is wound together in a web of trade, data, travel. Plucking one strand produces global reverberation. We are all dominoes, and we all fall down.

Towards the end of his book, Diamond provides a list of literally a dozen serious issues that we face as a global society today, each of which are interrelated and effect one another, he tells us, and we must solve each of them in order to survive as a global civilization. The first four problems echo issues in previous societies that collapsed, and they involve the depletion of resources, namely through deforestation and our obliteration of other natural habitats. Also included are over-hunting and over-fishing and the general loss of biodiversity due to human behavior and soil damage. In Ishmael, Quinn writes on the importance of biodiversity:

“Diversity is a survival factor for the community itself. A community of a hundred million species can survive anything short of total global catastrophe. Within that hundred million will be thousands that could survive a global temperature drop of twenty degrees—which would be a lot more devastating than it sounds. Within that hundred million will be thousands that could survive a global temperature rise of twenty degrees. But a community of a hundred species or a thousand species has almost no survival value at all.”

The next three have involve the finite quality of natural resources, which due to our population explosion and insatiable appetites only emerged in their beaming severity in our modern era. First mentioned is fossil fuels, and rightly so, and then issues with water management and our full use of our planet’s photosynthetic capacity (yes: evidently, there is a ceiling on sunlight). He then speaks about pollution, the introduction of non-native species to an environment and global warming, all negative effects produced by human behavior and which inevitably prove to have negative effects on human beings as well.

As a one-sentence attempt to summarize, he seems to indicate that a society collapses due to its depletion of resources (native or imported), and if that fails to do them in, their weakened state leaves them vulnerable to attacks from hostiles. What leads to the depletion of resources? Excess consumption. What force drives a society to suck the renewable eco-tit dry before it has a damn chance to replenish itself? Either insatiable appetites or overpopulation. Or both, as it seems to be in our current, global case. Last and finally, then, Diamond talks about the final two items on his we’re-in-shit list, both of them population issues. Namely its explosive increase and the corresponding impact our numbers are having on our resource consumption and generation of waste.

When societies collapse, he says, they typically do so abruptly, shortly after they pique. “An analog,” he says in his TedTalks lecture, “would be the growth bacteria in a petrie dish. These rapid collapses are especially likely where there is a mismatch between available resources and resource consumption, or a mismatch between economic outlays and economic potential. In a petie dish bacteria grow, say they double every generation, and five generations before the end the petrie dish is 15/16th empty, and then the next generation is 3/4 empty and then the next generation, half empty. Within one generation after the petrie dish still being half empty, it is full, there’s no more food and the bacteria have collapsed. So this is a frequent theme, that societies collapse very soon after their peak in power.”

In addition, Diamond framed his list of 12 problems as “time bombs with fuses of less than fifty years.” Not only is this multifaceted shirt-storm virtually around the corner, he seems to say, but it will waste no time when it gets here.

No empire is built in a day, to be sure, but evidently they can drop dead on a dime.

Probing the Probability Tsunami.

Having a single experience that seems to contradict sacred axioms of consensus reality can lead one to fear that one has become mentally unstable. Having a single such type of experience recurrently throughout one’s life would most certainly do so. This leaves only me, one who has had a full fucking spectrum of strange experiences, and pretty damn consistently. One such as I, evidently, is left questioning reality at every damn turn, evaluating his mind in the attempts to ascertain the state of mental health every damn day. This teeter-totter, this constant state of deeply-rooted uncertainty just cannot be a healthy way to tread through life.

If I am indeed insane, does my insanity produce these strange experiences, or did real experiences spawn the maddness? What does it mean to be mad, crazy, insane anyway?

Jung always painted a picture in which madness was the result of an unconscious that overwhelmed the conscious ego. The ego was too weak, the unconscious too strong, and so unconscious contents cross the conscious threshold with impunity. Even when voluntarily going within oneself and fixing the inner eye in the dark of the mind, Jung always indicated, the goal was to be on equal footing with the unconscious, to maintain the tension of balanced power between each end of the psyche. One’s sense of self had to be strong, have set and sturdy boundaries, hold his position in the face of the unknown inside. The ego must not repress or become possessed by the unconscious, but trapeze that thin line betwixt those polar approaches. He often spoke about this interaction between the ego and unconscious in the process of active imagination, in which one intentionally approaches the unconscious subjectively, in some self-hypnotic or meditative state.

I don’t ever recall him referencing the act of questioning your own, presumably psychotic hallucinations when they spontaneously whisk you away, but it seemed consistent with his general approach. Since childhood I have resisted them, hidden from them, tried in every which way to assert my will and break the spell, yet it was all to no avail. I have questioned them, argued with them, and it would seem that I have accomplished little to nothing in my efforts at provoking some transcendent function or even receiving useful feedback. Experience has seemed to repeatedly suggest to me that they are in the very least alien with respect to my mind, which is to say they were not borne within its confines, that they are some external force and not a manifestation of an autonomous complex or unconscious sub-personality.

Of course, concluding that on the basis of Jung’s perceptive on the unconscious might not be the wisest thing to do, as more disciplined and technologically-equipped sciences have come to shed some light on the unconscious and it could very well be that the split between the unconscious and conscious is hardwired, inevitable, irreversible. Mental disorders of all types would appear to be genetic predispositions yanked out of latency and activated through personal experience, most likely early in childhood. Inherit the right genetic seeds, find yourself planted in a social environment conductive to their growth and germination is surely a likelihood. Maybe I inherited the right ingredients and life provided the right conditions, or I created the right conditions through my reactions to life.

The other possibility is that these experiences might be real. If they are real, that does not necessarily suggest that I am sane. If all this as real, it might be acting as a catalyst for the development of my multifaceted madness. Is my insanity real, perhaps the logical and predictable outcome of a mind being subjected to these experiences while subsisting in a culture that treats such experience as red flags for madness? Or is it all real and I am not insane at all, and my reactions, through the appropriate context, constitute a perfectly sane reaction to an insane circumstance?

I honesty could not even say which of these options I would prefer.

For the Love of a Deeper Epitaph.

Hope for change
passes away in their eyes,
solace now enshrouds
certain things

pronounced solidified,
now christened permanent
residents characteristic of you,

woven in to the fabric
of your soul far too tight to entertain
hope of ripping it all out, casting away
all we have come to know
as you today.

Any energy invested now would clearly
exceed the energy returned —
a waste when you find yourself
this close to the predicted ceiling.

Some wounds refuse to heal,
so decorate the grave,
give your last respects,
move on now to what‘s still salvageable.

Might as well just work
with and not against, just go
and grow with what you got,

as for all you know
and smoke you might have passed
the mid-point between
beginning and the end,
womb and tomb,

and you know
you might as well build
something before the best to hope for
is enough time
to wrap it up

till you have to face
your phasing out,
forced to leave it all behind
as sentence served, punctuation
announcing another expendable
existential pencil-pushers
shift has ended,

be it statement, message, answer, question,
or as a word salad run-on left in the wake of the grave.
We etch a deeper epitaph in life than we ever earn in stone.

So better live it first person before its too late,
as we can all see you’re about to break, anyway…

Tusk in the Gut.

Just another irrelevant elephant in the room.
If we ignore it, perhaps it will go away.
There’s little else we can do.

What we cannot see cannot
hurt us anyway.

Through ignorance, my friend,
we are impervious.
We can just wish, faith and fervently
deny ourselves around,

akin to the cartoon character
that fails to fall
as he walks past that cliff’s edge.
At least till the damn fool
looks down.

Now our remedy for this enemy
shows dismal signs
of its unsustainability as a solution,
however, all
as the unacknowledged
persists at growth.

Still we cannot accept it,
eyes silently starving
for an exit.

Ignoring now
the rising body heat,
the pressure,
the depleting elbow room.

Take measures to ensure
sustained silence, preserve
our ignorance, please,
for the tension of the unmentioned
has built now to the unbearable
as selective blindness dilates
to swallow the room.

Now there is nothing
left but us and this.

No room to escape,
no space left to salvage,
no line of sight remains
that does not bring us
to staring it dead in the eyes.

So I’ll bear the weight,
the burden, own up to the starving,
angry animal we’ve grown
through our collective neglect.

And, no.

Don’t you play that old game,
try to talk your way out,
divert the spotlight so as to veil
the truth.

Cease denial now, for it only threatens
the circus we have made
out of the jungle from whence we came.

It only leaves the owner
bogged down, cold and lonely
with a tusk in the gut,

screaming to the deaf
and colorblind about our elephant,
not at all dead and white, nor tame.

No. So angry,
so alive.

Pet Porn Peeves of Captain Glow-Pants.

You can’t tickle yourself, but at least you can masturbate.

High again and writing. Higher again and thirsting for porn. All of it aims at maintaining whatever vague semblance of sanity I have managed to retain. Its a psychological survival strategy.

It is sort of like tickling yourself when you think about it, though. Call it rubbing out the tickle from inside the pickle like a highly-determined and thoroughly-caffeinated soul aiming to conjure the genie out of the lamp.

While we’re on the topic, passion is understandable. In anything, really. But being a messy eater is nowhere near as gross or, for that matter, as potentially disastrous in social situations as being a messy beater. Genie of the Weenie stains, after all, and this is a fun-fact that one would serve oneself best to remember — preferably before failing to put on a pair of clean pants that fine evening you went Cosmic bowling with some girls from work. They’re always so damn heavy on the blacklights, you know? I had the worst case of glow-pants.

Research suggests that men masturbate because they need to unload dead sperm. Look at it as a sort of spring cleaning for the ding-a-ling lingering, sandwiched between your sweaty inner thighs, all to make room for the new glob of pre-life destined for those old pair boxer shorts.

Men’s own fantasies get boring when they aren’t having sex, so they turn to porn. Maybe soft porn at first, and we’re talking really fluffy — like a cloud orgy in the bright blue sky of a delightfully warm and sunny day. Like the rooms full of daily housekeeper-pampered pillows in the world’s loneliest hotel. Like an afghan rabbit fresh out of the dryer. You know. But before long that’s gotten boring as well. He has desensitized himself to it due to over-exposure. He must up the ante a bit at the very least. Soon enough, that, too, gets boring.

Stuck now, sinking in quicksand on the grounds governed by the Law of Ever-Decreasing Returns, he evolves in dark twists and turns, his wicked tastes mutating into the increasingly kinky and ever-more extreme. You want to turn to some old girl he used to pine over and scream at her, bark at her that his sexual desires are far more warped now than they would have been had she just fucked the poor lad when he still had time. Tender it might have been, perhaps topped off with some casual pillow-talk as you both peacefully drifted off into a revitalizing, post-coital slumber.

Now, however, he would much prefer to hog-tie you and face-fuck you while yanking on your ponytails like mighty reins. He wants you in goth-style, knee-high or higher, black leather buckled boots. He wants you to slap him around, talk down to him, dig your nails into his back as you fuck him in aggressive jack-hammer style. If you want tables turned, he’d like it just the same.

He needs you to like it as much as him, because those porno clips he has seen where one of the parties is clearly not enjoying it has not only killed an erection, but haunted him. It might be extreme to say that this is what it indeed was, but the feeling it conveyed to me was of rape void of active or verbal dissent on the victim. In his only experience in this area, he was the recipient, and he was not mute-raped but rather just found himself feeling awkward and embarrassed. The girl slapped his ass and talked down to him, but it was so forced, so artificial, made her feel so awkward that it bled into him. Neither sex nor porn should inspire one to wince. It should not make me wince, make me angry, make me sad, make me sick.

    Porn should not make me laugh, either,
    for ‘tis not a gigglegasm that I seek.
    I seek the -gasm with an or- at the head,
    (not to be confused with that providing “or”
    with an “n” after and “p” before.)

Suddenly this is sounding to my inner ear like Dr. Seuss on Porn, which however unnerving an idea is undoubtedly a book I would Amazon in a flash and devour half as fast.

To turn now to another irritating porn trend that needs to meet an early death, however, there is the insulting suggestion that I’m trying to fool myself into actually thinking I’m fucking the girl being fucked in the film clip and that those from whom the clip originated really have the skill necessary to pull that off. Look, news flash: my self-maintenance is unalterably clear to me and I’m entirely comfortable with that, so you can stop it with the POV crap. I hate POV for the same reason I hate “found footage” films. Art imitating life as seen through the aimless, jittery, defocused eye of a real, live idiot’s personal camcorder is just bad, bad fucking art.

Like, literally.

And as I am not currently plagued with Parkinson’s, it is not at all possible for me to pretend that the point of view you provide is my own, anyhow. I am sucking the butt of cancer, however, and the lack of adequate wheezing is a negative symptom that serves to detract from the targeted believability. So tell you what? I’ll just pretend the entire room is covered with mirrors — you just shoot your scenes in a more focused and less grand mal seizure-like style. A million thanks, porno people.

Now, you want good porno art? Try Tarantino.

Tarantino should really do a porn. No character introduction, no build up, just jump right into the action and show the story rather than tell it. Showing over telling makes for better writing and better filming if executed properly, and while flashbacks are usually a cheap gimmick, to “Tarantino It” is not at all the same. Here you would be playing temporal Scrabble with the entire narrative and then weave these episodes together in an associative web you try and express linearly. An style that more accurately echoes the processing style of our minds. Plus I wouldn’t have to always click my way across the internet porn clip to the point at which the fun things happen.

I try to deal with things are they are, of course. Not all hope is lost. Some things I find interesting about the grand big dirty sea of internet porn I go swimming in. Sometimes while watching porn on mute I will find myself doing inner-voiceovers like some pornographic rendition of Mystery Science Theater 3000. Or sometimes I just imagine what they’re saying to each other, or what they’re thinking.

“She was twistin’ herself into a pretzel, man. Goddess of yoga. it was like Whoreagami.”

Rape Me.

I had always felt the darkness in her, swelling behind the light in her eyes, and finally I met with it. Played with it.

Strange, how all this worked, too. Only in this age, I feel confident, could an exchange like this take place. While a telephone conversation provides a certain barrier, there is something about writing as opposed to speaking that provides a sufficiently comfortable barrier for some people. Even if you know the person in what we might call “real life,” there is often a greater sense of security and a strange confidence that comes with text messaging. As an inevitable outgrowth of that confidence and security, we have the practice known as sexting.

Together, her and I wove a dark tapestry that night, a narrative driven primarily by her and only guided by my answers to her questions. All of them paling in comparison to an early one. It came up when I asked her what she preferred in that context. Politely as one can over text message, she then made her strange request.

“Would you rape me?”

Staring down at that text on my cell phone, several things sliced through my mind at once.

The act of sex can just be a recreational scratching of that ever-present instinctual itch, and it can also serve as a ritual that signifies something more, that has an emotional investment in it, as in the case of two pair-bonded people who are in a relationship or, if we stick with the early stages, even married.

Then there is our preferred style, our preferred ritual paraphernalia. Aggressive, kinky sex was certainly a taste of mine, and the dominance and submission thing, whichever role I would take on, has always been a charged theme in my fantasies, though only limited in experience in actual practice. Leather, latex, tying up and down, scratching, biting, ass and face slapping, choking out, talking down on and being talked down to: all in experience or fantasy things that really turn me on.

But take the act of tying someone up, having the person let you: this is a sign of trust. These rituals carry a certain charge. Rape is not a ritual of trust or compassion in any shade or flavor. To my mind rape was violent, oppressive violation spawned out of hate or indifference. It was also the kind of sex characterized by its lack of a request line, which was what made her request so confusing to me.

I realized all this was fantasy, but it was only substitution for what we wanted to do to each other but could not, as we lived hours apart and led different lives. And in any case, the desire was there inside of her. Why did she want me to rape her? I could only think of her fucked up family, her asshole brother, her vile mother and her father, worst of all. I could only wonder what went on in that house, what kind of childhood she was forced to endure. Did it all stem from there: was she trying to relive some past trauma that somehow eroticized this style of sex for her? If we actually did this one day, if I played rape with her, would this further damage her and make me a victimizer all at once, or might this help her manage the damage?

They always say how abused kids act out the abuse with their toys. When we get older, perhaps we use ourselves and real circumstances. The reason, perhaps, is the same one that has been offered to explain recurring dreams: we are trying to discharge the emotions in an experience, desensitize ourselves to its effects by running through it over and over like a skipping record. So perhaps doing this with her would help her manage her damage, psychologically integrate and reconcile these dark aspects that she would otherwise push away to their inevitable backlash, her ultimate ruin.

It could also turn out that she didn’t want this as she thought she did. Then there was the possibility, and one that went on to haunt me for some time after our texting conversation, that I might get lost in it all, get too passionate, go too far and hurt her or worse. Considering that scenario ushered fourth from within me all I would surely feel if indeed such an accident took place, and the emotions were almost unbearable.

It never happened. We still have not seen each other for years, though we still text one another. Over a year later, perhaps, we again had a strange text, though of a very different character. It did share, however, the first conversation’s perplexing theme.

It began, however, with her telling me that she was getting married. As if she expected a congratulations from me, as if she really expected me to accept the wedding invitation, she acts hurt and insulted. Far be it from me to tell her how to live her life, what path to plow or follow, but I do not have to be party to it, witness it, feel the horrible feelings bound to swell in her as her new hell unfolds, as she welcomes another monster into her life.

I can smell the distinct and foul odour of a shit storm brewing, and I need to take shelter. I need to. I cannot dance in glee to her masochistic choice. I refuse to put up a front.

Naturally, I asked her who he was, to which she responds that she had told me about him. The only man in her life that she told me about was months back, perhaps a year. The guy had ignored her as she told him, commanded him, pleaded with him to stop. The guy who had taken advantage of her. Who had raped her. Really raped her, not play-rape. I told her that was the only guy she had mentioned, and her response made me feel lucky that our conversation was occuring through the medium of text messaging.

“That’s the guy,” she tells me, “but he’s only like that during sex.”

This is, let it be said, much of a relief. After all, the first sign of an ideal mate is that he reserves rape strictly for the sexual context, for that is simply just no way for a gentileman to behave at a suit-and-tie Glady McFuckingGladHands dinner party. It’s just not kosher at all.

Then, however, she explains. She’s tired of being lonely, she tells me, and he keeps calling her and so when he proposed to her it seemed like “the logical choice.”

All her heros are dead. All her dreams, broken. Prince Charming doesn’t exist for her, which I would consider a good thing if she were not going in the opposite direction, using a managable monster to soothe the ruthless pangs of lonliness.

I cannot see her now, not in person. Maybe we will keep texting as we have the last few years, but I have to keep my distance. I care for her, I respect her freedom, but the care makes it so that when she hurts herself she hurts me, too, and my lack of sufficient masochism requires me to keep her at a strict distance, and even sever the tie if I must.

It seems like a logical choice.