Dear diary,
The reason that my wife and I do not get along in bed (or, for "do not get along" you should substitute the phrase "are perfect for each other") is that SHE is a sound sleeper, silent and still; whereas I, even I, like to move around and talk a lot when I sleep: I open my eyes and ask all my sleeping companions intriguing questions, becuz I'm seeking for conversation; and I move my legs like I'm swimming and thrash my fins about sometimes; I flip my torso from front to back & then flip back over frontwards repeatedly, like a self-frying egg. I like to sing hymns while sleeping and make dolphin-chatter. And sometimes I sleep quietly, too, with both my eyes closed; and whole hours pass without anyone knowing.
I think I've said this before, but it bears repeating: Love is a possession – by which I DO NOT mean that it's a commodity that can be exchanged for cash and then possessed like a jet airplane or a cylinder of lipstick (although it probably can be solidified, distilled & refined; then sold on the market); no, I mean that love POSSESSES YOU. It's not a choice. You don't say "I choose to love so-&-so"—love rather takes you over... it comes down on you like a sickness. However, unlike sickness, which is entirely bad, love is mostly good. It is inconvenient for both individuals and society, but it's thrilling & blissful. Truly, God is love, in the sense that none of us is altogether our own Creator, but we're all liable to be used by God anytime; and God strikes whenever and wherever God desires: God does not consult the possessee about when and where, let alone with whom, he or she would prefer to be possessed. And, I repeat, the reason we say that we FALL in love is cuz love is like a pit, like an endless pot-hole that you trip into; it is The Lake of Fire: you don't DIVE voluntarily; you rather find that you've descended therewithin, always on accident, and you freefall forever – that is, until eternity drops you.
I wish that more people would fall in love with me; I don't think anyone's ever done so. Actually, I think three or four people have fallen in love with me, or probably seven or eight; but I wish that whole multitudes of people would love me. And I wish that when people find themselves possessed by the curse of love, they wouldn't be shy about it and hide on the sidelines yearning in secret (like I do) but instead proclaim their possession PROUDLY like when sports fans cheer for their favorite team.
And it's not all about sex, about physical intercourse. O people, stop placing sex at the top of your pyramid. Sex is good—sex is very good—but there's more to heaven & earth than is contained in your gruntwork. Unclad arousal in a dimly lit bed is OK. But I would like to see more brazen gallivanting about in...
No, I hold back from what I was going to say, because I see an angle that I dislike about it. At first, I was going to call for more public nudity; but then I realized that my imagination was focusing on, say, the sight of more gorgeous female breasts; whereas I am in total agreement with anyone who says that we need LESS public nudity because it is NOT desirable to have gross creepy MEN expose themselves.
I'm now trying to think if there's an example of public male nudity that might be passable. I think Michaelangelo's statue of David can remain un·fig·leaft. —Hmmm... now I wonder: What's the argument against the sight of the organ of manhood—is the problem its hair? But I think our statue's generative worm has hair. But it's stone hair. Maybe that can be the rule of thumb: Only bald or shaven or stone-haired youthful kings in tiptop shape with divine proportions can bask beside us on the subway.
And not ALL females are attractive, are they? No, they are indeed ALL attractive; but, as Milton always sez (in his poem "Lycidas"), to interpose a little ease, let our frail thoughts dally with false surmise; for I want to make an unreal point here:
Let's say that one woman fails to cast a full spell of love upon her conversation partner, due to the fact that her artistic taste is unadventurous. Now if we say "Every person is beautiful," we've only compromised the concept of beauty; because there is still something about Emily Dickinson that is more invigorating than our unnamed philistine. We'll end up therefore only inventing a further adjective to apply to Ms. Dickinson which cannot be applied with equal aptness to her inferior. Now this arouses envy & resentment in our lesser model, the same way that the concept of beauty did above; then in no time we'll find the new term neutralized as well, on account of all of us claiming "Every poet is sublime; and every hack author is a poet; therefore the baker's dozen hacks that top the bestseller list are the new 'Apostles' whose works constitute the new 'Good News' of the new 'New Testament', but Bryan Ray is Judas the Anti-Saint cuz he refused to accept even thirty pieces of silver for his public-private diary." Thus I'm the ugly girl in my own analogy.
Concerning Judas, which was guide to them that took Jesus, he was numbered with us, and had obtained part of this ministry; and this man purchased a field with the reward of iniquity; and went and hanged himself: falling headlong, he burst asunder in the midst, and all his faith gushed out. (Acts 1:16-18 + Matthew 27:5)
Note that both Judas & Jesus enjoyed death-by-hanging. So, again, I can end with The Marriage of Heaven and Hell:
One Law for the Lion & Ox is Oppression.
MORAL
I'm not a hardcore adherent to either side: atheism or belief in God. When in the company of atheists, I'll try to nudge them towards the other view; I'll say: "Hey maybe God does truly exist." And if I'm among believers, at a church service, I'll say: "What the fuck are we doing here, worshiping some weird warrior with whom we've never even clashed swords!?" I love no stance but only the transition between stances. I crave the feeling of moving from atheism to belief, and also back again from belief to doubt and skepticism. Between life and death, I prefer neither punishment; being alive is OK, and being dead is fun; but the best and most rewarding state is FLUX: for nothing beats dying (the progression from life TO death), not even the experience of being born again. (See also: The Passage of Virgin to Bride.) And to traverse that small bridge where one instant you're a fragment of impossibility, and the next moment you're two globules of matter: an egg and a sperm – now THAT's interesting. Especially when you kenosis yourself by siding with your sperm aspect and damaging the border wall of your own precious egg, so as to become a zygote: a diploid cell resulting from the fusion of two haploid gametes; a fertilized (or infra-existent) ovum.
Note, however, that there is no English word for the sheepy flavor of zygote; that's cuz all the zy-lambs are kept unborn and separated by the fiery rod of our Shepherd.
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