27th
internally contradictory:
the greatest compliment should not be to enumerate all those little quirks which i love, but to ask questions about all those things of which i am curious. dont let me spell out the things i know, let me marvel at your depth and hint at my attentive observation by asking about the things i dont - it’s finding out about the unknowns that turns me on, they are what keep me coming back.
There is a game i play. I am infinitely curious, and i see the exploration of that curiosity as a purely intellectual excercise. I want to know - everything - what i do which you find seductive, what i do which you don’t, what you would do for me, with me, with somebody else, what the things i could not, physically, experience feel like, what the things i could physically experience feel like for you. I maintain the veneer that this is a purely objective study.
Tension is erotic. The G rating in so much of what I see is due to its lax, limpid passivity. From Playboy and Penthouse as well as the artful nudes of today, it is the lack of tension which diminishes the salacious. Give me Eros, that tense little fucker, with his fear that his aim may be poor, his step trepidatious in pursuit, muscles attached to wings stretched taut, the string of the bow a high pitched quiver, right arm straight, left hand close to the ear. There is a lack of certainty which is delicious, a want which is full of desire, a concentration on purpose which excludes mere comfort. Beware the fat hallmark cherub masquerading as a god - this louche, lethargic figure is a pale reflection of that which Eros symbolizes.
I want to feel want, lust, pain, joy, uncertainty, i want to see tendons stretched and muscles taut, arms extended to grasp desire, fervid mouths feeding hungrily on concupiscence.
mere acquiescence lacks the base humanity which makes this fun. Comfort, I fear, is for the frigid.
I will regret the naif exuberance of this tomorrow - but does it feel a little as though we were living in a depressed miasma, that a million people could march in the streets against a war and be told by the powers that be that they didn’t give a fuck, so we all sort of gave up, fell into a torpor? That there was a horrible dissonance between the abuses that we knew did matter and the paris hilton stories and gawker and snark which came to pass as valid social commentary?
and then.
It has all started to matter again. We woke up. I feel as though there are an infinite number of creative projects which were exploring something which had seemed meaningful sitting unfinished because they now seem frivolous.
There is activity which makes sense. They are going to close Guantanamo, withdraw (slowly, strategically) from Iraq. The ridiculousness we lived with which was presented as immutable is, all of a sudden, ridiculous and mutable. Reality feels tangible rather than dreamlike, and full of the possibility of good, even though one is cognizant of how difficult that reality is going to be.