Do you see that man coming down the road with a light around him, where is that light coming from, from him, from where, all around him, illuminated, is that it what you call, it illuminated, bright,, an aureole of light surrounding him, circumambient light, look at him glow, he is glowing, isn’t he glowing, this man down the road, what is he, is he an angle, is he a saint, is he–what is he, a god, no he cannot be a god, what kind of divinity walks the road as I walk the road; so then what is he, a spirit–what kind of spirit–is he a demon, no demons do not give off light like this. He has to be a saint, or an angel, some kind of heavenly messenger, no, yes, what, this man giving off this light, you can it see from far off, he’s still very small, getting bigger as we approach one another, getting closer and bigger and brighter, what can he be, again, I should ask him what he is, how can I ask him what he is, how should I stop him, what should I say to him . . .
What can be said that needs to be said as when sometimes in words on a page things get said not quite the way they are said when saying is speaking ones mind how to speak the mind what is in the mind what passes on the mind how I go over things in the mind, thinking is more than randomly passing images. I repeat myself often, even repeating this often, about repeating myself, how what I say I say again in other places with the same or thinly veiled paraphrase, what means now how to say what I am saying again here.
I do not wish I had something else to say, that is, more to say, what more could I say I thought but not for very long.
I said what I did when I did how I did where I did to whom I did every time I did, say what I said as I have said–to say or not to say, I say I said, have said and will say again, like the times I have, the times I do, did–to say is to have said and to say again is what will be said, everything will have said by when . . . to say what has been said by turn what had been said, what I have to say . . . to say or not to say might be his question, could be anyone’s question, what we do in face of what we face what we endure suffer, questions begetting questions as he has said elsewhere on the page with words as they are on the page, every page he turns I turn as I write about writing about him writing and what he writes shares something with what I write how I write why I write, every writer is one and he is many, every writer is the same as and completely different from every other writer, how can I imagine that there is anything else in the world I should be could be would be doing, to do what I need to do or not to do what I need to be doing–what is it that anyone needs to be doing, what could I say now is the thing I need to be doing, this need to do a thing to be done, or am I like any other human in this situation–is it really a place, all the whens and the wheres of what we live, living here and there and then and now–yes, what other ways could I be like any other–not possible, really, if you think about it–how it is impossible for anyone to be anyone else but who he is when he is nhow he is at the moment he is, perpetual now, eternal now, I remember from my scholasticism . . . if he did–If I would–how is it we think when we imagine we are thinking–I mean really thinking, but then who are we, this we is one, I am we, I am many, all the selves inside my Self–I have said this before, read this before, written this before, how many ways to have told, all is tolled, told, totaled how?
What is thought? How does it happen? When does it happen? What is this thing mind we talk about when everything in science today points to brain, brain, brain? Reduction, reduction, reduction; the humanities are dead because humanity has died, not God–yes, Humanity is dead. But then if humanity is dead, why do I write? I cannot help but write? It is impossible that I do not write? I don’t even know this anymore, if it is one way or the other.
All writers share many things in common as every writer shares other things in common with those people he has things in common with that he does not have with other writers, Pino the Pizza man is Italian too–even other writers from his country or his city–what is this shit–and it is sit, right, about having something in common, I guess humanity is or was an archipelago.
I imagine what he must imagine how he must imagine, this writer, any writer, the writer me when I write–it–I know why he must imagine it without revealing this in the way I write, what I write about him having written or him writing or him going to write–there is this string of person-author-narrator/character . . . there are three times from the point of view of any telling, all narration hinges on its relationship with these illusions we cling to–yes, past, present and future are illusions–we are filled, all of us are, woth vanity and hope–all time is one.
Hope is useless, you know.
What does it say about enlightenment, this cognizance of time, the passing of it, how it functions for us in the world, in our minute to minute day in and day out word, the way we live our days, the way we live our lives, the way it happens in memory, the mind, time in the mind and time on the clock has been a preoccupation of mind, the philosophy of mind is where psychology begins. Buddha is and is not about psychology; Buddhist psychology is and is not different than Christian, particularly Catholic, psychology. Why the phrases with we, with us–why we, not I. I am. We are? I am we? Again, the world it turns and turns.
I am not talking about mentality, that superego of imposition in relationship with the psychology of our ego or the ego of our psychology, the analogies should be clear. Enlightenment is for anyone; anybody can become enlightened, but this is not to say that it is easy or that it can become popular or popularized or widely disseminated without the necessary higher election necessary. I could go on about this, but I won’t. I have entire notebooks dedicated to mind, to mentality, to psychology, how they are different and how they interact, feed one another? Is it feeding that happens?
It cannot be achieved in the way we have tried to delude ourselves we have achieved wider literacy in our society, by reducing the standards or reading and writing and separating the two as if reading and writing were not mutual and reciprocal skills. We are collectively stupider than we were; the bottom is dropping out as the tip of the pyramid gets smarter and smarter.
The center of gravity will not hold.
Women can achieve enlightenment as easily as men, the Japanese or the Burmese no more easily than Americans, Germans or Russians. Women seeking enlightenment, others seeking pleasure, others seeking love, others seeking an orgasm. Who does not seek orgasms–half my life spent in search of orgasm?
Who thinks he does not want to fuck–if not to fuck becomes the to be, then it is–it must be not to fuck anymore, to fuck no more–there had to be a time when wanting to fuck held some primacy in the thoughts, even if one were some real genius–Bach had 22 children, didn’t he? Poor misses Bach.
How so, and so how–women in love and women not in love as women are also in marriages full of love equally as other women are in loveless marriages. Who imagines that women do not want to fuck as men also want to fuck–do they want to fuck the same way with the same frequency?
Some women–how many women–throughout time must have used their husbands’s penises as other women have used dildos, perhaps not with quite the same dexterity these others use their dildos. Yes, penis as dildo, dildo in lieu of penis–how could we imagine otherwise; not all fucking is the same. How could women endure fucking in a loveless marriage? How many women married men they did not love? Men using cunt instead of hand, women using penis instead of dildo?
To fuck or not to fuck cannot be the only question in your to be or not; there must be the question of how to fuck. I am not restricting dildos to the plastic or the battery operated variety.
By dildo I mean any cylindrical object a woman chooses to use, whether plastic, made in the fashion of a penis, or just some other insertable shape, although still made of plastic, perhaps in a design that was created with considerations of its insertable-ness, as others make planes with consideration of the planes aerodynamics. Shove that thing in your cunt, honey. We’re always shoving inanimate and inorganic things in our cunts and up our asses. Some women have shoved curtain rods up their cunts, although not for an orgasm, I’m sure.
You do understand that dexterity must be a consideration in the making or choosing of any dildo–there are dildos that are not made but chosen. I am not herein yet going to discuss the chosen variety if dildos that are not made. I wonder how they test the designs of dildos–what women are getting paid to discern of a dildo is a good dildo or a poor;y designed dildo? No, the dildo does not choose the vagina or the woman.
To insert an object into the cunt or not might be the question for some women intent on making her self induced orgasm a matter of being or not being. There is of ciurse the curtain rod, as above–I do not want to consider wire hangers.
Is it insertable? The dildo.
We had those cunt-insertable curtain rods for the curtains in our kitchen when I was a boy, I remember. There was a time when women or girls probably still used curtain rods to have an abortion, a self-induced miscarriage. I do not see them as frequently in the post-Roe-versus-Wade world. Not as necessary–were they designed to hold curtains and be easily inserted–were their brands of these kind of curtain rods that were preferred by women when induced miscarriage was the goal?
Am I able to shove this thing into my cunt? I know that whatever here has been discussed in the matter of inserting into the cunt, none of these things would I shove up my ass. I have no vagina–I do have an asshole.
To be insertable or not to be insertable–or is it really a question of ease and further manual dexterity? I am also not excluding fruit or some forms of encased meat when those encased meats are cylindrical and of a sufficient stiffness. You get the idea or is it the picture?
There are yet other questions pointing to a corruption of communication between man and woman or man and man or woman and woman–I am not going to talk about that which happens between man and goat or sheep or between a living person and a dead person or between a man and a woman’s shoe.
But all of these communication breakdowns are thus a corruption or distortion of sex or what sex could be or should be or might be or would be if–if, if and more ifs. There are many considerations. I did know a girl who used to fuck her bicycle seat, no lie . . . I watched her–she made me watch her hump the seat naked.
Plastic dildos, vibrating or non-vibrating, glass dildos, porcelain dildos, kielbasa, cucumbers, carrots, what else have we in the form of insertable objects, objets de vagine?
Is it a corruption or a subversion (not perversion) of sex, thus of communicating in the most human, that is, humane of ways? To fuck oneself with a dildo. I’m sure there are gay men fucking themselves in the ass with some kind of dildo. What then must we say about fucking, that is, all the fucking that happens? Yes, I have imagined that good p[art of a person’s to be or not has hinged on to fuck or not to fuck, yes? Is it sex or is it masturbation?
This using a dildo for the purposes of achieving an orgasm–and the question can go on to inquiring if masturbation is sex or not, true? I mean, Isn’t masturbation sex? What are we saying anyway? Most of the sex that most of us are having has a lot more to do with pornography than it does with love–has a lot more to do with masturbating with another’s body, than having earth shattering self shattering ego shattering sex with another . . . You do know this, don’t you? How could you not?
Everything in extreme close up. Pornography has the effect, by design or not, of substituting part for whole, not hole, although metonymy at present does often substitute hole for whole woman. Cunt instead of person, woman is person, cunt is cunt, but when I am sucking her cunt, her cunt is the whole world, the entire universe, the cosmogonic cunt, cunt as cosmogony?
This is my Squaw, fur trappers said of the native women they kept. Squaw was a native word that did not mean wife or woman or even vagina, but cunt. Yes, the word closest in translation would be cunt. This is my cunt, they would say. Vagina instead of hand. A cunt is always warmer than a hand in the forrest. Jerking off with a pussy is better than jerking off with a rough cold hand . . . of course it is.
You know where the word Jazz comes from, don’t you? Jazz is an old Negro American dialect word for cunt, not vagina, and when music was Jazz hot music, it was cunt hot music. Everything is about cunt, whose cunt, when cunt, to be a cunt or not to be cunt, to have cunt or not to have cunt, what to do with a cunt, how to do it to that cunt, when and where can this cunt have what is under consideration done to it.
Cunt, cunt and more cunt–there was a time when cunt was the thing I thought about most in this world, And all the angles of insertion were considered, imagined, figured the way NASA scientists did when they were planning our voyages to the moon, which is a woman, by the way. Fucking was art, was science, was engineering and a bit of architecture–all were . . .
Cunt, cunt and more cunt–the singular is appropriate here. it’s not the multiplication of cunts, one after another by another and another, some addition of one pussy and another pussy in some aggregate way of increasing the number of cunts one has sucked or fucked or fingered or dildoed, because men can use dildos on women–but cunt as a metaphysical entity, as some category of ideal form, no? I do love cunt and I do love women and sometimes I love women for reasons that have nothing to do with their cunts, regardless of how many cunts I have had.
AVE VAGINA PLENA GRATIA.
To communicate in this way that needs at least two to complete it–that is, two interactive in what must be a pair, a mutual pairing–this is the principal point in the assertion that sex is a form of communication, and it is communicating if it is right and there is a right and wrong to it, but not the way you might think I mean when I say right and wrong.
Mutual interaction in communication is exactly what is integral to sexual communication. Sex without communication is masturbation with another; can one communicate to himself?
There is the possibility of a man using a woman’s vagina instead of his hand, an act of masturbation masquerading as sex, a kind of masquerade of love for the narcissus who raises his reflection as the object of sexual gratification. But this vagina as hand–anyone so inclined to fuck as a form of masturbation is someone who is divorced from the kind of human interaction we are restricting here as communication. Communication herein then is a human thing, and therefore not an institutional or governmental or bureaucratic thing. Bureaucrats when they fuck people as bureaucrats are doing something entirely different from fucking we call fucking as love.
Communication by the state is not the kind of communication completed between persons or among people. When the State fucks you, it’s definitely interaction of another kind. I and thou, Buber said. I can continue this and understand that I and thou in all fucking is necessary to keep it about love, even if the two who fuck never see each other after the fucking, and do not tell me it is impossible for two to fuck this way I am saying is necessary to keep the fucking from becoming masturbation.
A lot of the requirements of bureaucracy is to get you used to masturbating socially so you will get used to masturbating as a form of substitution for love because power does not want people who love each other, which is why we oppose gay marriage and had in the past sought to criminalize and de-sanitize, in-sanitize, homosexuality–sanity and sanitation are linked, as I have said before elsewhere before.
There is love in every desire to fuck. It may not be love forever and ever, or love until death do us part–but I think that is bullshit too. No I don’t–I’m just being purposefully cynical.
Love you beyond my death are the words you should say when you think you need to say, I will love you until death do us part. How can Death part Love? Death does not part love–I am with Cathy and Heathcliff and all that loving beyond my death stuff–right action, you know, the way the Buddhists mean–fucking must be right action; fucking can be right action. There must be some special consideration for not fucking to be right action, otherwise, to fuck or not to fuck is every one’s to be or not.
To have interface; to interact; these are forms of communication. These are what we have when we have sex. What we have to understand–(and yes, the literal is implied here: to understand is to stand under, or in this case to lie under the communicating, the communication, one of the communicators)–what we need to know is that sex is love.
The desire to have sex, this incredible wanting to fuck, is love. There can be love without the desire to fuck. But all fucking is love, of a kind, at least initially, but not all love is fucking. Cognac, brandy; sparkling wine, Champagne. In the initial stages of love, the development of love, something of this love or the love in itself can be rejected, abandoned, subverted, corrupted.
For a good portion of my adult life, the only real consideration I have had was fucking, when to fuck how to fuck, where to fuck and whom to fuck, although in a world of 7,000,000,000 people, more than half of them women, the prospects of an intelligent, reasonably attractive, funny, educated man are always good. Even if I were ugly–how can anyone be alone?
Love is also a form of communication. In this, sex is also a kind of communicating love–I do go round and round and round, everything on this menagerie of me and mine–but is this so even when the love does not advance beyond the stage of fucking, fucking and more fucking.
To communicate means to be in touch, although, this is a sense, metaphorical. I do not intend to lessen the effect of this definition by saying so. To be in touch is the purpose and intention of sex. Touching we must limit in our understanding, one that relies on the intention of a special kind of communicating, restrictive in its connotations, one that is other than broadcasting or lambasting or haranguing or as in the dissemination of news, communicating facts from a distance to a passive receiver of the news, the communication.
Yes, to be in touch, to be in contact, to have dealings with others, all of them we must reserve for positive or affirmative feelings. I do understand that assault and battery is touching, and that touching happens in rape. But then rape is not sex, is it? It is violence. Where is the line between sex and violence? Ask how many S and M trysts have gone wrong. Will we agree on the points that can rise from this discussion? No. Do I imagine it is possible that I could convince you–I will not try to convince you. You have every right to be wrong.
To be fucking or not to be fucking . . . what about the woman who fucks herself with a dildo . . . is there a right action for dildo fucking–can dildo fucking even be about right action? I imagine, as a gay man or a woman must also be able to imagine, that there is right action for fucking oneself either in the vagina or the ass with a dildo.
Ah! To be the Bodhisattva of dildo fucking?
If you really want to understand how we communicate socially among all of us, you only have to look to how we fuck.
What then must we say, he said to himself, not to others, no one present except those in mind, everyone he talks to in mind he can hear clearly and distinctly, talking to them and hearing them respond in full sentences in his mind in the words they would say, he was sure, in his head, they were speaking to him whenever he was speaking to them in his mind, lips pursed, pressed you might say think draw in mind, your own mind imagining this, what I am saying about him and his speaking and thinking about speaking to others not present.
To fuck or not to fuck, you and I might imagine such a dilemma, such a question being the only question of our being and becoming, what we are without fucking and what we are with fucking, and I am as he would be talking about right fucking as the Buddhists talk about right action. This has to be true.
What more does one need to imagine to be happy?
The Falling Leaf Review 