Now More Than Ever

Meaning has lost all meaning, I come to this conclusion as I sit hovered over the page, pen in hand, empty, confused, wondering how exactly I got here. Not that here is anyplace particularly perplexing. I am a writer, the page, the screen, the pen, the keyboard, it’s all a home of sorts, just one that sucks me in only to kick me down and leave me feeling disconnected at times like these.

But we come back for the mistreatment. We always do. Writers are masochists.

I’ve taken an interest in researching carnal alchemy. BDSM and that. Always fascinating to me, mostly from a psychological perspective. Sadism. Marquis de Sade. I had read that the sadist is also the artist, which was an interesting concept.

“The Sadist is also the Artist. The insightful definition of Sadeanism offered by Gorer (“the pleasure felt from the observed modifications on the external world produced by the will of the observer”) is equally true of the Artist or Magician. In the work of all of these types something is imagined in the subjective universe and from there it is caused to come into being in the objective universe.” – Stephen E. Flowers

It has been said that Sade had an uncanny ability to be both outrageously grotesque while at the same time terribly boring. I’ve not read him so I cannot say, but just having this impression is somewhat amusing. Humans are so hellbent on pleasure they numb themselves to it all in the end.

We think there has to be something more. Is this all there is, we think to ourselves.

I get through the day to get through the day to get through the week. I try placing my faith in hope but the love, the trust, just isn’t there anymore. I reach out and my fingers stretch deep into the void.

I don’t know how I feel. I don’t know ‘how I am.’ I don’t know who I am. Or perhaps I should say it in this way: I don’t know who I am in relation to what is happening all around me.

Is it too much out there or too much in here?

My country is dying. It is in the fits and throws of gasping and grasping for breath. The fires are all consuming and we are trying to stand back and assess the risks of running in or running away.

I listen to a beautiful person speak about purpose. They mention God and I light up a cigarette as I watch their immaculate face illuminated by the light reflecting off of the ceiling as cars pass on the street below, flashing quickly by.

Purpose. Direction. Worth. Life and death and madness. Any sense of purpose or direction I felt before, I’m over that now. It’s all over. The way it was. Never even was.

 

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Photo by Shadow Walker

11 Replies to “Now More Than Ever”

  1. The sadist may be an artist, but this, in itself, says nothing of the value of his art. I mean to say, what is the source motivating his art? Is it love, or a feeling of abundance? Or is it an inability to stand oneself and the futility of one’s life, and hence a way to drown it all in a desperate plead for pleasure? And as far as pleasure is concerned, what defines man is his sense of taste, his savour, and not how much he can eat and devour…

    Pleasure is fleeting; love is eternal.

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    1. Mmm interesting questions, I am glad this piece awakened them in you. I would imagine the answers are as varied as each person who confronts them within him or herself. There is the idea, too, that all humans need a certain degree of suffering, crave a certain degree of pain, in order to feel balanced, alive, and whole as sexual, intellectual, physical, spiritual, and artistic beings. That ‘love’ is pleasure and pain, as is life, lust, desire, growth, death, rebirth, grief, euphoria, etc.

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      1. Well you mentioned sadism and experiencing meaninglessness. The human being is an economy of energy, meaning, the bundle of energy we are has to discharge itself some way in order to function. Sadism, masochism, and any other form of sexuality and/or creativity is one way of discharge. Experiencing meaninglessness creates in us an extra urge and pressure that requires a more acute form of discharge. So sadism and masochism and the rest act as a way of alleviating the anxiety and shielding us from it, if only momentarily, the anxiety of being free.

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        1. That experiencing meaninglessness is as an urge, a pressure, this is interesting. Where one might assume meaninglessness creates a vacuum, a void, an emptiness, a vacancy, but instead it takes up a space which requires need for release. “The anxiety of being free.” This resonates deeply. Are pleasure and pain separable?

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          1. I think that what humans fear most is freedom, and they would go to terrible lengths to shield themselves from the anxiety induced by freedom, of which the experience of meaninglessness is one. Sadomasochism can be one way of drowning that awareness. Mysticism or mystical experiences can be another. Assuming an automated/capitalistic way of life is another. And so on. But that is only one side of the coin. Sadomasochism can also be an expression of exuberance and a fulfilled core.

            As far as sexuality is concerned, I don’t think that pleasure and pain are separable. I think that pain is present even in the softest touch. Ah, what an artist is the human psyche!

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