To live on the cutting edge of erotic consciousness is to live not only where death and life meet, but where being human discovers its ultimate worth and meaning. In other words, its spirituality. It is where all purposes relating to the human experiment converge; where the cosmic bang explains itself in our bodies; where mind and flesh and desire and sexual contentment are harmonized.
Spirituality without eroticism is a sterile abstraction. In religion it is a belief system that has degenerated into saccharine piety or, even worse, sanctimonious self-loathing, the idolatry of the image of oneself as sinner (the idea of original sin being the only true blasphemy). The human experiment fulfills itself erotically or not at all.
Life being the roulette game it is, not everyone ends up with a romantic partner. Does that mean one who doesnt is shit out of luck? Not at all! In fact, it’s possible that a man or woman may fulfill himself or herself quasi-narcissistically as an erotic being—and not in a Freudian neurotic sense—more than any Don Juan or femme fatale.
Eroticism is as personal as one’s genitals, yet universal as community, brothersisterhood, world peace. In fact, it has been the denial and perversion of it by conservative minds and those afraid of their bodies (and others’ bodies) that has been one of the main, if not the major obstacles to world peace. By perversion of eroticism, I refer to the dastardly belief that being erotic is not as sacred as our bodies themselves, indeed as all flesh.
I will not lower myself to the level of those who dont consider the flesh as sacred as the soul, I dont care what honored position of ecclesiastical authority they hold or how morally upright they are. No doubt they are the ones who believe staunchly in original sin.
I do not speak of the resurrection of the flesh, but I do say the body is eternal. That’s because it is one with mind, whose kernel is consciousness. And the kernel of consciousness is imagination, which is, as Blake said, eternal delight. To speak of the erotic, to live in the delight of one’s own eroticism, is to partake of and to express not just both our individuality and commonality with our species, but the mortality of our immortlity and the immortality of our mortality . . .
(Note: being as how I am coming to see this blog as a place for jottings and random notes, the preceding general remarks on eroticism could be a preamble to a much longer essay I’ve written called “Eroticism and Death,” which I may eventually post here in installments.)