My theme for 2014 will be the flesh and the lusts thereof—praising and indulging them. I believe the flesh is to be indulged—indulging it is praising it as it ought to be—and so-called norms and perversions are merely, if titillatingly, variations on a theme, that theme being precisely the indulgence of the flesh.

Meanwhile, my dreams are the dreams of an insane man. But then whose are not? Very few of us are a hundred percent sane or insane; most if not all of us fall somewhere in the rainbow shades between the extremes. Is the dream of my flesh any more irrational than the dream of my spirit? What distinguishes them? Nothing—certainly not sanity; nothing rational.

I dont even know what the dream of my spirit is when separated from the dream of my flesh. I have a hunch it is nothing, a will o’ the wisp, an ignis fatuus, a mirage. Which more than once in a lifetime is what sanity is, not to mention the shadow or faintest whisper of insanity.

Here’s the kicker: only in the flesh, and in indulging the flesh, can we make ultimate sense not just of lust and sanity but of love. Love, which is the only reason flesh exists, if there has to be a reason. It could be a kiss, a comradely embrace or a passion so intense it expands the beating heart to the body’s extremities, to hands, feet, genitals that tingle with desire, rendering a man or woman as far from suicide as the sun is from hell.

Like devil’s advocates we unwittingly try to equate love with what destroys it. Not just the thoughts and emotions that agonize as they revivify us, but some man, woman or erotic object which our existentially tragic situation as human beings is based on and draws sustenance from. And which our sentiment, our passion thrives on; that raw orgasm, drama of happy hells which our sense of humor graciously countenances.

The divine comedy in every happening, if it does not kill us with laughter, resurrects us with an appreciation of absurdity. Laughing is its own madness. So is crying, whether the tears are shed in a myth of heaven or Hades. And absurdity—appreciation of the irrational—is the key to death because death is the height of irrationality. If death is desired, it is because desire, albeit death’s arch-enemy, is irrational. (We are not so different from our enemies.) Yet desire is also the blood of life and love.

Love, of course, is very irrational. In fact, it seems everything that is best in life is irrational. Still, I refuse to give in entirely to my latent insanity, which I share with every sane person. (Not that the irrational necessarily equates with insanity, but it comes more or less close.) I hesitate to ask what is rational—every else, I guess. The boring stuff, the stuff lust avoids. And so will I, or try to if it is not worthy of my flesh . . . my poetic, that is, sensual and aesthetic indulgence.