Category Archives: Sexuality

Excerpt: Soulless Faces and Dread Urges

Here is a Constellation of Man preview taken from recent drafts, just a bit late for Halloween. It illustrates a technique I mentioned in August: developing the subjects I have in mind by intuitive branching from an arresting cluster of imagery, instead of organizing material by topic. Aspects of the human face were the starting point for this part, and a few others. It’s a better way to sort out voluminous material than filling out one abstraction after another, like “human nature.” A compelling journey follows the most memorable lines. —CPB


To look into human eyes, and see no liveliness, no awareness, or no cleverness there, can unsettle or scare like a nightmare.

So can seeing no recognition, or no empathy. We shiver at a familiar face who suddenly does not act familiarly toward us. We feel as though we have met an impostor or a stranger in their skin, or a perfect copy. Feeling betrayed, we wonder if we have ever known them.

Even provided with a temporary explanation, such as hunger, exhaustion, despair, or catatonia or frenzy induced by an illness or a drug, we get an uncanny feeling from someone we expected to know.

Dread of the soulless, or fear of the automaton following reflexes and instincts, are among the most gripping unconscious fears to have, whether they concern society that surrounds, or reflect a fragile personhood which is contingent—subject to chance and circumstance—or terribly hollow, after all.

What elicits fear in an abject form will suffice to cause anxiety in a moderated form. The same reactions continue to be important and instructive as they commonly occur, not only in rare intensity.

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Dante running from the Three Beasts, illustration for Dante’s Inferno by William Blake, 1824-27.

Consider the great and historic fear of instinct. This is the tension engendered by pretending that men and women, girls and boys are not also animals, whose “ignoble” needs, demands, and urges are not unlike those of other omnivorous, sexual, territorial, social mammals. It is a consequence of maintaining a dichotomy between those instincts and “noble” characteristics unique to humanity, scarcely to imagine that one provisions the other.

The ideologues who severed values for socialized Man from his animal nature no doubt discovered ugliness—the genuine ugliness of stifled, cornered, agitated perversions of instincts, which corrupt refined and civil qualities of mankind. Yet the evidence must have confirmed their culprit, and the moralists redoubled efforts to separate the “spiritual,” human creations and divine experiences, from mortal flesh and base desires that distract.

Those who do not permit primal invigoration make themselves the most vulnerable to frightful instincts. Consider too the ordinary jeopardies of those who do, but insist that sublimations of instinct must shed the bestial, primitive, or irrational character of the source. Perhaps that means they eschew visceral qualities, or disallow sexuality, or emotional honesty, or strangeness. Perhaps they inhibit spontaneity, like an artist who expects to produce inspirations on a schedule.

Even some ferocity might need release in order to move flesh and blood behind the head’s enterprise—or to ever embrace a calling. It is certainly not unusual for acceptable aspirations to be tame, or pursuit of them timid. These are among the old and traditional solutions to that “civilized” ugliness, blamed on vigorous desire.

To refine instincts to the point of thwarting them produces dissatisfactory results, and confounds expectations of pressing them into safe and civilized service, as predictably as forbidding instinct to exist makes it monstrous.

Fear is perpetual among the effete, who are forever chased by denied beasts, and the darkness of a savage past. The modern human looks back, and sees the shadow of an animal behind him, and cannot bear it. Something comes too close. Something bares its teeth. Something creeps along the edges. Escape is hopeless. Wherever Man goes, a creature follows. He is evolutionarily preceded.

Instead the usual man enacts, and he projects. He calls others hostile, possessive, or irrational, and he is afraid of them. He curses the “dark side” of the human race. He has reason to feel anxious in his own company. Some furtive, disallowed compulsion really might catch up, and spoil expectations.

theylive

They Live, written and directed by John Carpenter, 1988.

Consider also the apprehension felt over social conditioning. This is the inherent tension between natural and personal inclinations, and social systems aggregated over the years under various constrictive plans to use individuals.

Social institutions are organized for these designs at the expense of an antithetical vision of how civilization should pass its torch to the next generation: by fostering each person to enable their natural gifts and sustain their expression. Any practicable system is most likely to have to grant some latitude and support, in addition to directing abilities. Few institutions have managed to radically replace and subsume initiative, even briefly. Pragmatic ambitions to utilize a collective depend on cross-purposes: on providing some education worthy of individuals, and indoctrinating them in some mass-produced worldview; on letting them go their own way, and drafting them to serve nominally greater things.

To impose goals, social systems must be intolerant of the diversity present in each new generation of individuals, and antagonistic to realistic inferences of human nature and personal nature, able to raise objections. Any yoke draws attention to itself, but especially by subjugating contrary individuals.

Oppressive means of social control have provoked creative resistance as well as paralysis, including depiction in art, articulation in dystopian fiction (or—in obscured allegories—certain tales of horror), and liberal theories in political philosophy, economics, and other social sciences. More frustration and antipathy has been misdirected to blame or attack every sort of prominent, contemporaneous target.

Even those prepared to conform and not to understand why feel an unconscious unease, at least. Those who are gradually going down in the whirlpool remain too quiet in their desperation. Unable to resist the pull, unable to admit they are losing freedom, spontaneity, and individuality, they are loath even to speak of the threat instead of a more ordinary or narrow complaint, lest anyone think ill of them. They keep smiling, and acting as they should. Unconscious recognition of their plight keeps them twisted up, underneath.

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Happy by Laurie Lipton, 2015

Dread and angst have found their way into lore, set into one story formula after another. Preoccupations in culture would give signs of the times to anyone able to decode, for examples:

  • Medieval revenants (from French revenir, Latin revenire, to come back). They return from death as blood-suffused corpses or ghosts to terrorize the living, usually those they once knew.
  • Masses of these, called mindless zombies. Hungry like starved animals, they want to devour the brains of individuated human beings.
  • Takeovers by automation. First, factory machines threaten jobs. Then robots do, and then computers. Finally, androids threaten to resemble, and artificial intelligences threaten to displace Man.
  • Aliens. Shaped like men, but generic and lacking human sympathies, they abduct the powerless.
  • The apocalypse of callous or thoughtless invaders. Brought about by an alien, robotic, or undead army, the end of the world is not just imagination, but metaphor.

As though the unconscious warns through personal and cultural stories, those who do not live as they could—or have a sense they should—put unconscious fears into metaphors.

Articulated thought may succumb to rationalization, and remain out of touch with the rest of our organism. The greater domains of the unconscious mind beware wretched social regimentation. They know torment by the socialization of instincts managed by suppression rather than acknowledgment. They even take the pulse of automata within—the psychic automatism that contrasts often with avowed decisions and self-image. So it is that:

We are confronted by robots. We are threatened by the rise of machines.

We who fear for our individuality could join the shambling dead.

We who fear for our humanity could become just as pitiless as monsters driven by appetite, or just as devoid of thought as their instinct to kill.

Those come out in nightmares, waking imagery, and stories—unreconciled feelings cast out into the world, like the fears projected onto other things and other people. Recycled into symbols, compounded with other symbols, buried under details added to superstitions and fiction, repeated warnings go unrecognized.

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H.R. Giger built a human skull into the face of the phallic Xenomorph featured in the film Alien.

The psychological significance of horror is readily eclipsed by entertainment when its form of expression becomes a public story told for melodrama and pet scares—the thrills of an apocalypse safely not occurring, a monster safely not under the bed. Many can claim horror as a matter of familiarity without resolving it. Depicted horrors—monstrosities, abominations, dying, gore, and even torture—become unaffecting horrors. Sincere fears remain, unmoved.

Part of the enjoyment of the genre has been comfortable distancing—dissolving empathy with menaced characters who feel fright, agony, or powerlessness. Managing to resist emotion identification with their situations can yield a pleasurable sense of control. Stereotypical or unlikeable characters actually contribute to the appeal of performed horror, because this excuses schadenfreude, and permits the viewer to laugh at them without remorse.

The escapist audience knows they have nothing to fear from any monster shown to them. All the more if they take for granted that the real terror sleeps even closer than under the bed—a monster of exaggerated passions and urges. This is the devil inside who mobilizes darkly-regarded, repressed instincts.

It is not untrue that the faces of anger, arousal, hunger, and defensiveness perch on unsettling thresholds. The threat of the liminal expressions is that we could find ourselves looking into contortions instead of a familiar face. In their ultimacy—rage, lust, ravenousness, and panic—these faces of human nature do not reason, or show mercy. They are single-minded. They do not care about anything else. More than coarse or rough, these turn savage. More than moods, these are like personalities—and not our own, we feel assured. They are disowned people.

Yet each and every human being can transform or be transformed by desperate need, or under duress, or by psychoactive effects including drunkenness, like Jekyll’s potion to bring out Hyde. Upon witnessing this universal susceptibility in their own experience, each human being usually fails to accept it.

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Fredric March in Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, directed by Rouben Mamoulian, 1931.

The visceral and primal deserve respect lest they become troublesome or dangerous. That is possible if the teachings of culture permit a sanguine interpretation of natural instincts. But the base and vile can only be cast out and destroyed, instead. No organism could ever do that to intrinsic parts of its nature. Many who have lived have learned from moral teachings to expect the impossible from themselves, and specifically to deprecate and banish the roots of disturbances, and to feel guilty when they fail.

Therefore, they have long told story after story commemorating their unsettlement. It has never been uncommon for figments from these stories to take on suggestible reality, because they allowed confessions, of an evasive sort, that were intensely desired. In much the same way that a criminal or a survivor plagued by guilt might see a ghost they had been told about, a superstitious man, woman, or child suffering from a repressed, now-fearsome “shadow” might become convinced they were stalked by a real monster.

Consider the recurrence of folklore across time and place describing some humanoid form, some dead, some not, ravenous for blood or flesh, and often identified with viscera, including the heart. These were creatures with the sympathies and kindness of a demonic enemy of the living, as though possessed by bestial hunger—the vampire’s bite—and rage, and in some incarnations, lustful and beguiling also, like a succubus or incubus.

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Title page from a 1734 “Treatise on the chewing and smacking of the dead in graves, in which the true makeup of the Hungarian vampyrs and blood-suckers is shown” by Michael Ranft. This references a posthumous (and pre-Freudian) oral fixation: reported cases of corpses continuing to masticate after burial, biting coffin linen or their own arms.

As late as the eighteenth century, officials in Eastern Europe were obliged to formally investigate cases of supposed vampires in order to quell rural panics. In some areas, corpses were staked until the twentieth. Modern-era fiction made this trite, losing its significance. Confront it as a close, physical reality: some unspoken, desperate terror linked to vampires was great enough for mourners of recently passed loved ones to impale their bodies. That is no small fear at all. It is not to be rationalized as hysteria over a superstition that was never real, and must instead find explanation in grave, yet incorporeal matters.

The legend by many names speaks to the fear of losing one’s human qualities to appetites, like the vampire and its victims do, losing personality and losing control.

These stories might remember fears of the uncontrollable hunger of the starving, in particular. What the uncontrollable bite can do even includes cannibalism, during famines. Prosperity elsewhere and since led to forgetting what starving people have seen themselves or others do. (Modern people who can generally eat whenever they want get only the slightest of reminders of what they are capable of from the passing viciousness of hypoglycemia.) Unforgettable transformations for desperate survival are hardly to be reconciled afterward, felt to be worse than death.

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Necronom II by Hans Rüdi Giger, 1976.

They sum up alarm at recognizing primitive nature, for having witnessed it: We could be monsters inside. That is, nothing but a beast, when cornered, or famished, or insatiable. The life-force of blood† and viscera; the sex of rape; the ingestion that devours other life without pause—our nature can be reduced to these by severe circumstances.

But it is still more frightening to contemplate if it could happen capriciously, through temptations, which guilt both anticipates, and follows—and which attempted suppression of desire actually intensifies. One succumbs, obedient and bloodless.

Old vampire stories reflect acute fear of the sexual urges which might lead to transgression of taboos, or moral norms of the community, and even fear of consequences for violating religious dictates. It was said in various traditions that numerous different transgressions (such as sex out of wedlock, or improper burial rituals) could produce a vampire, even before death.

The vampire turns soulless (absent from the mirror, in the modern telling) because it is bestial, and therefore, deemed inhuman. It is also a demon: the vengeance of an unacceptable impulse sent down. Suppressed instinct, moralized, socialized, does not go away, as it is told. Damned nature comes back as perversion and hate—that is all a revenant has left. Having been marked as evil, instinct can manifest in no other way.

The vampire trope also points to an alternate, timeless referent which is not universal human nature, but contributes to its blameworthy image. There is a recurring cultural warning about psychopathic characters who lack empathy for others and enjoy tricking, manipulating, and corrupting them. It is easier to express that warning in stories and accept them as inhuman monsters, than to admit they are living among other people in society, as brother, sister, friend, or lover in bed. Like an evil impostor of a familiar face, they pretend affinity until it does not suit them.

 


† As usual, frequent mutation of storytelling complicates tracing a continual meaning of symbolism. Compare with the considerable positivity of emphasis on ‘eternal life’ through curse/gift of blood in modern versions of the story, surely inspired by the gift of eternal life through blood of Christ. In some treatments the curse of blood does not even place the soul (personality) at risk; it is almost entirely a gift of supernatural powers.

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Excerpt: spirit as metaphor for sex (and vice versa)

Continuing to post selections taken out of context from large amounts of unfinished material collected for The Constellation of Man, a work of literature planned for three volumes. Some compositions are unrepresentative in style, subject, or themes. All remain under development, subject to change. All selections were written by me since 2010. —CPB


It is too literal to believe that the cilice is worn no longer [by modern and secular people]. It is too literal to believe that penitence, or mortification to suppress the concupiscence to commit acts of sin, are obsoleted when these words are left to grow unfamiliar and antique.

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Die Jungfrauen by Gustav Klimt, 1913

Of all acts of desire formerly proscribed by religious authority, and forms of hedonism still censured in spirit, lust troubles most intimately. Even after the most diligent corruption of the youth to mistrust the body has passed from common instruction, the taboo body lingers, and puberty makes it a stranger. One generation passes shame, secrecy, and silence to another. The next passes awkwardness and avoidance to another. Overcoming schooled inhibition requires touching again and again, talking again and again, practicing again and again.

Some of the most immodest or promiscuous remain firmly in thrall. To want to prove that transgression of a taboo is possible proves also that the taboo holds—at least enough to tempt, and has not been thoroughly overcome. To transgress compulsively, to reduce sex to mere performance of acts, is to forget the tabu indicates sexual physicality is holy, not merely forbidden. Along this line, we can learn more than an error from those who still condemn lust as a sin.

The dangers of leaving desires to seethe unreleased, leading to unintended perversions of libido, have been extensively described. Indeed, religious modesty hides more than flesh. Suppression perpetuates undercurrents of fiendish attention to sexuality, as well as anticipating sin from such preoccupation. It forbids an appetite and fulfills an expectation, a guilty loop.

But more than cultivating obsessive attention, it also encourages another species of attention: a conscientiousness surrounding sexuality, hinted at by the concepts “purity” and “innocence,” an aura easily left behind when sexuality is rendered common and taken for granted. A purely utilitarian, matter-of-fact attitude toward sex would dispense with shame, anxiety, and bashfulness, and Eros too.

To actually encourage being present in the sexual act goes too far for those who worry about participation. Inhibited by shame, they are generally unable to obtain the fruits of such cultivation. These fruits are spiritual in a metaphorical sense of spirit, while the facilitating practice for present sensual, erotic, and ecstatic experience is—outwardly and physically—foreplay, sexual intercourse, and orgasm. They are too timid about that ritual to enter the temple’s Holy of Holies. No one can meet the god from a distance, performing self-conscious sex without abandon. No one honors Eros without fucking.

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Danaë by Gustav Klimt, 1907

Yet religious sanctity is of a kind with presence in the act, and not in total opposition. Those who still identify sex with sin at least intensify attention to sex, even though—and partly because—they are not supposed to. They know at least to impart significance to sex, and not demote a potentially profound neurogenic experience to a material interaction, or a biological drive. Preoccupation or obsession does heighten experience, despite unfortunate condemnation of the means of fruition and deemphasis of method. So do the various, overlaid religious frames treating sex as a profound, spiritual matter and not a mundane one.

Whereas, the alternate error of those called licentious is always to harvest, never to cultivate; that is, not to impart a neurogenic halo to the sexual acts, but to expend these occasions without reverence, and without intent to “set the mood” for any meaning beyond the obvious. This potentially reduces pleasure to expending the heightened senses of physicality, without attuning the senses for a broader neurogenic significance while they are heightened. Opportunities for peak experiences are lost.

That would also be the cost of coming to see sex as “simply biological,” the urgent need which one simply discharges, and gets back to something more important. One forms utilitarian relationships for this purpose, without emotional or spiritual attachments. One is too rarely struck, as by a lightning bolt, by an orgasm with meaning. One is too rarely shocked. Perhaps not at all.

It might be better not to lose the long-taught memory of shame, if this must be the price. Fortunately the price is paid unnecessarily by those who do. The mystique of sexuality need not be lost because the shame is lost, and because the moralizing has been, in its turn, lectured at, judged, and rejected.

Pan Periastral

To continue on the theme of mythological imagery in poems, the poem below is without a doubt one of my favorite examples of this that I ever wrote.

Pan Periastral was an erotic love-and-sex poem I wrote in December 2006 for a special occasion and a very special person, and a philosophical statement as well. The title—with its compound meaning for Pan, including 1) the randy god and really the whole amorous pantheon (Aphrodite, Eros), 2) a Brahman-cosmological “everything,” and 3) metonymy for physical Nature—was chosen in part to refer to the strong assertion in the poem of the inseparable expression of the ethereal, symbolic, and idealized (LOVE) in the actual, immediate, and sensorial (SEX). I felt that there was no need to separate this dichotomy, because through the latter you could experience the former—in fact, only through the animal could the transcendental be discovered.

You can also tell that I was influenced by the idea of Uranus and Gaea being in love, which you may remember from the same charming illustration in d’Aulaires’ Greek Myths that I do.

Pan Periastral

In celestial arms embrace
two worlds to float the firmament of heaven.
Orbits dance in brilliance
on twosome paths of starry night.

Sun-time melts in solar stillness
when the earth and sky adore.
On the surface senses stage
an ageless transcendental taction.
An atmosphere of touch
retells ethereal caress.

A feral huntress holds each breath
— a cosmos inhalation.
Her delicate advances move
through underbrush of wild ginger,
meanwhile hunger stalks with cyclopean manners.

Lepidoptera alight on limbs
and quiver concupiscent,
butterflies with tiger eyes
that fold to hold in storms.

Bumblebees brush desperate buds
and hum to dewy ocean flowers.
In the sibilance of sighing rushes
comes a thrum of nectar’s bliss.

Dolphins crash past rolling hills
in swells by curving
inlet shorelines,
wave crests cut by petrels
screaming tempest songs for gales.

Lured by lunar rhythm hard
against the bulwark shore the sea
of azured lapping lazuli now
beats to white-hot foamy flecks, and
Aphrodite’s born again
from copious delight.

A silver disc adorns the stillness.
The moon reflects on pools blood-black,
in tidal inkwell shadow
after calm receding light.

(dedicated to Evi Numen)