fuxxing

What is fucking?
It is our wish to make what is abstract concrete.
To externalize desire.

And not just that old primal desire.
Does anybody over twenty two fuck for that reason?
We’re all too adept at masturbation.

What is masturbation? The sound of one hand clapping.

…Should I be using the word “fuck” as opposed to “make love” or have “sex”?
Any freshman boy who thinks he’s above the prowl on which he’s set, he’ll distinguish those word for you.

Philosophy 101.

I won’t make those distinctions because I’m afraid of peddling clichés.

What is it to be clever? Cleverness is to articulate a cliché in a way that seems fresh.

What is the problem with our culture? We’ve consciously rejected the intelligent for the clever. We fell in love with the clever. It’s easier and more fun.

Fucking, like dying, is an act of animal intelligence.

(This almost clever reference to the petite morte).

…What is a whore? Someone who fucks more than you do.
Though it should be noted, there are places in the world where two unmarried people holding hand are considered dirty.

The question that counts, it is: what is your reason for holding hands?What is your reason for fucking?

…What is the process?
The most important moment in the fucking is not the coming, it is after the coming.

(There is a blue room. This is long ago. The room is blue because the only light on is blue. We had finished. This was before everything really came together. Before everything really feel apart. All things fall apart, like your body, like your fortune. There is nothing so basic to the nature of this world as decay. We had finished and lie together in the blue light. In that moment, the long pause after fucking, in the blue room, the room with the mirrors, I knew it would end. I saw it ending soon.

And I said: What is going to happen now is we’re going to die.
And you put your head on my shoulder and your hand on my chest.
And we were still.
And I said: we are going to die now. Only first, we will have a death dream, and in that dream, we will rise from this bed. We will dress. We will go back into the world. That dream world. We will lead our dream lives. There will birthdays and funerals in this long death dream.

We will lose each other, it is almost certain, in this dream.

But remember, this moment, it is the last one, so it is the only one that counts.

Then one day, decades from now, at the end of our dream lives, we’ll come sailing back.
We will be reborn into this unfinished moment.
Reawaken to this incomplete reality.
Your head will be on my shoulder. Your hand will be on my chest.

You were nodding your head as I spoke.

We closed our eyes. We went into the dream. Later, we rose up and went about our dream lives.
I thought we would part more quickly, but it took us years.

And the dream keeps going.

Perhaps it is true that at the end of my dream world I’ll come back. And you too. And we’ll find ourselves sealed together in the blue right. The room with mirrors. Your head on my shoulder. Your hand on my chest. That moment before we die.)

…I want to believe that love is eternal.
That what we do in our blue rooms, what we say, what we feel, that we are tied to it.
Whatever happens, whatever changes.
What is sanity? Sanity is the acceptance of the rejection of the eternal.

What is fucking? It’s a flesh picture of want. It is a moving muscle structure of need. It is a breathless conversation. Let me in, let me in, let me in… Those almost divine grasps we make for that which can’t really be grasped. The noble effort. The first and the last resort.