Sunday, February 17, 2008

Letter to Sigmund Freud

[Note to my former readers on MySpace: Yes, I know that I've not posted anything new for quite some time. I am in a very deep funk. The 2008 election will be for me a reprise of 2004, a pro-war lunatic vs. a pro-abort psychopath, and Bishops like Burke and Meyers are going to tell me that if I don't vote for the former, I will go to hell. Not that they are pro-war, mind you, but they will argue that war is simply a prudential matter and, hence, takes a back seat to abortion, which is intrinsically evil and, hence, cannot be allowed under any circumstances. Yeah, well, the Republicans, Machiavellian fucks that they are, know this and will use the prospect of replacing Stevens with an anti-Roe justice to try to make believing Christians like me vote for their wars for the freedom to rape, pillage, and impose corporate fascism all over the world. In other words, McCain will try to keep Christian voters hostage to the chance of overturning Roe. Fuck this. I am just not going to vote. And if this sends me to hell, fine. Burke and Meyers can have their heaven all to themselves. If heaven is filled with people who think war is merely a prudential matter, then it is braindead, and I would prefer damnation to losing my brain.

Anyway, below is a post most of my former readers have read. I post it here now just because I want to save it somewhere. I had it on my Facebook Weblog, but then the powers-that-be there dismantled it. Facebook is far more fascist than MySpace ever was. Geez. Perhaps my departure from MySpace was not well-considered after all. Anyway, here is the post.--Sebonde]

Dear Sigmund,

You may think me repressed, Sigmund. You may think that I am just a victim of the Unbehagen of civilization. Fine. I should tell you that this thesis is baloney. Pre-marital sex no longer has the social stigma it once had. Kultur may still be straitjacketing the libido, Sigmund, but the Straitjacket is considerably looser than when you wrote Unbehagen in der Kultur. You would no doubt point out that I was reared not in the general American culture (whatever that is) but in a specifically Catholic one, which as we all know squeezes and constrains the libido far more severely than our general civilization does.

But it can be easily argued that our civilization needs a comparatively unrepressed, unbridled libido to fuel consumerist capitalism, which now rules the world. Our civilization now does not constrain the libido, it does all it can to inflame it. So, I guess you might say, Sigmund, that my Puritanical Catholic Upbringing and growing up in the decadent West pulled me into two different directions and left me a pathetic puddle of neurosis. Okay, fair enough.

I had pre-marital sex in 1992. With Justyna Nowotniak who is now a professor of Philosophy in Warsaw, Poland. Apparently she is an expert on Paul Feyerabend, the late philosopher of science. I don't know. I can't read her book. I don't know any Polish. We spoke in German when we knew eachother in Munich. She told me at the beginning of our sexual affair that it would be one "without form (ohne Gestalt)." I guess this meant that we would be no more than occasional bedmates or, as our vernacular now likes to say, "fuckbuddies" (a singularly depressing term). Well, I accepted this condition. Of course, I did. I was twenty-four years of age, I had never had a girlfriend, had experienced only one french kiss and just a handful of slow dances (perhaps no more than three, now that I think about it). I really wanted to fuck. I was also starved for feminine affection. So, yeah, who the fuck cares about having a Gestalt. Kiss me, baby, and take off your clothes! That was pretty much my attitude.

And it led to disaster, of course. It turned out that the form was more important than my libido had expected, but my libido had been too pre-occupied with its own storming of the Bastille to care. Of course, I was Catholic enough to know that I was sinning, but that didn't concern me so much as my need for affection. That's what got me worried. That's what made me slowly realize that if our fucks had no form, then I had no promise of lasting affection, and to be quite honest, I had become more addicted to her affections than to the boinking. In other words, the physical gratification of the bodily act alone did not satisfy me. I wanted love, enduring love, true love. But love is poetry, and in poetry form and content are inseparable. Their separation is a Nestorian Heresy.

And so I pressed Justyna for a form, and in love that means commitment. She replied that she wanted her Freiheit, her freedom. That did not mean anything. Not then, and not now. I kept pressing her to tell me what our fucking meant. It was simply a caprice, she said. There is no meaning. That could not satisfy me. The sex drive may be overwhelmingly powerful, Sigmund, but the desire for meaning is permanent. Friends of mine told me that had I played it cool, had I not tried to encroach upon Justyna's freedom, I would have probably gotten a few more fucks out of her. Yeah, more meaninglessness.

The sexual affair lasted all of February of 1992. It ended right before Lent. I went crazy. I wanted Justyna back, but, of course, the more I attempted to woo her, the more indifferent she was towards me until I was no more than a nodding acquaintance, if that. And that in turn made me all the crazier. The woman with whom I had the most intimate experience a man and woman can have together was now little more than a stranger to me. Our acts of sexual intercourse had as much meaning as rocks, and if I thought that there was love in our hydraulics of passion, I now had to admit that that was just one great big fucking lie. Just one fucking lie that made one big mockery of the notion of love.

Well, I've confessed this sin (and it was a sin for my twelve years of Catholic Schooling would not allow me the plea of ignorance) to a priest, and supposedly this act of fornication won't send to me hell now that it has been repented. But the damage remains. I am very cynical about love. I sometimes doubt whether it exists. Yes, of course, I want to have sex again. The sex drive is overwhelming. You taught us that, Sigmund. But this time I want to be one who tells the woman that this is just a caprice without any form that I prefer to have my freedom and that I just want to use her body for the fun of it. Chaucer taught us that once the sexual act is liberated from its proper context of chivalrous romance and indulged in simply for the sake of pleasure, it becomes in the next phase a tool for revenge. And that's how I understand the sexual act now. As revenge. So much for Freiheit, I suppose.

Now, do you understand why I think pre-marital sex is evil, Sigmund?

Yours,

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