I feel like all I’ve been writing about lately are objects of lust – material objects, not the lickable, suckable kind (nevermind that someone wanted to lick my new washer). Which makes this all seem one-dimensonal. Karl has a new object of material desire is all this blog seems to be about. I’m a big […]
I feel like all I’ve been writing about lately are objects of lust – material objects, not the lickable, suckable kind (nevermind that someone wanted to lick my new washer).
Which makes this all seem one-dimensonal. Karl has a new object of material desire is all this blog seems to be about.
I’m a big fan of lust. I think it’s just about the best thing in the human condition. There is nothing quite so glorious as working lust up to the point where one’s READY – TO – EXPLODE; and then getting the object of said lust right at that frantic, frenzied peak.
But when that thing is, well, a thing, of silver or iron or shiny-bright plastic, no matter the lust, no matter the usefulness of the object, it is, still, only an object and only as good as it is useful
The funny thing is, though I so often blog about things I like or want, I’m not all that materially driven. Most of what I care about, of the many things I own, are the ones that solve a problem in some particularly good way. My coffee maker which looks cool in shiny stainless, but more importantly makes a damned fine cup of java to get my brain working in the morning. My knives, bright steel or dull carbon, chef’s knives, pocket knives, switchblades and tactical folders, all of which do a job for me on a daily basis.
My Jeep and my motorcycle please me for aesthetic reasons, but more importantly, they move me from here to there in ways quick and efficient; I can go over almost anything and park almost anywhere in my jeep, I can slice through traffic and park where I will on my Triumph. They have limitations and impracticalities, but they do exactly what I want them for.
I love that they please my eye; I keep them because they do the job well.
I own fine audiophile components, home entertainment centers, video game consoles. I like these things, and I use them, but in the end it’s the art and the play that matter, the music, the movies, the games, not the things. They solve a problem.
I struggle between the lustful desire for pretty things and the desire to keep my life simple, clean, easy, functional.
One of my dreams is to live somewhere to basic, so physically simple, that everything goes and I’m down to what I absolutely need. The gypsy life with no roots, no more belongings that I can fit in a wagon, a van, or best of all, a boat. The nautical existence draws me and I struggle with the idea; give it all up, strip my life down and go, vs the comfort and plenty of my daily life. Because that comfort and plenty is a cage of sorts; I am a keeper for the things I own and the space they take up. A slave to the material goods that make up my life.
One of the things I struggle with is art. I long to collect, to own; I want beautiful things, from jewelry to sculpture to hand-made clothing like my best Aloha shirts. From original paintings to framed prints to odd posters collected over my lifetime. I love these things, yet so often, owning art seems somehow wrong. And it traps me again, for I must provide space and shelter and protection for the fragile, beautiful things I own.
My other lusts are simpler. For those lusts are pure, focused desire, for things that are not things; living, moving, thinking, speaking, lust is for the entire organism, not simply as an object but as a complete person.
Lust isn’t free of complications. No, it’s got outrageous complications of it’s own. But it’s not the same. For when I choose to take on a role of owner, keeper it’s not the trap of ownership of a thing, it’s a choice shared, and a reciprocal role.
Those, in truth, are the lusts I’d rather be writing about; fictional and real, fulfilled and unfulfilled. I’d rather spend my energy describing my heart’s dearest and most salacious desire. Though for some reason, that sort of writing flows only occasionally, where the lust itself is never-ending. That writing requires a special touch from the muse.
However, the muse who inspires material lust seems always nearbye, and so I write as I am able, and talk about shiny rings, bright red washers and fast cars rather than sweat-glstening skin and the musky smell of love; I describe my desire for a garment or a vehicle rather than the wrenching physical need a simple touch can bring, when said touch is from the right person.
Though who knows; tomorrow that muse may come back to visit and I may find it easier to write about stolen moments of embrace and finger-bruised skin, about the familiar scent of desire and the need one can feel like a white-hot knife in the belly.
Maybe.
