[Philosophy in the Bedroom] Sex to the Social Revolution

If you are familiar with the Marquis de Sade, the controversial writer and figure of the early 1700's forward, whose very acts and deviancy coined the term "Sadism," or sexual pleasure derived from the pain and humiliation of others, then it doesn't make you an exception to the zenith of depravity that stemmed from his mind.

The 1795 [Philosophy in the Boudoir] was once counted out and banned as pure obscenity but is now hailed by those who are quite comfortable and close to their own sexual compulsion as more of a social revolution. In the book, de Sade's philosophy is entangled in libertinism, the lifestyle, which applied effectively and without a second-consideration, would save the whole of France from the ruling Monarchy.

Along with an embrace of the libertine lifestyle, too, atheism  must be embraced and excluded anything else representing the moral fabric spun by any overbearing society's tyrannical reign. Within this social defiance, de Sade's own life, the trials and commitments he faced in dungeons can be seen. He states that if a crime is committed while in the course of seeking pleasure, then that crime shouldn't be punished, a more wishful thinking on his part, because had it been in effect, de Sade would never have been imprisoned for the various and numerous sexual and violent offenses which were committed in due course of his own sexual climates.

If anything can be taken from [Philosophy in the Bedroom] is the theory that any government, past ruling or currently presiding, were to have come into accounts of the text, the sex would be the least of their threats, rather the complete renouncing of religion and the monarchy, which in sum, would befall a government complacent and in place. de Sade is not the moral compass anyone or any individual needs to direct their own compulsions and urges, but for his work,  we can all see how a government that has lost its focus on the people becomes nerved when even a single individual publishes a manifesto against the foundation.

[Orgasmic Organisms III] Egon Schiele & the Creative Urge

As every form, piece of art entails entertainment and intrigue, there too must be some to vilify and damn; if not those few or many whom the finger points, then what else does art has to offer beyond its very purpose to impose perception?

The higher the artist reach to grasp a standard of a dream, the lower he'll be drug and the dredges and pulls, much more tighter and persistent as ever before and with every tug, there too comes a double-headed representation; not only has art reached its zenith to outrage, that in its very rocket-flight upward, the cosmos has become rearranged and the vapid human content no longer have maps to find their way about; nothing anymore is what is was, time is changing, a new epoch is charging in with non-marching orders and the train everyone was convinced would arrive, bypasses.

Schiele took no detours, felt no fear, even being a man at least a hundred years ahead of his time and a man, amongst many more better concealed in their compulsions, unhidden. With every town he entered, parents kept their children close, the laws kept their legislation at the ready to be altered in any way that would hold captive the captivator.

Was Egon Schiele, by today's standard, a Ephebophile? Yes, as was Vladimir Nabokov as well as R. Kelly. Did these atypical attractions make Egon the artist he was and renown for being today? Without a doubt; a compulsion, an impulse, the spasm to commit physically, can be so powerful as to reverberate and echo throughout every sense the human body is known to possess. This very desire influences the creative urge, for an artist to confess by brush, canvas, oil and acrylic, notes and sketches their innermost impish interior.

[Where All the World Can be Witnessed] on van Gogh's [Cafe Terrace at Night]

Take this as an advisitory note;
wake one morning, make no plans, gather only a pen and pad, walk outside, follow the crowds until you come to the first cafe you can find. Order yourself a Latte, or an Ice Coffee, or a Mocha Cappuc
cino, whatever your fix of caffeine may be. Forfeit the inside seating and find yourself a nice comfortable table outside, pull out that pen and pad, allow your eyes to fix and adapt to the passing crowd and after a day's time, you'll see how sharpened yours senses become, how much more, or how much rather less, this human existence makes more, whilst simultaneously, makes less sense all the while.

Van Gogh, in all his terrible aloneness, sought nothing more beyond that moment where you are sitting. His mind riddled with an almost debilitating shyness, tertiary Syphilis and a catacysmic mind feeding on itself as a cannibal, brush to canvas, view inside of eye, words only filtering within the conflict and confines of mind, the renown 20th century painter came of age truly when his shadow had become and would be the last company to truly know how the simple act of painting a Cafe Terrace, a place where the people who were always estranged to him gathered for small talk, the goings on about the town, speaking too, of the latest artist to drift into town, and the last one claimed by yesterday.

[To Paint is to Love Again] On Henry Miller's A-plenty Passions

Any man who can take into account the reality of his very own destitution, smile, thenceforth uses this poverty to draw hunger as a means of non-conformity, is familiar with Henry Miller, even if they've never heard of his having once existed.

-then too are they familiar (without actuality of being) with Langston Hughes, Selby Jr., Bukowski, William Burroughs; all loss and all that will be loss allots only the very life demanded if the individual indeed desires unvarying individualism rather a collective passivity.

It doesn't take much gumption to follow a crowd, even being completely unaware, to aim, to not, bout face to walk against the heavy tides of zombies, takes an artist who has lost the fear of death, embraced a physical decline, an embrace dictating; if we shall die our individual clash against bouy
s bumping like herds heading submissively to slaughter, has been enough to take us farther beyond our physical end, if even a second following, it says, it has been enough.

[Impressions of 1939] On e.e.Cumming's [Waterfall]

You wouldn't think it to look at it but one photograph cannot tell us anymore or any less than the next; the devil lives in idle detail, detail then is what our imagination dictates it to be; the unimaginative, all the same what is not imagined, needs not more than a moment's more to be informed of their own mangled existence.

Cummings imagines/imagined; perhaps not so simply as recreating the visual of a waterfall, though how gently, if not so gently, the water lands onto a pool of the previously fallen in sum.

For ourselves, we dream of what isn't, then wake to note the disparity and attempt, as Cummings, in drastic plights, to make what isn't so.

Cummings fails in this 1939 attempt; & if failure itself is defined as shortcomings of success unattached from one who has stepped into a precipice and broken every limb to make climbing out possible, then it is a badge of honor that all of us who've taken endeavors to live rather accept the inevitable stakes, presuppositions by nothing more than our very own imposed limits.