In middle school I used to get angry that everything circled back to sexuality, that there were friendships based on flirting, that it was impure and imperfect and biological. I thought it was reductionist, too easy, too adolescent, too petty, too dumb, too physical, too earthly.
I was ethereal, I had standards, I was the feminine ideal. I was flimsy and far-seeing and righteous and, and…
Then I discovered that people don’t respond positively to feminine passivity, that it all circles back to sexuality, all the time. But can limitations be freeing? Or do we only think as much in justificatory retrospect? It’s only sex, it’s only biology, but it’s also the crux so that makes it everything! My first novel will be entitled Sex and Self-Esteem. My second: Stanching the Wave of Melancholia with a Dike of Ejaculate.
But like I was saying: My story has no duplicates. I am a special, solitary Digg article; I am fragile and what I call humble but actually just fearful. I am 14 and I want to go east where I will be free of my Minnesotan shackles, free of the creepy familial cabal with its claustrophobic Jews and their refugee neediness and their wastefulness. I will go and live among civilized savages with good taste and barbaric facial hair. Ideally they will be British Freudian Sephardim-descended but I may come into a thing for blondes and hope that they wear swastikas just to make things more morally dubious and HOTTTTT. I will get into concerts free, make my own moonshine and bottle it in stainless steel receptacles so as not to get infected by all the carcinogens that did me infect when I carted my rum-and-coke concoctions around in plastic. I will feel perfectly at ease on Coney Island Avenue and try to think less at present about burqas and clitoridectomies because they get me down too fast; aye, for the nonce will I wonder only at wholesome sexuality and unpretentious common sense.
You see, Andy (or Sarah, or whoever you are), I attempt to advocate relativism in everything I do, so sure, I aver, our stories have no duplicates but we are not unique! Nay, importance is relative; everything is important if it matters to someone. In my younger years, my motto was So Long As No One Gets Hurt.
I wonder if by accepting limitations, what is cordoned off, we can transcend the cordons, storm the barricades, symbolically stand alongside the Columbia River in red cotton mail-order Victoria’s Secret shorts billowing in the late 90s wind, pretty free and 14, crying cathartically into the summertime haze that My story has no duplicates! I am unique! And, and…
This is the second half of my Realism tract. You can’t tell ‘cause I made it a separate entry but I see the links. Can you? Maybe what I’m half-flippantly, half-insistently trying to say by asserting the ‘limitation’ of sex being the crux of our mental lives (or by extension physicality in general) is just to acknowledge reality. Maybe there are no limitations at all. Maybe it’s just seeing things with uncovered eyes. Why do I feel I so fervently have to CONVINCE anonymous millions of this? Why do I think I’m the medium? Who gave me the message!? Damn it, I’m so idealistic.
“… when Max sets sail… you intuit his pluck and will from the close-ups of him staring into the unknown. He looms large here, as we do inside our heads. But when the view abruptly shifts to an overhead shot, you see that the boat is simply a speck amid an overwhelming vastness…”