In Session (5)
The secret journals of a lay psychiatrist, continued
“Very few people realise that sex is a psychic and not a physical act. The clumsy coupling of human beings is simply a biological paraphrase of this truth — a primitive method of introducing minds to each other, engaging them. But most people are stuck in the physical aspect, unaware of the poetic rapport which it so clumsily tries to teach.” ― Lawrence Durrell, Balthazar
Last night I looked at myself in the mirror and saw what other people see, the massive body of an American Man. You ask an Asian man to draw himself and his woman, and the two figures won’t be that much different. They look natural. An American Man will draw himself bigger than he is, and if you ask him to draw himself the way he wants to be, he’ll look like me. I’m a fucking monster and I know it. And yet there’s a seed of rebellion in the pinkie of my left hand.
The first time I saw it I thought I was possessed by an evil spirit that established a beachhead where defenses are weakest. Maybe. I like to work the probabilities. All I know is that when it stiffens and pulls away from the ring finger, I get an erection. The events have become anchored and have a Pavlovian connection by now.
It’s the pinkie.
The ring finger is freakishly long and I keep the nail filed to a point. It was either get behind it or put it out front. I hypnotize myself and monitor the dominance of patterns and how to shift them. I can’t say that my ring finger dominates my index finger, but it is an equal now that I’ve given it a knife. The pinkie seems to have separated from the rest of the hand, and the more I inquire into the pattern, the more flummoxed I get.
I can feel when it is going to happen, just the way I can feel when my ears are going to bend forward and backward all by themselves. I couldn’t do it when I tried, but then something in there figured it out and just does it all the time now. People think it’s muscle control but it’s muscle out of control. I feel the pinkie coming to attention with hydraulic confidence, stretching away from the ring finger, and the strangest feeling comes over me.
The ring finger starts to quiver, which gives rise to the image of a giant shaking his sword in the air, but what he would strike he cannot, for it is attached to him at the root, though dissociating itself in order to know the pleasures he inhibits. He waves the sword about like a madman while out of his reach, the pinkie is pushed and pulled by the will of some ancient fish, a denizen of the deep water. The spontaneity is the conscious reach of imagination fueled with selected emotional vibration. For imagination to take command, it must leave pouring over maps and strategy in the tent, and join the battle.
In the beginning there is darkness and the weapon of choice is the double bladed axe, a gift from above. There are matching blades faced inward and outward, so that there is a clearing process, a labyrinth where the god is at the center. While opening the passage out with one blade, the path inward is opened with the opposing blade. A dream shared by many is of cutting through tall grass with a machete to make a path to the river, and when you get there you see that somebody has been cutting a path through from the other side, to meet you there.
At the center the axe transforms to light.
Imagination creates images which contain emotional energy. It is when I think of you, my love, that the pinkie jumps with a sudden recognition of eternity. There is no lust in my heart because I do not need it now. I never did but tell that to the Marines. When I think of you now there is no difference between us because we are in the same location, a white light that glows like a nuclear reaction between our sexual chakras. Nothing is true, everything is permitted.
This lets the inhibitions dissolve
I connect with you in the eternal moment, here, where the orgasm has become a territory to be explored, instead of passed through with eyes on images of power and submission. No, it’s not that. It has become inevitable now, like a flying saucer hovering just over me. Maybe I’m standing in a pasture with some Jersey cows, or horses. Not pigs. Nothing against them but they fuck with the optics.
This inevitability is the state of matter, and there is no other possible manifestation but this one. This is the beginning of the orgasm, when it has agency, and has chosen to take communion with spirit, like bread with wine or blood with oxygen, the mystery of the heart. The encampment sleeps while from the east electrical discharge flashes in a sky gray as charcoal. Dawn stirs but cannot yet waken. Still it builds. A scent of heliotrope. I stare into the mirror and see that the ring and middle finger are down folded, the index and pinkie, extended. In sign language it’s I love you, but in an Italian bar it means you’re a cuckold. It doesn’t matter, and matter is where the orgasm is happening.
It arrives at its own pleasure. Don’t rush it. Go away for awhile to visit your relatives, like you do when the house is tented by exterminators. Leave it alone, keep relaxing deeper into perfect unity with the body, which is unity with everything, until there is nothing there except the orgasm, and we align with the vibrations of a star and as one, ride it bareback.
