dimensions of lust

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.

8 thoughts on “dimensions of lust”

  1. I love when you write stuff like this. I’ve missed it. You always get my brain whirring in a million different directions and I want to talk about it for hours. I’ve already got my own blog post brewing as a result of stuff I was thinking about…but who knows if it will ever come to light.

    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.

    I know this feeling so well. It’s this problem that one encounters when one has a personality where to feel alive you must always continually EXPERIENCE things. You have to discover and then examine and feel and know the thing. Until that’s a part of you, and then you need a new thing to stimulate you…but you don’t want to let go of the old thing, because you remember the rush it had for you…

    And also, often the only way to get that close to the thing is to have it in hand. So you end up owning it, or coexisting with it in some very close way. But then, as you say, this forms a connection and you feel responsible now for it’s well being. And if you look at it in one light, that can feel like a very heavy albatross around your neck.

    How does one balance this need to explore things deeply with the need to be free of things? It’s a real challenge. I don’t have the answer.

    All I know is I once had everything I owned stolen. And while on one level it was very much like experiencing a death…losing every material thing you ever defined yourself by…I remember that first few hours afterwards. I remember sitting in a park, with nothing, and how stunned I felt. And then recognizing suddenly I felt absolutely FREE. I had nothing to worry about or protect anymore. I could do anything…nothing could get hurt except me. Nothing to lose.

    It was an overwhelming feeling. It felt on one level, like a huge release–a freedom such as I never felt before. Relief is the best word I could give it, and shaky lightness. But iif I will be very honest, there was also something else, gnawing at the edges, a sense of deep lonliness. There was this recognition that staying that way would would create an ultimate feeling of freedom, but along with it an intense loneliness that most people never feel. It is scary to think that that is the tradeoff. Can one manage both? Is the payoff worth it?

    I don’t know. I find myself now in middle country, not really committing to either path. And that doesn’t feel particularly satisfying, either.

    Anyway, the urge to give up everything and just MOVE is constant with me. But you know, even if you give up every material possession, the things they represent often still end up being carried with you…unless you work to let those go, it seems giving up every material possession in the world won’t really release you. So that’s what I’m working on now. Getting rid of the mental/emotional baggage I’m carrying that is no longer needed. Learning to travel light through the world.

    Have you ever read the story “The Things They Carried” by Tim O’Brien? This post, and the things it brought to mind for me, reminds me of that story. If you haven’t read, let me know, and I’ll send you a copy via pdf. Great story.

    Heh. I guess i just wrote my blog post here. Sorry.

    I’m looking forward to the return of your muse, so I can read more of the above, and more of the things you described in the last paragraph. The real things you carry. When you write about those, the writing really sings.

  2. Don’t you have your own blog somewhere? B^)

    *KIDDING*

    It’s funny actually because this was the product of addled mind and sleeping pill, and it was my second try after my first entry wound up lost in the woods somewhere and I couldn’t get it back on track. I don’t even know what I wrote, above, I’ll have to go read it.

  3. Karl darling, sometimes we are best when we are out of our minds.
    This is a gorgeous and sage post. In so many ways, lust defines us. I don’t have much attachment to things, my preference is to become, to embody what the thing promises. That is a passion of it’s own. Oh how you speak to my nomadic heart, that life…it is mine.

    May the muse invade every inch of your being.

  4. Isn’t it just?
    The lust, I mean. All consuming… Voracious. For
    things
    people
    places
    situations
    ideas
    It’s lust. It’s what defines our humanity, our lusts.
    Good post, hon… You sexy beast 😉

  5. Speaking of things getting stolen, being robbed is an effective (if unpleasant) way of determining which of your things mean the most to you. This past August, my house was broken into while I was at work. What were the first things I looked for when I entered my house? My drumset and my Warren Zevon CDs and vinyl. My dog, iBook, and wallet were not left at home that day or else they’d have been on the list, too. They went through my entire house (including my dirty laundry- oh how I wish I’d had something with skidmarks in there for them to grab onto!) except for my bookshelves. It turns out only two items were gone and the one I’ve missed a bit (the DVD player) has been replaced, but really anything else that could have been taken would have been an annoyance but not traumatic.

    Were it not for my dog- she’s quite possibly the world’s only lab who hates water- I’d have sold my house and bought a sailboat to live on a couple of years ago. I was surprised to find out how inexpensive it was compared to what I’d imagined. It was oh so very tempting. Now the drums would be a problem, too. But that doesn’t stop me from thinking about how that could be overcome…

  6. I know the feeling of admiring and wanting pretty things yet feeling trapped by the possesion of things. Possesion of “stuff” can be a stress of sorts.
    In the end, all that is really important in life is passion, sex, food, drink and contentment. “Things” really don’t satisfy.

  7. By boat? You mean sail, right?

    Are you getting close to writing what you love again? Is that why the mention of a muse?

  8. There are times I wish I could give up my lust for pretty things. Some friends call me a magpie, so often am I distracted by pretty shiny things.

    But my lust for touch, for warm flesh against warm flesh, pulling and tugging of lips and tongues and tasting of salty skin? Never, never do I want that to wane.

    I came close to wishing for it to disappear, back in my unattached days, when years would go by and there would be no serious prospect in the relationship horizon, leaving me to satisfy such keenly felt needs with occasional brief encounters that were fine at first, but ultimately unfulfilling. Now that I am attached again, and this time to a man whose libido rivals and sometimes outstrips mine – an extraordinary feat – I am happy that my desires, my lusts are still as strong and driving as they’ve always been, and even moreso than my youth.

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