“Here is a book, which, if such a thing were possible, might restore our appetite for fundamental realities”
“So He made a whip out of cords”
To fuck or not to fuck, that is the question. A most difficult one; and most obfuscated the further we plunge out from the vestibule of providence’s standard out into the dark and chaotic night. Our sclerotic intellect trembles over an abyss of bodies ecstatic, tangled and primordial as worms: an abyss which holds the answer to the question. What does it mean to fuck, why do we fuck, am I nothing but a fuck having come to its perfect retardant peace to fuck once more?— perhaps. Regardless, I have the answer. An answer which I have not always had, and have erred accordingly. An answer which now having, kindles in my heart a warm hatred for mankind and his absolved folly. I have an answer, a most simple answer to this most difficult question: humanity’s test.
One of some sort of “higher nature” may remark, and rightly so, “woah woah.. One cannot talk about the question of the fuck without bringing up the blessed sanctimonious sacrament of marriage.” If only this were still true… (worry not, marriage and all her blessed mysteries will be treated with proper reverence in good time) but we inhabit such murk that to even consider talking of marriage at this stage is folly. We must first clean the filth from the inside of our windshields before we can even consider driving to the carwash.
“There is sodomy even in marriage”
Sex, love making, a sacred thing, a beautiful thing. Oh Lord, If only we could rid ourselves of its abstraction, how free we would be. Wilde famously says, “Everything in the world is about sex except sex. Sex is about power.”. The world, as it has been observed repeatedly by those of a more esoteric tint, may in all its totally be reduced simply to sex. The sacred dance and dalliance (Lila) of the Hindu’s, Christ and his bride— who but the church?— with stained sheets on the night of their consummate banquet, Boehme’s cosmic primordium awaking to itself, the spirit of a dove hovering dewsoft as wooded morns, a diamond-vehicle Vajrayana wet dream, world without beginning without end a beautiful flux— “The way”. Sex is a way to become like the little children Jesus called for. And what have we done with this beautiful all-consuming gift so dignified that it may even be considered the source of all? We have wrapped it in lies and unknowingly made ourselves eunuchs.
It has been said that the only sin is despair, the sickness unto death. Without bothering to establish that this statement is not some antinomian call to unscrupulous action, the spirit knowing no condemnation— it must be said there is something else that God hates: hypocrisy.
The two great offenses to Providence are despair and hypocrisy. However, the nature of these two offenses differ greatly in their portent and prescription. Despair is a miracle in the same way faith is. Despair and faith are “spiritual gifts”, or to be explicit, both are not consciously sustained or engaged. In contrast, hypocrisy (in the sense of internal contradiction) although similarly unconscious— who would willingly be dissonant and divided?, is able to be resolved the moment it is revealed: “the light shineth in the darkness”.
The voice of God is the voice of honest indignation, and while this indignation may not necessarily turn from despair into faith—the fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom— the light of indignation resolves the hypocrisy within us such that we may act and be of one accord and one master. In other words, there are only two sins, despair and faggotry. Faggotry not in the sense of anything having to do with supposed gayness but in the eternal pejorative sense with which it is used colloquially among young boys. This faggotry is the eternal bandaid on reality and the fundamental nature of experience, made vapid through collectivized abstraction and excuse. When it comes the the question, the simple answer is not to be a f*****.
“Faggots in school telling me, always in the barber shop
Are you ‘trying’ to have a baby?. You should do natural family planning
Yeah I pulled out, Yeah I wrapped it, Yeah she’s got an IUD
He, she, they sayin’ that safe sex is sex
Shut the fuck up, y'all niggas ain't know shit
All y'all motherfuckers talkin' about
Chief Keef ain't no hitter, Chief Keef ain't this, Chief Keef a fake
Shut the fuck up, y'all don't actually have sex
Y'all dont even know what sex is
Doing something and doing it all the way
Nigga been using “protection” since I dont know when
Motherfucker, stop fuckin' playin' like that
Them niggas hypocrites out here”
It’s been said that “condom sex isn’t sex”, but let us elaborate. Condom sex isn’t sex, pull-out method sex isn't sex, birth control sex isn't sex, IUD sex isn't sex (or rather I still O U some real D sex), natural family planning sex isn't sex—sex is sex. After sex, if you must, take whatever you need— plan B, morning after, month after— just don’t kid yourself and take sex from sex.
“Sex is for the one person that the two of you are”
Terms and conditions still apply, and this is no explicit prohibition of the secret golden nectar-pollen taoist esoterically-alchemical zoharian ladder of heavenly delight, but that is not the point, and neither is some creepy ultra natalist mechanical reduction of sex to its effect. The point is to have sex as sex. Nothing more and nothing less, anything less is faggotry. There is no “trying” for pregnancy, there is no “not trying”, there is no alternative, there is only love without past or future, good and proper annihilation. “Yours is the action, not the fruit” Krishna tells a faint Arjuna. We must straighten ourselves as he was instructed, to listen and act. How cursed and heavy our heads have become, leaving us fleshless (and what value is a word not made flesh). We cannot embark on what is most important and fecund while still carrying with us abstraction upon abstraction. Physical abstractions, chemical abstractions, spiritual abstractions, all cuckolds in the truest sense, preventing a real and unadulterated experience of life (heaven on earth)— God’s true and only joy.
“I will go down to self annihilation and eternal death,
Lest the Last Judgment come & find me unannihilate
And I be siez'd & giv'n into the hands of my own Selfhood"
The question is answered and what bliss! Bliss magnified the more so as it is a microcosm (a most important one) of the answer to the questions of life’s greater whole and their potential thievish pitfalls. With every miracle, from Christ’s many to the local saint’s few, comes the possibility of amplification or invention with the subtle intent of control. Miracles can be invented for control and miracles can be controlled so as to not be created. Sex falls into the latter category. We with the machine have fallen prey to living life only for the sake of life (whatever “life” in its reductive sense means). Naturally, what follows is death’s constriction of life’s attempts to be freed from such a utilitarian, white-knuckled prevention of an evernew creation, or miracle. Freedom is the opposite of automation. If being unwilling is being unable, then we are free to create ourselves.
“For the sake of the machine, human life becomes precious”
Oh modern man of all shades and climes. Without compass or craft he swims content and confused on the surface of black possession’s loam. Where are the signposts and guides with which we can climb back to even a semblance of reality—nowhere but our hearts! If not for the most holy pontiff of the most holy church of Rome repeating once every five decades that “contraception is not acceptable (but natural family planning is.. A shame!)” we would have surely drowned… Perhaps, however, hope, inspiration, and remembrance come to us as auspices from even less exalted lips and loins than the church’s.
There will be great loss in the world seen
Great ordinary loss
Subsumed w/ all again
Those supposed lowliest among us, from the crack den dwellers of Detroit to the incestual trailer park occupants of Appalachia, seem to be ignorant of, or have transcended, many society's abstracted experiential lenses, including those obscuring the question. The abnormally high abortion rate among America’s black population, along with their other infamous statistics relating to single parent households, ect. are cause for great sorrow surely and influenced by myriad factors, but namely one: that they tend to actually have sex in the true sense of the word. Although they are not the sole spokespeople for the aforementioned communities, the poetics of Rappers can be examined as reflecting such predilections.
As Rappers have grown in status to become cultural phenomenon worldwide, we have seen glimpses of this unlearned answer to the question; as, riddled in diamonds, they parade the red carpet followed by their one or many baby mommas and similarly iced out scion. Are they ignorant of the way in which modernity bids we make love? Or have they transcended all such inhibition? Let the lyrics speak (to speak is to go beyond simply acting) for themselves. Young Thug’s in his song Floyd Mayweather confidently exclaims, “I got fifty foreign hoes on my dick//I'ma nut in all 'em hoes let's have some chicks”, while Travis Scott croons with SZA on their collab Love Galore, “let me c** inside you let me plant that seed inside you”. These quick examples speak for themselves and cannot be dismissed as mere “carelessness” or “ignorance” of modernity’s sexual routines, instead they may be seen as the fecund symptoms of beings free from anxiety, mental abstractions, or “worry about tomorrow”. As Kanye puts it succinctly in All Mine, “Let me hit it raw like fuck the outcome//Ayy, none of us'd be here without cum”. This is not to say the abstraction virus has not reached the rap community, plenty of hypocrisy and banality exists. SahBabii in explicit fashion displays this in his song Pregnant (his pockets are pregnant), when he says “I'm still f***in' when the condom bust”. Here the question is posed, is the glorification of this act because of its life giving simplicity or rather because it displays a total disregard for precautions that he or others may have imposed; the answer is probably both. More grotesque and blasé attitudes are heard in Playboi Carti’s FlatBed Freestyle when he mumbles “I nut on her she make me ‘lax”, and Quavo’s chorus on Plan B where unsurprisingly (given its title) he snarls “I gave a b*** a plan B, cause she was my plan B”. All of these examples may elicit nostalgia for simple 20th century beauties like soul singer Billy Paul’s Let's Make a Baby, but oh how the times have changed. Regardless, these vignettes bring us back to the immediacy of life in both its horror and inevitability.
Similarly, the “white trash” population, spanning all the American pastoral, is known for birthing many a babe from teen pregnancy, sixth time newlyweds, cousins of cousins, junk-riddled mothers, ect. And again, for all the stunted evils present in these locales, these stereotypes shine light upon something— that they have sex! They escape the vacuum of the mental through willful or unwilful ignorance and let love win in their panegyric of eternal youth. In a more orderly manner— albeit anachronistic—, stringent, homestead-esque christian households also have not been conned into adopting modernity's virus of sexual abstraction.
“Here was the angel who talked with me, saying, “Run, speak to this young man, saying: Jerusalem shall be inhabited as a town without walls, because of the multitude of men and livestock in it.”
None of the previous examples come without pain and the potential for chaos, and as such should not be idolized. These examples may instead be seen as an ivy proof of life’s inextinguishable penetration of man’s stone-walled structures. That is not to say that there will not be blood, but maybe there must be. Hell is living the present for the future’s reflection. Hell is life robbed of life with life as its pretense. There is only one question at any and all times that the faithful need ask themselves, “Do I trust in God?”; and just as simply, eternity is opened. Let us live open to life and to death, crystalline and consonant as angels yet staying men.
My whole life a body I’d never see
Without you
Wet and shivering newborn
You come to kiss starved
Green smoke of spring
A white bird from heaven is my son