PORNOGRAPHY vs. EROTICISM

An unknown ( to me) web-traveler stumbles on this blog and sends a message. His name is Luke Reynolds, he has recently published a book titled – A NEW MAN – . I check out his blog http://reynoldsluke.blogspot.com/ Logging onto his web-site: http://www.lukewreynolds.com/ leads me to AMAZON where I see his book. Reading through the introduction and 7 favorable reviews I understand his, is the story of a young man redeemed from a destructive addiction to pornography.

I wish to ignore the subject, yet throughout the night my sleep is haunted by pornography dilemmas..

I suppose a distinct difference exist between Pornography and Eroticism… Eroticism is perhaps innate in our planet’s Earthly nature, to attract, to stimulate, to ensure continuity…That’s why Flora gave erotic shapes and scents to flowers… and Faunus bestowed alluring characters to ‘human beasts’, to wild and domestic animals… Gave stunning plumage to the birds... entire oceans he filled with colour and exotic patterns, coral reefs pulsate with orgasmic sensuousness… even insect and simple lichens have mysterious sexual powers…

Eroticism is a component of Human evolution… The cave dwellers had the Venus of Willendorf and we have Playboy Centerfold… Would the ancients have deemed Fertility Rites as pornography??? In Greece the Greeks decorated urns with sexual customs and traditions;
the Romans frescoed walls with copulation and carried phallic amulets…

For example would we agree to destroy the Nude in art, because a Giorgione’s Venus evokes sensuality, or bestiality as in the case of Leda and the Swan… or voyeurism as in Boucher’s The Raised Skirt… Should we eliminate even the last trace of nineteen century French Postcards because by 'Victorians and Puritanicals' were deemed scandalous??? Personally I find Cecat, Zichy, Rowaldson and many others…amusing and entertaining, and love the dark, mischievous eroticisms of Aubrey Beardsley.

I let the KAMA SUTRA and THE PERFUMED GARDEN plunge me into the mind and mode of other cultures, cultures less repressive than my own… I can view Japanese Eroticism with a smile…

I am aware not all that is available on today’s sex market is eroticism, but when eroticism crosses the border into pornography is for the individual to decide and control.

I agree exposure without moderation, devoid of judicious guide, can result in grave dilemmas for the souls of youths whose sexuality is an emerging force, for the mind of immature or sexually frustrated adults, where addiction is the result...

The ever-pleasure-seeking-Human-Beast has the ‘intelligence’ to become addicted. We are addicted to sex, by having sex beyond its original purpose of reproducing the species… we are addicted to food, (we eat ourselves into sickness) we are easily addicted to cigarettes, marijuana, cocaine, aspirins, wine, whisky, gambling, motor cars, TV watching...

Even religions become addictions…

O'HARE's CHICAGO AIRPORT

As a rule I avoid posting texts circulating the web. But these two stories touched me.
Can anyone verify their authenticity?...


STORY NUMBER ONE

Many years ago, Al Capone virtually owned Chicago. Capone wasn't famous for anything heroic. He was notorious for enmeshing the windy city in everything from bootlegged booze and prostitution to murder. Capone had a lawyer nicknamed 'Easy Eddie.' He was his lawyer for a good reason. Eddie was very good! In fact, Eddie's skill at legal maneuvering kept Big Al out of jail for a long time.To show his appreciation, Capone paid him very well. Not only was the money big , but also, Eddie got special dividends. For instance, he and his family occupied a fenced-in mansion with live-in help and all of the conveniences of the day. The estate was so large that it filled an entire Chicago City block. Eddie lived the high life of the Chicago mob and gave little consideration to the atrocity that went on around him. Eddie did have one soft spot, however. He had a son that he loved dearly. Eddie saw to it that his young son had clothes, cars, and a good education. Nothing was withheld. Price was no object. And, despite his involvement with organized crime, Eddie even tried to teach him right from wrong. Eddie wanted his son to be a better man than he was. Yet, with all his wealth and influence, there were two things he couldn't give his son; he couldn't pass on a good name or a good example. One day, Easy Eddie reached a difficult decision. Easy Eddie wanted to rectify wrongs he had done. He decided he would go to the authorities and tell the truth about Al 'Scarface' Capone, clean up his tarnished name, and offer his son some semblance of integrity. To do this, he would testify against The Mob, knowing that the cost would be great! Within the year of his testimony, Easy Eddie's life ended in a blaze of gunfire on a lonely Chicago Street. But in his eyes, he had given his son the greatest gift he had to offer, at the greatest price he could ever pay. Police removed from his pockets a rosary, a crucifix, a religious medallion, and a poem clipped from a magazine. The poem read:

The clock of life is wound but once,
And no man has the power
To tell just when the hands will stop
At late or early hour.
Now is the only time you own.
Live, love, toil with a will.
Place no faith in time.
For the clock may soon be still.



STORY NUMBER TWO

World War II produced many heroes. One such man was Lieutenant Commander Butch O'Hare. He was a fighter pilot assigned to the aircraft carrier Lexington in the South Pacific. One day his entire squadron was sent on a mission. After he was airborne, he looked at his fuel gage and realized that his fuel tank had not been topeed-up. He would not have enough fuel to complete his mission and get back to his ship. His flight leader told him to return to the carrier. Reluctantly, he dropped out of formation and headed back to the fleet. As he was returning to the mother ship he saw something that turned his blood cold: a squadron of Japanese aircraft were speeding their way toward the American fleet. The American fighters were gone on a sortie, and the fleet was all but defenseless. He couldn't reach his squadron and bring them back in time to save the fleet. Nor could he warn the fleet of the approaching danger. There was only one thing to do. He must somehow divert them from the fleet. Laying aside all thoughts of personal safety, he dove into the formation of Japanese planes. Wing-mounted 50 caliber's blazed as he charged in, attacking one surprised enemy plane and then another. Butch wove in and out of the now broken formation and fired at as many planes as possible until all his ammunition was finally spent. Undaunted, he continued the assault. He dove at the planes, trying to clip a wing or tail in hopes of damaging as many enemy planes as possible and rendering them unfit to fly.Finally, the exasperated Japanese squadron took off in another direction. Deeply relieved, Butch O'Hare and his tattered fighter limped back to the carrier. Upon arrival, he reported in and related the event surrounding his return. The film from the gun-camera mounted on his plane told the tale. It showed the extent of Butch's daring attempt to protect his fleet. He had, in fact, destroyed five enemy aircraft. This took place on February 20, 1942, and for that action Butch became the Navy's first Ace of W.W.II, and the first Naval Aviator to win the Congressional Medal of Honor. A year later Butch was killed in aerial combat at the age of 29. His home town would not allow the memory of this WW II hero to fade, and today, O'Hare Airport in Chicago is named in tribute to the courage of this great man. So, the next time you find yourself at O'Hare International, give some thought to visiting Butch's memorial displaying his statue and his Medal of Honor. It's located between Terminals 1 and 2.

So what do these two stories have to do with each other?

Butch O'Hare was 'Easy Eddie's' son.

HOLY WAR

Certain Jews Said to the Arabs: "Look what we have done for you, we found a desert and we transformed it into a garden."
The Arabs replied: "This may be true, but it was my desert and now it has become your garden."

Karen Armstrong - HOLY WAR -

CAUSE AND EFFECT

I keep in touch with my friend and mentor Allen Sutterfield. For the past 6 years Allen is fulfilling his destiny as English teacher at the University of Sichuan, in the city of Chengdu, China. Recently Allen sent me a List of 104 books he would like to have. 22 of those books I would read myself so I took the List to several (old and new) book stores here in Brisbane. As Allen had predicted the List provoked interest and a certain amount of excitement among booksellers eager to fulfill Allen’s desire. Many of those titles were not easily available, for example: No.15 on the list: MAN WITHOUT QUALITIES by R. Musil, was accessible at the price of $AU95 ( too expensive )… On the other hand No. 104, T. Tasso’s JERUSALEM DELIVERED can be perused on various medieval literature internet sites...

I purchased 4 books: James Mitchener’s THE SOURCE, E. R. Eddison’s THE WORM OUROBOROS, Sinclair Lewis’s ELMER GANTRY and Neville Shute’s THE CHEQUER BOARD. A hard-cover copy of Thor Heyerdhal’s AKU AKU I bypassed due to increasing weight and volume for my luggage, as I prepare to deliver the books personally to Allen in Chengdu. So March 1st, China-Adventure, here I come.

If any reader would like to comment on the List or… send Allen a book… the List can be viewed at http://hitchhickers-omnibus.blogspot.com/

A Blissful Past

Days, months, years pass, eternities evolve, often amazed, surprised, (not always super-pleased) I realize I am still here… It’s a long road… An ambiguous yet not entirely unpleasant road, though why I’m traveling and where it leads I believe I shall never know… Ok… I say to myself… Go… Go, no need for concern or look back, except… when out of dream-like fog emerge phantoms of the past…

And so, Ananda, I’m catapulted back in the 60’s, traveling to India seeking spiritual revelations, in pursuit of the antidote for the excesses of my youth…

I follow the yoga trail and sounds of Ravi Sankar’s sitar in quest of the bearded guru who will teach me transcendental meditation to nirvana… It’s all there, in the spiritual mist of India, but foiled by my mundane illusions I never attain that flash of inner light… It’s only a mystical mirage…

Brisbane Treasury Casino

Tomorrow… I will leave Brisbane for 6 weeks; touch down on Vancouver via Taipei. I told my friends I want to tread on fallen leaves, smell the candles flickering on the Halloween pumpink-patches, seek out the ghosts, the goblins and the witches…

Life against Death

Dear Allen, I will follow up on your suggestion to read LIFE AGAINST DEATH by Norman O. Brown, though I had (temporarily it seems) given up thinking about Gods, Life and Death. Those subjects are like riding a carousel... even if you change horse and carriage you still go round in circles... The deeper you search the more futile it gets... I cannot resign myself to believe in a Biblical divinity, nor accept any amount of brainwashing theologies... I figure belief in gods comes truly through - Blind Faith...- because the - truth - can neither be seen, felt or proved.

I am here, I live... I am not here, I am dead... There may be a - separate even spiritual reality - but why concern myself with that when right now I exist in this...

Norman O. Brown chose a good title for his work. "LIFE AGAINST DEATH A Psychoanalytical Meaning of History "is intriguing, though I doubt my humble under-educated intellect can rise to understand theories expounded by such heavy weights as Freud, Nietzsche and Marx.

What I know of Freud is that he is the Father Christmus of Psycoanalysis,- the guy who ties up Oedipus' marriage to Jocasta with the rest of us anal neuroticos... I know Nietzsche because in - Also Sprach Zarathustra - "The Madman" states that God is Dead. Karl Marx = the Commusnist State...

We struggle to make sense of Life, Death, God, Devil, Religion, Politics, Sex... Myth, Theory, Fact, Fiction, Communism, Democracy and everything in between, above or below, but as long as we remain cut-outs - human beings, the carousel will not stop. We may as well enjoy the ride for what it is... a ride...

One Night... Two Dreams...

19 Olga Street was the address in the first of last night’s dreams.

The dream concerned a packet of seed, seed given to me by an antique lover as I lingered on a mysterious isle surrounded by turbulent surf. Crossing to the mainland carrying the packet with my right arm raised above the choppy sea while swimming with the lone stroke of my left arm would have been unsafe for the seed the seed was not to get wet, wet seed would swell and burst out of the packet... For its safety we resolved to send the packet by helicopter while I swam my way back…

On the mainland shore an unknown lady in a gold BMW would be waiting for me, we would ride together to collect the seed. My historic lover revealed the packet's address was 19 Olga Street…



End of dream… I woke up, it was 2 am… I turned on the TV but couldn’t keep awake,
I fell asleep and dreamt again:

My bed was a raft floating on lake Titicaca. The unknown lady with the BMW had dark skin and was seducing me. Her penis was of average size, made of real flesh, not a dildo. Apprehensively I conveyed my vagina was sensitive, unaccustomed to penetration, the last time I had sexual intercourse was 17 years and two weeks ago. Inserting her penis inside me she whispered hers was a loving and gentle act, I need not fear…

Her motion was the ripple of the lake, in my ear her erotic murmurings transported me out of the sexual act to experience the flight of the albatross.

Softly, the dark lady whispered the penis was not entirely her own, it really belonged to her male twin, but they shared it amicably… On my back, on the raft, on the lake, with the dark lady between my legs and her shared penis halfway in and out of my vagina, I thought of the Graeae, the three Old Women of the Sea who lived where the sun never shone, between them they possessed only one tooth and one eye which they used in turn…

Laurie Went to Africa

Adventures in Zambia


Souvenirs of a Banquet Server

Dear Banqueteers,

Greetings to all. This CUSO job is a lot of work, lots of meetings, meetings, meetings-very political, and that’s a pain. I am struggling not to get mired down in all the art community feuds here. I miss the simple pleasures of the dish-pit.

I hope you are not too worried about me here in Lusaka-city from Hell-or as the local hospital is called, ‘The departure Lounge’, the gateway to the other side. If you’ve seen Woody Allen’s film “Bananas” that will give you a rough idea of this place. Rush out and rent it. Don’t worry about me.

Luckily someone was at home when the thieves set fire to our grass fence with the ultimate goal of stealing the vehicles in the yard. Maybe 2:00 p.m. is not the most intelligent time for theft but one must abandon logic here. Anyway if our night guard isn’t asleep or bandits don’t beat the pulp out of him, we are safe at night. I feel most secure knowing there are thick iron bars in front of all our windows and doors. Too bad the alarm system is broken though hopefully our two vicious guars dogs Max and Skinner will alert us if trouble occurs. They were sleeping during the fire episode.






Also don’t worry about my passport. I will be returning in the Spring. The thief didn’t get anything when he slashed my bag while I was shopping. I am not sure which is the most dangerous activity here – shopping , sleeping, eating, or driving?

Maybe driving, as a prerequisite for attaining your license is absolute and irrefutable incompetence. If another car doesn’t get you, a pothole the size of a volcanic crater will – or you won’t even have to worry about driving as your vehicle will be stolen from you at gunpoint while you sit outside waiting for your guard to open your gate. But one needs transport as this city was laid out with an affluent car driving populace in mind. I have purchased a second hand pink bicycle but it is pretty tough trying to get around. Pray for me. Most drivers are on a personal mission to destroy all others on the roads. I believe that in order to pass your driving test you must always accelerate and swerve towards all pedestrians. A red light means that the next six cars go through. I swear. My friend’s sister had a collision at an intersection and was charged for going through a stop sign. She protested that there was no stop sign there. The policeman replied: “But Madam, there used to be one there”. Case closed.





Everyone I know has been ill with a terrible virus – vomiting and diarrhea. I am healthy as a horse thanks to three years of bacterial immunity build-up from the infamous Chattery’s food. I hope my luck holds out as I am going to the Copper Belt next week. There is a cholera epidemic there. A lot of people have died. But there is an art exhibit to judge and the show must go on.

I survived white water rafting on the Zambezi River at Victoria Falls. It was spectacular. We only saw one crocodile and our raft only nearly flipped. Everybody who got tossed fortunately got picked up before the crocs or the whirlpools got them. This is a world class rafting river which will disappear in the next few years as they are building a dam. So sad as it is an incredible place.

It is hotter than Hades here. This is the worst drought of the century and the hottest October anyone can remember. It is nauseating. I am doing rain rituals as I want to see what green grass will look like where all this red and brown dust is. I am sure we have a lovely yard. Well, the cactus tree is thriving anyway. It is covered in beautiful yellow blooms.

I am finally sleeping now that I have a fan, and I’m sure those black bags under my eyes aren’t permanent. The fan’s noise helps cover up the all-night-dog-barking, the 4am cat-howling at my bedroom window, the 5am continuous rooster- crowing, and the 6am onward-crying of Frank, one of our housekeeper’s six children. We call him Frankenstein.

I will put my mosquito net up on Wed. so hope to keep the blood-sucking highly virulent demons at bay. But if one gets me I can feel confident knowing that I’ m ingesting the controversial anti-malarial drug Mefloquin. I have agreed to report all side effects such as depression, hallucinations, hearing loss, etc…

On Monday I go to Ndola, (4 hrs away) to buy Acrylic paint. Can’t get it in Lusaka and they just started mixing it there. I can get black, white, blue, yellow and red. That keeps things pretty basic.

Can’t even say the word ‘feminism’ instead it’s ‘gender equity’. I am helping with a women’s artist workshop that will happen on January. The bottom line is, it’s the shits to be a woman in Africa. Lots of wife-beating here. ( My roommate works for the YWCA). The new government in Zambia came in on the platform of improving women’s lot but things are worst than before. And so it goes.

Please don’t worry about my nocturnal habits; I am as chaste as a nun. Aids is very bad, there are funerals constantly. Doctors say that for every case officially reported there are 9 more. Nobody talks much about it but the cemeteries are overflowing.

Well that’s it for Adventures in Zambia. Lusaka is an urban nightmare, Seventies gone bad. I guess the 70’s were prosperous and it’s been decaying ever since. Lusaka is the fastest growing city in Southern Africa. My theory is everyone is moving here to pursue a career in stealing. With the drought no one can survive (or just barely) off the land. It is so parched here yet still so beautiful outside the city. I’ve been traveling quite a bit and really enjoy that. It may be difficult here sometimes but it can’t compare in hellishness to that LAST BIG ITALIAN WEDDING, ( the one where VanderZalm sang ‘On Top of Old Smokey all covered in cheese’) so I’m hanging in here. So long for now,
Laurey

Copyright©2000-Laurey Nevers

The Plea of the - Wanna-Be-Famous Poet -

Dear National Editor

when navigating through the internet poetry rivers and streams the unknown poet never really knows where the flow will lead... PIW is an unexpected, unusual, stop. For years and years I tell myself I write my stuff and don't care anybody reads it... But once written, words want to be read, want all to see the pain or joy with which they can embroider a naked page. I read the FAQ which is quite clear on the NO NO of unsolicited submissions, yet simultaneously opens fireworks by suggesting the wanna-be-famous poet email - his or hers - website URL.

A description of my material is available at the mere click of the mouse over the http thing below... It may appear a bit long but like a jigsaw puzzle it separates into a 1000 pieces. At the mere asking...

Humbly yours

Mirella Della-Marina

My web: http://www.landscapeblues.com/